His Wet Claim

Chapter 4.

Chapter 4

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of motion and heat.

Marcus dragged two old mats out to the small clearing behind the cabin. The ground was damp, pine needles sticking to everything, but the mist had lifted enough that weak sunlight filtered through the trees. He’d changed into black workout shorts and a gray tank that showed every line of muscle he usually kept hidden under layers.

I stood there in borrowed leggings and another one of his T-shirts, feeling small and out of place.

“Lesson two,” he said, dropping into a fighting stance. “Basic strikes. Palm heel, elbow, knee. You’re smaller. You hit hard and fast. Never pull back for a wind-up. That’s how you telegraph.”

I nodded. Tried to copy his stance. Legs apart, weight on the balls of my feet, hands up.

He stepped in close. “Hit me.”

I swung a clumsy palm at his chest. He caught my wrist without blinking.

“Too slow. Again. Faster.”

I tried again. Harder. He let it land this time. It barely moved him.

“Better. Now elbow. Imagine I’ve got you pinned against a wall.”

He grabbed both my shoulders, pushed me gently back until my spine touched the rough bark of a pine. His body crowded mine. Close. Too close.

My breath hitched.

“Elbow,” he reminded me, voice low.

I drove my elbow up toward his ribs. He twisted just enough to take the impact on his forearm instead.

“Good,” he said. “Again.”

We went through it over and over. Palm. Elbow. Knee to the groin. He showed me how to grab hair, how to rake eyes, how to stomp an instep. Each time he put me in a hold, each time our bodies pressed together, something inside me wound tighter.

By the time the sun climbed higher, sweat slicked my skin and my arms ached. We stopped for water. I sat on a fallen log. He stood over me, breathing steady, barely winded.

“You’re a quick learner,” he said.

“I have a good teacher.” I wiped my forehead with the hem of his shirt. It rode up, showing a strip of stomach. His eyes flicked down, then back up. Darker.

He crouched in front of me. Same way he always did. Like he needed to be eye-level when things got real.

“You scared?” he asked.

“A little.”

“Of Kane?”

“Of everything.” I looked at my hands. Small bruises already blooming on my knuckles. “Of needing you. Of wanting you. Of what happens when this is over and I go back to my life.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched me.

Then he reached out, took my hand, turned it over. His thumb brushed over the fresh marks.

“I don’t know what happens after,” he said quietly. “But I know I’m not letting anyone take you from me. Not Kane. Not fear. Not even you.”

My throat tightened. “Marcus—”

He lifted my hand to his mouth. Kissed the inside of my wrist. Soft. Slow.

“I’ve spent years telling myself you were off-limits,” he murmured against my skin. “Daniel’s little sister. Too reckless. Too bright. Too everything I’m not.”

I swallowed. “And now?”

“Now I’m done lying to myself.” He looked up. Eyes steady. “I want you, Elena. All of you. The stubborn part. The scared part. The part that fights like hell even when you’re shaking.”

I stared at him. Heart slamming against my ribs.

He stood, pulled me up with him. We were chest to chest now. His hands settled on my hips. Mine found his shoulders.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

I didn’t.

Instead I rose on my toes and kissed him.

This time it wasn’t hungry. It was deep. Slow. Like we had all the time in the world.

When we broke apart he rested his forehead against mine.

“Inside,” he said, voice rough. “Before I take you right here on the ground.”

I laughed—shaky, surprised. “Romantic.”

“I’m trying.”

We walked back to the cabin hand in hand. The door shut behind us. He locked it. Two deadbolts. Chain.

Then he turned.

I backed toward the bedroom. He followed. Slow. Deliberate.

At the doorway I stopped. Looked at him.

“You sure?” he asked one last time.

I nodded. “I’m sure.”

He crossed the room in two steps. Lifted me like I weighed nothing. Carried me to the bed.

Clothes came off slowly. His hands were careful. Reverent. When I shivered he pulled the quilt over us.

We moved together like we’d been waiting years.

Maybe we had.

Afterward we lay tangled in the sheets. His arm heavy across my waist. My head on his chest. His heartbeat steady under my ear.

Outside the wind picked up. Branches tapped the window.

Inside it was quiet.

Safe.

For the first time in weeks I didn’t feel hunted.

I felt found.

