Chapter 7 - Ranger
I hate talking about Afghanistan.
Hate reliving the weight of that day, the sound Mitchell's body made when the IED detonated, the way his blood looked on sand that was already too red from the sunset.
Hate admitting that I carry it with me every single day, that constant calculation, that obsessive need to see threats before they materialize, that if I'm not vigilant every second, someone else will die.
I don't talk about it. Not with Phoenix. Not with Quinn, even though she knows some of it from her own service.
But I'm talking about it now. With Delilah. Pouring out pieces of myself I usually keep locked down tight because she shared first and because somehow, sitting in this quiet room with her curled under the covers looking at me like I'm not broken for being this way, it feels safe.
She feels safe.
Which is fucking insane given that I met her six hours ago and spent most of that time either extracting her from danger or driving through active pursuit.
There's no logical reason I should feel comfortable with her.
No tactical explanation for why telling her things I've never told anyone seems not just acceptable but necessary.
"You're good at what you do," she says, pulling me back from the spiral of self-analysis. "Protecting people. Seeing threats. All of it. That's not a flaw, even if it's exhausting sometimes."
"Doesn't always feel like a strength."
"The best strengths rarely do. They just feel like survival."
I look at her and see someone who understands that particular truth intimately. Someone who survived by being smart, by seeing patterns in numbers, by trusting her instincts even when the system told her to ignore them.
Someone who's softer than me in every visible way but just as fucking resilient where it counts.
"You should sleep," I tell her, because if I keep looking at her like this I'm going to do something stupid. "You're exhausted."
"So are you."
"I'm used to it. You're not."
"I've been running on adrenaline and terror for days. I'm very used to exhaustion." She shifts under the covers, her curls spreading across the pillow. "But I don't think I can sleep yet. My brain won't shut off."
"They won't find you here, you know? We have security protocols in place. Cameras. Perimeter checks. Armed brothers on rotation 24/7."
"You can't promise I'm completely safe. Nobody can."
She's right, and I hate that she's right.
"No," I admit. "I can't promise you're completely safe. But I can promise that if anyone tries to get to you, they'll have to go through every single one of us first. And we're very fucking good at what we do."
"I noticed. You took down four men in that motel room like it was nothing."
"It wasn't nothing. But it was necessary."
"Does it ever bother you? The violence?"
"Should it?"
"I don't know. Most people would be bothered by killing someone."
"I'm not most people. I was trained to neutralize threats. Spent a decade doing exactly that. The context is different now, sure. Protecting civilians instead of serving national interests, but the mechanics are the same." I lean back in the chair. "Does it bother you? That I killed someone today?"
She considers the question. "No. That probably makes me a bad person, but no. He was trying to hurt me. You stopped him. I'm grateful, not bothered."
"That doesn't make you a bad person. It makes you a survivor."
"Is that what I am now? A survivor?"
"You've always been one. You just didn't know it until circumstances forced you to prove it."
Her eyes get wet again, but she blinks the tears back. "I don't feel like a survivor. I feel like someone who got lucky that the right person showed up at the right time."
"Luck is part of survival. So is making smart decisions. You packed and stayed ready. You followed instructions during the extraction without panicking. Those were all choices that kept you alive."
"You're very good at reframing things to make me feel less pathetic."
"You're not pathetic. You're scared and exhausted, which is normal. But you're handling it better than most people would."
She laughs softly. "You don't have to keep complimenting me. I already think you're amazing for saving my life. You don't need to earn my gratitude."
"I'm not trying to earn anything. I'm telling you the truth."
"The truth is I'm a mess who can't even sleep alone without asking you to babysit me."
"The truth is you're someone who recognizes what you need and asks for it instead of suffering in silence. That's strength, not weakness."
"You really believe that."
"Yeah. I do."
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"You're this tactical, practical person who thinks three steps ahead and treats protection like a job.
But you're sitting here at midnight talking me through my anxiety instead of sleeping.
You held my hand earlier. You told Marcus Vale to shut up when he insulted me.
You keep doing these small kind things that don't fit with the 'just doing my job' explanation.
