Chapter 3
THREE
She said fine. Her expression said something different. Yeah, well, he was lying to himself, too.
Dakota exhaled slowly.
This was a tactical error. Possibly his worst one yet.
He was in trouble. He’d already told her about his grandfather.
About belief and trust and learning to let people be who they were.
He’d held her hand through an emergency landing and told her they’d be okay.
He’d looked at her across a dinner table and felt something give way when she talked about being lost in Tokyo and finally feeling like herself.
Nope, not sharing a bed with her. Not when she’d laughed and giggled and looked at him with those eyes that said she enjoyed his company . . .
She disappeared into the bathroom without another word. The door clicked shut. A moment later, water hissed through old pipes.
He changed into dry clothes—T-shirt, athletic shorts—then checked the room out of habit. Windows secure. Door locked.
Calm down.
The love seat mocked him from the corner. He tried sitting. Attempted to recline. His legs hung over the armrest at an angle that would leave him crippled by morning. He shifted, tried curling sideways, felt his spine lodge a formal complaint.
The floor, then.
He was eyeing the wooden boards, calculating the optimal position for surviving the night without need for a chiropractor, when the bathroom door opened.
Steam billowed out. And then Jayden emerged, wrapped in an oversized white robe that must have been hanging on the door.
Her hair was damp, darker than before, curling slightly at the ends.
The robe swallowed her—sleeves too long, hem nearly at her ankles—and somehow that made her look almost vulnerable.
The sharp intelligence in her eyes hadn’t dimmed though.
If anything, the vulnerability made it more obvious.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said as she started rearranging pillows.
“I’m building a wall. See?” She stacked them down the center of the mattress—a barrier of cotton and feathers that wouldn’t stop anything but might preserve the illusion of propriety.
“The Great Pillow Wall of Fiji. Very effective. Impenetrable, really.”
Despite everything—the attraction he shouldn’t feel, the vulnerability he couldn’t afford, the impossible situation they’d landed in—Dakota’s mouth twitched, wanting a smile. “Impenetrable.”
“Absolutely.” She smoothed the last pillow into place, then looked up at him. Waiting. “I’ve inspected hundreds of hotels. I know my pillow construction.”
He should say no. Should insist on the floor, on the love seat, on sleeping across the room if necessary. Every instinct told him proximity was dangerous.
But she was standing there with damp hair and an oversized robe and a smile . . .
And he was tired. Bone-deep tired. The emergency landing, the adrenaline crash that followed . . .
Yeah, he could probably drop onto the floor and sleep like a baby. But . . .
“Fine.” He heard his stupid mouth say. “But if you snore, I reserve the right to revisit the floor option.”
She smiled. “Deal.”
They settled on opposite sides of the pillow wall. The mattress dipped under his weight, and he felt her shift in response, adjusting to the changed topography. Close enough that he could hear her breathing. Far enough that the pillows maintained the separation.
She reached up, pulled the cord on the lamp. Darkness fell like a curtain.
“Good night, Dakota.”
“Good night.”
The storm raged outside. Wind screamed through the trees, rain battered the shutters, and somewhere in the distance, something crashed—a branch, maybe, or a piece of loose roofing giving up its fight against the weather.
Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the strange comfort of another presence in the darkness, someone else’s warmth nearby, even with pillows between them. Maybe it was just the rain, that relentless drumming that smoothed every sharp edge into white noise.
His eyes closed.
And the dream was waiting.
She couldn’t stop listening to him breathe.
Which was ridiculous. Jayden had shared quarters with assets before. Slept in safe houses with strangers. Once spent a week in a truck bed with a man twice her size who snored hard enough to shake the earth.
This was different.
The storm had softened to a steady rain, drumming on the cabin’s corrugated roof. In the darkness, Dakota’s breathing was the only other sound. Slow. Even. The rhythm of someone who’d trained himself to sleep anywhere, anytime, under any conditions.
She knew that kind of sleep. She possessed the skills for that kind of sleep.
But tonight, lying two feet away from him, she couldn’t find them.
She didn’t expect to feel safe. She’d spent years training herself to sleep light, wake fast, trust no one. She could snap awake at the slightest wrong sound.
But lying in the darkness with Dakota beside her, the rain pattering on the roof, she felt . . . calm. Protected. Like nothing bad could happen as long as he was there.
Which was absurd. She didn’t need protection. She was the protection.
The wooden shutters filtered the sound of the storm, turned the violence of the weather into something almost musical.
Dakota shifted beside her. She held her breath until he stilled again.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
She closed her eyes. Tried to match her breathing to his. Let the rain become white noise, let the warmth of the bed pull her under—
Dakota’s breathing changed. Quickened. She heard him mutter something—words she couldn’t make out at first. Then clearer: “Sir.” His voice sounded younger. Uncertain. “The threat assessment—”
He was dreaming.
She held still, listening.
“The intercepts—” He shifted restlessly. The pillow wall between them rustled. “Sir—”
Then he shouted. Not words—just a raw, broken sound that tore through the darkness.
Jayden was out of the bed before her brain caught up with her body. Training kicked in—she dropped into a crouch beside the nightstand.
But there was no intruder. No attack.
Just Dakota, thrashing in the blue sheets, fighting something only he could see.
