He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. His expression was deadpan, and the corners of his mouth were doing absolutely nothing. But he was enjoying this.
Laughter erupted out of her—loud and undignified. She covered her mouth with her hands. “Good God.”
“He had it coming.” Pav arched an eyebrow.
“Thom is a sweetie?—”
“A two-twenty-pound sweetie with a kill count.”
She wiped her eyes. “God. And Zak?”
“Zak ate my jerky.”
“Did you hit him too?”
“Zak’s faster than Fox.”
“That’s not a no.”
A log tumbled in the stove. She smiled against his chest and let it go. His hand moved from her hair to the back of her neck. His palm was warm against her skin, his thumb resting in the hollow behind her ear.
“He sent me to find you,” Pav said. Quiet. The humor gone from his voice, replaced by something more careful.
She was motionless against him. “And you did.”
“Yes.” He exhaled. “Harper. What is this?”
The question sounded curious coming from him. As if he’d rather face a rifle than uncertainty.
She shifted, propping her chin on her hand, studying his face. The dim light made his eyes dark and deep. “I don’t know.” The most honest thing was not knowing and saying so, and she owed him that.
“We don’t need to decide now.” She placed her hand over his heart. “Do we?”
He covered her hand with his and held it there. “No.”
She let the word be enough, even though part of her wanted more—wanted the declaration, the certainty that this man and the warmth between them would exist beyond tonight.
But she knew him well enough now. No meant the future was possible even if he couldn’t see its shape yet.
Soft light played across his body—the ridged map of muscle and scar, the places that hadn’t healed clean.
She gently skimmed the pale scar tissue on his forearm. Thin, straight, surgical. “This one?”
“Knife. Afghanistan. Tore the flexor tendon.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “Took three months of rehab to get full grip strength back.”
Another marked his left side, just above the hip. Twisted. Older.
“This?”
“Shrapnel. Bad contract. Worse planning.”
“Yours?”
“No.” The answer was dry enough to be funny, except his mouth didn’t move.
Her fingers softened over the scar. “Of course not.”
Her gaze drifted to the scar on his shoulder—the one she’d first seen when they stripped by the river. The mess of puckeredtissue, the surgical lines, the evidence of something that skilled hands had repaired in a proper facility.
