Page 6

CHAPTER SIX

He groaned softly, his breathing going a bit ragged on the edges, need and control mingled in his obsidian eyes. “Judging from the way my body is reacting to you, I’d say fuck no.”

“What? Reaction?” She looked down. An impressive tent in the terry told her what exact reaction he was talking about. The sight of his erection made her breasts grow heavy and achy and a wash of desire to curl low. Her whole body heated, sending her into sensory overload. Her heart stuttered, then resumed at a frantic pace. “Is the talk about your Adonis Belt turning you on?” she whispered.

He gazed at her through those thick lashes that had fallen to half-mast, just a glimmer of tenderness. “No, babe, you turn me on.”

She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. A frisson of excitement shot through her, yes, but beneath it, something curled deeper. It wasn’t just his words that undid her. It was the way they landed. Not casual. Not careless. Earnest. The truth hummed beneath her skin like a live wire.

Before Nash, she used to believe desire could be vented like steam, handled like code, parsed into manageable need.

Nashir Rahim wasn’t manageable. He wasn’t a pressure valve. He was a catalyst.

She didn’t want him to take the edge off. She wanted to be in this man’s sights, to be ruined by the way he saw her. With him, maybe she could understand herself better in the glow of his eyes. The need to get closer to him wasn’t just about surrender, although that unquantifiable emotion was as tenuous as hope, Nash made it real, urgent, and mandatory, and that excitement she felt was more about the woman she wanted to be, not the broken analyst who didn’t know how to rewrite her own code, only how to run old scripts on an obsolete version of herself.

“In what way?” She wanted to know, since she was so clueless about any of it.

“That wild shock of rebellious, unbelievably red hair, and those unique green eyes of yours with an intelligence behind them that’sjust as sexy as your sweet little body. Your courage and sense of humor surprised me, your tenaciousness didn’t, and I’ve had fever dreams about how those hands will feel on my body, and fantasy pales to this reality. I’ve been with a lot of women, Grace…I have to move all the time to keep whatever I’ve suppressed from that night from consuming me. Fucking my way through bars and frog hogs, all their faces blurring and fading in the light of you. You make me still inside, like a held breath, like I’m waiting for you to tell me how to breathe.”

Undeniable desire darkened his eyes. He exhaled a long, harsh breath and curled his hands into tight fists at his sides, not allowing himself to touch her.

“Wow…all that,” she whispered.

“Fuck…Grace,” he started, but she silenced his oncoming protest with her fingers against his mouth. His lips were so warm and pliant and tempting, and all she could think about was tasting him and making that precious control of his shatter. Feeling the barely leashed aggression beneath his reserve, along with the solid length of his shaft pressing against her when she leaned in, she was close to doing that.

“I guess I am seducing you,” she murmured, staring into eyes that were dark and tormented with wanting, and the struggle within him was nearly palpable. “May I?” she asked again, but again, she was already following through. Sinking her fingers into the soft, richly textured hair at the nape of his neck, she lowered her mouth to his. A hair's breadth away, she sighed, and just before she really kissed him, she whispered, “I’ve always been more a fan of hands-on research.”

A low, untamed growl ripped from his chest, and that stubborn, unyielding control of his finally, finally , gave way to hunger that matched her own. His hands came up and tangled into her hair, tightening until it was almost painful. In the next moment, as she crushed her mouth to his, his panting lips gave her an opening into the rich taste of him, as spicy and delicious as his scent. She ran her hands over his back, reveling in the heat, the feel of the shape and structure of his achingly soft skin over flexing muscle.

What she was doing must have been good because the moment her tongue got inside, a groan tore from him, his tongue tangling with hers, his mouth going needy with deep, assertive strokes, echoing the decadent, erotic rhythm of hot sex. He circled his strong arms around her and pulled her close, skimming his flattened palms all the way down her back to her butt, hauling her deeper into the cradle of his hips, his thick erection fitting naturally in the hollow of her groin.

His hands slipped beneath her top and skimmed upward, stroking her skin all the way up to her plain white bra. She waited for him to cup her in his palm, nearly trembling with the desire to have him touch her there, to drag his fingers across her aching nipples. But instead, he merely caressed his thumbs just below her breasts, teasing her and making her moan in frustration.

