24.3-a
This one is for Sung-Hee,
I love our history and the joy we shared as goofy tweens and yet-to-be-swan early teens. I’m just as excited for the renewed friendship being forged now. I’m grateful we can look back and refresh each other’s memories. Looking forward is even more exciting.
Prologue
Newport News, Virginia
December
Lieutenant Commander Randall Fallon dropped to his knees beside Dr. Kira Hanson’s prone form. Her position was unnatural. His hands hovered above her for the briefest of moments before his training kicked in, blocking out the shock of finding her in this condition.
He ripped off his tactical gloves and felt for a pulse on her neck. It took a few seconds for him to locate it, but when he did, relief washed through him. Steady and strong.
He whispered into his radio that he’d found her. Alive.
He rolled her to her back and swallowed against the horror of her battered face.
This was an op. He was a Navy SEAL, and this was just another hostage rescue.
Those things were only partly true, but he needed to treat this like any other op. Same as Lieutenant Chris Flyte had vowed to do moments ago when they separated so he could rescue his lover from a terrorist and two American oligarch traitors.
Kira wasn’t Rand’s lover. Hell, he’d only met her slightly more than twenty-four hours ago. But she’d cast some sort of spell on him in the few brief hours they’d spent together. Now, here she was, unconscious and battered, and it was his fault.
He hadn’t taken out the little prick who’d threatened her yesterday when he had the chance.
Her breathing was steady, same as her heartbeat.
He turned off his mic before touching her face. “Kira. Sweetheart.” His voice caught. The gash on her forehead was bad. “Speak to me.”
Shit. He’d been a SEAL for nearly a decade, and never once had he used the word sweetheart on an op.
But this wasn’t an op. Not a sanctioned one, anyway. It didn’t matter that a few rooms away, a badass Valkyrie was in the process of taking down one of the world’s most wanted terrorists, who wasn’t, in fact, dead as had previously been reported.
This was an op. And it wasn’t. And Kira wasn’t his sweetheart.
“Kira…” He gently stroked her bruised cheek. “Wake up, baby.” Shit. Show respect, asshole. “Dr. Hanson. Speak to me.”
Then, like a miracle, her eyes fluttered open. She let out a pained groan.
“Dr. Hanson. I’m sorry. Help is coming. Are you…do you have injuries I can’t see?”
Her eyes weren’t focused. He knew she wasn’t really present. It was enough that she was conscious, even if not lucid. Still, her first words surprised him.
“Are you allergic to strawberries?”
The question triggered a choked laugh. “No, sweetheart.” Her breathing remained even, but he had to ask. “Are you? Are you having an anaphylactic reaction?” In addition to being beaten?
She let out a pained sound that might have been a laugh. “If only.” She raised a hand and touched his cheek. “You look like my love.”
His heart twisted. What does that mean?
She grabbed his hair and pulled his face to hers. Only inches separated them.
“Apollo. I hate you almost as much as I love you. And I really, really fucking hate you.”
The debriefing with the FBI took forever, but finally, Chris, Diana, and Rand were cut loose to go to the hospital. Rand paced the waiting room.
Kira will be fine. She has to be.
Freya and Cal arrived, followed twenty minutes later by Morgan, Pax, and their two-year-old daughter, Valentine. The little girl reminded Rand of his sister’s kid, right down to the Disney Princess costume.
Finally, Kira’s father arrived. Yesterday, Kira had told him that she’d known Freya since childhood. Their parents had been colleagues. Rand knew nothing about Freya’s family, but Conrad Hanson met Freya’s proffered hug with a cold handshake.
It was weird because Freya never hugged.
“You did this.” Kira’s father’s words held sharp accusation.
“Dr. Hanson, we had no way of knowing—”
It was strange seeing Freya—a badass former CIA operative in her late thirties—take a deferential role, but it made sense given her history with Hanson.
