Page 4 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

Like the trees have birthed him right there. In the dim moonlight, I can make out broad shoulders, a rigid stance.

I don’t think. Don’t speak. My body moves on autopilot, swinging my messenger bag hard toward his head.

He catches it effortlessly, one-handed, like it’s nothing. His grip is strong, unshaken. A hand that knows exactly what it’s doing.

“Easy,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle for someone built like a wall. “I’m not who you think?—”

“Shut up.” My voice cracks like thin ice, sharp and brittle. “You followed me.”

“I didn’t.”

I laugh, though it sounds more like a choked sob. “Y-you think I’m stupid?” I spit, backing away until I hit the door. “You killed my source. You want what’s on the drive.”

Something shifts in his posture, almost imperceptible. I can sense it—a tension thrumming between us.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar!”

He lifts both hands, a universal gesture of peace. Calm and measured.

But it only makes the panic rise higher in my throat. People who stay calm when they should be confused are the most dangerous kind.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he insists, still too soft. It feels practiced, rehearsed.

“Then get out of my way!”

I feint left, then dart right, shoving past him with the last of my strength. Back into the trees. Away from the locked door and the man who stands too still.

Three steps. Four. The world tilts beneath me.

My knee buckles, a betrayal by a body pushed too far. I go down hard, but never hit the snow.

Strong hands catch me, too fast. One moment I’m falling; the next I’m suspended, my back against something solid. Someone solid.

Pure instinct takes over. I twist, driving my elbow toward his throat, but he dodges, barely.

“You’re in shock,” he says, voice clipped now. “You need to?—”

“Don’t touch me!”

My words tear from my throat, raw with fear and fury.

I fight dirty—scratching, kicking, aiming for eyes and groin and pressure points. The way my father taught me before he disappeared.

"Go for the soft parts, Sloane. Make it hurt."

But he moves like smoke, absorbing or deflecting each blow with minimal effort.

Professional.

Trained.

The kind of man who fights for a living.

“You’re not safe out here,” he tries again, still holding me as I thrash. “I’m not your enemy?—”

But my blood roars in my ears, drowning out reason. There’s only the desperate urge to escape. To survive. To complete what my source sacrificed everything for.