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That tracked. “But you’re ready now?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am. And we’re going to show you how happy we are that you didn’t let either of us fuck this up.”
She squirmed on the cushion. “Yeah, well. It’s Christmas. It seemed like the thing to do.”
Liam gave her a level look. “No joking, K-K. One of the things I love about you is that you are so much more mellow than I am. It helps keep me grounded, reminds me of my priorities. So when I fuck up badly enough that you lose your cool, I know it’s on me. This could have been ugly, but you didn’t let it go that way.”
Distinctly uncomfortable, Kat looked down at the hands lying palms up in her lap. She didn’t know what to say to either of them that wouldn’t sound cheesy or fake. Instead, she let the silence stretch until Liam sank onto the cushion next to her.
He cupped her jaw, turning her face toward him. “I just want you to know I love you, and I’m really, really happy the three of us are together tonight.”
“Me, too,” she whispered just before his lips brushed hers.
Liam’s kiss was the polar opposite of her kiss moments ago with Hunter. This time she was tentative, unsure what he wanted from her, what she wanted from him. It didn’t matter, though. When he pulled her close against him, it felt right, and she relaxed. The little sparks of sexual awareness he lit inside her chased away her uncertainty, and in moments she met his kiss with the hunger and demand of her own. This was her man, these were her men, and they wanted to make her feel good.
Liam ended the kiss, pulling away from her and dropping his hands from her face. She turned her head to look at Hunter, who watched them with fierce concentration. “Why are we all still dressed?”
Kat’s question seemed to galvanize Hunter, who stripped off his shirt and pants in the time it took Liam to lever himself off the couch.
Chuckling, Liam followed suit, his clothes draped over the arm of the sofa.
Kat didn’t know whether to be thankful or disappointed that Hunter had left his shorts on. He didn’t look at her, instead muttering a cur
se and turning to dig through his pants.
She drank in the details she’d missed before. She’d noticed the hard muscles of his shoulders and chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen. She hadn’t noted the tattoo. The outline of boots disappeared beneath the elastic of his shorts, but the gun barrel rose along his spine, the butt of the gun capped by a helmet. She’d seen similar images in the press, but she hadn’t expected to see it inked onto Hunter’s back. The tattoo jolted her enough that it took her a few seconds to notice the long arc of scar tissue along the left side of his rib cage. There were more scars on the left side of his back, smaller white lines that stood out starkly from his tanned skin.
Her lungs seized in horror. He’d been injured.
“What happened?”
“Huh?” Hunter turned back to her, a condom in his hand.
She drew in a calming breath. “What happened? How did you get the scars?”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Caught some shrapnel.”
“They don’t look new.”
He shook his head. “No, that was my second tour in Iraq.”
“What? What are you...oh.” Liam stilled, then stepped around to study Hunter’s back.
Kat let that settle. She’d known he was a Marine. Known he’d seen combat. But knowing it and seeing the evidence were two different things. “You’ve been in combat a lot, haven’t you?”
“Depends on what you mean by a lot. I did three tours in Iraq, just finished my second in Afghanistan.”
Liam slanted a look at her before asking, “The tattoo?”
“I’ve lost a lot of friends. It seemed important to put it in ink.”
She nodded, unable to do anything else.
He waited a beat before stepping toward her and dropping the condom into her lap.
The quiet crinkle of the foil released her from her stunned state and she slumped back into the chair. He’d nearly died. He could say it wasn’t a big deal, but those scars told a different story. Somehow, in the years she’d thought of him in the Marines, she hadn’t thought about him in danger. She’d somehow convinced herself he was safely out of harm’s way. She’d been a fool.
Now it was her turn to wonder if this could work. Suddenly she realized what military spouses everywhere knew. You couldn’t whitewash the danger, couldn’t sugarcoat the possibility of death. She had to decide if she could live with facing that very real terror every day. She’d known, intellectually, that being connected to someone in the military would be a challenge. Between the travel and the moving, they’d have to form their own support network. He was right about that—they wouldn’t be able to use the resources available to other military families.
