Chapter 4
DEVLIN
Later, when I’m in my truck, parked in a spot where I can easily see her place without being noticed, my phone rings. Andi's name flashes on the screen, and the fear in her voice when I answer makes my blood run cold.
"Someone's in my cottage."
"I'm coming. Lock yourself in the bathroom. Now." I'm already moving, Duke at my heels as we sprint toward her front door. "Stay on the line with me."
I hear her breathing, quick and shallow, hear the bathroom door lock click. "I'm in. Devlin, they're still here. I can hear them moving around."
"I'm at your front door." Her handle turns under my hand, unlocked despite her claiming she'd secured everything. Whoever is inside either picked the lock or has keys. "Duke, search."
He's through the door before I finish the command, nose working, body tense and alert.
I follow with one hand on my weapon, the other still holding the phone.
Her cottage is small enough that it takes seconds to clear the main rooms. Living area empty.
Kitchen empty. No one visible, but Duke's focused on the bedroom, hackles raised.
Her bedroom window stands open, curtains moving in the night breeze. Fresh footprints in the flowerbed outside show where someone exited in a hurry. They heard me coming and ran rather than face confrontation. Smart, considering what I'd have done if I'd caught them inside while Andi was here.
"Clear," I call out, making my way to the bathroom. "They're gone. You can come out now."
Andi emerges, phone still clutched in her hand, eyes wide but focused.
She's wearing sleep shorts and a tank top.
Her feet are bare and her hair tangled. The vulnerability of it hits differently than her professional armor at the base.
This is Andi in her private space, the place she should feel safest, and whoever broke in violated that.
"They were in my bedroom," she says, voice steady despite the fear underneath. "I heard them. I don't know what they were doing, but they were definitely in there."
Duke whines from the bedroom, and I follow the sound to find him alerting at her dresser. Drawers hang slightly open, contents disturbed. Whoever broke in went through her things, touched her personal belongings, invaded her privacy in the most intimate way possible.
"This is psychological warfare," I say, keeping my voice calm and factual even though rage coils tight in my chest. "They want you to feel unsafe everywhere. Home, work, nowhere is off limits. They're escalating the fear factor."
"It's working." Andi crosses her arms over her chest, hands trembling. "I can't stay here tonight. I can't sleep knowing they were just in my bedroom, going through my things."
"You're not staying here." I pull out my phone to call base security. "Captain Nelson needs to know about this, and we need evidence collection. But you're coming with me to base. There are secure hotel rooms for visiting personnel. Monitored, controlled access, safe."
She nods, and the fact that she doesn't argue tells me how rattled she really is. Andi O'Rourke doesn't strike me as someone who admits vulnerability easily, but right now she's scared and smart enough to recognize when she needs help.
Nelson arrives with a security team within the hour.
They process the scene, collect evidence, document everything.
Duke keeps returning to Andi's side, pressing against her leg like he's providing physical support.
She absently pets him while giving her statement, and I watch how his presence grounds her, how she draws comfort from that contact without seeming to realize she's doing it.
By the time we're cleared to leave, it's well past midnight.
Andi packs a bag with essentials, moving through her cottage with the kind of forced calm that comes from refusing to fall apart.
I respect that. She's dealing with this the way I would, compartmentalizing fear and focusing on practical next steps.
We drive back to base in silence. Duke rides in the back seat, and Andi sits in the passenger seat staring out the window. I don't push conversation. Sometimes silence is what someone needs after trauma, space to process without having to perform being okay.
Base security waves us through the gate, and I drive to the lodging building near the operations center. Rooms here are basic but functional, designed for short-term stays by personnel on temporary assignment. More importantly, they're secure. Badge access, security cameras, regular patrols.
I get her checked in, and we take the elevator to the third floor. Her room is exactly what I expected: standard military lodging with a bed, desk, small bathroom, and absolutely no personality. But it's clean, safe, and no one is getting in without authorization.
"Thank you," Andi says, setting her bag on the bed. "For responding so fast, for getting me out of there, for all of this."
"It's my job." My words come out automatic, and I regret them immediately when her expression shutters. "That came out wrong. I mean, protecting you is my job, but I'd have done it anyway. Job or no job."
Her eyes meet mine, searching for something. "Why?"
You matter. Duke claimed you, and he's never wrong about people. Today, watching you work, listening to your passion about your mission—somewhere along the way you stopped being just an assignment. You became someone I care about, and that terrifies me more than any threat.
But I don't say any of that.
"Because what happened to you tonight was wrong," I say instead, keeping it safe and professional. "No one should have to feel like this in their own home. And your work is too important to let some asshole with a grudge drive you away."
She nods slowly, but I can see she knows I'm not saying everything. Duke makes the decision for me, walking over to Andi and pressing his head against her hand. She scratches behind his ears, and he leans into her touch like he's been doing it for years instead of hours.
"He really has claimed you," I say, grateful for the subject change. "I've never seen him bond with anyone this fast."
"What does that mean? The claiming thing?"
"Military working dogs form strong bonds with their handlers, but they're trained to maintain professional distance with everyone else.
Duke knows the difference between team members and civilians, between people who are part of missions and people who aren't." I watch him press closer into her touch, practically groaning with pleasure.
"But sometimes a dog will decide someone is pack.
Not handler, not team, but family. It doesn't happen often, and when it does, it's absolute. Duke has decided you're pack."
