Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Grace stayed curled against Nash’s chest, her fingers twisted in his shirt, the beat of his heart thundering against her palm like it was trying to get inside her. The scent of ozone and scorched metal filled the air, thick and choking, mixing with the lingering sharpness of blood and adrenaline that hadn’t yet faded from her own system.

The hallway outside their wrecked office looked like a war zone, shards of glass scattered across the tile, black scorch marks arcing up the walls, the broken carcasses of drones still twitching and sparking like insects caught mid-death.

She knew, without needing to think, that if Nash hadn’t gotten to her in time, if he hadn’t smashed through the door without hesitation, shielded her with his body without a second thought, she wouldn’t be breathing right now.

The memory of his voice, shouting her name, breaking through the frozen lock that had held her captive in the past, still reverberated through her chest.

He had torn himself open for her.

Not just physically.

She felt the blood, wet against her sleeve where he pressed her closer, his body vibrating with tension and pain, his arm braced around her ribs like he could still ward off an attack that was already over.

She hadn't even realized she was trembling until he shifted his stance, adjusting his weight, his hands tightening against her as if he could feel the quake running through her bones.

Security stormed the corridor at last, their boots slipping on glass, their weapons holstered, their expressions wide-eyed and a little too eager to look helpful without being useful. Too late to matter. Convenient, she thought bitterly, how they had failed to protect anything until the threat was already over.

A different kind of rage flared under her skin then, not panic this time, but something sharper, something colder. Resolve.

She could still taste the electric crackle of the drones, hear the metallic hum overhead, feel the way the system had turned on her without warning or remorse.

The flashback hadn't just taken her breath. It had taken her back, all the way down, past the neat walls she had built around the memory, past the years of careful silence, until she was there again, outside Fallon, feeling the scream of metal she could not out-code, the helpless slip of lives falling out of her reach. She had sounded the alarm. She had thrown herself against the system with everything she had, clawing at the seams, demanding someone listen. But the system had buried her voice the same way it buried her people, fast, permanent.

She had lost the part of herself that believed trying was enough.

The tribunal had been swift and clinical, the words wrapped in bureaucratic calm, but the verdict had been written long before she entered that sterile room. Not guilty, but not innocent either. Not culpable, but not clean. An asterisk placed beside her name that no clearance level could erase.

She had survived the breach, the inquiry, the reassignment, but she had not survived herself.

After the dust settled, the isolation had begun.

She hadn’t just lost them. She cataloged them silently now, every name, every face.

Not to break herself. To steel herself.

If OrdoTech thought a few broken drones and a hallway full of smoke were going to scare her off, they didn’t know a damn thing about what it meant to lose everything and keep standing.

They hadn’t taken her then. They wouldn’t take her now.

Through it all, Nash hadn’t let go of her.

His body was a wall against the chaos still thick around them, tall, solid, bleeding but unshaken. She could feel the energy burning through him like a loaded weapon, coiled and ready, his chest rising and falling in tight, controlled breaths.

When Rory strolled into view, composed, indifferent, he stated, “It was lucky that no one was seriously hurt.” The obvious subtext was. Too bad you’re still upright.

Nash’s patience was strained like a bowstring ready to snap. Grace squeezed his arm, hard, feeling the muscle jump under her hand. It wasn’t a plea for him to stand down. It was a reminder. Cat-like patience.

She straightened, tugging her sleeves down with deliberate calm, ignoring the shredded fabric and bloodstains. They had no choice but to keep control. “We’re still at the mouse hole,” she whispered. “Whiskers just peeked out. We wait.”

To be the professionals OrdoTech was so desperately hoping they would fail to be.

She shifted her weight slightly to stay close to Nash, feeling the suppressed violence still thrumming under his skin, and found it comforting rather than frightening. She knew exactly how lethal he could be when it mattered. Exactly how magnificent.

every cell in her body vibrated with the knowledge that he had done it for her.

Rory’s voice broke into their quiet. “Mr. Fenwick would like to see you,” Rory said, voice too crisp, too calm, like a band-aid over a bullet wound.

His eyes flicked to the blood on Grace’s blouse, then briefly to Nash, and for half a second, something smug flickered there. Gone before it settled. The mask slipped back into place.

