Free In the Crossfire (Bloodhaven) by Lynn Graeme Page A

and the uniform held special authorized snaps that came apart and joined together before and after shifts. Her uniform jacket was missing, but the fitted tank she wore showed off the richness of her honey-brown skin. Not to mention it also clung to the soft, full swells of her chest.
    Liam stared, trying not to imagine pulling her tank down to expose more of those perfect round breasts. Tried not to imagine the color of her nipples, or tasting the salt of them when slick with the sweat of passion.
    Get it together, Whelan.
    It was all he needed, to get caught staring at her breasts with a visible hard-on tenting his jeans. He shifted his stance, skin itching ferociously.
    He didn’t want her to see him like this. Yes, she’d seen the scars on his face and around his wrists. She’d never mentioned them. But this was different. He had no armor now, lacked the protection of even a simple cotton shirt.
    He was used to covering himself up in the presence of others. It was a lesson he’d had no choice but to learn, after he kept receiving stares and shudders and speculation about the state of his body whenever he’d removed his clothes.
    At first, it’d been because he’d been gaunt with his ribs sticking out. Being a prisoner of war did that to you, chiseled away at your muscle mass and anything else needed for the sake of survival. The recovery period had been treacherously slow.
    But even after he’d regained weight, the morbid curiosity had remained. Questions persisted unabashedly about his captivity, hounding him incessantly. They invariably wanted to know what he’d gone through, what the whole experience was like. They wanted all the juicy details.
    What do you think it was like? It was bloody fucking war.
    He had no magnificent stories of heroism to tell. None that he wanted to share.
    And then when he’d hit the road and his sheer ferocity was enough to keep random strangers at bay, he heard their unspoken questions anyway.
    What did they do to you?
    How did you get that?
    Can’t you do something about it?
    Can you get rid of this one?
    Why do you keep them at all?
    He’d have to go in for cosmetic surgery in order to remedy the thick and angry scar tissues, and Liam had sworn never to go under the knife—any knife—again.
    He felt exposed as Isobel neared. He’d never let himself go shirtless in her presence before. Wouldn’t permit himself. Hadn’t wanted her to remember him that way.
    It was so easy, Liam thought, to look at Isobel and forget to breathe.
    The first time he’d come face-to-face with her, his pulse had kicked into high gear. When he’d stepped forward to introduce himself, it wasn’t enough that he’d had to bring his hoarse, long-unused vocal cords under control. He’d had to mentally brace himself for the full impact of her.
    Sometimes looking at Isobel was like looking at the sun: stare too long and he’d begin to hurt.
    He could’ve kept on moving.
    Could have.
    But the dreams, though still vicious, didn’t invade as often while he was here. Here, he could finally tread water, instead of be consumed by the never-ending drowning sensation that had been sucking him under for the past several years.
    Maybe when the drowning sensation returned, he’d pack his bag and go.
    Maybe.
    Isobel raised a hand in greeting as she walked up to the clearing. A freshly laundered scent followed her, and Liam saw that she carried the T-shirt and boxers he’d lent Naley yesterday.
    “I came to return your clothes.” Her full lips twisted wryly.
    Liam had no choice but to step out in the morning light to retrieve them. Of course, it wasn’t as if her sharp eyes could’ve failed to take in every inch of him from a distance anyway. He didn’t meet her gaze as he took the clothes from her. He waited for her to leave.
    She didn’t move.
    Liam forced himself to lift his head. He looked up to see Isobel staring at his bare chest.
    Shame coursed through him. It was quickly followed by the red-hot