thing had launched a whole series of memories. Erotic memories. Flashbacks of exactly what they’d done on this sofa all those weeks ago. Which segued into what they’d done in his bedroom, on his bed, beneath those covers she was cuddling up to. The night had turned into one endless X-rated memory—not exactly conducive to sleep.
“You’re getting old,” Tag drawled. “Special Ops is for us young bucks, you old coots—hell, won’t be long before you’ll need the two arm lift just to get you to evac.”
The two arm lift? Lucas snorted. No way in hell was his team carrying him to the chopper, unless he was unconscious.
“No shit, those three months I have on you make all the difference,” Lucas said, giving his buddy a hard shove.
Tag staggered beneath the thrust, but recovered instantly, pinning Lucas with an astute gaze. “So is something going on between you and Emma?”
“Hell, no. Nothing.”
He wasn’t even lying. There wasn’t anything going on between Emma and him. Not now. Fuck, judging by the arctic freeze surrounding her whenever he wandered too close—likely not ever…again.
Dammit.
By the time she’d awoken from her nap the night before, joining him and Tag in the living room, her explosive rage had been frozen by layers of ice. He’d chanced frostbite just from brushing against her. She’d fumbled through her dog’s insulin shot with frigid stubbornness, refusing his help, even though he’d inserted more needles into human flesh than he could remember.
Tag, on the other hand—oh yeah, she’d accepted that bastard’s help just fine. It had been bad enough watching Tag’s dark hair mingling with her blonde curls, his huge body dwarfing her slight frame as he instructed her on the intricacies of injections. He’d had to unlock his fists at least three times during that whole ordeal. But when the bastard had sat Emma down and tended to her skinned palms, and then wrapped her in his arms, burying her in his way-too-fucking-tight embrace, for way-too-fucking-long…well hell, the asshole was lucky he’d awoken with a full set of teeth this morning.
His earlier bad temper back in full force, Lucas glowered down the street. The scowl faded to a frown upon catching sight of a black SUV one block down. The car hadn’t been there when they arrived.
Tag turned, following Lucas’s gaze. “What’s up?”
“The black SUV, one block down, on the right. It wasn’t there an hour ago, did you see it arrive?”
“No.” Tag took a step forward, his gaze sharpening. “You think it needs checking out?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. Don’t move on it until I get back.” Turning, he jogged up the path, taking the steps to Emma’s porch two at a time.
The door to her bungalow was wide open, which was on him and Tag, since they hadn’t closed it during the couch hauling. In the living room, Devlin Russo, his lieutenant commander, looked up, broom in one hand and dust pan in the other. A garbage can full of broken glass and splinters of wood stood next to him. Lucas checked out the room. No sign of Emma. Disappointment collided with relief, leaving him curiously conflicted.
“Tag and I are headed out on recon. Don’t let Emma out of your sight.” He didn’t wait for his L.C.’s acknowledgement, simply turned and hoofed it back down the steps, the wood creaking beneath his boots.
The SUV was probably nothing, just a local resident who’d returned home. But he wasn’t taking chances. Not with Emma’s life. Not after what had happened in front of this house the day before. He and Tag would take a walk and see if anyone was inside the vehicle.
He joined Tag next to Mooch’s truck, and the two of them headed down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace. No sense in alerting anyone to their interest.
Halfway to their destination, Tag gave a soft whistle. “It’s occupied.”
Lucas could see that. His heart rate picked up, so did his respiration. But the casual sweep of his eyes and swing of
“You’re getting old,” Tag drawled. “Special Ops is for us young bucks, you old coots—hell, won’t be long before you’ll need the two arm lift just to get you to evac.”
The two arm lift? Lucas snorted. No way in hell was his team carrying him to the chopper, unless he was unconscious.
“No shit, those three months I have on you make all the difference,” Lucas said, giving his buddy a hard shove.
Tag staggered beneath the thrust, but recovered instantly, pinning Lucas with an astute gaze. “So is something going on between you and Emma?”
“Hell, no. Nothing.”
He wasn’t even lying. There wasn’t anything going on between Emma and him. Not now. Fuck, judging by the arctic freeze surrounding her whenever he wandered too close—likely not ever…again.
Dammit.
By the time she’d awoken from her nap the night before, joining him and Tag in the living room, her explosive rage had been frozen by layers of ice. He’d chanced frostbite just from brushing against her. She’d fumbled through her dog’s insulin shot with frigid stubbornness, refusing his help, even though he’d inserted more needles into human flesh than he could remember.
Tag, on the other hand—oh yeah, she’d accepted that bastard’s help just fine. It had been bad enough watching Tag’s dark hair mingling with her blonde curls, his huge body dwarfing her slight frame as he instructed her on the intricacies of injections. He’d had to unlock his fists at least three times during that whole ordeal. But when the bastard had sat Emma down and tended to her skinned palms, and then wrapped her in his arms, burying her in his way-too-fucking-tight embrace, for way-too-fucking-long…well hell, the asshole was lucky he’d awoken with a full set of teeth this morning.
His earlier bad temper back in full force, Lucas glowered down the street. The scowl faded to a frown upon catching sight of a black SUV one block down. The car hadn’t been there when they arrived.
Tag turned, following Lucas’s gaze. “What’s up?”
“The black SUV, one block down, on the right. It wasn’t there an hour ago, did you see it arrive?”
“No.” Tag took a step forward, his gaze sharpening. “You think it needs checking out?”
“Wouldn’t hurt. Don’t move on it until I get back.” Turning, he jogged up the path, taking the steps to Emma’s porch two at a time.
The door to her bungalow was wide open, which was on him and Tag, since they hadn’t closed it during the couch hauling. In the living room, Devlin Russo, his lieutenant commander, looked up, broom in one hand and dust pan in the other. A garbage can full of broken glass and splinters of wood stood next to him. Lucas checked out the room. No sign of Emma. Disappointment collided with relief, leaving him curiously conflicted.
“Tag and I are headed out on recon. Don’t let Emma out of your sight.” He didn’t wait for his L.C.’s acknowledgement, simply turned and hoofed it back down the steps, the wood creaking beneath his boots.
The SUV was probably nothing, just a local resident who’d returned home. But he wasn’t taking chances. Not with Emma’s life. Not after what had happened in front of this house the day before. He and Tag would take a walk and see if anyone was inside the vehicle.
He joined Tag next to Mooch’s truck, and the two of them headed down the sidewalk at a leisurely pace. No sense in alerting anyone to their interest.
Halfway to their destination, Tag gave a soft whistle. “It’s occupied.”
Lucas could see that. His heart rate picked up, so did his respiration. But the casual sweep of his eyes and swing of
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