Page 7 of Stalked By the Soldier

Lucas leans in, all smiles and reminiscence. Erica's polite, yeah, but there's a distance there, a wall she's put up quicker than a New York minute. Still, it's like a punch to the chest, watching them. My jaw clenches so hard I could chew nails for breakfast.

My feet itch to stalk over there, but I let the scene play out. Erica's handling it, isn't she? Doesn't need me swooping in like some overprotective hawk. But damn, my fists are balled up tight, knuckles itching for something to hit.

"Sir, your coffees are getting cold," the barista gives me a nudge, snapping me back to the present. Right, the coffees. I grab the tray, the heat from the cups barely registering as I continue to watch my girl.

I can't take it anymore. My boots pound the café floor like a drumbeat of war as I march toward their table. Erica's eyes widen, but it's Lucas who gets my glare, the kind that's made grown men rethink their life choices.

"Erica," I say, my voice a low growl, "we need to talk."

She blinks at me, her mouth parting in surprise. Lucas, the smooth operator, tries to slide back into the conversation with a chuckle that grates on every last nerve I have. But I'm done playing nice.

I don't wait for her response. I gently take her arm and pull her outside with me.

"Brandon?" Her voice is a mix of confusion and concern, but there's a tremor there that tells me she feels the gravity of this moment too.

We burst out of the café, the cool air slapping some sense into me—but not enough to douse the fire raging inside. She's right behind me, her steps quick and light, the opposite of the heavy thud of my heart.

"Brandon?" Erica's voice is a tentative quesiton.

"Couldn't sit there one more second watching him cozy up to you," I admit, my words tumbling out raw and jagged.

"Jealous much?" There's a teasing lilt to her words, but her eyes are searching mine, looking for the truth beneath the bravado.

"Damn right I am," I say, owning it, laying it all out there. "I've never wanted anyone the way I want you, Erica."

Her breath hitches, and I know I've struck a chord. The air between us crackles with something fierce, something that feels a lot like destiny. And I'd fight wars to keep it, keep her.

I grab Erica's shoulders, my fingers digging in just a bit too hard. The streetlight casts an amber glow on her face, painting her in shades of gold and shadow. "Look at me, Erica," I demand, my voice barely above a whisper but heavy with emotion.

She tilts her chin up, her green eyes wide and luminous. They're like twin beacons, pulling me into their depths, drowning me in feelings I've been trying to keep caged.

"Lucas doesn't matter," I begin, my words coming fast. "He's the past. You and me...we're right here, right now. And damn it, I'm scared shitless."

"Brandon..." she starts, but I shake my head, cutting her off.

"No, let me finish. I have to say this." I take a deep breath, feeling like I'm at the edge of a cliff, ready to dive into the unknown. "I am so fucking in love with you that it terrifies me. Every time I think about you walking away from me, or him—or anyone—sneaking back into your life, it's like someone's squeezing my heart in a vise."

Her lips part, and she leans into me just a fraction, like she's drawn by the intensity pouring out of me.

"Every mission I've been on, every order I've followed—it's all clear-cut, black and white. But this—us—it's a mess of colors, and yet, I've never been more certain about anything. I want you, Erica. All of you. Your laughter, your art, your passion, your fears. I'll take it all."

"Brandon, I—" She falters, and I can see the conflict playing out across her beautiful features.

"Say it," I urge, desperate for her to understand. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I'm scared too," she whispers, her voice trembling. "Your job, your duty...they could take you away from me. How do we build a life around that uncertainty?"

My stomach falls because fuck she’s right. This is what I’ve been afraid of too, isn’t it? It’s why I haven’t allowed myself to claim her the way I want to yet.

Because deep down I know it’s selfish. It’s selfish of me to take her knowing what could happen with my work.

Her hand comes up to touch my cheek, her touch light as a feather but strong enough to send shock waves through my entire body.

She doesn’t speak, and I don’t speak. Hell, I can’t speak. All I can do is swallow and try not to cry as I watch her walk away.

* * *

I try. In my defense, I try. I really do.

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