Page 27

After she’d ended the call, promising Justin that she would stay in touch, she left the room. Feeling enclosed, she couldn’t stay inside. Outside, the night air hit her like a sultry slap, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the storm inside her.
She could almost feel the fire within her flickering, uncertain, hesitant. She wanted to argue, to push back against the idea that she had a right towantDagger, that moving forward wasn’tbetrayal, that desire wasn’t a crime. But deep down, she knew her sponsor was right. She had bound herself to a ghost, clung to anger and guilt like armor, but none of it changed the truth.
She had never let herself see how different the two brothers truly were. Had never let herself admit that while Brian was calm, steady, deliberate, Dagger was something else entirely.
A force. A storm.
There was an intensity to him, a raw, barely contained power beneath the surface. When he’d glanced up at the house all those years ago, wiping sweat from his brow, his pale green eyes had locked onto hers.
Held her.
Too long.
Long enough for something inside her to shift, to recognize that moment for what it was.
Something forbidden. Something dangerous. Something that, if she had been a different woman, in a different life, with different choices…
Her head down, she walked at a slow pace, wrestling with everything.
Her mind went back to that day she tried to bury. In that moment as she watched him move, laugh, talk, and love his brother, she had wanted him. God help her, she had. She had buried that memory because it was wicked and a betrayal of her husband. But now he was gone, and she was starting to recognize the unhappiness in her marriage, and that was a whole other guilt trip. But the truth hurt, and she had been through enough to be able to fight back from that. The past was gone, her future with Brian was gone. What her new future held?—
“Quinn?”
His deep, aching voice broke into her thoughts like a battering ram, almost as if her heart had conjured him there. Her head snapped up, and her mouth went dry.Holy hell.Helooked on the edge of exhaustion, the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly, like he was holding up the weight of the world and finally, finally, letting himself feel it.
She took him in, the woman in her finally set free from the grieving wife, and the sight of him melted her into goo. His voice was as ragged as her breathing as she took in all of him in those flimsy shorts.
A body built for war, endurance, and survival, a testament to the relentless grind of SEAL training, years in the field, and the kind of discipline that never wavered. Never quit. He wasn’t just strong. He was precision-forged, every muscle carved through honest sweat, brutal training, and the unyielding demand to be better, faster, and harder to kill.
His chest was broad and solid, a wall of corded muscle that spoke of raw power, not just for show but for function, built to breach doors, carry anyone, and fight until there was nothing left, then dig deeper and find more. His shoulders were thick, defined in BUD/S by endless log PTs, weighted ruck runs, and the sheer will to never break down. He’d honed that every day since. His biceps and forearms were battle-strong, veins running like rivers beneath sun-warmed skin, proof of grit, endurance, and hands that knew both destruction and restraint.Andshe swallowed past a lump in her throat,gentleness.
His core was cut, not just with those mouth-watering six-pack abs, but with the kind of deep, functional strength that came from climbing ropes, swimming miles, and surviving on the edge of exhaustion. There was no excess, no softness, only hard-won muscle, earned through pain and necessity. His legs, thick, powerful, made to run, fight, and carry, were trained for the long haul, for the kind of missions where stopping wasn’t an option.
He had save-the-world muscle, gorgeous muscle. Built for impact, for resilience, for the battlefield. Yet, therewas something controlled in his power, something measured, because strength like his wasn’t about showing off. It was about knowing when to assault, when to hold, and when to unleash hell.
Then there was that breath-stealing face.
Dagger's conquistador ancestry was stamped into his features with a sharp, unmistakable intensity, the kind of face sculpted by centuries of warriors, explorers, and conquerors. His high cheekbones and strong jawline were carved with an almost aristocratic severity, giving him a presence that commanded attention. His pale green eyes, unusual and piercing, stood out beneath the thick sweep of honey-brown hair, with copper highlights, a legacy of Spanish bloodlines that once dominated the New World. His straight, slightly aquiline nose and the close-cropped beard lent him a look of controlled power, one that spoke of a history written in steel and water.
There was a quiet storm behind his gaze, a calculated patience, much like the conquistadors who waited, watched, and then struck with precision. His olive skin, kissed by the sun but still carrying the undertone of European lineage, hinted at a heritage of men who shaped empires, and, perhaps, carried the weight of their sins. She crumpled at that thought. How she had added to his burden. It was a face that whispered of battles won and lost, of history woven into his DNA, and of a man who, like his ancestors, was both a builder and a destroyer.
The veil of her anger lifted, her impotent hate gone, and she saw him clearly, the man she had wronged, the man she had hurt so deeply. Guilt and regret filled her, and before she could stop herself, she closed the gap between them.
She didn’t know what made her move first. Maybe it was the raw ache in his eyes, the barely contained fire, the quiet, almost desperate way he was looking at her now, like she was something precious, untouchable, his and yet…never his.
"You’ve been in my corner," she whispered, voice breaking. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "All this time, and I was too stupid to know it."
His jaw flexed. In his eyes, she saw him, not just the man he was now, but the man she had once admired, respected…wanted. With a jolt, she realized. He was looking at her the same way.
"Don’t," he murmured, voice tight.
She blinked. "Don’t what?"
His pale green eyes burned into hers, searching, almost pained. "Don’t call yourself stupid."
Her breath hitched. Something deep inside her cracked.
"You grieved in the way you had to grieve." His voice was low, rough with so much emotion. "I just wanted you to see that I lost him too. That I was devastated, but I didn’t know how to do that without?—"