do it again.
She didn’t know what she expected from him, but it was as if he’d never touched her. Never kissed her.
Never made love to her.
She didn’t care what he said. What they’d done together wasn’t fucking. He’d been so gentle, so reverent. Damara didn’t think all men were that way with every partner. It meant something to him. Not love, they barely knew each other, but there was a connection.
“You can have the shower first.”
So it wasn’t at all like the novels she’d read. They wouldn’t lie together, holding each other. She’d go shower as if it was just another day, another thing that had happened.
Okay. She could do this.
When she got out of the bed, she saw the tiny stain of blood on the sheets. Wars had been fought over something so insignificant. It seemed incredibly stupid. Not that the experience wasn’t magnificent—it was. But a little splash of blood for king and countries?
Damara walked gingerly toward the door and was reminded of her activities with every step. She was incredibly sore, but each twinge of discomfort brought back a memory of a touch, a caress. It made her sigh. She wished she could linger and they could do it again.
But her father had a saying about wishing in one hand and holding goat crap in the other. The wishing hand was always empty.
She stepped under the spray of the hot water, and, just like she’d wanted it to wash away the guilt, she let it wash away any possible regret. This was what she’d wanted, and she’d gotten it. Damara wouldn’t complain now.
She’d focus on the next step of their journey. He’d done everything she’d asked of him and more.
Damara relaxed into the water, letting it pour over her. An array of little bottles were lined up for her to try, and she sniffed each one until she found one that smelled vaguely of home. Jasmine.
When she was done, she bundled herself up in a fluffy towel and wondered what she should put on. She didn’t have any other clothes. The thought of putting her dirty fatigues back on was less than appealing.
She should’ve known Byron would take care of it.
A brand-new T-shirt lay folded on her side of the bed. The sheets had been changed as well, and he lay sprawled on one of the chaise couches at the end of the bed, eyes closed.
She couldn’t tell if he was sleeping, but she knew he hadn’t slept at all in the past twenty-four hours. If he was, she didn’t want to disturb him.
Their food had arrived, too.
Damara shimmied into the T-shirt and panties that were folded discreetly beneath it and attacked her food with gusto.
She didn’t know if it was because of the adrenaline or everything else that had happened to her, but the lamb was the best she’d ever tasted. It melted on her tongue. She didn’t realize how decadent it really was until Byron spoke. His eyes were still closed.
“Woman, if you keep making those sounds, I’m going to have you flat on your back again in about five seconds.”
Damara shivered, delighted at the thought. “With lamb breath and all?”
“Lamb breath, dog breath, I don’t care.” He’d flung an arm over his head; his eyes were still closed.
“You don’t look like you’ll be doing much of anything to me,” she teased.
“I’ve been up for thirty-six hours.”
Of course he hadn’t said anything. As if it was unmanly to sleep or something. “So go to sleep.”
“I’m trying, but you’re having mouthgasms with your lamb,” he said drily.
“I’m sorry.” Her apology was sincere.
“It’s all right—I was only teasing. I never sleep well anyway. Insomnia.”
“After thirty-six hours, I imagine you’d have to pass out sometime.” She thought about the pain she’d seen in his eyes. Damara would bet anything he had nightmares and that was why he didn’t want to sleep. She thought about the way he’d watched over her while she’d slept on the Circe’s Storm. He’d stayed awake to make sure she was safe. She could do the same for him.
“Now that I’m full, I’m tired, too.” She got up from the table and made sure the door was locked, all the shades were closed and the lights were off. “Come to bed with me, Hawkins.”
She made sure to use his last name so it wasn’t too intimate. So he didn’t think she expected or was trying to give anything more than what he wanted.
“I’ll feel safer knowing you’re in bed with me,” she prodded.
“I’m dirty.”
“And I have lamb breath.” She grabbed his hand, and he hauled himself up from the chaise and followed her the short distance to the bed.
He flopped down on the bed, shirtless, his fatigues half-unbuttoned and his feet hanging off the side. A gun had somehow managed to make its way to the nightstand.
She studied him in the dimly lit room. His chiseled body, his scarred hands, the enticing way his fatigues looked like a half-wrapped present. Then back up to his face.
“Are you going to stare or get in bed? Thought you were tired,” he grumbled.
“You really don’t ever sleep, do you?”
“Certainly not when I’m being stared at. I feel like a hare being stalked by a wolf.”
She blushed. Her comportment tutor would probably have apoplexy if she could see her now. Damara wondered if there was even protocol for this. “You’re pretty to look at. What do you want from me?”
“Pretty?” He cracked an eye open. “How’s that?”
“Never mind. Go to sleep. I am.” She slipped under the covers and curled against him and pretended to sleep.
“No, you’re not, but I’ll let you get away with it this time.” He wrapped an arm around her and held her close.
With his arm around her, Damara felt as if she’d been hidden away from the world at large. Nothing could find her and nothing bad could touch her.
* * *
BYRON HAWKINS HAD fallen asleep breathing in the scent of jasmine with a soft woman in his arms.
He awoke with a strangled scream in his throat and a cacophony of suffering in his head.
His team.
His whole team.
Christ, the way they screamed.
And it was his fault. His fault they screamed. His fault they never came home. Barnes with his easy smile and the dog-eared picture of his three-year-old daughter. Foxworth and his dreams for a life after his service.
“There’s more to life than this, hoss.” Foxworth’s Texas twang thudded behind the noise of death.
But there wasn’t. If Hawkins could go back and exchange himself for them, he’d do it. He never wondered what it would be like if he’d never given the order, because if it hadn’t been this, it would have been something else. He knew that.
No matter what Renner told him. All his talk about PTSD, and therapy... He didn’t have PTSD. He was just born bad, and he knew it.
Gentle fingers cupped his cheek. “Are you okay?” she murmured.
He looked down at her, eyes half-lidded and sleepy but concern plain on her face. “Fine. Go back to sleep.”
Somehow it was more horrible because she was awake. She’d become a witness to his shame. He had to get away from her, away from the forgiveness on her face, especially when it