Huh. Had Wolfe somehow left when she had been in the bathroom earlier? She twisted the knob and stepped inside, her steps faltering on the soft carpet.

Wolfe sat with his back to her, facing the whiteboard, his gaze seemingly directed at the photograph of the smiling young soldiers. His shoulders were rigid and his body unmoving. Tension cloaked him, erecting an invisible barrier that electrified the air around him.

Her mouth opened and closed. A chill slid down her back, and she hunched a little, her instincts blaring for her to run.

How long had he sat in that position? All day?

That couldn’t be healthy. She swallowed over a lump in her throat and edged closer to him, reaching out with one shaking hand.

“Don’t.” His gravelly voice was a stark warning.

She paused and her lip trembled. Her lungs filled with something other than air, something akin to panic, and she breathed shallowly. Too shallowly.

“Go, Dana.” His stillness was nearly preternatural.

She should go. Run and leave him to this . . . whatever this was. But she couldn’t. Why, she’d figure out later. “Clarence.” Fighting every biological survival instinct stamped into her DNA, she reached out and set a hand on his rigid shoulder.

When he didn’t jump and bite off her arm, she settled closer, everything inside her wanting to comfort him. A hint of the wild emanated from him—primitive and dangerous. There was no doubt Wolfe was as dangerous as a man got, but he was hurting, and she’d never been able to turn away from an animal in pain.

Especially this one.

Her other hand settled on his other shoulder, and she bit back a grimace at the hard knots against her palms. His head had to be killing him. If there were words for her to offer, she couldn’t think of them. Instead, she began to knead the roped muscles beneath her palms, digging deep with her thumbs, finally giving herself permission to touch him.

She worked some of the tension out of his neck, her own body aching in response. He held perfectly still, his hands on his jean-clad legs, the arm bandage stark against his tanned skin. For one fraction of a second, his shoulders relaxed. “What are you doing?” he rumbled.

“Providing comfort.”

He stiffened again and, without warning, planted a hand over hers, drawing her in front of him.

She reluctantly released his shoulders and stood between his legs, looking into his hard face, feeling unbalanced and warm. Intimacy surrounded them. “Wolfe?”

“I don’t want comfort.” He tipped his head back, his eyes a tumultuous brown.

She’d never seen anybody more in need of comfort than Clarence Wolfe. “Why not? Everyone needs comfort.”