Page 139 of Beneath the Surface

Quinn leaned down and kissed him, losing herself in the taste and feel and reality of him. Alive. Here. Hers.

They took their time—no urgency now, no fear driving them. Just the slow exploration of two people who’d almost lost each other and were determined to savor every moment.

Dax’s hand found the places that made Quinn gasp and arch. Quinn’s mouth traced the scars on Dax’s chest, the old ones fromAfghanistan and the new one from Wheeler’s bullet. Each mark a story. Each story survived.

When they finally came together, it was with a sense of rightness that Quinn had never felt before. This wasn’t grief sex or desperation sex or fear sex.

This was love. Pure and simple and hard-won.

This was celebration. Victory. Survival.

This was them—broken and scarred and imperfect—choosing each other anyway. Choosing to build something real despite the trauma. Despite the fear. Despite everything.

After, they lay tangled together, Dax’s good arm around Quinn, her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Strong. Steady. Alive.

“I love you,” Quinn said into the comfortable silence. “I know I’ve said it before, but I need you to know…I love you. All of you. Even the overprotective, occasionally insufferable parts.”

Dax’s chest rumbled with quiet laughter. “I love you too. Even the stubborn, reckless, runs-toward-danger parts.”

Quinn’s chest shook with laughter. “We’re a mess.”

Dax kissed her hair. “We’re perfect for each other.”

Quinn lifted her head to look at him. “Are we though? Really? After everything—the cabin, the fight, the way we almost destroyed this before it even started?”

Dax’s hand came up to tuck her hair behind her ear, his touch gentle. “We’re not perfect. But we’re honest now. We’re communicating. We’re working on it.”

It was true. They’d started therapy—both individual and couples. Dax was working through his trauma, his fear of loss, his need to control. Quinn was working through her grief, her own trauma from the kidnapping, her tendency to push boundaries specifically because someone told her not to.

It was hard work. Uncomfortable work. But they were doing it.

“I’m proud of us,” Quinn said softly. “For not giving up. For fighting for this.”

“Me too.” Dax’s fingers traced patterns on her bare shoulder. “And Quinn? I want you to know, I’m going to spend the rest of my life earning your trust. Proving that I can love you without suffocating you. That I can be your partner, not your jailer.”

“You already are.” Quinn kissed his chest, right over his heart. “You let me testify. You didn’t try to keep me away from the trial. You trusted me to handle the media, to make my own choices about the book.”

“It nearly killed me.” Dax’s voice was rueful. “Every time you walked into that courtroom, every time you gave an interview, I wanted to lock you away somewhere safe. But I didn’t. Because you’re right. You’re not mine to control. You’re my partner. My equal.”

“And you’re mine.” Quinn’s hand splayed across his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath her palm. “My partner. My equal. My incredibly brave, slightly reckless hero who went into a warehouse alone to save me.”

“About that.” Dax winced. “I’m probably going to be suspended for another few months. Internal Affairs is still investigating. And Holloway says I’m lucky I’m not being brought up on charges for all the regulations I broke.”

“But you’re not being fired?”

“Probably not. The union’s fighting for me. And the fact that I saved a civilian’s life, that I took down Wheeler’s operation—that’s weighing in my favor.” Dax shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable. “But I’m going to have a desk assignment for a while. Maybe permanently, depending on how the shoulder heals.”

Quinn heard the worry in his voice. Being a detective wasn’t just Dax’s job; it was his identity. The thought of losing it, of being relegated to desk work...

“Would that be so terrible?” she asked carefully. “Desk work?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Dax closed his eyes and sighed. “I’ve been in the field my whole career. Afghanistan. Beat cop. Detective. Active duty. And now...I might not pass the physical. Might not have full range of motion in this arm ever again.”

“Then you adapt.” Quinn propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. “You’re brilliant, Dax. You could teach at the academy. Consult on cases. Work in the cold case division. There are so many ways to be a detective that don’t require full physical capability.”

“You sound like my physical therapist.”

“Your physical therapist is right.” Quinn poked him gently in the ribs. “And you know what? If you do end up with a desk job, that means you’re home at reasonable hours. That means less danger. That means I don’t have to worry about you getting shot again.”