The Dangerous Jacob Wilde

Now, she grabbed the duvet and dragged it to her chin.

She was entirely naked. Not just her body. Her soul. Her heart. In less than twenty-four hours, she’d become terrifyingly vulnerable, something she had spent most of her life avoiding.

She must have made a sound. A whimper. Something, because he swung toward her.

“Goddammit,” he said. “Honey, I’m sorry.”

She shook her head without looking at him.

“No. No, that’s okay. I just—I just—”

Jake cursed, strode back to her and gathered her tightly into his arms.

“It isn’t you. It’s me, honey. I don’t talk about it. What happened. I don’t talk about it to anybody.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

He almost laughed.

She didn’t. She couldn’t. Hell, he didn’t understand it, and he lived with it.

“I flew Blackhawks,” he said. “Do you know what they are?”

“Helicopters?”

“Yeah. Big, bad birds. They can carry damned near anything to a battlefield. Troops. Equipment. Anything.” His voice roughened. “And they can carry things off a battlefield. They can do medical evacuations, provide cover and get men who’ve been pinned down, men who are dying, out of harm’s way.”

“Jacob, don’t.” She put her fingers lightly over his mouth. “You don’t have to—”

“Sometimes things went right. I was lucky. Sometimes, I wasn’t.” His mouth twisted. “After a while, you start keeping score, you know? Two saved. Two lost. Two bastards taken out, permanently. That kind of thing.”

“It must be awful. To lose men. To have to wonder what will happen next.”

“Yeah. But, like I say, you keep count. As long as your numbers stay ahead, you stay sane.” He paused. “And then,” he said, in a low voice, “then, one day …” He shuddered. “I can’t talk about it. Just—just leave it alone.”

“Whatever you want,” she said softly.

He stared at her while the seconds swept past. Then he groaned and wrapped her in his arms.

They sat that way for a long time. The fire in the brick hearth burned down to cinders.

Finally, Jake sighed.

“That’s more than I’ve ever told anyone,” he said softly.

He hadn’t told her anything, not really, but she knew what he meant. He’d let her see beyond his wounds, to his pain.

“So,” he said, and she could see how hard he was searching for something to lighten the moment, “so, one confession deserves another.”

She smiled. “You think?”

“I know.” He smiled, too; the smile was almost real but it still had a way to go. “For instance … it’s late, we haven’t eaten all day. So, I’ll let you in on a Wilde secret.”

She sat back and widened her eyes.

“You turn into a werewolf at midnight.”

He laughed.