“Fuck,” he grunted as his heated body cooled. He had expected Izabel’s resistance, but he didn’t expect the punch in the gut her rejection caused.
It unleashed a primitive force inside him. He hadn’t wanted to settle for a hug, he wanted to throw her on the couch, possess her, and reclaim her. Hugging her close was torture, but it was so fucking sweet.
Feeling her familiar curves against him … she was made for him.
Izabel seemed to have forgotten that but, before Drake could go all caveman on her and scare her away, he needed to quench this insatiable need for her the only way he knew how… by jacking off to thoughts of her hourglass figure.
He switched off the water, grabbed the towel, and stepped out of the shower. He grimaced when he had to maneuver his big frame around the small space of a single sink bathroom. Drake studied his reflection in the mirror and recalled his physique from a few years ago. He’d packed on at least twenty pounds of muscle. He dried his back and turned to look at the burn marks and scarring. The last thing he needed from Izabel was pity, but there was no way he could hide these scars.
Wrapping the towel around his hips, he left the bathroom. Izabel’s door was closed. A corner of his mouth lifted as he worked out a plan to seduce his wife back into his bed. Drake could play dirty. He didn’t mistake the flare of desire in her eyes when their bodies were together. Her brain was overthinking their situation and her heart was still reeling from his perceived betrayal, but her body couldn’t lie.
An alarm in his head warned him of muddling their reconciliation with sex. He had to be smart about this and think long-term.
He believed Izabel loved him still. She just didn’t trust him.
Looked like courtship wasn’t out of the question.
He was looking forward to it.
Drake had been in the kitchen for half an hour when Izabel returned. Her long black hair was still wet from her shower, soaking part of her vee-neck white tee. Izabel was blessed by genetics from her mixed heritage. A heart shaped face framed heavily-lashed caramel eyes. Her luminous skin wore the shade between rich cream and light mocha. Freckles smattered her upturned nose, giving her a wicked cuteness, but her lips were crafted by alluring sin. His cock stirred as he imagined what he wanted to do to that mouth. He probably should have jerked off three times to take the edge off his long abstinence.
“I dumped out the coffee from this morning and brewed a new pot,” he informed her as she perched on the bar stool around the island.
Her brows were creased adorably in both a questioning expression and a frown. Drake deliberately didn’t put on a shirt and wore low-slung drawstring sweatpants. He rarely wore a top when he was at home because he enjoyed his wife perving playfully over his v-cut abs. On that count, she had not changed as she visibly swallowed.
“I see you’re also making breakfast,” Izabel said dryly. “Please make yourself at home.”
“Oh, I will,” he grinned as she rolled her eyes. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
He turned away from her and heard her gasp. The biggest reason Drake decided not to wear a shirt was to rip-off the Band-Aid and reveal his scars. He wanted to get this discussion out of the way.
“Drake …” she whispered.
He didn’t say anything, but poured her a mug of coffee, stirred in enough milk the way she liked it, and then turned back to face her.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Don’t …” he muttered as he slid the mug toward her, but her attention was riveted on him.
“What happened?” she asked. She tore off a sheet of paper towel and dabbed her eyes.
The Eggo waffles popped out of the toaster and stopped him from responding. He doubted Izabel could eat after hearing his story, but Drake was hungry. He served her first but she pushed the plate away.
“Please tell me,” she said softly.
“We were trapped in a cave by suicide bombers.”
“Marcus said you saved him.”
Drake’s jaw clenched, ignoring her familiar use of his commander’s first name. He knew Harrelson worked for Izabel’s company and he was overreacting. “It was instinctive.” He shrugged. “The blast fractured my back, broke some ribs, and my right leg in three places.” A ragged sob escaped her lips, but he continued, his solid gaze holding her tear-filled one. “I couldn’t get back to you, Izabel, even if I wanted to. And I was helpless to protect you.”
Her face crumpled and she got off her seat, rounding the island to hug him. She didn’t say anything but she cried. As for Drake, he just held her tightly, uncertain if she was crying out of pity or if her tears were for the losses in their marriage.
Long minutes passed and her sobs finally subsided. Her red-rimmed eyes looked up at him. “I should have been there for you,” she said, words garbled. “I was your wife and I couldn’t help you when you needed me.” She reached across the counter to grab the paper towel she used earlier to wipe her tears. Then she wiped his chest that she’d soaked. “Sorry.”
“S’okay,” he murmured, tenderly wiping the moisture still streaming from her eyes with the pad of his thumb.
She sniffled a bit more and backed away, returning to her seat. “I’m ready for the rest of your story. What you can tell me, of course.”
Drake nodded. “A Task Force was formed that isn’t under any known government entity. I can’t tell you to whom we report. However, I can tell you that it was formed out of the failure of our guys in the DoD and the CIA to perform their jobs because of our leaders in Washington.”
“Isn’t that treason?”
“No. It’s not. We just operate differently,” he said. At her continued worried frown, he added. “Trust me on this, please.”
She tipped her chin. “Go on.”
