Page 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

He dragged her against him and kissed her harder than he should have, anchoring her like he could stop the spinning beneath his feet. So many mistakes. Too much overload. If he scared her off again…he’d lose too much.

He had to walk away before he terrified her with how deep it ran, desire, need, that fucking loneliness he hadn’t felt this sharply ever. Right now, with her in his arms, kissing his scar like it meant something sacred, he felt it all.

But he couldn’t take the chance. She was the key, and he needed whatever she’d unlock. Needed her here, not just for the truth buried in OrdoTech, but for what she sparked in him. If denying his own hunger was the price of keeping her close, he’d pay it.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against hers, their hearts thundering together like fists on a locked door.

“Grace—”

“No, it’ll be okay,” she whispered.

He pushed off the bed, body aching from more than bruises, and headed for the connecting door.

“Nash,” she said, and he froze at the sound of her voice. She scrambled off the bed, came to him. Stared. Nash forgot how to breathe. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown, all that sharp brilliance stripped down to raw want. No shields. No filter. Just heat and hunger and something primal that slammed into his chest like a sucker punch.

That same gnawing ache that always lived in his bones when she was near.

She leaned in and brushed her mouth against his, and something detonated. Wet, warm, maddeningly soft. His grip on the doorjamb went white-knuckled. Every instinct screamed at him to grab her, slam her to the nearest wall, taste every inch she’d let him have.

But she didn’t stop.

She pressed harder, mouth sealing to his like she owned it, tongue slick and seeking, her fingers sliding down the back of his neck like she wanted to peel him open. Pleasure streaked down his spine, lit up his groin, heat firing under his skin.

He dropped his hands and stepped back, hurting physically.

He cupped her chin gently. “We should get some rest,” he said, voice rough. “We need to be sharp tomorrow.”

She blinked, dazed. Still breathing hard. Her eyes glazed with confusion. He wanted to reach for her again, ground them both in that heat, but he didn’t dare.

Not with the image of her packed suitcase still fresh. One wrong move, and she’d be gone. He couldn’t risk that. This wasn’t about the mission. Or even his fallen brothers. This was worse.

Grace was worse. She was more pressure. More ache. More danger than anything he’d ever faced. It took everything he had not to ruin it before it began.

If he spooked her again, if she shut that door, he wouldn’t survive it. Not really. He’d be trapped in that electric prison of want with no way out. No release. Just ache.

“Nash,” she whispered.

He couldn’t hold it together. So, for the first time in his life, he ran. Not toward fire. Not toward the threat. Away from the one thing that could break him wide open. His balls ached. His chest locked up. His gut churned.

All he could do was close the door behind him.

But Grace wasn’t done with him. She came to him in the dark, flames on her skin, silk in her mouth, and longing in her eyes.

In the dream, she didn’t wait. She climbed into his lap like she belonged there, her thighs spread wide over his, the wet core of her slicking him, working him over. Her rocking hips took his sanity, his restraint, her breath a gasp against his neck.

One hand curled around her throat, the other grabbed handfuls of fire, and he burned. He pulled her head back, his body flexing, targeting her mouth. He didn’t kiss her, he devoured her.

She moaned his name, fingers tangled in his hair, her body arching, slick and hot and begging him to fill her. Take her. Lose himself inside her. He woke with a sound strangled in his throat, already on the edge. His cock jutted up hard and angry against his stomach, leaking at the tip, his body trembling, soaked in sweat. The sheet was kicked halfway off. His skin flushed. His pulse was erratic.

Grace.

She was fire incarnate, his temptation, his punishment, his salvation. His jaw clenched. Breath shallow. Groin aching with her liquid fire.

Grace.

It wasn’t just physical. It hadn’t been for a long time. That was the problem. He rolled to his back, arm thrown over his eyes, trying to erase the taste of her. The sound of her voice. The feel of her mouth on his. But he couldn’t. She’d kissed him back. That’s what haunted him.

