Page 209 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

He crosses to her with quiet purpose, gaze never straying. Everything about him says: I’ve already found what matters.

Behind them, Jeb steps in. The former Charlie team member moves with a deliberate gait, and the subtle hitch in his step is a reminder of the injury that nearly took him out. He rolls his shoulders, stretching muscles still stiff from whatever hell they just endured, and eyes the espresso machine like it’s personally offended him—like if it so much as sputters, he might put it out of its misery.

“This thing still on its deathbed?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“Hanging in there,” I reply.

Jeb nods once, then adds under his breath, “I could probably rebuild it in an hour if you let me take it apart.”

Malia chokes on a laugh. “You’re not touching my espresso machine, Jeb.”

His expression says otherwise.

And then, there’s Gabe.

He doesn’t just enter—he claims the space.

Dark. Lethal. Controlled.

The others might move like predators, but Gabe moves like the weapon they call in when predators fail. He has a precision to him—like every breath, every step, every flick of his gaze is calculated and earned.

He brings the heat with him.

Not just physical—though the raw strength in his frame is impossible to ignore—but something deeper. A gravitational pull. That quiet, consuming intensity that makes your lungs forget how to work.

He doesn’t spare the others a glance.

His eyes find me, and everything else ceases to exist.

The hum of the café.

The weight of the past.

Even the air between us goes still.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t need to.

The tension crackling off him says enough:You’re mine. You were always mine.

And God help me—I want it.

Every dark, dominant, terrifying part of him.

My pulse stutters.

His smirk is slight, but it’s knowing.

Then—he keeps moving. Not a word, not a touch—just enough of a look to remind me that I have a very long night ahead of me.

And just when I think the room can’t feel any fuller?—

Rigel steps in. He doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t need to.

He belongs.

Big. Steady. Quiet in a way that makes noise feel unnecessary. His presence doesn’t demand attention—it commands it.

Not through volume but through gravity. The kind that makes people take notice without realizing they’ve gone still.

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