Chapter 14 #3
“Don’t.” She’d pulled away from his hand. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t.”
“He’s not appropriate—”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.” Dad’s voice had hardened. Had become presidential. “He’s a rogue operator. And he lives a dangerous life.”
“I’m not asking your permission.”
Her father had sat back. “Actually, you are. For the next three years, you’re still the First Daughter. And your well-being is still a threat.”
“To what?” Britta’s voice had risen.
“The world.”
She’d stared at him. “I’m twenty-six years old—”
“Living in the White House. Protected by Secret Service. Representing this country.” Her father had sighed. “You’re valuable, Britta. Very valuable. To me—which means you’re valuable to others too.”
She’d swallowed.
“I love you so very much.” His hand had covered hers. “And of course I want you to be happy. And fall in love, and have a future, and…yes, I know I’ve been holding you too close. I’ve been afraid…but this is bigger than just a dad trying to let his daughter go. Even at the age of twenty-six.”
The door had opened and a Secret Service agent had stuck his head in, motioned to the president.
He’d squeezed her hand and gotten up.
“Dad, what is it—”
“I’ll be back, Britta.”
And then he’d left her there. To worry. To hope.
To stare out the window.
Behind her, the door opened again—probably the nurse, back to bother her. “Come in.” Not that she could stop them anyway.
“I will. But not yet.”
Britta’s world stopped.
West.
She turned. He filled the doorway. Six two of muscle and exhaustion and barely controlled emotion.
Bandage wrapped around his head—white gauze stark against dark hair.
Blood had seeped through on the left side.
His shirt was ripped, hanging open, showing his chest—bruised ribs, scrapes, salt-crusted skin.
His hours in the ocean showed—stubble darkening his jaw, eyes bloodshot. Yeah, he looked like he’d been through a war. Looked like he’d fought his way out of darkness and barely made it back.
But he was alive.
Whole.
Real.
The air shifted when he entered, as if he was running on adrenaline and determination and nothing else.
His gaze found Britta’s face. Locked there. His chest rose and fell—breathing too fast, too shallow. Like he’d been running. Or drowning. Or both.
The sheer presence of him—the weight of survival and relief and barely contained panic—swept everything out of her and she gasped.
“West.” Britta moved, threw back the blanket. Grabbed at the IV line.
“Wait—don’t—” West crossed the room. Fast. Caught her hands before she could pull the needle out. “You need that.”
“I need you!” Britta’s hands gripped his even as her gaze scanned his face. “I thought…the plane exploded, West! It exploded!”
Her voice broke and tears spilled down her cheeks. Her whole body shook.
West’s hands moved to her face. Cupped her cheeks. His thumbs wiping tears even as more kept falling. “I’m alive. I got out. I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay. You’re bleeding. Your head—”
“It’s just a cut. Concussion, maybe. Nothing serious.”
Britta’s laugh came out broken. “Nothing serious? You jumped out of a plane—”
“So did you.”
Not willingly.
Still—her hands moved to West’s chest. Gripped his shirt. “I thought you were dead. I watched that plane explode and you were still on it and I thought—”
West kissed her.
And just like that, she stopping spinning. Everything disappeared except West’s mouth on hers. His hands in her hair. The taste of him, salty and solid and perfect, consuming.
West. Britta kissed him back. Desperate. Frantic. Her hands fisting in his shirt. Her body pressing against his despite the IV line and the monitor wires and the Secret Service standing ten feet away, watching.
She didn’t care. Didn’t care about anything except West. Alive. Here. Real.
Nothing mattered except this moment. This man. This kiss that tasted like survival and relief and something else. Something that made Britta’s chest ache.
He lifted his head, met her eyes for a second, as if he too wanted to confirm the truth. His breathing came out ragged as his gaze raked hers.
Then he sat on the side of her bed and kissed her again, arms around her, his kiss slowing, deepening, as if he wanted to savor her. Take his time…as if he might be…
Wait.
Goodbye.
His kiss felt like goodbye.
No—no. That wasn’t…She put her arms around him, held on.
West pulled back first. His forehead pressed against hers. His hands cupped her face. “You’re so beautiful, you know that?”
She shook her head. “No, whatever you’re about to say—” The words came out raw. Broken. Britta’s hands fisted tighter in his shirt. “Whatever reason you came here—don’t leave.”
His expression turned wrecked and—
Oh, she knew it.
He was saying goodbye.
“Britta—” He lifted his head away from her.
“No.” She shook her head. “I know that tone. I know what it means. And I’m telling you no.”
West’s hands moved to her shoulders. Gently. Put distance between them even though Britta’s fists were still gripping his shirt.
She held on tighter. Refused to let go.
“I talked with your father.” His voice came out rough, like each word cost him. “And I have to respect that.”