Unable to help herself, she played with that indent, following the curve of muscle to his erection, palming him through the damp towel, his hips jerked, and she felt him grow and harden from her touch, needing him in ways she couldn't define. Physical need was more overpowering than she’d anticipated, living mostly in her mind. It was eye-opening how good it was in practice, but it was all the other emotional chaos swirling inside her that made her feel as though her carefully guarded life was spinning out of control.

She made a small sound of frustration when he deliberately slowed their kiss, soothing rather than arousing her with the slide of his lips against her yielding mouth. Then he grasped her wrist and rested her palm over his rapidly beating heart and held it there.

He ended the kiss and fiercely nuzzled her cheek, her hair. His shaft caught between them, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to do anything about it.

She leaned back, needing immediate answers.

The shadows loved his gorgeous features and played with the depth of his midnight hair, casting him as the dangerous man that he was. But it was the candid, caring look in his banked eyes that captured her attention the most and made her realize how serious this moment was to him, and how formidable his control.

“Grace, as much as I want to take this to its obvious conclusion…” his breath hissed out as she shifted against all that hard heat, aching for him between her thighs. “We can’t do this.”

“What?” Her voice was almost a whine. “Why?”

“We have something important going here, bigger than the both of us. We have deep emotional feelings about it as we found out over dinner, and adding something else complex into the mix will be… overwhelming to say the least.”

Damn it. He had a good point. She had just been drowning and almost losing herself in this. The fear slipped through her with chilling results. She backed off him, his words were so real and honest, they made her heart skip a beat to think he found her that irresistible.

“Tell you what. Let me get some clothes on and you can ask me any question you want, you know…for research.”

That appeased her immensely. He wasn’t kicking her out, and she could find out more about him. She had to marvel at the way he always handled things so…damn…well. “All right,” she agreed, hearing the reluctance in her voice.

He slipped by her and walked over to the other side of the bed. He just stood there, and she waited. With an exasperated sigh, he set his hands on his hips, which only made him look more devastatingly male. More masculine. Sexier.

“Grace,” he said, his mouth kicking up, that tender look mixed with amusement in his eyes.

“What? I agreed,” she groused.

“I know. I’m about to drop my towel to put on my sweats.” He raised his brows at her.

She frowned. Why was he looking at her like that? “Okay?” Then it dawned on her. “Oh, privacy. God, I’m a clueless maniac.” She turned around, warmed deep inside by his soft, affectionate chuckle.

“In the best way,” he muttered beneath his breath.

Her eyes landed on the edge of the dresser, a rolled, well-used square of deep blue cloth, its edges frayed, the embroidery worn. A prayer rug.

Her chest pulled tight. Not from surprise, but from something more complicated. It wasn’t just the sight of it. It was what it meant. That it was here, in this space, in reach, but not unrolled. He traveled with it. But was he using it?

Her breath caught at the thought of him kneeling alone on that cloth in the dark. Silent. Still. A man forged in noise, clinging to something that asked him to stop moving.

It was that quiet part of him she suddenly ached to understand.

How he moved through the world carrying everything and showing almost nothing.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the version of him who had once knelt there, on that rug, maybe whispering to a God he wasn’t sure still listened. What did he say in the silence? What had he asked for? What did he regret? She wanted to know everything.

There was a rustle of cloth and his deep voice. “Okay, I’m dressed.”

She looked over her shoulder to find him in a pair of snug gray sweatpants that clung to those powerful thighs, catching him just above the ankle. To her disappointment, he’d also covered that wide expanse of chest with a blue T-shirt that had Navy in white letters over his heart.

His eyes met hers across the space, steady but not sharp. “Tea,” he said as if begging her to stop looking at him like she wanted to devour him, which she did.

She turned and poured water into the second mug beside his, unwrapping and setting in two tea bags. As they settled into the hot water, the words just came out. “Your prayer rug is beautiful,” she said softly.

He froze.

Not in discomfort, but like something inside him had been touched without warning.

