Asher was sure of it.
With more time and more information, he would prove it. He had a plan, and having Harry see the truth and on his side would be incredibly helpful.
So Asher cleaned up while Harry showered. He stacked the floor cushions back in the corner before taking the tray of dirty dishes back to Malha and thanking her again for the breakfast. She scowled at him, and Asher was certain he heard a string of mumbled curses as he crossed the courtyard back to their room.
He smiled in the sunlight, at the incredibly blue sky, and went back inside. The bathroom door was open, so he assumed Harry was done. “Moroccan skies are so blue,” he said, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
Harry stood there, wet and naked except for a very small towel around his waist. It didn’t hide much.
Holy Mary mother of God.
He was tanned, mostly. Huge muscular chest, not much chest hair, defined abs, and he had a tattoo over his heart. A series of stars in the shape of a... “Is that some kind of kite tattoo?” Asher asked.
Harry, with his permanent scowl, looked down at his chest. “It’s not a kite. It’s the Southern Cross, the stars on the Australian flag. And I’m not a kite. For fuck’s sake.”
The Southern Cross made sense.
“You are a kite,” Asher said. “Whether you like it or not.” And then he noticed the scars shining silverish in the poor light. Some small, some not, mostly faded, some more recent. On his torso, his arms and what Asher could see of his shoulder. They looked like knife wounds, mostly. Scrapes, and maybe a bullet wound or two. “Jesus,” Asher breathed. “Do you get paid per scar?”
Harry stood there a long moment, silent. “Are you done checking me out?”
Asher looked him over once more. “No. Damn.”
Harry cocked his head. “You like what you see?”
“The fuck is not to like?” Asher waved his hand up and down, from his chiselled jaw to his... ankle. It was swollen and purple.Krista!He motioned to the daybed. “Sit down. I’ll go... get something. I dunno what, but something.”
Asher wasn’t sure how Malha would receive his request for help, but he had little choice. He walked back across the courtyard and knocked on the door. His Arabic was a little rusty and she’d already accommodated them enough...
“Harry’s ankle is not good,” Asher told her. He held out his own foot and gestured it was like a balloon. “Swollen and bruised. Do you have anything? Bandages?”
She glared at him. A small child clutching her leg looked up at him. She ushered the child behind her and closed the door.
Okay then.
Asher went back to their room just in time to see Harry pull up a pair of boxer shorts. He got a very brief, very nice view of his muscular thighs and ass but was remiss that he’d not got a front view.
“Hm,” Asher mused. “No scars on your back. Means you always face your enemies. I like that.”
Harry grumbled something at him as he lowered his huge frame onto the daybed. Asher picked up one of the floor cushions and laid it against the armrest and he patted it. “Lean back and put your foot up.”
Harry glared at him.
“Quit your whining.”
Harry snarled but did as he was told, and Asher knelt by his feet. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and began wrapping Harry’s ankle. Harry tried to pull his foot away, startled. “What are you doing?”
“You need to keep this stabilised,” Asher said, gently pulling his foot closer. “The sooner you get this right, the sooner we can leave.”
“We could leave today if we had to.”
“We could.” Asher shrugged. “But we’re not.”
“You could,” Harry said. “Leave at any time.”
Ah, so that’s what he was implying... “Yes, I could. I could have shot you three days ago in Madrid before you even knew I was there.” He wrapped the shirt as tight as he dared and met Harry’s gaze. “But whether you like it or not, we are better off together.” He tucked the corner of the shirt into itself, which would, hopefully, keep it tight.
Harry inspected it, seemingly impressed. “I take it Mrs Sadik didn’t have a bandage?”