Fearless (Dartmoor, #1)

by Lauren Gilley

“There are no facts, only interpretations.” Friedrich Nietzsche

No facts. Only interpretations. So much of life was all about perspective.

“You can add new parts, baby,” she imagined Maggie saying. “But you can’t lose the parts of you that were already there.”

they each took half a turkey and have a roast beef,

EDIT. Half a roast beef. Not have a roast beef.

Bonne fillette, mon amour.”

Bonne fillette, mon amour. Good girl, my love

She felt Mercy withdraw, and as he sat back on his heels, he put his arms around her and lifted her up, settling her against his chest, holding her to him, so their sweaty skin glued together. With one hand, he smoothed her hair back off her face and down her naked back. “Ava,” he said, voice tight. “Ava. Oh God, I got you back. I got you back. I won’t ever leave you again. I swear. Baby, I swear. Not ever again.”

“Ah. Stephens was less careful. Two months ago, he bought twenty Harleys, five fleet vehicles. He bought all of it with campaign funds.” Ghost laughed. “Are you serious?” “As a heart attack.” “And you have the paperwork to prove it?” “Printing it right now.” “Captain WikiLeaks,” Walsh said with subtle, but noticeable affection. “I think he could hack into the Pentagon if you kept him in Slim Jims and Red Bull.” “I might be able to,” Ratchet said in all seriousness, without a trace of ego, as he stared distractedly at his computer.

“I was supposed to keep you safe, and I failed.” When he went to duck his head, she caught the hard planes of his jaw in her hands and tipped his face to hers again, saw the wetness of tears standing in his eyes. She wanted to collapse, fall against him and cry into his throat until there was no more anguish left to shed. But instead she sniffed and forced a watery smile and said, “But why does it have to be one-sided all the time? Don’t I get to keep you safe sometimes? Is it not okay for me to protect the person I love most in the world?” His jaw clenched inside her hands. “No,” he said, but it was a weak, emotional protest, and she knew it. She said, “ ‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’ ” His brows lifted, startled. “Brontë.”