“Yeah,” he said after a second, voice lower. “It is.”

Her eyes didn’t leave it. “You keep it close.”

“Old habit,” he murmured. “Doesn’t take much space.”

She stepped closer, her voice dropping with intent. “But it means something. Or you wouldn’t pack it.”

Nash looked at her. No mask. No shield. Just him. His breath came a little shallower.

“It used to mean everything,” he said. “Structure. Rhythm. Peace. All the things the Teams strip away when you’re deployed too long.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I used to pray before every op. After, too.” A dry huff. “Especially then.”

“But you don’t now?” she asked gently.

He shook his head. “I still believe. I think. I just...haven’t had the words. Or maybe I’m afraid if I try, I won’t feel anything. That’ll be worse than silence.”

Grace’s chest ached. “So, you carry it instead.”

“Yeah.” His throat worked. “I hope if I need it bad enough, I’ll know how to unfold it again.”

She looked at the rug. Then at him. “I think you already know how.”

The quiet hung thick between them. No flirtation. No tension. Just something deeper. Unsaid. Safe.

He held her gaze, stunned still by the weight of her seeing him.

“Grace.” Her name was half breath. “Why are you asking about this?”

She swallowed. “It matters to you. I want to know what matters to you.”

“Why?”

Her voice didn’t waver. “I think...you matter to me.”

His shoulders tightened, his eyes flashed, then softened just like her heart.

Picking up the mugs, she walked to him. He settled on the couch in the corner, and she sat next to him, setting the mug on the small coffee table without speaking. The silence between them wasn’t heavy. Just...deliberate. Neither of them was in a hurry to fill it.

“You have questions?” When she opened her mouth, he said, “Let’s stay away from my Adonis Belt. I only have so much willpower with you.”

She watched him, still and quiet. A tiny thrill shot through her, bolstering not only her desire for this man but her fortitude, as well. She was beginning to understand Nashir Rahim well enough to realize he was trying to instill a bit of fear in her with his words, and eventually, his actions.

The hotel suite had gone soft with silence. The snow outside whispered against the window, a slow, feathered hush like breath drawn through silk. Across the room, the kitchenette’s under-counter lights cast a golden glow that warmed the edge of the shadows, flickering faintly across the dark blue sweep of the couch.

They sat close but not touching. Two mugs of tea steamed gently on the low table between them.

Grace curled her hands around hers, lifting the ceramic, warm and grounding. The taste of jasmine lingered on her tongue, but her focus was all on him, bare feet flat on the floor, elbows resting on his thighs, head tilted slightly as he studied something invisible on the opposite wall.

The gray sweats molded over his thighs and the cotton of his shirt clung to his chest in all the ways that now made her stupid. Her heart hadn’t settled since the kiss that hadn’t quite become anything more.

She took a slow sip, then glanced sideways at him.

“So…” Her voice came lightly. Casual. Not casual. “You mentioned something earlier… frog hogs?”

Nash’s head turned slightly, one brow lifting. “Seriously?”

She blinked at him, deadpan. “I’m running a comparative study.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh and leaned back, his arm sliding along the back of the couch. The movement brought him closer, but not close enough to touch.

“Women who hang around SEAL bars,” he said wryly. “Some of them are great. Some just want the trident.”

She tilted her head. “That’s a thing?”

“It’s a lifestyle,” he murmured. “For both sides.”

There was no judgment in his voice, just experience. She took that in, sipped her tea again. Then, softer, said, “You said you kept moving so nothing would catch up. That you… used sex to cope.” His jaw tensed. Just for a moment. Then his thumb scraped across the inside of his palm. “I’m not asking for a count,” she added quickly, eyes on her tea. “I just… that sounded lonely.”

He was silent for a breath. “It was.” His voice had dropped, a quiet rasp dredged from somewhere deeper. He rubbed the back of his neck, then settled his hand on his thigh again, fingers flexing. “I was desperate to keep the ghosts quiet.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t work.”

She swallowed, her throat tighter than she expected. The heater hummed gently behind them, soft air rustling the curtain.

“What about now?” she asked.

