by Alex Lidell
Copyright © 2021 by Alex Lidell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Credits:
Edited by Mollie Traver and Linda Ingmanson
Cover Design by Deranged Doctor Design
Enemy Zone
Trident Rescue
Alex Lidell
Also by Alex Lidell
TRIDENT RESCUE
Contemporary Enemies-to-Lovers Romance
ENEMY ZONE
ENEMY CONTACT
POWER OF FIVE (7 books)
Reverse Harem Fantasy Romance
POWER OF FIVE (Audiobook available)
MISTAKE OF MAGIC (Audiobook available)
TRIAL OF THREE (Audiobook available)
LERA OF LUNOS (Audiobook available)
GREAT FALLS CADET (Audiobook available)
GREAT FALLS ROGUE
GREAT FALLS PROTECTOR
IMMORTALS OF TALONSWOOD (4 books)
Reverse Harem Paranormal Romance
LAST CHANCE ACADEMY (Audiobook available)
LAST CHANCE REFORM (Audiobook available)
LAST CHANCE WITCH
LAST CHANCE WORLD
Young Adult Fantasy Novels
TIDES
FIRST COMMAND (Audiobook available)
AIR AND ASH (Audiobook available)
WAR AND WIND (Audiobook available)
SEA AND SAND (Audiobook available)
SCOUT
TRACING SHADOWS (Audiobook available)
UNRAVELING DARKNESS (Audiobook available)
TILDOR
THE CADET OF TILDOR
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Contents
1. Sky
2. Cullen
3. Sky
4. Cullen
5. Cullen
6. Sky
7. Cullen
8. Sky
9. Sky
10. Sky
11. Cullen
12. Cullen
13. Sky
14. Sky
15. Cullen
16. Sky
17. Cullen
18. Sky
19. Sky
20. Sky
21. Cullen
22. Frank
23. Sky
24. Sky
25. Cullen
26. Sky
27. Sky
28. Cullen
29. Sky
30. Sky
31. Sky
32. Cullen
33. Sky
34. Sky
35. Cullen
36. Sky
37. Cullen
38. Sky
39. Sky
40. Sky
41. Sky
Preview of Power of Five
1. Leralynn
2. Leralynn
3. Tye
4. Coal
About the Author
Also by Alex Lidell
1
Sky
“New chick, it’s your lucky day,” Frank Peterson booms through Denton Uncovered’s messy newsroom. My new boss is loud enough to wake the dead, despite my being five feet away.
I force my face into a polite smile as Frank saunters toward me, his shoulders not quite filling in his sport jacket. I long to remind him I’m a twenty-three-year-old woman with a journalism degree, not a girl or a chick or whatever, but I don’t. New boss. New paper. First day. Denton Uncovered—a tabloid in remote Denton Valley, Colorado—isn’t exactly a premier paper, but after the fiasco in New York, it was the only place to give me the time of day. Part time. And I’d sent out dozens of résumés.
“My name is Skylar, Mr. Peterson,” I say. “Skylar Reynolds.”
Frank waves his hands in front of his face as if I’m an irritating mosquito and slaps a sheet with a scribbled address onto my desk. “Story for you!”
Here we go. My heart quickens, but I manage to keep from leaping out of my chair. “Yes, sir.”
Frank nods his approval. “Car accident on the corner of Main and First.”
My smile freezes on my face. Car accident. That’s not a story, that’s a police report.
Frank snorts. “Disappointed?”
Yes. “No, sir. I’m here for whatever Denton Uncovered needs.”
“Excellent. Because it’s not just a car accident, honey.” Frank leans over me, wafting his thickly sweet bug-spray-like cologne right into my personal space. Hell, maybe it is bug spray. I try not to gag. The fluorescent overhead lighting makes his bald spot shine as he moves, squaring off both hands in the air as if framing a picture. “Driver’s rumored to be Mr. Mason of Mason Pharmaceuticals, aka a lush, drunk more often than sober. Except you wouldn’t know that from his record—money talks in this town. If you hurry, maybe you can get through before he pays off the cops and walks free.”
Well, now Frank’s got my attention. There’s something that twists my gut at knowing that some rich asshole is paying off his DUIs. There are some things money should not be able to buy.
“On it, sir,” I say, already grabbing the key to my aging Toyota Corolla and begging the car gods that it actually makes it to the scene. I won’t have money to fix it until the first paycheck comes in, and that’s not for a few weeks with Frank’s payroll setup. Might not be enough even then. I took this job to build up field experience, but I’ll need to find a second one quickly if I want to eat.
I give the office one last glance. The photographer, James Dyer, bustles out the frosted door while Frank and I are talking, so I assume whatever he’s going out for has nothing to do with my story. Patrick Capaldi, the veteran sportswriter, is busy typing into his laptop behind me. I turn when the clicking of his fingers stops, and catch a smirk. Or at least I think I do. It’s gone as soon as I see it.
Weird.