“He better have a goddamned answer why your drones attacked us,” Nash bit out, looking like he was two steps away from mayhem. Grace nodded once, sharp and sure, feeling Nash fall into step beside her. “We might be waiting, but I’m not a passive guy.”

She turned to look at him and warmth rushed through her. “I kinda like that about you.”

He chuckled. “Only you can make me laugh when I want to tear something apart.”

“No tearing…yet.”

“Just give me the word,” he said, the lethal threat of him like an aura encasing them both.

The walk down the executive corridor was pure theater, soft carpet muffling their footsteps, recessed lighting casting clean, polished shadows across wood-paneled walls. The contrast between the wreckage they'd just left and the sterile opulence they were being led into was almost laughable.

It reeked of money. Of desperation disguised as power.

Grace let her hand brush Nash's fingers briefly, a silent check-in, and he answered by walking half a step closer, his body heat radiating in quiet solidarity.

When Rory pushed open the door to Fenwick’s office, it didn’t open fully, and Grace was almost slammed into the edge, but Nash was fast. The flat of his hand caught it, and she saw the wince. He turned and sent a lethal glare toward Rory, and Grace followed suit.

“I always underestimate how heavy that door is. If you need an escort out of the building, I’m at your service.”

“Fuck off,” Nash said succinctly.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Unaffected, he followed them in.

“Unbelievable,” Grace muttered.

The room was massive. Tastefully aggressive. Overcompensating.

A massive mahogany desk dominated the space, framed by leather chairs and a wall of framed certifications that screamed legitimacy a little too loudly.

Behind the desk, Sterling Fenwick rose.

He was all sharp suits and polished veneers, his silver hair artfully arranged, his eyes cold and assessing even when his mouth curved into a contrite smile.

"Ms. Harlan. Mr. Rahim," he said smoothly. "First, let me extend my deepest apologies. What you experienced today is… beyond unacceptable."

Grace didn’t move.

Nash didn’t either.

The room cooled by degrees.

Fenwick shifted, slightly off balance. Good .

"We are, of course, conducting a full internal review. However, given the… trauma you’ve experienced, we would fully understand if you chose to postpone your audit until the matter is resolved. Take some time. Step back. Regroup."

Grace tilted her head, studying him like she would a line of corrupted code.

This wasn’t concern. This was survival. He wanted them out. Wanted them rattled enough to quit.

Her smile was tight. “We appreciate the concern, Mr. Fenwick. But no. Thank you.”

Fenwick blinked.

Grace stepped forward, letting the hum of anger and adrenaline sharpen her voice into something diamond hard. "This incident has only reinforced the necessity of our audit. Clearly, there are vulnerabilities within OrdoTech's infrastructure that require immediate and thorough documentation."

Fenwick's smile tightened, the edges of his civility fraying.

His gaze shifted to Nash.

"Mr. Rahim," he said smoothly. "While we understand your instincts, you did destroy several thousand dollars’ worth of valuable equipment."

Grace opened her mouth to answer, but Nash beat her to it, his voice low, edged with lethal calm. "Be grateful it was the drones," he said, his eyes dark and steady.

Silence crackled in the room.

Rory twitched.

Fenwick’s face froze, the way a man does when he realizes he’s lost but hasn’t figured out how to retreat yet.

Grace let the moment stretch just long enough to make it hurt. Then she smiled again. Smaller. Sharper. "If there’s nothing else, Mr. Fenwick," she said, voice polite as a scalpel, "we are done for the day. My partner needs first aid, but we will be back tomorrow to resume the audit. We expect another usable office, and?—”

“No fucking drones,” Nash said. “You know, until the matter is resolved.” He let that hang in the air, a clear and unfeigned threat. Nash wasn’t referring to drones. He was referring to their digging and final discovery of what exactly was rotten here at OrdoTech.

Without waiting for dismissal, she turned on her heel and walked out, feeling Nash fall into step behind her, their silent unity as sharp as Nash’s threat.

As the door clicked shut behind them, she let out a slow, careful breath.

Nash leaned in, his voice low enough so only she could hear. "You are," he said, "seriously dangerous."

