Thanks to his tree-mounted security cameras that made the system guarding the crown jewels look amateur, it took less than ten seconds for Jake Zimmerman to identify the vehicle creeping to a stop in front of his remote Blue Ridge, Georgia, cabin. Silver Hyundai Accent, five years old, brand-new tires. Getting the registration info from the license plate, however, led to a dead end. His computer kept cranking through databases. So far, nothing had come up.
Odd. Normally, he could get the information right away.
Where was the convoy? When would they storm the compound?
He cocked his head to the side. No whumps of an incoming helo.
Sparks of adrenaline fired up his nerves, lasering all of his senses on the intruder.
His first thought was that the Army had finally found him. He ran the pad of his index finger over the rough grip of the Sig nestled in his shoulder holster. How could anyone find him? He’d buried his personal intel deeper than a black ops mission file. The powers that be would have had to connect a hell of a lot of dots to figure out Jake’s real identity and location.
Besides, if Uncle Sam wanted to storm Jake’s castle, there better be a battalion coming. If Uncle Sam was smart.
He shifted, feeling the weight of a second pistol in the drop leg holster. With minimal concentration, Jake could detect the mild indentations of a Ka-Bar fixed blade in the sheath at the small of his back as well as the ever-present multitool tucked away in a pocket and ready to go for any occasion.
He peered at the … occasion … on the computer screen.
He kept the house lights off and waited despite a driving need to run out there and exterminate whoever had dared to invade his peace and quiet. Control, dammit. Drawing a hand over his face, he took several deep breaths and tightened and loosened a fist. The muscles in his neck clenched, refusing to loosen despite his automatic relaxation techniques.
The damned virus had started to take over his brain again until his entire world narrowed down to one mandate: destroy.
No, damn it. He was a man, not this … monster.
His ability to restrain those calamitous urges was slipping. Thanks to the top-secret Project Morpheus he had volunteered for almost two years ago in Special Forces, the part of Jake that had previously kept him from devolving into base violence now fucking loved it when he lost control. The darkness within Jake thrived on the anarchy that was his virally corrupted soul.
Add in an uninvited visitor, and it looked like tonight would bring even more fun for one of the U.S. Army’s best-kept secrets.
Question of the evening: what idiot would show up at his place at 2:00 AM? Better yet, why? It was mid-March, still damp and at times freezing up here in the southernmost part of the Appalachian Mountains.
Did the person want to rob him? Jake had no material items of value. Not for lack of resources, thanks to his combat pay savings and mother’s life insurance policy. But he didn’t need much—just the ability to keep his demons at bay chopping wood out back and lifting weights until oblivion. That, and a deep-seated desire to not interact with any other humans suited him fine.
Something of value? Well, he had a locket with a clip of smooth auburn hair he should have thrown away long before now. Yeah, he was a bastard for preserving the keepsake, despite being technically faithful to his then-wife who did not have auburn hair. Could explain part of why he was no longer married.
He peered out the window again. Whoever was out there remained in the vehicle. Come on, people, let’s go.
So. What to do about the person parked outside his house? Well, right now, his goddamned virus had a helpful suggestion. It wanted Jake to dismember whoever was in the car. Now.
Wiping his hands on his black cargo pants, he unholstered the Sig and crept to the front door. Time to eliminate the person stupid enough to visit him. Because one person could lead to two people, which could lead to being put back in the military “testing facility.”
Unclenching a fist, he carefully released more of his tenuous control over the virus. It infused every cell in his body with unnatural strength and reflexes. But as the strength and acuity of his senses grew, his sanity ebbed.
The hellish yin and yang.
Ingrained training was all that kept him from falling over the cliff into psychosis.
The one person who knew he lived here was Mateo, and Jake hadn’t seen his Special Forces buddy since Mateo and the rest of the Morpheus Squad had gone underground a year ago. Actually, strike that. He’d seen Mateo briefly at Brady McNeill’s funeral.
Brady’s funeral. And one particularly fucked-up night. Not in small part because of seeing Brady’s sister, Kiera.
Seen? A bland word for the silky skin sliding over him and around him during their sweaty, heated reunion.
Since that night, nothing besides Jake’s own misery mattered. Not his best friend’s death, not the Morpheus Squad, his own emotional baggage. Nothing.
Which was exactly what he had now, wasn’t it? Nothing.
Well, not completely. He had someone casing his house.
