Page 61 of Collateral Damage
The air leaves my lungs in a soundless rush. It isn’t the frantic pounding of an intruder. It’s the precise sequence Silas said he’d use.
The terror in my chest collapses into a surge of relief so sharp it almost hurts. I don’t think—I scramble, clawing across the floor to the door. My fingers are clumsy as I yank the door open.
Silas looms there, filling the doorway, a wall of dark wool and ice. He kicks the door shut behind him, the force rattling the frames, and slams the bolt home. He’s heaving, his face masked by melting snow and wind-whipped exhaustion.
Whatever he hunted out there, whoever he fired at, it wasn’t Reagan. The realization doesn’t chase the fear away; it only changes it, turning the cold terror into a restless, burning energy.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” he says.
Even his body language screams he’s lying. Moments ago, I was certain the crack I heard was my world shattering. The relief is a physical force now—violent, demanding, irrational.
I don’t think. I hobble toward him, the throbbing in my ankle fading beneath the desperate gravity pulling me into his orbit. I grab his lapels, my fingers sinking into the freezing fabric.
I don’t wait for an explanation. I press my mouth to his.
For a heartbeat, he’s still. Then a low, broken sound tears from his throat—a ragged growl. His hands lock around my waist, heat burning through my shirt as he crushes me against him, lifting me until my toes leave the floor.
He tastes of the storm—sharp ozone and the bitter scent of cordite. His lips are hard and frantic, moving against mine with a raw honesty that strips away every barrier he’s built.
His stubble scrapes my jaw, rough against the slick cold of his coat. Every line of his body presses into mine, his heart a frantic hammer against my ribs that matches the violent rhythm of my own.
Outside is nothing but ice and noise, but here, against his hard, shaking frame, the room tilts. The realization cracks through me, staggering and terrifying.
I don’t just need his protection.
I need him.
Silas
For a ragged half-second, my mind is still anchored in the tree line, the ghost of an enemy in the whiteout. Then the storm clears, replaced by her perfume and I’m drowning in her.
She fumbles with my zipper, the metal rasping in the sudden quiet. My coat hits the floor with a heavy thud. The cabin’s draft bites through my thermal, but I burn under the heat of her palms sliding up my sides.
I pivot, pinning her against the door frame. Kissing her with starving intensity, trying to pour every regret I carry into the friction of our mouths—every mission, every casualty, every cold night I’d spent convincing myself I was better off alone.
Ten years. Ten years.
Her fingers slip beneath my shirt, palms flat against the rigid muscle of my stomach. My entire frame locks. Her skin is impossibly soft, blistering heat mapping the topography of my scars, her trembling touch tracing the lines where my armor usually sits. I’ve jumped from transport planes, breached doors in the dead of night, stared down men who wanted me dead without my pulse hitting this cadence. But Ava’s touch is a surgical strike, unraveling me thread by thread.
This is an unmitigated disaster. The most dangerous thing I’ve ever invited into my life.
Ten years. Ten years. 3,650 days since I last gave in to temptation.
Ten years since I made a vow. On my knees. A covenant between God and me.
Ten years since I promised to put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires.
I can’t do this. I won’t do this.
Mustering every ounce of discipline I have, I pull back, chest heaving as if I’ve just finished a forced march through the peaks, my lungs burning. My forehead drops to hers, and I clamp my eyes shut, struggling to remember how to breathe.
Ava’s eyes flutter open, her pupils blown wide, her lips swollen from my mouth. She looks completely undone. I know I look the same—wrecked, exposed, and terrified.
I can’t deny it anymore.
This was never about a favor. Never about duty. And the realization that I am now incapable of walking away from her is a kind of terror that makes the storm outside feel like child’s play.