Nash didn’t answer right away. His head tipped slightly, like he was thinking carefully. Like he was choosing which parts of the truth he wanted to show her. “Now?” he said finally, glancing at her with something that lived between amusement and weariness. “I’m a guy who reads people better than they want to be read… and handles problems too messy for paperwork.”

Grace’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Is that your job description?”

He shifted, the weight of him easing back against the cushions, but the tension in his shoulders never quite let go. “In the Teams,” he said slowly, “they trained us to break patterns. Get inside the enemy’s head. You see the edge of a habit, you exploit it. Predictability kills.”

She stilled, sensing the shift. This wasn’t war-story bravado. This was who he was.

“But civilians?” he went on, voice low and thoughtful, “They think they’re unpredictable. That makes them even easier to read. Everyone’s predictable when they’re protecting something they love.”

Her breath caught. A flutter low in her chest. She stared at him, heart skipping a beat.

That insight. That precision.

He hadn’t said it with ego. Just fact.

She took another sip to cover the silence, trying to slow her pulse. The tea had cooled slightly, but her skin still felt too warm.

Nash looked over. His gaze drifted down, pausing briefly on her forearm where her sleeve had shifted up. A pale white scar caught the light.

He didn’t comment. He didn’t ask.

But she saw the subtle shift in his expression. The way his brows lowered just slightly. His mouth pressed together. She tugged her sleeve down without a word. He said nothing. Just met her gaze and gave a small, respectful nod. That quiet acknowledgment meant more than words.

She wasn’t ready to show him. But now she knew he wouldn’t ask her to.

She set her empty teacup on the coffee table and relaxed back into the sofa, feeling the exhaustion of the day finally sinking in. The next thing she knew, she woke up in Nash's bed.

Startled, she sat bolt upright, breath catching. The room was dim, quiet. He was gone, but the place where he’d slept was still warm. The sheets rumpled, the pillow indented. His scent lingered, soap, heat, something elemental that was just him .

She sat there for a moment, breath caught in her throat, the memory of his arms around her still echoing across her skin with the imprint of his need murmuring in pores and nerves, in every chamber of her heart. That was the true seduction of this man. Her attempts were paltry compared to his care forged in the twin fires of his soul and mind, offered without demand, and worn like a second skin.

Had she let him in without realizing it? That quiet connecting door, like the inescapable collision on that fated path when he ran into her, now felt like a bridge to something more powerful than she’d ever known. To her shock, he hadn’t broken anything, and at that quiet moment had just accepted everything about her as if she’d been more than enough. Yet, he’d pulled that door half-closed last night, and she shivered at the thought of what would happen if… when …

He was the one to open it fully.

Grace exhaled and slipped out of bed, barefoot, the hotel carpet cool against the soles of her feet. His sneakers were gone from the spot near the door. Of course. You didn’t keep your body fat at thirteen percent by sitting on your ass.

Still trembling slightly, she padded across the floor, back through the connecting door to her room. The moment it clicked shut behind her, she leaned her back against it and closed her eyes. She didn’t remember her dreams. Only his warmth. Only the echo of safety still humming in her skin.

* * *

The cold bit at his skin, but it wasn’t enough. Nash pushed harder, feet slamming into the frozen ground, lungs dragging in air that didn’t soothe the fire burning through him.

His body was so goddamn hot. He’d woken up with Grace wrapped around him, warm skin, wild hair, her breath soft against his throat. A sleepy woman. A brilliant woman. A beautiful woman who had shown him, without hesitation, without shame, that she wanted him…in more ways than skin deep.

He’d looked down at her and ached. Bone deep. Muscle deep. Like every cell in his body had been rewired around the shape of her, and he’d barely touched her.

Sex wasn’t intimacy. He knew that better than anyone. He’d used it like a weapon, a drug, a shortcut. Something to burn through the night so he didn’t have to feel. It was the only way he knew how to exist. Fast. Detached. In motion.

Grace offered something more. Not just pleasure. Herself . She stirred that terrifying stillness he never let himself feel. She saw through everything and still wanted more. That’s what haunted him now.

