Hard to Protect (Black Ops Heroes)

by Black, Incy

  “What does that mean?”

  “That I’ve still got a job. Gotta go,” he excused in a rush. “Early start in the morning.”

  “Will,” she called sharply.

  He heard huffs and rustling and knew she’d follow him, likely just draped in his sheet—to some uninhabited corner of Alaska if she had to—she was that fucking tenacious.

  He shifted and centered himself fully in the doorway, dodging her no longer an option. “What?”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  She’d shuffled into sitting position, the sheet pulled even tighter around her. She’d have been safer sitting there stark naked and vulnerable. Covering up was a tease, a challenge his sodding body wanted to accept. He fixed his gaze on the empty parchment-colored wall space two feet above her head.

  “Has something happened to Rhys?”

  Bastard Rhys. The barrage of furious what-the-hells he’d been blasted with back at the Cube still rang in his ears. And not just from the top brass. Butters hadn’t been popular, but the other six team leaders were out for blood. No one took out a member of the club without fierce retribution.

  She flicked a thick fall of hair over her shoulder—her very delicious, naked shoulder. Jesus, since when had he had a fixation with shoulders? He forced his eyes back to the area above her from which they’d had no goddamn right to drift.

  “Will!”

  She needed to go back to calling him Berwick. “Will” sounded too much like a promise, even when curt with impatience—especially when curt with impatience.

  He swallowed—hard without a lick of spit in this mouth. “No news on Rhys, so I’m guessing he’s fine. Night.”

  “Thanks for that,” she said. “Now look me in the eye and tell me what it is you’re trying to hide.”

  Palm to his chin, he rubbed the shallow breakthrough of stubble. With the powers-that-be hanging like starved bats from the rafters, just waiting for his next screw up so they could enjoy feasting on his veins, he’d have to shave. Every bloody morning.

  “Will!”

  He blew out his cheeks and then told her. “My suspension’s been suspended because a hit’s been ordered, and Butters’s last order was for me to be the one to carry it out, because I, apparently, know the target best.”

  He watched her lock rock solid.

  “Rhys?”

  Rhys. Everything always came back to bloody Rhys. Like he was magnetic north and she was the stubbornly exact compass needle. “No, Angel. You. You’re the target.”

  She instantly relaxed and shrugged those delectable shoulders of hers. “Oh, that’s not so bad then.”

  What—was she mental? How could she lack the self-preservation even of an orphaned baby sea lion during clubbing season? At what point in her violence-tainted life had she thrown herself in the waste bin?

  His temper started to simmer. So it was all right for her to be under a termination order, just as long as her precious, crazy-arsed scientist brother, who had no compunction about shooting shit into the veins of young soldiers, was safe?

  “Not sure you understand my predicament, sweetheart. I have never failed to deliver on a kill-order.”

  “Then I’ll just have to watch you very closely, won’t I?” She let her statement hang for a moment, then smiled. “You should see your face. Bunny caught in the headlights.”

  Bunny? He was no fucking bunny. “What you see is called incredulity, Angel. Incredulity, that for someone of such high intelligence, it seems beyond you to understand that if I don’t deliver you in body bag, someone who isn’t compromised like me will be dispatched to do so. Someone I’ll have to stop with a bullet of my own. Probably a member of my team—someone I actually like.”

  For some incomprehensible reason, judging by her most unladylike snort-snigger, she found his dig at her amusing, perverse woman.

  “You like me, Will. You just don’t like liking me, because you don’t know what to do with that feeling, and that scares you,” she said. “So, to put it in a more familiar context: you’re protecting me because, for all your minor push-backs at authority and propensity for sarcastic bon mots, you have a very deep-seated sense of honor. You know there’s something rotten going on at the MoD, and you being you, you won’t stop until that rot is eradicated. Killing me would only add to the wrongs so far committed, and you’re not about to let that happen. Frankly, I couldn’t be safer than when I’m at your side.”

  He didn’t want warmth flooding his chest. Angel’s endorsement—her trust—shouldn’t matter to him so deeply. It compromised him. Blurred the strict line he’d drawn between what was personal and his professional life. Something he could not allow. Not if he was to stay focused.

