We’d gallumped our way up the long, sandy strand toward my cottage, and with his wounded gait, the trip took three times longer than usual. I was relieved to find no awkward silence between us. Instead, the air filled with his grumpy complaints. It was a change of pace and more entertaining than the sign language and meaningful expressions that sufficed for conversation between Sasha and I.
“God dammit. Those fuckers threw me overboard.” Even angry and in pain, with his face pummeled to a purple hue, his gleaming skin and rippling muscle were breathtaking.
He let go of my wrist, which throbbed still from his vice-like grasp, then grabbed at the army-green blanket and yanked it down to reveal ugly bruises and cuts stamping a patchwork of wounds across his skin. I stepped back, seeking to
