Page 125 of Mission Shift

“Hold still,” he said, leaning over to get a better look at my arm. His hands moved with gentleness as he examined the wound.

“This looks surprisingly good,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “No signs of infection, no bleeding.”

He cleaned it, then picked up a packet of Steri-Strips to carefully reinforce the incision where he had closed it earlier. “I don’t want to risk it pulling open, so these will keep it together. And—” He reached for a small bottle of liquid adhesive, opened it, and squeezed a thin, precise layer over the wound. “This will seal it up. Waterproof, so you can shower without messing it up.”

My body relaxed under the care of his hands, and I found myself full of gratitude for how his fingers worked with surety, how he handled my injury like it mattered—likeImattered. He was rough when he needed to be but gentle when it counted.

“You’re good at this,” I said, more to distract myself than anything.

Braxton’s mouth twitched. “It’s my job, you know.”

When he finished, he tossed the used supplies aside and stepped in front of me again, reaching for my waist to lift me down.

The boat lurched hard.

Braxton’s grip tightened instinctively. My hands shot to his chest as gravity yanked us sideways. The next thing I knew, he was on top of me, his arms taking the brunt of the fall. He laid me gently on the table.

My back was pinned against the cold metal while his hand grasped my head to keep it from hitting anything. His chest—warm and solid—pressed into mine. His hips were wedged between my thighs, locking us into place as the boat rocked again, his cock grinding against my center.

My mind spun.

Braxton’s face hovered over mine, his breath warm and his pupils blown wide. His body rested firmly on mine, his heartbeat a steady thrum against my ribs.

Then his gaze dropped to my lips.

A pause. A hesitation.

Then a kiss—light, testing, barely there.

Heat flared under my skin. My fingers twisted into his hair, my body reacting before my mind could stop it. I tugged him down, crushing my mouth onto his.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was everything pent-up inside me, unleashing every moment, every touch, and every fight that had been building up since that first night in the abandoned house. His lips devoured mine while his hand fisted into my hair. The taste of brandy lingered between us, sweet and warm.

Braxton rumbled low in his throat, molding himself to me, demanding more, deepening the kiss with raw need.

Then—another violent shift.

The boat pitched hard, sending things tumbling to the floor. I gasped against his mouth, and the moment was shattered when my back slammed onto the table hard.

I shoved him away, my head spinning, my chest rising and falling fast.

“Guess we’re being chased,” I muttered, my tone of voice harsher than I’d intended.

Braxton pulled back fully. He exhaled, cracking his neck before reaching for me again—lifting me down from the table like nothing had just happened.

I landed on my feet. My body was still thrumming with too much tension, and there was too much heat between my legs.

“We need to find Nikolai,” I said, keeping my tone flat, trying to shove the moment down before it swallowed me whole.

Braxton shook his head. “No. You’re taking these”—he grabbed some antibiotics and painkillers from the counter and pressed them into my palm—“and getting in bed.”

I scoffed. “Excuse me?”

Braxton crossed his arms, every inch the unshakable paramedic now. “You’re taking the meds, eating something, and sleeping. I’ll go find out what’s happening. One of the staff will bring you food.” He stepped closer, dropping his tone as he said, “And don’t even try arguing. I won’t allow it.”

I clenched my jaw and stared up at him, studying this version of Braxton. This was a man who took control, who issued orders like they weren’t up for discussion.

I could argue. I should argue.

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