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Brawler didn’t move much, but his gaze drifted to Quinn. She stood near Dagger, white-knuckling a tablet like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her bandaged arm had to be screaming, he’d taken a bullet or two in his time, but the woman held her ground. He respected that. Hell, he admired it.

The conference room had shifted from nonsense to laser focus, the air thicker with tension than coffee fumes. Brawler sat low on the couch, one boot braced on the edge, leg bouncing restlessly while Beast sprawled beside him, head on his paws, tracking everything like a shadow.

Shark tapped on his tactical computer, Flash spun a knife like it was fused to his fingers, and Bondo stood behind Tex, arms folded, biceps flexed under his shirt. All business now. Easy and Flash were poring over aerial photos of the embassy site, red-penning weak points and potential breach angles. Twister was double-checking his medical pack, lips tight with focus.

The door opened, and Emma Sutherland strode in like a scalpel, sleek, cold, precise, dressed in black tactical gear sharp enough to cut glass.

Brawler wouldn’t mind hitting that. She was exactly his type, blonde, built, big tits, and an ass that wouldn’t quit. Those violet eyes were the bomb.

“We’ve confirmed another intel packet this morning,” she said, brisk and efficient. “There was a drone strike overnight outside San Fernando. ISR shows significant structural damage, secondary explosions, and thermal body signatures consistent with insurgent casualties.”

“I love it when you talk dirty,” Brawler growled, earning chuckles from the team.

Emma’s gaze narrowed to a blade’s edge. “Miguel Herrera is presumed dead.”

Silence dropped. Hard and cold.

Brawler felt it echo through the team, jaw clenches, subtle nods, that grave relief warriors knew too well. But presumed wasn’t dead. SEALs didn’t do maybe. SEALs did no pulse.

She wasn’t relieved. Not completely. Dagger noticed. Of course he did.

Emma shifted into secondary threats and construction progress updates. Brawler half-listened. His mind was already spinning through routes, fallback plans, threat trees. That was his job.

Then her words caught his attention. “Construction resumes today. We’re back on schedule.”

Tex gave the call. “Convoy’s delayed thirty minutes. Get jocked up anyway. We’re pulling out soon.”

Dagger lingered behind, murmuring something low to Emma before turning back to Quinn.

“We’ve got time,” he said, voice softer now. “Let’s call the boys.”

Brawler wasn’t the only one who froze mid-movement. Shark’s head lifted, Easy and Flash traded grins. Even Tex’s shoulders eased by a hair.

Quinn’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened, lips parting like she wasn’t sure she heard right.

“Really?”

Dagger nodded toward the screen. “Big screen’s open.”

Flash didn’t wait, already at the controls, fingers flying with easy confidence.

A beat later, two bright, messy-haired faces filled the screen, voices overlapping like windchimes in a storm.

“Mom!”

“Uncle Kade!”

“We miss you!” Ezra cried, waving wildly. “When are you coming home?”

“In a bit, buddy,” Dagger said, smiling. “We’ve got more?—”

“—Saving the world stuff to do?” Elijah tried to deadpan, but a smirk sneaked in.

Dagger chuckled. “Yeah. But the wait will be worth it, right?”

“Right! You’re bringing me dinosaurs! Yay. Patience is a virtue, Grandma says.”

Brawler gave a grunt of amusement. “You can’t eat dinosaurs, Ez.”

Ezra lit up. “Uncle Chris makes dinosaur pancakes! He made a T-Rex last time. With syrup claws!”

That warmth punched harder than Brawler expected. He didn’t usually let emotion sneak in during mission time, but Ezra’s joy cracked something loose.

Brawler’s mouth tugged into a rare grin. Damn, those kids had a way of lighting up a room, even a war room. Ezra and Elijah were all sunshine and fire, sparks in human form.

His brother Tobias Beckett had been born with savant syndrome, an extraordinary brain wired for patterns and probabilities. But Toby was more than the diagnosis. He saw the world like a math problem wrapped in a sunrise, sharp and beautiful all at once. He’d calculate crash survival odds or tell you what number pattern your name made, then hug you like you were the greatest thing to ever exist. He couldn’t fake anything. What he felt, he felt big. Especially love. It was all in or nothing.

