Hell would be a paradise compared to this wasteland. Every breath seared Major Tia Meyers’ lungs. The air was too damn thin, sucked away precious moisture and crisped the soft, spongy tissues of her lungs. The fault lay in the rugged mountainous terrain of Afghanistan. Her lips cracked. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Sweat didn’t linger long enough to dampen her fatigues. And her head? It pounded with each step.

She sipped water from the tube attached to the camelback tucked into her ruck. She hadn't peed in hours. Frankly, that was a welcome side effect of dehydration. As the only female member of a six-man team, not having to squat in the middle of the desolate wasteland came as a welcome relief. She would pee when she was dead.

"Doing okay, T?" Lieutenant Colonel Mike Collins called to her over his left shoulder. The determination of his stride pushed the entire team forward at a relentless pace. He didn't ask how any of the others were doing. He didn't need too, because the rest of the team were male. Assumptions were a bitch, but she learned to fight the battles which truly mattered and ignored all other slights against her gender.

Collins led their team. He was their trauma surgeon, and the shortest man. Only a few inches taller than her, he barely broke six-feet. All the others on the team were ripped and stacked, alpha males with plenty of muscle and endurance, and egos too big for their heads. Tall and wired with ropes for muscles, Collins was lean, whipcord strong, and demanded nothing but the best from his team. A person might discount him, but his endurance put the rest of the team to shame. The man ran ultra-marathons for fun.

“I’m fine, Colonel," she said, stepping up her pace. Damn, when had she fallen so far behind?

Ryker Lyons glanced at her, his eyes narrowing with concern. As their team's respiratory technician, she worked closest with him, and dealt with his overbearing protectiveness far too much.

If he’d been an ugly bastard, she’d be able to deal with his looks and assumptions with far more grace, but Lyons had been breaking hearts from the day he’d been born. A stunning man, he had a smile which made it impossible to hate him. A prominent jaw framed his face. Twining cords of muscle shaped and defined his entire body. Everything about him was strong, powerful and male. From his thick arms, to his broad shoulders, his physique continued down to a ripped abdomen angling to muscular thighs. No one feature made Lyons handsome, but those eyes of his turned women stupid, needy, and horny as fuck, and his smile, at once genuine and mischievous, was a heart-thudding, sexy as fuck, irresistible force. The pull was real, irresistible even. When he lifted his cheeks and broke out that grin, his entire being illuminated with charisma and sexual charm. She fought the force of it every day.

If it weren’t for her fiancé waiting back home, she might have given in. Not that she’d ever sleep with Lyons, but he had certainly starred in one or two of her dreams along the way. She was engaged not dead. Afghanistan nights were long and lonely, but dreams were harmless things.

He had lots to say with his eyes. His concern and over protectiveness being more frequent than she liked. Beneath his look, a simmering lust lingered, and his eyes were as suggestive as they were protective.

People often spoke of the color of a person’s eyes, as if that were important to their character. She didn’t have a preference. Hers were the darkest brown, nearly the same color as the coal black of her hair. Her fiancé, Scott, had chocolate colored eyes. Deep wells of affection and love, she could lose herself in them for hours. With her olive complexion and his natural tan, they would make stunning babies one day.

Lyons eyes were a brilliant amazon green, bright, vibrant, and shocking. They said people with green eyes were lustful creatures and Lyons had her believing that myth, because he never lacked female companionship. The problem was when he turned those eyes on her, she stared back longer than socially acceptable and she hated how he turned her thoughts. She was probably sending the wrong signals to a man she had little interest in. Not that she could help herself. It was nearly impossible to look away.

Tempered by a ferocity barely kept in check, Lyons had been created to protect and defend those weaker than himself. Whatever he held dear, whoever he cared for, they bore the full brunt of that innate intensity. His fuck-me gaze brought women to his bed, and taunted her at every turn. Not that there would ever be anything between them. Not only was she engaged, but she was an officer. He was enlisted. That, more than anything, would keep them apart. Besides, his bed was an ever revolving fuck-fest of horny enlisted females. If he had any interest in her, which he didn’t, she would shut him down. It didn’t help that he was a horrible tease and probably couldn’t turn it off if he tried.

Even if it weren’t for her fiancé, Scott, rules and regulations against fraternization would keep her and Lyons separate. The worst part? Lyons knew he was a bad ass. He was a force of destruction in the field, a bad boy with the girls, and destroyed hearts with the same ferocity he brought to the field. Arrogance came with that knowledge and he wore it like a badge of honor.

