Pulling up to the house, the snow on the ground, the bright winter sunlight glancing off the western side of the sprawling ranch house, Garret said gruffly, “Here’s your new home, Kira. Let’s go in.”
He tried not to be affected by her thinness. Or the dark smudges beneath her glorious gray eyes that used to sparkle like soft diamonds when she was laughing. An ache settled deep in his heart as Garret walked to the cleared concrete sidewalk sprinkled with salt pellets, and took the four steps to the back porch. Opening the door, he gestured for her to go in first. The Kira he knew had been open, vulnerable, easily touched, and accessible in the team. Now, as she moved past him like a ghost from his lost past, he saw how closed up she’d become. PTSD did that to a person. It had done it to him. Noah and Harper were the same.
Mouth compressed, Garret hungrily watched her move onto the mud porch and stomp her boots to get the snow off them. Feeling like a starved wolf, he wanted her all over again. There wasn’t a day that went by in Afghanistan when he hadn’t hungered to take her, bury himself in her hot depths and share her returning fire and need. He looked at her long, thin hands that were so graceful it made his lower body suddenly throb. How many hundreds of times had Garret dreamed of those hands roaming his body? Exploring him, learning what made him feel good. Imagining what it would feel like as she glided her fingertips across his hardened flesh.
Groaning inwardly, he went inside and closed the door. He’d never let Kira know of his personal desire for her. It would have destroyed the team in so many bad ways, so he’d stuffed it. Just as he’d buried his horror over that firefight. Out of sight, out of mind. Now, Kira was here and Garret could no longer forget any of it. Or his feelings for her.
Kira stood, hands shoved in the pockets of her parka to warm them, studying Garret. He saw sadness and grief in her expression and it kicked him in the gut. Dammit, he’d spent six months violently shoving down all his emotions since remembering that deadly ambush. There was no way he wanted to connect with any of those feelings. He tried not to remember any of his friends. Their laughter. Their personalities. Their wives . . . their children who he knew like his own family. His heart felt like it had a deep, unending ache within it and it was getting more painful by the moment. Scowling, he wanted to blame Kira for bringing up all the shit he had so desperately tried to avoid.
Garret strode past her and opened the door that led directly into the kitchen. He hated that she gave him that look of vulnerability, as if seeking his protection against something. What? Him? He knew he was growly and irritable. PTSD at work.
Kira looked down, hands jammed deep in her coat pockets, and slipped by him like a wraith. He could smell her feminine scent along with cold, clean winter air. It was like breathing life into his dead body; he couldn’t get enough of her, wanting desperately to grip her shoulder, turn her around, and yank her into his arms. That’s what she needed, Garret realized. Kira felt stripped and naked thanks to her PTSD, he would bet anything. The look in her eyes wasn’t something he’d ever seen before. Once, she’d been such a strong, confident, outgoing young woman. Full of life. Vibrant. Full of promise.
And he’d never stopped loving her.
Garret took off his Stetson and dropped it on a wooden peg next to the kitchen door. He turned, seeing that Kira had stopped near the granite island in the middle of the large, bright kitchen. She was so damned pale. In Afghanistan, she was deeply tanned, her black hair short, blue highlights dancing through those thick, silky strands.
Kira had never worn makeup of any kind in the Army. The odor of the cosmetic products would, first of all, alert the enemy they were nearby if on a mission or patrol. Hell, she didn’t need anything, her black lashes long and thick, a frame for those incredible dove-gray eyes that were truly a window into her soul, to her many emotions.
She could never hide anything from him. She cried when a newborn baby had died. She held the mother, who rocked the dead infant in her arms, crying with her. Kira was so easily touched. Now Garret could feel the wall around her. Trying to keep whatever she was feeling within those walls and keep the rest of the world out. That’s how he felt every day with PTSD. It was an endless, tiring, and wearing exercise. And he could see how worn down she had become.
His heart twinged. “Come on,” he said, softening his gruff tone, gesturing for her to follow him, “I’ll show you your bedroom.”
Walking down the oak hall, their boots echoing, Garret pushed open a door on the right, swinging it wide. He stepped aside and said, “This is yours . . .”
Kira hesitated. “Where is your room, Garret?”