Page 55

Hospital Copa D'Or, Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil – Three Days Later

Bailee slipped into the room like smoke, quiet, sharp, carrying intel instead of flowers. Her braid was pulled tight, her stance military-clean, but her eyes…her eyes lingered.

Bailee Thunderhawk stopped just inside the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the curtain as if gauging whether she should have come at all.

Bear didn’t speak. Just watched her.

“I brought an update,” she said, crisp but softer than usual. “Figured you’d want it unfiltered.”

Bear nodded. His throat worked around something that wasn’t pain.

She stepped closer, boots whispering over tile. “You fought like hell, Locklear,” she said, but her voice was quieter now, rougher. “No mercy and you were never out of the fight.”

She didn’t move closer but her eyes did. They traveled the length of him, from the bruises on his neck to the bandage peeking out beneath his gown, then back to his face, his mouth and lingered there like a secret she wasn’t ready to speak aloud.

Bear didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He could feel it, that low, burning electricity pulsing between them, her words meant to be clinical but dragged through too much heat.

“You didn’t hesitate,” she went on, softer now, her eyes caressing his lips with an aching hunger he felt it all the way to his dick. Getting hard in the hospital after being shot. Only she could do that to him.

“You put three men down in under thirty seconds.” Her eyes didn’t move, and he was caught in her crucible. “The precision…I’ve seen Tier One operators that don’t move like that.”

There was something in her expression, tight, vulnerable, something she was trying hard to mask beneath that CIA-cool exterior.

“You saved me,” she added. “You saved Zorro’s family.” She leaned in, her body close, the heat of her scorching his arm. Her lips parted like she was going to kiss him, like she wanted it more than air. Her words wounded him like a confession. Like maybe it had cost her something to say it.

He met her eyes, letting the silence stretch.

She shifted, arms folding like she was trying to cage something in.

“I’m so very thankful you listen well,” she murmured.

“Yup,” he said. “Not dead.”

“Thank the ancestors.” Her voice caught slightly on that last word. She looked away too fast.

Bear’s pulse thudded, slow, steady, intoxicated . His hand clenched in the sheet to keep from reaching for her.

He didn’t speak. Just watched her. The tension between them coiled tighter.

Bailee cleared her throat, but it didn’t help. Her next words came out too fast, too formal. “Anyway. You neutralized Leandro Batiste. Confirmed ID. He bled out before the breach. You did what no one else could.”

Bear blinked slow. “I didn’t know it was him.”

“I figured you didn’t.”

She turned as if to pace but didn’t. Her hands were restless, her shoulders tense. Like maybe she hadn’t slept since that hallway either. Like maybe watching him fall had gutted her in a way she hadn’t had time to process.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

That stopped her.

She looked at him, really looked, and something in her face flickered. Hunger. Guilt. Longing. All tangled up and buried in the rigid lines of a woman who’d made herself untouchable for far too long.

“I will be,” she said finally, her tone unconvincing

Her voice had softened further. “You saved me, Bear. You stopped the man who would’ve finished what he started. BOPE’s so grateful. So is the government. They want to decorate you, the team.”

He grimaced. “I don’t want their medal. The team won’t either.”

“They’re not asking. The government wanted to give all of you a formal commendation, including Bree and Izzy.

But more than that? You and your team saved BOPE from a catastrophic failure.

If Batiste had succeeded, the entire unit might have been dismantled, replaced by something colder. Harder. Less principled.”

Bear exhaled. “He was just a tango in the end. He died like one.”

“Maybe,” Bailee said. “But that doesn’t make what you did any less necessary. Or any less righteous.”

There was a quiet moment. Flint stirred at the foot of the bed but didn’t rise.

Then Bailee’s gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, to the curtain of black hair resting on his chest, damp around the edges, loose now that no mission required it to be restrained.

Her voice changed. Softened. “May I…” She paused. Swallowed. Then met his gaze fully. “Can I brush and braid your hair for you?”

His breath caught. The silence between them thickened, and he hungered to feel her hands on him.

She honored their traditions, which told him she wasn’t as outcast as she thought she was. She knew what it meant, and she still asked. This was shaping up into a monumental mistake.

He nodded. Just once, helpless against his hunger.

Her hands were gentle when she moved, reverent as she reached into her own pack for a comb, like she’d come prepared. He angled his shoulders, allowing her to slip behind him without speaking, her fingers threading through the loose strands, separating, smoothing, braiding.

He closed his eyes, savoring her warmth, her careful touch.