He’d kissed her, thinking it might silence the hunger inside him, and instead it had lit him up from the inside out. She hadn’t hesitated. Hadn’t pulled away. She leaned into him with that subtle, heartbreaking hunger like she hadn’t been kissed in years. Like he was the only one who saw her. Like she needed him to be the only one who saw her.

His hand pressed down hard over his abs, sliding lower, chasing any kind of relief. He groaned when his fingers curled around his cock, hissing through his teeth, his head rolling on the pillow, hips jackknifing uncontrollably against the sheet.

Her voice whispered in his mind again. Nash...

It was his undoing.

He stroked himself, fast and ruthlessly, squeezing tight, trying to chase it away, but all he could see was her. The way she breathed his name. The look in her eyes. That kiss. Her warmth. Her fear. Her trust.

Nash shoved himself upright, groaned low, and crossed the room with the staggered urgency of a man crawling in desperation. He yanked open the drawer.

He needed grounding. Something to hold onto. He reached for the rug, not for prayer, not in this moment. But for the weight of it. The familiarity. His anchor.

The fabric caught against his skin. But the friction of his sensitized, aching head, rubbed too perfectly against his ridged abs, his balls drew up hard, his cock arching as pleasure he couldn’t stop hit him like a riptide and took him right back to her, drowning him in sensations.

Her mouth. Her taste. Her voice whispering Nash in that wrecked little breath full of surrender and need.

He braced one hand against the dresser, head bowed. The other slid down to cup his balls, his fingers squeezing as he groaned. Pain and pleasure warred deep in his gut. He dragged his palm up the thick length of his dick, swirling over the head, smearing precome. He couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

His body locked tight as a drawn bow. He thrust once into his fist. Then again. Harder. Guttural, uneven sounds tore from his chest.

Ya Allah, forgive me.

His hips bucked, frantic now, every nerve lit up and raw with memory, sending a warning shiver up his spine. Her breathless gasp when she saw his scar. Wallah, ma fi mithlik. Those words ripped through him like fire. Her kiss. That look she gave him, like she was already his.

He stroked faster, harder, everything burning. But right there, on the edge of a blinding, desperate release, he cried out, denied himself again. Aching, his whole body quaked with restraint. He couldn’t do it. Not like this. He wanted the pleasure, but he wanted her more.

With a ragged cry, he spread it beneath him, fell to his knees, heart hammering, his cock still rock hard, his breath a sharp, broken rasp, hanging on to the last shred of his self-discipline, calling out to that man who had weathered BUD/S, Hell Week, the death of his brothers. He knew who he was, but he was losing the fight.

He bowed low. Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim. In the name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. His voice fractured mid-verse. Ya Allah… I need Your mercy more than I need this fire to go out.

He pressed his forehead to the mat, fingers curled against the fabric, and the shame, the want, the relentless hunger spilled from his chest in a breathless plea. His dick nestled between his legs throbbing in more pain now than pleasure, and he groaned softly, desperately.

I am not just this ache. I am not just this desire. You are Al-Sabur, the Patient, and I am trying to not to be too much. His body trembled. Not from lust now, but from the weight of what he couldn’t have. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Give me the strength not to take what isn’t mine. Not like this. Not in shadow. Let me be the man she sees. Let me be the man she needs.

Or take the need from him entirely.

But He wouldn’t.

This wasn’t just desire. This wasn’t just lust.

This was Grace .

She was inside him now, in places no bullet or betrayal had ever reached. She lived in the marrow of him. In the silence where his brothers still called out for justice. In the spaces where his honor used to hold the line and now trembled beneath the weight of her.

She was everything. The answer to every question he didn’t know how to ask.

If he lost her, it would kill him. Not in the body. Not even in the heart. But in the soul. Grace, inti roohi. You are my soul.

Where she burned. Where she branded. Where she belonged .

He would give up the release. He would give up the motion. He would give up every instinct screaming at him to take ?—

So long as she stayed.

So long as she dug .