Grace hunched into her coat as the glass doors sighed shut behind them, the sterile scent of lemon polish and expensive panic left behind in Fenwick’s office. The winter air felt sharper, realer somehow, scraping at her lungs with every breath like it was trying to remind her she was still alive, still moving, still standing after the flashback had only reminded her what was at stake.

Nash walked beside her, silent, steady.

She could feel the heat of him even through the cold. Could smell the sharp tang of blood drying under the faint burn of his leather jacket. They didn’t speak as they crossed the parking lot. Didn’t need to.

The sun was low behind the mountains, staining the horizon a bruised copper, long shadows cutting across the snow-dusted asphalt. Grace tucked her hands deep into her pockets. In the left one, the knife settled against her fingers, and it felt good. She ignored the tremble still hiding in her fingers, furious that she couldn’t will it away.

He bled for her.

The thought came unbidden, sinking deep, coiling tight around her heart.

He had torn through drones, glass, and barriers without hesitation. Shielded her like it was instinct, not a decision, not a tactic, just an inevitable truth written into his bones.

She had frozen. Again.

Locked in the past while the present tried to kill her.

A fresh wave of shame surged up, but she crushed it down ruthlessly. She wasn’t that woman anymore, the one who folded. The one who let the past dictate who she was. She had stood back up. She had fought her way out of the wreckage. Nash… Nash had helped her remember that.

She slid a glance at him as they reached the rental car.

He was moving stiffly now, his left shoulder slightly lower, like the burn across his collarbone was pulling at the muscle. His hands were steady on the keys, but she saw the tightness in his jaw, the way he blinked harder against the winter air like it stung more than it should have.

Without thinking, she touched his elbow lightly.

He flinched, barely, but when his eyes met hers, the anger and pain melted away into something heavier. Something aching and alive.

She swallowed. Hard.

"Let me drive," she said softly.

For a second, she thought he would argue. That stubborn, relentless male pride flashing in his eyes. But then he just nodded, slow and tired, and handed her the keys.

The silence between them was thicker now, weighted. Full of everything neither of them had said.

She drove deliberately toward town. Nash looked at her, puzzled. “I need to make a stop,” she said. “For you.”

“I’m fine?—”

“Don’t feed me crap, Nash. Shut your beautiful mouth and rest.”

“Dammit, Grace,” he chuckled with a hiss at the end. “Don’t make me laugh.” He turned to look at her. “Sass, hebbiti ? I kinda like that about you.”

Her heart shuffled around a bit with the way he threw her words back at her. She stopped at the first drugstore she came to and got the items she needed. No inadequate first aid kit at the hotel would be enough to treat him fully.

The drive back to the hotel passed in a blur of headlights and snow drifting lazily across the windshield, the heater rattling to life in soft fits and starts. Grace kept her hands steady on the wheel, stealing glances at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

He didn’t move much. Just stared out the window, his profile carved in shadow and stray reflections, the blood on his shirt stark against the dark fabric of his jacket.

By the time they reached the hotel, the sky had deepened into a navy blue so dark it almost swallowed the world whole. The lobby lights were dimmer now, the scent of pine cleaner sharper, the silence pressing against her ears.

She parked close to the entrance and cut the engine.

Neither of them moved.

The moment stretched between them, raw, bleeding, unfinished.

Finally, Nash pushed the door open and stepped out, his movements slower than they had been this morning, heavier now with pain and exhaustion he didn’t bother hiding anymore.

She keyed open her suite, stepping into the dim warmth. It smelled like jasmine, but it soon was filled with him and something burnt lingering at the edges.

Nash dropped his keys on the counter with a clatter and toed off his boots without ceremony.

Grace shut the door behind them. For a moment, they just stood there, adrift in the small, imperfect silence. Then she crossed the room and touched his wrist.

Her hands shook only a little as she dumped out the bag, the two items spreading onto the coverlet, aloe vera, and wild yam. The moment she touched the edge of his jacket to peel it back, Nash flinched, and something in her chest fractured. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her emotions in check.

Carefully, she stripped the leather away from him, her fingers brushing over muscles that trembled.

Her hand slid lower, fingertips brushing the edge of his shirt hem, and he stiffened.

When his hand caught her wrist, gentle but firm, he said, “Grace.”