" She pulls the comforter tighter. "So why are you being so nice to me specifically? "
Fuck.
She's right. I am doing things that go beyond professional protection. Things I wouldn't necessarily do for just anyone under the club's care. Things that feel personal instead of tactical.
I should deflect. Should give her a reasonable explanation that maintains appropriate distance. Should remind both of us that I met her six hours ago and whatever I'm feeling is probably just the natural protectiveness that comes from a successful high-stakes extraction.
Should do all of that.
Don't.
"Because you matter," I tell her.
"I matter," she repeats slowly. "To you specifically? Or to the club?"
"Both. But yeah. To me specifically."
Her breath catches. "Graham—"
"I know this is terrible timing. I know you've had the worst day imaginable and the last thing you need is me complicating it further.
" I stand, deciding to, moving closer to the bed.
"But you asked why, and that's why. You matter to me.
I don't know how to explain it in a way that makes tactical sense, but there it is. "
She's staring at me now, her lips parted, her breathing faster. "We just met."
"I know."
"This doesn't make sense."
"I know that too."
"So, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I like talking to you. I like that you're smart and observant and ask direct questions.
I like that you're soft but not weak. I like the way you handled yourself today even though you were terrified.
" I stop at the edge of the bed, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes.
"I like you, Delilah. And I know that's probably just adrenaline or proximity or some other explainable phenomenon, but it feels real. "
"It feels real to me too," she whispers.
"Tell me to leave," I say. "Tell me this is a bad idea, and you need space, and I'll go. No questions. No judgment."
She doesn't tell me to leave.
Just looks at me with those huge brown eyes, fear, lust and confusion all tangled together in her expression.
"I don't want you to leave," she finally says.
"What do you want?"
"I don't know. I just know I feel safer with you here. Feel less alone. Feel like maybe I'm not completely losing my mind for feeling... whatever this is."
"You're not losing your mind."
"How do you know?"
"Because I feel it too. And if we're both losing our minds, at least we're doing it together."
She laughs. "That's terrible logic."
"I'm better at tactics than logic when it comes to this kind of thing."
"What kind of thing?"
"Whatever this is between us."
She swallows hard, her eyes never leaving mine. "Graham, I want you to kiss me."
The direct request does something to me. No games. No pretense. Just honest want. I cup her face with one hand. "If I start kissing you, I'm not going to want to stop."
"Then don't stop," she whispers.
I kiss her.
She tastes like tears and toothpaste. Her lips are soft, then bolder as she realizes I'm not going to pull away.
I deepen the kiss, unable to help myself.
One hand sliding into her damp curls, the other moving to her jaw, tilting her head to get a better angle.
She opens for me immediately, and fuck, her taste is addictive.
I want more.
Need more.
My tongue slides against hers and she gasps, her hands coming up to grip my jacket. Pulling me closer. Not pushing away. Not hesitating.
Wanting this as much as I do.
I shift on the bed, getting a better position, covering her body partially with mine. She's warm and soft beneath me, and every small sound she makes drives me closer to losing control completely.
"Graham," she breathes against my mouth.
"Yeah?"
"Touch me. Please."
Fuck.
My hand moves from her jaw down her neck, feeling her pulse racing under my fingers. She shivers and arches into the touch. I keep kissing her while my hand explores lower, over the collar of her hoodie, down to where it ends at her waist.
"Can I take this off?" I ask against her lips.
"Yes. Please yes."
I sit up enough to help her pull the hoodie over her head. She's wearing a simple white t-shirt underneath, and I can see the outline of her bra through the thin fabric. See the way her chest is rising and falling rapidly. See the flush spreading down her neck.
She's fucking beautiful.
"You're staring," she says, self-conscious suddenly.
"Yeah. I am. Because you're gorgeous and I can't stop looking at you."
"I'm not—"
"You are." I lean down and kiss her again, cutting off whatever self-deprecating thing she was about to say. "You're perfect, Delilah. Every inch of you."
My hand moves to her waist, sliding under the hem of her t-shirt to touch bare skin. She gasps at the contact, her stomach muscles contracting under my palm.
"Still okay?" I ask.
"Yes. Don't stop. Please don't stop."