God, Brawler wished the world had more of him.

There weren’t many things that made his fists curl on instinct, but Uncle Ray could. Raymond Beckett, slick, manipulative, the kind of parasite who circled after their parents’ deaths, looking to exploit Toby’s genius for gambling payoffs. Took him to races. Poker rooms. Treated him like a golden goose.

Brawler had nearly killed the bastard by dragging him out of a backroom once, after Ray pocketed a stack of winnings Toby didn’t even realize he’d earned. If Brawler hadn’t stepped in, Toby would’ve ended up as some casino sideshow in Vegas, his brilliance chipped away for beer money.

After their parents died, it had been just them, no net, no lifeline. Just blood and grit. Joining the Teams nearly tore him in half, but Toby…Toby understood. He’d looked Brawler in the eye and said, “You could save the world, Chris. But if you’ve got seven guys with you? Wow. The odds are astronomical.”

Kid always knew how to gut him.

He found someone to watch over Toby, a former Marine named Hank Lawson. Brick wall of a man. Chess lover. Kind soul. Brawler never worried with Hank around.

But part of him still carried the weight, always would.

Toby had loved pancakes too.

He used to ask for numbers instead of dinosaurs. Brawler would shape sevens or perfect threes in the batter, just to see that sweet, proud smile. “Make it prime numbers this time, Chris,” he’d say. A little ritual between brothers.

Toby had grown older but never grown up. Still saw the world in equations and starlight. Still needed someone to help tie his shoes. Still made Brawler believe in something good.

“T-Rex, huh?” Brawler said, voice easy. “You got a favorite dino, little man?”

“Stegosaurus!” Ezra announced proudly. “With plates and everything!”

Flash leaned in. “What did the stegosaurus say to the velociraptor?”

Ezra blinked. “What?”

“Nothing. He was extinct.”

Groans rippled. Even Beast gave a huff like he was offended, but the kids burst into giggles.

“That was a knee-slapper, Uncle Jae!” Elijah crowed.

“Elijah’s been learning pool,” Shark said. “Kid’s got a mean break.”

Quinn raised a brow at Shark with that fierce mom-glare. Shark cleared his throat and looked away. “Good skill to have.” Shark defended.

Elijah nodded. “Uncle Bale taught me! Uncle Matt showed us this game…um…”

“T-ball, Eli,” Easy said, smiling softly.

“I’m teaching them pool safety,” Twister said with mock gravitas. “You know, the boring stuff.”

Brawler just watched them, those boys, reaching for every familiar face on the screen like they belonged. Like this team wasn’t just backup or babysitters

There was something sacred about innocence like theirs, bright, unfiltered, untouched by the worst of the world.

But one day, they’d lose it. They already had, in some ways.

Their father’s death would shape them. Life would press in. Innocence would slip away, piece by piece. Toby’s would remain pure, a purity the world couldn’t chip away. Maybe that’s why Brawler carried his memory like armor. Because Toby didn’t just remind him of what was good.

He was what was good.

The call began winding down, kisses, waves, last jokes. Quinn’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she held the line.

Then she turned to him and threw her arms around Dagger, fierce, grateful, no hesitation. Brawler saw it land like a blow in Dagger’s chest.

He’d given her this moment. Made it possible.

Brawler watched it hit her. He and his brothers weren’t just SEALs. They were family. For her sons. Because of Dagger.

No one could replace their father, but six warriors had damn sure tried.

Elijah glanced between them, something dawning in his young face. He elbowed Ezra, who was roaring his dino across the screen. Ezra paused, then whispered something.

“Hey, Mom?”

Quinn’s voice wobbled. “Yes, baby?” She brushed at her eyes, her expression soft, breaking.

“You’re not mad at Uncle Kade anymore?”

The room went still.

Quinn looked sideways at Dagger, a small breath escaping. “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

Ezra’s smile lit the screen. “That’s good. You love him like us.”

The screen blinked black.

Brawler stood slowly, chest full of something he couldn’t name. He didn’t look at Dagger. Didn’t speak.

