Page 7

Her pulse kicked, traitorous and sharp. His black hair was buzzed on the sides, longer on top, mussed with dirt and still damp from the rain, one thick strand falling across his forehead, brushing against a jawline a wrecking ball couldn’t break.

The strong column of his throat drew her gaze, made her mouth ache to follow it, press past hot, velvet skin, past muscle, past bone, all the way into the man beneath.

Dark stubble framed his mouth, only sharpening the distraction.

Lips that knew how to grin like a devil and stir all manner of wicked thoughts.

She almost groaned out loud, masked it behind a scowl, grabbed his arm, and dragged him toward the exam room.

He let her. Of course he did. She was under no illusion. If he hadn’t wanted to move, he wouldn’t have budged. She could only have wished he would comply. The warmth of his skin under her fingers wasn’t the problem. It was the way part of her wanted to believe him.

Wanted to believe that his flirting meant something. That she wasn’t just the latest target for that smooth-talking bravado and impossible grin.

But men like Zorro flirted like they breathed, easy, instinctive. He probably didn’t even know he was doing it half the time. Again, she’d fallen for charm before. Look where that got her.

Still, some foolish part of her, the part she’d buried six feet deep, wondered if the way he looked at her was different. Like she wasn’t just a game. Like she mattered .

She directed him to the gurney, where he settled, turning away for her sanity, dismissing the overwrought thoughts spinning through her skull. She needed food. Sleep. In that order. After him, she’d get both.

“Let’s lose the vest,” she ordered. He reached for the edge and peeled back the Velcro, a soft, ragged exhale slipping out. She whipped around. “I didn’t mean you should do it. Oh, my God. SEALs. If you asked for help, you might actually get it.”

“Alpha males don’t ask for help,” he said, his tone mock-chastising. “But sometimes we beat it out in an SOS on our chests.”

“I’m way too tired for this,” she muttered, slapping his hands away, only to earn a wider grin that did exactly what he meant it to do.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping a register, “a soft, warm bed sounds good about now.” Delivered in that husky way, that tone hit her exactly where he wanted it to. She barely kept from gasping.

She narrowed her eyes at him, summoning her best detached-doctor glare.

It didn’t even dent that potent grin. She reached for the vest, fingers curling under the edge, pressing against the hot, hard muscles of his shoulders, absently thinking he needed that power to wear it.

When her brain registered the weight, she blurted out, “This is still damn heavy. How much shit do you need to carry?”

“All of it,” he whispered. “Needs to be impenetrable to protect the heart…most of the time, it succeeds.” Startled at the meaning tucked just beneath those words, she looked up, really met his gaze for the first time, and got lost. Dark and dense molasses brown, slow to give anything away.

Eyes like secrets steeped in syrup and smoke, but warm when they finally let you in.

The kind of gaze that could smolder…or soothe.

Her heart fluttered, and she knew exactly why she’d been avoiding him. Picking fights. Skimming past his gaze. Working overtime not to see him. Back in Niamey, she was already running. From him. From what she didn’t think she needed in her life. Still didn’t.

But God , he was the kind of man a woman couldn’t fully protect herself from. Case in point: she’d kissed him like an utter fool the moment his vulnerability stripped away her armor.

She wanted to say it was just the healer in her. That it had been instinct. Compassion. Reflex.

But all lies she told herself.

The truth was, the woman in her, neglected, silenced, starved, had reached for him like air, while grieving, while afraid.

Breaking eye contact was as hard as rolling a boulder uphill. She removed the vest, set it down near the gurney, and grabbed the handle of her cart, rolling it over to him, the wheels squeaking slightly on the uneven tile.

Snapping on a fresh pair of gloves, her gaze dropped to the bloodstain on his shirt, darker now, dried and stiff around the edges.

Without a word, she picked up the scissors and began to cut. The fabric resisted. She worked in silence, trying to focus on the shiny arc of the steel, not on the heat radiating from the man in front of her. Her pulse tripped over itself.

Stop being a fool, she scolded herself. He’s a special operator. He’s wounded. You’re here to stitch him up. He needs to be shirtless to do that. So stop ? —

Against her oath, against her common sense, and against her fear, her eyes dropped, lingered, caressed.

His chest was bronzed and broad, muscles defined in the way of men who earned their strength through war, not iron.