  She’d left him no choice but to repel her. “I know I’ve had my fingers up inside you, Sunshine, but that doesn’t qualify you to know one damn thing about what scares me.”

  Color flooded her face—Christ, she could have lit up half of London with that fiery glow—but whether from embarrassment or anger he couldn’t tell, because aside from staring him down, she said not one word.

  And for the first time in his life, he got an inkling of what it felt like to have shame peel his skin—and he’d done a fuck of a lot of things that would make the most hardened man cringe and crawl for cover.

  He adjusted his position so the doorframe plowed his spine, and gave his head a couple of sharp knocks against the wood. “I’m sorry, that was a dick remark. Things got a bit rough back at the Cube, but that doesn’t excuse me taking it out on you.”

  More silence. Just as stony.

  “Okay, so aside from being a jerk, how do you normally cope with stress?” she huffed, setting a pillow behind her as if about to embark on a lengthy psych session.

  Which he guessed he owed her. He’d just make sure to keep it damn short.

  “Doesn’t happen very often, but I find a bottle of the finest whisky helps.”

  Eyes closing momentarily, she shook her head. “Jesus, Will. That’s not a good path to follow. Why do you think they have people like me at the Cube? Twenty-four/seven, we’re there to help.”

  He smiled. Angel would never give up and accept that to an operative’s mindset, any need for counseling equated to weakness and could potentially jeopardize a career. “Sweetheart, the secrets you share with a bottle don’t find their way onto your Service record.”

  “That’s not fair. Flags are only raised when it’s obvious someone is struggling… And don’t call me sweetheart. I’m not one of your floozies.”

  Well, she sure managed to flounce like one, even when propped against his bedstead. “Get some sleep, Sunshine.” A name he planned to keep using. To remind Angel—from the glimpses he’d caught of her back in the shower and back in the woods when they’d enjoyed their little interlude—that she harbored a very different woman behind her ice shield. One he liked. One he inexplicably wanted to set free.

  He reached in, pulling the door to within an inch of closing. Why it should matter, he couldn’t fathom, but he didn’t want her feeling trapped and alone. Not after her experience in containment.

  “It’s not that I care, Berwick. My interest is purely professional,” she called out.

  He grinned at her audible huff and too loud muttering of “stubborn arse.” Now all he had to do was keep her off center and mostly annoyed with him so he stood a chance of surviving his illicit houseguest. That and find her brother fast. Shouldn’t take more than a few days with Angel’s help, then things could get back to normal.

  …

  He should have known Angel was anything but normal, as he discovered when she stole into his dreams—admittedly not for the first time, but now more insistently—all lush, naked, and naughty. So he awoke the next morning with a hard-on from hell, unrested, and worse, unsatisfied.

  From the muffled sounds above his head, she was up and about. Oh, hell no—the damn woman was killing him.

  Showering and dressing in record time, he dragged himself
upstairs to find out how much damage she was doing to his home.

  And his jaw hit the floor.

  His shirt. His jeans. The scent of wild thyme from his shampoo wafting subtly as she pottered about in his kitchen… Humming.

  Bloody hell! He did not need this vision of sweet intimacy and happy domesticity.

  “I don’t have to turn around to know you’re there, Will. I can feel your irritation from here. Are you always snarky in the morning?”

  He wasn’t snarky just…itchy. Itchy and edgy. “I’m running on less than a couple of hours’ sleep. I’ve got a woman in my kitchen who currently tops the ‘most wanted’ list, the powers-that-be think I’m an incompetent for letting you escape—who wouldn’t be a little on edge?”

  “You, ordinarily.” She half twisted for an over the shoulder view of him. “So what’s worrying you? The fact that I’m a woman invading your precious space? Or the fear that if I deploy my woo-woo mind skills, I might find some clues as to what kind of man you really are?”

  Terrific! Even freshly scrubbed, looking all innocent and delectable, she nicked like a razor. “Frankly, while the first irritates, the second pisses me right off. Take that as a warning… And fear has nothing to do with it.”

