Brotherhood Protectors_Carved in Ice

by Kris Norris

  “The Teams?”

  “Special Ops, but then you, knew that. You recognized my tattoo, didn’t you? Which is why you weren’t the least bit surprised by my conversation with Midnight.”

  She broke eye contact when he stared at her for a moment, weaving them through some light traffic. “I don’t know what branch you were with. But I knew it was military. Hardcore military.”

  “And you still told me to go.” He shook his head, clearly disappointed.

  “Being a soldier doesn’t mean you’re prepared to take on an entire organization of criminals.”

  “Maybe not, but you could have given me a bit more to go on. Made it easier to find you.”

  “You weren’t supposed to find me, Russel. That was the whole point of telling you to leave and not look back. I didn’t want you to get hurt. Still don’t.”

  She should have guessed he wouldn’t simply disappear. But, after she’d made the decision to destroy her family’s organization, she’d abandoned her new life and ventured back home. Given her father a story about her apartment being fumigated for rats and asking if he’d mind if she stayed in her old room. Needless to say, he’d agreed without hesitation. Why not? She was back under his roof. Under his watchful eye. Right where he wanted her. And, once she’d walked through those iron-wrought gates, no one was finding her, not even Russel.

  “How did you know I’d be there tonight?”

  He snorted. “I didn’t. But, when every other lead went cold, I went back to the one place I thought I might get lucky. Didn’t think it’d take a couple of weeks for you to show up, though.”

  “You’ve been going there for two weeks?”

  “Paid off, didn’t it?”

  “Still.”

  Damn. What kind of man went to the same bar every night for two weeks on the off-chance she might show up? It wasn’t like he owed her anything. They’d hadn’t even spent twenty-four hours together. And she couldn’t claim it was because they’d had amazing sex. He’d spent the entire time sitting in the chair, watching her sleep off too many coolers. Waking her to check if she was medically compromised. Other than a couple of panty-melting kisses, he’d hadn’t touched her.

  Yet, here he was, driving through the rain, heading to god knew where after taking down three men—three armed men—as if it was normal. As if she were someone special.

  She stared at him, again, seeing him from a new perspective—one that made her heart flutter and her skin feel tingly. She wanted to ask him why. Why he was risking his life to save hers. Why he hadn’t just disappeared like she’d asked. Why he cared. But a part of her was scared. Afraid that he’d done it out of duty. That she was nothing more than a fucked-up obligation to him.

  She’d felt like that most of her life. Not from her father. Criminal or not, he’d always told her he loved her. That she was his priority. He hadn’t really succeeded in that department, though he’d tried. But the men who worked for him—they’d made it very clear that they only tolerated her because they were afraid of Henry. That they’d disappear like the couple of men who’d hit her. Now that she’d broken her agreement—was actively trying to send Thomas and his goons to jail—she was a target.

  And, now, so was Russel.

  Quinn closed her eyes. God, she was tired. Tired and scared and oddly aroused. Watching Russel best those men—armed with only a couple of knives… She’d be lying if she said it didn’t connect with some ancient part of her DNA. The kind that took notice when an alpha male pounded on his chest. And, while it wasn’t quite that simple, it had elicited the same response.

  He’d fought for her. Had been willing to kill for her.

  On some level, her body recognized that she was his.

  She groaned and leaned against the seat rest. She was also apparently temporarily insane because that was the only explanation for the traitorous thoughts she was having. She was independent. Capable of taking care of herself. And, yet, she knew she’d be locked up in the trunk of Thomas’ car if Russel hadn’t been there. That’s if Thomas hadn’t killed her outright.

  Russel’s hand settled over hers, resting on her thigh. “Why don’t you rest? We’ve got a few hours to go. Rigs’ place is just outside Spokane. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not…” She stiffened a yawn. “Tired.”

  “It’s a side-effect of the adrenaline dump. It’s like crashing after eating nothing but sugar. A short nap will do you good.”

