At Your Command. Julie Miller

It had involved the bed and some champagne and using each other as wineglasses before rolling her onto her back and burying himself inside her. By the time he’d carried her out of the shower and they’d done it for a third time, Zachariah had been well and truly exhausted. Time zone changes and sleepless nights and mind-numbing sex had all caught up with him and he’d crashed. The bed was clean and comfy; Becky was warm by his side. His physical needs were sated enough for the time being that he could fall into a deep, long slumber.

      Maybe that heavy, restorative sleep was what made him so groggy now as he tried to rouse himself enough to understand Becky’s urgent whispers. She must be on her cell phone, pacing, judging by the ebb and flow of volume. Talking softly, but not talking to him—unless his sleep-addled brain was translating her words into things that didn’t make sense. “Is she okay?”

      Was who okay? The king-size mattress shifted as she sank down onto the opposite edge. Becky was all right, wasn’t she? Even though he’d been rougher than he’d intended that first time, she hadn’t complained last night.

      In fact, the only one he knew definitely wasn’t okay was Lance Corporal Watson. And a half-dozen rebel insurgents with murder on their minds.

      Watson.

      Shit.

      Dreams of a busty blonde in his bed vanished in a poof of harsh reality as the familiar nightmare crept out of a dark corner of his mind and seized control of his thoughts. Zachariah twisted on the bed, but he wasn’t conscious enough to scare it away.

       “Where the hell…? Watson! Fall back! Fall back!”

       “I can reach it, sir!”

       “Negative! We regroup now!”

       “Just one more second.”

       “Get your ass out of there, Marine! It’s gonna blow!”

       “I almost—”

       “Watson!”

      All at once, Zachariah was gritty and greasy, slick with sweat. His nostrils burned from the fiery heat raining down around him. His gut and shoulder burned even hotter. The rebels were neutralized, civilian casualties, zero. A successful mission by top-brass standards.

       Gutsy kid. A real Marine. A real hero.

      Stunned from his own wounds, Zachariah dragged his feet, carrying what was left of Darrell Watson’s body back to the checkpoint.

      It should have been him. Not this green kid with the stupid jokes and a picture of his mom in his pocket. It was his bomb to disarm, damn it! His responsibility! Watson shouldn’t have taken the risk. If only the kid would have waited five seconds as he’d ordered. Five seconds! He shouldn’t have been there. Zachariah should have wrestled the corporal’s skinny butt to the ground and blown the charge himself before the timer ticked down on them. Watson shouldn’t be dead. Zachariah should have kept the kid safe.

      Ah, hell. He couldn’t get away from the fire and the guilt. He couldn’t escape. Ah, hell.

      “Zachariah?”

      A distant voice blipped through his imagination as Zachariah fought with the haunting shadows. Sequestered together like this, nothing should be able to get to him or Becky. Al-Bazan was thousands of miles away, yet it had somehow invaded this very room.

      Darrell Watson was dead. He should have kept him safe.

      But all he’d been able to do was stand guard over a closed casket and watch Darrell’s mother cry.

      “Zachariah. Can you hear me?”

      He felt a warm touch at his face, another pressed against his heart.

      “Zachariah. Wake up.”

      Clinging to the lifeline of that commanding voice, Zachariah struggled to obey. His subconscious mind sorted reality from nightmare, and he woke with a start.

      With every muscle locked on guard against the terrors of that night, Zachariah opened his eyes to find Becky’s face hovering above him. Her rich, cobalt eyes were lined with concern. She’d climbed onto the middle of the bed to shake him out of that dark place where he’d gone.

      “Are you okay?” Those unblinking eyes were daring him to deny the truth.

      Zachariah sat up straight and sucked in a deep breath that nudged his shoulder against her. She quickly jerked away as if the contact had singed her. What the hell?

      He must have said something in his sleep, done something that alarmed her—hell, he could have scared the crap out of her for all he knew.

      “I was having a bad dream,” he admitted, keeping any details about post-traumatic stress to himself. He kept silent about his survivor’s guilt, and his overdeveloped sense of responsibility, which the unit psychologist had discussed with him at his hospital discharge meeting. Hell