Drake told her of the threat to Fire Team families. The death of Harrelson’s wife and two boys were intentional. They were killed because their commander survived and the terrorists wanted him to suffer.
“My handler had agents on you,” he said. “But their protection was contingent on me joining the Task Force. I had to make a decision quickly.”
“How could they ask you to abandon your marriage just like that? And how could you agree so quickly?” Izabel snapped.
“The intel was there, baby. If I refused their offer, I’m back under DoD command. You would go unprotected. I don’t think the Navy ever admitted that the Commander’s family was murdered.”
“They said it was an accident.”
“I’d rather have you hate me than see you dead.”
Izabel gave a bitter smile. “And yet, that was the nightmare you gave me.”
“Babe …”
She held up a hand, a rare hardness flashed in her eyes. Drake clamped his mouth shut. He’d already put his foot in his mouth.
“Did you get the terrorist?”
“Yes.”
“But there’s unfinished business.”
“Yes.”
“Am I still in danger?”
“Still assessing, but the immediate threat has been neutralized.”
Izabel took a sip of her coffee. She contemplated the brew for a beat before lifting her gaze to him. “I’m trying to be logical about this. Deep down I know you did what you thought was best for us. It was an untenable situation and decisions needed to be made quickly. You say you didn’t want to see me dead, but you killed me anyway. Dying isn’t merely physical.” She paused, clenching her jaw, her nostrils flared. “It’s mental and emotional. You subjected me to that.”
Drake spread his arms in a helpless gesture. “I know … and I’m sorry.”
A sad smile crossed her face and the first signs of panic coiled in his gut.
“Where do we go from here?”
Confused by her question, he narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean? I want us back together. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Just like that?” There was that bitter smile again. Drake was beginning to hate that look on her and
he hated even more that he was the cause of it.
“If there’s something I’m not getting, can you spell it out?” he grated. “As soon as we get this guy, I’ll get my identity back. I know it’s not easy. I’ve changed. You’ve changed, but I’m willing to put in the work to make you trust me again. I know you love me, Izabel, and I’m in love with you. That hasn’t changed.”
“Sometimes love isn’t enough—”
“Bullshit!” Drake snapped. His anxiety expanded and the lump it formed threatened to choke him. “Why the fuck are you saying this?”
“I don’t want the same things anymore,” she said, voice rising. “Six years we were together, five of them as your wife. I understood and never resented each and every time you couldn’t come home for Christmas or be there for our anniversary. I was happy because you came home. And when you were home you were my loving husband. There were times when I was scared out of my mind, especially when I heard the other wives talk about an op gone awry and a SEAL killed, but I held strong because I believed in what you did and what you were fighting for.”
She paused and took a deep breath. “But after what happened to Fire Team and after burying a husband, I don’t think I have it in me to be married to a man like you—”
“Hold on. Hold on,” Drake cut in, pissed. “A man like me? What the fuck, Iza?”
“A man who needs to be a hero.”
“What the fuck?” he repeated. “And what man are you lookin’ for now, huh, baby? Someone like your damned architect?” And this was exactly why he didn’t tell her the other reason, not until he was sure she understood—if he’d abandoned the mission to hunt down Hamza it would eat at him for the rest of his life.
“Maybe?” Her chin lifted mutinously.
“You’re my goddamned wife!” Drake growled as he prowled around the counter and advanced on Izabel. His wife’s eyes widened just as he plucked her from the chair. “And I’ll be damned before I let another man take what’s mine.”
He lowered his head to kiss her, but the fear in her eyes stopped him.
Drake let her go and pivoted away from her. He took a couple of steps out of the kitchen and stopped, raking his fingers through his hair.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said quietly.
“I’m not scared,” she whispered. “Not really. It’s just that …”
Drake turned to look at her.
“I’m not used to … this new you,” she said.
“Am I so different?” His hand automatically went to his beard. “I do need a beard trim.”
“And a haircut,” she added, biting her bottom lip. “But there’s something else. You seem harder, more … rough.”
The right word would be savage, Drake thought grimly. Working under Deadly Spear, he’d lived in the skin of a hunter for three long years without a chance for respite. It was go. Go. Go.
He tamped down the lingering anger that surged through him when she said she didn’t want a “man like him” anymore. He needed to up his game. This wasn’t going to be a simple courtship—he had to go full-court press. No way was Kyle the architect getting past his defenses and stealing his wife. It’d be a problem when she was at work. Drake was still under an assumed identity and his former commander was working in her office.
He realized Izabel was speaking to him.
“Did you hear me?” she asked, frowning.
“Sorry, I was thinking about something,” Drake said. “What was that?”
“I don’t think these waffles are enough breakfast for you.”
They weren’t. Drake could use a big meal right now like a bacon cheeseburger.
“The fridge is empty,” she added apologetically. “I usually get my groceries on the weekends. Should we go out?”
“Any place around here that has a good breakfast?” he asked.
Izabel eyed him dubiously. “Can you be seen in public?”
“I’ve gotten better at sneaking around.”
