Page 102 of Delta

"Granddaughter wants to braid Papa's beard, granddaughter braids Papa's beard," Puck answers, shrugging. He shows me his other hand, which features fingernails messily painted—respectively from thumb to pinky—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and indigo. "She was mighty annoyed I didn't have a sixth finger to make it a full rainbow."

"You have a granddaughter?" I ask.

He nods. “Colbie and I’s daughter had a little oops when she was sixteen. We take care of the li’l stinker while her mama finishes her degree.”

I think back to conversations Bryn and I had, and what I know from media coverage of the A1S guys. “Didn't know you and Colbie had a granddaughter."

Puck nods. "Chloe's seven.” A blinking, thoughtful expression. He eyes me. "Internet stalking us, are you?"

I snort, shake my head. "Nah. Talked to Bryn a good bit. Done a fair whack of traveling since I ran into her, and not much to do but talk."

Puck snorts. "Ran into her? Is that what you're callin' it, bub?" A rough bark of sarcastic laughter. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Puck," Harris snaps from the SUV trunk he's loading gear bags into, not looking up. "Belay that shit."

"Sir." This is accompanied by a sarcastic little salute.

"It's fine," I say. "Can't exactly say I don't deserve it."

Puck smacks my shoulder. "That's the spirit, kid. If you own your shit, folks aren't as likely to try an' hold it against you. And I dunno about you, but I don't like shit being held against me. It stinks."

I snicker a laugh at that. "Right you are there, mate."

A man I can only describe as nondescript approaches from…somewhere. "Unassuming" also comes to mind. Medium height, medium build, brown hair, brown eyes. Nothing about him screams operator or badass extraordinaire, but I know this man is Anselm, one of the deadliest men on the planet—past, present, or future.

He extends a hand to me. "I am Anselm."

"Rush."

Anselm grins at me. "We like to call him Grampy, now." He points at Puck.Puck's eyes narrow at me. "Don't even think about it, kid."

I chuckle. "Warning heeded. I like my insides on the inside, after all, don't I?"

Puck nods, expression serious. "Good plan, kid."

A thick, heavy, hard hand rests on my shoulder like an anvil. "Don't listen to Grampy, kid. He was just born salty."

I look at the owner of the hand—Duke Silver. Two inches taller than me and carrying something like twenty-five pounds of muscle more than me. And I'm not small. Red hair with streaks of silver at the temples and along the hairline, buzzed close on the sides and longish messy on top.

He grins at me. "Welcome to the club."

"Which club is it I'm in?" I ask.

He gestures at the men around us. "This one. We've all been where you are right now—rescuing a beautiful woman from a complicated and dangerous situation, and tryin' to figure out how we feel."

"Oh." I let out a breath. "Quite a club. I'm alright with the rescue part—done more than a few hostage rescues with the service, but the feelings bit is a whole other thing."

Duke nods, clapping me on the shoulder; again, it's like having an anvil give me friendly crushing; as I’ve said, I'm not a small man nor a weak one, but these blokes are just built different. "Feelings are tricky little fuckers, bud. The more you try an' ignore 'em, the more insistent they are."

"Tricky little fuckers, indeed," I echo, getting weirded out by the immediate familiarity with which these men are treating me.

Puck puffs on his cigar and then plucks it from his jaw, rests a hand on Thresh's mammoth arm to balance himself while he stubs it out on the heel of his well-worn combat boot, and then pops it back in his mouth, unlit. "He's still in the denial phase, Dukey-Doo. You can tell he's scared shitless of the weird, squishy feelings." He strides toward the SUV nearest us. "Let's go, young blood. Assholes don't kill themselves."

Duke stares after his friend with a pissed off expression darkening his features. "Little fucker. Told him a billion times to stop calling me that."

"It's Puck, bro," Thresh rumbles. "Listening is not one of his top attributes."

"I ain't afraid of the weird, squishy feelings," I mutter. "It's just new. And weird. And squishy."