Chapter 10 Savannah
TEN
Savannah
Sawyer makes a call, his voice shifting to military efficiency. Not one word wasted.
"CJ, I’ve got Savannah Cross, but we have a situation." He pauses, listening. "Domestic terror attack…Prometheus is planning to poison LA's water supply…Affirmative…day after tomorrow."
Another pause. His jaw tightens.
"Titan International. LA facility. Cross has the whole thing decoded—chemical compositions, everything." He glances at me. "She wants to hit Titan, and honestly? She's not wrong."
He listens, then actually smiles slightly.
"Yeah, she's different. Took out four hostiles with kitchen knives and an earring.
.. I'll explain later." Another pause. His expression darkens at whatever CJ says next.
"They've got teams hunting us. Already had three engagements.
" He looks at the bruising on my arms. "We're both functional, but we could use some downtime…
Copy that." He ends the call and looks at me.
"You called in backup?"
"I called in the cavalry." His hand finds mine on the gear shift. "You're not wrong about hitting Titan, but we're not doing it alone. My teammates will meet us tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"They need time to prep, and we need downtime."
"Downtime? We don’t have any time to waste."
"Savannah... These people are the best of the best. If you want this done and done right, let them do what they do best. Right now, our orders are to rest and recover while they build out a mission. I trust them with my life."
"So what’s the plan?"
"CJ is activating the troops. They need a day to organize. We’ll meet up with them in the morning."
"What do we do until then?"
"Our orders are to rest and recuperate."
"Rest and recuperate?"
"Yeah." He reaches over and squeezes my thigh. "First, we’ll replace your laptop, then we’ll find a motel close to LA, clean up, eat something, and rest."
After a quick stop to pick up a new computer, grab a change of clothes, and other things, Sawyer finds a motel an hour north of LA.
The kind of place that takes cash and doesn't ask questions.
Two stories of peeling paint and broken dreams, but it's off-grid and has multiple exits.
Sawyer secured us a room while I waited in the SUV, baseball cap pulled low.
"Teams arrive tomorrow," he says, closing the door behind us. "That gives us a few hours."
The room is small—one bed, an ancient TV, and a water stain on the ceiling that looks like a map of somewhere unpleasant. But it's safe, and after what feels like days of running, safe feels like luxury.
I set my new laptop on my lap, needing to keep working, but Sawyer takes it from my hands.
"You need rest."
"I need to finish decrypting—"
"You need to stop for five minutes." His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. "You’re running on adrenaline. You'll be useless you rest."
"I don't know how to stop." The admission comes out broken. "If I stop moving, stop working, I have to think about—"
"Nathan."
The name hangs between us like a blade.
"Four nights ago, I was in his bed. I thought I knew him. Thought I loved him." Tears burn my eyes. "How did I miss it? How did I share my body with someone capable of mass murder?"
Sawyer pulls me against his chest, and I break. Three days of fear and betrayal pour out in ugly sobs that shake my whole body. He holds me through it, solid and steady, one hand in my hair, the other rubbing circles on my back.
"It's not your fault," he murmurs against my temple. "He was trained to deceive. Three years of deep cover—that's professional-level manipulation."
"But I should have—"
"No." He pulls back, forces me to meet his eyes. "You trusted someone you had every reason to trust. That's not weakness, that's human."
"I'll never trust anyone again."
"You trust me."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "You’re different."
"Why?"
"Because you bled for me before you knew my name. Because you saved me. Because you've had a dozen chances to betray me and haven't."
"Or maybe," his voice drops, rough and warm, "because sometimes you know. Sometimes you meet someone and every instinct says 'this one, this is real.'"
The air between us charges. We're so close I can see the gold flecks in his gray eyes, feel his breath on my lips.
"Sawyer..."
"I know." His forehead rests against mine. "Wrong time, wrong place, wrong everything."
"But right person?"
"Yeah." The word is barely a breath. "Right person."
I should pull back. Should be professional. Should remember that trauma isn’t the best way to begin a relationship.
Instead, I kiss him.
It's different from the desperate kisses before—slower, deeper, exploratory. His hands tangle in my hair while mine find the hem of his shirt. When I trace the bandage I applied earlier, he groans into my mouth.
"We should stop and sleep," he says against my lips.
"We should," I agree, pulling his shirt over his head.
