Page 18 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Faron

I was half-dressed and fully haunted, staring at the crack in Blue’s ceiling like it held the answer to a question I was too afraid to ask.

Bear snored beside me like a dying chainsaw.

Her scent clung to my skin. Soap, sweat, and something wild I’d never be able to name.

I should’ve gotten up. Left. Been a gentleman.

But then again, I’d never claimed to be one.

My phone buzzed against the nightstand.

Cyclone.

I sighed. The kind of sigh that only comes before war.

I answered. “Talk fast.”

“Lightfoot.” No emotion. Just mission tone. “We got a situation. Venezuela. Two maybe three American contractors held outside Caracas. Intel’s messy. River and I are wheels up in six. You in or out?”

My stomach clenched.

“Cyclone—”

“You know the rule,” he cut me off. “We take care of our own.”

Click.

Fuck.

I stared at the ceiling again. At Bear. At the hallway where I could hear her — barefoot, pouring burnt coffee, probably muttering to herself about the patients who’d already blown up her voicemail.

I found her in the kitchen. Mug in hand. Tired eyes, beautiful as hell.

“Morning, Cherokee,” she said softly.

I didn’t say anything.

She saw my face. The tired smile dropped.

“What is it?”

I stepped forward, framed her face in my hands. “Cyclone called. Mission. South America. They need me.”

She nodded, jaw tight. “Then go.”

“I don’t want to.”

She pressed her forehead to mine. “Don’t make me beg you to stay. You’ll resent me, and I’ll never forgive myself.”

My chest cracked open. “I don’t trust that lock on your door. I don’t trust Rico to stay gone.”

“I’ll survive,” she whispered. “I always do.”

“Promise me.”

“No promises,” she said, but she kissed me like she meant it anyway.