She was fucking infuriating.
His blood was boiling.
How was it that she was just as far under his skin as she'd been as his student? She'd been back in his life for all but five minutes. Called him Tom in front of his crew. Challenged him. Defied him. Spoke her mind. No one else would dare call him Tom. And damn him to hell, the way she said his name did something to him—still—it always had.
Knew his crew had picked up on it the second she'd stepped foot on this ship. Hell, even Jesse asked if they were sleeping together on the Helo. The last thing he needed was for them to lose faith in him, for them to sense his questionable impartiality when it came to her. For them to resent her for it. Hadn't missed the way Granderson bristled at Sasha's address, how the entire bridge had fallen silent, all eyes on him, waiting for him to react. To blow.
He was fuming, brooding as he stared outward toward the ocean. Hands wrapped tightly around the railing as he rhythmically clenched and unclenched his fists, inhaling the humid, salty air as the wind whipped by.
How could he do this?
How could he be responsible for her life, and his crews, but remain impartial when he was certain he couldn't withstand another loss like Darien. Wouldn't survive it, not again. Darien.
He missed her so much.
She was good for him—loyal and understanding. She made him her world, put him first, and the fact that he'd failed, for their entire marriage to do the same was not lost. It was the reason he couldn't sleep at night. The guilt—it ate him alive. But before there was Darien, there had only been Sasha.
Sasha.
He was in trouble and he knew it. Knew it like the back of his hand. Felt it just as surely as he'd already mentally taken ownership of her well-being. She was a wild card—always had been. He couldn't control her, not really. Just as she couldn't control him—they were equal in that regard. On the same page that the job would never allow them to put the other first. Feelings aside. This exact scenario was why the Navy had strict fraternization rules. Nausea rolled in his gut. Once again, he was in the position of choosing to place her in harm's way. Required to ignore his every desire to keep her safe—not that she'd let him do that.
The simple facts were such: Sasha was right. She was always right. Of course, she, Green, and the team could handle a simple intel mission. He knew that. But Tom didn't trust anyone on this ship more than himself to watch her back.
Control.
It was the only way he could cope with the guilt. At the very least, he needed to be there. He was responsible for every single soul aboard this ship, and the prisoners being held captive—there was no way he was watching from the sidelines. Not this time. The sarcastic 'Aye, Aye' as he'd walked away rang in his mind. Fought to suppress the desire to furiously kiss that smart mouth just to shut her up. Like he would have in the past. Apparently, Sasha was just as she'd always been. Defiant, confronting, stubborn, and always needing the last word.
"Excuse me, Sir," a Corpsman appeared at his side. So absorbed in his vitriol that he hadn't even noticed them approach. "The logs that you requested," he declared, holding out a clipboard. Eyes slightly downcast—a sign of respect.
Tom breathed in, straightened his posture, and put his game face back on. "Thank You, Garcia." Gave a curt nod, indicating to the sailor that he was dismissed.