Present Day. El Paso, Texas.

I tossed back my fourth shot of whiskey in hopes of drowning out the pain I'd become too accustomed to. Everything was still so fresh in my mind, even four years later. The memory of the pain in his usually lively eyes still haunted me every time I slept like it had just happened yesterday. I'd been plagued by nightmares for as long as I could remember. They were always the same: a never ending replay of that night in Washington, D.C. The night I accidentally murdered the man I loved more than anything in the entire universe.

I'd spent years wallowing in regret and self-torment. I could never forgive myself for what I'd done. So many times I'd overanalyzed the situation in my head until it gave me a migraine, trying to think of a way that I could've avoided shooting him. There was no point in coming up with an alternative now. It was too late. Nothing could change the past. Nothing could bring Dallas back. But somehow it helped me to cling to my sanity if I daydreamed about an alternate ending to that night.

After the first year's rollercoaster of emotions and my inability to stay focused on the job, Matt had talked me into going to therapy. He said I needed a professional to talk to who could walk me through how best to handle my P.T.S.D. But I refused to believe I had P.T.S.D. Nearly all of my adult life had been spent laughing in the face of danger. I couldn't have P.T.S.D. It wasn't possible.

But it was. And my therapist finally convinced me after six months of visits that I did have posttraumatic stress from that night. I didn't one-hundred-percent believe her explanation for why I felt the way I did, but she was a government psychiatrist who regularly dealt with patients in law enforcement and covert units, so I had to give her a little credit. She was the one with the Ph.D. She probably knew how to read my body language like a book. Hell, she could probably tell me my horoscope, too. No matter what she said or what type of therapy we tried, though, it never did a damn thing for me. My nightmares and flashbacks never let up. The pain in my chest when I thought of him never faded. My self-hatred never lessened. I still spent a considerable amount of time every day thinking "if only..." and "I wish..."

Eventually, I gave up on therapy and took the easy way out: alcohol. But vodka and whiskey could only dull the pain and blur the memories for so long. The effects always wore off faster than I wanted them to and I would be hurled back into reality, complete with the headache that came from drinking too much, and there would be that fucking heart wrenching image of him on his knees, clutching his wounded stomach again as he looked up into my eyes and I watched the life start to drain from his.

As I threw back my fifth shot, I remembered the shock on Matt's face when he realized what had happened. He'd dashed down the staircase to my side where I'd dropped to my knees in front of Dallas, bearing the weight of his near-lifeless body against mine and trying desperately to stop his bleeding. I was bawling against his shoulder, feverishly apologizing and begging him to stay with me. He couldn't die. He just couldn't! I fucking loved him with all my heart!

Matt had disarmed and cuffed Bellucci in a matter of seconds while I was busy pressing my palm against Dallas's bleeding wounds and sobbing about how sorry I was and how much I loved him. He was mumbling something against my neck but I couldn't decipher his words. He was quickly losing consciousness. I knew I was losing him. I could practically feel the life leaving his body. This was the man I'd planned to spend the rest of my life with. He'd been my best friend, my lover, and my biggest supporter throughout the entire six years I'd known him. He'd saved my life countless times and bent over backwards to make sure I was happy. And this was how I repaid him.

For the past four years, everyone had told me that I shouldn't dwell on the past. They've all reminded me how it was an accident, how I couldn't see in the dark. But no matter which angle I looked at it from, I could never forgive myself or feel any less guilty. Accident or not, I killed him. I murdered him without even blinking.

Dallas was not supposed to be at the warehouse that night. He wasn't even an Alpha Reconnaissance Taskforce agent. He worked undercover for a completely different organization that rivaled ours. We'd been dating in secret for years, having met on a job in Atlanta where we'd both been sent to apprehend the same suspect. I'd fallen in love with his cocky charm and that irresistible smirk almost instantly – that is, after we'd realized we weren't a threat to each other and lowered our weapons. No one from either organization knew about our affair for an entire six years. We kept every aspect of our relationship a secret, not wanting to provide a weakness for our enemies to discover, and avoiding mixing business with pleasure. As a result, everyone was in absolute shock the day I had to explain what happened at the warehouse. The hardest part had been discussing the situation with my superiors. They weren't exactly sympathetic to my pain.

Years went by and I never knew what became of Dallas David. The reinforcement team had barreled into the building like a S.W.A.T. team, obtaining possession of Enrique Bellucci and separating me from Dallas, despite my wailing protests. My last memory of him was seeing his unconscious body lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood as two team members carried me out of the warehouse, kicking and screaming.

"Overthinking again?" Megan, my latest partner, asked.

She was the newest in a long list of partners I'd had since what everyone referred to as "the incident." I'd gone through partners like Kleenex over the last four years. Each one lasted no more than five months, always getting fed up with my drinking problem and nightmares that would wake up anyone near me. No one wanted to be my partner – a complete one-eighty from pre-incident status. So far, though, Megan was three months in and had yet to show any signs of not liking me. I was beginning to think she was crazy. That or she had the highest tolerance level of anyone I knew.

"Is it that obvious?" I groaned and slapped my shot glass down on the rickety old motel table.