Her name was a warning. A prayer. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

“I need to make sure we get all the injuries cleaned. It’ll make it easier,” she said, voice soft but sure. “Please. Let me do this for you, hebbiti. ”

His gaze sharpened, lips parting slightly.

“I understand Arabic,” she said quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something between surprise and significance. Then her voice dropped again, quieter this time. Barely a breath. “In the elevator… it grounded me.” Her fingers pressed softly against his ribs, just over where he’d landed on the floor. “ You ground me.” He didn’t speak. Just watched her, the tension in his body slowly giving way to stillness. “Stop fighting me on this,” she whispered. “You stubborn, sweet man. Don’t you understand?” She leaned in closer, forehead almost to his, her touch steady now, but her breath trembling. “I need to do this. To touch you. To soothe you. I need it as much as you do.”

“Help me,” he whispered, and her heart melted into aching mush.

A man like Nash…he didn’t often ask a soul for assistance. “I’ll do it,” she said, unable to stop her hand from going over that dark hair as she slipped her arms around him, grabbed the hem from the small of his back, brushing over the butt of his weapon.

She stilled, and with a groan, he reached back and then pushed it onto the nightstand. She bunched the cotton in her fists and slid his shirt up his hard, ripped torso. He bent slightly toward her as she removed his shirt in one quick pull without him having to move that much.

“I’ll be right back.” She went to the bathroom, grabbed the first aid kit under the sink, a small basin next to it, and a washcloth. She filled the basin with cold water, carrying everything back out. “I got some over-the-counter pain killer…unless you want something stronger. I noticed you had some in your bag.”

“You like being prepared, organized,” he said softly.

“Yes. I don’t like guesswork or being without something essential I need,” she said.

“No, OTC is fine. I don’t want to be groggy, or too slow.”

Grace caught herself staring at him, the slope of his throat, the shadowed cut of his jaw, the faint flutter of his pulse against the hollow of his neck. He was beautiful. Not polished. But brutal and real and more alive than anyone she had ever met.

“You think we might not be safe here?”

“No, I think we are. Whoever attacked us did so through drones. Face-to-face is too intimidating for most computer jockeys,” he said. “But I’m not taking any chances with you, Grace. OTC.”

She met his eyes, stared at him, her heart fluttering with the memory of the way he’d come to her rescue, the focus, the strength, the problem-solving on the fly. “I don’t think I need any more research on Navy SEALs,” she whispered.

“That’s disappointing,” he said. “No more questions?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“I’ve seen you in action…using your jacket like a net, and then a slingshot to stop the drones.” The heat coming off his body was tangible. His skin flushed beneath her touch, a sharp contrast to the chill still clinging to her fingertips. “Just the right amount of force, while keeping me safe.”

Nash said nothing. Didn’t look at her.

She’d seen him hurt before. In the way he moved his shoulder carefully after a run. In the silence that fell too fast when the lights flickered. But this, this was blood and burn. Real and raw and tangible in the low-lit quiet between them.

“Sit,” she said softly, tugging the first aid kit open with one hand, the other already resting lightly on his chest.

He obeyed, slow and unresisting, dropping onto the edge of her bed while she knelt in front of him. The exposed, angry flush of red blooming across his collarbone like heat lightning trapped under skin was her focus.

She set the cloth down in the basin of cool water, let it soak for a beat, then wrung it out and pressed it gently to the burn.

He sucked in a breath between his teeth, more surprise than pain, but she didn’t pull back.

“It’s just first-degree,” she murmured. “Angry, but shallow. No blistering. You’ll live.” She grabbed the aloe and gently applied the gel to his skin.

“Maybe,” he rasped, his voice low, strained. “But you’re not making it easy.”

Her lips twitched. “I’m not trying to be easy.”

The heat of him bled through the terry as she worked, her palm resting against the uninjured side of his chest to anchor her as she dabbed at the burn. Every time he shifted, even slightly, her hand skimmed taut muscle and slow breath.

Maybe that was why it took her a second to notice the blood. The thin red line trailing from the curve of his cheekbone down toward his jaw. Her fingers tightened in the cool cloth.

“Nash,” she said gently, her other head reaching to tilt his face toward hers. He turned halfway, but his gaze didn’t find her.

“Hey.” Her voice softened, the thread of command slipping into something warmer. “Look at me.” He didn’t. Not fully. So, she reached up and cupped his jaw.

