their
headquarters would be taken out so violently.
Natches stared into her face now, paper white, her golden hazel and brown eyes dark with
the memories that tore at him as well. And he wanted to howl out in rage, in agony.
Because he felt the need to wipe the horror from her. To tear aside that wall she had
placed between them.
“I don’t blame you.” She tried to tear herself from his hold again. “I never blamed you
for her death.”
“You blamed me for saving you instead,” he snapped, fury rising inside him at the
thought of losing her like that. “Is that what you wanted for me, Chaya? For us? To have
it all end that way?”
And despite his anger, he could only touch her with tenderness. He lifted his free hand,
brushed back the hair that fell over her forehead, and he ached.
“There was no us.”
She only infuriated him with that statement, because he knew better. He’d always known
better. From the moment he’d torn into that fucking cell and seen her struggling to drag
that dead guard’s clothes on, her eyes swollen shut, lips bloodied, and courage shining in
her face, he’d known there was going to be an “us.” It was just a matter of time.
And later, buried in that hole, waiting on extraction, he shouldn’t have been attracted to
her. She had been in shock. She had been hurt and fighting so valiantly to stay conscious.
And in such a short time, she had dug her way inside him. Into a place he hadn’t realized
existed within the killer he had been shaping himself into.
He’d breathed in her pain when she’d realized her husband had betrayed her to the
enemy, that he had betrayed his country and their marriage. And he had soaked in her
pain the night she’d lost her child. He’d stroked her trembling body as she’d begged him
to hold back the horror of what she had seen. He had taken her, amid both their tears, and
the next morning, when he’d awoken, she had been gone.
He released her now, grimacing, feeling his flesh tighten over his muscles, as though
something within him stretched dangerously, confined by his own skin and growing
impatient.
“I guess there wasn’t, because you were gone the next morning,” he bit out.
“And you were gone that night when I returned,” she snapped back, anger trembling in
her voice, anger and something else. A finely threaded emotion that had his gaze
sharpening on her pale face. “You didn’t come back.”
Natches stared back at her, his eyes narrowing. Had she come looking for him when he
had believed she was gone?
“I was called in that afternoon for a mission. It was a quick strike; I was flown directly to
my drop-off. I returned three days later, and you had left Baghdad,” he told her.
He remembered his rage. He had torn apart his quarters with it, and then he had torn apart
the hotel room they had shared. The MPs sent after him hadn’t fared very well either.
As he stared at her now, he remembered all the reasons why he had gone insane over
losing her. The lush lips, the stubborn angle of her chin. The way she knew how to smile,
the feel of her coming alive against him. He had known all that before the day she had
lost little Beth. He’d known it because he had spent two weeks haunting that damned
hospital, teasing a kiss out of her, a laugh. Knowing she was married, knowing she was
bound to a traitor.
And she had known. She had known, and like a flower opening to the sun, she had slowly
begun opening for him.
She shook her head now, her eyes, that deep golden gaze locked with his, the color
shifting, shadowed with so much pain. “Timothy said he checked. He was there that
morning I went in to finalize custody of Beth’s remains.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts as though she were huggingthe pain inside herself
when all he wanted to do was wipe it from her. “He wanted me to leave immediately to
take Beth home, then join DHS. I wanted to talk to you first.” She shrugged
headquarters would be taken out so violently.
Natches stared into her face now, paper white, her golden hazel and brown eyes dark with
the memories that tore at him as well. And he wanted to howl out in rage, in agony.
Because he felt the need to wipe the horror from her. To tear aside that wall she had
placed between them.
“I don’t blame you.” She tried to tear herself from his hold again. “I never blamed you
for her death.”
“You blamed me for saving you instead,” he snapped, fury rising inside him at the
thought of losing her like that. “Is that what you wanted for me, Chaya? For us? To have
it all end that way?”
And despite his anger, he could only touch her with tenderness. He lifted his free hand,
brushed back the hair that fell over her forehead, and he ached.
“There was no us.”
She only infuriated him with that statement, because he knew better. He’d always known
better. From the moment he’d torn into that fucking cell and seen her struggling to drag
that dead guard’s clothes on, her eyes swollen shut, lips bloodied, and courage shining in
her face, he’d known there was going to be an “us.” It was just a matter of time.
And later, buried in that hole, waiting on extraction, he shouldn’t have been attracted to
her. She had been in shock. She had been hurt and fighting so valiantly to stay conscious.
And in such a short time, she had dug her way inside him. Into a place he hadn’t realized
existed within the killer he had been shaping himself into.
He’d breathed in her pain when she’d realized her husband had betrayed her to the
enemy, that he had betrayed his country and their marriage. And he had soaked in her
pain the night she’d lost her child. He’d stroked her trembling body as she’d begged him
to hold back the horror of what she had seen. He had taken her, amid both their tears, and
the next morning, when he’d awoken, she had been gone.
He released her now, grimacing, feeling his flesh tighten over his muscles, as though
something within him stretched dangerously, confined by his own skin and growing
impatient.
“I guess there wasn’t, because you were gone the next morning,” he bit out.
“And you were gone that night when I returned,” she snapped back, anger trembling in
her voice, anger and something else. A finely threaded emotion that had his gaze
sharpening on her pale face. “You didn’t come back.”
Natches stared back at her, his eyes narrowing. Had she come looking for him when he
had believed she was gone?
“I was called in that afternoon for a mission. It was a quick strike; I was flown directly to
my drop-off. I returned three days later, and you had left Baghdad,” he told her.
He remembered his rage. He had torn apart his quarters with it, and then he had torn apart
the hotel room they had shared. The MPs sent after him hadn’t fared very well either.
As he stared at her now, he remembered all the reasons why he had gone insane over
losing her. The lush lips, the stubborn angle of her chin. The way she knew how to smile,
the feel of her coming alive against him. He had known all that before the day she had
lost little Beth. He’d known it because he had spent two weeks haunting that damned
hospital, teasing a kiss out of her, a laugh. Knowing she was married, knowing she was
bound to a traitor.
And she had known. She had known, and like a flower opening to the sun, she had slowly
begun opening for him.
She shook her head now, her eyes, that deep golden gaze locked with his, the color
shifting, shadowed with so much pain. “Timothy said he checked. He was there that
morning I went in to finalize custody of Beth’s remains.”
She crossed her arms over her breasts as though she were huggingthe pain inside herself
when all he wanted to do was wipe it from her. “He wanted me to leave immediately to
take Beth home, then join DHS. I wanted to talk to you first.” She shrugged
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