Epilogue

"Warm up on the treadmill before we get started."

Rhett is dressed in black athletic shorts and a black T-shirt that says, ‘ This is BS! Bitches With Stitches ,' in a circle around a ball of yarn. Straight from the BALLS gift shop. We have trained nonstop for this day.

I'm so fucking proud of you.

Rhett has been relentless in his pursuit of recovery. Swimming, running laps around the lake, hitting the gym almost daily. I'm sure he's worked out a lot of his grief on these machines.

The shorts show off his scars, which have now faded to a dull pink. He's a warrior, he's fucking badass, and he's mine.

As he loosens up, the Bitches crowd in. Their loud voices can be heard from down the hall, joking and bickering.

"Yo, Rhett. You gonna kick ass today?" McCormick asks.

"Maybe he'll kick yours," Jax snickers.

"Everyone wants to touch my ass," McCormick grins.

"I'm good, thanks," Brandt insists, shaking his head.

McCormick shoves him playfully. "Your loss."

I bring the peanut gallery to a close with five words. "Let's go, Rhett. It's time."

Rhett hops off the treadmill and joins me at the parallel bars. He cracks his knuckles, twisting his neck from side-to-side to work out the kinks.

"Listen up!" I say to the crowd. It's not just the Bitches, but Margaret Anne, Brewer, and some of the other vets who regularly work out with Rhett. "This isn't just any Warrior's Walk, this is THE Warrior's Walk. This soldier is a fighter. I met him a little over a year ago, on the battlefield. It was one of the worst days of his life." Aside from losing his mother, and the day they evicted him from Bragg. "And he braved it like a warrior. I almost lost him that day, but there was something special about him. I saw it immediately." I looked into his eyes and fell hard for him. " And I vowed to do anything necessary to make sure he pulled through."

Rhett has this dopey grin on his face that makes his dimples pop and I just want to kiss it off his lips.

"Weeks later, I showed up in his hospital room in Womack and told him he had two choices. He could either do nothing, stay where he was, and rot, or he could get off his ass, move here, and let BALLS put him back on the road to recovery." I grin at him and wink. "I'm glad he made the right choice."

The guys cheer and clap. "My BALLS saved me," Nash laughs. "Can we put that on a shirt, Margaret Anne?"

Shaking my head, I grin and tell him, "Rhett, show us what you've got."

He waits for the whistle before bracing his weight on his arms and using his hands to walk the length of the bars without letting his feet touch the ground. His upper body strength has improved greatly during his training and he traverses the ten feet fairly easily, but slightly winded.

"Next up, the mile. Can you beat your best time of 9.4 minutes?" He once told me his fastest time before his injury was 6.3 minutes, and it was 17.8 when we started training this spring. He's come a long way.

Rhett looks determined. "I'm gonna smoke that time." He winks at me and hops on the treadmill.

He starts off quick almost as if he's sprinting, trying to cover as much distance as he can in a short amount of time. His breathing is labored and besides the slapping of his sneakers hitting the treadmill, it's the only sound in the room.

"8.7," I call out, letting him know it's all or nothing if he wants to beat his time.

Rhett screams a primal cry and pumps his arms, gaining speed as he runs balls-to-the-wall. He slaps the stop button on the machine when it beeps, alerting him that he completed the mile.

I click my stopwatch. "9.2 minutes!"

The crowd goes wild, shouting and clapping. Rhett glows with positivity. God, he's gorgeous. I'm so going to fuck him tonight. Even if he's worn out, I just need him to lie there. I'll gladly do all the work.

"Next up, suicide lunges."

The guys groan, but Rhett rallies. "Nah, I've got this."

He starts at one wall and gets into position, widening his stance. When I blow my whistle, he takes off, falling into a deep lunge with each step.

"My legs are fuckin' burnin' like hellfire," he calls out when he's halfway across the gym. He's crossing the shorter side, not the longer length of the room.

"You got this, soldier. Make me proud." Watching him struggle past the limits of his endurance makes my heart clench tight. This is what I gave it all up for, and Rhett makes it so worthwhile. All my patients do. This is where I belong, helping to heal the aftermath of war after these vets sacrificed everything, and then some. I don't belong on the battlefield, feeding the cycle of war. I belong here in the gym, with these brave wounded warriors. This is my true calling.

Rhett glances back, shooting me a tired grin. "If it doesn't hurt, you're not doing it right," he shouts, gritting his teeth.

Hearing him repeat my motivational sayings is just making me hard. This is not the best time to get turned on.

He's nearly to the wall when he falters, his knee buckling, but Rhett catches himself and straightens. "Fuck!" He hisses through the burn of his muscles and pushes on. When he reaches the wall, he lunges forward in a rush and smacks it hard. "Shit, yeah!"

I can't help myself. I hug him hard, crushing his sweaty body in my arms. "I'm so fucking proud of you." He doesn't care who's watching, Rhett smacks a quick hard kiss on my lips. "Last test of endurance is the pool," I call out.

We cross the hall to the indoor pool. I'm behind Rhett, and I can't help but notice the way his ass sways in those thin nylon shorts from his slight limp. As if he can feel my eyes on him, Rhett glances over his shoulder. "You checking out my ass?"

You bet I am . "I'm not ogling your ass. I'm analyzing your gait. It's my job."

Rhett laughs loudly and Brewer comes up behind me, clapping me on the back. "You were totally checking out his ass."

The crowd gathers around the perimeter of the pool and Rhett wastes no time. He kicks off his shoes and jumps right in, clothes and all. When he surfaces, he shakes his head, sending a spray of water in my direction.

"You're going to swim a half-mile, which is fifteen laps. Touch the wall on each pass. Your fastest time so far is twenty-two minutes."

"You got this, Rhett," Nash calls. Their little synchronized swim team training has really paid off.

Rhett's body is lean and toned from all his running and swimming, and I can't keep my hands or my eyes off it lately. Not that I ever could. I'm addicted to him like a drug. All he has to do is give me that look or show off his dimpled grin, and I pant after him like a dog in heat.

He takes off when he hears my whistle, pushing off from the wall. He cuts through the water with ease, kicking his legs and sluicing his arms. It's almost beautiful to watch.

With less than a minute left on his best time, I call out, "Twenty-one minutes," to spur him on. He's on his last lap. There's no way he isn't going to make it.

"Ten, nine, eight." I count down the seconds remaining on his best time. "Seven, six…" Everyone loses their shit before I can say five. Rhett touches the wall and jumps halfway out of the water, fist-pumping the air.

West stands at the edge holding a little brass bell. Rhett pushes up and rings it hard, signaling the completion of his long, hard journey in rehab. The guys jump in the pool, fully dressed, and dog pile him.

I'm grinning so hard my cheeks hurt and my eyes grow wet. Why did I ever think he was a wildcard? Rhett Marsh is a sure fucking bet, just like he promised me he was.

He climbs out of the pool and hugs me, sopping wet, and then we're falling into the pool. "My clipboard," I yell in a panic, tossing it over the edge to safety.

"The chlorine is good for it, might make the Sharpie dicks fade," West cracks, sending a volley of water in my direction.

I grab Rhett and crush my lips to his. My warrior. My lover.

My whole life.

"So fucking proud of you," I breathe against his lips. "And that ass is mine tonight." I squeeze his ass and he hops up, wrapping his legs around my waist and deepening the kiss.

"You bet."