Page 77 of The Scout

I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close, my lips brushing against his ear. “Come for me,” I whispered. “I want to feel you.”

That was all it took.

He shattered against me, a deep, guttural sound ripping from his throat as his release took him, his body locking, his grip tightening. I held him through it, whispering his name, pressing soft kisses to his jaw, hischeek, his lips, until he finally sagged against me, boneless and spent.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just breathed, his weight warm and solid above me, his heartbeat slowing against mine.

Then—his fingers slid into my hair, his touch uncharacteristically gentle, almost tentative. He tilted my chin up, searching my eyes, his own unreadable, dark and endless.

“What are you doing to me?” he murmured.

I smiled, brushing my thumb along his cheekbone, feeling the rough scrape of stubble beneath my touch. “The same thing you’re doing to me.”

He exhaled, pressing his forehead to mine, his fingers curling around the back of my neck, his grip firm but not demanding.

For once, Ryker Dane wasn’t in control.

And neither was I.

We were falling together.

26

RYKER

Icouldn’t fucking believe what had happened.

Isabel had unlocked something in me—something I never thought I’d feel again, something I didn’t even realize I’d buried.

Memories.

Not the ones that came in sharp, violent flashes, the ones soaked in blood and regret. These were different. Good memories. Vivid, colorful, alive.

I could almost smell the salt in the air, feel the sun baking my skin as I raced across the sand, my feet kicking up hot grains that stuck to my legs. I could hear the crash of the waves, the distant call of seagulls, the laughter of my brothers as we tried to catch waves on second-hand surfboards, boards that were too small or too warped, but we made them work.

We made everything work.

We fished with poles made from scraps of driftwood and twine, cast our lines into the shallows, waiting for a bite. And when we weren’t doing that, we ran—ran as fast as we could down the shoreline, kicking up water,daring each other to push harder, go faster. For a time, I swore I was the fastest man in the world.

Isabel lay beside me, her bare shoulder brushing against mine. Her warmth grounded me, pulled me out of the memories and back into the present, but the past was still there, running just beneath the surface, closer than it had been in years.

I turned my head slightly, my gaze landing on her. She was waiting. She knew I had more to say.

So I told her.

I told her how seven brothers grew up in an old house on the water on Sullivan’s Island with a single father who, despite everything—despite the long hours, the late nights, the weight he carried—always made time for his kids.

“We didn’t have a lot,” I admitted. “Besides the house, besides each other. But we had peanut butter sandwiches on white bread. We had fresh seafood when we caught it. And at night, we had my father, sitting in the living room, reading to us from that week’s book.”

Isabel’s lips curved slightly, her fingers still moving against my skin. “He read to you?”

I nodded, my throat suddenly tight. “Every damn night. Didn’t matter what kind of day he had. Didn’t matter if he came home looking like he’d been through hell. He’d sit down in that old chair, and we’d pile around him, listening.”

“What did he read?”

I let out a breath of something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Everything. Pat Conroy, Danielle Steele, Clancy, Grisham. He didn’t care what it was, as long as it was well-written. He insisted we be well-read.”

She smiled at that, and for a moment, I let myself feel the warmth that came with remembering.

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