Chapter 10
ten
She tasted like rain and heat and every-fucking-thing he knew he shouldn’t want.
Her mouth parted, and Rainey kissed him like she played guitar—a little wild, nothing held back.
Her tongue traced the seam of his mouth, and a sound escaped him, low and unguarded.
It was the kind of sound he’d forgotten he could make.
The stove popped behind them.
The rain hammered the roof.
Her fingers tangled in his shirt. Pulled him closer. His hand slid from her jaw to the curve of her waist, careful of her ribs, and he felt her arch into his palm. Warm. Alive.
He needed her closer.
He needed her, period.
He lost track of how long the kiss lasted.
Five seconds, five hours. It could have been the rest of the night and he would have let it take him.
The music in her head bled into his own—rising, building, a hum that started at his teeth and rattled down his spine.
He kissed her until the air ran out, and when she made a sound against his mouth, he kissed her harder.
His hand found the hem of her shirt. He didn’t remember giving himself permission, but he wanted his palm on her skin, to feel every scar and story she’d carried in with her.
He slid his thumb under the fabric, the heat of her ribs beneath.
There was a line of tape over one spot—medical, careful, not his work.
He traced it anyway, gentle, not wanting to hurt her, but hungry to know every inch.
She broke the kiss first to catch a breath. Her mouth hovered at the edge of his, her exhale wet and shaky. Then she bit his lower lip, and his cock went rock hard.
He wanted her.
He wanted to crowd her back onto the cot and taste the music on her tongue and make her forget about every club, every man, every night that had made her believe she needed to run.
But he had a rule, and the rule was simple: never, ever let someone trust him more than he trusted himself.
And right now, he didn’t trust a fucking thing about himself.
He broke contact. Stepped back so fast she lost her grip on his shirt, and the loss of her touch was a shock, like a cold plunge after a hot shower. He turned away, breath sawing out of him, cock throbbing for release. His hands shook, so he clenched them until the tremor faded.
The only sound was the stove ticking and the rain on the roof.
He heard her shift behind him. Maybe to sit down. Maybe to run. If she were smart, she’d run as far as possible away from him. “Evander…”
He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
She waited. She was good at waiting. He hated that she was so good at it. “Why not?”
He forced his hands to unclench. Wiped them on his jeans. “If I start, I won’t stop.” He meant it as a warning. It sounded more like an apology, and he hated that too.
“What makes you think I wanted to stop?”
Jesus.
She didn’t understand. She didn’t know him. Didn’t know the ugly shape of the thing that lived inside his chest and fed on every good decision he’d ever made.
He grabbed his jacket off the hook. His hands were still shaking, and he fumbled the zipper. He blamed the mountain cold.
“I need to check the generator.” The words came out clipped. “Rain’s been coming down hard. If the fuel lines flood—”
“Evander.”
“—I need to move it to higher ground. And the shed. The padlock’s been sticking. I should oil it before the metal swells. And check on Sable.” They were all pathetic excuses, but it didn’t matter if they put distance between him and her.
“Evander—”
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Because if he looked at her again, he didn’t trust that he had the willpower to resist her.
He threw open the door and strode out into the rain.
Distance.
He needed distance.
Ten feet.
Twenty.
Enough that the smell of her would stop filling his lungs every time he breathed.
He didn’t stop at the generator. He walked past it, past the woodpile. Sable stood under the lean-to, head low. She snorted as he passed, eyeing him like he was insane.
Maybe he was.
He walked the property line, boots sinking into mud. Tilly followed, padding beside him with her dark coat gone sleek and wet. The dog didn’t question the need to be outside in this weather. Tilly never questioned. She just matched his pace, watched the trees, and let him walk.
The problem wasn’t the kiss.
Not entirely.
He’d expected the kiss. Had seen it coming from the moment Rainey Beckett climbed into his truck at the Dead Marshall with a guitar and cracked ribs and eyes that read him faster than he wanted to be read.
The problem was what happened during it.
