Crossing The Line (KTS Book 2)

by Elise Faber

  “No,” he repeated, shoving it even closer. “You’ll try now.”

  “Are you fucking serious?” I exploded. “Are you seriously trying to force-feed me?”

  “No,” he gritted. “I’m trying to make sure the woman I saved from dying three days ago gains her strength back, so she can go back to being the kickass agent I know she can be. Is that too much to ask?” He tossed up his hands. “God save me from stubborn women.”

  Okay, there was a little bit there in the middle that was kind of sweet.

  The rest of it was . . . infuriating.

  As I was struggling to hold onto the sweet part and to not turn the whole fucking tray over on his head—even though I was weak, I knew I could find the strength to at least manage that much—he picked up the fork, scooped a bite of pasta up on the tines, and shoved it through my still-forming-a-rebuke lips.

  Sputtering, I managed to chew and swallow without spitting it out on the blankets.

  “See?” he said. “You can eat more.” He lifted the fork again.

  I grabbed his hand, digging my fingers into a pressure point between his thumb and pointer finger, and digging hard, because the stubborn fuck . . . kept . . . coming. Finally, his hand spasmed, the fork fell to the blankets, and I ended up with pasta on my bed, despite my earlier efforts to prevent that exact thing from happening.

  “Don’t you fucking dare,” I growled when he went to reach for it with the other hand. I snatched the fork up and tossed it on the plate, shoving the tray back hard enough that it nearly toppled over. Then I turned to glare at him. “You are way out of line.”

  His eyes narrowed and in the next heartbeat, his hand was free, speeding toward my face fast enough that I started to flinch.

  But before my body could complete the movement, his palm was gently cupping my cheek, stroking over my skin, brushing along my jaw, flicking up to trace behind my ear. “You need to eat.”

  His touch almost made me forget myself. My fury.

  The man was a fucking wizard.

  Luckily, it was almost because I was a fucking KTS agent, and it would take more than some magical fingertips to get me to cave—though not much more because . . . magical fingertips.

  Still, I managed to retain some semblance of my dignity and smacked his hand away.

  “I’m nauseous and full. Do you want me to puke on you?” I snapped, glaring at the red stain on my blanket. To get a new one, I’d have to ring the nurse, so I’d just have to deal with it for now. But I knew the mark and the ode du garlic would annoy me until I got a fresh set.

  “No,” he said, standing up, and I sent up a prayer to the universe for the man finally leaving. I’d be free of this infernal man, and then I could focus my attention on recovering and figuring out how to track Daniel down.

  Because he’d come for my people.

  And he needed to pay.

  I suspected I was even furious enough since he’d dared attack Dan and Ava that I might be able to dish out that punishment myself. I also suspected I wouldn’t get the chance, because my retribution would be far down the list.

  That was fine.

  I’d just help with the planning, and maybe I could get a kick or two in when he was down.

  I’d be good at it—the kicking and the planning. But most especially the latter, because I was doing a lot of plotting of late, starting with planning how easily I might be able to stick that fork into Linc’s perfect ass.

  He wouldn’t be permanently injured.

  Just four little prick marks to remind him to not be . . . well, an ass.

  Instead of bringing the tray over like I half-expected, he moved to the door, opening and shutting it behind him. Without another word.

  And he didn’t come back.

  A curl of disappointment wove through me, even though I told myself that I would need to turn in my feminist card if I was really feeling upset about him leaving after the stunt he’d just pulled.

  But apparently . . . I’d need to turn it in.

  Because the food thing aside—I truly was going to puke on the next person who tried to force me to choke down something else—there was nothing I loved more than fighting with Linc.

  He was infuriating.

  He could piss me off faster than any other person on the planet—or at least any of them that I’d met.

  But . . . I liked the man.

  Sighing, I shifted the blanket so the stain wasn’t so obvious then settled back in to watch the game. It was fine. Same as I didn’t want the food, I didn’t want to spend time with Linc anyway. He could take his alpha, broody ass right out that door and never come back.

  Good riddance.

  Too bad I couldn’t even sound like I believed the words, even in my own head.

  “Hockey,” I whispered. “Hockey.” I focused on the screen, watching as Blue, one of the Gold’s star forwards, was carrying the puck up the ice, streaking toward the net and—

  I gasped when the blanket was torn off me.

  The crowd cheered distantly in the background, the goal song playing through the TV, but I barely heard it.

  Because Linc was back, had returned on silent freaking feet and was smoothing a fresh blanket over me. I saw that it was one of the new ones we’d just started using—slightly weighted at the edges to provide better rest for patients like me who enjoyed multi-night stays—instead of the old and slightly frayed version I’d been using before. And I knew it was silly, but part of me aw-ed inside when I noticed that detail, saw that he’d tracked it down instead of just grabbing one of the older ones.

  Yes, I was fully aware that I was losing it.

  Furious at him for feeding me.

  “Awing” at a flipping blanket.

  He finished tucking it around me, sat down, and diverted his eyes to the screen, not saying a word as he focused on the game.

  For my part, I didn’t say anything, either.

