Pathfinders, 3
They’ve both survived hell. Marsh Clarkson—the Pathfinders’ brilliant, stubborn genius—was shattered by an explosion and chained to a chair he refuses to see as anything but weakness. Therapy is the last thing he wants.
Eli Carmino knows scars don’t make you weak—they make you a survivor. He comes to Obsidian Ridge to help others heal, not to fall for a sharp-tongued, magnetic man who’s hurting in ways he recognizes all too well. When Eli’s violent past resurfaces, the fragile trust between them becomes their only shield.
Because sometimes holding the line isn’t about the battle outside—it’s about not letting go of the one person who makes survival worth it.
Be Warned: m/m sex
Excerpt:
The water was the only place Eli still trusted. No lies there. No hidden hands waiting to strike. Just breath, stroke, breath, flip when he got to the end of a length.
He swam until his skin puckered, until his arms trembled. Until the weight of his memories threatened to drag him down and make him disappear.
You’re nothing, Elias.
You think that medical uniform makes you special? Makes you safe? The Colonel’s voice slithered in through the cracks in Eli’s mind.
He kicked harder. Another lap. His lungs burned. His vision blurred.
They’ll never believe you. You’re the unstable one. The liability.
Marsh’s voice folded in next.
You’re not honest. You’re not real. You’re just filler.
His strokes faltered.
His thigh cramped.
Mid-stroke, the pain hit—sharp, electric. He tried to compensate, but the other leg followed. He gasped, inhaling water instead of air. His lungs screaming for air
He flailed. Swallowed more.
Once.
Twice.
Three times under.
And then he stilled.
This is it.
The irony was not lost on him. That his sanctuary, the one place he could breathe, would become his coffin.
But an arm—strong and sure—gripped around his shoulders, arms, chest. Dragging him upward.
He broke the surface coughing violently, water spewing from his lungs as he was hauled to the edge and manhandled up onto the side of the pool.
He collapsed against the cold tiles, shaking, gagging.
“Breathe, Eli. Goddammit, breathe.”
The voice was ragged. Familiar. Angry. Worried.
Marsh.
Eli opened his eyes. Marsh was soaked, sitting beside him, one leg hanging into the pool, the other gone.
“What…?” Eli rasped.
“You were drowning.” Marsh’s voice cracked. “And don’t even try to tell me this was some intense cardio bullshit. You were trying to silence the voices.”
Eli felt his stomach flip. How did he know? “I was just swimming.”
“No, that wasn’t just swimming,” Marsh snarled, “you were listening—to voices that don’t deserve space in your head. The kind that don’t stop unless you fight back.”
Eli rolled to his side, arms curled around his middle. “They wouldn’t stop. I swim to shut them down. And it works—until it doesn’t.”
Marsh exhaled slowly. “You can’t outpace pain in the pool. Believe me, I’ve tried with tech, with silence, with every distraction I could engineer.”
Eli was quiet for a beat. Then frowned. “How are you here?”
“I saw you in the cameras.” Marsh shifted beside him. “Saw the way you swam. Like you were trying to outswim your shadow.”
Silence stretched.
“I don’t even remember getting in,” Eli whispered. “I just needed to move. I couldn’t stay still—not with them shouting at me like they were.”
Marsh nodded. “I know those voices. I know what they sound like when they pile on top of each other. When they drown out your own.”
Eli didn’t answer.
“Whatever they said,” Marsh added, “they were wrong.”
Eli blinked hard. “You don’t even know what they said.”
“I don’t need to,” Marsh dismissed. “I’ve heard their kind. Had them inside my own skull most of my life, and absolutely since the day I got blown half to hell and back.”
They sat in silence again, broken only by the still harsh breathing of both men.
“I’m sorry,” Eli said finally. “For last night. For this.”
“You’re not the one that needs to apologize,” Marsh replied. “I’ve been—an asshole. To everyone. Especially you last night. And I’m sorry.”
“I think we both earned a little forgiveness,” Eli said. “Starting with ourselves.”
Marsh’s mouth twitched. “You’re the second person to call me on my shit today.”
Eli coughed a laugh. “We’re building momentum.” He looked around. “Uh, Marsh, where is your chair?”
He watched as an adorable sweep of red swept across Marsh’s face. “Um, well—” he leaned forward and looked down.
He didn’t!
Eli leaned forward and saw the unmistakable shape of a wheelchair at the bottom of the pool. “I guess that’s one way to get into the pool fast.”
Marsh barked a laugh—it sounded rusty and hardly used. Then he warmed into it, with Eli joining in. It took a minute or two to calm down.
Eli pushed himself up to sit beside Marsh at the side of the pool. “I’ll get a couple of the guys to jump in and get it out later, and will go grab one of the others from the infirmary for now.”
He went to stand up, intent on putting a shirt on and heading over to the infirmary, but Marsh grabbed his arm. Eli looked up, their gazes locked.
“You need a better coping mechanism,” Marsh said. “Suicide by swim meet isn’t a long-term strategy.”
“You need to start living again,” Eli countered. “Not just existing.”
They locked eyes. A truce, fragile but real.
“I’ll try if you do,” Marsh stated. “Deal?”
Eli nodded. “Deal.”
The moment lingered. Warm. Real.
And for the first time in a long time, Eli didn’t feel like he was treading water alone.
- Series:
- /series-pathfinders/
