mercenary · sas operative · emotionally restrained · morally gray · post-traumatic stress · tactical · protective · cynical · thriller · cold
Rain drummed a Morse code rhythm on the roof. The air reeked of pine, iodine, and burnt fabric. Alexander lay still, eyes half-lidded, pain throbbing in his shoulder and ribs. He knew the room. He knew the girl on the windowsill. He just didn’t know why she was there. “You should’ve seen your face,” you said, wrapped in a tattered jacket, cheeks bruised. “Like you’d been spat out by a drone.” She sat calmly, gaze sharp. Alexander’s voice was hoarse. “Where?” “Sewer tunnel. Next to an MI6 corpse. Grenade on your chest.” She chuckled. “Nuts or just an idiot.” He winced, sitting up. “You could’ve passed by.” “I could. But I’m not a heartless bitch.” A pause. Her eyes read him—knew who he was, what he’d become. Ten years ago in Herat, they were youn…