Page 5 of Stealthy Seduction (SEAL Team Blackout Charlie #5)

S teele shoved through the base’s gym door, the bitter taste of yet another meeting about the elusive terrorist still lingering on his tongue.

He needed iron and sweat, the acid bite of strain in his muscles—anything to drown out the nonstop reel of Izzy Cruz’s face playing behind his eyes for the past two days.

Her toned thighs…

Wrapped around him.

Her bikini riding high on her curvy hips…

Which he shoved aside so he could bury his fingers in her tight heat.

He stifled a groan. Stealing one night of pleasure with the woman had been a mistake. It didn’t slake his lust for her one bit. If anything, his balls were bluer than ever.

Nothing a hard workout wouldn’t fix.

Lucky for him, the gym had top-of-the-line equipment and was empty. He wouldn’t need to answer any questions about why he was pushing himself harder than normal.

He loaded the bench bar heavier than usual.

Steele told himself it was for mission readiness, but he knew the truth.

If he didn’t push his body to the edge, he’d keep thinking about Izzy’s soft mouth, the way she’d said his name like she trusted him when he questioned how she could ever trust another human.

The bar came down, nearly chest-crushing, then he shoved it back up with a grunt. Again. And again.

“Christ, Steele, you training for the Olympics or making up for all the poker money you lost?” Con’s voice carried as he and Chase strolled in.

“Man’s got a death wish.” Chase grabbed a dumbbell. “Or maybe he’s just trying to impress whoever he was mystery-texting at midnight.”

Fuck. Chase caught him texting with Izzy.

He told himself it was only a courtesy after sex text.

Except he wasn’t even kidding himself. He never texted women he slept with. He hit it and quit it, then slept like a baby afterward.

But he had to know that Izzy was all right.

Her reply had been short. I’m good. You don’t have to check on me.

But the second text, a few minutes later, had gotten under his skin. Still, thanks. No one ever asks.

That was the one that stuck in his chest like a blade.

Steele racked the weight with a hard clang. “I don’t wanna know what you were doing at midnight,” he shot back.

The identical smirks his brothers-in-arms tossed him said they weren’t easily diverted.

He took up the bar and pumped ten reps of his record weight then racked it again. Breathing hard, he sauntered across the gym, shaking out his arms as he did, and straddled the rowing machine.

Steele let the rhythm carry him until snippets of Con and Chase’s low voices cut through. They were talking perimeter security again, specifically the tweaks to the system around the mansion.

“Rear entrance still feels light.” Chase was doing burpees with the physical grace of a three-legged donkey. The man was built for speed with sleek muscles, but burpees weren’t his thing.

Steele slowed his pulls, then spoke without looking up. “Add an extra camera. Motion trip. Better coverage for anyone trying to slip in through there.”

It sounded like a general precaution, but every man in that room knew the rear path led straight past the hot tub where the women hung out no matter the weather.

“Good thinking, Steele.” Con grunted through a few squats with a heavy bar of weight.

“I’ll get on it today,” Chase said.

No one brought up the topic again, but Steele felt the weight of their silence on the matter. The men in Blackout weren’t supposed to have relationships or families. Charlie wasn’t the first team to break the rules, but that came with waves that rippled outward.

Having women on base with them meant they needed to ensure they were safe, especially when each of them had been targeted by Cipher in their own way.

After the guys cleared out, he stayed behind, burning himself out on pull-ups until his shoulders screamed. Cipher’s name gnawed at him. The terrorist was too damn quiet. A man like that didn’t vanish—he waited.

Steele’s grip tightened on the bar until his knuckles popped like gunfire.

His phone buzzed. He released the bar and dropped to the floor. The pulse of hope in his chest that it might be the same person he was mystery-texting at midnight—the sexy woman he couldn’t forget the taste of—faded when he spotted the text from Dante.

Steele blew air from his nostrils.

The message was short.

Chatter. Money moving. Can’t pin it.

Particulars? he fired back.

Nothing solid. Just whispers.

Need help?

Not yet. But stay close.

Henner, who they called Chickie, entered the gym, stopping in his tracks when he saw Steele. “You look distracted today, Steele. Chase told me you’ve been texting a lot lately. Got your head in the game, or somewhere else?”

“Texting Dante.”

Chickie’s grin faded. “Everything good?”

