Navy Seal Rescue. Susan Cliff

emotion as water flowed over him. During the darkest hours of his captivity, he hadn’t believed he would ever see the light of day again. He thought he’d become a pile of bones in that dusty tomb. Now he was standing in an outdoor shower, his shoulders warmed by the sun.

      He bent forward and let the water cascade down his neck, humbled by the experience. He washed his matted hair and battered body, which still felt strong enough to fight. He was alive. He wasn’t sure he deserved to be, after what he’d done. But here he was.

      He’d survived, against all odds. He’d endured weeks of near starvation. He’d been tortured and beaten and treated like an animal.

      Now he was free, and determined to stay that way.

       Chapter 4

      Layah drummed her fingertips against her forearms as she waited for Hudson to return from his shower.

      Her captive continued to surprise her. She’d expected more resistance. Navy SEALs were elite soldiers, but they were still soldiers. They followed orders from the higher ranks. She’d been prepared for him to cite United Nations regulations and demand transport to a US air base. Hudson hadn’t done any of those things. He hadn’t even turned her down.

      She didn’t trust him to cooperate, no matter what he said. He might be waiting for his wounds to heal before he attempted an escape. But if he left, he wouldn’t get far. This village was sparsely populated, and the Yazidi guarded their land with rifles. They were more likely to shoot him than help him flee.

      Hudson seemed to be playing along with her for now. Maybe he wanted money in exchange for his services. Maybe he wanted something else. He looked at her with desire in his eyes, the way men often did.

      His interest wasn’t unusual, but her reaction to it was. Her pulse raced in his presence. She felt nervous and short of breath, like a schoolgirl with a crush. She wasn’t sure how to catalog her response. She hadn’t been drawn to a man since Khalil. Her physical needs had been buried with her husband, along with her broken heart.

      Layah didn’t believe Hudson had resurrected her feminine longing. She was excited by the situation, not his searing gaze and hard-muscled body. He’d killed a guard yesterday. She’d rescued him from certain death. She wanted him to like her, and she had to keep him close. It was only natural to feel nervous around him. She’d been numb for so long that she’d mistaken an adrenaline rush for attraction.

      Yes. That was it. Adrenaline.

      She had to stay focused on her plan. Hudson was a means to an end, nothing more. She couldn’t afford to get distracted.

      He emerged from the outdoor shower in the clothes Ashur had given him. The items were borrowed from one of her male cousins, and they fit well enough. Hudson was tall and broad-shouldered, rangy like Khalil had been. About the same age. Her husband would have turned thirty this year, had he lived. Her chest tightened at the thought.

      There was a large open sink next to the shower hut for washing hands, dishes and everything else. Ashur provided Hudson with a new toothbrush, still in the wrapper. Toiletries were prized items in this remote area, but she’d splurged on a few luxuries for her captive. He’d been beaten and tortured by the Da’esh. Under her care, he’d be treated well.

      When he was finished, Ashur escorted him back to his room. She gathered her maps and notebook, along with her medical bag, before venturing that direction. Ashur was carrying an empty tray down the hall.

      “He eats like a pig,” Ashur said in Assyrian. “It will cost a fortune just to feed him.”

      “He’s worth it.”

      “That’s what you said about those thieving Turks.”

      She shooed him away in annoyance. Ashur thought he knew everything, and was quite happy to argue with her about any choice she made. From the start he’d insisted that they didn’t need a guide, especially a foreigner.

      She paused in the doorway. Hudson sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. His trousers molded to his long legs and the polo shirt stretched tight across his shoulders. She found no fault with his appearance. He looked good. His hair was a honey-brown shade, like his eyes, and his skin had the same warm tone.

      He was handsome. Striking, even.

      She entered the room and placed her things on the table. “How do you feel?” she asked, aiming for a polite, professional tone.

      “Almost human.”

      “Any pain from your suture site?”

      “Not really.”

      “Can I take a look?”

      He twisted at the waist to give her access. She sat down beside him and lifted the hem of his shirt halfway up his back. The bandage was still clean and intact, so she left it alone. The bruises on his side had darkened to an angry purple in some places. When she touched him there, he sucked in a ragged breath.

      “Does it hurt?”

      “No.”

      She palpated his ribs gently. “Were you kicked?”

      His expression was flat. “I can’t remember.”

      She didn’t believe him. Perhaps he’d learned to give no information, even when pushed to the limit. She was barely pressing him. She didn’t feel any broken ribs, just warm flesh over hard muscles. She tugged his shirt down, trying not to imagine the horrors he’d endured. “I have painkillers.”

      “I don’t need them.”

      Her gaze rose to his. He’d shifted toward her when she finished her exam. Now they were side by side, and too close for comfort. She could smell the soap he’d used, which conjured an erotic image of water flowing down his naked body.

      She suppressed the urge to inhale deeper. “Do you need...anything else?”

      His eyes darkened at the question, dropping to her lips. It wasn’t difficult to guess what he was thinking. She’d been a wife for long enough to know what men liked. What they craved, what comforted them.

      “I wouldn’t mind a haircut,” he said.

      “What?”

      He let out a choked laugh and lifted a hand to his head. He made scissors with his fingers. “A haircut, you know. Snip snip?”

      “Oh. Yes. I will get Ashur.”

      “No, not him.”

      “No?”

      “I don’t want him near me with sharp objects.”

      Her stomach fluttered with unease. “What has he done?”

      “Nothing much. He’s okay. I just prefer you.”

      “I apologize for Ashur. He is a difficult boy.”

      “Is he your son?”

      She rose to her feet abruptly. Anguish speared through her. “He is my brother’s son.”

      Hudson gave her an assessing look, but didn’t ask more questions.

      She busied herself by searching through her medical bag for a pair of utility scissors. “I will cut your hair.” She gestured to the only chair in the room, a simple wooden stool by the table. “Come sit.”

      He sat down and stared out the window. A villager was leading his herd down the rocky hillside in the distance. She liked the deserts and the valleys of her homeland, but there was something tranquil about this mountain backdrop. She turned her attention to Hudson’s hair. “How short?”

      “I don’t care.”

      She did her best to cut sparingly, in even amounts. There were matted tangles and singed ends, as if he’d been burned. She tried to remove the damage without