  “If you say so.”

  Woman-speak for “I’ve got your measure, mate.” And so not happening on his territory.

  Moving forward fast, he leaned in close, his chest tight to her back.

  She froze.

  He smirked, reached high for two mugs from the cupboard, and placed them on the counter beside her. “Just helping, Angel. Wasn’t sure you could reach.”

  He didn’t release his grip on the mugs, nor did he step back. Couldn’t. His body rather liked the contact, the treat, and the torture.

  But if she kept jabbing and hammering his prized coffee machine like that—four years it had taken to get it to decant the black stuff to the exact thickness he deemed perfect—he’d be in the market for a new one.

  He stepped to her side and nudged her out of the way with his hip.

  Her indignant gasp was satisfying, but not quite satisfying enough to assure him she now appreciated he was the one with his hand on the tiller, not her. “And if I’m snarky, it’s because I’m frustrated. Sexually frustrated. Going at it in the shower just didn’t cut it.”

  Her jaw dropped; her lips parted into a cute little gape. “Excuse me?”

  “No, I don’t think I will. I’m too disappointed you didn’t take me up on my offer to fuck. I waited up half the night for you to come, a pretty please ready on your lips. Maybe tonight I’ll get lucky, hmmm?”

  The tiny lightning forks flashing the gray of her irises spoke for her, and it wasn’t polite.

  He grinned. No further lessons needed. She was off-kilter. He was back in control.

  Except, the second Ice Age descended, encasing his home in a bitter frost for days on end. Living with the Angel of the Arctic was like standing in the middle of a frozen lake. Not knowing when the thin ice might fracture beneath your boots, just that it would.

  Jesus, Angel Treherne could sure hold a mean grudge.

  …

  Will Berwick was the easiest man in the world to shack up with, because she’d made it so. Largely by pretending he didn’t exist.

  Easy, given the long hours he put in at the Cube—supposedly trying to track her down, but covertly following up on the leads she provided as to where Rhys might be hiding. Not so easy when he was home, his potent presence shrinking the vast space of the loft to the size of a cell.

  As he was now, his arm, abdomen, and leg muscles straining against the might of some rowing contraption, him having already kicked the crap out of two different punching bags.

  Then, he was hard to ignore. Especially with his muscles glistening sweat, and his heavy grunts and pants cutting the air.

  Her traitorous mind slipped its leash. Did he expend the same powerful physical effort during sex? Did he make the same sounds? How hot would his slick skin feel sliding against hers?

  She yanked open the fridge door and leaned into its chill.

  “Planning on climbing in there, Angel?”

  Frankly, I’d rather climb you. Please, please don’t let her have vocalized that thought. The flighty, jazzed condition she was in, her brain clearly disconnected from all reason, who knew what nonsense might spew from her mouth.

  She waited a few beats. No humiliating comeback from Will—thank God. Her private crazed meanderings had remained just that, private.

  Exhaling shakily, she turned her head to look at him. “Just looking for milk,” she lied coolly.

  Will propped himself against the granite counter and pretended an interest in his fingernails. “And yet, we both take our coffee black.”

  Bugger. Was it not enough that her body was playing stupid games with her, without her brain seizing up on her, too? She stepped back, letting the heavy door swing closed under its own weight and turned fully to freeze him out.

  Towel draped around the back of his neck, his face was down, buried in the cloth, his hands busy wiping and blotting. A film of sweat clung to his bare chest—bare except for a light dusting of dark hair. Curves and angles and dips and ridges carved from hard muscles lying beneath slick skin. Flat nut-brown man-nipples, the enticing narrow trail of more fine dark hairs disappearing behind the waistband of his black cotton sweatpants.

  Lifting her gaze, she found him, stone still, watching her, his eyes deep jade and intense. She braced, ready for his smirk or cutting comment. None came. He just continued to stare.

  She panicked, her hands flittering the air. “I can’t stay here. Nothing feels right.”

