Page 94 of Welker

“Moira,” Welker called out, running the rest of the way toward the small group.

His woman turned the biggest, brightest smile in his direction, and he couldn’t help the sappy look he sent back. Once he was close enough, Boone, gently and without argument, transferred Moira into Welker’s arms.

He wanted to kiss the hell out of her, but…

“What’s that bruise on your jaw?” he growled instead.

“A little gift from Mick,” Moira chuckled. “But don’t worry. I broke his nose, so we’re even.”

He was somewhat assuaged.

“And the blood?” he continued, reaching out gently with his thumb to wipe it away.

“Mick’s.”

Welker quickly rubbed his offended digit on his pants.

“He dripped on me while we were, uh, engaged.”

Which meant, even in her less-than-optimal state, she’d battled the cretin.

Welker was pissed, but also damned proud. Still, he wasn’t going to let Moira take any more risks. At least until she was given the all clear by her surgeon. He was overprotective, but not stupid. If he tried to keep her down after that, he might find himself missing a few vital organs.

“My warrior,” he finally said, unable to keep from bending and nuzzling the top of her head.

Moira pouted. “Seriously? I was hoping for a kiss.”

“I’ll give you so many once you’re unbruised, that you’ll?—”

Moira reached up, grabbed two handfuls of his hair, and yanked him down, slamming her lips onto his.

Welker groaned…or was that Moira?

He dragged his lips up. “I don’t want to hurt?—”

She pulled the move for a second time, and Welker gave up. He was so starved for her, there was no way he was going to fight her pull, again.

He didn’t know how long they kissed, but a throat clearing behind him had him dazedly raising his head.

“Hey, Welk, you want me to check her out?” Alvero smirked. “Or have you got it all handled.” He gazed pointedly at Welker’s hand that had slid to cup…ah, crap, Moira’s fine ass, and the man chuckled.

“Funny, Alvi.” Welk looked right behind the team medic and saw Mason, also trying to battle a grin.

Welker regrouped, ignoring the pair and with Moira still in his arms—sans the ass-cupping—he walked toward Mason’s SUV—tailgate open—where he could lay Moira down. “You coming or not?” he called over his shoulder to the smirking pair.

Moira giggled. “That’s my man,” she said. “Give ‘em hell.”

Welker felt his chest swell.

“If I have my way, I’ll always be your man,” he answered. “Now be good for a few minutes and let Alvi look you over.”

Moira rolled her eyes, but nodded. “I need to get this vest off, anyway,” she told him. “Mason needs to hear what I recorded.”

“Hayden filled me in that you got Mick to talk. Great job.”

Moira smiled, and like the blooming of a flower, it was sweet and resplendent. Welker wanted nothing more than to draw the pretty picture in, but duty called.

Gently, he set her on the tailgate, and could immediately see by her tentative landing that she was in some pain, but her face wasn’t devoid of color like the first time she’d been injured, and as far as Welk could ascertain, Moira was breathing properly, but her vest might be masking some of her symptoms, so…

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