“Stop calling me that. I’m Sarah. And I’m perfectly aware he would have killed me.” Her breath caught in her lungs. She closed her eyes and yanked the blanket to her chin. “I think I want to rest now, thanks.”

“Roch—Sarah—” A pause. A sigh. “This name thing is nonsense. I’m not calling you Sarah. It’s not your name.”

“My name is Rochelle Seraphina. It’s got Sarah in it. Now, please, let me rest.”

“Fine, but you’re going home.”

“I am no—”

A knock on the door popped her eyes open. So much for resting. Her father opened the door and Gavin stepped into the room. The two men shook hands, then exchanged words, but she couldn’t hear them over her thundering heart.

Gavin Black. Out of all the people to come to the rescue, it had to be him. Not that she wasn’t beyond grateful for his timely appearance in that compound. She would have been thrilled to see her father at that point. But . . . Gavin Black? She gave him a small wave. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Tattoos rippled every time his arms moved under the short-sleeved shirt, and his five o’clock shadow had morphed into a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.

“You lose your razor?” she asked.

His brows rose and a surprised laugh rumbled from him as he stroked his beard. “Ditched it. This is less trouble most days.”

“Never figured you one for doing things the easy way.”

“Always a first time, I guess.” He crossed his arms, those tats flashing, green eyes flicking from her father to her. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” Sarah said. “The general was just leaving.”

Her father shot her a tight smile, his eyes chilling. Now that was the man she knew. “We’ll be flying out shortly, but I’ll give you two a few minutes to visit.”

He left the room and Sarah’s stress level went down significantly, in spite of his reference to flying home. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Yasmoon entered the room and once more tried to get her to take medication with the promise that “it will make you feel much better.”

“I’m not taking it. You understand?” She repeated the statement in Pashto and then in Farsi.

Yasmoon sighed and left the room with a frown.

“You should take it,” Gavin said. “It might help.”

“I suspect it’s an antidepressant. If I was depressed, I’d take it. I’m not depressed, so I won’t take it. End of discussion.” She looked him in the eye. “I don’t do medication. Ibuprofen and Tylenol, even some Toradol, are fine, but nothing stronger. No antidepressants and definitely no more narcotics. I hate the way they make me feel.”

“I can understand that. And respect it.” Gavin took the chair beside her bed and leaned forward to clasp her fingers in his warm grip. “How are you doing?”