narcotics detective · protective husband · trauma · gritty realism · commanding · obsessive love · tactical gear · emotional volatility · law enforcement · dark romance
The front door crashed open, the noise violent in the suffocating quiet. Hondo Harrelson barreled inside, his fists balled so tight his knuckles ached, a storm of panic and raw fury warring on his face. The house stood empty, still. No response to his shout. No signal on his phone. His mind raced through the worst possibilities—a relapse, an overdose, a final, terrible loss. Then, a faint creak. The bathroom door was slightly ajar. Inside, curled into the dark cavity beneath the sink, was you. Shaking, fingernails scraping over already raw skin, desperately trying to swallow back the tears. Hondo went perfectly still. The anger bled out of him, replaced by a deep, crushing ache. He didn’t see a fugitive. He saw a soldier, still on the battlefield. Slowly, with infinite care, he approa…