Page 32 of Deadly Strain

He didn’t just drop his arms. He gradually released her, comfort-rubbing her back before she found herself in front of him on her butt in the sandy dirt of the cave.

The need to crawl right back into his arms was overwhelming.

She stared at him, her whole body trembling, trying to figure out what to say or do next. She had no idea. He’d surprised her, done nothing she’d expected.

She’d done nothing she’d expected. She didn’t know this other Grace, a woman who took her pleasure, and gave it, without hesitation.

He watched her, his shoulders relaxed, his hands limp as they dangled off his knees, but his eyes were far from tranquil. She’d seen that look on his face, the one where the wrinkles around his eyes flexed and the furrow between his brows appeared. It was the one he wore when he was waiting for an attack, or preparing to make one. Battle ready.

Her breathing became deeper, labored, and she had to focus on it before she could calm herself down. “Stop looking at me like I’m a bomb about to go off.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Are you kidding? You already went off. I’m just waiting to see if there are any aftershocks.”

“I’m not going to go screaming out into the night,” she said, then paused. “I don’t think.”

His gaze examined her with unrelenting focus. “Is something else bothering you?”

She didn’t know if he was asking her about the crash, her reaction to their lovemaking, or something else entirely. It didn’t matter. She was done talking. “No.”

He didn’t react except to ask, “Who am I?”

“You’re Sharp—Jacob Foster.”

When he didn’t respond, she added, “Special Forces Weapons Sergeant Jacob ‘Sharp’ Foster.”

He shook his head. “I want to know who I am toyou.”

The sneaky bastard. Did he think he was some kind of weekend psychologist?

She leaned forward, narrowed her eyes and bared her teeth. “Right now, you’re an irritant, like all men who think asking the same question a different way is going to get you what you want. But when you’re not being an ass, you’re usually my best friend.”

“Yes, exactly, we’re best friends.” He grinned at her for a moment, but the smile fell away from his face all too quickly. “Something hasn’t been right with you since we arrived at Bostick. What the hell is going on between you and Marshall?”

Sneaky,sneakybastard. She opened her mouth to yell at him, to let the anger boiling beneath her skin out into the space between them to batter him with the secrets he thought he could easily ferret out.

He spoke before she could utter a sound. “Don’t throw me a bullshit flag. There’s a history there, right? You weren’t alone with him long enough to start anewargument.”

“You’re right, it’s not new, and there isn’t anything anyone can do about it, so, please just drop it.”

He watched her face as she struggled to decide whether she should say anything. “Look, I get it. Shit happens. In my case, my dad beat the hell out of me on a regular basis when I was a kid.” Sharp snorted. “He said it was character building. He wanted me to be tough.” Sharp’s face reflected pain, fear, anger, and despair. “Breaking a kid’s arm in three places doesn’t make them tough.”

He’d beenabused? Oh God, no. Horror’s frozen fingers wrapped around her throat. “Did you fight back?” It came out as a quivering whisper. She’d fought. When the enemy attacked, she’d killed.

Sharp’s chuckle was unexpected, and it loosened the cold grip cutting off her air. “Not in the traditional sense.”

“Traditional?”

“I didn’t hit back. After he broke my arm, there was a social worker who figured out what happened, but she couldn’t prove it, and I wasn’t talking. Instead of badgering me, she saw to it that the community center where I went every day after school offered martial arts training.” He paused. “I forged my dad’s signature on the permission form.”

“What?”

A grin came and went so fast on his face she wasn’t sure she’d seen it. “She made sure I could hit back, if I wanted to.”

“But you said you didn’t.”

“I didn’t. What I did was block every punch my father tried to throw at me. I never hit back. I didn’t shove or kick. I just blocked. Blocked and blocked until my arms were bruised and my father realized he’d succeeded.”

After that litany of pain, she couldn’t reconcile the last word with the rest. “Succeeded?”