  But I did cuddle up beneath the blanket with a satisfied smile.

  Chapter Six

  KTS Satellite Base

  Western Georgia

  03:49hrs

  Linc

  I set down the file with a sigh, knowing that I needed to focus on the words on the printout but unable to.

  I’d sat with Olive until late the night before, watching the hockey game.

  At first, in long, semi-uncomfortable silence.

  Then in tentative conversation.

  She’d asked me about my team’s mission—we were focused on taking down a ring of criminals who were smuggling opioids into rural communities all across the Midwest, and it was a tricky quagmire to navigate. We’d had some success of late, interrupting a large shipment, but the group had ties to the Russian mob, to the Mikhailova clan that her team had been focusing on taking down over the last few years.

  They’d been partially successful, too, removing several top members from the picture.

  The difficultly was that the Russians had teamed up with an Italian crime group, and that made them twice as hard to pin down.

  Ava had been seriously injured during their last mission, and again while here in Georgia on a short vacation when Daniel—not to be confused with her boyfriend, Dan, Brit’s brother and not a fucking turncoat—had cornered them at Dan’s farm and tried to take them out. Lucky for both of them, Ava was lethal, even with a broken ankle, and Dan was strong as a fucking bull to be able to power through getting shot.

  It was those injuries I’d been treating—recasting the broken ankle, stitching up the thankfully through-and-through bullet wound, when Olive had flown in, we’d had words and then been caught in the explosion.

  Shoving the file away from me in disgust, I stood up, knowing she would probably be uninjured right now if we hadn’t had such an antagonistic relationship. She would have stayed in England, wouldn’t have been caught in the collateral that was Daniel’s mess.

  Well, KTS’s mess.

  Because they already had to deal with the Italian mafia, the Russian mob
, drug dealers based in Asia, Europe, and Central and South America, and now they also had to devote resources to taking down a former agent who was a formidable foe. Daniel knew KTS, knew how they operated, and that put them all at risk.

  But—and the reason for his frustration with that fucking file on his desk—there was no proof that Daniel had been here at all.

  No sign on the cameras—and their security system was the most comprehensive that could be implemented. It couldn’t be hacked, and even if it had been, there were multiple layers of backups upon backups. Further that, there had been no odd logins, iris scans, or card swipes at the readers on any entrance or exit. Lest anyone think they could fake those, full iris scans were required to get into any part of the building, including the garage, and there were keypads embedded into the concrete walls requiring logins. Those keypads were scattered through the area and could only be accessed via codes on a fob that agents wore around their necks. The fob’s codes changed every sixty seconds and only worked to authorize those codes and to generate new ones if it was in contact with the agent’s DNA and a special implant that had been adjusted to be unique for each KTS member. The latter had been implemented after Daniel had left.

  Hence, more things that were concerning.

  But beyond that advanced bit of technology, we had card readers on every door leading in and out of specific areas (e.g. engineering, the lab, sleeping quarters, the infirmary, the cafeteria, the library). Those were placed strategically to be able to easily track movements for scenarios just like this one. But we hadn’t gotten a ping from Daniel’s old card on the readers, and no blips on the cameras, no sightings from those working the front gate. The regular patrols had similarly not seen anything.

  There was nothing there.

  Nothing on our security measures.

  It was like a fucking ghost had deposited that bomb.

  Or . . . there was another traitor in KTS.

  One who was working with Daniel.

  One who had a personal bone to pick with Daniel’s former teammates Laila and Ryker, and had been convinced to carry out Daniel’s revenge.

  Because no one suspected that Olive could have been the real target.

  She didn’t have the ties, the past connections to be in the crosshairs. She was simply too new and too inexperienced in the field to have been the intended victim. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t a talented agent. Just that almost anyone else on her team would have made a better target.

  But she was the one who’d nearly died.

  Sighing, I shoved my hair back out of my face, made a mental note to get a freaking haircut, and then stalked off down the hall. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to beat someone up, to use my fists to slake this frustration, but since I couldn’t do the latter, I would take advantage of the late hour and nearly empty corridors and go shoot some shit at the range.

  The infirmary wasn’t far from the office I used when on shift at this base, though my team and I tended to be stationed at the main headquarters in England when not working on this drug ring.

  Still, it was convenient to have space to work in multiple locations.

  It was also frustrating when neither of those locations ended up being helpful in any fucking way.

  Still, there were plenty of guns, plenty of ammunition, and since I couldn’t shoot anyone at the moment, I’d take out my frustration on a paper target.

  Good times.

  Except just as I was getting ready to swipe my card on the reader that was by the exit to the infirmary, I saw a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye.

  No. Not a flash.

  A slow-moving gait.

  I spun and promptly lost my temper. “What in the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Olive froze, guilty expression on her face, even as she tried to melt back into the shadows.

  I lifted a brow.

  She stopped moving.

  Or at least, she stopped trying to hide in the shadows. Instead, she took a step toward me, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “I couldn’t sleep,” she announced by way of explanation. “So, I’m going for a walk.”

  My eyes drifted down, taking in her stocking feet, the soft gray sweats, the loose T-shirt.

