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She was an American civilian who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time—and now carried the kind of intel that could change the course of a war.
And he’d be damned before he let history repeat itself.
He would get her out—no matter what it took. Failure, this time, was not an option.
CHAPTER 10
Hannah bent over the basin, her breath shallow as Tom’s fingers threaded through her hair. The dye was cool against her scalp, but his touch burned. He worked with a quiet intensity, careful, deliberate. Surprisingly gentle for someone trained to break things.
His presence filled the small room. She couldn’t help but notice how his combat pants hung low on his hips, or how the gray tank clung to the cut of his shoulders.
Above her, his arms flexed with each motion, the play of muscle distracting as hell in her peripheral vision. The space was too small for both of them, too intimate. Every time he moved, she felt the warmth radiating from his chest, his breath stirring the fine hairs along her neck.
She tried not to look. Tried not to think about how those hands had snapped a man’s arm not twenty-four hours ago. Yet now they were massaging dye into her roots like she was made of glass.
“You’re good at this,” she said, trying to sound normal.
“Three sisters,” he muttered. “Learned a thing or two.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. She wasn’t used to this version of him—quiet, focused, almost tender. Not the lethalMarine who’d dropped a man with a single move. This was different. Softer. Dangerous in a whole other way.
He shifted closer to reach the front of her head, and she inhaled sharply as his hips brushed her butt. For a split second, her knees threatened to give out.
Her heart pounded, blood warming. Had he felt the jolt too?
If he had, he didn’t react.
“I think I can finish up now,” she whispered hoarsely, needing space before she did something stupid. Like lean back into him.
He hesitated, his hands still cradling her scalp.
Then he stepped back, breaking contact.
He held up his hands and she moved aside so he could rinse them, her arm brushing his. Every bristled hair felt like a static shock.
Neither of them said anything as he turned on the faucet.
The air between them tightened.
She focused on the mirror, not daring to look up. He was too close. She could feel the heat coming off his body, smell the faint mix of soap and sweat that clung to his skin. He finished washing his hands, water splashing quietly, but made no move to leave.
She felt him looking at her.
The silence stretched.
Her skin prickled.
He straightened, drying his hands with a slow, deliberate motion, like he was buying time.
“I’ll let you finish,” he said finally, his voice low—rougher than before. Thicker.
She nodded without meeting his eyes.
He lingered a beat longer. Like he might say something else. Like maybe he didn’t want to go. But then he turned and stepped out, his broad frame brushing hers once more as he edged around her and disappeared into the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Hannah stood there, heart thudding, hair dye forgotten. Her scalp tingled, but it wasn’t the chemicals—it was him.