Megan curved her eyebrows and pursed her lips in a sympathetic look that made me want to scream at her. She was a really sweet girl and I did like her, but I didn't want sympathy. It made me feel weak.

"You might want to get some rest," she suggested. "It's really late and we have a big day tomorrow."

Right. Tomorrow.

Our team was in El Paso, Texas on a mission to bring down some bigshot in the cartel. We'd located his drug warehouse with the help of local authorities and we were prepared to move in at dawn, when the next shipment was set to depart.

I was so used to doing drug busts like this, I could probably do them in my sleep. It was getting old doing the same thing over and over. I was bored of blasting into drug warehouses and apprehending some creep of a drug lord. When I'd started my career at A.R.T., it had felt amazing to get these fuckers off the streets, but over time I realized that every time you eliminate one crime boss, another one takes their place. It's a revolving door that never stops. It was beginning to feel pointless.

I looked at the clock and cringed when I realized how little sleep I was going to get – and I'd be partially hungover for the main event. Goody.

Megan had a point. I needed to get some sleep. But there was a reason I often avoided going to sleep until real late: the damn recurring nightmares that still had not stopped even four years later. Those dreams hadn't let me forget a single freckle or crease on Dallas's face. I could still see every inch of him like he was standing right in front of me. I could still remember the feeling of his touch and the rasp of his voice. I hadn't forgotten a damn thing. I couldn't. And it was maddening.

"Goodnight," Megan said, giving me an awkward one-armed hug and retreating to her bed.

I took one more shot of Jim Beam and decided it was time to call it a night. Megan was already fast asleep when I crawled into my own bed. I stared up at the water-stained ceiling for probably an hour while my mind continued to wander. Finally, after the millionth time of rolling over and readjusting my pillow, I fell asleep.

His fingertips traced my jawline while his eyes bore into mine hypnotically. That damn sexy smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth and he leaned in, brushing his lips against mine ever so softly. He lingered against my lips, his minty breath infiltrating my lungs when I inhaled. I pressed my lips to his, craving more of him, needing to be closer to him, if that was possible. He tasted like a strange combination of vanilla and the minty toothpaste he'd used. It was an addicting flavor combination and I couldn't get enough, climbing onto his lap and deepening our kiss. Soon enough, I was straddling him while he slouched back against the mound of pillows on my bed. I felt him smile into the kiss and it made my heart swell. He was the rare type of human who could turn your entire day around with just one little wink or grin. And he was all mine. I was the luckiest woman in the world.

I broke our kiss, pulling back to look into his mesmerizing eyes, and all the sudden there we were in the goddamn warehouse in Washington, D.C. again. He was bleeding out in my arms and I was pleading for him to pull through. My entire world was crashing down in a matter of seconds. I would never get to see him smile or hear his contagious laugh again. That spark in his eyes would forever be faded into the abyss. I would never get to touch him or kiss him again. I would never get to hear his sweet, melodic voice when he was excited or his tired, husky voice when he'd just woken up.

There he was in my sweet dreams that morphed into nightmares, dying in my arms all over again. This must've been the thousandth time, if not more. And there I was screaming his name and struggling to free myself from the reinforcement team members' grasps as they carried me away once again. There was his near-lifeless body lying on the warehouse floor again. Would this nightmare ever stop?

"Natalia! Natalia!" Megan's voice jarred me out of my sleep. "Wake up! You're doing it again!"

I awoke, startled, breathing like I'd just run a marathon. My eyes were darting around the room like they always did after that nightmare – searching for him as if he'd be nearby and I could run into his arms and sob into his chest. But he wasn't. He never would be. Eventually, I would have to realize that. Maybe then the nightmares would stop. But I wasn't ready to let go of him just yet. I knew clinging to the memories was part of my problem, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't give him up yet. I needed more time with him, and since I couldn't have that, I was opting for more time caught up in the memory of him. I was what was holding me back from getting closure.

"Are you okay?" Megan asked, searching my eyes, her hands on my shoulders. "You were yelling his name again."

I shook my head and the beginnings of my hangover headache fired up at the movement. I pushed out of Megan's hold and yanked the covers back over my head, mumbling that I was fine. Megan knew better than to believe that, but I appreciated that she didn't pry and simply went back to bed.

I didn't get a wink of sleep after that. I was the first one up, getting coffee from the gas station across the street. She was still asleep when I returned to the motel room.

"I guess you'll have to reheat your coffee in the microwave then!" I said loud enough to wake her.

Megan popped her head out from under the blanket and blinked at me as my words started to register. Then she promptly hurled herself out of the bed and scrambled toward me, grabbing one of the coffee cups from my hands and immediately beginning to chug it.

"The hell I will!" she proclaimed after one very long drink. "Have you ever reheated coffee? That's a no-no. That's a cardinal sin. You can't do that shit. That's bad juju."

