The Navy SEAL's Daughter

1. Easton

Easton

GERMANY-SWITZERLAND BORDER

Only ten steps inside The Sapphire, and I’m already stopping short. I prepared myself for a few familiar faces, sure. But I never expected a man who shares half my redacted history to be here and heading straight toward me.

Gage “Nash” Calder stops in front of me, and I drop my bag in surprise to clasp his outstretched hand. He pulls me into a one-arm hug, then slaps my back twice. “Sight for sore eyes, brother.”

When he steps away, I stare at him like he’s a ghost. He left this life years ago. To have a sense of normalcy where bullets weren’t part of his job description. I drag my thumb along the underside of my lip, trying to process his presence.

“You still think you can outfly physics?” he jokes.

“Physics just needs to learn to keep up with me.” My old one-liner falls out of me clumsily.

His brows pinch, registering my unease, then his eyes flick left and right, subtly reading the lobby the way only someone who’s deployed too many times knows how.

I follow his line of sight. The guy checking in at the front desk? Former CIA, no doubt. The one by the fireplace charming the concierge? SEAL, guaranteed. The third man who’s standing by the wall of glass overlooking the Alps is a question mark. I can’t get a read on him.

“So . . .” he begins after clearing his throat, “what are you doing here?”

That’s supposed to be my question.

A dull thump starts behind my ribs, and I rub my chest as it finally clicks. “Wait.” I swallow hard. “Are you my replacement? Is that why you’re here?”

“For Gwen’s protection?” He makes a tsk sound. “Hell no. I flew some of Wyatt’s SEAL Team runs back in the day. No chance I’m signing up for his daughter.” A shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “No clue how you survived it.”

To be fair, neither do I.

What started out as a request to “keep an eye” on Gwen turned into an unexpected friendship with her, one that hadn’t been easy to walk away from in August. Well, to be fair, I’d limped away with the assistance of crutches.

“But fly for Carter?” Nash gives a one-shoulder shrug. “My wife and I decided to separate.” His mouth tightens around that last word, their breakup still a sore subject. “So, uh, you could say I’m itching to . . . well, get away for a bit. When Carter called, I took him up on his offer.”

I’m off my game. Of course that’s why Nash has been summoned to the hotel. To replace me as a pilot, not as Gwen’s personal shadow. “Sorry to hear.”

He doesn’t offer any details about what happened, so I don’t press.

“Don’t mind, do ya?”

“I’m the one who quit.” Not really an answer, but it’s better than a lie.

Because I do, in fact, mind. I mind the fuck out of anyone taking over for me.

As lead pilot. And as Gwen’s the one. Like her “the one” who removes her headphones after she passes out while working and carries her to bed.

Typical friend-protector duties, nothing more than that.

The idea that someone will eventually replace me makes not only my eye twitch, but my trigger finger, too. I’m not just a hell of a pilot, I’m an excellent shot.

“You’re one of the best pilots on the planet,” I force out, that reminder meant for me.

He already knows he’s slick. “You’re also one of three who could’ve landed that bird after—” I cut myself off, no need to finish that thought.

The accident is why I’m no longer living here.

It’s why I removed myself from Gwen’s life.

“Yeah, well, you’re one of the others. No one died in the crash.”

My hands curl at my sides as I close my eyes.

For a second, I’m in a cockpit instead of a lobby. Instrument lights before me, a steady vibration beneath my boots, and turbines I swear I can hear even now.

Never mattered whether I was going Mach 2 in an F-16 wearing a G-suit or coasting over Kansas farmland in my grandfather’s Air Tractor, airborne has always been home. At least until three and a half months ago. Until my bird went down on that op.

“You can’t blame yourself, man.” Nash’s words slice through the fog of guilt. “But I get it. Taking an RPG to the tail rotor with a woman you’re supposed to protect sitting beside you? That’ll change a man.”

Thankfully, I am one of the few who can pull off the whole not-dying thing. Arrogant? Probably. But that confidence is hard-earned. I’m trained to take off and land anything in the worst conditions imaginable.

Still . . . Gwen knocked on death’s door because of me. Banged damn hard trying to escape this life.

Wyatt’s ass-chewing had been expected and deserved. He was right—she should never have been my wingwoman. Period. Exclamation point. All the angry grammatical shit.

His forgiveness, and her promises it “wasn’t my fault,” did nothing to help my shitty headspace both then and now. Not a damn thing. I haven’t stepped into a cockpit since that night. Even after ditching the crutches. Even after being cleared to fly.