But he knew what that kid had just said. What they’d all known for a while now. Dagger didn’t just love her. He already was hers. God help her if she didn’t figure that out before it was too damn late.

When she finally pulled back from Dagger’s arms, the ache in her chest didn’t ease, but it settled into something steadier. Something real.

Emma stepped forward, a half-smile curving her mouth. “I’m Emma. CIA.”

Quinn dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand, voice catching slightly. “I figured.”

The moment still clung to her skin, heavy, humbling. That simple video call had cracked something open in her, laid bare what she'd been trying to outrun. Those boys were her heart, but this team, those men, they’d helped carry it when she couldn’t. Dagger had made sure of that. Maybe letting go of her grief didn’t mean letting go of the possibility of love. She swallowed hard. She looked at Dagger. Maybe you’re already there?

Emma’s expression softened. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she added, glancing toward Dagger before meeting Quinn’s eyes again. “That shouldn’t have happened. You’re in very good hands.”

Quinn nodded, the lump in her throat thick. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I can see that.”

Before she could say more, Tex’s voice rang from the doorway, sharp and clipped.

“You’re with me.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Time to move.

They stepped out into the searing Venezuelan sun, and Quinn froze for a heartbeat.

The SEALs were fully geared now, tactical armor, weapons loaded, vests snug across broad chests. They moved like wolves, quiet, deadly, controlled. Human predators molded by discipline and forged in fire. Every step they took was deliberate, precise. The air around them hummed with danger and protection.

But it was Dagger who stole her breath.

He stood beside the lead vehicle, adjusting the straps of his vest, dog tags glinting against his black shirt. His fatigue pants clung to powerful legs, molded to every muscle she knew too well and still longed to memorize again. His shoulders were broad, arms solid and veined, the whole of him carved from something elemental, stone, fire, shadow.

He wasn’t just commanding. He was unchangeable.

She couldn’t stop staring.

She’d always known why they called him Dagger, sharp, controlled, forged for precision but seeing him now, fully geared, she’d had no idea. None at all.

He didn’t just carry the name.

He was the name.

Lethal when necessary, honed to a fine edge, unwavering in his purpose. There was nothing careless about him, no wasted motion, no unnecessary noise. Just steel discipline wrapped in heat and silence.

A weapon with a heartbeat.

God help her, she’d never seen anything so devastatingly beautiful.

The tactical vest hugged his chest like armor built just for him. A long combat knife was sheathed there, a sidearm strapped to his thigh. An automatic rifle rested easily in one hand like it weighed nothing.

Beneath all of it, that same calm strength radiated from him, lethal, focused, unshakable.

There was something about the way warriors moved. Something visceral. Primeval. Six feet of quiet authority and coiled violence wrapped in a body that moved like smoke and steel.

When Dagger turned slightly, scanning the area like he could see threat through concrete and shadow, Quinn had to swallow hard against the knot rising in her throat.

He was beautiful in that way danger could be, breathtaking, brutal, unrelenting.

He caught her staring and smiled.

Just the smallest flicker, that half-smirk she hadn’t seen in years. It was nothing and everything, a glint of mischief tucked inside a war machine.

It wrecked her.

Flash swung the door open with a wink. “After you, ma’am.”

She climbed in, her pulse still skipping erratically, her skin too tight, too aware.

The vehicle doors slammed shut with a thud, sealing them in.

The ride to the embassy was swift, the silence in the cabin thick and purposeful. Quinn sat between Dagger and Twister, and even though no one spoke, the weight of their presence was felt in every inch of the space. The low murmur of comms, the metallic scent of steel and Kevlar, the creak of loaded gear shifting with each jolt of the road, it was an orchestra of tension, of readiness.

But beside her, Dagger was pure stillness.

He held his rifle across his lap, fingers resting lightly on the grip, eyes scanning the window like nothing could ever take him by surprise. Not fear. Not chaos. Not even her.

She stole another glance at him at the sharp angles of his face, the faded scar at his temple, the glint of his dog tags catching the filtered sunlight and something inside her twisted.

This wasn’t the man she’d once blamed.

This was the man who’d held her sons like they were his own. The man who carried guilt like a shadow but never let it slow him. The man who watched everything, protected everyone, and never asked for credit.

