Chapter 29
Six-Thirty
JULIETTE
The lodge had entered the clipboard phase of crisis.
I sat in the library, the air tasting of leftover ginger biscuits and tannins gone bitter. Outside the door, the lodge was a machine resetting itself. From the reception alcove came the faint, uneven clack-clack of Sarah’s keyboard, followed by the occasional heavy tread of a ranger on the porch.
The guest transfer list sat on the table in front of me. Yesterday’s eleven o’clock transfer had died with the active credential, the locked-down lodge, and the screen door clicking behind Nick’s back.
The click had been Daniel, not the man with the stolen credential, but the damage had been done. The active login had triggered another lockdown, another sweep, and another round of transfers collapsing into polite apologies.
Now my name waited at the top of the next morning’s list.
The roads were technically clear, but no one seemed eager to trust them yet. My luggage was staged by the service elevator, glossy and black against a room built for dust, boots, and bad news, packed with everything except a clean way out.
“First transfer leaves at six-thirty,” Sarah said from the doorway. She had abandoned her shoes at some point, one hip braced against the frame like standing upright had become a group decision. "Nick wants daylight. Two vehicles per group, escort front and rear."
“Of course he does.” The last word scraped on the way out.
Only Nick Mercer could dress avoidance up and make it sound like procedure.
Sarah didn't smile. She just leaned against the doorframe, looking at the untouched cup of tea beside my hand. "He’s still with the rangers. Mbeki’s back from the clinic. Eight stitches and a lot of swearing, but he’s upright."
“Eight stitches and still negotiating. Impressive. Stupid, but impressive.”
"He asked if you were still here," she added softly.
"The manifest says I am."
"That’s not what he was asking."
She disappeared back into the lobby before I could object to being seen that clearly.
The list waited where I’d left it. My name sat at the top of the 6:30 A.M. departure.
I had sold prettier versions of this for years. Duty wore excellent shoes when it wanted to hide fear.
The library door groaned.
I didn’t look up immediately. Cold air came in with him, carrying woodsmoke, clean skin, and the sting of antiseptic. When I finally lifted my gaze, Nick stood just inside the doorway, at the edge of the lamplight.
He had changed. The uniform was gone, replaced by a clean charcoal shirt that wasn’t quite crisp. His hair was damp, pushed back from a face carved out of exhaustion. A strip of medical tape crossed his left forearm, and his eyes were bloodshot, too blue against a face that had run out of color.
Without his gear, without the room making space for him, he looked worse.
Human.
A far more inconvenient version of him.
Then the object in his hand registered. Not my laptop. Not my charger. Not the neat, practical things a man like him should have thought mattered.
My fantasy novel.
Its cracked spine rested against his palm like evidence that he’d been paying attention.
“The Crimson Crown,” he read, his voice rough around the title. “I assumed this outranked the charger.”
Fantastic. Even my escapism had been secured and returned.
“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t choose the charger.”
His eyes stayed on mine. “You wouldn’t.”
That was the problem with Nick Mercer. He didn’t guess. He assessed.
"Of course you’re still working," he said. His voice was rough, scraped thin by the day.
“You look like hell.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“So is pretending that bandage is decorative, apparently.”
He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched and gave up.
"Mbeki?" I asked.
"Livid. The doctor told him no patrol for forty-eight hours. I think he’s currently trying to bribe a junior ranger for a radio."
"And the... situation?"
“It was an old contractor login,” Nick said. “Someone used it. They can’t anymore.”
"But I’m still on the list."
He finally looked at me. The intensity was still there, but the armor was gone. "You’re on the first vehicle."
"Is that a security requirement, Nick? Or a personal preference?"
He straightened, his jaw tightening. “It’s the call I can live with.”
“Don’t make responsibility lie for you,” I said, standing. I rounded the desk until I was inches from him. “I know how to leave early, Nick. I’ve made it look elegant for years. But don’t call this protection. You’re clearing the field so you don’t have to look at what’s actually happening.”
"I am trying to keep you alive," he snapped.
“I know,” I said, and the anger went quiet in my throat. “But I’m still here, Nick.”
Nick took a step closer, crowding my space. He smelled like soap and the fading heat of the day. “I have a daughter on another continent. I have a job that goes wrong fast. My marriage didn’t end because I stopped caring. It ended because I was better at crisis than I was at staying.”
