Page 118 of Saxon

Maybe.

But if there's one thing I've learned, it's to trust my gut. This has been a tricky lesson because my heart falls hard and fast and my head gets confused.

But my gut? Never fails.

I had red flags, with Travis. Things that set warning bells jangling in my belly for weeks if not months before he did what he did.

* * *

Saxon is so different. The polar opposite. He gives and, I think, often believes himself not worthy of receiving. He thinks more of me than himself.

Travis thought nothing of me, and everything of himself.

Travis took what I wasn't offering.

Travis took. And took. And took.

Saxon gives, and gives, and gives.

I look at Saxon as he drives. His already considerable bulk appears even bigger due to the vest. His face is tense, lost in thought. Focused. The scar looks white, against the golden hue of his skin.

"Why are we doing this in the middle of the day?" I ask. "Aren't ambushes better at night?"

"Can't see shit at night. Even with night vision, night ops are tricky. This isn't a Navy SEAL infil-extract, right? Jarrod believes he's meeting Jean-Paul's lieutenant for a briefing and updating of his orders concerning me. He thinks Jean-Paul is getting tired of the lack of results, I'm guessing. Such a meeting wouldn't happen at night. It's not a drug deal or an arms deal. And for that matter, most of that shit happens during the day, too. Because at the end of the day, it's all just business. And most business happens during the day. I know in movies and TV shows, this shit happens at night, in some shipping yard. Super dramatic. And that shit does go down like that, but not as often as you'd think."

"How will it go, do you think?"

He glances at me, rolls a shoulder. "Plan is to isolate him, get him away from his posse. I probably have to do a lot of very careful shooting. I'll need you ready behind the wheel, engine running and in gear so when I get his ass tied up and tossed in the trunk, we can get the fuck out. I'm not planning on letting this turn into a prolonged firefight."

"Saxon?"

He hears the concern, the depth in my voice, and turns to look at me. "Yeah, babe."

"I know Camilla wants him alive. I know you took a vow to not kill. But…we have to both come out of this. No matter what it takes. Yeah? I feel like we found each other—we got thrown together, and I…I'm not ready to let go. I'm not moving on. So…just…"

He takes my hand. Squeezes. Smiles. "This is what I do."

I squeeze back.

What I don't say, though, is that it's what he used to do. He's not the Bloody Viking anymore. He's… changed. Everyone who knew him says he's not that man—he says he's not that man.

But…I can't help wondering if this situation needs the Bloody Viking.

I'm in love with the man he is now. I doubt I'd have been able to love the man he was. And if he becomes who he needs to be to get us out of this, will he go back to being the man he was?

What a fucking conundrum.

I twist and reach back into the bag of hardware. Find a pistol. I've watched him enough and remember my lessons with Ricardo—eject the magazine. Full of bullets. Slide and tap. Hold the big, heavy, cold piece of metal.

And wonder if I can use it.