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It took everything inside him to stay rooted in place, to fight back the primal instinct to close the distance and knock the fucking thing off the table.
Because if she was drinking, if she’d fallen back into that hell?—
That wasn’t just failure. That was blood on his hands. His pulse thundered, his vision narrowing, the rest of the world fading until there was only her.
Her curls, geezus.
They were, in a tight bun, a stunning blend of honeyed gold and deep toffee brown, each ruthlessly imprisoned strand catching the light like burnished copper. The lighter highlights danced around her face, emphasizing the sharp fire in her gaze, while the warm toffee hues wove through the darker strands, adding depth, contrast, and something untamed, fighting for release.
But her features,mercy, they wrecked him.
Her jaw was tight, set in that stubborn way that meant she was holding everything in, fury, pain, a thousand things she’d never say out loud. Those sharp cheekbones were hollowed just enough to show exhaustion, the same kind of bone-deep weariness that ran through him post mission. Her lips, full,lush, but pressed into a thin, rigid line, reminded him of every argument, every fucking fight, every time she’d looked at him like he was the villain in her story. He still couldn’t stop wanting to kiss them, soften them, devour them.
Like he was the reason she had nothing left.
His gut twisted, tight and brutal, and all of it, the rage, the unfulfilled attraction, the exhaustion, the constant goddamn battle, collided inside him. The weight of her distrust, her anger, the way she punished him with every breath, every glare, every cold, bitter word.
The last thing she’d ever said to him.…I want you gone from our life. I never want to see you again. That is what I want, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s all that matters.
It had gutted him.
Like a blade, twisted deep. Like an explosion at close range.
Standing here now, watching her, watching this woman who was the mother of Brian’s sons, the widow of his brother, the only woman he had ever wanted the way a dying man wanted air?—
That couldn’t be all that goddamned mattered.
Brian wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want his family ripped apart, tangled in bitterness and blame. It sure as hell wasn’t what Elijah and Ezra needed.
But more than that, Quinn deserved better. He wanted that for her.
If she had that drink, if she let that glass touch her lips, then every hard won moment of her fight would be lost.
He’d be the one to blame.
His fault. All his fucking fault.
This was on him to fix.
Maybe, somewhere in the wreckage of it all, he could fix her, too.
Dagger noted how Quinn shivered like someone had just walked over her grave, and her eyes came up, searching the bar for…danger. Those whiskey-colored eyes slammed into him, always an impact and as deadly as a supersonic round. They pierced him, and for a moment she just stared at him.
Like a slow-moving explosion, the fire ignited in her eyes, expanding out until she was engulfed in the kind of anger he still wrestled with, detonating at the apex of her rage, the incredulous shock, the invasion of her privacy, and the quickly hidden fear. She rose, her chair sliding along the scuffed wood floor with a furious scrape. Her chin came up and she moved like a shot from a gun straight to her bullseye…him.
In purposeful strides, she marched up to him, toe-to-toe close, her face contorting as her words tinged with fire rang out. “What the hell are you doing here?” she said succinctly. Her eyes narrowed in accusation. “Are you following me now? Keeping tabs? Waiting for me to screw up so you can swoop in and play the goddamn hero again?”
The accusation hit him harder than a punch. His eyes flicked toward the glass on the table. She followed his gaze, and she growled low in her throat. “It’s club soda, you judgmental jerk.”
Even as her words sunk in and relief washed through him, he still had a niggling doubt. Before he could respond, the man she’d been sitting with stepped up.
“Quinn, is there a problem here?” His voice was smooth, calculated.
Dagger locked eyes with him. Yeah, Asshole.Deltaasshole. The Army’s golden boys thought they were a cut above everyone else, but in Dagger’s experience, they were just another version of the same game, one with tighter leashes and bigger egos. Brothers-in-arms, yeah, but no brotherhood. Discipline without adaptability. A scalpel instead of a hammer. Fine for a clean job. Worthless when the plan went to hell.
He stiffened, his shoulders squaring.I really need to punch someone right about now and you have a punchable face.Every one of his teammates shifted imperceptibly, ready to restrain him the moment he moved as if he would dishonor his LT by starting a fight in a bar with a man who had no understanding who SEALs really were.
"Mind your ownfuckingbusiness," Dagger said, his voice a lethal warning.