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In the hush that followed his growled, “Okay, I’m dropping it,” Dagger rolled off her. The loss of his heat was immediate, palpable, and silence settled like a weight between them. Regret surged up, thick and choking, sharp in her throat like something she should have seen coming. Of course it was there. Of course it burned. She’d known it would.

After the way she’d come apart in his arms, claimed him like he belonged to her, of course there’d be fallout. She was the one who'd crossed that line. She was the one who’d let it happen. Wanted it to happen.

His body, thick with muscle and unmarred strength, lay bare beside her, and all she could see was the imprint he’d left behind on her skin, in her bones, etched into the deepest hollows of her heart.

She swallowed hard, shifting on the bed, her gaze drifting toward the tense man beside her. His distress, it pulled at something inside her she didn’t know how to name. It wasn’t comfort, exactly. But it wasn’t indifference either. Something warmer had begun to stir. Something… gentler .

Her breath hitched. The memory of his body inside hers, the way he’d responded to her words, so honest, so wounded, it clung to her like heat after flame. Tears stung behind her eyes, sharp and unrelenting. Why did she have to go and ruin it?

But the answer struck sharper than guilt.

Brian.

It wasn’t shame this time, not the grief-worn guilt she knew so well. It was something fiercer. Frustration. Impatience. A flicker of rage, not aimed at herself, but at him. At the man who’d left behind a shadow so heavy she couldn’t move without stumbling into it. She blinked, startled by the shift inside her, a new shape to her grief, sharper and more defiant. He’d ruined this. Not her.

If he hadn’t gone, if he hadn’t left her with so many broken pieces to pick up, none of this would be happening. She wouldn’t be here, tangled in guilt and heat, stripped bare by the one man she should have never wanted. But she had wanted him. A fter this, after her job was done here? Then what? Even after one night with him, she wanted more, and she shivered at the glimpse of a nebulous future.

Her jaw clenched, a bitter exhale slipping past her lips. It wasn’t fair—what his death had done to her. What it had done to all of them.

But the thought didn’t settle right either. It itched beneath her skin, poked at the edges of a dangerous truth she didn’t want to face.

Maybe that was the hardest part to understand, not the heat, not the guilt, not even the wanting.

She hated that she’d snapped at him. He deserved an honest conversation about Brian. He did. But fear shivered through her body, and her stomach dropped like a stone. She just couldn’t go there. Not yet.

Dagger’s head whipped around to her. "Are you cold?" he asked, and she wanted to kick her own ass for how his softness, his concern, hit her. He just kept showing her his heart, this man who never, ever gave up on her, even when her healing was tumultuous, and her reactions weren’t easy to swallow. Silently, he was nudging her toward her own transformation, without coercion, without manipulation, and without control. He was just being Dagger.

“Yes,” she whispered, cold from more than just the air, but he didn’t know that. His concern was killing her. God, he deserved so much more.

She knew who she was now.

Or at least, she was starting to remember.

Not the widow. Not the woman consumed by grief. Not the broken mother clawing her way back to sobriety.

Her.

She wasn't even sure what parts of her life before him had survived.

Maybe that was the root of it. Why her words came out sharp, too fast. Like a reflex. A defense mechanism she didn’t even realize she still clung to. One born from a girl who learned early that the only way to stay in control was to stay ahead. Stay guarded. Stay untouchable .

The second the words left her mouth, she saw it.

That flicker in Dagger’s eyes. The one that said he expected it. That maybe some part of him still believed it was all he deserved.

Damn it, wasn’t that the part that made her ache the most?

Because he didn’t. Not anymore.

Not after everything they’d just shared. Not after the way he’d held her, not just in his arms, but in that sacred, silent space between heartbeats where the world didn’t exist. Where there was no Brian.

Maybe… just maybe… that meant she was finally choosing herself too.

She curled closer to him now, tangled in warmth and skin and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. His dog tags jingled as he moved toward her, settling against his shoulder as he pulled her against him to lend her his warmth, the metal cool against her flushed skin. Her fingers drifted over them absently, letting the weight slide between her fingers, catching on the edge of his collarbone.

