Page 79 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

The outsider. The journalist. The woman with too many secrets and blood on her jeans.

So I push away from the truck, gripping the door for support as I put weight on my injured leg. Fire shoots up my thigh, but I grit my teeth and step forward. One foot. Then another. Every movement screaming in protest.

Logan sees me, eyes narrowing in warning, but I don't stop.

I raise my voice, projecting it the way I learned during years of hostile interviews and press conferences where no one wanted to hear me.

"Everyone needs to calm down."

The crowd stills, heads turning, conversations halting mid-sentence. Among the crowd, I spot Rosa, her arm protectively wrapped around her twelve-year-old daughter's shoulders. Unlike the others whose faces twist with suspicion, Rosa's expression is different. She's seen danger before, lived with it. She doesn't look afraid of me. She looks afraidforme.

Her daughter Lucia presses closer to her mother's side, dark eyes wide and watchful. The girl whispers something, and Rosa shakes her head firmly in response.

"What happened this morning—" I continue, steadying myself, "wasn't meant for you."

Silence falls, heavy and expectant. I feel their eyes—dozens of them—boring into me. Judging. Evaluating. Deciding.

"You've got questions," I acknowledge, scanning their faces, briefly meeting Rosa's steady gaze. "I don't blame you. But throwing blame without answers won't make you safer."

"Then give us answers," someone shouts from the back of the crowd.

"I will," I promise. "When I have them."

"Who are you?" the woman in crisp jeans calls out, her voice cutting through the murmurs, sharp as the edge of broken glass.

I meet her gaze, unflinching.

"I'm the reason you're still alive," I answer, voice flat, words landing like stones.

Gasps. Murmurs. The crowd ripples with reaction.

Logan's eyes narrow further, but he doesn't stop me.

Because he sees it too.

This is my domain.

Not bullets. Not tactical positions. Words. Truth. The power they hold when wielded properly.

"What does that mean?" someone else calls.

"It means," I say, choosing each word carefully, "that what happened today wasn't random. It wasn't meant for Dana. Or her bookstore. Or any of you."

"Then who was it meant for?" Sheriff Lane Hale asks, stepping forward, hand resting casually near his holster.

"Me." I don't flinch from the admission. "And The Forge. We've been targeted by someone with a grudge. Someone who thinks hurting this town will hurt us."

"So you admit you brought danger here," a woman says, not a question but an accusation.

"No," I counter. "I'm telling you the danger was already here. You just didn't see it."

That silences her—momentarily, at least.

"What Sheriff Hale and The Forge are doing right now is containing the situation," I continue, addressing the crowd at large. "The best thing all of you can do is go about your day. Be alert, but don't panic. That's exactly what he wants."

"He who?" Dana asks, giving me an opening.

"The sniper," I say simply. "The one who thinks fear is a weapon."