Her fingers curled around her bag, grounding herself.

She didn’t feel like a failure anymore.

She didn’t feel like a fraud, either.

There was still pain, of course there was, but it wasn’t the drowning kind. It was the kind that lived beside strength. The kind that could coexist with progress.

Outside the window, the city passed in a blur of contradiction, graffiti-stained walls, bright marketplaces, crumbling buildings framed by blooming flowers. A city surviving, enduring.

So was she. She wasn’t a ruin anymore. She was rebuilding, brick by brick, breath by breath. For the first time, she believed in her own foundation

He wasn’t her enemy. God help her. He never had been…ever.

He was her anchor.

When the convoy rolled to a stop, the back door opened, and Quinn stepped down, boots crunching over gravel, heat pressing against her skin.

The moment she set foot on the ground, everything changed.

The SEALs fanned out in a flawless arc, no commands needed. Just motion, instinct, and silent precision. It was like watching a predator ballet, each man scanning, covering angles, protecting her without touching her.

She didn’t feel suffocated.

She felt protected.

Watched over. Safe .

For the first time in a very long time.

Her breath caught as she walked toward the construction site. The chaos from days earlier was gone. In its place, a rhythmic hum of progress, machinery groaning, boots thudding, radios crackling.

But more than that, there was a presence now. A steel net of protection wrapped around her world.

Gabe stepped out from the trailer, Piper trailing behind him. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of her armored entourage. He gave a slow smile. “You came back,” he said, voice warm. “That’s a good sign.” Then he glanced over her shoulder at the team dispersing across the site like shadows. “I think it’s safe to say… they’ve got us covered.”

Quinn smiled. For the first time in months, it wasn’t tight or rehearsed.

It was real.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “They do.”

Gabe extended a hand, lifting the blueprints in his other. “Let’s get to work.”

But before she followed him, Quinn glanced over her shoulder one more time. Dagger was just stepping out of his vehicle, helmet under one arm, rifle slung, tactical vest clinging to every hard line of muscle, his eyes already scanning, calculating.

But when he looked at her… he saw her. Not the architect. Not the widow. Not the recovering alcoholic or the broken mother trying to rebuild her life. Just her.

In that moment, Quinn realized something earth-shaking.

It wasn’t just that he had her back. It was that he believed in her, in the woman she was now, not the one she used to be.

That made her believe too.

The gear room smelled like cordite, oil, and sweat, familiar, grounding. Dagger stripped off his plate carrier, the Velcro ripping loud in the quiet. The mission was over. The embassy site was quiet and secure. For now.

But he didn’t feel settled. Not in the usual way, not in that deep, locked-down compartment where he stored everything too heavy to carry. That place had been pried open, and now everything inside was spilling out.

Quinn. The way she’d looked at him after that call, raw and exposed, like he’d found the chink in her armor she didn’t know how to seal back up. Like maybe, for the first time, she saw him not as a reminder of everything she lost, but as a man who could help her carry it.

He didn’t know what to do with it, this hope, this ache, this gnawing sense that something was changing.

The op was over, the site was secure, the perimeter held.

There was no perimeter anymore.

He’d tried so damn hard to keep Quinn out to keep everything out. But now she was everywhere. In his head. In his blood. In the hollow spaces he’d sworn to keep untouched.

He’d thought he could protect her without letting her in.

He’d been wrong.

Because somewhere along the way, she’d slipped past all his defenses, not with noise or force, but with quiet resilience. With the kind of strength he couldn’t fight.

Now he didn’t know how to be the man who could stand still while she walked away again.

His pulse still hadn’t returned to baseline. Not from the adrenaline. Not from the op.

From her .

From Quinn’s arms around him after the call, tight and trembling, her face buried in his chest like she couldn’t stop herself. Like she didn’t want to. Hope surged in him. The way she looked at him, that fierce longing that sat in his dreams, taunted him with his biggest desire. Could she be falling in love with him? Was she ready to give him her heart and make him the fucking luckiest man on the planet?