“Nothing to report. Yet.” He slung a towel around his neck and brushed past Chickie, hating that he was rising to any of the guys’ taunts about Izzy.

Truth was, he was pissed off at himself…because his head was full of Izzy.

Back in his room, he set the towel aside and went straight for his go-bag. His hand lingered in the inner pocket where the foil square of a condom caught the light. He counted them. Too many for “just protocol.”

Too many not to think of using every last one with Izzy.

He told himself it was readiness.

He emptied the bag and reloaded it, double-checking every piece. Sidearm cleaned and oiled, mags topped off.

He told himself it was just professionalism.

But his gut said Cipher was stirring again, building up to something big. And when it blew, none of them would be safe from the fire.

* * * * *

The lobby of the medical center buzzed with quiet efficiency, but Izzy knew beneath it all was controlled chaos. She clutched her leather bag that held her recorder and her notepad. When she slipped her fingers inside to check her equipment one more time, her fingers trembled just slightly.

First day back. First real interview since…

She pushed the thought away before it could fully surface.

“You’ve got this,” she whispered to herself, straightening her shoulders. The crystal pendant at her throat felt warm against her skin, a tangible reminder that she was safe. Here. Now. Not there.

She’d bought the amethyst from a healer during her retreat in South America—a woman with weathered hands and knowing eyes who’d pressed it into Izzy’s palm without explanation.

Whether it was the stone itself or simply having something concrete to hold on to, it had become her tether in moments when the world felt too sharp around the edges.

In quick steps, she made her way to the hospital café to meet with the man she was here to interview.

As she approached the café doors, Dr. Samuel Webb emerged from the elevator, his salt-and-pepper hair slightly mussed and his scrubs bearing the telltale signs of a long shift.

But his eyes were bright, alert, just like the photos of him she’d found during her research.

When he spotted her, his smile was genuine.

“Ms. Northwood? I hope you haven’t been waiting on me. Emergency surgery ran longer than expected.”

“Not a problem at all, Doctor.” Izzy extended her hand. His grip was firm and confident—the hands of a man who saved lives for a living. “I appreciate you making time for this interview.”

His eyes crinkled pleasantly at the corners when he smiled. “Please, call me Sam. And honestly, I’m flattered anyone wants to hear about our little operation.”

They entered the café. Hospitals always tried for a quaint coffeehouse vibe for the patrons, but to Izzy, the walls felt too close and the lighting too harsh. Still, it beat the third-world countries she’d reported from in the past.

Dr. Samuel Webb paid for her latte and a black coffee for himself. Then he gestured toward a quiet corner with two chairs pushed haphazardly around a small table. “Will this work?”

“Perfect.” Izzy settled into her chair with her drink in front of her. She pulled out her video recorder and placed it between them. “I hope you don’t mind if I film this?”

“Not at all.” Sam leaned back, relaxed despite the exhaustion etched around his eyes. “So, you’re interested in my charity work?”

Izzy had prepared her standard questions—funding, patient demographics, success stories. But as Sam began talking about his work, something in his voice caught her attention. There was a passion there, a fire that went deeper than professional pride.

“You speak about this work like it’s personal,” she observed, pen poised over her notepad. “What drew you to this particular field?”

Sam was quiet for a moment, his gaze growing distant. “I suppose it is personal. I’ve seen what happens when people don’t have access to basic medical care. When politics and geography determine whether someone lives or dies.”

The way he said it, with such quiet conviction, made Izzy lean forward. This wasn’t a rehearsed sound bite. This was real.

“Can you tell me more about that?”

“I spent three years working with Doctors Without Borders.” His voice took on a reverent tone. “Mostly in conflict zones. Syria, Yemen, Afghanistan. Places where the need is…” He shook his head. “Overwhelming doesn’t begin to cover it.”

The location hit Izzy like a physical blow.

Syria.

Her chest tightened, and suddenly the café felt far too small, too warm. She forced her expression to remain neutral—in the professional mask she knew very well how to slap on even as her palms began to sweat.

“Syria,” she repeated, proud that her voice remained steady. “That must have been challenging.”

“Challenging is an understatement.” Sam’s eyes grew haunted. “The things I saw there…... the people we couldn’t save…”

Izzy’s vision began to blur at the edges. The familiar sensation of walls closing in, of oxygen becoming scarce.

Men in masks aiming automatic weapons at the people around her.

Aiming at her .