Page 22 of Freeing Savannah

“One night, I found this pouch in a collapsed shack. It was filled with little charms. Carved tokens, shells, animal teeth, string knots, and the like. Locals used them for protection. I don’t know why, but I handed them out. One to each of my guys. Told ’em they were good luck.”

He paused, jaw tightening.

“Next morning, we found our way out. Right path, right time, right weather. Like the jungle finally let us go.”

Savannah’s voice was low. “So they started calling you Voodoo.”

“Yeah. Figured I’d made some kind of supernatural deal. Truth is . . .” He looked at her then, straight on. “I would’ve doneanythingto keep my team alive. If giving out jungle charms helped them believe they’d make it home, then I’d hand them out by the fistful.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Did you keep one for yourself?”

Voodoo hesitated, then reached beneath his collar. He retrieved a tiny cowrie shell, nestled amongst a collection of beads whose colors had long since faded from the effects of time, and pulled it from the chain that hung around his neck. He dropped it into her palm.

She held it carefully, like it might crack. The oval shell, smooth as porcelain, gleamed with a rich, brown luster. She turned it over in her hand. A pale yellow, the long, narrow opening felt surprisingly smooth despite the sharp, tooth-like ridges lining its edges. “Is this real?”

“Real enough,” he said, watching her fingers close around it. “Been with me every mission since.”

Their eyes met. A beat passed. Then another.

“I don’t know if I can get used to calling you Voodoo. You were always just Sawyer to me.”

He smiled. “And you were always Savi.”

Her laugh was quiet and breathy, like a secret she wasn’t ready to share.

After she handed the charm back to him, they talked about tree forts and scraped knees, about the time she dared him to eat a worm and he pretended it was gourmet cuisine. The nostalgia settled between them like a warm blanket.

Then her tone shifted, eyes flicking to his. “What was it like? SEAL training?”

He leaned back, considering. “Hell, honestly. Long days, brutal instructors, bone-deep exhaustion. But you learn what you’re made of. You either survive it . . . or you don’t.”

“And you did,” she said, proud and quiet. “I bet it sucked.” She propped her elbow on the table, chin perched on her hand.

He blinked, then laughed under his breath. “That’s putting it mildly.”

She grinned, slow and real, and damn if it didn’t hit him straight in the chest.

“How’d you get through it?” she asked, voice softer now. “What keeps someone going when everything in them wants to quit?”

He leaned back, ran a hand through his hair. “You find one thing that matters more than the pain. For me . . . it was proving I could protect the people who couldn’t protect themselves. I guess I never really grew out of that.”

She dropped her hands to her lap, and her gaze flicked to the linen napkin there, like she was thinking of something she didn’t want to say out loud. The waiter chose that moment to bring their appetizer, interrupting the moment.

Voodoo watched as Savi spent several minutes delicately picking at their smoked salmon canapés, the buttery texture a welcome contrast to the salty fish. He liked seeing her enjoy the dish. She hadn’t changed much. Although her hair haddarkened, it was still just as smooth. Just as beautiful. And his fingers itched to delve into the silky strands.

The pale blue of her eyes, reminiscent of a warm summer day spent playing by the creek, stirred a familiar feeling in him. They were still just as full of expression. Still as captivating. Her stature was unremarkable, average in height really, but in his mind’s eye, he thought about that hug the previous day and the way she’d fit snugly and comfortably within the circle of his arms. Like she was made to be there.

He had always known her to be quiet and shy, with a tendency toward awkwardness, and it seemed that hadn’t changed over the years. It was a familiar trait to him, one he had always accepted without issue. Since he wasn’t someone who craved the spotlight, he found her quiet and unassuming nature to be ideally suited to his own personality.

Despite her modest and reserved personality, she had a captivating quality and a grace that made her stand out to him, much like a beacon. On those rare occasions in the past two days when he glimpsed herrealsmile, it transformed her face, illuminating it with a remarkable radiance. And when she laughed . . . he felt the sound as a physical touch, wrapping around him and settling deep within his soul.

His curiosity compelled him to learn about her as she was in the here and now. To understand her without the weight of past experiences or future expectations. He wanted to know her true self. Not the Senator’s puppet she tried to portray to the world.

A deep-seated determination to understand her completely, to peel away her layers of concealment, struck him. All he could do was hope, with a sense of trepidation, that she would let him.

Finally, with the last morsel gone, a comfortable silence settled, broken only by the clinking of silverware as he leaned in and quietly asked, “So, what about you? What was it like, growing up in the Senator’s house?”

The smile slipped off her face almost imperceptibly. “Busy,” she said, too quickly. “Strict. Always cameras and expectations.”

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