Every line looked ripped from purpose, shoulders roped with sinew, cut abs tight with tension.

He was lean, built like endurance incarnate, with a body honed by survival.

Scars were scattered across his torso like ghost trails, some pale and old, others fresh, still angry with healing.

Then he made a soft sound. A rough exhale. “Doc…the way you’re looking at me…”

Her hand stilled. She blinked up. His eyes met hers, molasses-dark, heavy-lidded, hurting in a way that had nothing to do with torn flesh. “I’m running on sweat and bravado right now,” he said, voice low and serious. “You looking at me like that…it hurts .”

She froze at the gut punch. Her voice came out harsh and winded. “I was studying your wounds, deciding on the best course of treatment.”

He cleared his throat, his head bowed, chest heaving. “My mistake,” he murmured.

She swallowed hard. Reached for gauze, her traitorous body betraying her, the ache for him now real, and she couldn’t pretend anymore it was just hormones.

She started to clean the superficial cuts, anything to anchor herself.

But her eyes, still disloyal, swept too long, too slow, tracing the faded line of the old scar that ran just beneath the new one, a jagged graze just above the ribcage.

Same place. Same man. Different war.

She swallowed. Hard. Stay detached.

Her breath caught and her training failed her, again.

“So, what’s the prognosis,” he murmured. “Will I live?” There was that teasing tone, but this man had a way with subtext. She could hear the ache beneath his words.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t trust herself to speak, so she shushed him.

She’d seen so many wounds today, and none of them affected her this way.

The bruising had spread beneath the skin, a violent mix of purple and sickly yellow, tender around the edges.

It should have made her clinical, sharp-edged, efficient.

But her hands didn’t move with detachment as she drew up a shot, then slid the needle in, one percent lidocaine with epinephrine, just under the skin, the sting brief.

Her eyes caught a glint of metal just beneath the hollow of his throat, not the worn dog tags, the edges smooth from years of movement, but a medal, a small oval, silver, also worn.

The image stamped into it was too faded to identify, but she knew instinctively what it was.

God and war. Did they fit together? She wasn’t sure whether she believed in either anymore. But he did.

She didn’t want this information. Didn’t want to wonder about…not the flirt…not the warrior…but the man.

She cleaned around the gash in silence, dabbing gently, her fingertips steady but her chest in knots.

The smell of antiseptic mingled with the faint musk of blood, sweat, and something uniquely him, earth and salt and heat.

She couldn’t seem to separate herself from the moment, couldn’t find that careful wall she always built between her work and everything else.

“Everly?”

His voice was soft, low, a whisper that curled around her name like a tether.

Her hands froze. Slowly, she looked up. Their eyes met.

That grin was gone now. In its place was something else, unspoken, unfinished.

The kind of look that made her heartbeat lose its rhythm. Her pulse skittered. Her breath caught.

“How long have you been in the Philippines?” he asked, quiet but direct.

She wanted to dodge it. The way he was looking at her, intense, searching, it made her skin feel too tight. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure that kiss had gone unnoticed.

“ Dr. Sunshine! ” Gator’s voice rang like a cannon blast. “Where the hell have you been all my life?” The room filled with boots, laughter, broad shoulders in motion.

Blitz, Bear, D-Day, the whole damn team, except their leader, Joker.

That explained it. They were off-leash. Banter ricocheted off the walls, all good-natured teasing and familiar chaos.

Everly turned slowly, eyebrow already raised, so thankful for the interruption.

Behind Gator, the rest of the team filed in like overgrown children in a candy store.

“I got a boo boo, Doc,” D-Day said solemnly, holding up a bruised hand. “Think it needs kissing.”

“Mine’s worse,” Blitz added, limping dramatically. “I should go to the front of the line.”

Zorro sighed from the table. “Can’t you see she’s busy?” Zorro snapped. The whole atmosphere of the room changed dramatically.

Everly crossed her arms, trying to salvage the much-needed barriers, shoring up her armor to survive the next few minutes. “Oh good. A whole parade of toddlers. Shall I get juice boxes and coloring books?”

Gator leaned against the doorframe. “Only if you’ve got the Spider-Man ones.”

Zorro was frowning, those dense eyes sending daggers, and she hated how much that made her stomach tighten.

Zorro pointed toward the door. “Out. All of you. Unless you’re actively bleeding.”