Page 12 of Sawyer (The Maddox BRAVO Team #1)

Sawyer

I told her after the gala.

I meant it.

But the taste of her—sweet wine and reckless hope—keeps replaying like shrapnel lodged in the memory, impossible to ignore.

“Telemetry clean,” Rae reports through the earpiece. She’s Orange-Team’s UAS wizard—pink pixie-cut blowing in the breeze as she checks her tablet. “We’ve got a four-hour dwell, switchable IR cam, and a perimeter loop every ninety seconds.”

“Good.” I sign off on her digital checklist, then scan the estate below. In four nights, this place will glow like Versailles—and feel twice as porous.

Across the lawn, two more Orange operators, Malik and Andersson, install portable stanchions that will form the guest magnetometer lanes. I key my mic. “Malik, status?”

“Conduit run set; fiber patched to Command. ETA on fencing install is fifteen.”

“Copy. Andersson?”

“Access-control kiosk online, facial-rec pre-calibrated.”

“Good. I want secondary credential scan ready by eighteen-hundred. No barcodes, no entry.”

They echo acknowledgements—steady cadence of competence—but my focus drifts inevitably back to the west wing windows. One of those panes hides Cam’s studio; sunlight now spears through the skylight into that riot of color where she’ll be awake soon, brushing pigment into rebellion.

I swallow the urge to climb down this roof and barge in, just to see her hair haloed in gold for two measly seconds. Iron discipline—that thing that kept me alive in IED alley—presses steel over my pulse. She’s still in danger. Eyes up.

08:32 — ?Gallery hall. The catering director, a clipped Brit named Hannah, quizzes me about load-in lanes for gala day.

“You’ll process the waitstaff through Gate Two,” I say, pointing to the floor plan. “Orange-Two escorts them to the service corridor. Lockers are here. No personal phones allowed past that checkpoint.”

Hannah frowns. “They rely on phones for plating instructions.”

“They’ll get printed packets.” I don’t budge. “Any staff caught with unvetted electronics crosses this red line and they’re off the property, no debate.”

She sighs but accepts. Andersson signs off her updated map. Moving parts nested within moving parts—exactly how you diffuse a bomb: define each wire, isolate current, never let circuits cross in unintended ways.

Except last night I let circuits cross—my mouth on hers, pulse synced, promise slipping. It felt less like detonation and more like finally stepping into the proper alignment.

“Sawyer!” Malik calls from the doorway. “AV crew’s here early. Want eyes?”

“On it.” I pivot down the hall.

13:05 — Command trailer. ?Riggs props his boots on a case of wired-fiber while scrubbing lunch crumbs from his beard. “You’re running hot,” he observes. “What’s the play after the gala? What if the gala isn’t their target? What if they decide to hit after?”

I arch a brow. “Then we’ll have contingency plans.”

He smirks. “And when do you plan on sweeping the lady off her paint-splattered feet?” The glint in his eye makes me roll a shoulder—half shrug, half threat. He chuckles. “Easy, brother. Just don’t let the fox see you guarding the henhouse with your zipper undone.”

“Zipper’s up. I’m focused on the task.” But even as I bark it, my brain replays Cam’s sleepy whisper: Borrow warmth. The weight of her trust and the fervent hum of wanting more.

Riggs flips open a case of RFID guest badges. “Task is on track. We’ve traced the flash-bang serial—mil-surp show from Arizona show last year. Lead is thin, but we’ll pull the thread.”

“Keep pulling,” I grunt.

17:47 — Ballroom main entry. ?I supervise the crew laying tempered-glass panels over the parquet floor—Camille’s idea so the swirling gowns will reflect color like a living kaleidoscope. She appears beside me in paint-dusted jeans, hair swept in a low knot, clipboard in hand.

“How many more vendors?” I ask.

“Just the floral ceiling team—they’ll rig the wisteria chandeliers tomorrow.” She glances at the new cameras mounted near the chandeliers’ anchor points. “You really thought of everything.”

I want to tell her I’m thinking of her—always her—but professionalism reins me. “Almost,” I say. “We install thermal imagers along the trellis after the floral is set. Any unauthorized heat signature pops on Command.”

She nods, lips parting as if to say something more intimate, then shuts them when Andersson arrives to ask about smoke-machine placement (denied; too many false alarms). I walk the crew through alternate haze options, but Cam’s presence at my shoulder hums louder than the drills.

21:08 — ?A hush settles over the estate. Vendor vans gone, Orange-Team on staggered patrols. Out on the east lawn, Malik’s silhouette glides along hedges, rifle slung. I finish logging the day’s contractor sign-outs, then force myself to eat a protein bar; it tastes like chalk.