“Miracle,” he says as I open my eyes. “That’s what I heard they called it when she wasn’t paralyzed like the docs said she’d be.”

I woke up after surgery to find out she was in an induced coma and may never walk again.

Possibly have brain damage as well. Those were the worst days of my life, and nothing will ever top how awful it felt waiting for her to come to.

Just thinking about it now has me wanting to cliff dive without a chute.

My sister prayed for her when I couldn’t bring myself to bend a knee. I was too angry. Too messed up in the head. Too torn apart to do anything other than yell at God.

If she hadn’t been okay, I’d have found a way to stop the rotation of the earth and rewind time to change things. Because no, Gwen isn’t allowed to get hurt or die. Not on my watch, or anyone’s clock.

But a miracle did happen. And the breath returned to my lungs. The guilt, though, hasn’t gone away.

“Yo, you good?”

No, no the fuck I’m not.

A beat of stillness hangs before I force out the lie, “I’ll be fine.” I fish a pack of Spearmint from my pocket, needing something to grind instead of guilt.

“Dusty, I’ve known you a long—”

“I don’t use that call sign anymore.” I earned the name kicking up dust on low-altitude runs; ironic for a pilot who prides himself on precision. Now it just reminds me of how far I’ve come only to have one operation nearly take everything from me.

“The point is . . . you can talk to me. I know what it’s like to not want to get back in a cockpit.”

That’s news to me. “Nothing to talk about.” I hoist my duffel bag. “I’m good. Really. Tell your sister hi for me, will ya?”

“Will do.” He smiles.

“And, uh, sorry about the separation.” I pat his shoulder twice.

He doesn’t say anything, just nods.

I force a breath through my nose, shove everything back into its box, and head for the service elevators. I nearly collide with the question mark who looks ready to disappear. He gives me a curt nod, dark eyes assessing me before I step past.

Typical Sapphire clientele—half ghosts, half legends.

This place isn’t exactly a hotel, though.

It’s a no-man’s-land outside NATO and EU jurisdiction, owned by Carter Dominick and a billionaire Irishman, Sebastian Renaud.

They bought the place off a crime lord and flipped it so well my sister swore it deserved its own HGTV pilot.

I started running ops with Carter after leaving the Air Force. He dangled the morally gray carrot, and I bit. (Just like Nash did, along with several others.)

When Carter’s first wife was murdered, we helped him burn half the world down to find her killer. He got his vengeance but never retired from righting wrongs. A couple years back, he folded me into Falcon Falls, a security outfit he co-runs with the secretary of defense’s son.

This alpine fortress is now Falcon’s international HQ—a place where missions are planned, alliances are forged, and secrets come to die. It’s also a refuge for burned operatives looking to rebuild. Now I’m here for the first time since I moved out, but as one of the broken.

I blink back to the present as the elevator doors slide open. Inside, I swap my bag for my badge, tap the keycard, and punch in my code to access the rooftop.

As the car hums upward, a memory hits from the last time I was in this steel box. I can almost see Gwen’s reflection in the mirrored panel. Wavy blonde hair over her shoulders, that small dimple in her chin, the other flashing in her right cheek whenever she’d laugh at one of my terrible jokes.

When the doors open, the spell breaks. I manage a clean escape onto the terrace, and the December air knifes right through my fleece jacket. Dropping my duffel bag, I ignore the cold and lean into the wind, grateful no one else is dumb enough to chase frostbite for solitude.

Five seconds. That’s all I get before another person I didn’t anticipate seeing calls out, “Easton!”

If I don’t move, maybe I’ll discover it’s just the breeze carrying my name forward from the past. A phantom memory haunting me from when we used to live down the hall from each other.

Her Dolce & Gabbana hits first, the same perfume she’s worn since the day we met. She told me the scent always transports her to the cliffs of Capri.

I clamp my gum between my back teeth, remembering I’m far from Italy and too damn close to her now. You’re supposed to be in Virginia with your dad.

“Will you look at me?” Gwen’s hand lands on my shoulder.

I stiffen. “I already said goodbye.”

“I know. We did that song and dance in Charleston last weekend. Yet here you are.”

Her fingers drift down my shoulder to my biceps like she’s typing along the way. Knowing her, she’s trying to decrypt me. Find a way through my firewalls. Yeah, well, good luck with that.

I man up and turn, forcing her to let go of me. When our eyes meet, I regret the decision to face her. Because how am I supposed to look at her and walk away again?

She rubs her arms, shivering. Of course she bolted out here without a jacket, pretending Switzerland is Sarasota. I shrug off mine and drape it over her shoulders.