Page 41 of Mission Shift

For a while longer, I searched the horizon, sweeping my gaze over the road, the trees in the distance, and the surrounding fields. There was nothing. No movement, no shifting shadows, no telltale signs of an ambush waiting to spring.

And yet, the unease remained.

Braxton’s fingers brushed against mine before curling around them.

I looked down at our joined hands, then up at him.

The cocky man just smiled at me as if it were nothing—like it was the easiest thing in the world to touch me.

I hated myself for loving it so much.

I had never been with a man who reached for me simply because he wanted to. Not out of dominance, not to stake a claim, not as a prelude to sex. Just a touch, a connection, as natural as breathing.

Butterflies—actualbutterflies—fluttered in my stomach, something light and unfamiliar stirring in my chest.

I’d always thought that was just some romantic notion, a dreamy fantasy only found in books.

There was no escaping the reality though. Being with Braxton sent an electric current from my brain to my heart and straight to my most intimate places.

I couldn’t help the blush that heated my cheeks, but I didn’t pull away.

My mind wandered to our time at the river, to howfreeI’d been with him, how exhilarating it had been to let go, to give in to nothing but pure bliss. And then I thought of that first night on the run, when he had touched me, pleased me—but refused to take anything in return.

Sexual attraction was immediate and undeniable. At least, it always has been for me. A rush of need took hold, my body reacted, and I claimed exactly what I wanted.

Butthis…

This sweet, quiet affection, his easy way with me, was something altogether different.

And it scared the hell out of me.

I couldn’t becatching feelings.

No way. I couldn’t let myself want something I could never have.

But the way he made me wish Icould? That was beyond unexpected. Strangeeven.

And still, here I was daydreaming, my protective instincts raging. I wanted to make sure he got back to whatever normal life he had. Wanted to see him safe. Wanted…more. More time. More days to talk. More moments to melt into his arms. More chances to feel desired—not for my body, not for my skill, but for the woman buried beneath the hard shell.

My mind flickered to my mother. Had she ever felt this way?

Had she ever looked at my father and felt something real? Or had she only ever felt trapped?

I knew the story well enough. My father had seen her dance in St. Petersburg and had become infatuated. Their courtship had been fast, furious. But had it been somethingshewanted? I would never know.

Because, when my father wanted something, he pursued it relentlessly. He always got what he wanted.

And maybe, to him, my mother had been nothing more than a trophy. Something beautiful to own.

Until she wasn’t.

A chill rippled through me.

I had my father’s blood in my veins. I had been raised by his rules. But as I glanced at Braxton, at the man holding my hand so casually, I knew—whatever this was, it was nothing like what my mother had ever known.

And I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better…

Or worse.

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