He licked his lips.
The figure closed the car door and stood, unmoving, facing the front porch.
Jake took stock in a matter of seconds: The person was around five-foot-eight, with a hooded jacket hiding the head and face in shadow. They favored one leg on those first few steps toward the house. Thin legs and what looked like a bit of a paunch. He squinted. Paunch or explosives vest? Damn it.
If the government had found him, they would attempt to take him back in for more experiments or wipe him off the face of the earth trying. Best of luck.
Maybe someone was lost out here in the mountains. The road petered out in another five miles, deep into the National Forest. Who the hell wandered around the Georgia mountains in the middle of the night?
He rubbed the back of his neck. The virus crackled through his nerve endings. Mental processes turned to sludge, making high-level analysis more challenging.
What a time to skip an antidote dose.
Too late now. Don’t care.
As a swell bonus for volunteering to become a walking military biological experiment, each Morpheus Squad member had gotten extra goodies, like Jake, with his extraordinary upper body strength. He rolled his shoulders, upper back, and arms, priming for action.
Each muscle popped as poorly contained rage swept through him, turning him from Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde.
Sweat broke out on his forehead as the shaking began.
Using his military training and what little humanity he still possessed, he fought to retain a shred of control. Adrenaline whipped like an icy breeze on naked skin.
He tightened up on the Sig’s grip.
Neutralizing the guy was going to feel like nirvana.
On second thought, he could use a good brawl. Stuffing the weapon back in his holster, he flexed his hands. Mr. Hyde would much rather do this the natural way.
The hunched figure in the baggy jacket trudged up the gravel driveway, halting gait a little short on one leg. Jake spied a hint of a pale nose and cheek as the person looked up at the house, but he couldn’t make out any other facial features with the hood casting a shadow.
Pressing his back to the wall next to the front door, he waited. Listened. Biofeedback techniques and clenching and releasing his hands allowed him to slow his heart rate and focus all of his energy on the shuffle of footsteps up the porch stairs. The virus strained like a chained dog tempted by a wounded rabbit.
Jake became a metal spring, coiled and ready.
At a knock on the door, he didn’t move.
The spring inside of him tightened. Tick, tick, tick. His body ratcheted down as tight as he could go.
A tap on the electronic keypad outside. What the hell? The bolt turned and the door cracked open.
The coil released.
His explosion of movement was a release of bliss and terror as power surged, unchecked, through every cell of his body. Grabbing the person’s arm, he wrenched it behind their back and slammed the intruder sideways against the wall. He ripped the sweatshirt hood back. At a muffled, high-pitched gurgle, he froze.
In the two seconds before he flipped on the light, he registered several key things.
One, the guy came up to his nose, as expected based on Jake’s assessment.
But what he hadn’t expected to find was that the guy had curvy hips.
Oh, shit.
The … guy … smelled like a particular shampoo Jake loved. A shampoo that reminded him of his biggest regret.
He turned on the light, illuminating the intruder’s shoulder-length auburn hair. The air squeezed out of his lungs, leaving burning fire behind. Spinning the trespasser around, Jake stared at the squinting, terrified expression of the one person he never expected to see again.
Kiera McNeill.
But his virus still wanted blood. All of his muscles clenched as the need to destroy surged. Desperate, he wrestled back control. The virus rushed through his veins, powering up muscles, pushing him toward the cliff’s edge.
The view of her horrified hazel stare, with that pink mouth agape, knocked him back a step. For a nanosecond, his life split down the middle. One half of him remained in attack mode and needed to annihilate the intruder. The other half begged to bury his hands in her soft hair and kiss her lips until he lost his ever-loving mind, like he’d done last July.
Attack half won out.
He gripped the front of her jacket. “Kiera?” he yelled. “I almost killed you!”
She gave a strangled cry, and her full mouth twisted.
Oh, shit. Too fucking much. He had to relax or he’d hurt her … more than he had already. With a few deep breaths, Jake mentally shoved the urge to kill way down inside his mind and clamped the lid. Contained. For now. He glanced back to the kitchen cabinet. Damn it, he needed to get a shot of antidote, ASAP.
“What the fuck?” he roared. Then he cursed again when she cringed and flattened herself against the wall.
Okay. Wrong move.