For thirty seconds—maybe less—he’d forgotten.
Forgotten the five men who bled out in Afghan dirt because they’d followed him. Forgotten the sound River Beckett made when the winch line failed. Forgotten the simple truth he’d built his life around: people who trust him pay for it.
During those seconds, with his hand on the back of Rainey’s neck and her mouth warm against his, he hadn’t been thinking about any of that.
He’d been thinking about tomorrow. About waking up every morning and finding her still there.
He’d wanted it. Not just her. All of it. The whole impossible thing, forever.
The last time he’d let himself be that certain about anything, Nate Holloway had been beside him, binoculars up, asking if he was sure.
He had been sure. The terrain was right.
The intel was solid. The target was preparing to disappear, and command was making decisions from too far away with too little information.
He’d told Nate yes. Five men had followed him down into the kill zone because they trusted his judgment more than they trusted the order coming through their radios.
They’d trusted him.
And they’d bled for it.
And then so had River, that second night at Valor Ridge.
River’s voice came back. Younger. Lighter. Standing beside the fallen pine with a length of chain and that same reckless energy that had gotten him court-martialed once already. “You sure about this, Cole?”
He’d been sure. The rig was sound. The anchor would hold. He’d checked it twice. Told River yes, and then the chain snapped with enough force to take off a limb. River was lucky to still have his leg.
Every person who’d ever depended on Evander Cole had paid. Trust led to blood. His judgment led to suffering.
Now Rainey trusted him.
The rain came harder. He stood at the tree line with water running down his neck and his hands shaking, and Tilly pressed warm against his leg. The dog knew. She always knew. Her dark eyes stared up at him, and it helped steady him.
But not enough.
Nothing helped enough anymore, and that was the problem.
He turned toward the shed.
The padlock was cold under his fingers. He worked the key into it by feel, the rain hitting his shoulders, and the lock gave with a click that sounded too loud in the wet dark.
The shed door groaned on its hinges. Inside, the air smelled of oil, rust, and wet canvas.
Tools hung on the walls. A workbench ran along the far side, cluttered with parts he’d been meaning to fix or reuse.
Tilly tried to slip in ahead of him. He blocked her with his knee and eased her back out into the rain. She didn’t fight it. She sat down in the mud, ears forward, and watched him through the gap until he shut the door on her.
He stood in the dark a minute, letting his eyes adjust.
Then he lit the lantern.
The flame caught. Yellow light filled the small space, throwing his shadow against the wall.
He set the lantern on the bench and rolled up his left sleeve.
The old burns stared back at him. Dozens of them, small and round and silvered, clustered along the inside of his forearm like a constellation he’d drawn with his own hand.
Some older than others. Some still pink.
He looked at them a long time. The rain drummed the roof. The lantern hissed.
He’d told himself, every time, that the last one was the last one.
He found the pack of cigarettes he stashed in an old coffee can and pulled one out. Rolled it between his fingers. The paper was dry inside the can.
Good.
He lit it off the lantern flame, drew the smoke into his lungs and held it. The familiar burn. The clarity it brought.
He needed more.
He pinched the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, brought it down to the pale skin between two old scars, and pressed.
The pain was immediate and bright. It narrowed his world to a single point of heat and the control of his own hand.
He counted. One. Two. Three. Released. The cigarette hissed against wet skin.
A new mark, red and angry, joining the others.
Better.
He did it again. Lower on the forearm this time. Counted. Held. Released. His thoughts quieted. Rainey’s mouth, her song, the future he’d let himself imagine—all of it compressed into something manageable. Something he could deal with.
Pain was honest. Pain reminded him what happened when he forgot. When he let himself want.
He pressed the cigarette again. Held. Counted.
For several minutes, it worked.
Then the door opened. Tilly stood in the doorway, rain gleaming on her dark coat, ears forward—and behind her, backlit by the cabin’s yellow glow, a smaller silhouette.
Fuck. She’d gone and found Rainey.