She wasn’t sure why she kept touching them, maybe because they were such a part of him. A symbol of his duty, yes… but also his presence. His permanence.

His voice rumbled low beside her, rough with sleep and a hint of humor. "You’re sure better to wake up to than six scruffy, muscle-bound knuckleheads."

She smiled, trailing her fingers along the chain again, letting the tags clink softly against his chest. There he was trying to soften that awkward moment with humor. “Are you talking about your team?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt, and she blew out a hard breath. So much to look at, so many handsome faces, coiled, muscular bodies. Was he kidding? “Please. Most women across America would disagree. Hell… across the globe.” Her grin turned wicked. “Not to mention the strap hangers. The frog hogs. So, two, three, six? What does it matter?”

That earned a low chuckle, the kind that vibrated against her ribs just before he moved, one fluid, tactical roll that flipped her beneath him.

She shrieked, laughing as he caged her in, bracing himself on his forearms, his body heavy and delicious against hers. Her hands flattened against his bare chest, heartbeat drumming beneath her palms.

“You jealous, babe?”

There was teasing in his voice, but something else too. Something deeper that she couldn’t quite name.

She tilted her head, lifting her chin just a little. “Piper thought you were fucking gorgeous.”

Dagger blinked. “Piper? Who’s Piper?”

She hesitated, thrown. He wasn’t pretending. There was real confusion in his face, an adorable slight furrow between his brows, like the name genuinely didn’t register.

“The woman in the bar,” she said, slower now. “The redhead?” The confusion continued. “Oh, for God’s sakes, Dagger…Piper McDonald. She’s with the State Department. She negotiated my contract. I was with her when you walked in.”

Nothing. Just a shrug, easy and unconcerned. “All I saw was you, babe.” He paused, gaze steady. “Everything else faded.”

Her breath caught.

She hadn’t expected that. Not after everything. Not after the brutal things she’d said, the doors she’d slammed shut, the way she’d cut him off like a blade to the bone. Still… this man, this fucking man, had only seen her .

She had to look away, even if just for a second. God, she could barely breathe at the depth of his support.

Even in the face of her venom, her grief, her fire, he’d never flinched. Never faltered. He just kept showing up, quiet, constant, unwavering.

What kind of man does that?

Dagger. That’s who.

“I don’t give a flying fuck about women across America or the world,” he added, voice rough with heat. “You won’t be waking up anytime soon with my whole fucking team.” He shifted checking his dive watch. “Babe, we have to go. Shower time.”

“If we do it together, it’ll save time.”

He grinned against her skin. “Are you turning into a SEAL babe? Evasive maneuvers, always locked and loaded.”

She laughed, a sound that came freer than she expected. “You saying I’m a threat?”

“Deadliest one I’ve ever faced.”

She smiled, but her heart tugged. He meant it as a tease, but there was something in the way he said it, like he saw all of her. The sharp edges. The fire. He didn’t flinch. He called her dangerous, but not like a warning. Like a vow.

“I know for a fact Navy SEALs aren’t crybabies,” she said, grinning. “So, pull up your big boy tactical pants. The only easy day was yesterday.”

His grin curved slow and dangerous. “You’re rapidly becoming my high-value target.” His voice dropped, teasing but edged with heat. “Someone else better pull up her sassy pants, there’s a bullseye forming.”

Something warm fluttered low in her belly. God help her.

She reached up, cupping his jaw, her fingers gentle against the stubble-rough line of his cheek. Her voice softened, barely a whisper.

“I know from experience… your aim is always true.” She paused, her thumb brushing across his skin. “That bullseye?” Her eyes met his. “It’s over my heart.”

He didn’t speak, not with words. Instead, he kissed her. Deeply. Intimately. With a tenderness that undid her. There was no hunger in it, no urgency, only forgiveness in every press of his mouth, in the quiet weight of his body against hers, in the slow, reverent sweep of his tongue.

Just like that, her walls cracked again.