“Who are you? James Bond?” Izabel smiled. It was the first real smile he’d seen on her face and it was dazzling.
“Something like that,” Drake chuckled as he walked to the stairs. “I’m gonna grab a shirt. Think I want a good cheeseburger.”
“I know just the place.”
Chapter 7
Izabel poured the remainder of the coffee into her travel mug just as the microwave chimed with her leftover tostada from lunch the day before. It was Monday, two days after Drake returned to her life. After the scene in the kitchen, both of them pulled back into a cautious companionship. Saturday lunch had been at the neighborhood diner and that afternoon, she helped Drake sort out his stuff in the attic. They chatted mostly about neutral topics like her job. Drake was curious about Marcus, and Izabel told him about his problem with alcohol. Drake kept a stoic face as she updated him on his former commander’s life.
Drake retired early Saturday night after Izabel learned he’d been awake for almost forty-eight hours.
Sunday, she took him to Glen Ford neighborhood—the site of the Solace Foundation development. Despite the uncertainty of their relationship, she felt compelled to share an important part of her current life.
The neighborhood was built in the late seventies of predominantly ranch-style homes and A-frames. When the recession of the eighties took a toll on its residents, families moved out, unable to sustain their mortgages, paving the way for the gangs to move in. The area had become a ghetto. But with the influx of immigrants in the past decade, a kind of co-existence started to take shape. The gangs were ever-present, but with the growing strength of the immigrants who were determined to make a better life for themselves, the economy in the area improved. Izabel had gotten close to several residents. One of them was Luisa Romero, the owner of a popular taqueria in the area.
Knowing Drake had a weakness for tacos and Tres Leches cake made it a win-win destination, and it was a chance for her to show him her accomplishments.
Their conversations remained stilted—at least on her part. She wasn’t sure what to say, what was expected of her, and how to behave. Part of her wanted to hug the man he was. Her body reacted to his electric presence, but it was her mind and heart that weren’t on board with simply melting into his arms.
Izabel made a disgruntled sound as she headed over to the counter to collect her tostada. She slammed the microwave door with more strength than was necessary.
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
Izabel jumped and squinted at the owner of the voice. Near the entrance of the kitchen, leaning against the wall was Drake, arms crossed and shirtless. Again. Not only that, the top button of his jeans were undone treating her to the sight of that trail of hair that sexily disappeared below the waistband. He still hadn’t trimmed his beard and smirked when he caught her looking at it. He seemed more refreshed, and certainly more relaxed than she was.
Damn the man.
“Can you please put on a shirt when you’re in the house?”
A brow shot up. “As I recall, that didn’t bother you before.” His lips curled into a grin. “I take that back. You loved me without my shirt on.”
“Things are different now.”
Something flashed in his eyes. Izabel knew that look. It was the gleam when he wanted to throttle her but would rather fuck her instead.
Warmth tingled between her legs.
Oh, hell no.
She turned away from him and took a bite of her tostada. “I’m late for work,” she muttered and grabbed her coffee tumbler.
“Hang on a sec. I’ll take you.”
She paused and turned slowly but Drake had already disappeared up the stairs. What the hell did he mean he’d take her?
When her husband reappeared, casually walking up to her, she did her best to reward him with a death glare.
“You are not taking me to work.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why?”
“So, I can pick you up after.”
/> “I thought you didn’t want Marcus to know you’re alive just yet.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to see he doesn’t find out.”
Izabel huffed in annoyance. “I have to make visits to client sites today.”
Drake hissed a breath. “I’ve got shit to do. Can’t drive you around all day.”
She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting you to in the first place.” But instead of feeling relieved that he wouldn’t be chauffeuring her to work, concern took over. “You got a lead on something?”
“Need to touch base with the team.”
“Is that where you went last night?”
The night prior, Drake left right after dinner saying he had some errands to run. He didn’t return until two that morning. Izabel’s recent insomnia kept her awake and she knew he was pacing outside her door. She’d held her breath for a while there, thinking he’d knock, but he walked away instead.
Drake answered her question with a tight nod. No elaboration. Not a single word.
Resentment that’d been simmering over the weekend boiled over. “This isn’t going to work,” she burst out, surprising Drake with her reaction, his eyes growing wide.
“Babe, give me a bit more time and I can tell—”
“Wasn’t three years enough?” she cut him off. “Why come back now when you can’t commit fully to this marriage?”
His jaws hardened, eyes turning cold. “This isn’t like you, Izabel. I have a job to do.”
“I’ve never stopped you from doing your job.” She shot him an arctic smile and yanked the door open. “So go ahead and do it.”
She did her best not to slam the door. Izabel had already expended too much energy on this clusterfuck of a situation and she wasn’t going to waste another precious minute of her life on it. She got into her car, backed down the driveway, and motored off. When she reached the second stoplight she noticed her knuckles were white against the steering wheel. She was gripping it tight to prevent herself from shaking. Muttering a curse, she parallel-parked beside the neighborhood sidewalk to calm herself.
She was angry.
Reclaiming Izabel (Special Forces: Operation Alpha) Page 6