Semper Mine (Sons of War #1)(15)

Like I care. I tend to act then think about whether or not I should have.

I take a pen and flip the paper over. “Maybe you should start with your own background. You’re an orphan. You know what it feels like.” Hearing my words, I look up. “Sorry. I don’t mean …” My face flashes hot.

“I understood,” he says with the half smile. Resting his elbows on the table beside me, he’s too close again. I’m starting to like his scent more and more, the combination of pure male and coconuts.

Heady and sweet. It makes me hungry for chocolate dipped macaroons.

“Maybe you can talk about that a little and the guy who inspired you to join the Marines. I mean, these kids all understand military stuff.” I make a few notes on the paper. “They probably need a bit more of warm and fuzzy.”

“Because I’m the warm-fuzzy type.”

I roll my eyes. “You can connect with normal people without going all gooey.”

He chuckles.

“And without ordering them around,” I add.

“It bothers you.”

I glare at him. “Really? You’re just now figuring that out?”

He doesn’t answer, but there’s amusement in his dark gaze that makes me think he’s messing with me this time. I’m not sure what to think about him teasing me.

I finish making notes then hand it to him.

“Thanks,” he says, reading it.

Whatever. “It’s fine if you toss it.”

“Why would I?”

“People don’t like listening to me.”

“Because your delivery sucks. Not because you don’t have something worth listening to. If you stopped nagging and yelling, you might find people listen better.”

My mouth drops open.

His attention is on the paper.

“You are such an ass,” I manage, unable to come up with a better line.

“I’m an honest ass.”

I lean back, too angry to respond. I’m not sure how else to show I care for Petr and help others, other than to nag. It’s the only thing that works on people like my brothers and father. Crossing my arms, I turn my gaze to the ceiling.

Captain Mathis scribbles a few more notes into the outline I created for him. I’m sorta surprised he’s considering it. He seems too … rigid to be open to change.

When he’s finished, he replaces it in his pocket. We return to the weird quiet and thick tension, simply staring at each other.

I really hope the rest of today passes faster. I’m pretty sure these team-building exercises are going to kill me.





Chapter Seven: Sawyer


My first day at the camp probably couldn’t be stranger. At least it’s quick. After our exercises, the kids start to arrive. There’s a big dinner with the families, and then my speech. By the time the evening reception is over, it’s lights out for the kids.

I’m almost grateful when Katya goes to bed early, too, leaving me with the guys for a couple hours of poker and talking. I don’t have to admit to her that she was right about the speech. Maybe she’s right about me being too detached. I never thought of it that way, but there is a great deal of distance between me and pretty much everyone else.

I guess it’s my comfort zone. I never really thought of it as an issue before she pointed out that I’m always alone. Is that really so bad, given my line of work? I’ll never be able to forgive myself for the four guys I lost a few months back. If my guard was lower, how could I live with myself, if it happened again?

Like every other conversation with her, Katya somehow manages to make my head spin in a direction I’m not used to. I spend an hour with the guys before heading back to the barracks. Being with them leaves me relaxed, the opposite of Katya’s effect on me. Being around her leaves me oddly energized yet also unusually drained, as if our mental grappling is taxing our bodies as well.

Stepping out of the warm night into the barracks, I’m pleased to see that the kids are out cold, and so is she. Silently, I prepare for bed, irked to discover her lotion on top of my dresser when she’s got space on hers. Her shoes are in the middle of the floor, her suitcase open at the foot of her bed. She’s taken over the bathroom, too. Everything I need is confined to one small bathroom bag.

Katya’s shit spills over the tiny sink area, and there are fluffy pink towels hanging beside my military issued olive, sandpapery one. The bathtub is littered with no less than five bottles and one of those pink scrubby-loofa things.

One week, I remind myself. Seeing the disaster that is our room makes me itchy. Clean, neat and orderly – it’s how I like to live. Battle is messy, a place where adapting is a matter of survival. Here, at home or wherever I’m sleeping at night, I can control my immediate surroundings, even if that’s nothing more than keeping my weapon at my side or a canteen by my head.

“Civilians.” I survey the bathroom again then decide that no, I really can’t live like this.

Within five minutes, I’ve got her shit straightened or put away, the towels folded correctly, and the bottles in the shower corralled in the basket hanging over the showerhead. When it’s neat once more, I automatically relax. I can pretend the rest of the room isn’t an issue in the dark.

I go to bed mostly satisfied but also too aware of the woman sleeping six feet from me in her fluffy comforter. She’s the kind of complicated I don’t need in life. I’m not sure I want to know more about her, though I’m not sure I’ll have the choice after a week with her.