  Sooner or later, she’d have to ask him how he knew so much. She still didn’t think he was a doctor, but… Maybe doctors traveled with SEALs and Rangers. Or maybe he was the military’s version of a paramedic. She didn’t really know that much about Special Ops. She’d always distanced herself from any form of policing, and soldiers were kind of along those lines.

  And now… Now, she was apparently teammates with one.

  He chuckled. “You are stubborn. Rest. Besides, I have a shit ton of questions, and as soon as you wake up, you’re giving me some straight answers. So, enjoy the rest while you can.”

  “And if I don’t want to answer them?”

  He smiled, sending the butterflies in her stomach into flight. “You will.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Russel drove through the darkness, wipers slapping out a beat as they worked to swish the rain to either side. After years in the desert, the endless rain made him antsy. Almost as if it was hiding danger that would pop out at him when he least expected it. Ready to wash away any evidence that he’d ever existed.

  Of course, it could be the three weeks of little sleep and a lifetime’s worth of stress. He’d have thought he’d be over worrying about anything after all his years in the service. But, sitting there, willing Quinn to walk through the door night after night because he literally had nothing else to go on—no other way to find her other than going back to the café and demanding answers—had taken more of a toll than most of his missions combined.

  Overseas, he’d always had a concrete objective. That paired with reasonable intel had been enough to steady his nerves. After all, his end game was always the same—find his downed comrade and bring his ass back alive. Even if he was deployed with a team, it didn’t change his directive. He was there to keep his brothers in one piece or patch them back up when things went sideways. It didn’t matter if he was hurt. If there was heavy fire. If a teammate went down, Russel went in.

  But that wasn’t what Quinn required. She wasn’t injured. She didn’t need him to bandage her arm or keep pressure on an open wound. Her situation was the equivalent of cutting off half of him—the best half. The part that healed instead of killed. And that realization had made his heart race. He didn’t question his ability to keep her safe—to eliminate any threat. That was a given. A reflex honed from years of training. He just hoped he didn’t lose sight of who he really was in the process. Become worse than the monsters chasing her.

  He glanced over at her. Though she’d fought it, she’d drifted off almost immediately, her body turned toward him, tucked against the seat. Her head rocked a bit from the motion of the truck, and her lips twitched as she whimpered quietly.

  He frowned. She’d been restless for the last ten minutes, brow furrowing, fists clenching then releasing. Her eyes moved rapidly behind her lids, and he suspected the dream wasn’t a good one. He reached for her hand, lightly holding it in his for a moment. Quinn shifted, squeezed her fingers, then settled, once again, drifting off. And Russel’s heart kicked up.

  He’d held lots of soldiers’ hands. Used it as a means of reassuring them they weren’t going to bleed out before he got them safely to the helicopter. It didn’t matter how tough a man was. When he was lying there, barely conscious, blood sticky against his skin—holding Russel’s hand was a sign he could relax. That someone else would watch over him. Have his back.

  And Russel made a point of never letting a teammate die alone if he could help it. Knowing he couldn’t
do anything—working to save him just the same—those were the moments that had shaped the kind of man Russel had become. How he helped his brothers face death defined him more than all the lives he’d saved.

  But he wasn’t going to lose Quinn. He had no idea how she felt about him. If he was just a man she’d been forced to trust. Or if she felt as if she were falling without ever hitting the ground—the way he felt sitting there, holding her hand, wishing he could pull over to the side of the road, wrap her in his arms and just sleep.

  Not that it mattered. She’d accepted his help—somewhat reluctantly—and failure was not an option. Whether she ever wanted more, he’d protect her with his life. See that she got whatever help she needed to get this Thomas guy and his thugs off her tail. But, for that, he needed answers—answers that would have to wait until she’d gotten some decent sleep.

  Which meant he needed to get them someplace safe.

  He glanced at the map displayed on his phone. He’d called Rigs, but the man hadn’t picked up. Russel had left a detailed message—well, he’d told his buddy he needed a safe place for him and a friend to crash. One that wouldn’t be easy to infiltrate. If that didn’t clue Rigs in that Russel had possible tangos on his ass, then Russel had bigger problems.