Tears stung her eyes, soft, silent things she didn’t try to hide this time. She curled her fingers around the chain of his tags and held onto him. Because somehow, in that kiss, he told her everything she hadn’t known she needed to hear. The musical clink of his tags made her breath catch. When he pulled away, her fingers didn’t stop playing with the tags, light, rhythmic movements over his chest, like she needed the feel of him to ground her.

The cold press of steel against warm skin sent a shiver through her fingertips, that sharp clink echoing in her bones like memory. Steel on steel, metal and man. The simplicity of his identity, the complexity of who he was. Strength on strength. God, it did something to her.

She bit her lip, letting the tags slip between her fingers again, the chain rasping softly against his chest.

“These are supposed to be about service, duty, honor,” she murmured, voice low and rough with heat. “But fuck me, they’re just plain sexy on you.”

His body tensed slightly beneath her touch, and the tags shifted, cool metal catching the rise of his chest with every breath.

Her nipples peaked against his hot skin, awareness flickering through her like a live wire. Her clit throbbed, a low pulse that made her fingers tighten around the tags.

She traced one, thumb brushing over the embossed lettering, the worn edges, the way they rested right over his heart. “They sound like weight. Like presence. Like you.”

He still didn’t speak, not with words. He just leaned in, mouth finding her neck in a kiss that was slow, deep, and reverent. Forgiveness. Desire. Everything.

Her chest tightened again, not from sorrow, but from heat, from want, from something that felt far too close to need.

He pulled back from her neck, lips lingering for a breath longer than necessary. Then he shifted, bracing on his elbow as he glanced toward the clock on the nightstand.

“Babe,” he murmured, “we’ve got twenty minutes.”

Before she could respond, he rolled, reached, and in one smooth, practiced motion, hauled her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

She yelped, laughing as her bare legs kicked in the air. “Dagger!”

“Shower time,” he said, gruff and unapologetic, one hand anchoring her thighs while the other smacked her ass, not hard, but firm enough to make her squeal again.

“You’re such a caveman!”

“Damn right.” His voice rumbled against her skin. “You love it.”

She did. God help her, she really, really did.

He carried her into the bathroom without breaking stride, turned on the water with her still hanging off him as steam curled in the air. He stepped into the wide shower and set her down, water cascading over his shoulders, trailing down his chest.

She couldn’t stop looking at him. Couldn’t stop wanting.

He pulled her in without a word, palms sliding over her waist, guiding her under the spray. The heat of the water met the heat of his body, and for a moment, it was everything, his mouth on hers again, slow and consuming, water rushing around them as their bodies pressed together, slick and urgent.

Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling against wet skin and hard muscle. His tags clinked softly between them, that familiar sound even more intimate now beneath the stream.

He kissed her again, harder this time, like he couldn’t help himself, like she was the only anchor he needed. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, until there was nothing between them but steam and skin and everything they couldn’t yet say.

Just like that, the heat shifted again, something deeper. Something that lingered.

By the time the water had cooled and her skin was flushed from more than just heat, he reached past her for a towel and stepped out of the shower. She lingered beneath the spray for a beat longer, watching him through the rising mist, riveted by the effortless way he moved.

Every flex of muscle, every shift of his body was efficient, practiced. Controlled. There was no wasted motion, no indulgence, just precision. A man who lived by discipline, by duty… and yet, somehow, he still made it look damn good.

She stepped out after him, grabbing another towel, but instead of reaching for herself, she moved to him first. Without a word, she pressed the towel to his chest, dragging it slowly across the expanse of warm, damp skin.

His breath hitched, barely, but she caught it. Her touch was soft, reverent, gliding over the carved ridges of his abs, along the slope of his shoulder, down the thick line of his arm.

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t say a word. He just stood there, letting her do it, eyes fixed on hers like she was touching something far deeper than flesh.

She toweled over his back next, taking her time, fingers brushing beneath the fabric as she worked, soaking in the feel of him, the strength beneath her hands, the quiet power of his stillness.

It wasn’t just care. It wasn’t just tenderness.

It was connection. Quiet. Intentional. Undeniable.

