Chapter 8
If looks could kill, I would have murdered the four of them—and probably half the camp—by now.
“Sounds like heaven,” I mutter, rolling my eyes and ducking inside.
The “tent” is more like a glorified canvas box, barely enough room for four men, much less four men and me.
Two cots line one wall, three on the other, and a small crate serves as a table in the middle with the remnants of a deck of cards spread across it.
The hot air is stale, smelling like sweat, canvas, and testosterone.
Jagger drops my duffel bag, and it hits the ground with a thud. It is followed by another as Gunnar drops a box of equipment that definitely contains my underwear. “Hey!” I bark, stomping toward them. “Careful with that. Some of that’s fragile.”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Jagger teases with a grin that makes me want to punch him square in the throat. “You’ve got a whole arsenal of lace in there. Real dangerous.”
“Touch it again and you’ll lose a hand,” I snap.
Gunnar snorts, his gaze falling on me. “You’ll fit right in.”
“Right,” I grouse, crossing my arms. “Because this was always my dream. To be stuck in a sandbox with four overgrown toddlers.”
“Hey, now.” Damon barges in, hauling my second duffel over his shoulder. “This toddler showers and wipes his own ass.”
I ignore the snickers that follow, glaring at Hawk, who stands a few feet away, silent and steady as always. The others might be treating this as a joke, but I can see it in his stance—he’s alert and watching everything. Watching me.
It shouldn’t make my pulse skip. And I fucking hate that it does.
“Which one is mine?” I ask, scanning the small space.
Damon nods to the far corner. “You can take that cot.”
“You’re serious?” I blink at it, noting it can’t be more than a foot from the one beside it.
“Best command could offer us.” Damon shrugs, dropping my duffel at the foot of my new bed.
I raise a brow. “And I’m supposed to just… sleep here? With all of you?”
“What, worried we’ll peek?” Jagger grins. “Relax, sweetheart. I saw your panties when I packed them.”
Fury surges through me. “You—”
Before I can finish, Hawk barks, “Jagger.”
One word. That’s all it takes. “Fine,” Jagger rolls his eyes and goes back to setting up his cot before snickering, “I’m not the one who saw you naked.”
I scoff, folding my arms tightly this time. “Yeah, well, we all have regrets, don’t we?”
Jagger whistles low. “Ouch.”
“Shut up,” Hawk and I snarl in unison.
The others laugh, the tension briefly broken. But my heart is still hammering, because that stupid, infuriating man just has to stand there looking exactly like he used to—steady, composed, and annoyingly calm while my insides twist into knots.
I set my things up around the corner cot, mostly to keep as much distance between me and them as possible, but it’s pointless. The tent is too small to actually put any distance between us.
As they settle in, their banter keeps flying. Damon starts organizing gear, Gunnar unpacks their weapons, and Jagger immediately begins a monologue about how this is going to be a “great bonding experience.”
“Maybe we can braid each other’s hair,” I say dryly.
Jagger grins. “Careful, I might take you up on that. I’ve been told I have magic hands.”
“Pretty sure whoever told you that was lying.”
Damon snorts into his mug, and even Gunnar hides a grin behind his hand. Hawk doesn’t smile, but I see the twitch at the corner of his lips. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” he says quietly, moving past me to grab a crate that eases apart as he lifts it.
“Glad to see you haven’t lost your ability to ruin everything you touch,” I shoot back. He freezes mid-step, and for a second, I almost feel bad. Almost.
“Guess I earned that,” he exhales softly.
I look away, pretending to busy myself with organizing my duffel. “You earned a lot more than that.”
For a few minutes, the tent falls into a tense rhythm. The guys talk in low tones, mostly about logistics. I unpack in silence, carefully placing my equipment on the crate beside my cot: laptop, camera lenses, notebooks, and hard drives quickly filling my makeshift desk.
When I turn too fast to grab another lens from my gear bag, I slam right into a wall of muscle.
My breath catches as oak and cardamom, mixed faintly with the musk of sweat, flood my nostrils.
His hands land on my waist, instinctually steadying me before I stumble.
Hesitantly, I lift my hands to push away, finding Hawk’s chest is solid and much broader than I remember.
And for a split second, the world stops.