So long as she was close enough to touch, not just his skin, but his truth.

His chest heaved, breath hitched and raw. His body throbbed from restraint, his need unsated, his arms shaking beneath him.

He could’ve taken the edge off. His body was still coiled, still burning. But the thought of coming alone in this sterile space, without her skin, her breath, her hands, her truth , it turned the act to ash. Every release before her had been faceless. Functional. Shame hidden under sweat and speed.

But Grace had walked through the fire of her past, for him . She didn’t run. She reached. She stepped through that connecting door with trembling hands and kissed him like she already knew how much it would cost her. How could he break alone now, when she had already shattered first?

He stayed in sujood , head to the floor, heart in pieces.

Walking away from Grace wasn’t possible, and he didn’t know if he’d survive it if she did.

* * *

He hadn’t found mercy. Not in the way he’d begged for. But he had found restraint. For now, that would have to be enough.

Nash sat in the dark, body tight and throbbing. His arousal hadn’t faded, not even after kneeling, not even after praying. Grace was on the other side of that door, and every part of him wanted to walk through, bury himself in her, and forget everything else.

But it wasn’t about sex anymore.

It was about being seen. The way she’d looked at him after that kiss, like she saw not just his scars, but the man beneath. That terrified him more than any op he’d survived.

He shoved off the bed, stripped off his briefs, donned a jock and shorts, jammed his feet into sneakers, and headed for the hotel gym.

It was dim and empty. His eyes locked on the heavy bag.

He crouched, grabbed a red wrap and threaded the loop. Muscle memory took over. Around the wrist, across the hand, through the fingers.

His mind wouldn’t stop. Her mouth. Her gasp. The way she leaned into him like she hadn’t been kissed in years. His chest tightened.

He wrapped his knuckles, finished with Velcro, stood, and rolled his shoulders.

She’d looked at him like she didn’t know whether to run, or stay. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to be the reason someone ran.

He started with light jabs. The contact was empty at first. Then it built. A rhythm. A sting. Sweat rose fast.

She was everywhere. Her quiet confidence. The way she folded when overwhelmed and let him see it. Her scent. Her scars. Her trust.

He struck harder.

She’d touched his chest like it mattered. Kissed the places no one ever asked about. The way she tasted, summer rain and risk.

He pivoted into a brutal cross-hook combo. The bag rocked. His wraps bit into his skin.

But it wasn’t enough. Not when what he wanted wasn’t relief. Not a warm body. Not a forgettable night. He wanted her.

Grace wasn’t casual. She wasn’t replaceable. She was fragile and furious and brilliant, and he would not risk breaking her just to dull the edge.

He hammered the bag until his shoulders screamed, until sweat rolled down his spine and soaked through the waistband of his shorts. Until the bag rattled on its chain and his lungs burned. Chest heaving. Arms shaking. His fists dropped to his sides. Still not enough.

The ache wasn’t physical anymore. Movement hadn’t cured it. Stillness hadn’t saved him, and wanting her had become prayer.

* * *

Grace knocked once on the connecting door, her knuckles tentative but her body anything but. Her mouth still tingled from last night, her limbs loose and trembling beneath the black lace teddy she’d found in the hotel gift shop, bought in a moment of reckless, determined clarity.

She couldn’t stay in that room after he left her. Couldn’t bear the hollow echo of her heartbeat, the suffocating silence of almost. So she had gone out, fingers trembling, legs numb, her pulse trailing after him like a thread she couldn't sever. She’d found the teddy first, then the robe, short, silky, scandalous. Then the pendant. A sunflower. Bright, delicate, fierce. Hopeful.

It hung at her throat now. A symbol of everything she was still learning how to hold.

She’d never worn anything so provocative in her life. The robe barely reached mid-thigh. Her white scars were visible. But she didn’t care anymore. They were hers. Like her red hair, like the way she craved meaning more than safety. Nash had seen them. Had kissed them like they were beautiful. Had told her she’d earned that.

