Page 44 of Surrender to Me
“You made chai?”
“Knew you’d prefer it over coffee.” I hold out the blanket. “And you’re going to freeze to death out here.”
She accepts both offerings, wrapping the fleece around her shoulders before taking a tentative sip. Her eyes close for just a moment, and I catch that same expression from this morning—pure bliss, like she’s tasting something sacred.
“Thank you.” The words are soft, almost reluctant, like admitting I’ve done something nice for her costs her something.
I settle into the chair next to hers, close enough to feel her body heat but far enough away that she doesn’t bolt. The silence stretches between us, comfortable for me, clearly torturous for her. She keeps glancing at me sideways, like she’s waiting for me to start interrogating her.
Instead, I drink some of my coffee and look at the stars. There are thousands of them up here, away from the city lights. The kind of sky that makes me feel small and infinite all at once.
I study her profile in the moonlight—the elegant line of her neck, the way she holds herself even when she thinks she’s relaxed. Always ready to run or fight.
“Somalia.”
Frowning, she considers me.
This is a technique I’ve mastered. Sharing something to encourage reciprocity. “Mogadishu. Eight years ago.” But this isn’t anything I’ve told anyone else. “Lost half my team because I got emotionally invested in protecting a local asset. Made decisions based on feelings instead of facts.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “What happened to the asset?”
“She died anyway.” The words taste bitter. “Turned out she was feeding intel to both sides. Playing everyone. My feelings didn’t matter worth a damn in the end.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It taught me a valuable lesson about keeping professional distance.”
She turns to face me fully then, something shifting in her expression. “Is that what this is? Professional distance?”
The question cuts right to the heart of it. Because whatever’s happening between us, it sure as hell isn’t professional. And we both know it.
“No,” I say simply. “It’s not.”
“Then what is it?”
“Honestly? I have no fucking clue.” I lean back in the chair, studying her face. “I just know that every instinct I’ve developed over fifteen years of black ops is telling me you’re trouble. That you’re hiding something that could get us both killed. That I should walk away and let Hawkeye assign someone else to this case.”
“It’s not a case. There’s no need for anyone to be involved.” She doesn’t blink. “Especially you.”
“But I can’t walk away.”
She sighs, as if she already knows that. “Why not?”
Because you fit in my arms like you belong there. Because when I touch you, you respond like you’ve been waiting your whole life for someone to claim you. Because underneath all your lies and walls and carefully constructed defenses, I see something real and beautiful and worth protecting.
But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I reach over and trace my thumb along her jawline, feeling her shiver at the contact.
“Because you’re mine now, Allie. And I don’t give up what’s mine.”
Her breath catches. “Stryker?—”
“I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust easily. I know you’ve got secrets that are eating you alive.” My hand slides to cup the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. “But running from me isn’t going to solve anything.”
“You don’t understand?—”
“Then help me understand.” I lean closer, close enough that our breaths mingle in the cold air. “Tell me who you really are. Tell me what you’re running from. Tell me why someone tore your apartment apart looking for something.”
Her eyes go wide, pupils dilating with something between fear and desire. “I can’t.”
