Page 8 of Desperate Actions

Under MARSOC—Marine Forces Special Operations Command—he became something more than just a soldier. We were never told exactly, but I researched it. I studied.

MARSOC made weapons of men. That’s what Sammy had been for them.

A blade.

A ghost.

But he was so much more to me. And I spent years praying for his safe return.

Not that he needed my prayers. Sammy doesn’t need anyone.

Even so, I used to write to him.

Long letters, filled with every thought I couldn’t say out loud.

I never sent them.

Because letters like that—letters that raw, that intimate—deserved to be written by hand, not typed and stripped of their flaws by some impersonal software.

And my handwriting? A disaster.

The mistakes would have been everywhere, visible, like a neon sign screaming that I couldn’t measure up. That I didn’t deserve him.

So, I kept them. Tucked them away. Let my feelings rot in the dark where they belonged.

But it never stopped the way my mind wandered to him. The way it still does.

Especially now.

Because as we check into our rooms, my stomach clenches when I see him grab his keycard right after I take mine.

His room is right next to mine.

The realization settles in my chest like a slow-burning ember, warm and dangerous.

I shouldn’t be excited.

I shouldn’t feel my pulse pick up, shouldn’t feel the heat unfurl low in my belly at the simple knowledge of his proximity.

Nothing will happen.

I know that.

I know.

But it doesn’t stop me from wanting.

Doesn’t stop my heart from hammering against my ribs, from my breath catching in my throat at the mere thought of him just on the other side of that wall.

I can’t help it.

Because being near Sammy Ramirez has always felt like standing too close to an open flame—dangerous, intoxicating, inevitable.

And I have spent years trying not to burn.

“What are you wearing tonight?”

Jade’s voice pulls me from my thoughts as she tucks her brilliant red hair behind her ear, her emerald eyes glittering with mischief.

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