Page 32 of Brawler
But Beast… He cut through the chaos. Every twitch of muscle, every subtle shift in the dog’s breath slid into Brawler like it was his own. Wired tight, they shared one nervous system, the dog’s steadiness anchoring his overload, the dog’s tension sparking his readiness.
Emily pressed against his back, trembling. He let Beast’s calm bleed into him, then into her, because as long as Beast was steady, nothing was getting through. She drew a shuddering breath and pressed closer, and fucking got through his armor like it was non-existent, into the places he kept locked down. For the first time he could remember, a woman wasn’t just an outlet, a fucking slot for his overstimulated dick. She was someone to shield, someone to reassure…someone who made him want to tear down every barrier he’d built for a small slice of thatshortcake energy, which was bigger than life, bigger than his ability to keep her in any kind of box.
His fucking fear. He knew himself too well. He wouldn’t ever be satisfied with a slice. Not of her. He wanted every bit of it, every bite of that delectable dessert. Pressed to his lips, filling his mouth, tingling his tongue. Beneath him, on top of him, consuming him, but filling up the emptiness he was only now realizing he’d masked with all his stupid, rutting bullshit.
He shoved it all away. He’d always been good at sealing things in boxes, locking them down tight. But this time the lid wouldn’t hold. She spilled through every crack, too much, coating him like sparkling pixie dust, a shimmer he’d fucking die for. Even worse, every Tinkerbell joke Flash could dream up and torture him with. A living, desperate reminder that, yeah, he was falling for a tiny, determined firecracker who wasn’t even trying to lock him down.
Yeah. Flash and his fucking jokes. A fate worse than death.
Maybe.
Worth it? Every goddamned minute.
Beast twitched, looked up at him as if to sayMove, you big, besotted lug.We’ve got company.His mind snapped back to business.
Egress? North. Perpendicular to his team’s trajectory. Alone, he’d have jogged for miles, disappeared into shadow. With Emily, that wasn’t an option. So he pushed hard, dragging her through brush, lifting her when she stumbled, carrying her when she couldn’t keep pace. Her weight barely registered. What registered was how close it had come, the sound of her screaming his name.
He ducked into another convenient blind. Blending in, his camo hard to detect. Luckily, Emily was dressed in drab colors, a military green T-shirt under a long-sleeved shirt, the cuffs rolled to her forearms, a dark forest green, along with rust-coloredcargo pants and sturdy boots. She was likely dressed to make it harder for a jaguar to detect her.
He looked down. His grip had left her pale skin mottled, every one of his fingers stamped on her arm like a goddamn brand.
Fuck. He didn’t know his own damn strength, and those marks showed how one-track his mind was right now that he didn’t even have the forethought to be careful with her. The sight of them dug claws into him that sliced him raw.
He keyed his comm, voice low. “LT?” Nothing but static. The canopy overhead was going to fuck with the airspace and the ability for his signal to penetrate the thickness. They were on their own, his brothers out of reach.
So they hid. Not his choice. Every cell in his body screamed to hunt the bastards down, end it before they regrouped. But Emily was priority one. No question. He could still see the bastard’s face when he’d grabbed her. Could still hear the blow. His heart kicked hard against his ribs.
Christ. Another bruise. His fucking failure written on her skin. He’d gotten to her too late by seconds, and those seconds branded her. Rage raked through him, hot and violent, a promise he couldn’t voice with her this close. That man was already dead, but it wasn’t enough, would never be enough. He wanted every bastard in this jungle ground into the dirt for daring to touch her.
His heart was racing, fury barely leashed. He wanted to bend down, do something to ease her pain, her fear, but there was no time. Every second was the difference between survival and a body bag. Every second dragged them closer to being overrun. Beast’s reaction and Brawler’s pulse were the only clocks that mattered.
Her breath was coming hard and fast. Back there…that had been close. Too damn close. He had a full mag in his M18, threemore in his vest, plus his sidearm and several clips. Not enough rounds to win a gun battle if those locals chased them down.
“You hanging in there?” he asked without looking back.
“Yes.”
That was a lie. She looked more like she was dangling from a cliff, shell-shocked. He could imagine what was running through her mind, and none of it was good…except that flare of…desire. Had that been real when she looked at him like he was the Boogie Man come to life?I am fucked in layers, he thought, Flash’s words coming back to haunt him. He always trusted his instincts, but Emily was a complete unknown to him, and he wasn’t sure if he was reading her signs or mistaking his own.
His own body was no help. A hard-on in the middle of a firefight wasn’t new. Adrenaline did that to men. But with her? It hadn’t let up since the first collision in the jungle. That was new. That was dangerous. No surge of chemicals explained why he still wanted her, why every brush of her breath against him lit him up all over again.
Rustling snapped him around. Emily pressed into his chest, shaking so hard it bled through him. He wasn’t Mister Nice Guy in combat, but her fear crawled straight into his skin. Need rolled off her, telling him he was her shelter, touchstone, anchor. Better the monster she knew. It twisted him up like nothing else ever had.
“I’ve got you.” True enough, even if safety was a lie.
Her small hands clawed into his vest, camo shirt balled in her fists. He scanned the green, senses stretched razor-thin.
“There’s blood…” she whispered, horrified.
He spun, grip tightening on her shoulder, eyes dropping to her body.
“You hurt?” The words came out harsh.
“No…don’t think so. No pain.” Confused, unsteady.
There was a bloody smear at her waist, but she couldn’t have run the way she had, for as long as she had, if she’d been wounded, and the material wasn’t torn. It was just bloody.
Then it hit him. He’d done that to her. Stabbed guys, gotten blood on his gloves, and then grabbed her. Crimson slashed across her collarbone, a handprint on her shoulder…his. Fuck.