But maybe I’m being paranoid. Scratch that. I know I’m being paranoid. But after the shit my ex-fiancé and his marine buddies pulled in New York, I can’t help it. While there are other female employees, I’m the lone female reporter. Still, I have no reason to believe that anyone here is misogynistic—for all his talk, Frank did hire me. I’ve had enough of that men-stick-together shit to last me a lifetime. Two lifetimes.
This is my fresh start.
My car mercifully starts on the second try, and I’m soon on Denton Valley’s main throughway. Denton Valley, Colorado, is nestled—as its name suggests—in a valley, the rugged snowcapped peaks of the Southern Rocky Mountains surrounding it like a scarf. The effect is one of protection, similar to a favorite pair of thick woolen socks. Or at least that’s the way I’m thinking about it. As I head toward the crash, I’m a little unsettled by the dense green—turning autumn orange—forest that encroaches from the side of the highway. This town isn’t tiny, but it’s nothing like my old stomping grounds in Brooklyn.
The road is curvy as hell, with the occasional deer deciding that of all the times to run across the road, doing so while I’m driving is ideal. With all my time in New York, I’m not exactly Fast and Furious when it comes to driving. Thankfully, it’s fall, so I don’t have to deal with icy road conditions. Yet. I can handle this. I can handle anything.
Exiting off the highway, I enter the more familiar-to-me urban area. The road flares and flashing lights guide me the final few hund
red yards to the accident, both the red and blue ones of the ambulance as well as the amber lights of a tow truck. The vic’s car—a Cadillac Escalade that seems pristine except for missing its front half—seems to have been wrapped around a tree.
At least the bastard didn’t hurt anyone else.
I pull into a space a few car lengths down and pop out, notes app on my phone at the ready. But first things first. Photos.
A pair of policemen standing guard, nearly at attention.
A guy in greasy coveralls hooking the abused Caddy onto a flatbed.
A muscular paramedic wearing skintight Under Armour with Trident Rescue stenciled on the back looming over an annoyed-looking guy in a business suit who holds a cloth to his bleeding head, the medical Suburban’s lights flickering in the background.
I swallow, my hand tightening around my phone as my camera zoom shows the medic’s face in full detail. His jaw is square and clean-shaven, his cheekbones chiseled, his mouth firm. Add in the mossy-green eyes full of intelligence and concern, and he’s basically an Adonis. A real live Adonis. Heat rises to my face, my thighs clenching together until I can finally force away the thought of what that medic might look like shirtless and focus on the task at hand.
Making sure my press credentials are clearly visible around my neck, I come up to one of the officers. “Good afternoon, sir. Sky Reynolds, reporter with Denton Uncovered. Can you tell me whether you’ve administered a sobriety test to the driver?”
The uniformed guy looks at me incredulously. “To Eli Mason?”
I’ll take that as a no.
“From the skid marks, it appears Mr. Mason swerved on the road before ramming a tree. Was there someone else involved in the accident? Another victim?” Or did that tree just attack him from the roadside?
“Single-car collision, ma’am.” The guy’s partner comes over with a hard expression that tells me to get the hell out if I know what’s good for me.
Except that I do know what’s good for me. The truth.
Ducking around the officers, I make a confident dash for Medic Adonis and his charge.
“You need stitches and might have a concussion.” Adonis’s voice is a rich commanding baritone that perfectly matches his chiseled body, the navy-blue cargos clinging to a taut waist. His blond buzz cut is shaved close enough that it looks like he might’ve used a ruler. Maybe even a protractor. Not a look I usually go for—too military, and I’ve had my fill of that mess—but on Adonis, it’s perfect.
“I don’t bloody need stitches.” Mason sounds like a hurt animal, his British accent and bravado masking pain. Unlike Adonis’s buzz cut, Eli’s unruly copper hair flops onto his brow. His white button-down business shirt is spotted with blood all down his left arm. “I don’t have a concussion either.”
I step up to the men, extending a hand. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m Skylar Reynolds, reporter with Denton Uncovered. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Mason squints at me as if his head aches, so I pivot toward Adonis. But then my eyes meet his, and I watch his gaze turn hard. Even hateful. Nothing like the concerned look he’d had when speaking to Eli. Is Adonis on Eli Mason’s payroll as well? The cops certainly seem to be.
I draw a calming breath. I’ve been around hateful men before, and I don’t like it. In fact, I despise it. Especially when that hard gaze is immediately accompanied by a twist of his lips. A sneer. I’m standing there like an idiot with my hand stretched out, and Adonis is too busy staring me down to even notice.
“Get off my scene,” Adonis snaps, his jaw flexing.
I read the name embroidered on his shirt. Hunt.
“I’m the press, and this is a story, Mr. Hunt. Which means it actually does concern me. If there’s a reason Mr. Mason hasn’t been tested for blood alcohol level? Or been given a breathalyzer test at least?”
Eli’s eyes flash with fury as he twists to me and winces.
Stepping around Eli, Hunt completely blocks my access to him. He has a way of taking over all the space around him. All the air.
