63. Felicity
FELICITY
The photograph slipped from Hersh’s hand into the mud.
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Rain hammered the trees around us while those four words seemed to echo endlessly inside my head.
YOU CAN’T HIDE HER.
I stared at the picture.
At myself asleep beneath the blanket in the cabin.
Oh my Lord.
That blanket?—
That was from two nights ago.
Which meant Shepherd had been close enough to watch me while I slept.
A wave of nausea hit so hard I nearly doubled over.
“Honey—”
Hersh caught me instantly despite the pain tearing across his face.
His arms wrapped around me hard.
Protective.
Possessive.
Furious.
“You’re okay,” he said low against my hair.
But his voice?—
His voice sounded dangerous now.
The kind right before men like Hersh killed people.
“He was there,” I whispered shakily. “He was actually there.”
Nobody tried to deny it.
Because the proof sat right there in the mud.
Wolf swore violently under his breath.
Trigger looked ready to start a war.
Even Rook’s face darkened in a way that made the surrounding operators subtly straighten.
“Shepherd’s escalating,” Rook said coldly.
“No,” Hersh corrected quietly.
Everyone looked at him.
His eyes never left the photograph.
“He’s unraveling.”
A chill slid down my spine.
Because Hersh sounded certain.
Like he understood Shepherd in ways the rest of us didn’t.
Wolf folded his arms. “You think this is personal now?”
Hersh gave him a look.
“Brother, this was personal long before tonight.”
Silence.
Thunder rolled overhead again.
I slowly looked up at Hersh.
Rain dripped from his dark hair across the scar beside his eye.
Blood still stained his shirt beneath the medic’s bandages.
And yet somehow?—
the scariest thing about him right now was how calm he looked.
Not emotionally calm.
Worse.
Focused.
Deadly.
Like something inside him had fully locked into place.
“He kept the first photo for ten years,” Hersh said quietly. “He carried it through missions. Through safehouses. Through kill sites. He went into the cabin while she slept and took this photo.”
My stomach twisted harder.
“He watched her from a distance because he knew exactly what she was.”
I barely managed to whisper, “What am I?”
His eyes finally lifted to mine then.
So much emotion hit me at once from that look it nearly stole my breath.
“Mine.”
The word shattered straight through me.
Not ownership.
Not control.
Something deeper.
Protective.
Absolute.
Like he’d fight death itself before letting anybody touch me again.
Wolf looked away first with a muttered, “Well damn.”
Trigger smirked tiredly. “About time somebody said it.”
But Hersh never broke eye contact with me.
Not once.
And for the first time since this nightmare started?—
I realized something terrifying.
Shepherd wasn’t the only obsessed man in these woods tonight.
The difference was?—
one of them loved me enough to die for me.
And the other?
Was a sick bastard.