  Like what he’d do if Rigs didn’t call him back. Midnight was right—Rigs definitely wasn’t someone you just dropped in on. Especially since he’d left the service and was apparently dealing with some…residual issues. Russel wouldn’t put it past the guy to have his entire place wired, and Russel preferred his body parts right where they were.

  He huffed out a breath, wondering if he should try Rigs, again, or just plan on staying in a motel, when his phone jingled, the sudden sound making him jump. Damn, he was definitely losing it if he startled over his phone.

  “Foster.”

  “You know, most people don’t call after midnight. On account it’s considered late.”

  Russel smiled. “We both know I’m not most people, and the fact you’re calling me back at two…”

  “Had a feeling you’d just keep ringing until I picked up. You’re as bad as Midnight. Bastard won’t stop calling. Keeps trying to get me to drive out to Montana. Says I should meet up with some ex-SEAL named Hank.”

  “Midnight’s always been persistent. And Hank’s a great guy. You definitely need to chat with him.” Russel cleared his throat. “How ya been?”

  Rigs snorted. “You’ve obviously talked to Midnight, so… He thinks I’m hiding.”

  “Are you?”

  The line went silent, followed by a rough breath. “I’m…dealing. Adjusting.”

  “By living on the outskirts? Avoiding contact with anyone who might…what? React to how you look? Which is crazy, you know that, right? The scars really aren’t that bad. Not the way you’ve worked them up to be inside your head.”

  “Right, says the guy who doesn’t have one. Anywhere.”

  “Trust me. I’ve got lots on the inside. Besides, I didn’t haul your ass out of that rubble just so you could play ostrich.”

  Silence. Not even the soft whisper of breath.

  Russel sighed. “And that wasn’t why I’d called. Guess I just can’t tame that side of me.”

  A bemused snort. “That stubborn side is why I’m still breathing. I know you weren’t supposed to come in. Zone wasn’t clear. Heard you got bitched out for breaking ranks.”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t the first time. Or the last.”

  “Heard about that, too. I’m sorry, Ice. I’m sure that was a tough one to swallow. Guys like you… You’re the reason the rest of us could go in without worrying about getting hurt. We knew you PJs were just itching to come and drag us out. I have to say, you’re a crazy bunch.”

  “Right, and setting explosives, defusing bombs is sane?”

  “It’s…complicated.”

  “I’m familiar with the term. Besides, you’re not the only one who doesn’t quite know how to adjust. Who knew it’d be so hard to integrate back? I always thought civilians had it easy. Now… Crap. Now, I just think they’re all nuts.”

  “That’s what happens when you’re fresh out and already have a bunch of tangos on your ass. Want to fill me in on that?”

  “I don’t know much more than the fact that Quinn’s in trouble. And the men chasing her have no issues about killing her or anyone who gets in their way.”

  “Quinn?”

  “She’s a…” Christ, Russel wasn’t really sure what she was, other than a source of frustration. The reason he felt so off-kilter. The girl was probably a witch. Had cast some kind of love spell that first night. He shook his head. “She’s a friend.”

  “Sure. How’s she doing?”

  “Passed out. Too much adrenaline, too little sleep mixed with some alcohol… I doubt she’ll wake up before morning.”

  “How far out are you?”

  “About thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll make up the spare bed. Just be sure you stay on the gravel drive, or you won’t have to worry about those men chasing you, if you get my drift.”

  “You do realize civilians don’t set charges around their property, right?”

  “You just said they’re all crazy. I’m just taking precautions.”

  “Right.” Russel scrubbed his hand down his face. “You do know we’re not done talking about how you really are hiding, right? Unlike Midnight, I don’t care if I piss you off. He’s far more…sensitive.”

  “Perhaps you should wait until you’re actually here before you do that—bad guys on your ass, and all.”

  “Noted. We’ll pretend we’re both fine, for now. See you soon.”

  “Remember. Stay on the drive.”

  “Got it. And thanks, Rigs.”

