Page 43 of Striker

Our lips part reluctantly, and I separate my hands from Dani's hips.

She looks beyond me with eyes wide in shock. "Morgan?"

I can't see her, but I can sense her behind me. Feel her shocked disapproval, too.

"Dani, if you want to fuck your boyfriend, that's great. But do it in your bedroom, please."

Her words hit us both like a bolt of lightning, and that strike reminds me of what I've forgotten: my mission.

"I can't... we can't..." Dani breathes, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.

Then she runs.

As I start to follow, something stops me — Morgan's hand on my shoulder.

She leans in to whisper. "Let her go. I know why you're here, and if you care about her at all, you'll give her space."

"If you see her, tell her I'll be in our room."

I watch Dani go, feeling the pull of my desire urging me to go after her, and the pull of my loyalty telling me to leave her alone. Because our actions just now have pushed us both past the point of no return.

Chapter Fourteen

Striker

I'm in our suite, nursing my second glass of whiskey, the bitter amber liquid doing little to soothe the turmoil inside. The kiss with Danielle — it's like a storm that's torn through my life, leaving me adrift in a sea of right and wrong. It’s as if she had flipped on a switch inside me, the heat of her lips burning through my resolve and leaving me wanting more. No, not wanting. Craving. Needing. I’m burning inside with a fire I don’t know how to contain. My fingers anxiously trace across the centuries-old carvings etched into the glass, some import from some estate in Italy; priceless, worthless. I empty it and fill it back up.

I drink.

Each sip of the amber liquid is a bitter, burning reminder of the line I've crossed.

The acrid taste of bog-smoke whiskey coats my tongue like a thick fog that won't dissipate. I've betrayed Smokey, my brother-in-arms, by giving in to my feelings for his sister. No matter how much I drink, Danielle's taste lingers on my lips, sweet and intoxicating, yet laced with the guilt of crossing a sacred line. I yearn for the clear-cut orders and structure of my Marine days, where life was about following commands and never questioning your duty or loyalty. This inner turmoil and constant battle between heart and mind is completely foreign to me and has me feeling disarmed and helpless.

The glass thunks against the wooden bar as I set it down unsteadily, wanting to blot out all thoughts of her with another drink. As the liquor burns its way down my throat, the memories flood back: her soft skin under my fingertips, her breath hot against my neck as we kissed on the dance floor, her eyes begging for me to go further, to cross every line, and my heart crying out ‘yes’.

Growling in pain, I take the glass and hurl it to the wall.

Fucking useless.

Instead, needing more, I snatch up the bottle and take a swig.

The sound of the door creaking open pierces through my consciousness like a dagger, wrenching me from my contemplation. Danielle stumbles into the room, tears flowing and her skin pale. The vibrant red mark on her cheek burning brighter than a thousand suns, consuming my vision like nothing else.

Someone hit her.

My heart stops as primal instincts flood my body with adrenaline, pushing aside any internal struggle. Standing without delay, I leave the whiskey untouched as every muscle in me tenses for battle.

Someone hurt her.

Someone's going to die.

Without uttering a word, I engulf her in an embrace, feeling her sobs soak my chest.

"Dani, tell me what happened," I murmur, my voice trembling with rage and desperate concern.

"It's nothing, Owen."

"It's not nothing — you're hurt."

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