Page 19 of Guarded from Sabotage

“Of course not.” Reaching over, I pat the back of her hand gently. “I’d be happy to.”

But I’m feeling significantly less happy as I assess her wounds, inwardly wincing at the layers of torn flesh and bits of gravel embedded in her hands. She’s sitting on my couch—I offered the choice of going to our medical clinic or coming back to my apartment, and to my surprise, Sarah chose the latter. “Is that okay?” she asked. “I just… I think I’d feel more comfortable there.”

Of course it’s okay. And I’m glad she trusts me enough to come to my apartment and let me treat her here. Plus, there are more distractions at my place—all the decorations my mom sent, photos of my family and all my buddies from the Army, historical artifacts my dad and I used to scour upstate New York collecting—so hopefully it’ll take Sarah’s mind off the pain as I treat her wounds.

As I carefully remove the bits of stone from her palms, Sarah looks around the living room, her jaw set tight and her expression carefully neutral. But I can see the tiny flinches she’s trying to hide, so I tell her, “I’m sorry. I know it hurts. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“I know.” Her gaze meets mine. “It’s not your fault. And it could have been a lot worse.”

True. It could have been. I could have received a call from Sarah at the hospital. She could have been badly beaten. Violated. Shot. Left bleeding in the parking lot for who knows how long before someone finally found her. She could have been?—

Shit. Don’t think about that. Not now.

I apply some antibiotic lotion and start wrapping gauze around her hand. “Still, I don’t like hurting you more than you’ve already been.”

Sarah offers me a small smile. “You’re not. And you’re very good at this. You said you were the medic for your team?”

Moving on to her other hand, I reply, “Yes. I was.”

“What made you decide to be a medic? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, of course not. When I was in college, I was ROTC at Stony Brook, and I thought I’d go to medical school. Work as a military doctor. But then I met a couple of guys from a Green Beret team, and I was really intrigued by what they did. Special reconnaissance, peace-keeping missions, training foreign allies—and they worked in these close-knit teams that I really admired.”

“So you decided to train to be a Green Beret?”

Chuckling, I reply, “Well, it wasn’t that simple. First, I talked to one of the Green Berets I’d met—his name’s TJ, and he actually lives in San Antonio now, working for the highway patrol—about what the job really entailed. How much I’d be traveling overseas. What kinds of missions I’d go on. And I could be a medic and still help people that way…” I shrug. “It seemed like a good fit.”

As I move on to Sarah’s knees, she stays focused on my face. “It’s a lot of training, isn’t it? Hanna told me a little about what Finn went through. It sounds really difficult.”

My fingers graze across her leg, and my concentration wavers for a second. Sitting the way she is, her skirt hits at mid-thigh, revealing an expanse of golden skin.

No.Donotlook at Sarah’s legs. Pay attention to the scrapes on her knees and that’s it.

“Yeah, it was hard. It took over a year from start to finish. There was a preparation course, assessment and selection, theSpecial Forces qualification course, and advanced training, like I had to do to become a medic.”

“That’s really incredible,” Sarah says; admiration tinging her voice. “I thought getting my masters was hard, but considering what you went through, it was nothing. And then all the years you spent serving our country, putting yourself in danger…”

My ears warm. “I was just doing my job.”

“No.” She touches my arm, setting off tiny zips of electricity. “What you did, Dante? It was more than a job. You risked your life for people you didn’t even know. You risked your life for our country. I’m in awe of what you did.” A beat passes. “What you’re still doing. Dedicating your life to helping others.”

An unexpected pressure swells in my chest. It’s not that I haven’t gotten compliments before—my parents and sisters always would say how proud they were—but coming from Sarah, it feels different.

Her admiration strikes a chord in me. Iwantto make her proud.

As I smooth a bandage onto her knee, I say, “You spend your life helping people, too. What you do is really important.”

“It’s important,” she agrees, “but I’m not sure it compares to dangerous missions overseas. Most of the time I’m just sitting in my office, meeting with clients or going over paperwork.”

I grit my teeth against the growl that wants to come out as I remove a piece of gravel embedded deep in her left knee. No, it’s not a serious injury, and it’ll heal up in a week or two, but seeing Sarah hurt…

Swallowing back the anger, I say, “But you’ve saved lives. You told me about helping domestic violence victims, people dealing with drug addiction… That’s so important, Sarah.”

“Yeah.” Her lips curve slightly. “It is. And in my current job; I work with kids. So I’m helping to make sure they’re in safe livingenvironments, that they’re getting the services they need, that they have positive role models in their lives…”

“It's amazing. And just as meaningful as what I did.”

Sarah’s smile gets bigger. Softly, she says, “Thank you, Dante.”

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