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We’re both quiet in the SUV on the way to the hospital.

There’s a part of me that wants to grab her hand, hold her, tell her everything is okay, but I don’t know if I can. I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread, trying to stay strong for Willow while simultaneously wanting to shake her. I’d never touch her in anger, but I’m so fucking frustrated by what she did.

What was she thinking?

Dylan could have—probably would have—killed her.

And for what? A picture that we can almost definitely reproduce at some point?

I can’t wrap my head around her risking her life—the life we’re building together—for a picture. I understand the sentimental value, but I’m struggling with this. Struggling with her lack of thought—her complete disregard not just for her safety but for how her actions could potentially impact the rest of us.

How it would impact… me.

That’s probably selfish as fuck, but I’ve already lived through the nightmare of someone I love being reckless. So reckless he ended up dead. Without me there to have his back. Because he didn’t tell me what he was doing.

Why do strangers trust me with their lives but not the people who are fucking closest to me?

It’s tearing me up and making my head hurt.

And the worst part is—I have no idea where we go from here.

It’s two in the morning before we get home, and I’m still reeling, operating on autopilot. At Dylan’s house, at the hospital, when the cops came to get Willow’s statement—this is what I do for a living.

But it’s different with Willow.

This is the woman I’m in love with, and she took a risk for absolutely no reason, putting me in an untenable position.

Just like Colt.

He never should have re-enlisted without telling me.

I should have been there to have his back on that last mission.

I should have?—

“You’re mad at me.” Her voice interrupts my self-flagellation and I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge, taking a big gulp in an attempt to postpone the inevitable conversation.

The argument I know is coming.

I don’t know how to respond because I am mad.

In fact, I’m not just mad—I’m fucking furious.

“Hudson? Will you talk to me? Please?” Her voice is soft, eyes filled with regret, and I look into them in frustration.

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” I snap, my control slowly beginning to crumble. “What the hell were you thinking?!”

“I just wanted my dad’s picture. I?—”

“Why?” I throw up my hands, sending a spray of water into the air since I'm still holding the bottle. “How is a picture of a dead man more important than your life?”

“It’s the only picture I have of him, dammit!” she yells back, folding her arms across her chest.

“Was it worth it? Was getting his picture worth it when Dylan had his hands around your throat and was choking you? Was it worth the new trauma and scaring the living shit out of me and all our friends?”

“I thought he was in Australia!” she snaps. “I wouldn’t have gone if I had any inkling he was still here but?—”

“So why didn’t you just fucking ask me?” I demand, my voice even louder than before despite my best efforts to keep my temper in check. “I’d do anything for you—including breaking the law to send my men in to find it! Why couldn’t you just fucking ask me before you went and did something so dangerous?!”