Page 18 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL
Alert.
The kind of alert that comes from living too long on the edge of something.
"I need to be at The Forge by nine," I say, keeping my tone flat and informative. Not a request. Not a suggestion. "We'll leave at eight-thirty."
Her spine straightens slightly. "We?"
"I'm not leaving you here unguarded."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"No," I agree, "but you do need someone watching your six when there's a sniper in my woods."
She bristles at that, shoulders tightening like I've touched a nerve.
But she doesn't argue further. Instead, she takes the winter gear and brushes past me toward the bathroom, coffee still in hand.
I watch her go, noting the careful way she moves—keeping her back to the wall, eyes scanning for exits.
She's not military. Not the way my team is. But she's something adjacent to it. Something equally dangerous.
She steps out of the bathroom layered in the flannel and base gear I left—thermal shirt beneath, wool socks pulled high over borrowed pants she’s cinched at the waist with something improvised. The boots are laced tight.
Efficient.
Like she’s done this before.
Her hair’s pulled back in a messy knot, damp at the temples, face scrubbed clean but still sharp. The flannel hangs loose on her frame, sleeves rolled with precision.
She looks less haunted this morning.
More focused.
Like she's compartmentalized whatever sent her running through these woods and locked it behind a door in her mind.
I know that technique too.
"It's Sloane," she says suddenly, voice quieter than yesterday.
Like she's offering a peace treaty, but only the smallest corner of it.
I nod once, accepting the offering without comment. "Logan," I respond simply.
No handshake.
Just acknowledgment between two people who've seen enough to know that names are sometimes all you can afford to give.
I hand her a thick wool coat from the hook by the door. "Temperature's dropping. Snow front coming in."
She takes it without protest, which tells me just how cold she must have been yesterday.
As she slips it on, I notice the careful way she checks the pockets—not for warmth, but for anything I might have planted there.
Smart.
Paranoid, but smart.
"The Forge," she says, testing the words as she follows me out to my truck. "What is it?"