He stopped. His breath caught once in the quiet. His gaze dropped to the floor, his hands curling at his sides.
“I know how to make sending you away look responsible,” he said. “I don’t know what to do when wanting you to stay asks for more than I know how to give.”
“Then stop pretending sending me away is the same thing as protecting me,” I said. My ribs tightened around the next breath. “I know this came with an end date. One week. One retreat. I understand endings. What I don’t understand is you dressing this one up as duty.”
His eyes came back to mine. Neither of us moved.
"If you're here right now to say goodbye," I whispered, "don't touch me."
Nick reached out anyway. His hand didn't go for my waist or my hair. He wrapped his fingers around my wrist, his thumb pressing into the jumping pulse there.
“I’m here because I don’t know how to say goodbye.”
He swallowed, and the quiet around us tightened.
“And because I don’t want the clean exit I keep trying to give you.”
He pulled me toward him, and this time, there was no challenge in the contact. His mouth met mine with restraint that lasted half a breath. Our nights in the bush tent had been all edge. The little room at the lodge had been all urgency.
This kiss stayed.
His shoulders lowered beneath my arms as I wound them around his neck, my fingers digging into the damp hair at his nape.
“Not here,” I breathed against his lips. “Not where everyone knows how to find you.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me.
No argument. No apology.
His hand closed around mine, and he led me through the back of the lodge, past the dark service corridor and into the night, toward the low ranger cabin tucked beyond the yard.
The one place that didn't belong to everyone else.
The cabin was arranged with the efficiency of a man who had never meant to settle into it. A bed with a dark navy duvet, one nightstand, a heavy dresser, and a compact kitchenette tucked beneath a narrow counter. Enough to live. Not enough to belong.
On the nightstand sat a small, framed photo of a girl with his eyes and a defiant tilt to her chin. Sofia.
"She has your suspicion," I said softly.
"Poor kid," he muttered, but the edge was gone.
He turned to me, his silhouette framed by the faint moonlight filtering through the blinds. He didn’t move to undress me. For once, he didn't fill the space with orders.
“I can’t promise I know how to do this, Juliette,” he said.
“I didn’t ask you to know.”
"What are you asking for?"
"That you stop deciding for both of us."
Nick stepped into my space, his hands coming up to frame my face. His palms were rough against my skin, warm enough to make my body forget we were supposed to be having a serious conversation. He leaned down, his forehead resting against mine.
“Stay,” he whispered, and the word came out rough enough to make my throat tighten.
The word stayed between us while his shirt rasped over his head and his belt slid free with a soft scrape. I peeled off the borrowed cotton T-shirt, damp at the spine from a day spent pretending I was fine.
“Nick,” I said softly.
His gaze came back to mine.
“Don’t do that,” I said. “Don’t make me pretend it didn’t hurt.”
He caught my hand, kissing the palm before leading me to the bed.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he came over me, careful in a way that should have annoyed me more than it did. His arms braced on either side of my head. His chest hovered above mine. His eyes stayed on my face as if looking away might let something slip loose between us.
“Look at me,” he said, and my thighs tightened at the rough edge in his voice before the rest of me could mount a respectable defense.
Naturally, my body chose that moment to stop pretending this was a debate.
The first press of him against me pulled a breath loose and destroyed whatever remained of my negotiating position. He stayed just outside me, hips angled, body taut, giving me enough pressure to understand exactly what he was withholding.
His jaw worked once beneath his beard. The rest of him stayed still.
I had opinions about that. My nipples did too, apparently, tightening where they brushed his chest before I could salvage any dignity from the situation.
Nick’s breath caught. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Don’t do that unless you mean it.”
Excellent. At least one of us was suffering visibly.
His eyes dropped to my mouth, then came back to mine. He watched the change in my face with a focus that was almost indecent, and the worst part was that he didn’t look pleased with himself. He looked like he was losing a fight he’d chosen badly.
“Tell me you want this,” he said. “I need to hear it before I lose my goddamn mind.”
The bastard didn't move until I answered.
I slid my hand from his chest to the back of his neck. His pulse beat hard beneath my fingers. Steady enough to lie, but not well enough to fool me.
“Nick, I swear to God, if you make me ask nicely...”