Her fingers were sure now. Her thumb brushed just under his ear as she guided his head back toward her, and the moment stretched, slow and molten and full of something that had nothing to do with gauze.

Their eyes met, and this time, he didn’t look away.

She let her touch linger for a heartbeat longer, then leaned in, examining the slice across his cheekbone. Shallow. Sharp. The kind of wound that looked worse than it was. She washed away the blood gently, set it back in the basin as the water turned pink.

“This might sting,” she warned, swiping an antiseptic wipe gently along the cut.

He flinched. Just a little.

“Sorry,” she said.

“It’s fine.” But his voice had gone gravel-rough. Like the restraint cost him more than he wanted to admit.

She pressed the butterfly bandage across the wound, smoothing it into place with care. Her thumb grazed the corner of his mouth as she finished, slow and deliberate.

Then, because she couldn’t help it, because something in her had already snapped loose, she let her hand slide down, palm resting once again at his chest, fingers brushing the edge of that burn.

She picked up the yam and crawled to the headboard. “Nash, come here.” She held out her arms and he turned, his muscles burnished against the light, hard, roped, ripped. His shoulders dropped and his chest heaved, and almost as if he was moving in slow motion, his bare back was against her chest. She sighed in pure, unadulterated pleasure.

She scooped up a generous amount of the rub and slipped one bare arm under his armpit and around his shoulder joint to hold him steady as she began to knead the muscles connecting to his shoulder. The scent drifted up, earthy and herbal, like crushed roots steeped in rain, with a faint medicinal coolness that lingered on the air.

He held himself off her by just a breath, his body taut. “Lean back, babe. Give me your weight.”

She pulled him toward her, and he sank into her. Her chin was just over the shoulder she was working. The scent of him rose around her as she pressed her nose into his skin, breathing in the rich and devastatingly familiar oud, deep and resinous, threaded through with the faint, haunting sweetness of crushed rose. As much a part of him as his language, his dark eyes and hair, the distinct curve of his face. It wasn’t anything crafted to impress. It was older than that. More elemental.

It hit her with a force she hadn't expected, dragging up memories buried under years of cold audits and silenced instincts, memories of heat shimmering over desert stone, of languages spoken in low, musical cadences that curled in her ears like promises. The scent of exotic spices drifting through narrow market alleys. The soft call to prayer rising over sun-baked rooftops at dusk.

She had loved it then, the warmth, the wildness, the sense of something bigger than herself, and she hadn't realized until now how much she had missed it.

Nash wasn't just a man sitting in front of her, wounded and still.He was the embodiment of everything she had once loved about that place. The living, breathing reminder of a world that had felt alive in her blood before it all went dark. Her fingers kneaded harder against his taut muscle, anchoring herself in the weight of him. In the scent of him. In the unbearable pull toward something she had spent too long pretending she no longer needed.

“Was it the explosion?” Reclining against her, he didn't respond. “Nash?”

“Huh?” he sighed.

“Your shoulder? The op?”

“Umm, yes,” he said, sighing again. His voice slurred as she worked to ease the pain with the pressure of her hand against his warm velvet skin.

“Grace,” he whispered, groaning softly. The sound of it loosened everything inside her. “That feels so good.”

Her throat tight, her body now throbbing with so much pent-up need for him, she whispered back, “You feel so good.” She breathed deep again for more of that heated scent swirling through her, making her ache with want, getting hot and wet between her legs where he was hard against her. The thought of him naked, open and trusting hovering over her with that scent touching her body like his hands, warm and tangible, caressing her nipples, her skin, her scars as if that scent could fuck her until she cried out with the pleasure of it.

She shuddered with the ache, the need, the want. “You smell so good. Elemental. I didn’t realize how much I missed that scent when I was embedded over there.”

He dropped his head back against her shoulder and looked up at her. She trembled with that black fire lit from deep within him. His pupils were blown, and he was open and vulnerable. She was so aware of every inch of him, even the parts of him not against her, aware that she held him in the palm of her hand, and she only wanted to be careful not to crush him.

Oh, God. What was this swirling inside her…this overwhelming feeling that felt both intense and so freaking right. Was it love? Was she falling for this exotically beautiful, damaged man who looked at her like she was already part of him?

