Page 84 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL

And I don't know if she should.

The morning light catches her profile as she works, highlighting the determined set of her jaw, the fierce focus in her eyes. She hasn't stopped since the shot—hasn't allowed herself to process what happened. What almost happened.

What could still happen.

I shift away from the window, needing distance from that thought. My boots scrape against hardwood as I cross to the back wall where Dana's emergency shutters wait. They're solid steel, meant for windstorms or civil unrest. Not this. Never this.

Kneeling, I begin checking the mounting brackets. The metal is cool under my fingers, grounding. Mechanical problems have solutions. Unlike the mess in my head.

"You really think he's not working alone?"

Sloane's question hangs in the air between us. I don't look up from the bolts I'm tightening.

"I don't know what to think."

"That's not like you."

A bitter laugh catches in my throat. "Nothing about this is like me."

She doesn't answer, but I hear her shift closer. The faint scent of gunpowder and antiseptic follows her—Eli's field dressing work. My jaw clenches at the reminder.

I finish securing the last bolt, muscles protesting as I stand. My shoulder aches—an old wound that never quite healed right. I roll it absently, trying to ease the tension.

Sloane leans against Dana's counter, arms folded across her chest. In the dim light filtering through the remaining windows, she looks both fierce and fragile. A contradiction I can't quite reconcile.

"Dana is right," she says, voice steady despite everything. "My guess is Granger is just a soldier. And soldiers follow orders. The higher-ups are pulling the strings."

"Or she's chasing shadows." The words come out sharper than I intend. "You said it yourself—there's no confirmation. Just guesses and scars."

"And blood on the sidewalk."

My jaw flexes.

Because she's right.

And it's not helping.

27

SLOANE

The truck's engine rumbles beneath us as Logan navigates the snow-dusted roads back to his cabin.

My thigh throbs where the bullet grazed me, a constant reminder of how close death lurked in that town square.

The rest of the team headed back to The Forge in the other truck, leaving us alone with the weight of everything that just happened.

My mind replays it all like a film reel stuck on loop: the sharp crack of the sniper's bullet. The way Logan's face went black when he saw my blood, just for a fraction of a second, before his training kicked in. Dana's revelations, that damning photograph of Granger with Logan's old CO,

I steal glances at him as he drives.

To anyone else, he might look perfectly composed—jaw set, eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel at ten and two.

But I've learned to read his unique micro-expressions that betray his inner turmoil. The slight muscle jumping in his cheek.The way his thumb occasionally taps against the steering wheel, not in rhythm, just restless energy seeking release. The tightness around his eyes that speaks of calculations running behind that stoic mask.

He's scared. Not of Granger, not of whatever conspiracy we've stumbled into. He's scared of losing control. Of watching another situation spiral beyond his ability to contain it.

Of losing someone else he's sworn to protect.