She knew her hands were icy and her stomach a roiling mass of butterflies. But why, she wondered, when my mind feels so calm? Whose body is this? How can it be mine when I have so little control over it?
She couldn’t hear his voice now. She strained to catch the sounds of his footsteps but heard only the surflike thunder of her own blood in her ears.
Then he was there, framed in the doorway. Undeniably Tristan, unbearably thin and a little stooped, though she could see he was trying not to be. He was wearing a borrowed jumpsuit. Beyond that she was certain of nothing; her vision blurred and wavered until she saw him through a shimmering fog.
Oh—she wanted to go to him, but that body of hers again refused to obey the orders her brain gave it. No matter how hard she willed them to, her legs wouldn’t move. Her feet remained firmly rooted to the floor. She wanted to say something—his name, at least—but when she drew a quivering breath in preparation for speech, nothing came out of her mouth.
“Jess…” It was no more than a breath. A whisper. A sigh.
He was coming toward her, limping. She saw that he had a cane, though he didn’t appear to be using it, and when he was within arm’s reach of her he let go of it, seeming unaware or uncaring that it toppled to the floor.
Her shoulders rose in a helpless shrug—an apology for not meeting him halfway. And the breath she’d taken—oh, hours ago, it seemed—remained trapped in her chest, prisoner of the certain knowledge that when she released it a sob would go, too.
His hands were on her shoulders, his fingers rubbing in the softness of her sweater as if he’d never felt its like before. Blurred as her vision was, his face seemed angular and unfamiliar to her, his normally bright, intelligent eyes sunken deep in shadowed sockets. She fought against panic, searching that haggard face for some sign of the Tristan she knew—that arrogant tilt to his mouth, those sun creases at the corners of his eyes? If she could see him clearly—but she dared not blink.
“My God,” he whispered, “you look just the same.”
His fingers walked across her shoulder blades, drawing her hesitantly closer, as though he feared at any second she might vanish in a puff of smoke. He said nothing more as he folded her into his arms but drew a great breath through his nose, as if filling himself up with the scent, the essence of her. As if he’d never be able to get enough of it.
He held her carefully, almost reverently, at first, then closer…harder, and buried his face in her hair. The breath she’d been holding burst from her in a sob. She no longer had to worry about her trembling; it wasn’t possible to tell where hers left off and his began.
She had no way of knowing how long they stood there like that, locked in a silent, almost desperate embrace. It occurred to her that it was like a refuge, that silence…the closeness, a safe place neither of them wanted to leave.
But they must leave it, of course, and confront what had happened to them and what lay ahead. And it came to Jessie in those moments that for the first time in their lives together, she would have to be the one to take the lead.
From the first, maybe because she’d been so young when they’d met, Tristan had been the boss in their relationship, the leader, the strong one. Even when he was away on deployments, he’d made all the important decisions, and more than a few of the small ones, too. But that had changed eight years ago, and there was no going back to the way things had been. This is who I am now, Tris. I’m not the same Jessie you left behind.
Fear shivered through her, and she stirred in his arms. They loosened instantly, though he kept her within their circle, his hands still transmitting minute tremors through the fabric of her sweater and deep into her body. That almost imperceptible shaking nearly undid her. She placed her palms on the front of his jumpsuit and tried to laugh. Then gave that up and sniffed loudly, brushing at her eyes. “Told myself I wouldn’t do this.”
Tristan had told himself the same thing. He’d been raised on the notion that real men don’t cry, although eight years in an Iraqi prison had cured him of that notion. He’d heard tougher, stronger men than himself cry like babies, and he wasn’t ashamed of the times he’d done so himself. But he wasn’t about to let himself cry in front of her. He’d learned a lot about self-control in that prison, too, and if it took every ounce he had, he wasn’t going to let Jess see him shed a tear.
He had his reasons for feeling that way, most of which he would have a hard time explaining in words. Some of it was plain old masculine pride, probably, normal guy stuff about wanting to stand tall in front of his woman, particularly when he was feeling anything but. Some of it was protective; he didn’t want Jess to ever have to try to sleep with the images that filled his nightmares. And maybe the biggest part was a combination of those two things. Partly pride, wanting to be for his woman the man he’d once been, the man she expected him to be—a strong man who believed absolutely in himself, and would never give in to weakness. Partly wanting to protect her from knowing about the man he was now—a man who, in the dark and secret places of his mind cringed and cowered in terror, a man who’d cried and screamed and suffered every imaginable kind of humiliation and degradation, and who wasn’t sure what he believed in anymore.
His thumb stroked a tear across her cheek, and his eyes followed it hungrily, as if the salty moisture were some rare and wonderful elixir that could cure everything that was wrong with him. “It’s incredible,” he said, his voice still hushed and disbelieving. “I was prepared—I told myself you wouldn’t, but you do—you look exactly the same.”
She laughed a shaky denial, while her hand fluttered self-consciously toward her face. It changed direction on the way there and touched his instead. He couldn’t control a wince—it had been too many years since he’d felt a gentle touch—and to cover it he caught her hand in his and held it there.
“You look—” she began, and he rushed to interrupt the lie.
“—like bloody hell. I know. I’m sorry, I wish—”
“You don’t.” She’d expected worse. And yet…she hadn’t really been prepared—how could she be?—for this gaunt and bony stranger. He’d always been strong and fit, all muscle and not an ounce of excess fat. Now his body felt hard and alien to her. “But you’re so thin,” she finished, with another shaky laugh.
His face formed a smile, a wry one, beneath her hand. “I guess maybe I have been missing that Georgia cooking. Get me some good ol’ Southern fried chicken, some of your momma’s biscuits and redeye gravy, and I’ll be filled out in no time.” Under her palm, the smile quivered and vanished. “You might have to be a little bit patient with me for a while, though, darlin’. They tell me I’ve picked up an intestinal bug or two, but they’re working on that. Once that’s cleared up, there’ll be no stopping me. Hey, you know, I used to dream about Colonel Sanders? And sweet corn drippin’ butter, and bacon and tomato sandwiches with those great big tomatoes—your momma still grow those in her garden?”
Grief and anger at what had been done to him overwhelmed her. Fighting it with all her might, she drew her hand from his grasp, touched his jaw and then the front of his jumpsuit. Frowning with the effort it took to force calm into her voice, she cleared her throat and carefully began, “Did they—”
“How’ve you been? How’s Sammi June?”
It was a hurried interruption, meant to keep her from asking the questions he didn’t want to answer. Wasn’t ready to answer, she realized, kicking herself, and vowed there and then not to ask again. He’d tell her when he wanted to, when he could, she told herself. If he could.
She