  “Rhys’s fault. You’re lost without him.” He furrowed his brow and looked at the ceiling. “Something about shared-trauma syndrome being exacerbated when shared by siblings. At least, I think that’s what Dr. Watts was suggesting. Apparently, it creates an almost unbreakable inter-dependency.”

  Horror doused her panic. Her eyes popped so hard, it was a wonder they didn’t shoot from her head and bounce at his feet. “You discussed me with her?”

  He grinned in a lazy, cat-got-in-the-cream way. “Hell, yeah. You’re supposed to be missing, remember? Seeking some insight into what makes you tick is standard procedure, and expected. Welcome to the dark side, Doc. Not much fun being probed, is it?”

  Her rib cage tightened to a vice. She hummed a soft growl and turned to attack his coffee machine, all chrome nobs, bright red enamel, with a capricious mind of its own. “You could have the bloody decency to put on some proper clothes, now you’ve got a houseguest,” she snapped.

  Seriously, the man was a disgrace.

  Will cough-smothered what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You’re damn lucky I’ve anything on at all. The sweatpants are for your benefit. Putting too much temptation in front of you didn’t seem fair.”

  She stopped twisting knobs. “You normally exercise naked?”

  He winced. Her voice had scaled several octaves, the word “naked” at a painful, glass-shattering pitch.

  “The Greek Olympians did,” he drawled. “I find it very…liberating.

  “Liberating?” she echoed like a dimwit.

  “Yes. Feels great, letting it all hang loose.”

  Her aim misfired, coffee beans bounced across the counter top. “Small wonder you live alone.”

  “Not so small, Sunshine.”

  Her eyes, of their own bloody volition, lowered to his pelvis. She yanked them back up and went for the big freeze. “And you will always be alone, because of asinine remarks like that.”

  “It’s called teasing, Angel. Now stop being bitchy and tell me what’s wrong.”

  Bitchy? Her shoulders slumped, the weight of her ice shield suddenly too heavy to carry. “I’m climbing the walls,” she whispered. “Rhys—it’s been six days, and I don’t know where else to look. I can’t stay here indefinitely; we’ll kill each other. And, the uncertainty, it’s driving me crazy.
Rhys hates failure. What if he’s tampered with—and shot himself up with—BT11 to prove the side effects can be neutralized? What if he kills someone else? What if someone gets to him before you do? What if the Service cottons on to me being here? Where does that leave you? Where does that leave me? What if—”

  Will had her by her shoulders. He may even have given her a gentle shake. “Leave the ‘what ifs’ alone, Angel,” he ordered softly. “But you’re right. Your ice, me taunting you to force a thaw, it’s distracting and not healthy for either of us. Pack your things. Jack Ballentyne, my former commanding officer, is a good friend of mine and owes me. You can go and stay with him.”

  He was kicking her out?

  A tremor hit. The shaking would not stop. “No.”

  “I’m not giving you the choice. I need five minutes to shower. Bring through some coffee, and we’ll talk through the arrangements.”

  At a mental standstill, she watched him walk away. “Fuck,” she whispered. “Fuck.” Was she so awful, Will was evicting her?

  He couldn’t just send her away. To widen the circle of those in the know about BT11 would add further names to the hit list the MoD had already drawn up. Why couldn’t Will see that he’d be putting Jack and his family’s lives at risk?

  And not just from the bastards who had ordered the erasure program. From her.

  Will didn’t know about the risk she posed. She had to tell him the truth. Share with him the secret she and Rhys had been guarding since childhood.

  Her hands would not stop shaking. Black liquid slopped the side of the mugs as she carried them through. Her fingers stung. She didn’t care.

  Placing the mugs straight onto the already ring-marked oak table, she pulled out the chair opposite Will.

  “Not a chance, Sunshine. You sit beside me. I’m not having you turn this into a psych session.”

  She slid into the chair he hauled out, making sure to sit as far away from him as possible. Which meant the outer edge of the seat pinched her bottom cheek.

  Without looking at her, he slipped a hand round her hip and tugged her into a more secure position. “It’s okay. I trust you not to jump me, Angel.”