“No—” His voice was raw, broken. “Get down; get down—”
His arm swung out. She ducked as it destroyed the pillow wall. His eyes flew open—wild, unseeing, the eyes of a man still trapped in whatever darkness snarled his mind.
“Dakota.” She turned on the light and crawled back onto the bed, her voice calm. “Dakota, wake up. You’re safe. You’re in Fiji. It’s just a dream.”
He wasn’t hearing her. His body twisted, muscles straining, and sweat sheened his face.
Whatever he was reliving, it was bad.
She pushed the remains of the pillow wall aside and moved closer, staying out of range of his arms. “Dakota. Come back. You’re not there anymore.”
His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Hard.
She didn’t fight the grip. Didn’t pull away. Just held still and kept her voice steady. “It’s Jayden. You’re okay. We’re in a cabin in Fiji. The storm is passing. You’re safe.”
Slowly, slowly, the wildness faded from his eyes. His grip loosened. His breathing—ragged, uneven—started to settle.
“Jayden.” His voice emerged hoarse.
“Yes. You’re safe.” She leaned over him, her pendant necklace and locket hanging from her neck.
He released her wrist. Pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out rough, broken. “I should have warned you. The nightmares—I have them sometimes—”
“Don’t apologize.” She sat back on her heels.
He ran a hand through his hair. Looked at her. In the faint glow from the nightlight, his face was drawn, shadowed.
The rain softened outside. The storm remained, still rattling the shutters, but the violence had passed. What remained felt steady against the storm.
“I’ll make tea,” she said. “There’s a kettle in the bathroom, and I saw some packets on the counter.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” She was already moving. “But I’m awake, and I could use a cup too, so you’re getting one whether you like it or not.”
The bathroom was small but clean—white tile, a standing shower, a mirror that reflected her wild-eyed face back at her. She ran the water until it was hot, filled the electric kettle, and found the tea packets. Chamomile. Probably meant for guests who had trouble sleeping.
Or were plagued with night terrors.
She made two cups and carried them back to the main room.
Dakota had swung his legs over the side of the bed, was sitting on the edge, head bowed, his reflection catching in the dresser mirror across the room.
Even in the low light from the bathroom, she could make out the tension of his broad shoulders, the tension coiled in his muscles.
He wore a T-shirt, but it was thin, and when he shifted, she caught a glimpse of something on his back.
Scars.
Not one or two. A map of them. Ridged lines that spoke of shrapnel. A puckered circle that could only be a bullet wound.
The man had history.
She looked away quickly. Set the tea on the nightstand beside him.
“Chamomile,” she said. “It’s supposed to be calming, but honestly, it just tastes like hot flowers.”
He picked up the cup. Wrapped his hands around it. “Thank you.”
They sat in silence for a long moment. The rain continued its steady rhythm on the roof.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.” She rubbed her wrist where his grip had been. A little sore, nothing more. “You’ve got a strong grip, but I’ve had worse from overeager handshakes.”
He didn’t laugh. Just sat there breathing, trying to come back from wherever he’d been.
She waited. Let the silence stretch. Let him find the words in his own time.
“It wasn’t a dream. It’s a memory. Of . . . of how I failed my team.” His voice was quiet. Ragged. He sighed. “I was EOD, and I was called in to sweep an area.” He swallowed. “My gut said it wasn’t clear, but my CO was pushing me and . . .”
“You got it wrong.”
He nodded.
EOD. Explosive Ordnance Disposal. The kind of work where mistakes meant body bags. Where second-guessing yourself at the wrong moment got people killed.
“And now you’re still afraid of missing something.”
“Something like that.”
She was quiet for a long moment. Thinking about her own failures. Her own ghosts. The weight that never quite left, no matter how many missions you completed, how many people you saved afterward.
Then, “I’m not going to tell you it wasn’t your fault. I don’t know enough about what happened. But I do know that mistakes live in your body, even after you’ve forgiven yourself.”
Something in his expression shifted. Loosened, just slightly.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“For not saying ‘It wasn’t your fault.’”
“Blame doesn’t help anyone.”
“Yeah,” he said, as if he didn’t believe it. He took another sip of the tea, then set the cup down and stood. “I’m going to sleep on the love seat. The one by the window.”
“Dakota, you don’t have to—”
“I do.” His voice was quiet but firm. “Just in case it happens again. I don’t want to hurt you.”
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she could handle herself, that she’d been trained to subdue men twice his size, that a nightmare wasn’t going to break her.
But there was something in his face—a raw, exposed kind of shame—that made her swallow the words. “Okay.”
He grabbed a pillow and the woven throw from the foot of the bed. Crossed to the love seat. The low, cushioned frame looked comfortable enough for sitting but would turn a person to a knot overnight. Especially a man his size.
He settled onto it anyway. Pulled the throw over his shoulders.
“Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow.” He reached over and closed the woven bamboo screen between the sleeping area and the sitting room, creating a barrier.
Like she wouldn’t just lie there and listen to him breathe.
She lay back and closed her eyes. Was it terrible to be absurdly glad she’d been here when the nightmare hit? That she’d been able to bring him back?
That for just a moment, she’d been someone who mattered to someone who mattered to her?
The thought should have terrified her.
Maybe it did.
And she didn’t care.
Tomorrow they’d land in Sydney and go their separate ways, and this would become a story. A memory. Two days that existed outside of normal time.
Two days that somehow felt more perfectly real than the last three years of her life.