Chapter Eighteen

Doc

Natasha's eyes are closed when I slip back into the bedroom. If anyone gets within ten feet of the cameras, my phone's alert is loud enough to wake the dead. But I still sent a message to Lucas with Emerald City Security to find out how quickly I can get one of their systems installed.

I still don't know who's after her—or why—but waking her is the last thing I want to do. So I tuck the gun between the mattress and the headboard, then stretch out on top of the duvet.

My jeans have been strangling my dick all day. I can't help how I feel around her, even if it is inappropriate as fuck. She was half dead when I found her this morning, and I still wanted her. Getting her into my t-shirt almost killed me.

"When I asked you to come back, it wasn't as a babysitter," Natasha says. The sleep-roughened edge to her voice rockets my arousal up to eleven—or eleven hundred. With a groan, I try to adjust myself before I do permanent damage.

Her skin is almost cool when I touch my lips to her forehead. Thank God. Relief floods every muscle in my body. Before I can pull away, she cups the back of my neck and pulls me closer. The kiss is swift and hard, full of promises I'm aching to keep.

"We can't, baby. Soon. But not yet." I'd give anything to be able to take her. But we both need sleep, and I won't rush this. I want hours with her. Days, even. Time to learn what she likes. To memorize her taste. To discover the parts of her body I can kiss to send her flying.

"Then get under the covers."

"Natasha—"

Tears shimmer in her eyes. "Please, Doc. I'll tell you what you want to know. But I'm terrified it's going to break me. I…I need your arms around me."

Fuck. I almost fall over trying to get my jeans off. Putting up the camera did a number on my back, and my left leg is half numb again. But I'll give her whatever she needs. As long as she stays with me.

I tuck her against me, her head on my shoulder, and our legs intertwined. I can't see her eyes in this position, but I hope that'll make it easier for her.

"I didn't want to be a Ranger." Her fingers slide down my chest to trace the ridges of my abs. "I was happy where I was. I'd been in the army for seven years. I thought maybe I'd make it all the way to Sergeant First Class. Maybe Master Sergeant if I was lucky. Never gave a single thought to being an officer. I was good at taking orders. Hell, I spent as long as I could as a Specialist. That's where the real fun was."

I cover her hand with mine and chuckle. "The mafia was good to me too. A couple of us had desk plaques that said ‘United States Chair Force.' We used to see how long we could leave them out before our Staff Sergeant noticed."

"I once spent three whole days taking inventory of a supply closet." Natasha sighs, some of the tension returning to her muscles. "But right before I was promoted to Sergeant, the congressman from my district got a shit-ton of bad press. He'd sexually harassed some young aide and was desperate to find a way to redeem himself before the next election. He decided parading around the Army's first female Ranger—from his hometown—was the way to do it."

"What's this idiot's name? He's not still in Congress, is he?"

She laughs, but there's no joy in the sound. "Last I checked, he was still there. But I've had very limited access to the internet for the last eight years."

I make a mental note to add this fucker to whatever list I end up giving McCabe. He's toppled governments before. He can disgrace one measly congressman.

Her lips skim one of the healing bruises on my chest, and she squeezes my hand. "I failed out twice. Both times, I told the bastard to find someone else. But he refused. I was perfect for the job."

"Perfect?" I ask. "How?"

Her sigh overflows with sadness—and sarcasm. "I was pretty. Not too hard or too jaded. Nice hair. A nice ass."

I tighten my arm around her, but that only aggravates my bruised ribs, and I force myself to relax.

"The third time, I glued myself to another candidate's side. Chris Bowers. We'd gone through Basic together. He was a friendly face, and God. I needed that. Most of the guys hated having a woman around. Especially one who'd washed out twice. Chris got me through. Talked me out of quitting when I got low, helped me figure out how to silence some of the assholes who kept making my life a living hell. And that last time, I passed."

"How long were you a Ranger?"