People revealed themselves in a thousand ways, what they said, what they didn’t, the lines they crossed, the lines they drew. Nash had always thought his silence protected him. But it didn’t. It exposed him. Grace had looked at him, right at the hollow places he tried to bury, and found the truth . He’d fucked his way through ghost towns just to stay moving, and she saw that. It was like taking a hit to the head, a concussion of revelation.

She’d touched the part of him no one else even knew about. What had once grounded him, but was now off-center…lost, but never forgotten. She’d seen him .

You matter to me.

That was what had detonated inside him. Not her touch. Her truth.

Loneliness.

The word settled over him like a sixty-pound weighted ruck strapped to his back. Pushing harder. Breathing through grit. But it dragged at him. God, he missed his team. The routine. The rhythm. The trust. The brotherhood. Riggs. Burner. Superman, and the guys who weren’t on the mission. He’d shunned them because it hurt too much.

The bond was gone, severed like a limb. It throbbed in his gut like a wound that would never heal until his dying day.

This was what happened when he slowed down. It got in. It started hurting. It destroyed him. If this was already happening, what the hell was he supposed to do about Grace?

Her mind like a maze. Her body like a code he wanted to crack with his mouth.

He’d done the right thing, not sleeping with her. Keeping it clean. Simple. Focused.

If he claimed her, if he took that final step, it wouldn’t just be sex. It would unmake him.

Sex was easy.Intimacy was an ambush. Slowing down for her, for anyone, meant losing his edge. Losing his edge got people killed.

He clenched his jaw, picked up the pace. His body ached everywhere.His dick throbbed. His lungs burned. All of it was the pull . The pull of her pressed against him in bed, lips soft, breath hot, her skin under his hands, her moan caught between them like something holy.

He wanted to consume her.

Fuck her.

Sink into her like an ocean and let her drag him under. Let her feed him oxygen with who she was. The pressure in his gut coiled tighter. But no matter how hard he ran, no matter how fast his feet hit the trail, he couldn’t outrun Grace Harlan.

If he slowed down, if he gave in, he’d overwhelm her. He knew it. If she walked away? He’d never know. Never know if he was the reason his team died. Never know if the guilt that wrapped his ribs like barbed wire was justified or just punishment he made up to survive the not knowing .

If she left… it would feel like losing the one person who had ever touched his silence with grace and treated it like something worth keeping. Grace wasn’t just a chance. She was the last goddamn line between him and surrender. He had to know. Even if the truth killed him.

By the time he hit the hotel room, he was trembling from restraint. His skin burned. His pulse throbbed between his legs, aching for her body, for her mouth on him, for the privilege of being the man she wanted.

He stripped with shaking hands, turning the water all the way to cold. The kind that stole breath and sanity. The kind that should’ve shut his body down, not woken it up. The water hit him like icy knives. Sharp. Unrelenting. But it didn’t help. Not even a little. His cock stayed hard, brutal and aching and hers. He braced both palms against the tile, forehead lowered, breath coming in short, shuddering bursts. Combat breathing. In for four. Hold. Out for four. Again.

Every drop against his skin was a ghost of her touch. The shampoo bottle was heavy in his grip. His dick ached, hard and unrelenting, pressed against the tile with nowhere to go. He gritted his teeth.

Do not think about her mouth, her hands, how soft she was in your arms, how fucking awkwardly adorable she was, about that agile mind, her innocence, how she viewed the world like it was a code to be decrypted. Absolutely do not think about her humor. That sharp, wicked, goddamn glorious humor. Hands-on research. A broken sound ripped from his chest, half growl, half groan. God, he loved that.

Not just the line. The way she said it. Like she meant it. Like he was worth all her precious time. Worth slowing down for. He squeezed his eyes shut. The cold stung. His teeth chattered. But his body didn’t back down. What he felt for Grace…there was no escape from it.

He stood there, shaking from everything . For one raw second, Nash Rahim nearly sobbed because if even a goddamn freezing shower couldn’t kill what she made him feel… What was he going to do if he broke, if he fell, if he went under and she found him in the depths. Water was his home base, but Grace was like a water creature who breathed him in and out with no mercy.

