Page 8 of Rupture

Get a grip, Rose. They’re here to escort you. Protect you.

Harris reached for the side door handle, but the door slid open before he could touch it.

Heat slammed into her, forcing her to recoil into her seat.Hell. Literally.

A man leaned in, a welcoming smile on his intelligent face as he extended a hand.

“Dr. Wyndham? Professor Harris? Welcome. I’m Ethan Carter, Operational lead, Ocean Wolves.” His black T-shirt hugged a wide chest, the bands of his sleeves cutting into huge biceps. The ghost of a scar zigzagged from his lip to his nose, accentuating the aura of strength and control that transmitted through Rose’s skin as she accepted his handshake.

“Hi. Just Rose is fine.” Her pulse eased a little at his confident grip and the warmth in his eyes.Thiswas a man who took care of people, who excelled at his job.

“Likewise. Call me Ethan.” His smile was broad.

She accepted his offer of help and used his support toexit the helicopter in one piece, her boots crunching the dry mud. Harris followed, muttering about dust under his contact lenses.

The heat was suffocating, feeling hotter when she breathed in than out. This was what it must be like living in a furnace. Rose pulled at her collar, undoing her shirt by several buttons in the vain hope of a breeze on her skin.

Ethan’s head bobbed toward her in empathy as she plucked her shirt from where it was melded to her stomach. “Heat takes a little getting used to.”

“Yes.” Sweat popped on every inch of her body. The air was still, claustrophobically hot. Around her, skeletal bushes sprouted sporadically from the gritty sand like black splinters. She had officially landed in the deadest place on the planet.

She eyed the nearby tents. None of them looked like they had showers.

Rose Wyndham.She tightened her grip on her backpack.Quit whining.Her career depended on this and if she was going down, it wasn’t without a fight. The OSC had chosen her for a reason—because she was up to the job. She could do this.

She fumbled in one of the side pockets of her pack and, retrieving her water bottle, downed several gulps of water. It was lukewarm, but when she screwed the lid back on, she felt a little more like herself.

Ethan pivoted on one polished boot. “Welcome to the Kalahari.” He gestured toward the largest tent. “This is our command tent. We’re just about to start the mission briefing, so it’s perfect timing for you both to join us.”

The group of men she had spotted on landing were gone. Only one man walked toward her, over six foot tall, his lean legs eating up the parched ground between them in notime at all. Ethan gestured toward him. “My right-hand man. Nik Borostovlo. You need anything at all, let Nik know and he’ll take care of you.”

“Nik. Dr. Rose Wyndham and Professor Jeff Harris.”

The second man, Nik, smiled, laugh lines forming at the corners of steely—gray eyes. “Pleasure,” he said, his voice gravelly with a Russian accent that surely felled women in their droves.

His grip was firm and dry and the muscles on the back of Rose’s neck that had been pinging with tension since she’d been shunted into the helicopter, eased off a few more degrees.

A man shouted and Nik’s attention bounced off her face and over her shoulder.

Rose followed the direction of his gaze. Two men had unloaded MARV’s crate from the rear ramp of the helicopter, while a third gave directions. The men were joking with each other as they carried the crate toward the camp, definitely not paying attention.

MARV. Her heart rate exploded stratospherically.

“Hey!” She waved to catch their attention, abandoning her backpack and breaking into a jog. The toe of her boot hit something unyielding, and she fell. Red dirt filled her nostrils, gritty between her teeth.

Shit.

She planted her hands on the ground and pushed up, but her vision was blocked by a pair of polished military boots. Her reflection looked back at her, her cheek smudged red, her hair in disarray.

“Let me help you.” A gruff male voice and a large masculine hand clasped her forearm and boosted her to her feet.

Rose collided with an expanse of muscled chest that blocked out the sun before her feet found the ground again.

Her breath hitched. Scrub that. He blocked outeverything.

He loomed over her, an imposing figure garbed in fitted cargo pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt that clung to him like a second skin. Sunlight glinted off the intricate pattern of silver threads woven into the t-shirt fabric, accentuating the flex of perfectly toned muscles beneath. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze traced the subtle ridges of his abdomen, the broad expanse of his chest.

Hexis smart fabric.

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