Claiming Her SEAL (ASSIGNMENT: Caribbean Nights Book 1) by Kat Cantrell Page B
Authors: Kat Cantrell
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his soul latched onto it, hid it away, and started bargaining with his good conscience.
She’ll be okay. Take her home and do all the wicked things to her you’ve been dreaming of. She can take it. She wants it. Then she’ll leave, and you don’t have to think about her anymore.
“Emma,” he croaked.
“No, don’t Emma me. You’re the one who told me your name rhymes with your best talent,” she reminded him as if he’d somehow forgotten the fabricated explanation behind his name. “I’m not under any illusions that I’m the first woman you’ve used that line on, if that’s part of your concern.”
Not by a long shot. But she was the only one he’d ever backed off from after uttering it. And the only one who couldn’t be shaken loose, no matter what he did.
So he’d have to go with the truth, as much as he hated pulling out those skeletons. But the alternative didn’t bear thinking about, especially not the thin tendril of hope that if he told her everything—no holds barred—she might not react the way Malika had.
It was a vain hope. Because if Emma could forgive him for being a mass murderer, she wasn’t the bright, sensational woman he thought she was.
“Dex isn’t even my real name,” he muttered as his heart squeezed so tight it was fifty-fifty on whether it would flatten enough to slide right out of his chest, fitting easily between two ribs. “But it sure beats Dexter.”
“Well of course it does! Dex is far sexier. Though there’s nothing wrong with Dexter either.” She touched his lips with a forefinger. “You’re still you in there.”
“Yes. There is something wrong with Dexter.” His voice grew steady, calm as he squinted through the sights of the loaded rifle he was about to fire; he always did his best work under extreme pressure. “Because that’s not my real name either.”
For the first time in this whole conversation, she faltered. “It’s not?”
At last, the note of caution that should have been there all along surfaced in her voice, in her stance. And that caution needed to spread a whole lot deeper.
“Dexter is what they called me. In Iraq. You see, there’s a TV show about a guy named Dexter. Someone thought he and I had some remarkable parallels.”
“Dexter.” Her eyes widened. “Isn’t that the show about the serial… killer.”
She swallowed the last word, but he had no trouble filling in the blank. “Oh, you’ve seen it? Then you know how disturbed and twisted Dexter is. They try to make it seem like he’s a killer with a conscience, but at the end of the day, he’s got blood on his hands. The same as I do.”
“Dex, what are you…” She cleared her throat. “I don’t even know what to call you. What’s your real name if it’s not Dex?”
“It’s not important. I am Dexter, whether that’s what’s on my birth certificate or not.” And now she was the only woman who’d ever heard the real explanation for his nickname. He’d never even told Malika. But then, she’d never asked.
“I don’t understand. You were in the navy, right? How can you be a… a serial killer?” The faintest tinge of hope clung to her voice, like she might not be getting all the facts right, and somehow he was going to explain everything away until it was okay again.
That wasn’t going to happen.
“Because, Emma.” Her name spread across his tongue, seeping down his throat, coating it. “I was a sniper. My job was to shoot people. And I was very, very good at it.”
Her huge rounded eyes blinked as she processed that. “This is your big secret. The thing you didn’t think I could handle.”
The quaver in her voice… it was killing him. She was off-kilter, a little freaked out and still standing firm. Not running away. This conversation was as much a testament to her strength as anything she’d done in the water. And he couldn’t even admire her for it, because he was doing everything in his power to break that down.
He cocked his head
She’ll be okay. Take her home and do all the wicked things to her you’ve been dreaming of. She can take it. She wants it. Then she’ll leave, and you don’t have to think about her anymore.
“Emma,” he croaked.
“No, don’t Emma me. You’re the one who told me your name rhymes with your best talent,” she reminded him as if he’d somehow forgotten the fabricated explanation behind his name. “I’m not under any illusions that I’m the first woman you’ve used that line on, if that’s part of your concern.”
Not by a long shot. But she was the only one he’d ever backed off from after uttering it. And the only one who couldn’t be shaken loose, no matter what he did.
So he’d have to go with the truth, as much as he hated pulling out those skeletons. But the alternative didn’t bear thinking about, especially not the thin tendril of hope that if he told her everything—no holds barred—she might not react the way Malika had.
It was a vain hope. Because if Emma could forgive him for being a mass murderer, she wasn’t the bright, sensational woman he thought she was.
“Dex isn’t even my real name,” he muttered as his heart squeezed so tight it was fifty-fifty on whether it would flatten enough to slide right out of his chest, fitting easily between two ribs. “But it sure beats Dexter.”
“Well of course it does! Dex is far sexier. Though there’s nothing wrong with Dexter either.” She touched his lips with a forefinger. “You’re still you in there.”
“Yes. There is something wrong with Dexter.” His voice grew steady, calm as he squinted through the sights of the loaded rifle he was about to fire; he always did his best work under extreme pressure. “Because that’s not my real name either.”
For the first time in this whole conversation, she faltered. “It’s not?”
At last, the note of caution that should have been there all along surfaced in her voice, in her stance. And that caution needed to spread a whole lot deeper.
“Dexter is what they called me. In Iraq. You see, there’s a TV show about a guy named Dexter. Someone thought he and I had some remarkable parallels.”
“Dexter.” Her eyes widened. “Isn’t that the show about the serial… killer.”
She swallowed the last word, but he had no trouble filling in the blank. “Oh, you’ve seen it? Then you know how disturbed and twisted Dexter is. They try to make it seem like he’s a killer with a conscience, but at the end of the day, he’s got blood on his hands. The same as I do.”
“Dex, what are you…” She cleared her throat. “I don’t even know what to call you. What’s your real name if it’s not Dex?”
“It’s not important. I am Dexter, whether that’s what’s on my birth certificate or not.” And now she was the only woman who’d ever heard the real explanation for his nickname. He’d never even told Malika. But then, she’d never asked.
“I don’t understand. You were in the navy, right? How can you be a… a serial killer?” The faintest tinge of hope clung to her voice, like she might not be getting all the facts right, and somehow he was going to explain everything away until it was okay again.
That wasn’t going to happen.
“Because, Emma.” Her name spread across his tongue, seeping down his throat, coating it. “I was a sniper. My job was to shoot people. And I was very, very good at it.”
Her huge rounded eyes blinked as she processed that. “This is your big secret. The thing you didn’t think I could handle.”
The quaver in her voice… it was killing him. She was off-kilter, a little freaked out and still standing firm. Not running away. This conversation was as much a testament to her strength as anything she’d done in the water. And he couldn’t even admire her for it, because he was doing everything in his power to break that down.
He cocked his head
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