The scars are silver in the dim light, a map of survival I want to memorize with my fingers. When I trace the burn on his ribs, he shudders.
"Savannah..."
"I need this," I whisper against his throat. "I need something real, something that's just ours, something Nathan never touched."
He pulls back to study my face, searching for doubt. Whatever he sees makes him nod slowly.
"Okay. But we do this right." He frames my face with his hands. "This isn't adrenaline or trauma. This is me wanting you. Has been since you took down that merc with an earring."
"That's what does it for you? Violence?"
"Competence." He kisses me again, slow and thorough. "Strength. The way you refuse to break."
His hands are gentle as they undress me, reverent in a way Nathan's never were. Every scar gets kissed, every bruise acknowledged. When he finds the mark Nathan left on my hip—fingerprints from when he grabbed me—something dark flashes in his eyes.
"I'll kill him for this."
"Later." I pull him down for another kiss. "Now, make me forget him."
And he does.
His mouth claims mine, hot and demanding, and he traces a path down my throat, each kiss a promise, each touch erasing the memory of hands that lied.
Where Nathan took, Sawyer gives. Where Nathan rushed, Sawyer savors.
"Look at me," he murmurs against my collarbone. "I need to see you."
I open my eyes and meet his gaze. The intensity there steals my breath—desire mixed with something deeper, something that makes my chest ache.
"There you are," he whispers, cupping my face. "Stay with me. This is us. No one else exists right now."
He kisses me again, and I arch into him, needing to be closer. My hands map the terrain of scars across his back, each one a story of survival, of the man who jumped buildings to save me.
When his palm skims over my breast, I arch into his touch, desperate for more. He takes his time, thumb circling until I'm writhing beneath him, small sounds escaping that I've never made before.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder. "Want to find every place that makes you shake."
His mouth follows his hands lower, tongue tracing my collarbone, the valley between my breasts, the sensitive underside that makes me gasp. He lavishes attention on each nipple until they're peaked and aching, until I'm pulling his hair, unsure if I'm pushing him away or begging for more.
"Sawyer, please—"
His tongue swirls around my navel.
"Oh God—"
"Savannah." My name is a prayer on his lips as he moves lower, tongue tracing patterns that make me gasp. "Beautiful. So damn beautiful."
He takes his time, mouth and hands worshipping every inch of skin until I'm trembling, fingers twisted in his hair. Nathan was always perfunctory, goal-oriented. Sawyer seems determined to memorize my body's every response.
"Please—" The word breaks from me when he finds that spot behind my knee I didn't even know was sensitive.
"Not yet." His voice is rough with control. "I want to know everything. Every sound you make, every way you move."
His mouth travels higher, and when he reaches the apex of my thighs, I cry out, back arching off the bed. He holds my hips steady, relentless in his attention.
He proves he's a man of action, not just words. His mouth finds me already wet and wanting, and the first stroke of his tongue makes me cry out. Nathan never—God, Nathan never did this, said it was unnecessary. But Sawyer acts like he's been starving for it, for me.
His hands grip my thighs, holding me open as he devours me with single-minded intensity. When he slides two fingers inside, curling them just right while his mouth continues its assault, I shatter embarrassingly fast, my whole body convulsing.
"Beautiful," he breathes against my inner thigh, pressing kisses to oversensitized skin. "Again."
"I can't—"
But he proves me wrong, fingers and tongue working together until I'm climbing again, higher this time. He adds a third finger, the stretch perfect, and when he crooks them while sucking hard.
I scream. Actually scream, back bowing off the bed, fingers twisted in his hair as waves of pleasure crash over me.
He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just gentles his touch as he works me through it, drawing out every aftershock until I'm boneless and gasping.
When he finally kisses his way back up my body, I can taste myself on his lips—earthy and intimate—intimate in a way that makes me blush.
"The way you come apart," he breathes against my mouth. "I want to see it again. And again."
"Sawyer, I need—" My hands fumble with his belt, desperate to touch him. "Now. Please."
He helps me, shedding the last of his clothes, and when I wrap my hand around him, his control finally cracks. The sound he makes—half growl, half prayer—sends heat spiraling through me.
This is Sawyer, only Sawyer.
I stroke him base to tip, learning what makes his breath catch, what makes his hips jerk. When I twist my wrist on the upstroke, his control snaps.