His thumb flexes against my hip bone, like he’s forgotten to let go. In response, my heart lurches against my ribs, traitorous and wild. “You’re too close,” I whisper, hating how breathless I sound.
“And yet, you haven’t moved.” He stands steady, his voice gravelly enough that it curls right down my spine.
I force myself to take a step back, though my pulse is still thrumming like it’s trying to escape my skin. “Because I was deciding whether to knee you in the balls or walk away.”
He gives a faint smirk, but his eyes are serious. “And you chose mercy. That’s progress.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
His hand falls away, deliberately slow, his fingertips dusting my hip and igniting my skin through my jeans in their wake.
I turn back to my cot, rearranging my gear just to have something to do. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Somebody’s got to keep you safe,” he states simply.
“Why?” I snap, spinning to face him. “It doesn’t need to be you.”
“I wouldn’t trust anyone else.” His gaze hardens. “No one will protect you like I will.”
That shuts me up. Even with everything, I can’t deny the truth in his eyes when he said it. He means it. Every word. And I hate it.
I cross my arms again, more to steady myself than anything. “I don’t need you to protect me.”
“I’m going to anyway.”
I glare at him. “You don’t get to decide that. You lost that right when you left.”
His eyes soften, and for a heartbeat, I see the man I used to know. The one who used to hold me in his arms and whisper about the future. The same one who vanished without a word.
“Maybe not,” he acknowledges quietly. “But I’m here now.” Heavy and unwanted, the words hang between us, and I look away before he can see the crack in my composure.
The tent has fallen quiet—too quiet. The others are pretending not to listen, but I can feel their attention like static in the air. “Okay.” I force a shaky laugh and break the silence. “Let’s set some ground rules before this testosterone fog chokes me to death.”
“Rule number one,” I announce sharply.
Jagger perks up. “Ooh, rules. My favorite,” he chirps with sarcasm.
“You all keep your shirts on unless we’re all sleeping.”
Gunnar raises a brow. “Even in a hundred-degree heat?”
“Yes.”
“Damn,” Jagger mutters. “You’re no fun.”
“Rule number two,” I continue. “No one touches my stuff. Especially my camera.”
Hawk glances at the camera still sitting on my cot. “Understood.”
“And rule number three.” I pause, looking around the tent. “If any of you so much as think about peeking while I change, I will murder you in your sleep and hide your bodies in the dunes.”
“Noted,” Jagger deadpans.
“Now that we’ve established I’m terrifying,” I jest, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes, “I’m going to get back to work.”
Before I can move, Hawk’s calm voice cuts through the space. “Fine,” he gruffs, his tone making everyone else instantly shut up. “But we have rules, too.” I narrow my eyes, and he meets my gaze head-on. “Actually, it’s just one.”
“Oh, this should be good.”
“You don’t go anywhere without at least one of us,” Hawk declares, every syllable clipped and firm. “Ever.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“You heard him,” Gunnar says, leaning back on his cot.
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “You’re not going to babysit me every time I need to visit the latrine or take a shower.”
“Not negotiable,” Hawk replies, shaking his head.
“You don’t get to dictate my movements.”
“Reese.” The sound of my name in that deep, even tone sends a jolt through me. “I’m not dictating. I’m keeping you alive. That’s the job.”
“I’ve kept myself alive just fine for thirty-three years.”
He steps closer, voice dropping an octave. “Barely.”
The silence that follows is sharp. I open my mouth, then close it again, because he’s right. And that infuriates me more than anything. “Fine. Whatever. But if any of you try to follow me into the latrine, I will stab you,” I huff eventually.
The hours drag on, and I keep catching Hawk watching me out of the corner of my eye as I finish setting up my workstation.
Finally done, I straighten and stretch, rolling my sore shoulders.
When I crane my neck to remove a kink, Hawk is at the entrance talking quietly with Damon.
His voice is low and commanding, the same one that used to make me feel safe.
And as much as I hate it, all I can think about is how much I used to like the sound of it vibrating against my skin.
When I glance up again, his eyes are still on me. They are dark, unreadable, and full of things left unsaid. Our gazes meet, and I force myself to tear mine away, because no matter how much of me wants to keep hating him, a bigger part of me wants to know what he’s hiding.