My phone buzzes: Cam : Can’t sleep. Come to the studio?

Adrenaline spikes. I type On my way , check with Riggs (northwatch covered), then move.

The carriage-house studio glows low amber. I step in. Cam stands barefoot in one of my black brAVO T-shirts—she must’ve raided my duffel—shirt hanging mid-thigh, paint streaks on her calves. Her hair is down and wild. She holds a fresh canvas the size of a door.

“I needed white space,” she says, breath slightly ragged. “All day I had noise.”

“Show me.”

She plants the canvas on the easel, then faces me across the drop cloth. “It’s blank, Sawyer. Sometimes blank is the scariest thing.”

“I know the feeling.” I shrug out of my jacket, and roll up my sleeves. “Where do you start?”

“Color first,” she whispers.

“Pick one.” My voice drops too. “I’ll load the palette.”

Her gaze flicks to the shelves of tubes, and she chooses a crimson oxide.

I squeeze a bead onto the glass, adding ultramarine, and a dab of titanium buff.

She dips her fingers straight into the crimson, steps to the canvas, and swipes a diagonal arc—blood-bright slash.

Another stroke intersects—blue colliding, bruising purple.

I watch her body flow: foot brace, hip shift, neck arch—every move a silent percussion my pulse accompanies. She finishes a third line, breathing hard, chest rising beneath the borrowed T-shirt that skims curves I’m trying desperately not to stare at.

She turns, her hands red and blue. “Borrow warmth again?”

“Cam.” Just her name is a gravity well.

She crosses the drop cloth. Paint-flecked fingers rise to my chest, leaving two smears over my heart. “I tried, but I can’t wait till after,” she says, voice trembling. “Life’s not guaranteed between now and then.”

The truth slams home. Bombs teach you that tomorrow can misfire. Protocol or no, I want this now.

I cup her neck. She exhales a broken sound. I lean in, hover a breath from her lips. “Last chance to redraw lines.”

She presses up on tiptoe. “Lines are overrated.”

I close the distance.

The kiss is molten—nothing hesitant, all pent-up hunger unleashed.

She tastes of mint and turpentine and midnight confessions.

I angle her back against the canvas. Her paint-wet palms spread on my shoulders, leaving me marked.

She gasps when my tongue sweeps her lower lip, then opens on a sweet moan as I deepen the kiss, anchoring one hand at her waist, the other threading into loose waves.

Colors smear where her back grazes the canvas. She hooks a leg behind my knee, and the T-shirt rides up, revealing the smooth plane of her thigh. My self-control riots—days of holding back shredding under the press of her body keen against mine.

But danger still looms, and even as I taste her, some part of me clocks every sound: the creak of rafters, distant footstep of an Orange patrol. I tear my mouth away, breathing hard against her forehead. “Doors locked, cameras covering. Still not enough.”

She trails kisses down my jaw, whispering, “We have minutes. I need to feel alive with you.”

I grip her hips, rest my forehead to hers. “Alive, yes. Safe, always.” My thumb traces the hem of the shirt at her thigh, and she shivers. “And when that bastard’s behind bars…”

“Then you won’t hold back,” she finishes, voice shimmering with promise.

“I’ll paint this whole room with us,” I vow.

She smiles, presses another lingering kiss—slow, claiming—and I taste hope. When she finally pulls back, eyes lazy with heat, I step away only far enough to scan windows. Clear.

“Come,” I murmur, lacing our fingers. “You sleep as I watch.”

“No watching tonight,” she counters, tugging me toward the villa. “Just us sharing space.”

We steal through moonlit corridors to her bedroom. I perform a rapid sweep—closet, bath, balcony. Secure.

She heads into the shower as I remove my paint-stained shirt. When she comes back in, she sucks in a breath. I suck in a deeper one.

Standing before me is a goddess. All soft curves and deliciously decadent in nothing but a tank and sleep shorts.

Fuck me.

She climbs onto the bed, and extends a hand. I kick off my boots, and remove my holster, then join her, sitting back against the headboard. She crawls into the V of my legs, head on my chest, heartbeat syncing to mine.

“Stay,” she breathes.

“Always.”

Her fingers trace lazy circles over my sternum. Minutes stretch—not silence but communion. Eventually her breaths lengthen, tension melts, and the weight of her sleep settles.

I watch shadows drift across the ceiling and mark every second I keep her safe. The taste of her still smolders on my lips, an ember I’ll guard like the last light on earth. Because yes, lines blurred tonight. But the vow underneath is sharper than ever:

No one reaches her.

And when the gala lights fade and the threat is gone, nothing will keep me from diving into every kaleidoscopic color she’s waited to share.