“When did this happen?”
“It’s nothing.”
He can be macho all he wants, just not when I need him functioning.
“It should have been cleaned and covered.Infection is starting to set in.”
“The infection set in a long time ago, Tiger,” he mumbles.
I eye him, not sure whether he’s being honest or facetious.When I can’t decide, I gesture for him to sit on the bed, then sit beside him, opening the first aid kit I always carry."Ready?"I warn, tearing open an alcohol wipe.
"Do your worst."
I press the wipe to the wound, cleaning away blood.He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make a sound.He just sits there, watching me work with an intensity that sends warmth creeping up my spine.
The wipe drags lower.Ink shifts over muscle.Pale lines interrupt it—burns, blade marks, damage that didn’t heal clean.My fingers slow without my meaning them to.This is a body built to take punishment and keep going.
Every mark carries the same weight, a choice made… or taken.
His eyes lock onto mine.“Not sure I’d have lived to tell the tale if Paco was riding shotgun.”
"Maybe that's why I'm here," I say.“You needed someone watching your back.”
His mouth twitches."You saying you’re my guardian angel?”
I apply antibiotic ointment, then reach for the gauze as water drips from his hair onto my hand.
“No, but maybe in God’s providence, I somehow have the skills to help you.”
His brow wrinkles."You're not like any church girl I've ever met."
"Then you’re attending the wrong churches," I say.
He laughs."Where'd you learn to shoot like that?The security team you work with?"
I nod.“They drill hard, but my dad gave me the grounding.He’s a combat instructor in the Navy.”
Interest sparks in his eyes.“Where’s he stationed?”
“Little Creek.”
He studies me with new interest, maybe because he’s former Navy intelligence.“Does he know what you’re doing?”
I meet his gaze.“No.”
Dad doesn’t know I work covertly—or that I’m in danger more often than he’d tolerate.He agrees in theory with private security work.He just doesn’t appreciate the different level of accountability.
“What about your mom?I can’t imagine her being happy you’re out here with me.”
I don’t bother to hide my wince.“She’s never happy.”
She’s not happy withmeanyway.I’m a perpetual disappointment to her.
He shifts his weight, gauges me, then smiles lazily.“You know all about my background.Tell me yours.We’re partners—and I’m mortally wounded.”
With an eye roll, I relent, only because I have no ground to protest.
I know his background: his mother was a teacher, and he joined the Navy at eighteen, following his father’s footsteps.
