Chapter 895
He peeled the cold, sodden layers away from her skin, one by one. The rough combat fatigues, the thin undershirt.
As he worked, he could feel her tremors begin to lessen slightly, her body responding to the warmth of the fire and the removal of the icy fabric. He saw her through a lens of pure, clinical necessity.
He reached the last layer. He hesitated for only a second before speaking, his voice rough but steady.
“Caroline. I need you to help me. Can you unhook this yourself?”
Her hands moved slowly, weakly, but she managed the clasp. As the damp cloth fell away, the firelight flickered across her skin.
And he saw it.
On the inside of her thigh, a faint, dark smear.
Blood.
He froze, his eyes fixed on the sight. And in an instant, he understood.
She was on her period.
The clinical detachment shattered. It was replaced by a wave of emotion so powerful it almost buckled him. A raw, aching tenderness. A fierce, protective pain that was sharper than the cold.
She had endured the jump, the fall, the drowning, all of it. And she had been enduring this, too. This simple, mundane, human pain.
He stripped off his own soaked jacket and shirt. He used the drier inner layer of his undershirt to gently, carefully, wipe the cold water from her skin. His touch, awkward with only his left hand, was different now. It was no longer the detached motion of a soldier. It was infinitely gentle, filled with a reverence and a sorrow he had no words for.
A gentle, pervasive warmth seeped into her bones, pulling her up from a deep, cold darkness. She was aware of a steady, rhythmic beating against her ear. A heartbeat.
Caroline’s eyes fluttered open.
The first thing she saw was his face, inches from her own, illuminated by the soft, flickering light of the fire. His eyes were closed, his expression unguarded in sleep, the hard lines of the soldier softened into something younger, more vulnerable.
The second thing she realized was that they were both completely naked, their skin pressed together from shoulder to ankle. A thin, canvas-like material, the inner lining of a parachute pack, was draped over them like a blanket.
Her body was flush against his, her head tucked under his chin, his left arm wrapped securely around her, his braced right arm resting awkwardly beside them. He was a human furnace, and his body heat was the source of the warmth that had saved her.
A hot, mortifying blush spread from her chest to the roots of her hair. The memories came back in a disjointed flood. The cold. The shaking. His voice, telling her he had to get her clothes off.
He had done this to save her life.
As if sensing her wakefulness, his eyes opened. They were dark and clear in the firelight, the grey irises seeming to absorb the flames.
“Better?” he asked, his voice a low, sleepy rumble.