Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(107)
Scratches? They didn’t even qualify as scratches? He’d been shot, for God’s sake. And not just once.
Could they be downplaying the danger in order not to worry her?
Rawls must have recognized her brewing panic, because he stopped easing back into his T-shirt and took hold of her chin. He nudged it up until their eyes met. She relaxed slightly at the gentle warmth in his gaze.
“Trust me, darlin’. I’m fine. This isn’t my first rodeo. It won’t be my last either. I know when an injury is worth worryin’ over.”
Leaning down, he kissed her. Not a light brush of lips either. His mouth was hard instead—strong. As though he knew she needed an indication of his health and resilience, rather than tenderness. It worked too. Her heart rate settled as she leaned into him, returning the caress, strength to strength.
His sensual reassurance reverberated through her endocrine system long after the kiss ended, and he eased back into his T-shirt and camouflage jacket. But soon her traitorous mind found something else to worry over.
“Not my first rodeo . . . I know when an injury is worth worryin’ over.”
Meaning he’d been hurt before . . . shot before . . . probably countless times. An accepted hazard of his career path.
A memory struck her. Harsh as a bullet, it snagged her breath. Moonlight streaming through huge trees. Rawls stretched across a mat of pine needles, his bloody chest motionless beneath Cosky’s and Kait’s hands.
He’d died that night . . . according to him, according to Jude, even according to Pachico—the ghost he’d brought back—he’d died.
This isn’t my first rodeo. It won’t be my last either.
And there was a chance, a good chance even, that he’d die during the next moonlight rescue, or mission, or whatever drew him out into the darkness. Only next time there might not be a Kait to save him.
This emotion brewing between them was serious—definitely for her, but she suspected for him as well. She needed to consider his career choice and its potential effect on her mental health before things went much further.
Her gaze returned to the long, lean warrior standing so solidly beside her. When their eyes tangled, he smiled, his face softening. Sensual heat, along with tender reassurance broadcasted from his gaze. That was all it took.
Her twenty-nine years and two heart transplants had taught her the value of living in the moment. Of not questioning what the future held. Of finding joy in the here and now. She couldn’t foresee what fate held in store for her, so why make decisions based on possible future events? She shouldn’t. She wouldn’t.
There was no way she was giving up joy in the here and now to avoid possible pain in the future.
A discouraged silence and sense of anticlimax invaded the chopper on the way home. It was a familiar atmosphere, one Mac remembered well from his stint on the teams. Not every operation paid dividends. Some flipped sideways, stirring up shit they hadn’t anticipated. Some brought death and regrets and memories that stole a piece of your soul. And then there were the status quo missions. Operations that cost money, energy, and time but yielded exactly nothing.
Insertions like tonight weren’t the worst, nor the best—but they rode that bleak zone into disappointment and frustration.
His ears still ringing, his entire body one big aching bruise, Mac slouched against the padded walls with Zane and Cosky on either side. Rawls had hauled Dr. Ansell—or Faith, as she’d insisted he call her—off into the corner, where they’d taken to cuddling all by their lonesome, until one of Wolf’s guys had invaded their privacy long enough to do a healing. At least Mac assumed it was a healing since the bastard had pressed his palms against Rawls’s side and then his arm for several minutes before retreating as silently as he’d arrived.
He scowled as he glanced at Rawls and his woman. Might as well get used to calling her Faith. From the way his corpsman was cuddling her, he’d bet they’d be seeing more of her. A lot more. Just like they were seeing way too much of Kait and Beth.
What the f*ck was going on with his operators? Did men have f*cking biological clocks? Christ, the motherf*ckers were dropping like flies.
By the time the helicopter settled onto the super-secret tarmac masked by the ring of clouds smothering McKinley’s peak, the ache in his muscles had settled into his bones. Hardly surprising considering how hard he’d hit the ground back there. A long hot shower was sounding better by the minute.
He glanced out the cockpit window as the bird sank into the shaft. Dawn rinsed the mountains a delicate shade of lavender. No shit. Lavender.
But the sight of dawn breaking over the landscape reminded him of those early days, back when he’d been part of the teams. Before he’d taken the silver oak leaf and the gold bars. Before he traded his seat in the Zodiac for a desk, politics, and bullshit protocol. Back then he’d been a vampire, just like the rest of them. Riding the beach boat or the helicopter at zero dark whenever in the endless quest to keep hearth and home safe, and then crashing on his cot to sleep the day away.
As the helicopter settled, and the door slid back, Mac watched Wolf’s crew shake themselves awake and disembark in that all-too-familiar post-adrenaline shamble.
Cosky and Zane held back alongside him, waiting for Wolf’s team to clear the hold. As for Rawls and the good doctor, they hadn’t even emerged from their cozy little corner yet. Once the last of Team Shadow Mountain was on the ground, Mac hopped down, grunting in irritation when his entire body burned in protest.