She didn’t have time for games like that, or men like that.

Lyons’ gaze continued to linger, his eyes strayed to the heavy pack on her back, then he returned his attention to her face, where he traced every feature as if he were absorbing her into his soul. Her jaw clenched and she hooked her thumbs under the shoulder straps of her ruck and jogged past him. He met her glare with an uplift of his left eyebrow. His grin, complete with requisite dimples, filled his face while he took humor in whatever was going on in that head of his.

Staff Sergeant Mike Warren huffed beside Tia. The silent one of the bunch, their surgical tech carried the blades, the retractors, forceps, sutures, and everything the surgeons needed in his pack. Many people overlooked surgical techs, but Warren carried himself with a quiet dignity and an endless reservoir of strength. Each member of the special ops surgical team was vital to saving lives at the front lines, behind the front lines, and basically anywhere in-between the lines.

She hefted the pack on her shoulders, while the men barely broke a sweat. A glance at Lyons revealed the faintest shimmer of perspiration on his brow, but with the dry air, it disappeared between one moment and the next. She felt better about not being the only one pushing her endurance.

Collins raised his fist, and everyone came to a sudden stop. They took a knee and crouched on the ground.

“Five minutes,” he said. A glance at the map had his features screwing into a mask of concentration.

She crab-crawled over to him, balancing the weight of the pack. It almost pulled her over, something she wouldn’t live down. Seventy pounds? Yeah, she’d be a turtle trapped on its back. Lyons would laugh his ass off. Warren would offer a hand. Collins would do nothing. He demanded she pull her weight and not slow down the team. For him, she had to earn every breath. The other two members of their team, their orthopedic surgeon, Major Drummond, and their emergency doc, Major Marks, might as easily help her or not. Those two tended to keep to themselves, which was fine. Their arrogance annoyed her most days, but they were beyond phenomenal physicians; smooth as silk under pressure.

“Need help?” she offered. The terrain they humped could challenge the best navigator.

“We’re off target,” Collins said.

Agreed. It looked like they were hiking along the wrong ridge line.

He waved a hand. “It feels… empty.”

Empty was an understatement. They’d been hoofing it for ten clicks. Dropped in far behind battle lines, their team headed into a hot zone. Wounded, too critical for aeromedical evacuation, waited for her team to stabilize them before help could come. In this case, it meant emergency surgery in the field.

A glance upward revealed a featureless expanse of faded out blue. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Nothing but a bright ball of fiery brilliance blazed down on them, but even the sun seemed washed out. The air tasted dry and lifeless and there was nothing but rock and sand as far as the eye could see. The entire world was desolate.

She examined the map. “Sir,” she said, pointing, “we can cross here.” Indeed, the ridge line they were supposed to be traveling lay across the valley from the one they occupied, but there was a way across.

Collins cursed and gathered the team. “Change of plans,” he said.

Everyone gathered round. Collins confirmed her assessment. If they were off course, it needed to be reported to command and control and their new route verified. Lyons lumbered over. He carried the radio gear, making his pack outweigh all the others.

Lyons called their position in, and while he spoke to command, she took a load off and shrugged out of her pack. Protocol demanded she keep a low profile, but she couldn’t help but stretch out the tight cords of the muscles of her neck and shoulders. The physical part of this job never let up.

The high pitched whine of a bullet sounded moments before ricocheting off a rock to her right. Lyons leaped up, plowed into her, and slammed her to the ground. Her helmet hit a rock, and cushioned her head from impact. Lyons’ entire body covered hers, every rock solid muscle clenched with murderous intent as he protected the sole female in the group.

“Take cover,” Collins called out.

The team flattened themselves against the ground, providing minimal profiles to whoever had them in their sites.

She shoved at Lyons, not moving him an inch. “Move,” she said.

Lying on top of her, his jaw clenched. “Not on your damned life.”

His eyes danced over her face, radiating his primal need to protect. Time slowed down as the lethality of the moment sank in. A crescendo of what ifs passed through her mind. What if she’d been a little more to the right? What if the shooter had better aim?What if she’d been hit? Or worse, what if she’d been killed?