His tender gaze dragged her deeper. “I'm so tired, Grace,” he whispered.

“Let me have you,” she murmured. “ This time I got you.” She moved from behind him, pressed him onto his back, preparing to work the shoulder from the front, but then she stilled, her hand at his waist. She looked down, her breath catching. Her hands went to the top of his jeans, and Nash just followed the line of her gaze.

He lay there unmoving as she unbuckled and unzipped just low enough to tug down the denim and briefs. She swallowed hard, following the black line of hair that bisected his abdomen, swirled around his navel, and arrowed down to his groin. Somehow, despite the thick hard-on bulging against the fabric wasn’t what interested her, her gaze riveted to the scar.

“I can’t remember how I got it,” he whispered.

She lifted her gaze back to his face just in time to see the moisture gathering in his eyes, his emotions unguarded and raw, a permanent reminder of what he lost, but not how. That wound might have healed, but the memories were blank, and she ached for him. “Nash,” she breathed, “Time doesn’t heal all wounds,” she murmured. She leaned in. “Your scars are a badge of courage and evidence of your shield. You’re even more amazing to me with them.” She reached out, hesitated. “May I?” she asked, and this time she waited.

His face contorted and he nodded. “ Ya Allah , Grace…” His breath shuddered out. Slowly, she reached out and glided the pad of her finger along the beginning of the scar, totally shredded inside. Her breath coming in ragged in-takes, his agony becoming hers.

She was already moving, pressing her mouth to his scar, tracing it with her lips as if she could heal him deep within. He let out a sound, low, hoarse, broken, like it had been clawing at his throat forever and finally tore free. It rent the air between them, rough with grief and rage and something older than both. It hit Grace like a punch to her heart. It wasn’t just pain. It was memory. It was loss. It was need stripped to the bone.

Her mouth might be on his flesh, but it wasn’t a physical need that had made him cry out. His reaction was raw, pulled so tightly into him, it had taken her mouth, her compassion, her own need to give him something more of herself, and she was the permission he needed to find that voice.

His hand shook when he slid her sleeve up away from her forearm, bunching it tightly in the crook of her elbow. Running his warm palm over her scars. “You don’t have to hide these from me.” His gaze raked over her arm. “Or anyone,” he said fiercely. “They’re each a badge of courage…alive, messages, like a language written in pain, loss and healing.” He dragged her against him, his mouth on her forearm, pressing soft kisses everywhere, and Grace cried out, too.

Then he spoke again, quietly, deliberately, voice rough as gravel and just as aching.

“ Inti roohi. ”

She didn’t breathe for a second. Didn’t blink.

You are my soul.

Her breath caught. It wasn’t just the words. It was the way he said them, like they cost him. Like giving them voice was both surrender and defiance. Like they were the only truth he still trusted.

Grace swallowed hard, the ache rising behind her ribs too fierce to hide. She pressed her hand gently to his chest, grounding herself in the warm, battered strength of him.

Then, low and shaking, she whispered back, “ Wallah, ma fi mithlik. ”

By God, there’s no one like you.

The way she had coped, survived, had been necessary at the time. She’d been injured, devastated, her power stripped from her in ways that weren’t just personal, but professional, systemic. She’d been told, in cold, unfeeling terms, that she hadn’t been enough. People had died, and the only thing that stood between her and collapse had been that barrier, rigid, airtight, absolute.

But then there was that collision. That moment. That man.

Nash had never asked for access. He hadn’t knocked. He had simply appeared , too intense to ignore, too real to override, and somewhere between impact and aftermath, that barrier she’d lived behind for so long had crumbled before her eyes.

Now, instead of a wall that kept her out of everything, she had made space inside it. Without even trying, he had filled it with silence and strength, with steadiness and presence, and maybe, impossibly, with something like hope.

For the first time, she wasn’t alone inside.

What had once been a shell to survive had become a shared interior, something neither of them had expected but both of them had stepped into, breath by breath, touch by touch. It wasn’t just a wall between them and the world anymore. It was a space they were building together, vulnerable, exposed, human , and it would require more courage than anything she’d faced before.

The silence between them pulsed with breath and blood and everything they hadn’t said, everything they couldn’t say without setting the world on fire.