Page 54 of The Sniper

He turned his head slightly, watching me.

“I had a sister,” I said, my voice catching on the word. “Her name was Abigail. She died when she was still a baby. I was just a toddler—too young to remember her. But Mama never tried again after that.”

Noah reached out, brushing his knuckles against my cheek. “That’s a different kind of grief.”

I nodded. “Mama says God took Abigail because He needed an angel more than we needed a baby. But she stopped smiling as much after that. Stopped singing in the kitchen. I think part of her stayed with Abigail.”

“And what about you?” he asked gently.

I looked down. “I think I was always trying to be enough for all three of us.”

He didn’t say anything—just moved closer, his fingers grazing my arm, trailing up to the curve of my shoulder. His touch was different now. Not urgent. Not needy. Just present. Like he knew the moment could shift if he pushed too fast.

I let my eyes drift toward the ceiling, tracing the edges of the room in the faint light. The walls were clean but worn, the furniture heavy, masculine, too polished tobe a rental and too lived-in to be part of a hotel. There was a faint smell of cedar and something else—gun oil, maybe? And the faintest hum of something industrial beneath the quiet, like a boiler running somewhere deep in the walls.

I turned my head a little. “Where are we?”

Noah’s hand paused, then resumed its path along my shoulder. “Dominion Hall.”

I frowned. “Is that … like a base?”

He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh but not quite. “Not officially. It’s private. We built it a few years back—my brothers and me. Had the money, had the need. Wanted it done right.”

I rolled toward him a little, curiosity outweighing the ache for a moment. “You built it?”

He nodded, eyes steady on mine. “From the ground up. Custom everything. Steel reinforced, full surveillance, secure perimeter. Nobody gets in unless we say so.”

“What for?” I asked quietly. “What do y’all do here?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just brushed his knuckles gently down my arm, voice soft. “Let’s just say it’s a place for men who didn’t fit cleanly back into civilian life. We needed somewhere to land. Somewhere to regroup. This is it.”

Something about that hit deep. A quiet place built by men who knew war, trying to make peace with themselves on their own terms. And now I was wrapped in one of their beds, held like I was something worth keeping safe.

I looked around again, seeing it differently now. “This is your room?”

He nodded, brushing a knuckle down the center of my back. “One of the bigger suites upstairs. Had to fight Ryker for it when we moved in. Won, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I echoed, lips twitching despite everything.

He leaned in slightly, voice lower now. “You’re safe here, Hallie Mae. No one gets in without our say.”

Something in that settled deep inside me—not just the promise of safety, but the certainty in his voice. The way he said “ours” like it meant something more than geography.

“Is that why you brought me here?” I asked. “Because it’s safe?”

His eyes searched mine for a beat longer than I expected. Then he nodded. “Yeah. And because I didn’t want to let you out of my sight.”

And just like that, the ache came back—different this time. Less grief. More heat. More gravity.

I let myself lean into it.

I let him pull me back down into the sheets, my back against his chest, and this time, I didn’t cry. I just let myself breathe.

His mouth brushed my shoulder—once, soft—then again, lower, just above the edge of the sheet.

“You don’t have to be strong for everybody,” he whispered.

I didn’t answer. But I let the sheet fall a little.

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