Page 48 of SEAL of Valor

With a yawn and heavy eyes, I come awake. The room is dark, except for a crackling fire in the hearth. Outside, the rain is steady. For a moment, I can’t quite remember where I am, but then my gaze lands on Weston sitting on the floor beside the couch, and it all comes rushing back to me.

He’s reading something, his focus intently on the words before him. His dark hair is dry, the skin of his bare arms clean. Wearing sweats and a tank top, he looks ridiculously attractive even from where I’m lying down.

“Feeling any better?” He closes his book, sets it aside, and turns to face me.

“How did you know I was awake?”

“Your breathing changed.”

“I didn’t realize I was a mouth breather.”

He smirks. “I just have good hearing.” Kneeling beside me, he gestures toward my hip. “Can I look?”

“Go for it. It feels a bit better.”

“Good.” He lowers the blanket and checks my side. “It’ll be a nasty bruise.”

“I can live with a bruise.”

“You shouldn’t have to. You should have just stayed home.”

“We both know that it was better for me to go. You needed help.”

He doesn’t respond, just pushes off the ground and stands, unfolding to his full height. My mouth dries, my pulse kicking hard—not just from the way he looks, but from the memory of what it once felt like to belong to him. What would it feel like now? To be considered his? To be able to reach out and feel the rough scrape of his beard against my fingertips or trace the cords of his muscled arms?

Stop. We don’t exist in that space anymore. It’s over, and that’s how it has to stay.

The sudden need for distance kicks into gear, and I clear my throat. “Do you think you can help me to the bathroom? I’m pretty itchy, thanks to the dried mud.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Weston repeats as he averts his gaze and holds out a hand so I can pull myself up off the couch.

As I do, I take a deep breath and rotate my body. The pain in my side is still present, but much more manageable than it was.

He holds me firm as I stand, then remains steady in front of me when I release him long enough to wrap the blanket around my waist. “Okay. Ready.”

Weston turns back toward me, his expression serious as he wraps an arm around my waist and half-carries me down the hall. His hold is strong and steady, just like it used to be. Like nothing in the world could tear us apart.

Except it did.

Tears prick the corners of my eyes. Lord, please help me here. I’m not strong enough.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I lean into him even more, my body remembering the safety of his arms before my brain can warn me against seeking it.

Weston passes the room that used to be his bedroom, and flips the light on to his mother’s old room. Though once I follow him inside, I see that it looks nothing like it did before.

Decorated sparsely with a single king-sized bed and a dresser, both in the same mahogany stain, there are no remnants of the cross-stitching projects his mother had hanging framed on the walls, or the throw pillows she’d used to brighten up the space.

“Hang tight a moment, and I’ll get everything ready.” He helps me lean against his bed while he turns away. The bedding is navy blue, and his sheets are blue flannel. I run my hands over the softness of his comforter, soaking in the fact that the room smells just like him.

Heavy pine, leather, and a hint of salty sea air.

I can’t help myself. Inhaling deeply, I drink it in as he opens the bottom drawer of his dresser and pulls out a pair of grey sweatpants. Next, he crosses toward his closet and disappears inside for a moment before reappearing with a black t-shirt.

“They’ll be huge, but they’re dry.”