When she finished, she let the towel fall from her fingers, and only then did he reach for his clothes. SEAL blacks, pants slung low on his hips, shirt tugged down over thick, ridged abs and damp skin. But it was the way he wore it that wrecked her a little. Like armor. Like ritual. Like a man preparing for battle, even if the fight today was just the world outside their room.

He slipped his dog tags back on last, letting them fall over his chest with that familiar metallic clink, then he tucked them out of sight.

Something inside her caught.

She hadn’t meant to stare, but she did. Couldn’t help it.

Not at the scars or the muscles or the way his body made her ache, but at the weight of him. The way he carried it all. The quiet strength, the steadiness, the sheer gravity of his presence.

He caught her watching, one brow lifting in a crooked grin.

“What?” he asked, towel still hanging around his neck.

She swallowed hard. “Nothing.” But her voice was a little breathless.

His smile deepened, slow, knowing, and all too dangerous. “You look like you’re about to pounce again.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to let that slide as she dressed in cool, white cotton capri pants, and a white lacy top. She turned to the mirror while he watched her. She caught the sharp tick in his expression as she revealed the wound, the flicker of rage beneath the calm. The ugly red line just beneath her deltoid was bruised, swollen, a stark contrast to the warmth still radiating from the shower.

Not fatal. Not deep. But it marked her just the same.

Then he was there, his hands reaching for the antiseptic, then pressing a clean bandage over the wound.

She winced at the pressure. “Ouch! Dr. Dagger, your bedside manner leaves much to be desired.”

That pulled a smirk from him, the kind that always made her insides twist. “What about my bed management?”

Her lips curved, amusement bubbling to the surface despite the ache in her arm. “Oh, bed management?” She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to tease. “You have a PhD in that.”

His smirk deepened, fingers still resting against her side like a brand. “Well, I had all that practice with women across the fucking globe. My whole team had to wait in line, sassy pants.”

She laughed, smacking him on the arm. “You fool,” she whispered. The air between them shifted, heat replacing tension, fire pushing back the fear. A slow burn in the space where pain had just lived. Just like that, she wasn’t thinking about the wound anymore. Or fear. Or ghosts.

Only him.

Only them.

But his angered look pissed her off. She didn’t want that. She pushed on his chest. “To continue our previous conversation. I’d say that was your fault,” she said, poking him in the chest, then winced and shook her hand. “Damn it, you’re built like reinforced steel.”

He smirked, that anger banked, for now.

“I’m not the enticing one who just stands there and turns on women just by breathing. Fucking gorgeous ring a bell? So, I’m taking the Fifth.”

He raised a brow. “That’s a lot of talking. It’s the Shut-Up Amendment, babe.”

She grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him hard. All lips and challenge. When she pulled back, her grin was wicked. “Oh, go bounce a beach ball on your nose. I’m sure you’ll attract women across the globe with that small, skillful feat.”

He laughed, low and real, and it rolled through her like sunlight.

God , she was going to work on making him do that as much as possible. He was beautiful when he smiled, when he laughed, even more so.

Then he lunged.

She shrieked, dodging with a yelp as he gave chase, laughter echoing off the walls as she ran from the bathroom.

Back in the bedroom, she held up her hand, laughing hard. “We have no more time for shenanigans, sailor. If we’re late, Tex will look at us with those steely blue eyes.” She giggled. “I always feel like I should salute.”

A huff of laughter. “Yeah, my LT knows all about that if-looks-could-kill stare. I think he learned it in officer training.

“What? Scary Stare 101?”

He laughed again as she grabbed her bag.

“No, more like Shred Your Ass 101.”

A peel of laughter broke from her as they stepped into the hall.

After a few moments of silence, her humor fading, Dagger said, "You sure you’re up for going to work?" His voice was level, even, but she didn’t miss the edge beneath it.

She squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze head-on. “I worked hard for this contract, Dagger. I won’t be intimidated.”

The words came out strong, steady and certain, but even she felt the undercurrent beneath them. Fear. Not paralyzing, but there. A tight coil in her spine. A whisper that slithered in when the noise died down.

His eyes didn’t miss it. Of course they didn’t. Dagger always saw too much.

Her tight mouth gave her away and he stopped walking, turning into her.

