Garnet (Gems of Wolfe Island)

“How indeed,” she says. “How are you hard as a rock for me? How are you hard as a rock for a woman who was shrieking an hour ago, scared for dear life?”

She’s right. There’s no explanation for either of us. It makes absolutely zero sense.

“Please,” she says again. “It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean anything. All I know is… I want this. I want you. I’m not talking about forever. I don’t think I’ll ever want forever with anyone. But right now, I want you. I want your body touching mine. Kissing mine. I know I’m a mess. I know I’m ugly.”

“Ugly? My God. You’re beautiful, Aspen.”

“How can you say that? You’ve seen me. What they did to me.”

“Easy.” I sit up, turn on the light, and remove my T-shirt. “Look at me, Aspen. Take a moment, and just look at me.”

12

ASPEN

He’s beautiful. Muscular and beautiful and…his torso is full of scars. Perhaps even more scars than mine.

I reach forward, trace my fingers over each one. He’s been cut. Multiple times. Shot.

“Turn around,” I say.

“Why?”

“I want to see your back. You’ve seen mine.”

He shudders a moment, I don’t think he’s going to grant my request when—

He turns.

What I see is both beautiful and horrible.

His back is also covered in scars. From whips, from knives.

It’s also covered in tattoos.

Six individual images, and centered in the middle is a golden eagle clutching something. An anchor, maybe? And something that looks like a pitchfork. I cock my head. There’s something familiar about it, but I can’t quite remember…

Flames flare from the image, and the six designs around it are all about two inches in diameter.

My gaze drops to one in particular.

A buck.

A strong deer with branched antlers.

Buck.

I touch the buck, trace it with my fingers.

Then I trace the other images.

An eagle.

A phoenix rising from the ashes.

An ace of spades.

A ghost.

And a gorgeous gray wolf.

Something’s different about four of them. The eagle, the ace, the ghost, and the wolf all have black halos over them.

I trail my fingers over each one again, and then over the scars that slash over and around and through them. He squirms against my caresses and clears his throat. “Sorry. It’s just… You know…”

“I do,” I say softly. “Tell me. Tell me what these all mean.”

“The buck. He’s me.”

I kiss the buck tattoo on his back. “And the others?”

“The design in the middle is the Budweiser.”

“You mean like the beer?”

“That’s just a nickname because the acronym for some of the training we do is BUDS. I have it on my forearm as well.” He shows me. “It’s the Special Warfare Insignia or it’s sometimes called the SEAL trident.”

“A trident. That’s what that thing is. All I could think of was a pitchfork.”

“A Navy anchor, a trident, and a flintlock-style pistol. We wear it when we complete all our training and are designated Navy SEALS.”

“It’s beautiful. Why the flames?”

He doesn’t reply. Maybe there is no reason. Maybe there is, and he can’t talk about it. Doesn’t matter. I move to the ghost and trace it with my fingers.

“And the others? The other images?”

“My teammates. On my last tour, the Delta team. The phoenix is my friend who lived.”

“And the others?” My throat catches.

“They didn’t come back.”

“The halos…” I trace the black ellipse over the wolf’s head.

“Yes.”

“My God,” I say breathlessly. “I’m so sorry, Buck.”

He turns then. Cups my cheek. “You don’t have to be sorry. You’ve been through just as much if not more.”

“But that doesn’t negate everything you’ve been through. And your friends… I’m so very sorry.”

“Aspen…”

I bring my head to his shoulder. “I didn’t lose anyone. They weren’t allowed to kill us. They could abuse us and torture us. Violate us in any way they wanted, but they couldn’t kill us. They couldn’t maim us. You didn’t have that.”

“No, I didn’t. What I did have was a choice. I made the choice to join the Navy, to become a SEAL. I made the choice to serve my country.”

“I know, but—”

“I made that choice, Aspen. You didn’t make the choice. You didn’t make the choice to go through what you went through.”

He’s right, of course. But it doesn’t matter. Not in the end. We’ve both been through so much.

“Still… I’m sorry.”

He pushes my head off his shoulder and meets my gaze. “I don’t want you to be sorry.”

“But I—”

“No. I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want any of that. It only makes me feel worse.”

“But why would it—”

“It just does.” He touches my lips with his finger, igniting a tingle in me. “I don’t know how to explain it any better than that. It just does.”

I nod then. In a way, I get it. I don’t particularly want sympathy or pity either. It makes me feel weaker.

It probably makes him feel weak as well.