Page 21 of The Foreman
He raised a brow. "You giving orders now?"
"If it means I don’t have to drag your unconscious ass to the ER later, yes."
He grumbled something under his breath but stood and peeled off the tactical shirt. The moment he did, Macy sucked in a breath.
His chest was a roadmap of scars—some faded, others angry and fresh. A brutal tapestry of battles won, survived, and buried.
One in particular curved under his ribs, red and swollen. Macy stepped in, letting her fingers trail lightly above the wound. His skin radiated heat, taut and smooth under the pad of her thumb, and she could feel the tightly wound tension beneath it—not just from pain, but restraint. The bruise was tender to the touch, blooming across muscle that flexed as he moved. Her breath hitched slightly, not from fear, but from the unexpected rush of awareness. Every inch of him was carved like purpose, and touching him like this unraveled something sharp and intimate inside her. She stepped closer and pressed her fingers just above it, careful but firm.
He didn’t flinch. Just locked eyes with her. "Bet your friends at the club never told you I walked away, did they?"
She shook her head. "No. They painted you as a legend. The kind of warrior Dom who’d survive a nuclear blast and still have time to save the dog."
He huffed. "Got hit on the last op. Took longer to get back than I expected. By the time I was healed up, I realized I needed to step away, so I did."
"So you helped build Silver Spur and the club?"
"Had to do something with the second life."
She reached for the medical kit and grabbed a tube of antiseptic, dabbing it on the bruise, just in case it, too, turned out to be a cut. He hissed once but didn’t move.
"You ever let anyone take care of you?" she asked, voice quiet but firm.
"No, and neither do you. Almost everyone thought you were a brat. I always believed it was because you were too scared to really submit."
She tilted her head and held her temper. "Is it that obvious?"
He met her gaze. "Only because you keep acting like you're invincible. Like needing someone is weakness. It’s not."
Her hands stilled.
He looked at her then, really looked. "You’re not just smart, Macy. You’re dangerous. That stunt in the barn—you didn’t hesitate."
"Neither did you."
"That's because I've spent most of my life training for situations like that. You haven't, but you saved my life," he said quietly, the words rough around the edges.
She saw the effort it took for him to say it—like dragging barbed wire through his throat. The words left a mark, not just in the space between them, but in the way he looked at her afterward. It wasn’t just thanks. It was a crack in the armor. And it hurt him to let it show.
"I wasn’t going to let you die before I got answers."
He laughed softly. "That’s one way to put it."
She met his gaze. "You’re not invincible, McRae. And I’m not fragile. We do this together."
"You always this bossy?"
"Only when I want someone to live."
He reached for her wrist and pulled her closer. Not rough. Not commanding. Just enough to let her feel the heat radiating off him. Enough to set her pulse stuttering.
"You’re in way over your head," he murmured.
"So pull me out."
He kissed her again, slower this time. His mouth brushed over hers with deliberate patience, the warmth of his lips coaxing rather than claiming. Macy responded instinctively, herfingers sliding up his chest to rest just over his heart. The steady thump beneath her hand betrayed a storm of emotion he hadn’t voiced.
His hand moved to cradle the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair as he deepened the kiss, not with urgency but with aching control. She parted her lips, inviting him in, and their tongues met in a slow, sensual dance that warmed the ache deep in her core. The connection wasn’t just physical. It hummed with something raw and unspoken, a tether anchoring them in a moment suspended between danger and desire.
