Chapter 28
GRIZZ
I should have known better than to favor a side when Atlas is around.
He’s been watching me from the porch while I secure the hinge on the south gate, and his silence is heavier than the cold air settling into my shoulder. Jaw clenched, I finish tightening the bolt with one hand. Then I straighten too fast.
Pain steals my breath.
Atlas gets to his feet. “Drop the wrench.” His voice is irritatingly calm.
I flex my fingers like nothing’s wrong.
“Grizz.”
That tone, the one he used on patrol, makes my teeth grind. I set the wrench down and roll my shoulder a few times. The joint protests all the while.
Atlas comes down the steps, tracking my movements as if he’s switched eyes with Viper. “How long?” he demands.
“Gate iced over,” I say. “Slipped and tweaked it.”
“You’ve been guarding that arm since breakfast.”
I snort and ignore him.
“You’re not as subtle as you think when you’re hurt,” he says.
I shift my weight and instantly regret it.
Atlas’s jaw sets. “You’re seeing the doctor.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
I finally look at him. “I said no.”
He looks back at me, eyes doing some sort of calculation, before he exhales. “You tear something, you’re off rotation. You want the rest of us pulling double because you’re too proud to get checked?”
“I want to finish my work,” I shoot back. “And I don’t need—”
“I can help.” Kira’s voice comes from behind me.
When I turn, pain slices down my arm. I hiss before I can stop myself.
She’s standing a few feet away, bundled in her coat, hair pulled back, concern plain on her face.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
She lifts an eyebrow, not buying it.
Atlas glances between us, then takes a step back. “I have inventory to check. Try not to break anything else.” He leaves without another word, trusting, damn him, that Kira won’t let it drop.
She doesn’t.
“Come inside,” she says gently. I’m ready to dig my heels in, but she’s already turning toward the house.
“I don’t need—”
“That wasn’t a suggestion, either.” She echoes Atlas’s tone in a way that makes something twist in my chest. Her voice is gentler when she says, “Let me take a look at it.”
I hesitate as every instinct tells me not to let anyone see weakness. Not to need care.
Then she turns back toward me and fixes me with a calm, capable look. She doesn’t seem worried, and there’s no pity in her eyes.
“Fine,” I mutter.
She smiles and leads the way. Against my better judgment, I follow.
Inside, she has me sit on the bench while she retrieves the aid kit. “Did you dislocate it?” she asks.
“No.”
“Strained?”
“Maybe.”
She hums, then steps closer. “Shirt.”
I blink. “What?”
“Take your shirt off.” She gives the hem a tug. “Is it easier if I get it?”
I should’ve let Atlas deal with this when I had the chance.
With a sigh, I unbutton my flannel shirt and let her pull it free of my arms. Once that’s out of the way, she peels my t-shirt up and over my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Her fingers are cool as they skim over my shoulder and the whole area around it. She presses gently, doing an assessment that’s surprisingly efficient.
“You’ve had worse,” she says eventually.
“How can you tell?”
She gives me a faint smile. “You don’t flinch.” She checks my range of motion and palpates the muscle with confident movements. When she hits the sore spot, my jaw clenches.
“Ahh, there’s the problem,” she says.
“I thought your background was marketing? You sure you aren’t a medic?”
Her eyes crinkle as she smiles. “I was a camp counselor one summer when I was in college,” she explains. “I dealt with a lot of sprains, broken toes, things like that. A kid with a skinned knee tried to convince me he was dying.”
That gets a laugh out of me. “You’re good at it.”
“Thanks. I learned the kids wouldn’t panic if I stayed calm.”
The smell of her shampoo is subtle, but it still invades my senses as she cleans my skin and tapes the shoulder.
“So,” she says lightly when she’s almost done, “why do you hate doctors so much?”
I shrug with my good shoulder. “I learned not to make pain anyone else’s problem. If I can still function, I’m fine.”
She arches a brow. “I’m guessing that’s a Marine thing?”
“I guess, but I learned it earlier than most.”
When I don’t say anything else, she stops what she’s doing and cranes her neck so she can look me fully in the face. It’s my signal to continue.
“In foster care, getting hurt meant questions,” I say. “Reports had to be filed. Someone was likely to decide you had to move again.”
She continues taping, and to my relief, her voice doesn’t fill with pity. “Why is that?”
“Being hurt makes you a problem. And problems get passed along.”
“How many homes were you in?”
I flex my fingers, testing the arm again. “I lost count.”
She works quietly, encouraging me to talk if I want. And to my surprise, I do.
I tell her about the houses that smelled like bleach. The way rules would be posted on refrigerators like final warnings. About the hard lesson I learned early on about not getting attached, no matter how good a situation seemed.
“I can imagine it would be hard to ever trust people,” she says. “But it seems different for you with Atlas and Viper?”
“The kind of bonds made in the Corps don’t vanish overnight.”
She secures the last strip of tape and steps back to survey her work. “Brothers by choice,” she says. “You’re still a family.”
Our eyes meet, and something shifts. She’s close enough that I can feel the heat of her body. Close enough that the line I’ve been careful not to cross starts to blur.
When she sets the tape back in the first aid kit, I reach for her hand and pull her even closer. She meets my eyes, then her gaze drops to my mouth. I get to my feet, cup her face in my hand, and press my lips to hers.
It just happens. Same as her taking cover the other day. Same as moving toward trouble instead of away from it. Pure instinct.
Her hands slide up my bare chest, fingers curling into my shoulders. We pick up where we left off that night in the workshop, and now that I’m tasting her again, I want even more.
My hand goes to her waist, carefully, like I’m afraid to break her. She fits in my grip too easily. Everything feels too right.
The kiss deepens, but I go slow, even though every part of me wants to take more. Her mouth opens under mine, so trusting, and that hits harder than anything else.
Reality crashes in like snow collapsing the roof of an old shed. I pull away, my breath ragged. “I can’t.”
Her eyes scan my face. “Because of Andrew?”
I swallow and step backward. “Because of all of it.”
She’s still standing where I left her. “Do you want me?” she asks simply.
God help me.
She already knows the answer.
“I do, but I don’t know how to want you without losing them.”
She absorbs that and nods. “Andrew’s okay with sharing,” she says softly.
The words echo in my head. “That’s … generous,” I say. “Don’t know if I’m built the same way.”
She touches my arm, the uninjured one. “Think about it,” she says.
I watch her walk away, my shoulder aching, my chest worse.