She wanted to give something back.

The lace, the robe, the woman she’d become these last few days, they weren’t for his pleasure. Not really. They were for hers. For the woman who had come out of hiding.

She wanted him to go mad at the sight of her. She wanted to be his, but he’d walked away, and that still hurt.

No answer came from the other side of the door. Her palm pressed against it, forehead leaning close, her body aching with a need that no longer felt like shame. She turned the handle. Unlocked. Her breath caught. Had he left it open for her? She stepped inside, not sure what she expected, but it wasn’t the deep quiet that pulsed like a wound.

He wasn’t here. Not physically. But everything else was.

The air held him like a memory.

Spice and smoke. Warm leather and desert wind. Salt and musk and something darker, older. It wrapped around her like silk drenched in longing, clinging to her skin, seeping into her lungs, and beneath it all, yes, she caught it.

The ghost of his arousal.

That unmistakable scent of need, thick and male, edged in restraint. The room thrummed with it. She inhaled deeply and almost staggered.

He’d wanted her. So badly it had left a trace.

Her knees buckled slightly. She reached for the doorframe, steadying herself as the image bloomed, his body wracked, hard and leaking, fists clenched against pleasure. Denying himself. Fighting a war she hadn't realized he was still losing. A broken sound slipped from her throat.

She wanted every hard inch of him in her mouth. She wanted to taste the part of him he hadn’t given to anyone. Wrap her fingers around the velvet steel of him, drag her tongue over the salty tip, feel the surrender in his breath when he finally let go.

But more than that, more than the sex, the hunger, the fantasy, she wanted to give him peace. Real peace. Not silence. Not control. Something deeper. Something binding.

She stepped closer to the bed. Sheets tangled. Pillows scattered. Evidence of a night spent wrestling something too big for sleep. Her fingers brushed the fabric, and she nearly wept at how it smelled like him.

She climbed onto the mattress, drawn by scent, by memory, by the unbearable ache still burning low in her belly.

She slid her hand down, and with just one touch, her body jolted.

A cry slipped free, quiet and raw. She was already so close, her clit pulsing with every beat of her heart. She slid again, then again, breath catching, hips pressing into the rhythm. When she opened her eyes, they snagged on the mat.

Her breath caught. It was unrolled, haphazard, as if placed in despair. Hebbiti…what have I pushed you to?

Then it dawned on her. That conversation they had about him being too much, how she was overwhelmed, and how he apologized. He was afraid this…this unparalleled desire for her would be too much for her to handle, and she would leave, again.

He prayed because it was the only thing keeping him from breaking her trust . That thought crushed her. He was becoming the man he was before he used sex to cope with his pain. This was the first time he had kneeled since his terrible loss. Not in some clean, elevated spiritual moment, but messy. Physical. Desperate. Human.

He asked for restraint, asked to be worthy of her in a space she made ready for him.

This man did something to her that she could barely breathe around. His control was respect. He prayed because it was all he had left.

Her body throbbed harder for him, wanted him even more.

Her heart stuttered. She closed her eyes, every part of her aching for his touch, to touch him. He chose mercy over pleasure. Prayer over pain. Grace over gratification.

She stared at the mat. That kind of self-control wasn’t just strength. It told her she mattered. Made the invisible…visible. He not only saw her. He found her worthy of devotion in a language her body had never been taught.

She bent down, hands trembling. Straightened the mat. Turned it east. The direction he hadn’t been able to find, but still reaching for home.

Recalibration of a man’s heart.

She had to find him.

She rose slowly. Her body still burning, but it no longer felt like a demand. It felt like a purpose.

She slipped back through the door, grabbed her keycard, and stepped into the hall barefoot, her robe clinging to her thighs, her hair wild, her pulse steady only because she had something to follow.

His scent lingered.

It was faint at first, like the trace of incense after flame, but it grew stronger the closer she got to the elevator. The doors opened, and it surrounded her. Warm. Spiced. Masculine. Her breath caught. Her fingers brushed the sunflower at her throat, grounding herself, anchoring in the storm.

