Chapter 8
GWEN
Evening comes quickly. Back at Thatcher's place, I settle on the couch with my laptop while he reviews files. Music murmurs in the background, comfortable silence stretching between us.
"I could get used to this," I say after a while.
He looks up. "Used to what?"
"Being here with you. It's starting to feel normal."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Good. Definitely good."
His phone buzzes. He frowns at the screen, answers. "Caine."
I watch his expression tighten.
"Understood. We'll be ready." He ends the call, meets my eyes. "Garrison's vehicle was spotted on base a while ago. NCIS is moving to intercept."
Fear knifes through me. "She came back?"
"Looks like she's not running after all." He crosses to me, pulls me up from the couch. "We're staying here with the doors locked and security on alert. Rivera's team will handle the arrest."
"What if Briggs is with her?"
"Then they handle both of them." He wraps his arms around me. "You're safe here."
I want to believe that, want to trust that locked doors and increased patrols will be enough. But fear twists in my gut anyway.
"Hey." He tilts my chin up. "Talk to me. What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking about how close we came to not figuring it out in time.
" My voice cracks slightly. "If I hadn't kept those records, if you hadn't been there that night in the parking lot, if any single detail had been different—Garrison would have gotten away with it.
She'd still be stealing equipment, still degrading our trauma response capabilities, and we'd have no idea. "
"But you did keep the records. I was there. We did figure it out."
"Barely." I pull back to look at him. "She had weeks to cover her tracks. She could have deleted everything, destroyed all the evidence. We got lucky, Thatcher. That's what scares me. We got lucky and I hate relying on luck when people's lives are at stake."
He's quiet for a moment, then, "You're right. We did get lucky. But you know what else? You were thorough. You documented everything because that's who you are. That's not luck. That's you being brilliant and meticulous and refusing to back down when everyone told you it was clerical error."
"The Chief of Surgery dismissed my concerns. Told me I was overreacting."
"And you kept digging anyway. That's not luck. That's courage."
Tears prick at my eyes. "I was terrified when Briggs grabbed me. When he dragged me between those cars and I couldn't get away. I fought back but it wasn't enough and if you hadn't been there—"
"Don't." His voice is rough. "Don't go there."
"Why not? It's true. He would have killed me."
"But he didn't. I was there."
"This time. But what about next time? What if Garrison's coming back means they're making another move? What if—"
He kisses me. Hard and desperate, cutting off the spiral of fear. When he pulls back, his eyes are intense.
“I’ve been in combat zones,” he says quietly. “Seen firefights. Diffused explosives that could level buildings. But when I saw him dragging you between those cars? That wasn’t fear. That was something colder. Calculated. The kind of focus that ends men.”
"Thatcher—"
"Let me finish." His hands frame my face.
"I watched Suzy fade over those last months I was home.
There wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it.
I swore I'd never let myself care about someone like that again because losing her nearly destroyed me.
" His thumb traces my cheekbone. "And then I saw you in that parking lot fighting for your life.
.. bleeding and terrified but so damn brave.
I knew right then and there I was in trouble.
Because I knew I had already begun to care. "
My breath catches. "You did?"
"From that first night. Maybe even before, from seeing you at the hospital and thinking you were beautiful but not letting myself pursue it.
" He rests his forehead against mine. "And now I'm in so deep that the thought of something happening to you makes me want to lock you in a bunker until this is over. "
"That's why you were hovering today."
"Yeah. I know you called me on it. I know you're right about trusting you, but my instinct is to eliminate every threat, control every variable, keep you safe by force if necessary."
"That's not realistic."
"I know. Doesn't make it less true." He pulls me closer. "I can’t lose you. There. I said it. A part of me hates feeling this out of control."
I slide my arms around his neck. "I'm scared. Scared of Briggs, scared of what Garrison might do, scared of this thing between us because it's so new and I don't know how to navigate it."
"So we're both dealing with intense feelings."
"Apparently."
"Want to know what else I'm feeling?" His voice drops lower, rougher.
"What?"