“I don’t care if you’re the queen of England, you and Denton Uncovered…” He gnashes his teeth, as if swallowing what he wants to say before coming up with a curt “You need to leave. Now.”
I stand my ground. “The First Amendment says otherwise.”
Hunt takes a step toward me, his shoulders spreading as if he’s about to sprout wings like an archangel. His stance is pure trained authoritarian. This guy comes from either a law enforcement background or, more likely, a military one.
Just like my father. Just like Jaden. The thought of my ex-fiancé makes me shudder with revulsion.
“Cullen,” Eli says from behind the medic, the warning note in it subtle but unmistakable.
Hunt’s hands curl into a fist, anger radiating from him in waves. I back up a step. A muscle in Hunt’s jaw flexes, and he spins on his heel, slamming his palm against the Suburban with a loud clang—Eli saving his hand from getting crushed only by virtue of his uncannily quick reflexes.
All right, so maybe Eli Mason isn’t drunk.
Stomping around the medical Suburban, Hunt slides behind the steering wheel.
“Mason, shotgun.”
At first, I have no idea what Hunt’s decree means. Did he seriously just threaten me with a shotgun? But then Eli throws me a narrowed glance before snapping to like a cadet and climbing into the passenger’s side.
Ah.
I go to take another picture of the scene, my hand stilling midmotion. Not only had Eli Mason not acted intoxicated, but the way Hunt barked out orders, it was hard to imagine the medic being on his patient’s payroll. The only thing Frank’s lead had gotten correct, it seems, was the accident site.
The siren comes on, wailing so loudly that I clap my hands over my ears. Then the Suburban maneuvers into traffic, cutting off a sedan, and careens down Main. A couple of blocks down, it whips down a side street, the flashing lights strobing across the manicured landscaping of both buildings and residences alike.
Before I can register everything that just happened, the emergency vehicle and its surly occupant have vanished from sight.
Great. The only place willing to hire me had sent me on a story without the correct information, and I hadn’t been able to obtain even the briefest of interviews from anyone involved.
What now?
2
Cullen
“A dog? Seriously, Mason?” Cullen Hunt frowned at Eli Mason as the former SEAL balked at the sight of a suturing kit Cullen was pulling out. Cullen had already given up on the notion of taking the stubborn son of a bitch to a hospital to get a full concussion workup, but he wasn’t about to give in on this. The laceration on Eli’s arm was not bleeding much, but it was long and deep enough to develop an infection if they weren’t careful. Eli got off light. Whatever else, the Caddie had one hell of a safety system.
“You can maneuver a goddamned Humvee around mortar explosions, but a dog sends you into a tree?” Cullen asked.
“It was right there in the middle of the intersection…” Eli threw up his hands, the sudden action making him wince and grab his neck. The man’s British accent—which his London-born parents beat into him—was more pronounced than usual, as it always became under stress. “It was little and brown. Had floppy ears. So it was probably a puppy. I may be an arsehole, but I’m not gonna run over a puppy. And I don’t need a nursemaid, Cullen. Or stitches. I’m—”
“Oh, let me guess,” Cullen interrupted, speaking over him. “You’re fine.”
“I am.” Standing, Eli paced back and forth in one of the med bays at the small Trident Rescue Medical Facility, arms crossed over his chest. At least there was no one else there to watch Eli very much not practice what he preached when he was the medic on duty.
Unlike Denton Valley’s main emergency medical response operation, Denton EMS, Trident Rescue was a private company—one that Cullen owned. The SEALS had trained emergency medicine into his blood and Cullen brough
t the passion with him when he left the military.
He’d tried volunteering at Denton EMS, but the civilian service didn’t scratch the right itch. However, Trident Rescue did—especially once Cullen recruited Eli Mason, Liam Rowen, and Kyan Keasley, the men Cullen had befriended at the military high school their parents had shipped them off to.
Now each volunteered a shift or two a week at the Rescue, picking up any trauma calls Denton EMS sent their way. With how shorthanded Denton EMS always was, they were more than happy for the occasional help—especially for remote mountain accidents.
It was a win-win. The Tridents kept up their skills, Denton Valley got free medical assistance, and the occasional serious accidents on the mountain got a faster response. Plus, there was only so long a man could sit behind a mahogany desk before he lost his mind, no matter how good a business he ran.
Today’s traffic accident was not the usual kind of thing the Tridents responded to, but once Cullen heard the radio report of a totaled vehicle matching Eli’s Escalade, he’d snatched the call. And though he’d never admit to it aloud, flashing images of Eli in a fatal crash had haunted him all the way to the scene.
Speaking of Eli, the man out and out refused to sit on one of the beds, despite being in obvious pain. Which figured. He’d behaved similarly when he’d broken his arm at sixteen. Actually, Eli’s father had done the breaking for him, though Cullen and the others hadn’t known it at the time. Having been wounded himself, Cullen understood. Suffering an injury in battle was one thing. To allow someone—even a brother—to hurt you when you were defenseless was an entirely different matter. Even if the hurting was for a good cause.