Grace lifted the bar of soap to her nose. It smelled like him. Clean, a nice smell—not harsh or astringent. She turned her back to him and rubbed soap over her clothes. It lathered nicely in the warm water. She kept looking over her shoulder. He was concentrating on an oil stain on his shirt, then dunked down again. When Daniel stood up, he peeled off his shirt, rinsed it thoroughly, and threw it over a rock.
Grace nearly dropped the soap.
Scars, large and small, crossed his torso. She'd seen bullet scars before. There were two right next to each other under his left arm. She was so focused on the terrible scars that she barely noticed the black, abstract, curvilinear tattoos on his chest and shoulders. They were fierce, with what looked like stylized talons interwoven with curving, conc