  She huffed, lifted one foot to show me the bottom. “They’re lined with non-skid tread,” she muttered. “Relax.”

  I lifted my other brow.

  “I was cold, all right? And I’m not stupid enough to have worn regular ones and slipped.” Another mutter, this one accompanied by her crossing her arms.

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “You implied it”—she waved a hand in his direction—“with those fucking eyebrows and all their judginess. Put the scowl away and just . . . go suck a lemon for fuck’s sake!”

  I froze, went ramrod still.

  Then I burst into laughter.

  Because seriously, “Go suck a lemon?”

  “Ugh!” she snapped, shoving past me.

  Or started to, anyway, because the moment she reached my shoulder, she’d wobbled or tripped or . . . somehow, she lost her balance and started to lurch forward. Spinning quickly, I caught her, bringing her flush against my body, bracing my feet so we didn’t both go down.

  She gasped, a slight sound of pain.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  Her breathing was slightly elevated, but it wasn’t pain in her eyes when I glanced down to meet them, when I smoothed back a lock of dark hair from her forehead.

  No, instead, it was heat, her light blue eyes deepening to indigo, her lips parting slightly on an exhale.

  My heart began to pound.

  Desire arrowed toward my cock, making it grow heavy and hard. God, I’d dreamed about this woman for so long, had wanted her close like this from the moment she’d walked onto the base. Then had been so fucking desperate for it after she’d put herself out there and asked me to dinner. Even when I’d hated it, hated that I could want someone who wasn’t my wife, hated that it had reminded me of my fucking failure in that department, I’d wanted her. I’d wanted even as I’d resented desiring anyone else when my personal life had imploded, when it wasn’t living up to everything that I had dreamed it could be.

  I’d never stopped wanting her.

  Her mouth parted further, the pink tip of her tongue slipping out to unconsciously moisten her bottom lip.

  Then she drifted closer, her breasts pressing against my chest, her hands sliding up the outsides of my arms.

  “Olive?” I asked, my voice so fucking hoarse that it sounded like I’d gone five rounds with a flamethrower.

  She didn’t answer me.

  Just lifted on tiptoe and slanted her mouth across mine.

  Lightning rod.

  That touch was the metal spike on a roof during a storm attracting the electricity in the atmosphere, bringing it down, coalescing it into a huge surge that would level me to the ground.

  And the kiss threatened to do just that.

  Her lips were soft, and they parted against mine, her tongue sliding along the seam of my mouth, coaxing me into opening, though truthfully, it didn’t take much. My nerves were afire with sensation, pulsing desire through my cells, my dick twitching, my hands itching to wrap tightly around her and yank her against me.

  But I couldn’t do that.

  She’d been hurt and—

  She’d been hurt.

  Fuck. I started to pull back, to release her, to stop kissing her, even though that was the last fucking thing I wanted to do.

  But she was still healing.

  “Baby,” I whispered against her lips, slowing the kiss.

  “No,” she said, hands coming to my shoulders, keeping me in place. “I need—please, don’t stop.”

  “It’s only been a week,” I said. “I shouldn’t.”

  She went still, her forehead dropping to my shoulder. “I see.” She stepped back, eyes not meeting mine.

  “Ollie,” I began.

  Her gaze drifted
up, and the fleeting contact with mine meant that I barely caught a glimpse of those blue eyes before they were gone again.

  That glimpse was a fucking gut punch.

  “No,” I whispered. “It’s not—”

  “It’s okay.” A shrug that made her wince. “You don’t want me like that or it’s too soon or—”

  I moved without thinking. One moment I was a foot away from her. The next, she was pressed against the wall, my chest to hers, my body carefully angled away from her injury, one hand on her ass, the other by her head. “No, you don’t see,” I told her. “You don’t understand. I want you. I like you. I wouldn’t have spent every fucking night at your bedside for the last week if I didn’t.”

  Her exhale coated my lips in hot, damp heat.

  Tempting me to put aside my reservations, to kiss her like I so desperately wanted.

  But she was hurt.

  And I couldn’t hurt her again.

  I couldn’t.

  “Don’t sugarcoat it,” she said. “I get it. I’m not”—she waved a hand at her delicious fucking body, as though it weren’t the single most luscious, tempting thing I’d ever laid eyes on—“well, I’m not the type of woman who has ever made a man wild with desire and—”

  Considering I felt exactly that way—wild, ravenous, needy as fuck—I nearly laughed.

  Thankfully, I did have at least a bit of experience with women, and I knew something of what it was like for them to reveal an insecurity. And that’s what she was doing here. Revealing something, even if she hadn’t necessarily wanted to. Plus, considering I’d been on the other end of revealing just a few days before, I could also sympathize with her.

  “You’re fucking beautiful,” I said, cutting her off before she could disparage herself further. I let my hips rest against hers, let her feel the erection that was pushing at the zipper of my jeans, let her feel how much I wanted her, just from a simple kiss. “I told you, I’ve wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  Her hands lightly convulsed. “Thank you for saying that.” Then her gaze drifted away again, telling me she didn’t believe me.