Every pass of her fingers over his scalp lit something inside him he hadn’t felt in years, need, yes, but also desire. Not just for her body, but for the quiet she carried. The way she touched him without claiming, saw him without softening, honored him without ceremony.

Her fingers were gentle.

Her breath ragged.

He wanted her, achingly, beneath him so he could feel the full expanse of her body, her soft breasts, the heat between her legs.

A woman of his people, a woman who would know how to make a home and raise children with love and laughter.

Show him how marriage would work, how love filled all the empty, hollow places inside him.

He swallowed hard. It was an illusion. He knew it was a figment of his imagination.

But he couldn’t seem to let it fully go.

When she finished, her fingers lingered just long enough to feel the shiver roll down his spine.

“I can redo it tighter,” she murmured.

“No,” he rasped. “It’s perfect.”

He didn’t mean the braid.

She didn’t correct him.

Naval Medical Center San Diego, San Diego, California – Ten Days Later

The room was quiet. Flint had drifted off. Bear was seconds from doing the same when the door creaked open.

“Bear?” A hushed voice. “You awake?”

He groaned. “I am now.”

Zorro stepped in, barefoot, dragging his IV stand like a prisoner on the run. His head was down, eyes flicking over his shoulder like he expected sniper fire.

“Sorry,” Zorro whispered, “but I need to use your phone.”

Bear’s brow furrowed. “Why?”

Zorro crept closer, clutching the jangling IV like it offended him. “Keep your voice down. I’m being watched.” He raised his hand. “Joker took mine. Said I was texting too much. Can you believe that shit? Who does he think he is? My dad?”

Bear let his head fall back against the pillow. “Everly.”

Zorro nodded solemnly. “So do me a solid?”

“No,” Bear said flatly. “Go back to your room and rest like he said.”

Zorro stepped closer, the IV rattling again before he snatched the metal arm like it might betray him. “Come on, man. She’s alone. I can feel it,” he hissed fiercely, checking behind him again. “She’s trying to be strong, but she needs me. I have to talk to her.”

Bear groaned. “You need rest, Mateo. You were shot, and you’re on meds. Joker will have your nuts in a vise if he finds you out of bed.”

Zorro’s face contorted with anguish. “You think I can rest knowing she’s out there thinking I’m not fighting for her? I’ll clean your gear for a month. Clean stalls, brew tea. I’ll even braid your hair, man. Anything. Just one text. I’m dying here.”

Bear blew out a breath, rubbed his eyes. “You sound like a drug addict.”

Zorro didn’t miss a beat. “I am . I’m addicted to her.”

There was no winning this.

Bear sighed like a man preparing to be arrested. “Okay. One text. Then get your sorry, recovering ass back to your room before Buck hogties you to that bed.”

Zorro beamed. “You’re the best.”

Bear rolled over. “Tell that to Joker when he kicks my ass.”

Sleep finally returned. For maybe forty-five minutes. Then the door slammed open.

“Bear!” Joker barked.

He jolted upright. Flint growled. “Son of bitch. I’m recovering here. What the fuck is going on?”

Buck and D-Day flanked Joker like hospital-orderly bounty hunters.

Joker’s eyes were fire. “Have you seen Zorro?”

Bear blinked groggily, his voice sleep-rough. “Yeah. He was here earlier.”

“Oh, shit ,” Buck muttered. “You didn’t let him use your phone, did you?”

Bear hesitated. Sighed. “Yes. He was desperate .”

“ Fuck! ” Joker snarled. “Fucking Martinez.”

Buck tossed Bear’s phone at him. “Unlock it.”

Bear did.

Buck tapped furiously, then turned the screen toward the others.

D-Day squinted. “Is that…”

“Yup,” Buck gritted between clenched teeth. “Confirmed reservation. Seat 6F. Wheels up thirty minutes ago.”

Bear’s jaw dropped. “He flew to the Philippines ?”

Buck nodded solemnly. “Used your phone. Booked a ticket. Then vanished like a lovesick commando.” Buck sighed. “There’s a text here, Bear.”

“Read it,” Bear said, unable to keep the smirk off his face.

“Sorry, man. I’m good for the cash, and you know where I live.”

Bear lost it and laughed.

Joker ran his hand down his face. “Goddammit, Martinez. Whose clothes did he confiscate? How could he have gotten—” He reached into his back pocket. “Fuck. He stole his phone back while I was sleeping. That sneaky, ninja bastard.”