"Nine years. We spent most of our time in Iraq. The last few deployments were in the Al Anbar province. I hated my squad leader. He was a lecherous piece of shit who fucked every woman he could get his hands on—then bragged about his conquests whenever he could. But Chris and I were in the same squad, and as long as we stuck together, Bastian never tried to touch me."

"Natasha, he never—?" I don't want to ask, but I have to know.

She shudders in my arms. "No. Never…that. He'd slap my ass every chance he could, but that was pretty standard behavior. I got used to it. Mostly."

A gentle kiss flutters over my collarbone. She hasn't stopped touching me in little ways. Her fingers skimming my waistband. Her lips grazing my neck. My pecs. Her toes brushing my ankle.

"A little over eight years ago, we were searching for a high-value target. But we had mixed intel. Two locations, four clicks apart. Command ordered us to split up. Chris and I went to one cluster of two houses. Bastian took the rest to the primary location. It wasn't standard operating procedure. The entire squad should have stuck together. But those were the orders. We followed them."

The longer Natasha talks, the more I want her to stop. She hasn't gotten to the truly terrible part yet, and when she does, I'm afraid I won't be able to give her what she needs. Or keep her from running away.

"Our location was deserted. There hadn't been a soul there for months. Chris and I knew something was wrong. We radioed command, told them we were going to rendezvous with the others. Comms cut out." Her words are coming faster now, the memories stealing her away from me. "Bastian, Collins, Sutton, Doherty, and Bowen were in a house that wasn't on any of our scans. We heard a woman screaming, so we approached. The door was cracked open. I saw…everything. Bastian's pants were down. The daughter couldn't have been more than fifteen. He shot her first," she says. "Then the mother. I watched him pull the trigger with his dick still covered in that poor girl's blood."

Sobs wrack her body. I'd give anything to lift this burden from her shoulders. But I can't. All I can do is hold her.

"Tell me the rest of it, baby. Get it out. I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

Doc knows everything now. How many times Bastian tried to kill me. How Parker found the safe house the night before I testified. How I escaped. How I came to Blakely. And how many times I thought about leaving.

I don't have any tears left to cry. My eyes are hollow, the lids nothing but sandpaper.

"You have to sleep," Doc says, his deep voice my only anchor in this storm. "He won't find you here. Not tonight."

"You can't promise me that." I wish I could believe him. I want to believe him. But he doesn't know Bastian like I do.

"Maybe I can." Doc reaches for his phone. The movement costs him. His ruddy cheeks pale, and his chest stutters until he gets his breathing under control.

"I can't believe they let you out of the hospital," I mutter as I rub slow circles over his bicep.

"Terrible patients, remember?" He types out a text message, then shows it to me before he sends it to Raelynn.

Doc: Did Wyatt and Inara leave any cameras at Natasha's house? Or the marina?

It only takes the woman two minutes to respond.

Raelynn: This ain't our first rodeo. The marina's a busy place. But no one's touched Nat's house. And the harbor master has all the records she needs to send these idjits all over hell's half acre searching for a man who don't exist.

I rub my gritty eyes and stifle my yawn. I'm so tired, I could sleep for a week straight. If only I thought I'd be safe that long. "What in the world is hell's half acre?"

Doc chuckles and returns his phone to the nightstand. "Raelynn's from Texas. They speak a whole other language there. I'm pretty sure she means anything that might have tied me to Blakely has been thoroughly and completely erased."

I scoff. "Not Clancy's reservation system."

"Yep. Even that. McCabe's wife is a hacker. One of the best in the world, from what Raelynn's said."

Snatching my phone from the nightstand, I scroll through the text messages the computer sends me every week. All the ones that used to say D. Reynolds now show C. Jacks. "Who is C. Jacks? And how the hell did she hack my phone?"

"Now do you believe me?" he asks as he eases the device from my hand. "There's still a lot we have to talk about. Including how McCabe and his team can help put an end to this. For good. But for tonight, you're safe. We're safe. Sleep with me, baby. In the morning, we'll figure out what to do next."