Fear was a mind killer and she had no time for it. So she turned her fear into anger and directed it at Lyons. She could damn well take care of herself, but what she hated most were the vibrations humming in her veins with him lying on top of her. Perhaps he felt them too, because his grin grew impossibly wide, even as the furrows in his brow deepened. The man was a master at expressing disparate emotions within the same glance. His left knee pressed between her legs, spreading them and making their relative positions entirely too intimate. Under different circumstances, it might be considered a prelude to something more.

Whoever their sniper was, the bastard had either run out of ammunition or bravery, because after ten minutes there were no more shots fired. Ten long minutes of Lyons laying on top of her with their faces entirely too close.

Tia's team was armed and packed some heat, but medical gear filled their rucks, not bullets. Impossible to know who was shooting, they could be pinned down by a band of insurgents or a goat farmer with a rifle and a handful of bullets. Either way, that shooter had her team hunkered down and her trapped beneath Lyons.

Insurgents had been in the area. That was the reason they'd been sent out. There’d been a firefight and men were down. Reports said the enemy had been neutralized. There shouldn’t be a shooter. Helicopters would be sent in soon, but before that, she and her team had lifesaving surgery to perform for two of the men attached to the special operations unit they’d been sent to assist. One had a collapsed lung. The other had his guts torn up. Their field surgeries stabilized and saved lives, but weren't pretty.

Getting to their target quickly couldn't be more important.

Instead, they found themselves plastered flat against the heat of the rock, exposing the lowest profile to whoever had them in his sights. She found herself sandwiched between the hard ground and the unmoving physique of Lyons. His eyes bore into her, green fire lashing out, and the bastard refused to budge.

"Get off me," she said, trying, yet again, to roll him off her body.

"No," he said.

A man of few words, she was surprised to get that much out of him.

"You're making yourself an easy target,” she said.

"All the important bits are covered," he said with a grin.

"Not your ass."

"Oh, glad you care about my ass, T,” he said with more sarcasm than that comment deserved. That was the way with Lyons. He had no filter and no idea how to turn off inappropriate thoughts.

"The only reason I care about your ass is because if something happens to you, we have to split your ruck."

"You mean..." he drew out his words, toying with her, "the others will pick up the slack. You’re maxed with what you can carry.”

She'd punch him if it wouldn't hurt her fist. Not only was Lyons packed with muscle, but his battle gear was hard kevlar. The ceramic ballistic plate on his chest pressed against hers, putting painful pressure on her breasts. She bit back a groan.

"I pull my weight," she said, exacerbated. Like his sarcasm, her words threaded with more defense than they should.

With a shove, she moved him enough to wriggle out from underneath his weight. He landed with a thud and a whoosh of breath. Served him right.

"What’s wrong T?” he teased. "Get nervous when the man’s on top?”

Her glare could've frozen hell, but with Lyons it only amped up the heat simmering in his gaze. The man simply didn’t know how to turn off his fuck-me eyes. Fortunately, she had the best defense.

“You wish. I'm taken, Lyons, so stop trying.”

"Oh, everyone knows you're taken," he said. "You talk about your douchebag boyfriend all the time."

"Fiancé, Lyons,” she bit out. “Scott is my fiancé."

"Right," he said with a cheeky grin. "A douchebag who's sent you what? One letter in the last two months. I'm telling you, if I had a woman like you, I’d send a letter a day with flowers and chocolate, minimum. I’d probably write a poem or sing you a song.”

"Well, good thing you don't have a woman like me, because I hate flowers. They wilt and die. Is that really what you want to tell your girl?"

He arched a brow. "What do you mean?"

"That your love for her is as fleeting and fragile as a wilted flower? Scott doesn't do crap like that because he knows what that kind of gesture means to me.”

"You're fucked in the head, T," he said. "Can't you just let a guy be a guy? Or is it always about who has the bigger balls. I feel sorry for the douche.”

“Stop calling him that.”

“What? Douche?” He shook with a soft laugh. “Hey, I just call it like I see it.”

“And how is that?”

“That guy has to be a total pussy—”

“Back that truck right up,” she interrupted. “You don’t know shit.”

“Really? You’re telling me there’s a heart under those brass tits.”

“Sergeant!” Collins cut Lyons off. “Show a little respect.”

She didn’t need Collins’ interference, but appreciated him putting an end to Lyons shit-talk about Scott. Lyons shutting the fuck up topped high on her list of priorities, right after not getting shot.

There weren’t any more shots fired, but Collins wouldn’t risk his team until he was certain it was safe. Until they had eyes in the air, they were stuck on the ground. Good thing they had drones.