Her letter was late.

There’d never been a gap of longer than two weeks between Roux’s letters and Abby’s replies, and it had been three weeks, four days. His team had been on a mission in the mountains of Yemen, finally obliterating the ISIS cell they’d been sent to destroy, so Roux had been out of camp and without access to mail for two weeks—two weeks of dirt and dust and firefights and fucking hell made somehow better by the promise of a letter waiting for him back at camp.

Red had taken a bullet to the arm during the mission, so once Roux made sure he was taken care of—back to base in Germany for rehab—his first priority was Abby.

Then a shower, clean clothes, food and sleep.

But Abby first.

Abby before everything.

Always Abby.

Except there was no letter waiting.

Roux was a commanding officer in the Army Special Forces. A team leader of the most highly skilled soldiers in the United States military. He was an expert sniper, a medic to rival ER doctors the world over, and was known for his unwavering calm. Over his career, he’d faced the worst of Al Qaeda, ISIS, the Taliban and Boko Haram without flinching.

And somehow, it was the absence of a pretty pink envelope that wrecked him.

Where was she? Had something happened to her?

Christ. Had something happened to her?

Why wasn’t he with her? He couldn’t keep her safe from the goddamned desert.

He stood there, in the center of his tent, staring at the spot where her letter should have been, imagining all the ways she might have been hurt. Imagining twisted metal, fire, hospital beds. Men.

Fucking hell.

The thought rocketed through him, making him cold with rage. If another man had touched her—had hurt her—Roux would tear down every building in Colorado to find and destroy him.

Roux took a deep breath. He had to calm down. To think clearly.

She wasn’t hurt. He’d know if she was hurt. He’d have felt it. He carried her in his damn heart. He’d know. He rubbed a hand over his face before he screamed to the empty tent. “Fuck!”

He had to find her.

Fucking now.

Just to know she was okay.

“Sarge?”

Roux spun toward the voice, finding Martinez in the door to his tent. “What.”

The word came out low and violent, and the soldier’s eyes went wide as he took a step back. “Sorry.”

It took Roux a second to remember that the kid had just finished his first mission—that he was likely tired and overwhelmed by the experience. Roux took another breath, trying for calm. “No. It’s fine. What do you need?”

“I got mail for you.”

Roux’s breath caught in his chest, relief coming so hard and so fast he thought he might pass out. “What?”

“It was mixed in with my stuff.” Martinez lifted his hand, that pink stationery gleaming like fucking gold.

Roux went for it like a starving man went for food, tearing it open before the kid even left the tent. Christ. She was okay. She was still there. She was still his.

What. The fuck.

Had he scared her off? Maybe she’d thought it was weird that some stranger in the middle of nowhere, halfway around the world, wanted to strip her naked and do nasty things to her. Nasty, filthy, fucking wonderful things.

This was not a goddamned mistake.

It was the best thing he’d ever done. It was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

No. Fucking. Way.

She wasn’t ending this. Not when it had just begun. Not when he intended for it to go on forever.

He went for the door of his tent. Showers, sleep and food could wait.

Abby first.

Always Abby.