Britta’s breath caught. “No—”
“I only came to say goodbye.”
The words hit like a fist, swiping out her breath. “No.” She shook her head. “No, he can’t do that.”
“He can.” West took her hands in his. “And I can’t fight him on it. We can’t…I can’t give you what he can.”
Britta’s hands moved to West’s face. Forced him to look at her. To see her. “You are exactly right for me, West.”
“Look at me.” West gestured to himself. The bandaged head. The bloodstained clothes. The bruises. “I’m a disaster. I don’t play by the rules. And you come with a lot of rules, whether we like it or not. And every time I try to protect you, you end up in more danger.”
“That’s not your fault—”
“He’s got the power here.” West’s voice broke. “I can’t give you what you need. The kind of protection. The stability. The future you deserve.”
Britta stared at him. “I don’t need security.” Her voice came out desperate. “I need you.”
West’s expression crumbled. His eyes closed. His jaw clenched.
And when he looked back at her, something had changed. He affected a smile.
She knew fake when she saw it.
But he kept it as he said, “Sorry. See, this—” He gestured between them. “It’s complicated. And maybe he has a point…I don’t do complicated.”
She stilled, his words swiping out everything.
“West—”
“You need someone who fits into your world. Who doesn’t show up to a wedding in flip-flops and a Hawaiian shirt.”
“West—”
“This is goodbye.” His hands shook. He shoved them into his pockets. “It’s been…an adventure.”
Britta stared at him.
And then he swallowed, a shadow hit his eyes, he shook his head hard, and…he walked out.
Just like that.
Britta stared at the closed door. Her chest heaving. Her whole body shaking.
What? He left. West actually left.
One of the monitors began to shriek.
A nurse rushed in. “Miss White, you need to calm down. Your heart rate—”
“Please leave.” Britta closed her eyes. Didn’t care what she looked like to the world. “Please, just…leave me alone.” Then she pulled the blanket over her head. Curled into a ball.
And wept.
The pain was everywhere and nowhere.
Alan couldn’t pinpoint it. Shoulder, chest, abdomen—everything hurt with a white-hot intensity that made breathing an act of will. Somewhere close, a monitor beeped in steady rhythm.
“BP is dropping—eighty over fifty.”
“Get another line in. Push fluids.”
Hands moved over him. Cutting away his soaked clothes. The borrowed Secret Service suit. The shirt sticky with blood—his blood. So much blood.
Cold. He was so cold.
Someone was pressing on his shoulder. The pressure sent lightning through his body. Alan tried to pull away but couldn’t move. Straps held him to the gurney.
When had they strapped him down?
“Gunshot wound, lower left abdomen.” The voice was female. “Suspected lacerated liver. His abdomen is rigid. He’s bleeding internally. We need to get him to surgery. Now.”
“How long?” Another voice. Male. Familiar.
York.
How did—when—
They’d sedated him on the president’s yacht—he remembered that much. And he’d woken up here, in the ER of some hospital.
“He’s in shock. Hypothermic. Blood pressure unstable. Every minute we wait—” said the woman.
“I need five minutes.” Again York.
Alan forced his eyes open. The lights were too bright. Everything had halos. York stood at the foot of the gurney. He wore a suit, his arms folded, his expression tight.
“He doesn’t have five minutes!” The woman’s voice rose. “Look at him. He’s circling the drain. We move now or we lose him on the table anyway.”
“Then stabilize him. I need those five minutes.”
And now York shot a look at Alan and their gazes connected. York raised an eyebrow, almost a challenge.
Accepted. If it meant—please, if it meant—
“I can’t promise—”
“Do it.” York’s voice, flat and certain.
“Alan.” York moved closer. “Can you hear me?”
Alan nodded. “Britta,” he managed. The word came out mangled.
“Is safe. Reunited with her father. Because of you.”
Safe.
Britta was safe.
Alan closed his eyes, and a strange emotion—relief, maybe satisfaction?—flooded through him, so strong that it made the pain recede for a moment.
He wouldn’t die the villain. Or at least, quite the villain.
And now—
“We’re losing him—” The doctor’s voice. Urgent.
“York!”
York stepped up to him, put his hand on Alan’s arm. Rough. “Stay with me. Don’t you dare quit now.”
“Please—tell me you kept—”
“I have them. They’re safe.” York’s gaze gentled, just for a moment. “But you’re going to have to live—”
“I want to see—”
“Not yet. First—” York stepped back.
Another figure approached. Taller. Gray hair. Lined face. Wearing a white dress shirt and slacks.
President Isaac White.
Alan stilled, his throat tight. The monitor beeped, his heart rate giving him away.
“Easy.” President White held up a hand.
“Sir, I—” Alan’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry. For all of it. For everything—”
“James.”
The name stopped him.