Page 29 of Marked

“Why would she care about Dustin?”

“Now that I see her on both these cases, Harley’s and Jessica’s, there might be some cross over. Let me dig a bit more. I’ll get back to you.

I head to the bedroom to get a shirt.

“All right. I’m going to look more into Special Agent Laurens while you’re doing that.”

“Careful, Barns. Taking out some dirtbag who has this sort of rap sheet won’t bring too much heat on you, but you go after an FBI agent and you’re gonna bring down the full agency on you.”

“When have you known me to act before I have all the information?” The shower turns off, and a moment later I hear her humming in the bathroom. I don’t bother fighting the smile it brings me.

“When? Commander Smythe’s tent.” His voice dips.

“I wasn’t wrong,” I defend.

“No. You weren’t. I’m just saying, let’s get more information on her before you take her out. You can get the bigger fish.” He has a point.

While I didn’t mind taking out both my fucking C.O., and the Afghan commander who were sharing a young boy from the village, had I not killed them so quickly, I might have gotten information on which government officials were sanctioning such actions.

“Nothing final. Just gonna do some reconnaissance,” I assure him. The bedroom door creaks open, and Harley steps out. Small droplets of water drip from her still wet hair onto the pink T-shirt she’s paired with a pair of jeans cut off atthe knee. They’re just long enough to hide the pretty scars on her thighs.

I sink into the armchair in the living area as she makes her way toward me. Little peaks show through the T-shirt. My sweet girl isn’t wearing a bra. When she reaches me, she climbs into my lap, straddling me.

“I gotta go. Get back in touch when you find that link.” I hang up the call and toss the phone onto the couch.

“Anything important?” Her eyes follow the phone as it bounces on the cushion.

“Not yet.” I grab her by her hips, pulling her into me, inhaling her vanilla bean shower scrub.

“You’re not wearing a shirt.” She leans back and runs her fingertip down my chest, stopping at a particularly ugly scar just above my left pec muscle. “What happened here?”

I look down at it, though I don’t need to.

“A bullet, baby.” I grab her wrist, bringing her palm to my lips.

“Who shot you?” Worry takes over her expression in an instant.

“Bad men. Real bad men.” Leaning back, I let her get back to inspecting all of the marks on me. She traces the tattoos, one for every tour I did overseas.

“And this?” She runs her fingernail up the scar over my stomach. “This wasn’t a bullet.”

“No. A knife,” I hiss when she digs her fingernail into the skin. It’s been healed for five years, but the scar still has some sensitivity to it.

“I know this one.” She pulls my arm up and brings the inside of my forearm to her mouth, pressing her lips to the largest tattoo on me. It features the wings of an eagle set behind a skull with fire in its eye sockets. Between the wings and the skull is a crossing of a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife and a sword. Flames and lightning bolts are set in the background.

“You do?” I brush a wet strand away from her face.

“Yeah. My uncle had one like it. Not exactly, but similar. You were a Marine?”

I pause. “I was.”

“Special Forces…no, they call it something else.” She scrunches her lips up while she’s thinking, and it gives her the most innocent sex appeal. My cock hardens beneath her.

“Raiders. The unit is called Marine Raider Regiment.” I wrap my arms around her ass, pulling her to me so I can kiss her throat. “Your uncle was a Raider?”

“Mmmhmm.” She nods. “When he died, Mom had a full military funeral for him.” She sinks further into my lap, moving her feet to curl around my back. “Are you still in the Marines?”

I laugh. “No. They politely asked me to leave five years ago.”

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