When I open the door, the dim light seeping through the curtains highlights her dark-haired shadow, and she takes a quick step back.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
“Evianna, stop apologizing. I mean it.” Using her close proximity as an excuse to touch her, I rest my hands on her upper arms as I ease myself around her. “Come with me to the kitchen. I’ll write the password down for you.”
With her head turned away, she stammers, “I’ll, um, be right there.” And a few seconds later, I hear the water running. Maybe I’m not the only one worried about morning breath.
In the kitchen, I pull the bag of coffee from the cabinet, the measuring cup from its precise place in the top drawer, and fill the coffee machine.
“Can I…help?” Evianna asks from a few feet away. My fingers close around the handle of the pot, and I turn slowly, unsure if she’ll approach or wait for my invitation.
“You could fill this with water, then add it to the machine and turn it on. I don’t have a lot of food here. But there are granola bars and yogurt and apples—or I can call and have groceries sent over.”
“Dax,” she stops after she turns the coffee maker on, “I…if you could see me, I’d put my hand on your arm and tell you it’s okay. Coffee’s fine. You’ve done so much for me already…”
“VoiceAssist, lights on, sixty percent,” I say. It’s been so long since I wanted anyone to touch me, I don’t know how to ask. But if I don’t show her who I am now—what I look like in the light—when I finally do work up the courage, the rejection will be that much harder. “You sure about that?”
“About what—oh.” The uncertainty in her voice fades away as I hold out my arms. I only have a vague sense of what they look like. Memories from the last time Kahlid beat the shit out of me before he blinded me. But deep, jagged scars cover my right arm, and on my left, burns. Cigarette butts, a wimpy little blowtorch that still felt like it was melting my flesh from my bones, and more lye. Parts of me feel like sandpaper. Others, like a topographical map of the Rocky Mountains.
The coffee maker sputters, the first drops of black gold hitting the pot with a hiss, and I turn away, my hands not altogether steady as I open the cabinet and withdraw two mugs.
“I’m going to touch you, now. Okay?” Evianna whispers from behind me.
I’m not sure I can answer, so I nod as I set the mugs down, and her warm fingers skate over my forearms. “Will you tell me what happened?”
“Not a good story.” I can’t move. If I do, I’ll break this spell, this perfect moment where a woman I’m starting to care for seems to…want me. Or…at least isn’t repulsed by me.
“I feel like that’s probably the understatement of the century.” Pressing closer, she wraps her arms around my waist and leans into me. “Maybe the millennium.”
A laugh scrapes over my dry throat. “You could say that.”
We stay fused together until the coffee finishes, and Evianna slips around me to pour two mugs. “I still want to know. And you promised me coffee in bed. So come on.”
As her soft footfalls recede into the bedroom, I’m left with a raging hard-on and no fucking clue how she can see me…any part of me…and not run away. But as she calls my name, I give up searching for a reason, and follow.
12
Dax
As I hover at the bedroom door, Evianna pats the bed. “I’m on the far side. I didn’t leave anything on the nightstand.”
The words I want to say won’t come. The ones that say she’s adapted to me, to sharing space with a blind man, faster than anyone I’ve ever met. The ones that tell her how much I do—and don’t—want to have this conversation.
Setting my coffee down, I sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from her. “You sure?”
The sheets rustle, and I can feel her warmth at my back. “I’m sure.” After a long pause, she clears her throat. “I don’t know what this is, Dax. Maybe I’m still reeling from last night. Maybe you’re the only person who’s made me feel truly safe in…years. Maybe it’s…nothing. But I want to get to know you. And whatever happened,” she skates her fingers over a deep scar on my forearm, and I don’t flinch this time, “is part of you.”
“It’s all of me,” I say.
Evianna huffs and scoots back against the headboard. “Doubtful. I think there’s a lot more to you than your scars.”
Cupping my mug, I rest my elbows on my knees. “I’m Special Forces, Evianna. Or…I was. Five years as a Warrant Officer—second in command. There were twelve of us. Once.”
The scent of the coffee helps keep me in the present, and I take a sip, trying to decide how much to tell her. The sanitized version or the whole fucking thing. “We were headed up into the mountains to meet with a group of villagers friendly to U.S. Forces. But some wet-behind-the-ears private didn’t encrypt his radio transmissions. The Taliban knew right where we were going to be.”
“Oh, shit.” Evianna shifts so she’s sitting next to me, close enough for me to feel her warmth seeping into my left side.
“We fight until there’s nothing left, Evianna. That’s what they drill into us every fucking day until we’re worthy of calling ourselves Special Forces. I speak six languages. I can—could—look at the stars in the middle of the desert and know exactly where I was. We learned to read micro-expressions. Subtle shifts in a person’s tone of voice. In their breathing. Heart rate.” I hold out my hand, and Evianna gives me hers. Pressing my index finger against her pulse point, I almost smile. “You’re a little worried, darlin’.”