"And you trust his judgment."
"Always. Dogs don't lie, don't manipulate, don't pretend. If Duke says you're safe, you're safe. If he says you're pack, you're pack. He's never been wrong about people."
Andi looks down at Duke, something soft crossing her features.
"I had a dog growing up. Golden Retriever named Moses.
He was my best friend through everything after Dad died.
I told him secrets I couldn't tell anyone else, cried into his fur when it got too hard.
He died the year after my husband, Tyler.
" She pauses, fingers still working through Duke's fur.
"I haven't had a dog since. Losing them hurts too much. "
"Losing anyone hurts too much," I say quietly. "But the alternative is never caring about anyone, and that's just existing, not living."
"Is that what you do? Just exist?"
Her question cuts deeper than she probably intended.
I could deflect, change the subject, maintain the walls I've built so carefully over the years.
But standing here in this sterile hotel room with this woman who's been attacked and violated and is still standing strong, those walls feel weaker than they have in years.
"Yeah," I admit. "I had a best friend. Ryan.
We went through K9 training together, deployed together.
Three years ago, we were clearing a route in hostile territory.
I was working with my previous partner, Ajax.
" I pause, the weight of that day settling heavy.
"Ryan's dog alerted to a secondary device that Ajax had completely missed.
Ryan saw it first, called out the threat and moved to investigate before I could assess and give the order.
I yelled for him to hold position, but he kept going.
Said he had the angle, that his dog had already alerted.
The IED detonated before I could pull him back. Ryan and his dog died instantly."
"That wasn't your fault."
"My head knows that. My head knows that Ryan made the choice to advance because it was his job, that IEDs are designed to be missed, that even the best handlers can't catch everything.
But the rest of me can't forget that Ajax missed that device.
That I wasn't fast enough to see it myself or stop Ryan from moving.
That he had a wife and kids waiting for him, and I'm the one who came home instead. "
Andi's expression is understanding in a way that goes beyond sympathy.
"Tyler died in a training accident four years ago.
Vehicle rollover during a routine exercise.
Mechanical failure that should have been caught during maintenance checks.
" Her voice is steady, but I can hear the old pain underneath.
"He was twenty-four. We'd been married for two years.
I spent months wondering if I should have pushed him harder to get out, if I should have fought more against him staying in, if there was something I could have done to change that day. "
"But there wasn't anything you could have done."
"I know. But knowing doesn't stop the guilt or the fear that caring about someone again means setting myself up to lose them.
" She meets my eyes. "That's why I haven't dated since Tyler.
Why I keep everyone at arm's length. Why I bury myself in work instead of building a life.
Because if I don't let anyone close, I can't lose them. "
We're running from the same fear. Both survivors carrying guilt we don't deserve, both hiding behind work and duty to avoid the risk of connection, both so terrified of loss that we've chosen isolation instead.
"That's a lonely way to live," I say, and I'm not sure if I'm talking about her or me or both of us.
"Yeah, it is." Her laugh is bitter but honest. "But it's easier than the alternative."
Duke makes a soft sound from his position at her feet and looks between us like he's judging our life choices and finding them wanting. Andi laughs for real this time, reaching down to pet him. "I think your dog disagrees with our coping mechanisms."
"He usually does. Duke has opinions about how I run my life, and he's not shy about sharing them." I check my watch, see how late it's gotten. "You should try to sleep. It's been a long day, and tomorrow won't be easier."
"Will you and Duke be nearby?"
Her vulnerability in that question, the implicit admission that she feels safer knowing we're close, does something to my carefully maintained control. "We'll be right outside your door. If you need anything, anything at all, you call me."
"Thank you, Devlin." She says my name like she's testing how it feels, and the intimacy of it in this quiet room hits different than military formality. "For everything today. For keeping me safe. For listening. For understanding."
"Get some rest, Andi." I head toward the door, Duke reluctantly following. But when I open it, he plants his feet, tail drooping, every line of his body saying he wants to stay with her. That she's pack and pack doesn't get left alone when they're scared and vulnerable.
"Duke, come."
His ears droop and he huffs, but he follows my command even though his eyes stay locked on Andi.
"Go on, Duke." Andi's voice is gentle. "I'm okay. Devlin needs you too."
That gets him moving, but he looks back twice before we're out the door. I close it behind us, hearing the lock engage, and stand in the hallway for a moment while Duke presses against my leg.
"Yeah, buddy," I mutter, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. "I know exactly how you feel."
Walking away from her just now, leaving her alone in that sterile room after the night she's had, goes against every instinct I have. Professional distance requires it. My job requires it. But Duke's not the only one who's decided Andi is pack.
I settle on the floor outside her door, back against the wall, Duke beside me. If anyone wants to get to her tonight, they'll have to go through both of us.
Duke rests his head on my thigh, still watching her door like he's hoping she'll change her mind and let him in.
Every part of me wants to be on the other side of that door, wants to make sure she's actually sleeping instead of lying awake afraid, wants to be close enough to protect her from nightmares and the very real threat of whoever is targeting her.
Three years I've kept everyone at arm's length. Three years of making sure I never care enough to risk loss again.
Duke huffs like he's calling bullshit on that plan, and he's probably right.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall. Tomorrow I'll worry about professional boundaries and what this means. Tonight, I'm right where I need to be.