He could do it. Could take the edge off. Quick. No emotion. But no release was going to feel like Grace. His release would be biological, but there would be no satisfaction. She’d trusted him with her silence. With her sleep. He grit his jaw so tight it ached, and he denied himself. He refused to come, the promise of pleasure a trick, empty. Refused to lose this edge for anything except Grace.

When he finally shut off the water, he could barely breathe.

Even toweling himself off was dangerous .

His skin was so sensitized that every brush of cotton dragged heat up his spine, his muscles twitching like he was close to climax just from the friction. He leaned on the sink, both hands braced, head down. A drop of water fell from his chin into the basin.

Breathe.

In his room, he dressed slowly. Gray tactical pants. A black shirt. The same kind he used to wear under his plate carrier. He tried to armor up again. Put pieces back in place. But when he stepped into the suite and saw Grace, her face tilted to the light, that impossible hair down, loose, the barest smile touched her mouth when she saw him. His body responded . Like a strike team activating. He clenched his fists. White-knuckled. If he didn’t, he’d reach for her.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to let go.

* * *

The engine purred low beneath them, tires crunching over patches of packed snow as they left the hotel behind. Grace was quiet in the passenger seat, tablet in her lap, fingers scrolling through lines of encrypted code with a determined look on her face.

Nash gripped the wheel like it might slip away from him.

She’d looked at him when she walked into the suite, really looked. No awkwardness. No apology. Just that sharp, knowing gaze that somehow unraveled him without ever raising her voice.

The cold from the morning run hadn’t left his skin. It had settled deep in his bones, curling around the hunger still clawing through him. He shouldn’t have kissed her.Shouldn’t have held her.Shouldn’t have allowed her to stay in that room one second longer than necessary.

But he had.

Now she was beside him again, close enough to reach out and touch, and he couldn’t afford to. Not with this much on the line. Not when everything was threatening to come undone.

The road curved, a gentle sweep through a line of pine trees. He tapped the brakes, just enough to adjust their speed into the turn. Nothing happened. The brake pedal stayed firm beneath his foot. Unmoving. A second ticked by. Then two. He turned the wheel. No response.

The car kept going straight into the curve.

“Hang on,” he said, too calm. Both hands locked on the wheel. Muscle memory kicked in, tactical training firing through his bloodstream. No sudden moves. No panic. Find traction. Find a line. He fought the skid, tried to steer into it, but the car kept sliding. The tires must have caught an edge of ice.

The steering column groaned as he fought it, and for one terrifying second, the whole world tilted. Trees blurred. The rear fishtailed, tires skidding across frozen asphalt like they had a mind of their own.

Grace gasped softly, still and wide-eyed beside him, but she didn’t scream. Suddenly, the brakes engaged. Too suddenly. The tires snapped back into alignment with a jolt that rocked them.

Nash corrected hard, pulled them out of the slide, and eased the car into the straightaway. The tires gripped. The wheel responded. The danger was over. But his pulse hadn’t slowed. He kept both hands on the wheel. Tight. White-knuckled. Breathing through gritted teeth. Grace was silent.

She glanced over. “Ice?” she asked.

“Had to have been. You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, voice even. But her gaze lingered on the dashboard, her eyes as skeptical as his.

* * *

Grace tapped another command, scanning the buried files Nash had flagged. They entered OrdoTech without incident and were back in the glassed office. Grace wanted to know what he flagged, so he showed her, then vacated the seat for her to take over.

"This is what you found?" she asked, half distracted.

Nash nodded, arms crossed, watching the hallway like it might blink. "Yeah. Caught something weird in a quarterly rollup. Looked like duplicate vendors feeding off the same budget pool. Like someone was laundering security allocations through fake accounts."

"Why didn’t you follow it?"

He shrugged. "I'm not the cyber genius, Grace. I flag it. My people investigate."

"You’re just a different kind of genius..." She smiled faintly. "It’s not noise."

Nash wasn’t one to care much about compliments. They were like medals, getting something extra for just doing the job, but her comment warmed the blood in his veins with an intoxicating rush.

