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‘Vega?’
‘De Stella,’ he growled, dropping to one knee by my cot.
I reached out, ignoring the agony that lanced me, throwing my arms around his neck as my tears poured down my face.
Deacon buried his face in my hair as he pulled me tight to his chest.
I breathed in his heat and scent; his unique blend of clean musk, cedar, and spice as a silent crying jag shuddered through me.
More pain flared through my shuddering spine and leg, but I refused to give an inch.
‘Thank you, Vega,’ I murmured, clinging to my ex-husband like a drowning woman. ‘You’ve no idea how much this means.’
He held me for a long, quiet minute before he pulled away.
‘I’ve got you, malkia,’ he whispered, his thumb wiping a tear from my cheek. ‘You’re safe now.’
He leaned in and kissed the outer edge of each eye.
Damn, his way of saying he adored me.
It’d been years since he’d done it, and I fought back a sob at the simple yet momentous gesture.
The sheer wave of relief that washed over me made my head spin, lifting my heart and spirit.
‘Why did you come? After all we’ve been through, you’d have every right to stay away.’
He huffed and arched a brow.
‘Ana, even at our worst, I always had your six. Think I’d remain lounging by the side of some pool when I have the means and time to take care of you? You’re the mother of my child and you deserve my personal fucking attention.’
More tears pricked my eyes, and I blinked them away fast.
He still had a way of hitting my heart hard and undoing me.
‘You need a doctor to see you, beautiful,’ Deacon said, stepping back to allow his companions inside the cramped space. ‘I brought medics with me.’
I gazed up at what looked like an organized medical rescue crew.
Beyond them, outside the tent, a couple of stern, armed security types stood alert, scanning the perimeter.
The guards toted blacked-out rifles slung across their broad backs.
They weren’t fucking around.
My eyes slid to Deacon’s, and I was reminded once more that he was more than just Six Sinners’ kickass, world-famous saxophonist.
He was an ex-SAS soldier who still served at least four weeks a year as a reserve in the Australian Army.
He introduced his companions.
‘Ana, this is Luka and his high-target relief crew from International Rescue; Tariq, our trauma physician, and Sina, our flight nurse. They’ll take good care of you.’
He stood aside, letting the professionals take over, his hands crossed over his muscled chest as he observed us.
Tariq popped open the med kit, pulled out a pre-filled syringe, and his medic unclipped a splint.
‘Morphine first,’ Tariq said, wiping an alcohol swab across my inner elbow before sliding the needle home into my vein.