"Grateful. That you're here. That you're safe. That I get to hold you like this." His mouth finds my neck. "And desperate. To feel you. To know you're real and alive and mine."
Heat floods through me. "Yours?"
"If you'll have me."
"I thought we already established that this morning."
"This morning was amazing. But this is me telling you that I want this. You. Us. Not because of protective detail or investigation or proximity. Because you're brilliant and stubborn and you challenge me and I don't want to imagine my life without you in it anymore."
Tears well in my eyes before they start to spill over. Happy tears this time. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."
"I'm out of practice. Four years of not letting myself feel anything."
"You're doing fine." I kiss him softly. "And for the record, I want this too. You. Us. All of it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I press closer against him. "Now stop talking and kiss me."
"Bossy."
"You love it."
"I kind of do."
The kiss starts soft, reassurance that we're both here, both safe. Then need builds, a desperate awareness that danger still circles but right now, in this moment, we're alive and together and that matters more than anything else.
I pull him toward the bedroom. He follows, kicking the door closed behind us before spinning me around and pressing me against it. His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping along the sensitive skin. I gasp and arch into him, feeling the hard length of him against my belly.
"We should probably talk about this," he manages between kisses.
"Later."
"Safety—"
"I'm on birth control. I'm clean. You?"
"Clean. I get tested regularly."
"Then we're good." I pull his shirt over his head, let my hands explore the hard planes of his chest. His muscles shift under my palms, warm and solid. "Stop overthinking."
"You make it impossible to think."
"Good."
Clothes disappear in urgent movements—my shirt, his pants. He unhooks my bra with surprising dexterity for a man who claims he's out of practice. Then it's just us, skin against skin, all that coiled tension from the day needing release.
He walks me backward to the bed, lays me down with surprising gentleness given the heat in his eyes. He crawls onto the bed, settling himself between my thighs, bracing on his forearms.
"You sure?" he asks.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
"If you want to stop—"
"Thatcher." I pull him down for a kiss. "Less talking. More everything else."
He chuckles. "Bossy."
"You like it."
"Yeah, I really do."
His mouth moves lower, taking its time. His lips trace the line of my collarbone, tongue following the path with slow, deliberate strokes that make my breath catch.
He explores the hollow of my throat, teeth grazing just enough to make me shiver.
Lower still, his mouth finds the curve of my breast. He palms the soft flesh, thumb circling my nipple until it peaks hard against his calloused skin.
When he finally takes me into his mouth, I arch off the bed with a gasp.
The wet heat of his tongue circles the sensitive bud, flicking and teasing until pleasure shoots straight down to my core.
His teeth scrape gently—just enough edge to make me whimper—then his tongue soothes the sting with long, slow licks.
He lavishes attention on one breast while his hand works the other, rolling and tugging my nipple between his fingers.
The dual sensation is overwhelming. Heat pools between my thighs, slick and insistent.
Every pull of his mouth, every scrape of his teeth sends electricity racing through my nervous system.
"Still feeling bossy?" he murmurs against my breast.
"Maybe."
"Let's see what we can do about that."
He kisses his way down my stomach, mouth hot and open against my skin.
Each press of his lips sends tremors through my muscles.
He pauses at my hip bone, teeth sinking in just enough to make me cry out before his tongue soothes the sting.
Lower still, his breath ghosts over my inner thigh as he positions himself between my legs.
Broad shoulders force my thighs wider, spreading me open for him. Rough hands grip my hips, holding me in place. The anticipation coils tight in my belly as he just looks at me for a long moment—exposed and wanting and completely at his mercy.
When his tongue finally makes contact, dragging slow and flat through my wetness, my back arches off the bed. The first taste of me pulls a groan from deep in his chest that vibrates against my sensitive flesh.
"Oh god."
"Tell me what you like," he says, breath hot against sensitive flesh.
"That. Exactly that."
He takes his time mapping me with his mouth, learning every fold and edge.
His tongue explores in long, slow strokes that make my thighs tremble.
He licks through my wetness, tasting and savoring like he has all the time in the world.
When he flicks the tip of his tongue against my entrance, I gasp and my hips buck involuntarily.