She followed the trail down. Out. Toward the lower floor.

The scent thickened. A thread in the air, an unspoken claim, tugging at something feral in her blood. When she reached the gym door, she knew he was inside. Her fingers curled around the handle. She opened it and stopped breathing.

Nash was moving like a force of nature, each strike precise, devastating. His muscles coiled, legs grounded, sweat carving trails down his back. He was shirtless, the lighting catching every ridge of power, every brutal line of discipline honed by years of war and willpower.

He didn’t see her, and yet she felt seen. Known. Owned.

The bag rocked beneath his blows, his fists like thunder. His jaw clenched. His breath heavy. A man trying to purge something too big to name. The tight hitch in his right shoulder, the sharp twist of his body just before impact. The burn had cooled but was still visible. He fought his pain, and she couldn’t look away from his magnificence. Danger made flesh, and hers.

“Nash,” she breathed.

He froze. Shoulders tightening. Head dropping. For a second, he just let the bag hold him. Then he turned.

His eyes hit her like heat. She saw the flicker, the lace, the pendant, the robe, the flush in her cheeks, the scars she wasn’t hiding. He dragged in a breath. “Grace,” he whispered, hoarse and reverent. “Have some mercy. I’m almost done.”

But she shook her head, barely. “Don’t tell me what to do. You broke me open, Nash. I get to decide what that means.”

He pushed off the bag slowly, every line in his body taut with warning and want. When he turned fully, her knees nearly gave.

His sculpted chest. His cut abs. The dark waistband of his shorts low on his hips. Every inch of him sweat-slicked and glistening.

Then that voice, low, guttural, rough enough to scrape her skin. “I will tell you to get the hell out of my personal space,” he growled, “and go get some fucking clothes on.”

Her mouth curved, helpless. Too late. She was already his.

She was confident enough to know she could meet him beat for beat. Special operators liked to act like they were in charge, but one of the most dangerous men on the planet wanted her. She wasn’t going to let him back down. Not this time.

They were in this together. She was letting go. Evolving. Maybe even healing. But before she handed him her heart, she wanted to know what was holding him back.

She lifted her chin, touched the sunflower around her neck. "Then why did you leave the door unlocked? For a man like you, that’s an invitation."

He stood there, loose but coiled, crimson wraps flexing as he clenched his fists. Like he’d rather be pounding the bag than facing her. That tension? God, it made her blood heat. Every inch of her wanted that fire turned on her.

He scrubbed a towel over his dark hair, down his neck, his chest. The whole performance was a tease, and he didn’t even know it. Or maybe he did. Maybe it was a warning.

He tossed the towel aside. She met the storm in his eyes head-on. Those eyes didn’t shine. They smoldered. Trained to strip her down to her core and catalog what was found. Dangerous. Beautiful. Unrelenting.

She saw her reflection in the mirrored glass behind him, cheeks flushed, pupils wide, mouth parted. But what caught her breath wasn’t the hunger in her eyes. It was the certainty. The raw defiance. She didn’t look afraid. She looked alive.

This wasn’t about proving anything. Not to him. Not even to herself. This was about showing up. Letting herself be seen. Not as the smartest in the room or the most prepared or the girl with every angle covered. Just her. Wanting. Risking. Taking up space.

She didn’t just want his attention. She wanted him. The risk, the confrontation, the fallout, whatever came next. It would be worth it. For the first time in a long time, she wasn't trying to disappear.

She walked toward him, hips loose, gaze locked on his. She wanted to move to rivet his attention, and he didn’t look away. His breath shifted. His gaze dropped to her mouth, darkening.

"You like what you see," she whispered. "You left that door open for a reason."

His eyes dipped to her lips, then dragged over her face with a heat that nearly brought her to her knees. She didn’t let him touch her. Not yet. She settled her palm on his chest, right over the pounding of his heart. His skin was hot. Damp. His breath unsteady.

