Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(45)

Marc had never found a woman willing to do a power exchange with him. He realized he hadn’t even come close with Melissa.

Could he ever open himself up to another woman? Everyone thought the Dom in the relationship had the power, but that was nonsense. The sub held all the power. He’d like to find a woman he could trust completely.

The master sergeant continued, breaking into his thoughts. “We wanted to show others how satisfying a Dom/sub relationship could be for the right couples. Planned to live off my pension and open our house up for weekend classes and BDSM scening.”

“I’d like to meet her someday.”

Adam looked at him, pain filling his eyes. “I lost her to cancer two years ago.”

Shit. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I didn’t know.” Maybe that explained something about why the man had been such a hard ass in those early months after Marc had joined the Marine unit. He sure didn’t seem like one once you got talking with him.

Silence fell between them. Uncomfortable, Marc blurted out, “Until I sort out my future plans, I’d be happy to help you get the club started. I’ll need a diversion.”

“I might just take you up on that.” Montague stood. “Now, get better so you can get home and start living again.”

Marc realized he hadn’t started to live in the first place until he’d joined the Navy and then been assigned to the Marines. If he was discharged, would that end? The thought of what lay ahead scared him. He’d changed since enlisting. He wanted his life to stand for something. He definitely had no plans to work at the family’s ski resort. No, he was going to make a difference in some way.

Damned straight.

But doing what?

*

Two months later, January 2005, Ramstein Air Force Base, Ramstein, Germany





“Take cover!”

Grenade. Move. Damn it, move! Damián slammed his body against his buddies, trying to push them away before the damned thing went off. The world exploded. Blood. Pain. So damned much pain. Grant and Wilson standing over him. Damián tried to get up. What had fallen on him? Dizzy. Sarge. Where was Sarge? Damián opened his eyes and saw his sergeant’s bloody brains spilled over his chest.

“Madre de Dios! No! No! No!”

Damián jolted awake from a dead sleep, his screams reverberating through his ears. Sweat trickled into his eyes. His heart pounded like a sledgehammer, igniting a responsive throbbing in his right foot. The lingering effects of his nightmare receded by slow degrees, but the pain in his foot persisted. He sat up, shoving the sheet aside, and reached down to massage away the ache.

Thin air. He stared at the bandaged stump above where his foot should be.

Fuck.

He closed his eyes and slumped back against the pillow and sheet, both of them cold and wet from his sweat. How many times would it take before he stopped reaching for something that wasn’t there? He’d left the damned thing behind in Fallujah. But the phantom continued to haunt and taunt him every time he fell asleep.

Damián stared up at the ceiling. What in the hell was he going to do when they sent him home? They’d told him he’d be taking rehab in San Diego for a few months. But what were they rehabilitating him for?

Would he ever be able to ride his Harley again? Hold down a job?

Carry Savannah to their Laguna cave?

Well, he didn’t have to worry about that one. He’d had dreams of returning home to her as a man, finding her, and convincing her she belonged with him. He wanted to take care of her, slay whatever dragons pursued her, and love her the way she should be loved….

But he wouldn’t be carrying her anywhere ever again. He wouldn’t saddle her with a cripple, even if he could find her. She deserved a whole man—nothing less to match her perfection. He tucked away the memories of their one idyllic day at the beach. Those images would have to last him the rest of his life.

He should have just fallen on the grenade and been done with it. Why hadn’t he? A hero would have done that. They’d pinned a god-damned Purple Heart on his chest a few days ago, but he’d stowed it away in his seabag. All he’d done was get wounded—and let a man die. Why did he need a f*cking reminder medal for that?

If he’d been a true hero, he’d have saved Sarge’s life. The man had a wife and three kids back home. Fuck. Just months from returning home and he’d been killed by a f*cking hand grenade. So damned senseless.

Dios, you took the wrong Marine home.

Damián heard a squeaking wheel and looked up. “Doc? What are you doing here?” The corpsman wore a hospital robe that barely fit across his shoulders. He wheeled an IV pole that kept veering away from him. Each time, he’d pull it back in line.

Damián had heard what the man had done to save him from further injury. Doc had taken the very shrapnel in his chest that might have finished the job for Damián. Another wasted opportunity. Another man became a casualty because of him.

“Just got here this morning. Took me a little longer to get out of Fallujah than you.” Damián watched as Doc’s gaze roamed over him, head to foot…and stub. His gaze stopped to linger there a little longer, then returned to Damián’s face. “Wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Can’t complain.” Not out loud, at least. “How about you?”