Page 25 of Rush Turner (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #6)

Jessa

I kept the gun pointed at the floor, just like Rush taught me.

The kitchen clock ticked so loud it felt like a bomb. My breath came short, too fast. Every squeak of the old porch boards made my heart slam against my ribs.

Then the back door opened — slow, careful.

I lifted the gun halfway before his voice cut through the panic like a knife.

“It’s me, darlin’.”

I lowered the barrel and exhaled so hard my knees nearly buckled. Rush stepped inside, big and calm, smelling like sweat and barn dust and a danger that didn’t scare me anymore.

He locked the door behind him. Deadbolt, chain, both. Then his eyes found mine — and for a second, he didn’t move. Just looked. As if he were taking stock of what he had nearly lost.

“What was it?” I asked, my voice too soft but too loud in the quiet kitchen.

“Drunk local,” he said, tossing the crowbar onto the counter like it was a used napkin. “Looking for an easy score. He found the wrong address.”

I huffed a bitter laugh. “You scared him off?”

Rush stepped closer. Close enough that I felt the heat rolling off him, the hard set of muscle and steel that made other men regret their life choices.

“I did more than scare him.”

I believed him. God help me, I loved that I believed him.

My hand still gripped the gun so tightly my knuckles ached. He took it gently, flipped the safety back on, and set it high on the shelf above the fridge. He always kept it locked up in my room. He would take it with us when we went to bed.

“You did good,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my wrist. “Damn good.”

My throat tightened. “I hate this. I hate that you have to—”

He cut me off the only way Rush Turner knew how: with his mouth, hot and certain, swallowing my fear until all that was left was him.

I shoved my hands into his hair, kissed him back like he was air and I’d been drowning all over again.

He lifted me right off my feet — no warning, no asking — and I didn’t care. My back hit the fridge door, a magnet popped off and clattered on the floor. Somewhere outside the house, Tornado bleated in protest.

Rush didn’t stop.

“Say it,” he growled against my throat.

My head fell back, breathless. “Say what?”

“That you’re mine. No matter what comes. Say it, Jess.”

I dug my nails into his shoulders, my laugh low and shaking. “I’m yours, Rush Turner. Always.”

He kissed me again — hard enough to erase every lock, every broken window, every ghost that thought they could crawl back to my door.

Outside the dark pressed close. Inside, I didn’t care.

Because this man? He was my line in the sand. And tonight, nothing crossed it and lived.