That rush hit him hard. Harder than it should’ve. A punch straight to the heart. The weight of it still swamped his lungs. With her came those kids, and he wanted them just as fiercely.

He’d suggested the call because he thought it would drive home to her what was at stake for her…for him. Give her the push to remember who she was . Their mother. What he hadn’t counted on was what it would do to him .

The boys. Their little voices.

Their trust. Their love.

His sons. He couldn’t deny it to himself anymore, no distance would be enough to stop the mind shock that he’d never intended to claim them, thinking that losing them wouldn’t hurt as much. He’d been so wrong. Her words in her office had scored him, shooting his delusion right out of the water.

His jaw clenched hard.

He’d meant it as a kindness, a bridge between her and the life she was rebuilding.

But what it did instead was make him ache .

Because he wanted to be their father. Not a ghost in the margins. Not a stopgap protector. Not a placeholder.

He wanted to be in it. All the way in. With them. With her. Not as a stand-in. Not as a shadow. As a father. As a partner. As a man who showed the hell up.

Tex had said it once. It’s not about perfection, it’s about presence. Showing up. Staying in the fight, even when you don’t know if you’re winning.

Damn if that didn’t hit now, harder than any op ever had.

Because that’s what he wanted for Quinn, for the boys. To show up. To be the one who stayed.

No more distance. No more pretending his heart wasn’t already tethered to theirs.

Fuck it. He slammed his vest down on the steel table, the sound sharp enough to echo.

Brawler looked up from across the room. “That vest piss you off, or are you just having a moment?”

Dagger rolled his shoulders, barely looking up. “Brian.”

That got the attention of everyone else. Eyes flicked up from weapons, gear, tools.

“Yeah?” Brawler prompted, stepping closer.

Dagger stared at the vest for a beat, then dragged a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

“He’s still in her head,” he muttered. “Still in the goddamn way.”

Bondo straightened from the wall. Easy cocked his head. Shark exchanged a glance with Flash. The room tightened, nothing overt, just that subtle shift that happened when one of their own started unraveling in the quiet.

“She hugged me,” Dagger said, jaw flexing. “After the call. Held on like she didn’t want to let go. Like she felt it. Us. Everything. But she’s still holding back. I’m sick of it.”

Brawler leaned on the table, voice calm. “You’re not mad at her. You’re mad that Brian’s ghost still has a seat at her table.”

Dagger looked up then, eyes sharp. “I’m mad that he always made her feel like she had to shrink. Like she wasn’t good enough unless he said so. I watched him clip her wings every time she tried to fly.”

“She loved him,” Easy said gently.

“Did she?” Dagger’s voice cracked a little, low, bitter. “Or did she just not know there was better?”

A long silence followed that.

“Maybe she did,” Flash said. “But she’s not ready to say it out loud yet.”

“She doesn’t have to say it. I see it.” Dagger paced a step, his blood starting to hum. “Every time she looks at me and then looks away. Every time she tries to pretend what’s between us isn’t real. She’s changing. It’s in her bones now. But she’s still scared to take the last step.”

“Then maybe you need to take it,” Twister offered. “If she’s afraid, then you meet her where she is. Don’t make her do all the heavy lifting.”

“She never talks about him,” Dagger muttered. “Never once. Not really. Like saying his name might break the illusion. It’s killing me. Because I can’t give her everything if she’s still tethered to a ghost.”

“You want her to pick you?” Brawler asked softly.

“I want her to pick herself ,” Dagger snapped, the words hitting harder than he intended.

Then softer, the fight leaking out of him— “But yeah… I want her to pick me too.” He rubbed a hand down his face, breath catching in his throat. “God help me, I want that more than anything.”

Saying it aloud made it worse, more real. Because now it wasn’t just a thought buried in his chest. It was out there. Laid bare.

There was no taking it back.

“Then say it.” Shark shrugged. “You’ve been walking around with all this shit in your gut for how long? Say it. Make her see it . You’ve never been the silent type.”

Dagger let out a slow breath. The fire inside him was burning hotter now, not wild, but steady. Focused. Determined .

“No more waiting,” he said quietly. “No more hiding behind guilt or ghosts. I’ve loved her from the goddamn minute I saw her. I’m done pretending that’s not the truth.”