Her fingers flew faster now. Nash stepped closer, careful not to crowd her. He wanted to tell her she was brilliant. That watching her work was the most alive he’d felt in months. But he didn’t. He didn’t want to startle her out of this rare, steady calm.

Grace glanced at him, and he saw the flicker of purpose in her eyes. Not just fear. Not just survival. Justice. That’s what she was chasing now.

"You didn’t have the key."

She opened a nested file. “I do now,” he murmured. She was silent for a moment, then she looked at him with something fierce and certain in her eyes.

Moments later, she stiffened. "This isn't just fraud," she said softly. “This is someone hiding inside the money."

Nash felt his spine tighten. "You think that's what Caspari’s after?"

"Not just that." Her voice dropped lower. "The person behind it." A breath passed between them. Heavy. Sharp. Grace pushed back from the terminal. "We’re getting somewhere, but God, I’m famished."

Nash nodded. “Tea and a protein bar?” he asked. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll be fine for a few minutes, Nash. We’re in a secure environment, and although I know you are a testosterone-infused, alpha-male shield, I’m safe enough.”

He huffed out a laugh, “Testosterone-infused, alpha-male shield, huh?”

She blushed, and he wanted to just push her up against that glass wall and show her what that hormone did to him and how alpha male he could get.

“Please," she said, flashing a rare grin. “We’re getting somewhere.” He would move the sun and moon for her. This was an easy request.

The hallway outside the server room was empty except for the soft whisper of drones. He passed through the main security doors, thinking about Grace digging deeper into the backend, tracing the bounced access logs again was like watching poetry in motion.

He entered the breakroom and brewed the tea for both of them, grabbed up the protein bars, and turned. A mechanical hiss echoed down the corridor, followed by a heavy clang.

Fuck . Heavy security doors leading to their office just engaged, the magnetic lock bolted with a loud snap. The protein bars hit the floor. Nash sprinted, adrenaline spiking focus as tight as a close shave. He slammed his shoulder into the door.

Maybe he could get there another way. Pivoting, he backtracked toward the secondary corridor, farther, but still leading to their glass-walled office.

Drones descended from the ceiling, their rotors slicing the air, tasers crackling. Predatory.

He lifted his arm to protect his face, gritting his teeth as shocks jolted through his body. His skin burned, but he kept moving. Getting to Grace was his only thought.

The office door loomed ahead. Through the glass, he saw her pinned behind an overturned chair, arms up, protecting her head, surrounded by three sleek black drones circling like hornets.

Weapon already drawn, Nash moved fast. “Grace, cover your eyes!” he barked.

Without waiting, he smashed the butt of his Glock into the glass. It exploded inward, pain barely registering. He stepped through the shattered open-door frame, boots crunching over glass.

A drone descended, sleek, fast, precise. Its taser prongs raked across his collarbone just below his throat, searing the skin. He grunted but kept moving, fire tearing down his arm.

They were weaponized. They were targeting both of them.

“ Grace !” he shouted again, voice raw. He grabbed his leather jacket from the stand, swinging it hard. Crack , he swatted one drone across the room. It spiraled, sparked, crashed.

Another peeled toward him. Another swing, down. The last drone recalibrated, darting in low. Nash dove, rolling through the charge, sliding across the glass-scattered floor toward Grace, his body shielding hers.

The drone fired. A sharp sizzle of electricity split the air. It hit his shoulder, pain exploding down his side, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t think. Just protected.

He rolled once more, crushing the drone under his boot with a metallic crunch. Sparks guttered out.

Silence.

He grabbed Grace, gathering her into his arms hard enough to feel her ribs press against his chest, relief crashing through him, flooding every nerve. “Hey. Ya Allah , I’ve got you,” he rasped, voice rough and steady. “I’m here.” Her fingers clutched his shirt, white-knuckled, unconscious.

Flashbacking, she wasn’t looking at him. He knew what that looked like, knew what it felt like. Nash lowered his forehead against hers, grounding her. Breathing for both of them.

“You’re safe. It’s over. I’ve got you.”

She blinked. Twice. Her breath shuddered against his neck. Then, her whisper, raw, but unbreakable. “Someone just declared war.”