Page 58 of Boomer
Kodiak followed, shaking his head, his expression somewhere between warning and amusement, like he wasn’t sure if Boomer needed a medic or a muzzle. There was a tight twitch to his mouth, and something in his eyes that said,Don’t screw with this woman. She’ll have your hide before I can stitch it back up.
“Don’t even,” Taylor snapped, pointing at him like he was the problem child in a briefing gone sideways. “Sit. Down.”
He sat.
Not because she scared him. He was too damn tired to argue and because part of him loved hearing her lay claim to him in front of everyone like it wasnonnegotiable.
Kodiak dropped to his knees beside him, med kit already unlatched. “You okay, brother? Her sharp tongue do any damage? Tell me where it hurts.”
A purely male look passed between them, too exhausted for humor but thick with implication. Boomer looked away before he lost it. Kodiakknewexactly where it hurt.
He had a monumental dick ache for this woman.
Taylor knelt as well, brushing his cheek with her thumb, her voice low and intimate.
“You save the world later, hero. Right now, let someone saveyou.”
His chest twisted. Mike’s face came out of nowhere, then it was gone, blown to hell. He swallowed hard, the moment felt so real, like he was reliving the shove, the blast…pain gutted him. Someone had already saved him and given his life.
Boomer built himself around utility, his breacher skills, his body, his humor, his ability to survive when things went sideways. But was he enough to make someone stay? His ex-wife didn’t just leave him, she made him feel replaceable. Disposable, and he’d felt like a backup plan ever since. Love was conditional. Trust was dangerous. And vulnerability? That’s how you got gutted.
Taylor told him he couldn't hide from her. She wasn’t reacting to him for what he did, but for who he was, the man he was beneath it. Was he that man?Was he not onlyenough,but was he exactly who she needed? Was he?
A deep, soul-cracking fear consumed him…that if someone saw himfully,the boy under the tree, the man from the garage who couldn’t fix his marriage, the one who still flinched at night when he was alone, they'd walk. Maybe loneliness was all he deserved.
He looked at her, worn out, bloodied, and still convinced he’d never seen anything more devastating than this woman, spine straight, mouth soft, eyes fire-bright with emotion she hadn’t named yet. Maybe didn’t have to.
He gave her the ghost of a smile. “Copy that, Red.”
But something wasn’t right.
Boomer sat still, but his mind was moving. The chaos around him blurred at the edges, shouts, triage, movement but his focus narrowed, hyper-tuned to the rhythm of the aftermath. Something wasoff. The pattern didn’t hold. Too many moving pieces, too many accounted for, and one that wasn’t. His internal clock, calibrated to sync and sequence, ticked loud in his chest.Bash. He hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t heard him, and a man like Bash didn’t fade quietly.
Boomer’s breathing changed before his body did, every instinct sharpening like a line of tension under his skin. “Where the fuck is Bash?” he asked, his voice suddenly sharp. Kodiak looked up, confused.
He didn’t ask permission. He rose, fast, fluid, precise, dislodging Kodiak’s hands as if detaching from a charge that no longer held priority. Smoke shifted in the distance, curling like a lie. “Where ishe?” Boomer’s gut twisted. He didn’t need proof. Heknew. Someone had been left behind. In his world, you didn’t leave anyone in the blast zone. Not if you could still walk.
He turned toward the wreckage as the wind shifted, and smoke peeled away from the rear loading dock like a veil. His heart thudded hard and fast, slamming against his ribs like it was trying to warn him.
The building was still alive with heat. Flames crackled deep inside. Metal groaned, andsomeonewas missing.
The world was thick.
Not just with smoke, but with heat and noise and confusion.
Bash coughed hard, curled in on himself near the west wall, one hand dragging along a scorched support beam as he triedto move. The exit had been clear, or so he thought. He’d been backing Breakneck’s reckless charge into the building as they pulled out anyone they got their hands on. Then he’d charged back in, got disoriented. His knee buckled, and he’d gone down.
Soot clung to his skin, plastered with sweat. He couldn’t see. Could barely breathe. His helmet was gone, and every breath scraped like broken glass. His throat burned.
Bloody hell.
He’d tried to call out, twice. No comms. His mic was gone. Crushed, maybe.
He dragged himself forward, gasping, but the world was narrowing fast. The debris near the loading dock shifted. Something massive moved in the haze. He blinked through watering eyes, vision swimming.
A shape emerged, broad shoulders, square jaw, fury etched into every inch of soot-covered skin.
Boomer…fuckingBoomer, smoke-blackened and scowling, eyes burning like battlefield fire. The big man dropped to one knee beside him, grabbed a fistful of Bash’s vest, and leaned in close. “Not on my watch, Markham,” Boomer growled.