I cocked an eyebrow at her statement but didn't respond. It was just after four-thirty and we had an hour to go over the plan one more time and get in position to take down What's-His-Name Lopez. I couldn't remember his fucking name. If that wasn't a sign that this aspect of the job was getting old, I didn't know what was. A few years back, I could've told you every detail about somebody down to their fucking favorite color. Now I only paid enough attention to ensure mine and my team's safety during the mission. I'd stopped caring after Dallas's death. Nothing seemed worth it anymore.

Megan and I inhaled a speedy gas station breakfast and met up with the other team members to go over the plan. I hardly listened to the conversation. It was the same old plan we always had. We'd modified it somewhat since the incident to better ensure our agents' safety, but nothing had really changed over the years. The players had changed, but the game had remained the same.

Our arrival went unnoticed, as usual. Lopez had a few bodyguards, as usual. We picked them off one by one, as usual. And we apprehended Lopez, as usual. Only one of us took a bullet during the entire hour it took to capture Lopez, and it was me, likely due to my hungover state. I'd been written up once for that, but I obviously hadn't learned my lesson. I still felt invincible in my bulletproof vest, but even I could admit I'd become a little sloppy.

"You're going to get yourself killed one of these days!" Matt had shouted when we were leaving the scene.

Matt. There was a whole different story. He'd been extra hard on me since that night. I knew it was because he was scared for my safety – and sanity – but damn, he was getting under my skin with his overprotective, bossy ass.

Then again, part of the reason he was so damn bossy probably had something to do with the one time we'd had sex two years ago. Everyone had been encouraging me to give love another try and stop dwelling on the past and Dallas. In a drunken stupor, I'd turned to my best guy friend and you could say we got a little carried away. I cared about Matt a lot, but truth be told, I didn't have romantic feelings for him. Sure, he was good in bed the one time I'd had him, but I fully intended to leave it at one time. Being with another man in that way had only made things harder on me, despite my initial hopes that it would've helped me get over Dallas by focusing on someone new. Every time Matt touched or kissed me, it felt like I was cheating on Dallas. I'd never told Matt this, knowing it would hurt him. It was obvious to everyone that his feelings about me had changed since the night we'd shared, only his feelings were more romantic-leaning. At this point, I was becoming a fantastic candidate to grow old as a single cat lady.

The flight back to Washington seemed to go by quickly. I finally got some rest on the plane without nightmares, which was rare. I kept my eyes closed even after I woke up, overhearing Matt talking to Avery, another teammate, about me. He was saying how worried he still was about me and that he thought I might never fully recover. What pissed me off the most was that Matt was the only one who had been there through everything that fateful night, and yet somehow he couldn't seem to understand how I felt. Clearly, he'd never been in love before.

When we reached the Alpha Reconnaissance Taskforce headquarters, I made a beeline for my office. I had a cot beside my filing cabinet that sounded almost as good as a tropical vacation at the moment. But I barely made it through the front doors before my boss requested an audience with me.

Brit Gallows was a ravishing young woman. At thirty-five years old, with her chestnut-brown hair, hourglass figure, and big blue eyes, she was dead ringer for Angelina Jolie. Brit was the head of A.R.T.'s Washington field office, separate from the big wigs upstairs who ran headquarters. She had an attitude and she knew how to use it.

"Sit down," she said and pointed to a chair when I waltzed sleepily into her office.

"Hello to you, too," I grumbled.

Brit huffed and folded her hands on her desk. "Natalia, I've got an opportunity for you."

That got my attention and my ears perked up at her words.

"This just came from our London field office," she said, handing me an envelope. "I'm not privy to the details. They specifically requested you for an overseas investigation."

I glanced over the letter, rereading it a couple times. I was confused. There was no signature. It didn't say who requested my assistance or what the job was. The letter simply informed me of how soon I would be leaving, the airline information, and what office to report to once I arrived in London.

"I don't understand," I said, looking up from the paper in my hands. "This doesn't say-"

"I know. I don't know what the investigation is about or which agency is leading it. All I know is Raymond, who is the head of our London division, told me your expertise was in demand," Brit explained. "Now, I know you've been slacking off a lot lately. Matt's been up my ass about whipping you back into shape. I understand what's going on with you, Natalia. I really do. I lost my husband in a mission gone wrong before we'd even had our one-year anniversary. I feel your pain. But at some point, you have to let go of the past. I had to. You will, too, eventually. You can't keep holding on to Dallas like he's still alive."

Brit saying his name and telling me that I'd have to move on felt like pouring salt in my gaping emotional wounds. I understood where she was coming from, and hey, more power to her for being able to chive on after her husband's death, but Dallas and I were a much different story than Dan and Britney. Why couldn't anyone see that?

"Look, Natalia, I know you're bored of this job," Brit said in a serious tone. "I can see it in your eyes. It's written all over your face every day that you walk out that door. Your teammates see it, too. You're not the devoted, determined agent you once were. Maybe you've gotten too used to this job. Maybe you need to change it up a bit. That's why I'm not flinching at the idea of you taking up this investigation in London. The change in scenery might be good for you."

I looked at Brit and then at the letter again. If I decided to answer the request, I was due on a plane in less than twenty-four hours. Brit did have a good point about the change in scenery...

I folded up the request and slid it into my hip pocket, standing up. "Well, I guess I'm going to London."