Surrender A Section 8 Novel - By Stephanie Tyler Page 0,21

shouldn’t, and despite all the rules of civility, he did.

Because he’d never learned to be civilized. Didn’t see a reason to start now.

She blinked, and then she proceeded to look him up and down in the same manner he’d done to her.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or strip or both. He stuck his hand out and waited. Finally her cool palm slid against his warm one, and the electric jolt seemed to hit both of them at once like a lightning strike—and it threatened to do far more damage than what Mother Nature promised.

At least she felt it too. He wondered if she’d deny it. “I’m Dare.”

“Grace,” she said, and with a great effort he took his hand from hers, but not before her fingertips brushed the scars. “But you already knew that.”

“Yes.” He turned from her to pull himself together, wished Adele hadn’t visited him, wished he was still alone in the woods.

You and your nightmares. You and your ghosts.

Hell, they were loyal. They’d follow him anywhere.

She was willing to die before she’d go back. He’d known that from the second he took her, but he had to push her to confirm it.

He had to prove it to himself to decide how far he would go. That was one reason he didn’t want Avery close by. She didn’t deserve to see this shit. But she also didn’t need to be kept in the dark. Couldn’t be.

He handed Grace a bottle of water from the nearby counter, pressed it into her hand after he’d taken the top off. She moved her arms gingerly—he knew they’d ache.

Dare had been trained to notice even the smallest details, nuances. It made him a good lover and a better SEAL. It would serve him well as a merc.

He hadn’t thought of himself as a merc until Grace had called him one, but he couldn’t deny it. Instead, he catalogued what he saw.

She had a small, crescent-shaped scar on her inner wrist, as if she’d been cut. Glass or metal, and he’d bet it wasn’t self-inflicted.

Her fingernails weren’t long, but they were rounded at the tips, obviously well tended and strong. Her hands looked like an artist’s hands—capable, used to work.

The garden at her house would’ve taken quite a lot of upkeep, and it was obviously well loved.

What would it be like to love something so much, to put that much work into it daily, only to know it would die slowly, to watch it wither, all the while understanding it might not come back. And even if it did, it might never be the same—strong, healthy, vibrant—instead, a shadow of its former self.

But there was always the promise that it would.

She was as lush as the garden. She radiated light and hope. She was the total opposite of him, and she’d never forgive him for what he was about to do to her.

Or maybe she would and he shouldn’t care either way, but damn it all to hell, he did.

She watched him the entire time she drank, even as he avoided her gaze, hating the way her wrists showed the marks of his bindings.

He was tired of the guilt. One job, one final job, and then he was really and truly burying Section 8 forever. “Do you know names of people Powell killed?”

She blinked, played with the half-empty bottle for a moment before telling him, “My mother, for one. And you’ve already told me he killed your father.”

“Do you know who my father was?”

“Darius.”

He took a step back like she’d physically pushed him. “You knew him?”

“Yes—I knew him and Adele. I knew you were coming for me—I just didn’t know exactly when.”

“If you knew I was coming, why didn’t you run?”

“Where would I go? I’m tired of running. I was finally happy here.”

“You have no survival instinct,” he told her, and no, he wouldn’t feel guilty about this. He was so tired of that, and it was heavy and he’d burdened himself with it for so long, he was pretty sure he’d never see himself clear of it.

“What if you’re my survival instinct?” she asked.

“Don’t you do that—don’t you make me that.”

She smiled a little, as if she knew that thought was more frightening for him than facing down the barrel of a Sig. “Your father used to fish down by the docks.”

“Don’t,” he warned through clenched teeth.

“He’s a good cook too. Adele couldn’t cook at all. She always joked that she could burn—”

“Water,” he finished. Pictured Adele laughing as she said it.