Page 38 of Breaking His Exile

Jesus.

She didn’t understand. She didn’t know him. Didn’t know the ugly shape of the thing that lived inside his chest and fed on every good decision he’d ever made.

He grabbed his jacket off the hook. His hands were still shaking, and he fumbled the zipper. He blamed the mountain cold.

“I need to check the generator.” The words came out clipped. “Rain’s been coming down hard. If the fuel lines flood⁠—”

“Evander.”

“—I need to move it to higher ground. And the shed. The padlock’s been sticking. I should oil it before the metal swells. And check on Sable.” They were all pathetic excuses, but it didn’t matter if they put distance between him and her.

“Evander—”

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Because if he looked at her again, he didn’t trust that he had the willpower to resist her.

He threw open the door and strode out into the rain.

Distance.

He needed distance.

Ten feet.

Twenty.

Enough that the smell of her would stop filling his lungs every time he breathed.

He didn’t stop at the generator. He walked past it, past the woodpile. Sable stood under the lean-to, head low. She snorted as he passed, eyeing him like he was insane.

Maybe he was.

He walked the property line, boots sinking into mud. Tilly followed, padding beside him with her dark coat gone sleek and wet. The dog didn’t question the need to be outside in this weather. Tilly never questioned. She just matched his pace, watched the trees, and let him walk.

The problem wasn’t the kiss.

Not entirely.

He’d expected the kiss. Had seen it coming from the moment Rainey Beckett climbed into his truck at the Dead Marshall with a guitar and cracked ribs and eyes that read him faster than he wanted to be read.

The problem was what happened during it.

For thirty seconds—maybe less—he’d forgotten.

Forgotten the five men who bled out in Afghan dirt because they’d followed him. Forgotten the sound River Beckett made when the winch line failed. Forgotten the simple truth he’d built his life around: people who trust him pay for it.

During those seconds, with his hand on the back of Rainey’s neck and her mouth warm against his, he hadn’t been thinking about any of that.

He’d been thinking about tomorrow. About waking up every morning and finding her still there.

He’d wanted it. Not just her. All of it. The whole impossible thing, forever.

The last time he’d let himself be that certain about anything, Nate Holloway had been beside him, binoculars up, asking if he was sure. He had been sure. The terrain was right. The intel was solid. The target was preparing to disappear, and command was making decisions from too far away with too little information. He’d told Nate yes. Five men had followed him down into the kill zone because they trusted his judgment more than they trusted the order coming through their radios.

They’d trusted him.

And they’d bled for it.

And then so had River, that second night at Valor Ridge.