  “Don’t thank me until you get to my door without blowing up.”

  Russel smiled as the line cut off. It seems Rigs hadn’t changed that much. Sure, Russel was pretty sure Midnight’s assessment was right. That Rigs was hiding. Afraid to face the world scarred from battle. And, if he was having flashbacks, suffering from PTSD… That complicated things.

  Russel sighed. He’d have to wait until he was there to make a proper evaluation. See if he could talk Rigs into taking some positive steps forward. Russel knew firsthand how hard it was to be thrust into change. To find a new purpose. He was lucky. Hank had reached out to him and given him a lifeline even before he’d needed it. And Midnight had made a point of calling him damn near every night to ensure Russel wasn’t going to disappear. Fall into some kind of depression.

  Rigs… Once the Marine Corps had pieced him back together and stabilized his condition, he’d been shuttled off to Walter Reed then unceremoniously let loose. A decorated war hero left to fight his own demons in a world he’d abandoned a dozen years prior. To say it was daunting was an understatement. That coupled with injuries everyone could see—stamped across his face and chest—Russel understood why Rigs might choose to hide. Hell, Russel had considered it, himself. But he’d had friends that hadn’t taken no for an answer. Who’d looked beyond his other-than-honorable discharge and accepted him. About time Russel gave that back.

  Quinn stirred, groaning, again, until he took her hand back in his—gave it a squeeze. Knowing that his presence comforted her did funny things to his heart. Made it race, then skip, then fuck, he was sure it stopped, turned over, then started, again. And his stomach—it couldn’t decide if there were a thousand butterflies living inside it or if it was just permanently stuck somewhere up by his throat. Either way, the feelings were new. Years of helping people, of facing gunfire and death without losing his cool, and her tiny hand resting in his made him break out in a cold sweat.

  Man, he should have listened to his mother. She’d told him, repeatedly, that women had the power to unravel a man with nothing more than a smile. He’d never really put much stock in it. After all, she’d fled an abusive marriage. Had spent her life looking over her shoulder. Call him c
razy, but that didn’t sound like the kind of unraveling he wanted.

  But, sitting there, holding Quinn’s hand—Christ, he had a bad feeling this is what his mom had been talking about. Wanting to protect Quinn, he understood. It was bone deep. An integral part of his DNA. But wanting to hold her. Taste her mouth, her skin. Lose himself in those green eyes. That… It was foreign. Sure, he’d had a few short-term flings. A week, maybe a month. But, in his line of work, settling down hadn’t made sense. He’d witnessed too many soldiers leave behind families. Wives. Children. People who were forever scarred by the loss. And he hadn’t been able to bring himself to get attached.

  Of course, it’s not as if he’d ever met someone who had wanted him to change his mind. The women he’d dated had seemed to want the same from him—fun. Sex. Maybe a safe place to fall for a while. But they’d never asked for more and had left before he’d had a chance to realize it was time to move on.

  But he wasn’t a soldier, anymore. And, if he was honest, Midnight didn’t seem too upset about how civilian life was turning out. In fact, Russel had never seen the man happier. Having Bridgette definitely made the difference. But it wasn’t just Midnight. Hank. Swede. Taz. They all had found a way to make it work. Had partners who made it worth the fight.

  Russel looked at their joined hands, again. The way hers fit perfectly in his. Maybe he had something to fight for. Someone. He might not know how she felt, but damn if he wasn’t falling for her. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d gotten in way over his head that first night. Sitting in the chair, watching her sleep—it had flicked some kind of switch. Made him long for more than just endless hookups. People breezing in and out of his life. The service had been his family. But he realized he had another one. Midnight and the guys at Brotherhood Protectors had made that clear. About time Russel found that special teammate. The one he hadn’t thought existed until…

  He snorted. Just his luck. He finally admitted he wanted a relationship—to be part of a couple—and the girl that grabbed him by the balls was involved in something dangerous enough to have a bunch of thugs on her tail, armed with guns and god knew what else. And she seemed as reluctant as he was to get involved. He sure knew how to pick ‘em.