Page 91 of Freeing Lark

By morning, his thoughts had finally caught up with everything that had happened. Seeing Lark surrounded by those men had done something to him. Something primal.

He’d seen plenty of people in danger during his career. He’d walked into firefights knowing exactly what he was risking.

But finding Lark sitting in the mud with a gun pointed at her? That had been different.

His entire body had screamed mine before his brain had caught up. He didn’t like that; he tried to tell himself. Didn’t understand it. But he couldn’t deny it.

Then there were the crates with the PSG symbol. The same organization tied to Calloway. The same organization they’d worked with on the mission where Bullet had died. And now that emblem was on crates hidden on an island in Virginia.

What the hell had been inside them? His gut said weapons? But it could also include classified technology? Or even something worse?

He’d barely begun piecing it together when morning arrived and the doctor entered, waking Lark. After another round of examinations, paperwork, and instructions, Hoot was finally cleared to leave.

Spark was waiting downstairs. Their first stop was Lark’s place.

“You’re packing,” Hoot told her.

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because you’re not staying here.”

“I’m perfectly capable⁠—”

“They know where you live.” He hated seeing the color drain from her face and the fear he saw in her eyes, but that shut her up. He remembered what she’d told him about the men discussing her. Watching her. Breaking into her store. “They’ve already been inside your home once. I’m not taking the chance they’ll do it again.”

Lark looked at him for a long moment. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“With me,” he said. Spark coughed. Hoot ignored him. “You’re staying at my place until we know it’s safe.”

Lark’s cheeks turned pink. “With you?”

“Yes.”

Spark coughed again. This time Hoot glared at him. “Wait here. We’ll be out shortly.”

“Yes, sir,” he replied with a mock salute.

Hoot could tell his house was nothing like Lark had imagined just by the widening of her eyes when they’d pulled into his driveway. At least the exterior wasn’t. It was a modest two-story brick home tucked into a quiet neighborhood, far enough from downtown to offer privacy but close enough that he could get to Condor’s Overwatch quickly. The inside was clean and functional without feeling sterile. Dark wood floors. Comfortable furniture. Neutral walls. A few framed photographs on the shelves—his SEAL team, Flint and the guys, his parents.

No clutter. No unnecessary decorations. Everything had a place. “This is...” Lark looked around. “Very you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Organized. Practical. Slightly intimidating.”

He almost smiled. “I’ll take that.”

He showed her the guest room. “Bathroom’s across the hall. Towels are in the closet. Make yourself comfortable.” She nodded. “You should shower.”

“So should you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You got shot.”

“And you were kidnapped.” She folded her arms. He sighed. “Fair.”

He headed toward his own room. The shower was awkward. Keeping his stitches dry while washing around a shoulder wound required the flexibility of a contortionist and the patience of a saint. By the time he finished, he was exhausted.