Page 61 of Asher

“Aww, that’s beautiful. You should write it down.”

His eyes closed. “Nah. I only wax poetic when my soul’s at peace. Like now. With you.”

She couldn’t believe it. “Me? You’re at peace because of me?” How sweet was that? She ran a finger under her eyes, wiping silly tears away before they got away from her.

“Yes. This, right here” —he squeezed her— “is everything I’ve ever wanted. Are the guys gone yet?”

“Not yet. They’re outside in your backyard talking, and Doc Fitz will be here soon. She’s bringing dinner.”

“Damn.” He leaned back and the moment he did, Marlowe missed him. Which was crazy. He hadn’t gone anywhere.

Asher had been quiet on the ride to his house, and she knew it didn’t take much to wear him out. But she also knew she’d be the one helping him out of those workout pants later and into pajamas. He couldn’t sleep in his clothes. It wouldn’t be comfortable. She’d also be the one to help him walk to the restroom and anywhere else he wanted to go. Into the kitchen. Outside onto the deck. Maybe for a short walk.

His breathing evened out. Asher was asleep, and Marlowe drew in a deep breath of contentment. Every particle of her being revolved around him now. He needed rest and sleep in order to heal. She was there to make sure he did.

It seemed ironic that only days ago, he’d been the one helping her. Pushing her wheelchair. Dealing with her ornery butt. Hugging her even when she’d been rude, mean, and mad. Which had been most of the time. But now? Her life had changed. They hugged more. Explored stolen kisses, too. She felt like a teenager with a river of fired-up hormones racing through her veins. All Asher had to do was look at her, and she wanted to lay him flat and resuscitate him again.

Marlowe beamed with pride in herself. The more she could do for Asher, the quicker she seemed to heal. Her feet didn’t hurt anymore, neither did her other injuries. What was not to love about that? She was at her best when she was taking care of someone else, and Asher was going to get the best care in the world.

Chapter Thirty-One

He dreamed he was home. The soft body beside him was warm. Toasty warm, like embers-in-a-fireplace warm. And sweet, like a shot of whiskey, if handled gently. But a killer bee that would kill you, if not. And willing, with the same qualifiers. His woman was tantalizingly addictive. Her taste. Her smell. All a man needed. Everything he wanted. A little bit of golden sunshine with a splash of red-hot cayenne pepper. Asher’s nose automatically sought Marlowe’s unique scent.

He buried his face in the fragrant cleft of her neck. He’d found it, the secret place where no other man’s nose had ever been before. Caught between Marlowe’s shoulder and skull, her neck was the most vulnerable part of her body. If a woman wasn’t careful, it could easily be snapped, twisted, and broken. Life could be ended in a second, intentionally or accidentally. Once a neck broke, there was no putting it back together. Life didn’t work like that, and Mother Nature wasn’t kind. Yet there he was, trusted and welcomed to the one place on earth where he was king.

Screech. Squeak. Oomph.

Warning! Discord! Error! Error!

Hold the damned phone.Not king. God, no. Never king or boss. Not team leader or lord or any sort of superior being. Certainly not Big Brother. Just…

Panicked, Asher opened his eyes, needing to see. To know.

Ah-h-h-h. There she is.The best thing in his world. Marlowe. Curled under his arm like a kitten, her back to his side, and her hands fisted below her chin. Sound asleep and purring. True and faithful. Fierce but willing. A little too brave, too courageous sometimes. But…

“Mine,” he whispered, his good hand instinctively wandering beneath her shirt. Around her ribs to there. Right there. His chest heaved with male satisfaction the instant his fingers slid over her breast. His mouth watered at the extra-warm gift in his hand. Not large. Just right. A handful of tender heaven come to earth.

My honey.A smile stretched his face at the notion that maybe this was why his dad called his mom honey. Coincidence? Probably not. More like an awakening. A connection of sorts, to all the men throughout time who had ever treasured a woman the way Asher treasured this one.

He’d dated in high school. Ran with a pack of wild ones before enlisting. Hadn’t bonded with a woman, though. Hadn’t wanted to. Army Rangers had higher priorities than marriage and family. He was driven by ego and pride then. Full of himself. An invincible idiot. One of the few, a proud warrior, and a dead-eye sniper, who got things done.

Then along came Somalia…

Asher closed his mind against the internal damnation that came with that piece of his past. In less than a few hours in Somalia,he’d been reduced from mighty hero to mere mortal. A frail creature who hadn’t been able to save himself. Who should’ve saved Alissa. But didn’t. Couldn’t.

They’d been within feet of each other in those long final hours. So close. Not close enough. She was around ten; Asher didn’t know for certain, he’d never asked. Shy, dark eyes, and always a smile for him because he gave her peppermint candy.

When the building above them blew up, he’d been caught in a triangle of crossed beams and dirt. The supporting timbers of that shabby basement room had sheltered him from the full weight of its collapsed walls. Not Alissa. She was caught, engulfed. No timbers lessened the weight suffocating her. No timbers to shield the bones in her tiny body to keep them from breaking. Alissa and her father. Both buried. Him beneath her. Her possibly still sitting on his shoulder when she breathed her last.

Crushing syndrome. The effects of a ton of dirt on a trapped human body. Lungs, heart, bones, kidneys, and every other organ are crushed and squeezed until the body’s organs burst in upon themselves. Capillaries. Veins. Nerves. Kidneys. Lungs. Nothing could withstand that final hug from Mother Earth.

Like Asher, Alissa had been buried up to her chin. The difference between their situations was those lifesaving beams and the volume and density of the dirt where they’d landed. And the fact that he was an adult American male in his prime, sustained by a lifetime of good nutrition that made his bones and musculature stronger.

Alissa hadn’t had those same opportunities. Hunger had stalked her short life and ISIL ensured she’d never be free to choose for herself. During her last panicked moments, she hadn’t been ableto draw enough air into her poor compressed lungs. Her teary brown eyes had relayed her panic and desperation. She’d wanted him to save her. The image of her suffocating never faded. There’d been pleading and terror in her eyes. Guilt in Asher’s. His most relentless, most awful, rebounding nightmares.

He faced the truth for the first time since Heston’s grimy face had peered down at him through the dusty rubble shortly after that collapse. He’d jokingly asked if Asher wanted a hand up or if he was going to lay around all day, a hero’s way of greeting an injured comrade. Heston hadn’t known that Alissa and her father were there. Couldn’t see her from his vantage point. But facts were facts. She was already gone by then, and Asher wasn’t. Heston couldn’t have saved them anyway.

Heaving a shuddering breath, he closed his hand around Marlowe’s breast. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do, since his good arm was around and partially beneath her shoulder. But he managed. Her body was soft, made for better things than war and tragedy. But then, weren’t most women made for better things?

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