God, what he’d give to run a finger over her skin, to see if it was as smooth as he recalled. He’d love to do so much more. What the hell was wrong with him? He had no right to touch her, not even on the night after Brady’s funeral. He swallowed past a rock-hard lump in his throat. Besides, he couldn’t trust any contact to be gentle, given his current state.
Her delicate features were fuller than he remembered. Come to think of it, even her curves had changed.
Then as he shifted position, he brushed against the sweatshirt-clad, rounded—
What. The. Fuck.
Doubling over like he’d been kicked in the nuts, he attempted to quickly put several pieces of critical information together. And failed.
“The fuck, Kiera? Are you okay? I pushed you into the wall without knowing—” He straightened up and reached his hand out to touch her belly, wanting to reassure himself that she and the oh shit were safe. But when she flinched and wrapped her arms over her middle, he stopped cold, curling his deadly fingers back away from her.
She stared at him, weary lines etching her drawn face. Pregnant?
Math. He forced his vapor-locked mind to do goddamned math. Brady’s funeral. The night after. Her belly looked … he quickly counted on his fingers. Too small for…
Relief that it couldn’t be his crashed against rage that someone else had put the child there. He fought to clear the red haze from his vision.
Then another wave of guilt mixed with fear blended into flashbacks from his ex-wife’s miscarriage. The memories hit him harder than a right hook. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. All the while, Mr. Hyde begged to be let out.
Forget it. Jake would kill himself before he harmed Kiera.
Too late. All of the color drained from her flawless face, and she swayed on her feet. What the hell?
“Jake?” Damn it. Her husky, broken-up voice bought him to heel.
“Yeah.” He half-turned, hoping to hell she couldn’t see the area of his anatomy responding to the dangerous situation and adrenaline, needing release.
She swallowed, and he couldn’t take his eyes off the elegant line of her neck. Damn her, she was even more beautiful than he remembered with those high cheekbones and wide eyes. Despite himself, he licked his lips. He wanted to find out if she tasted as sweet as when he last kissed her.
He also needed to know why she was here, where he could hide her car, and how quickly they could escape in case anyone else showed up. Special Forces multitasking 101.
When she tucked dark-red hair behind an ear, a ring glinted on her fourth finger.
He froze.
Math happened again in his brain. Ring. Pregnancy. Shit. No, he couldn’t process the evidence that she had chosen someone else and that some other man’s baby lived inside of her.
Her hand trembled as she rubbed her pale cheek. “Oh, God. I’m pretty sure…”
When her eyelids flickered closed and she wobbled, he grabbed her under an arm and shuffled her off-balance body in the direction of his favorite recliner. She always had a slight build, but for a pregnant woman, she hadn’t gained much weight compared to what he recalled was normal. Was the pregnancy okay?
He wanted her to sit with her feet up. Because that was what you did when pregnant ladies were about to pass out, right?
No one could be less of an expert on the topic than Jake. But he had been Special Forces. Therefore, he would hydrate and feed her and then mandate that she rest.
Before he eased her into the chair, he glanced down at her white sneakers. One shoe was tinged red. What the hell? Standing, he kept hold of her as he slipped the black jacket off her thin shoulders. She whimpered. Blood stained the back of her shirt. And the front. There were two holes in the fabric at each location. She moved her hands. Dark blood smeared over the palms.
His vision narrowed. Ears rang.
“Kiera? What happened?” With effort, he managed to keep his voice calm and low.
She swayed on her feet, and he tightened his grip around her upper arm. With his free hand, he clenched and released. Do not hurt Kiera. He rode the fine line between not supporting her enough and breaking bones into pieces.
“I may need a little help.” Her strained whisper gutted him.
Grabbing the hem of her shirt, he lifted it a few inches to reveal red, angry, blood-covered skin around a bullet hole. On the same side, a jagged exit wound appeared on the edge of her belly. Bruising had begun in a line between the holes. His skin crawled. Fuck. Had the baby been hit? He clicked into medic assessment mode, scanning her from head to toe, cataloging injuries, and developing treatment options based on what he had in his kit.
“Why didn’t you go to the hospital?”
There was a similar bloody hole in the fabric of her leggings. No second hole to indicate an exit wound.
Who the hell would hurt her—pregnant or not? His head buzzed as his brain heated up to a rolling boil.
Auburn lashes fluttered up. The fathomless hazel color of her gaze checked his inner beast more surely than if he’d mainlined a case of antidote into his jugular.
“I’m in big trouble, Jake.”