Page 12 of Boomer

She’d relocated here not just for career, but for family. Her mother’s new legal post had brought her parents to Lisbon, and with them, her nephew Ansel. After Emil, her brother, died of a fentanyl overdose, Ansel had been left behind. His mother gone, his father buried. Taylor had stepped into the void. Not perfectly. Not always gracefully. But she was here now.

She hadreasonsto fight this war. Real ones.

Her chest tightened. Emil had been sensitive. Artistic. Fragile in ways their parents never understood. She’d tried to shield him, but she’d failed. Now she carried that weight like a badge inside her.

A low rumble drew her gaze skyward. The transport approached, lights flashing across the runway like distant lightning. Her stomach clenched, exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by something sharper.

The plane landed. Taxied. Turned.

The cargo ramp groaned as it descended, wind catching in the metallic frame. One by one, they began to disembark, big men in civvies, faces hard, eyes hollowed by long flights and long lives. Then she saw him.

Bones.Skull’s Malinois. Then Skull himself.

Her breath stilled.No.Not him.Pleasenot…Boomer. Her prayers went unanswered as he appeared at the top of the ramp.

Dirty. Dusty. Wrung out, and still the most arresting man she’d ever seen.

She hated the way her pulse reacted. Hated the heat pooling low in her stomach. Hated that the first thought she had was…he needs a shower, food, and about six hours of sleep. Preferably in my bed.

She swallowed hard. Forced her spine to straighten.

No.

He’d had his chance, and he blew it.

She wasn’t here for him. She gritted her teeth as the dim light from the interior of the plane illuminated him like a spotlight.

He wasn’t traditionally handsome. Not the polished kind that graced magazine covers or political campaign posters. His features were rugged, work-worn, carved more by experience than vanity.

His hair was close-cropped and dark, the kind of military cut that never looked quite grown out or quite fresh. A heavy brow gave his eyes a brooding intensity, and those eyes, dark forest green as moss over river stone, shaded, deep and full of undertow.

His nose was straight and strong,almosttoo beautiful for the rest of his face, as if some sculptor had gotten distracted and left it perfect by accident. His mouth, set firm most of the time, was anchored by a full lower lip that softened the rest of his sharpness until he genuinely smiled, which he rarely did, and never without consequence.

The beard came in just a touch lighter than his hair, shot through with caramel and sun, framing his jaw with the kind of effortless scruff that made women forget what they were saying mid-sentence.

He didn’t wear his looks. Hecarriedthem. quietly, unconsciously, like the rest of the weight on his shoulders.

He filled out that dusty black T-shirt like it had been stitched directly onto him, broad shoulders stretching the seams, chest sculpted and solid beneath soft cotton, tapering down to a lean waist that gave him that unfair, V-shaped geometry women were evolutionarily helpless against.

She wished she’d stopped at his face at that strong jaw, that full lower lip, those dangerously mesmerizing eyes that had no business looking as vulnerable as the rest of him looked lethal. But she hadn’t stopped. Of course she hadn’t.

Her gaze had traveled south, and now she was stuck with the image of criminally tight jeans, clinging to his hips like they were designed for sin, molded over thick, powerful thighs that could have starred in her late-night imaginings if she let herself go there.

The way he moved wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t even intentional. It was worse—instinctive. A quiet, lethal grace that spoke of discipline, strength, and the kind of control that whispered ruin in the most intimate ways.

It did something to her. Something visceral. Something she absolutely refused to name.

Skull passed her with that signature smirk she already didn’t trust.

“Hello, Detective.” His tone oozed mock courtesy. He glanced over his shoulder with a grin. “Do you have something in your sights? Something illegal?”

She didn’t answer, so he kept going.

“We’ve got a license to kill, but Boomer, he’s more of a fireworks guy. Lots and lots of explosions.” His grin widened, teeth bright in the dark. “Just wait till he gets twitchy.”

The word hit her like a slap of heat.

Twitchy.