“There’s no shame in being afraid, Quinn.” His voice was low now, quieter. Gentle in a way that unraveled her more than the pain ever could. “That’s where bravery comes in.”

Her breath caught. Just a fraction of a second. Just enough to betray her.

Then she looked at him, eyes searching his face, strong, unreadable, and still so achingly tender in the worst of ways. “How do you handle it?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

His jaw flexed. “I focus on the mission,” he said, without hesitation. But there was a deeper current in his voice, something fluid, controlled, powerful. Something like water carving its way through stone, persistent, steady, impossible to stop.

She held his gaze for a long moment, weighing the simplicity of that answer against the chaos still curling inside her. Focus on the mission. It wasn’t just strategy. It was survival.

Her chin lifted slowly. “Then that’s what I’ll do. I’ll focus on my mission.”

A flicker of flame sparked in her chest. She knew how to rebuild, she’d been doing it for the last six months. Her fire would not be extinguished by fear.

She pictured it, her building rising like a beacon over Caracas, steel and glass and purpose etched into its bones.

She didn’t just feel steady now. She felt alight, rekindled by his touch, soothed by his calm, and somewhere between those two forces, she felt… unstoppable.

Something flickered in his expression, something fierce and proud, and he let out a slow breath, his touch brushed across her cheek. Lingering, warm against her skin, grounding in a way she didn’t know she needed until it was there.

They moved through the corridor side by side, their steps in quiet sync, boots thudding softly against the polished floor. The air had cooled since the shower, but Quinn still felt a hum beneath her skin, not from the wound, not from pain, but from him.

From everything he was, and everything he’d just shown her.

As they approached the conference room, the distant murmur of voices filtered out from behind the door, already assembling, mission tempo setting in again.

Just before they reached the threshold, Dagger’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Hey,” he said, glancing at her. “You have your laptop?”

Quinn nodded, brow lifting slightly. “Of course.”

He gave a small nod, his voice lower, gentler. “When we find a moment… let’s call the boys.”

The words hit her like a warm current, unexpected, steadying, and so deeply thoughtful it stopped her breath for half a beat. That quiet suggestion, tucked beneath all the hard edges of duty and mission, felt like the gentlest kind of anchor.

She blinked, heart tightening. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I’d like that.”

His lips curved just a little, eyes steady on hers before he reached for the door.

The scent hit her first, the ever-present gun oil, sweat, and coffee brewed strong enough to peel paint off walls.

Quinn hesitated in the doorway of the conference room, adjusting the strap on her satchel. She’d walked into dozens of intimidating boardrooms, but nothing quite compared to this testosterone-charged den of chaos.

Dagger was just a step ahead of her when a deep voice rang out from one of the couches.

“Chicks dig scars, and Keanu is never wrong,” Brawler declared, slapping a hand over his shoulder like it was a badge of honor.

Shark, lounging near the comms desk, gave him a skeptical side-eye. “You need therapy. I’m not talking about physical.”

Brawler gave him a double finger salute.

Dagger paused mid-step and turned toward them with a squint. “What the hell did we just walk into?”

Brawler dropped his hands, looking toward Quinn with an apology for his coarseness. She waved it off.

Twister, seated at the table, sipping what looked like black sludge from a mug labeled Corpsman Juice – Cures All, Except Stupidity , gave a long-suffering sigh. “The great Keanu Reeves debate. It's been going on for twenty minutes. If it continues, there may be Keanu-like fistacuffs.”

Quinn blinked, trying to keep a straight face. But beside her, Dagger glanced down at her with a smirk, eyes twinkling like this was normal.

It was almost… cute.

“I’m telling you,” Brawler said, jabbing a finger at Shark, “ John Wick is peak Keanu. Efficient. Deadly. Zero emotional baggage, just vengeance and weapons.”

Shark shook his head. “The Matrix. Untouchable. Neo literally transcends reality. That’s a man you want on your six.”

From across the room, Flash, feet kicked up, arms crossed like a man with zero shame, cut in. “Y’all are wrong. Speed . Bomb-rigged bus, tension, adrenaline, Sandra Bullock, and Keanu’s hair at its prime. It's got everything.”

