The Commander (Men of Hidden Justice 3)

She smiled.

I won.

It was late when I got home the next night. The team had done a raid earlier, and I ran ops from outside. It was successful, with another horrid operation brought down. Not as large-scale as some, but every single one we erased was a check mark on our side. They wouldn’t have a chance to grow. To hurt kids and women—to rob them of their lives.

Tally was asleep on the sofa when I got in. I sat on the coffee table beside her, watching her sleep. She was restless, her fingers clenching and unclenching on the blanket. Her head moved, her bright hair bunching around her face. She was frowning in her sleep—another sign of her anxiety. She was worried about me. Sometimes I thought she knew there was more to what I did than I told her. That, deep down, she suspected but was waiting for me to tell her. And I would soon. We’d found out more intel on her brother and his gang, and none of it was good. He was headed in the exact direction that would make him a target for Hidden Justice. If he had been the good boy Tally thought he was, the man he had grown into was nothing but a twisted shell. I was convinced she would never be completely safe until he was truly gone. And I was determined she be safe. Safe to live a life, free and open—with me.

I had learned so much about her the past while. She was a morning person, out of bed early, ready to face the day, but by ten, she was sleepy and cuddly, looking for the comfort of our bed—and me. She wasn’t big on meat, but she had never met a bread she didn’t love. Toast, the kind with a crispy crust and dripping with butter, was her favorite breakfast or snack. When she informed me mournfully it was the cause of her wide hips, I carried her to our room and showed her exactly how I felt about those hips.

Three times.

I thrilled at every new habit, nuance, or impulse I discovered about her. I luxuriated in the time we spent alone, enjoyed showing her the things I was passionate about, and loved every moment we shared.

I loved her. The words were as simple as they were complex. It had hit me one day when I realized she’d been with me for two weeks and I had caught her mutterings about being time to get back to reality and having a place she had to get back to. I didn’t want her to go. Not in two weeks—not ever. The thought of not seeing her every evening, not having her warm body wrapped around mine at night, was unacceptable. The thought of her being alone again made me anxious. The thought of being without her made my chest ache. She filled my apartment with life. She filled my life with brightness.

Yet, I hadn’t been able to tell her. Say the words. They didn’t come easily to me. My mother had died when I was a kid, and my father was never demonstrative. He was a hardworking man and was never unkind, but also stoic and quiet a great deal of the time. There were no hugs, no feelings ever expressed. We had no other family, so I grew up surrounded by silence. Even with friends in later years, I found it difficult to articulate personal, deep emotions. It was somewhat easier with Tally, but it didn’t come naturally for me the way it seemed to for her.

On the other hand, anger and rage were easy for me. Disgust, revenge, and rancor not an issue. I had zero guilt when it came to killing the men and women who perpetrated crimes against other humans. The truly evil ones with no conscience or remorse and who would continue to wreak havoc if not eliminated. That was the basis of Hidden Justice. We wiped the earth of them, not allowing the judicial system to fail as it often did. Governments and law agencies overlooked our work, knowing what a service we provided to humankind. Officials refused to acknowledge our existence and turned a blind eye to our methods. It worked well for all of us.

But with Tally, I was experiencing different emotions. I wanted to care for her, make sure she was all right. I wanted to hold her when she was sad, comfort her when she was upset. Share in her joy. Share in her life.

I didn’t want to lose her. I couldn’t lose her. The thought of going back to the constant gray my life was before she entered it was abhorrent. She brought out so many colors I had never seen before. And she did it all by simply being her.