Chapter 14
Sawyer
Pale grey morning light filtered through the thick acrylic porthole in the
curved steel wall of the dome. Sawyer woke up pinned securely beneath the heavy
furnace of Declan’s body, his back pressed flush against Declan’s broad chest,
Declan’s left arm locked firmly around his ribs. A deep, pleasant ache settled
through Sawyer’s lower back and thighs, accompanied by a profound stillness in
his mind that he had not experienced in over a year. The restless, churning
panic that had driven him to the edge of every cliff in Europe was gone,
replaced by the solid anchor of Declan’s arm.
Declan stirred behind him, his beard stubble scraping roughly against the nape
of Sawyer’s neck. Declan tightened his hold, pressing a slow, warm kiss into the
sensitive skin behind Sawyer’s ear before sliding his hand down to rest flat
over Sawyer’s lower abdomen.
"Morning, hotshot," Declan murmured, his voice deep and gravelly with sleep.
"Morning, Ross," Sawyer replied, turning his head on the pillow to meet Declan’s
dark, clear eyes. "You snore when you sleep on your back."
"You talk in your sleep," Declan countered with a faint, rare smirk.
Declan sat up, throwing the heavy wool blanket back, and stepped out onto the
rubber floor. He turned the propane heater up a notch, poured clean melted snow
into the kettle, and retrieved a fresh roll of elastic compression wrap from the
medical kit on the wall. He dampened a clean cotton cloth with warm water from
the kettle and returned to the edge of the bunk.
With steady, reverent gentleness, Declan cleaned the dried semen and sweat from
Sawyer’s stomach and inner thighs. Declan’s large hands were warm and completely
methodical, wiping away the remnants of their night before peeling the loosened
tape from Sawyer’s left shoulder.
Declan inspected the joint, running his fingers along the humeral head and
acromion process to check for inflammation. "Jude’s reduction held. The swelling
is down forty percent. Keep the joint stabilized today and you will have full
range of motion in three weeks."
Declan applied three strips of rigid adhesive tape across Sawyer’s deltoid in a
precise basket-weave pattern, locking the joint into the socket with
professional skill.
Sawyer sat up on the edge of the mattress, watching Declan’s focused expression.
"After Liam died, my primary ski sponsor canceled my contract because I refused
to smile for their promotional cameras in Verbier. I started dropping into
unmapped backcountry couloirs without safety crews because I wanted to feel
something that wasn't hollow. Yesterday was the first time in twelve months I
felt like I was actually doing something that mattered."
Declan set the tape roll on the workbench, stepped between Sawyer’s bare knees,
and took Sawyer’s face in both hands. The intensity in Declan’s dark eyes was
immovable.
"You don't need to throw yourself off cliffs to prove you are alive, Sawyer,"
Declan said, his voice low, fierce, and certain. "Your eye for terrain and your
speed on skis are extraordinary. Out here with SPSR, that skill keeps people
from dying under the snow. You belong on this mountain with me."
Sawyer reached up, his fingers wrapping around Declan’s thick wrists, pulling
the big man down into a deep, tender kiss that sealed the promise between them.