Page 114 of One Last Stand

“Listen.” She put her hand on his chest, leaned up. “I can’t stand by and watch as there are more terror attacks in the streets of London or Paris?—”

“You’re never going to stop bad people from doing bad things?—”

“But I can try!”

He closed his mouth.

“All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men—or women—to do nothing. Someone has to stand against them.”

He blew out a breath. “Yes. I know that quote. I just—” He touched her face. “I just can’t bear the idea of something terrible happening toyou.”

She leaned against his hand. “Nothing terrible?—”

He leaned up. “Are you kidding me? I walked into the room, saw the blood on Ziggy—and you—and it nearly blew me apart. Imagine if that was you, London, getting life-flighted to Luciella.” He shook his head. “Please, London. Don’t?—”

“Ski out of the boundaries?”

“Yes! Yes. Because I’ll just have to go after you?—”

“No, you won’t.”

“Yes, I will. Because—” He shook his head, looked away, ground his jaw. “Because that’s how I’m built.”

She looked at him then, her eyes wide. She swallowed. “I know.”

A beat passed between them, raw and terrible and real, and then, because the warmth of the chalet had found his bones, because the comforter swaddled her and her golden hair tumbled down, because she looked at him with those blue eyes that seemed to contain more emotion than she could say, he leaned forward and kissed her.

Maybe it started out as desperate, engulfing, but she came to him, willing and sweet, her lips soft.

Yeah, this was why he shouldn’t have scooted up on the bed, because now he pulled her up against him, his arms around her, holding her head in the crook of his elbow and deepening his kiss.

And yes, he was a Boy Scout, but he still let himself relish the taste of her, the sense of time stopping. Her hair turned to silk between his fingers, and she ran her hand around his waist, holding on. Slowly, the panic of the day seeped out of him. They’d lived. She was here, right here with him, safe and whole, and he felt it like never before, that right here, right now, he was home. Or home enough, because he could nearly taste their future—the family, the happy ending.

He finally lifted his head, his body starting to take over, and he leaned away, blew out a breath. “Okay. We’ll finish this. Then . . . then . . . we go home.”

She swallowed. Put her hand on his cheek. Then she pulled down his head and kissed him again.

And only later, after he’d managed to slow them down and bank the fire inside him, after she’d fallen asleep in his arms, did he realize that she hadn’t said yes.

* * *

Go home.Maybe it could be exactly as Shep wanted.

Oh, he was a handsome man, especially in sleep. His dark lashes against his cheeks, his hand clutching her arm, holding on, even in his subconscious, like he might be afraid she’d run away.

She pushed up from the warmth between them—she was still wrapped in the comforter, like a cocoon, still wearing his jacket. He slept fully clothed on top of the bed.

“That’s how I’m built.”

Yes, every inch of him said rescuer. The man was a mountain—in frame, in force—and suddenly the memory of kissing him last night, the way he could make her feel safe, rose inside her.

“Okay. We’ll finish this. Then . . . then . . . we go home.”

Except, maybe Alaska didn’t feel like home anymore.

Then again, nothing felt like home.

Nothing except Shep.