“Hair?” Quinn murmured under her breath. “That’s the argument now?”

Dagger chuckled beside her. “Trust me. This is tame.”

Brawler waved a hand. “Wick fights an entire Mafia over a puppy. That’s love. That’s commitment. That’s a damn code.”

Twister raised a brow. “I thought our code was silence and precision. Wick leaves a trail of bodies and broken necks in his wake.”

Flash shrugged. “Still more subtle than Brawler.”

Brawler shot him a glare. “Keep talking, pretty boy.”

Twister sighed again. “Let’s break it down logically.”

Flash leaned in. “You mean argue like caffeinated toddlers?”

Ignoring him, Twister continued, “ Speed is high stakes but grounded. Matrix is metaphysical. John Wick is tactical realism. So, who do you want more in an actual op?”

Quinn watched it all with a strange sense of affection. These were the guys who protected lives, who ran toward bullets, who survived things that should break a person. Here they were, arguing about Keanu Reeves like tactical movie critics.

She glanced at Dagger, catching the moment his eyes softened as he looked back at her. There was a flicker there, a silent exchange, indulgent and warm. Her chest tightened unexpectedly.

Quinn’s voice cut through the chatter. “You’re all wrong. Keanu wins, no matter which version you pick.”

That earned a pause.

Then Twister nodded solemnly. “The girl is on to something.”

“Still,” Brawler his gaze giving her points, muttering, “I’d want Wick watching my six.”

“Neo would bend space-time to protect the team,” Shark added with a shrug.

“Jack Traven wouldn’t let the bus or the mission fail,” Flash finished.

“So again, Keanu wins,” she said, smug as ever.

Just then, the door opened again and Tex and Bondo walked in, both taking in the chaotic scene.

Bondo raised a brow. “These are the guys who save the world?”

Tex pinned her with those steely eyes. “Quinn, honey. Don’t drink the Kool-Aid.” The room erupted at Tex’s deadpan delivery.

Dagger looked at her, humor glinting in his eyes. He said softly, “It’s too late.”

Brawler leaned back with a smug grin and added, “Wick would murder an entire cartel with nothing but a pencil.”

That earned a fresh round of groans and laughter, Shark tossing a crumpled protein bar wrapper at him, while Flash muttered, “You need a therapist, bro. A violent one.”

Quinn shook her head, a laugh bubbling up despite everything. What an absurd situation, yet it settled over her heart like a warm blanket. These men had loved Brian, and in turn, they’d pulled her into their circle. She’d loved them back.

Beside her, Dagger chuckled low under his breath and gave her a sidelong look, half apologetic, half amused. The kind that said, Welcome to my world.

“To think,” he murmured just for her, “you thought I was the dangerous one.”

She grinned, biting her lip. “I stand corrected. Clearly, it’s the one with the pencil.”

His eyes lingered on her for a beat too long, affection buried beneath all that tough-guy restraint, a warmth only she seemed to unlock.

Quinn realized something else in that moment. For all their bravado, this team wasn’t just elite operators…they were family. Dagger’s family. Now maybe, hers too.

But then the energy shifted. The guys noticed her for real, not just as a bystander, but as someone who had joined them in combat a few days ago. Concern flickered in every set of eyes, even behind the banter.

Twister stood. “You good, Quinn?”

Brawler straightened, actually looking sheepish, which might’ve been a historical first.

Flash gave her a lopsided grin. “Glad you’re back in one piece.”

Shark offered a respectful nod. “Anything you need, you’ve got us.”

Tex’s gaze was sharp but kind. “You up to continuing your mission, Quinn?”

Quinn held his gaze, then lifted her chin, not in arrogance, but with that fire that had carried her this far. “Hoo-yah. I am.”

That earned a reaction.

Cheers, smirks, a few whoops. Even a low whistle from Flash.

But Dagger… he just watched her with something entirely different in his expression. A quiet pride. A reverence. A flicker of something deeper than words.

She swore, in that exact moment, he looked at her like she could command the world.