Stephanie Tyler - Unbreakable

“Understood.”

“I know you hate me, James, but this is who you are. This is your legacy. Embrace it, the way your parents did. You do realize that the only time you get into trouble is when you fight what’s natural to you, right? When you try to break away from your roots, innocent people die.”

Gunner looked down to see the blood running down his hand. He’d probably cut it along the hull of the ship, had been lucky not to attract sharks to him.

He glanced up at Landon. Any more sharks, at least.

He looked back down, watched the blood drip off his fingers onto the sand.

Blood and sand.

That’s all it would be from now on. Blood and sand.

Being inside Gunner’s shop was like taking a bullet every time Avery walked inside. It hurt worse knowing this would be the last time.

Back at the hotel, her suitcase was packed, her ticket booked to some island resort where she could drink and sun and lose herself. Follow her own advice to the others.

Her flight left in two hours and there was no turning back. No reason to, especially now, she thought from where she stood in the center of the room, close to the table where Gunner had tattooed her.

She’d thought about calling Grace. Grace, of all people, knew what Gunner must’ve grown up with. Gunner’s father had taken her in, adopted her and then attempted to destroy her, just because he wanted to see if she could survive.

But she’d tried to talk to him and Gunner hadn’t wanted to listen. If Grace couldn’t have convinced him to stay, to save him from his past, Avery probably shouldn’t have thought she could’ve been the one to do it either.

But she had. Still did.

And you let him go. Again.

“It was for the best,” she said firmly, her hand rubbing the soft leather of his favorite tattoo chair. “It was the right thing to do.”

But a small voice inside her kept telling her she was very wrong.

She loved it here. The closer she’d gotten to Gunner, the more she understood just how much of himself he’d poured into this place. It was apparent in everything, the photos of his art, framed. The meticulous attention to detail in order to make the place look sleek and modern and still inviting. A place that could combine his love of tattooing with a place where he felt comfortable and secure.

It made her sad at just how wired the place was. She hadn’t thought anything of it before, because she’d needed the security measures. She’d thought it was simply a part of his job as a mercenary to have such a wicked system in place.

But all of this ran so much deeper.

She let her fingers trail over the steel breakfast table that somehow never seemed cold or imposing, but rather, masculine, always filled with food. A place to gather.

Gunner had truly left a home—his home—behind. And there was only one reason she could think of that would make a man like Gunner, who wasn’t scared of anyone, do that.

Someone hadn’t just threatened Gunner—they’d threatened S8, and maybe her specifically.

She thought about what Billie said about knowing Gunner was in love with her. If she chose to believe that, she’d know that he would go to the absolute ends of the earth to protect the people he loved.

She hoped it was the truth. Because the alternative, that Gunner had run from her, rejected her because he didn’t want anything to do with S8 or worse—her—was an unbearable thought.

It looked so empty with his things in storage, but she wouldn’t let just anyone touch them, never mind throw them out.

One last look. She’d allow herself that before she left.

He can re-create this somewhere else, she reassured herself. She’d thought about taking a picture, but the reminder would hurt too much. It was the way things had been, not the way they were.

But a not so small part of her had been hoping he’d walk through the front door, telling her he’d made a mistake. That he’d reconsidered.

A knock on the door literally made her start. She turned toward it, had pulled the shade up from the glass to throw more light in, the way he’d liked it. She saw the man from down the street who owned the flower shop.

You’re a moron, she told herself, and waved to Alfred.

“For you, doll-face,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes when she opened the door. “I haven’t seen Gunner around in a while, but I knew I was right about you two being right for each other.”

He motioned to the flowers as he said that last part—could they really be from Gunner? “Thanks, Alfred.”

“No problem. The delivery guy left these behind. Didn’t want to leave them overnight.”

He deposited the beautiful orchid plant in her hands. “Good night, Jolie Blonde.”

She’d gotten rid of the dark hair this morning, gone back to her original blonde color but decided she’d keep it short. It suited her, framed her face.

Of course, the last time she’d looked in the mirror, she’d looked so haunted she’d been forced to turn away from her own reflection. She locked the door with one hand, the other balancing the glass vase, and then walked toward the middle of the shop.

And then she froze. She was inside what could be called one of the safest structures, built to withstand bombs and bullets. From the outside.

But the vase she held in her hands . . . there was nothing in this building that could protect her from that.

She’d accepted the flowers because she knew the man. None of this made sense.

She wasn’t trained in explosives, not until Key had given her the down-and-dirty crash course. She knew things to watch out for—tripwires and the like—knew how to check her room after having been out. They were all vulnerable with Gunner gone, no matter how much he’d wanted the opposite to be true.

The locks had been changed and security-updated. She hadn’t thought a flower delivery would kill her. She stared inside the glass, muted by cellophane wrapping, and she froze in place. Half fear, half survival.

She was alone, holding a bomb that would blow up the second she put it down.

Holding a bomb that was set to blow in ten minutes no matter what, with a note that wasn’t inside an envelope, allowing her easily to read what was written in Gunner’s own handwriting.

Never forget.

Smoke rose from the fire on the half-decimated yacht and covered the beach, thanks to the strong crosswinds. It got in his eyes and throat, and even after Landon left him there, telling him he was a crazy son of a bitch, Gunner stayed.

He inhaled deeply and he was right back in that place again, disoriented, in pain . . . If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear the chanting.

He wanted to give up, but he wasn’t built like that, even though he was dying. Everything was hazy when he opened his eyes. The first thing he saw were dark eyes, dark hair. He tried to focus on the face to see if he recognized it, reached out to make contact.

He hadn’t realized he had a woman’s arm in a death grip. She was a stranger, and she didn’t struggle, looked unconcerned and somehow concerned for him at the same time.

“Am I dead?” he asked in a raw voice because he really couldn’t tell. He was floating, suspended weightlessly, suspected that if he was alive, he’d be in excruciating pain.

The dark-haired woman blinked. Smiled. “You’re very much alive, chère.”

“Stay with me.”

“I will. Even if you don’t know I’m here,” she assured him as his mind clouded and the heavy smoke drifted back over him.

“Are they trying to kill me?”

“They’re healing you. Protecting you,” she murmured. The buzzing sound began again, etching what would turn out to be his first tattoo into his biceps.

“Who left you to die?” she asked when he woke again, even as she laid a cloth across his forehead and chest. The scent soothed him, the sound of her voice more so.

“It was my only way out.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“There are things you’re better off not knowing.” He glanced at his biceps. “You tattooed me?”

“It’s an old custom to ward off evil. It’s a charm. We have to press it with charms to keep the spell working, like we did before it healed. It’s called a gad—a guard. It’s a Voodoo charm that protects against harmful spirits. Some people say you can rub the herbs over the healing tattoo, but the right way calls for it to mingle with your blood. And you, my friend, need all the protection you can get.”

The knife remained poised over his arm. He’d never let anyone with a knife get this close to him, but she mesmerized him. “Go ahead.”

Fascinated, he watched as she used the tip of the blade to cut him so gently he didn’t feel it. He watched the thin line of blood emerge from the ink, watched her graceful fingers press the herbs along the cuts and murmur what sounded like a small prayer of thanks.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Because you needed help. That’s what we do here.”

“Not in my world.”

“You’re not in that world anymore,” she reminded him.

The reality was, he’d never escaped it. The call he’d been waiting for for over a year came on a Thursday at twelve fifty-three p.m.

He’d packed, told Josie he was going to visit a friend from the Navy who was having a rough time. And for the first time since they’d met, he’d been forced to lie right to her face.