Page 49 of Keeping a Warrior

“I don’t think so.”

She gave a watery snort. “Have you ever cried over a rabbit?”

“No, but I cried about a pig once.”

A long silence, then, “What?”

Rhys crossed his ankle over his knee and tried in vain to get more comfortable. “Well, part of the special ops medics course is a live-tissue lab, Devon.”

With a sigh, she said, “Do I even wanna know?”

“Probably not, but I’ll tell you anyway.” Rhys let the memories wash over him. “On our final certification exercise, we were simulating an urban battle. Lots of door kicking, shooting, injured guys and triage. It was super fast-paced, kept us all on edge and totally amped up.”

“Mass casualties! Medic! Medic!”

“When we breached one door, the smell of blood about knocked us over.” Rhys swallowed hard, then said thickly, “The blood was real, Devon, because the building was full of pigs.”

“Live pigs?” Her voice was hushed.

“Yeah. They’d been anesthetized before, um, before being—”

“I get it,” Devon said hastily. “I assume it was to mimic battlefield injuries.”

“Gunshot wounds, broken bones, arterial bleeds, blunt-force trauma, you name it. I kept my pig alive for about eight hours before I lost him. It’s controversial, and not easy to think about, but it was the best training I could’ve had for saving lives in the field, Devon.”

She paused to digest that. “So you cried when he died?”

“Like a baby,” Rhys whispered. “Like a goddamn baby.”

Devon was quiet for a long time. “Thanks, Rhys. It’s not quite the same, but I appreciate you making me feel better and not like some dumb female you shouldn’t have even brought.”

A bolt of anger shot through him. “Fuck that guy. He’s nothing but a prick.”

“I know. None of it is crap I haven’t heard before so I need to get over it.” She sighed. “Thanks for listening to my tale of woe. How’re you doing?

Before Rhys could answer, his phone went dead, and cursing, he let it fall to his chest. Dammit, he hadn’t been ready to say good-night yet, not until he was absolutely sure she was all right.

She’d sounded so sad, so defeated, and if he’d been there, he would’ve taken her in his arms.

He froze.

What?

Before he could suppress it, the thought took on shape, and crystallized. Devon, against him. Her lithe, athletic body, a tantalizing combination of softness and angles, pliancy and smoothness, pressed to his. He’d drift his fingertips down the lean muscles of her back to the swell of her ass. Her rounded cheeks were two delicious handfuls that he’d plump and squeeze, and use to pull her in closer. She’d wrap her arms around his neck and lift her face, those full lips parted for his kiss...

Jesus!

An almost overwhelming desire raced through him, thickening his cock until it ached. He pressed his palm to it and sucked in deep breaths as quietly as he could.

As his body calmed, he thought, Wow, aren’t you some sort of asshole, fantasizing about your teammate like this?

His brave, amazing teammate. His brave, amazing—not to mention beautiful—teammate.

Okay, it made sense. But it wouldn’t happen again.

“Fire in the hole!”

The mercenaries were making their last stand, about to be driven out of the country by the resistance. The oppressive regime had fallen to the local guerrillas, who’d been trained and augmented by U.S. Special Forces.