He dropped his head close. "You wouldn’t want me to make you, Grace."

"I dare you to try."

His nostrils flared. Tension radiated off him like heat from asphalt. His arms caged her against the wall. This close, there was no armor. No distance. Just her pulse hammering in her throat and the iron control slipping behind his eyes.

"Don’t dare me, Grace. I’m a fighter."

"I’m not?"

He didn’t touch her. He just stood there, fighting himself. She wanted to break him. Not to hurt him. To reach him.

"What do you want from me?"

"You already know. You’re just scared to admit it."

She ran her hand up his chest, over his jaw, feeling the tension tremble in his muscles. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t move. Just watched her like she might be the end of him.

"Why don’t you lay it out for me? I can be as dumb as a brick."

"You’re not dumb. Just scared."

He gave her a hard look. "Scared of what?"

"Of what this is. What we are. What we could be."

His jaw worked. His voice was rough. "Go. Spare me this torture."

"You think this is torture? You haven’t seen anything yet. Come back to the room and I’ll drop you to your knees myself."

He stared at her like she’d knocked the wind from him. For a split second, he pressed his face into her hand, a raw, human gesture that nearly broke her.

"Nash…"

He pulled away like she’d burned him. "Go, Grace. We have work to do. That’s the priority."

She moved closer, heat prickling in her chest. "Don’t sacrifice your bravery for me, Nash. Goddammit."

He came back at her fast, his body a storm barely contained. Grabbed her arms. Got in her face.

"My bravery? Bravery is looking fear in the face and doing it anyway. You scare me, Grace. I don’t know which way is up when I’m around you. I can’t risk?—"

She saw it before he even finished. The flex of his forearms. The braced tension in his thighs. His chest rising like he couldn’t catch enough breath. Every inch of him was coiled, taut with restraint, and something darker, more intimate. He wasn’t just trying to intimidate her. He was trying to hold himself back.

"What? Feeling something? Losing control?"

His hands slammed the wall beside her head, boxing her in. His breath shuddered. She felt the heat radiating from him, the hum of muscle, the ache. The raw masculine tension of him, wound tight and barely leashed, hit her like a pulse to the chest. Her body responded instinctively, stomach flipping, thighs clenching, skin tingling with awareness. Every breath she drew was full of him.

She wanted to press herself against all that restraint, to feel it crack and surrender. But more than that, she wanted to be the reason it did.

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t stopped wanting her. His body was still wound around her memory, still hard, still trying to deny itself. It was killing him.

God help her, it was undoing her.

His breath was hard, face tight with emotion she couldn’t untangle. Agony. Desire. Frustration.

"Come on," she whispered. "I found my courage because of you. Give me a chance."

He bowed his head, whispering like it hurt to speak. "Go back to the room and get ready to go." He took her arm and led her to the door, opened it, and gently guided her into the hallway.

She paused, the silence settling between them like breath held too long, and when she looked back at him over her shoulder, her voice was quiet but certain.

“You’re still pulling the door closed,” she said. “It’s barely a crack now, and maybe that’s safer for you. But that wasn’t our first impact, was it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t need one. “I’ve felt the echo ever since. That collision. That moment on a path neither of us walked away from, even if we pretended we had.” She drew in a breath, not because she needed to gather strength, but because she had already found it. “I’m asking you now, open it fully. Let me in… or close it completely.” Her gaze didn’t falter, not once. “Come for me if you want what’s real.”

“You don’t know what I carry, Grace. I’ll burn you down.”

“Do you think that scares me? You think I don’t know what it means to feel like not enough? I lived there. I still wake up there. But I’m not afraid of being less anymore, so if I can do that, you can stop worrying about being too much. I want that too much.”

She closed the gap, grabbed the back of his neck, and stared into those burning, noble eyes. “You may be too much for everyone…but not for me.” She took a heavy breath, brushed her mouth over his. “I’ll be more than enough for you.”

Then she turned and walked away.