Tex finally spoke from the doorway, arms crossed. “Then go give her something real to hold onto.”

Dagger nodded once, jaw set. He didn’t hesitate. The time for that shit was over. SEALs assaulted, that’s what they did. It was in their DNA. He stalked from the gear room, down the hall, his focus narrowed, his heart pounded with more adrenaline, more determination than he'd ever experienced in his life. He used the key card she had given him right before he shed his gear. The meaning was clear. My space is your space. I want you here. She wanted him close, in her bed, in the goddamn wet, hot ecstasy between her legs, so deep, so hard she would never forget it was his flesh and blood body, his aching dick, his heart that she had. Brian didn’t have her anymore.

He entered her room, looking around for her, spoiling for a fight that was either going to open her up or close her down. Either way, she would think about what he had to say. The words like the tip of the spear inside him, and fuck he needed her to push back.

He strode to the bathroom, the shower running. The door was ajar, and he pushed it open then got coldcocked by Quinn. Her eyes were closed, her back arched. While he watched, her hands covered her firm breasts, sliding over hard nipples, her voice soaking into the steam rising from the water, his name nothing but mist. “Kade .”

He shuddered with the sound of his name, the way she whispered it like it was the very air she breathed, and the rest of him he’d been holding back out of fear, unraveled. Oh, fucking hell. His body went still. She loves me. Against all the freaking odds.

Steam curled like ghosted breath in the dim light, whispering across the glass door, veiling his reflection until even his own eyes became strangers. Something inside him went quiet.

Not the silence of control, the kind he’d mastered his whole life. This was different.

Stillness. Not restraint. Peace. Not force.

The kind of silence that didn’t need to overpower a room to be felt.

Water streamed over her, cascading against the tile like rainfall on jungle leaves. Not thunderous. Not violent. Just... persistent. Steady.

He realized, he’d always seen himself as the weapon. The blade. The strike. But maybe he’d been wrong all along.

Maybe he wasn’t the knife.

Maybe he was the water.

The element that carved canyons, shaped stone, broke down even the hardest edges, not by force, but by presence. By staying. By softening. By never leaving.

He watched her ignite in front of him, and his dick went rock hard.

He’d experienced so many levels of lust in his life. Lust for control. As a boy he’d lost that when his father left, when he died, when his stepfather was absent. That tough-fisted feeling in him gave him dominion over his environment, emotions, and relationships, armored over any vulnerabilities that would hurt him. It was why he excelled at his job, finding order in chaotic environments. His lust for justice fueled his interest in obtaining that elusive trident, and he would always stand against perceived wrongs. He lusted for so long to make an emotional impact on Quinn. He wanted her truth…their truth, and it wasn’t until he got close to her that he’d felt alive. He’d fought against his need for her, thinking his autonomy would be threatened, and again he’d been wrong.

She opened her eyes and saw him. Her lips parted, and she flowed toward him like a living flame. Her eyes were luminous, burning whiskey fire. Without speaking, she reached for the hem of his shirt, and in his newfound revelation he remained still. She stripped the garment from him, her hands all over him, over his chest, his biceps, his abs, then her hands were at the waistband of his pants, and as she unzipped them, he toed out of his boots and socks. She cupped him, and he groaned, rode her clenched hand hard and tight over his pulsing dick, then she drew him toward the shower.

Inside, caught up in that stillness that seemed like a part of him, he turned his hand upward, watching a single drop fall into his palm, gentle, unassuming, and yet powerful enough to erode time itself.

Was that what Quinn had seen in him? Not shallows, but the depth beneath it? The current beneath his calm?

She surged against him, an eternal flame. She didn’t burn him. She baptized him. He let it happen. Not with resistance. With reverence.

God, he’d spent so long trying to stay hard enough to survive her.

But what if the answer wasn’t hardness at all?

What if it was surrender?

What if the only way to hold her fire was to let himself be reshaped, not by dominance, but by devotion?

A slow breath left him.

Not a sigh. A release.

For the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was drowning. He felt like water, fluid, grounded, powerful not in resistance, but in letting go…the tide always returned. In her fire, he found his flow.