Free First to Burn by Anna Richland Page A

self-control. If he brushed them, even with the outside of his arm, he suspected she’d flee.
    “Over here, Sarge.” The team was having too much fun.
    “Don’t make me teach you manners tomorrow.” Although he didn’t mind being the butt of a joke—he’d pin them on a gym mat until they whimpered—Theresa had sunk lower and hunched her shoulders as the needling continued.
    “Yeah, knock it off, you puky wahines . ” Kahananui jumped to his rescue. “You’re worse than my six-year-old. I want to hear the frigging mice.”
    Immersing herself in the story despite the language barrier, Mir flipped to her stomach and slid under the low table until her head came out the other side. And when she did, the feeble obstacle her presence had provided between Theresa and him disappeared.
    He knew how to hunt. How to stalk. How to capture. He could cover the space to Theresa in one move, but it was smarter to bide his time. He shifted his hip, placed his coffee on the table and shifted again to recline. Here the carpet radiated warmth, as if she’d withdrawn only a moment before. They were close enough now that although their bare legs didn’t touch, his skin vibrated with awareness.
    When the stepsisters attacked Cinderella and shredded the mouse-made gown, Theresa tensed.
    He took the opening and slipped his hand over hers.
    Her hand turned and squeezed as, on-screen, pearls flew and the frenzied sisters continued the mugging.
    Closing his eyes, he blocked out the princess-erella so he could absorb the feel of a real woman’s fingers. His thumb traced her knuckles. Like a miracle, her thumb returned the circle on his palm. He opened his senses to her, but the syrupy blonde and squeaky rodents intruded. At least tonight Kahananui hadn’t picked Sleeping Beauty. Last week that dragon had given him a nightmare. Even after he woke, he’d had sulfur and charred horse meat in his nose and Jurik’s name caught in his throat. He’d tried to joke about his thrashing by blaming Kahananui’s socks on the end of the bunk, but it had been the fire breather. Jurik had burned while the girl ran the wrong way, ran at the beast, too fast to catch when he was hampered by chain mail.
    Theresa tugged her hand. His memories had caused him to squeeze too hard.
    When he loosened his grip, the next step came easily in the dark. He trailed her shaking fingers across his lips, a light brush as he inhaled. Chocolate cookies and coffee perfumed her palm, better than harem attar. Her scent replaced the vile smoke of his memory. The rustle of her nylon running shorts replaced the screams. Then the skin above her socks branded his knee, a brand that howled my woman touched here. His imagination soared with the movie waltz.
    Behind him someone coughed, a throat-clearing hack that sounded like his name.
    “Hah-chh-out,” someone else sneezed. Watch out , they meant.
    Touching Theresa was boneheaded for at least fifty reasons. He dropped her hand.
    As Cinderella dashed down the steps to escape being unmasked, the music’s shift to desolation mirrored his feelings. He didn’t want to leave these brother warriors, and whenever he chased a woman, discovery followed. Women never let details pass unnoticed. No matter how much he yearned to whisper her name and feel its shape on his tongue, he couldn’t. If he pursued Theresa, he’d end up alone on the side of the road like this cartoon girl. Doctors asked questions and collected data, yet he’d touched one willingly, as eager as a dog to feel her fingers ruffle his hair, as needy as that round mouse.
    No. Pushing to his feet, he staggered to the fridge. He’d found a home with the best men he’d ever fought alongside. They’d have to be enough. A few men turned at the white glow as he grabbed a bottle, but most stayed engrossed in the movie as the mice stole a key.
    The cold water froze his frontal lobe and unlocked his sanity. Real life never worked out cartoon perfect, but Wyrd offered men