The afternoon light slanted through the cabin windows in pale gold bars. We hadn’t left the bedroom since morning. Sheets were twisted around our legs, the quilt half on the floor. My body felt heavy in the best way—like every muscle had finally remembered how to relax.

Marcus lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other wrapped around me. I traced the long scar that ran from his left collarbone down across his ribs. It was old, faded to silver, but the skin around it was still slightly raised.

“Knife?” I asked quietly.

“Shrapnel,” he said. “Afghanistan. Second tour.”

I pressed my lips to it. Soft. He didn’t move, but his chest rose on a deeper breath.

“How old were you?”

“Twenty-three.”

I lifted my head to look at him. “You were just a kid.”

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Felt older. Looked older too, probably.”

I settled my chin on his chest. “You still do.”

He ran his fingers through my hair, slow strokes from root to tip. “You don’t.”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“Still look like you could be trouble in a high-school hallway.”

I pinched his side. He grunted, caught my hand, kissed the knuckles.

“Tell me about it,” I said. “The shrapnel.”

He was quiet so long I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he spoke, voice low and even, like he was reciting something he’d practiced in front of a mirror.

“Convoy got hit outside Kandahar. IED under the road. Truck in front of us flipped. We were the second vehicle. Driver died on impact. Gunner took most of the blast. I was in the back with two others. Door blew in. Metal everywhere. Felt like someone punched me with a hot iron. Didn’t realize I was bleeding until I tried to move.”

I swallowed. “Did it hurt right away?”

“Yeah. Then it didn’t. Shock’s a hell of a drug.” He paused. “I dragged the gunner out. Got him to cover. Then I passed out. Woke up in Germany two days later with half my blood gone and a tube in my chest.”

I pressed my palm flat over the scar. “You saved him?”

“He didn’t make it.” Marcus’s voice stayed flat. “But I tried.”

I didn’t know what to say. Sorry felt too small. So I just kept my hand there, steady, like I could hold the memory for him.

After a minute he turned his head, looked at me. “Your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Scars. You’ve got one on your left hip. Small. Crescent shape. I noticed it earlier.”

I tensed. “You noticed that?”

“I notice everything about you.” Simple. Matter-of-fact.

I exhaled through my nose. “Car accident. I was nineteen. Coming home from college for Christmas. Black ice on the highway. Spun out. Hit the guardrail. The seatbelt buckle gouged me when it snapped back.”

He frowned. “You were alone?”

“Yeah. Mom and Dad were waiting at home with lights on and hot chocolate. I never made it.”

His arm tightened around me. “You could’ve died.”

“I know.” I met his eyes. “But I didn’t.”

He studied me for a long moment. Then he rolled us so I was under him, weight on his forearms, careful not to crush me.

“You scare the hell out of me, Elena.”

I touched his face. “Good. Means you care.”

“I do.” His voice was rough. “More than I should.”

I pulled him down. Kissed him slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that says things words can’t carry.

When we separated he rested his forehead against mine. “We need to talk about what happens next.”

I sighed. “I know.”

He rolled off me, pulled me against his side again. “Kane’s not going to stop. Your story hurt him. Bad. People like him don’t forgive that.”

“I have more evidence,” I said. “Back in Seattle. Hidden drive in my apartment. Bank records. Audio of him talking to the senator. Enough to put him away for life if the right people see it.”

Marcus went still. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t trust anyone enough to tell them.” I looked up at him. “Until now.”

He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them they were hard. “You’re not going back there alone.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

“But I have to go back,” I said. “The evidence is useless sitting in a drawer. Someone has to get it to the right hands. FBI. A federal prosecutor. Someone who can’t be bought.”

He nodded slowly. “We’ll go together.”

“We?”

“Yeah. We.” He said it like it was obvious. “You think I’m letting you walk into that city without me?”

I smiled despite myself. “Possessive much?”

“When it comes to you? Yeah. Very.”

I traced the line of his jaw. “What about Daniel?”

“I called him this morning while you were sleeping. He’s still in Europe—contract job. He’s pissed I didn’t tell him sooner, but he’s glad you’re safe. Told me to keep you that way or he’ll come home and break my face.”

I laughed softly. “He would try.”

“He’d fail.” Marcus’s tone was dry. “But I’d let him get one good hit. For brotherly rights.”

We lay quiet for a while. The cabin creaked around us. Wind moved through the trees outside.

“I’m scared,” I admitted. The words felt big in the small room.

“I know.”

“Are you?”