I do as I’m told and sit as I let my eyes feast on his powerful body. He’s fucking incredible, and it’s not just his looks, it’s his sheer presence I’m entranced with, and I can’t look away. The deep scratches down his back from my nails make me proud, like my own kind of claiming.
“Getting a good look?” he asks.
“I was just… You look like you were attacked by an animal,” I remark. Some of the scratches are deep.
“I’ve been attacked by worse.” He chuckles.
My eyes drift to the scars that cover him. There are at least five defined bullet holes. Two in his right shoulder. Two on his left arm, another in his stomach, and other markings that may be from shrapnel.
“Those scars… You were shot?” I ask, curious.
“Yes.”
“By who?” I push cautiously, not knowing how much he’ll want to talk.
He taps my shoulder, inching me forward so he can slide in behind me.
“Most of them, I have no idea,” he says slowly, and I can tell he’s still struggling with telling me personal details. “It happened overseas. I’m a SEAL.”
“I know, the girls told me,” I offer, glancing over my shoulder.
The water rises even higher as he settles in, almostcresting the edge of the tub. Aiden pulls me back to rest against him, and steam rises from our skin. A warm settling feeling that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water takes hold inside me. In Aiden’s arms, as he traces one heavy finger over my palm, I’m the most at peace I’ve ever been.
“The girls also said you were a sniper.”
“Not quite. I was a rifleman. I entered SEAL training when I was eighteen, went on my first tour at twenty. I was a machine gunner during that tour, in Afghanistan. My job was to provide cover so my platoon could move. It was also my job not to get hit.”
“And someone shot you?” I turn my face to him, tracing the scars on his arm.
He pushes the hair off my temple and kisses it. I can tell the action was impulsive, unplanned, and for someone so hard and ruthless, his lips are surprisingly soft.
“Yes, many people,” he answers.
I focus on the scar on his arm. I notice tiny little ones all around it, encompassed in ink.
“This one, the shooter was maybe eight or nine. The gun was bigger than he was.” His eyes are distant as he speaks, and I swallow to stop the tears. He was shot by achild.
I can’t even imagine the horror, seeing a child that desensitized, that unmoved by violence and death, that shooting a man would feelnormal. My heart breaks for the boy I never met.
“His family was my target. I hid under the frame of their home to watch them and listen to them come and go for eighteen hours. It was my job to give the marines some cover as they cleared buildings in the village. They were rebels, and the boy snuck away from them. He hid behind some half-demolishedbuildings. He was just doing what he was trained to do. Defending his father, the way I’d defend mine.”
I continue to trace the scar.
“Did you kill him?” I ask, unsure if I’m prepared for the answer.
“No,” Aiden says evenly. “He was dead before I even knew he hit me. Crossfire from his own family.”
“Fuck…” I whisper, noting the regret in his eyes as he thinks of the boy. “I’m sorry,” I offer, but his eyes harden when I say it.
“Don’t be sorry for me. I lived. Be sorry for the boy and the thousands of others just like him.”
I press my lips against the muscled arm draped over me, feeling the horror of his memory. “I’m sorry for you both.”
Despite the heartbreaking conversation, his big hands trailing over my skin with the scent of these oils has my whole body relaxing, and it soothes the dull ache between my legs from last night. His touch allows me to inhale his scent, which helps me to relax more than I care to admit, even to myself.
“Your brother would kill me if he knew you were here. In fact, he’d probably try to kill me if he knew you’d just set foot in Lavish, or my clubhouse.” He changes the subject, the icy wall back up for now.
I lift his hand to get a closer look at his scars, tracing them, and he tenses under my touch but then relaxes as I continue. The perfectly straight line from his surgery is faded now within the ink. I trace the pin marks as I answer honestly. “He would, but he’s not here. So that’s a problem for a different day.”
