Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 45414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 227(@200wpm)___ 182(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Hugging her tighter, I move my hand down to her back, stroking in soft circles as she cries herself out. I could stay here for several hours if that’s what she needed.
Maybe I’m not such a savage after all.
No, that’s not right.
I am a savage, but when I see how much pain my woman is experiencing, I somehow manage to beat down those parts of myself and behave like a proper person.
“What did you want to know?” I ask. “About my time with the SEALs?”
“I don’t know.” She leans back, pawing at her cheeks. “I’m not even sure where that came from. I was so freaking angry. I never get like that. It’s just… it’s him, Zack. It’s the thought of him turning up with a bunch of mobbed-up goons. Its way scarier than it was before.”
“Of course.” I nod understandingly, reaching over and stroking my hand along her tear stained cheek. “But whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you. Even if talking about this stuff is hard.”
“It was such a big part of your life,” she murmurs. “How long did you serve?”
“Eighteen years,” I say. “I…”
I trail off and then smirk when she aims one of her adorable smiles at me. I know what she’s hinting at with that cute quirk of her lips, the fact that she chided me before about trailing off once I begin to talk.
I chuckle and she giggles, the sounds joining together to make a bulwark against the pain and the fear and all the nastiness this Jerry bastard has provoked.
“I had a good career,” I tell her. “I served overseas several times and in between tours I helped with the workups.”
“What’s a workup?”
“It’s what I call getting our troops ready to go overseas. I enjoyed that work a hell of a lot. It was one of those jobs that takes all of a man’s concentration, which makes it impossible for him to think about anything else. I guess it’s similar to how you feel when you paint.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was watching you today, on the balcony. The way you were so consumed with your work as if nothing else existed as if the apartment could catch on fire and you wouldn’t even realize… that’s exactly what it was like for me when I was in the SEALs. Whether I was in combat or getting my men ready for combat, that’s how it felt.”
“So why did you leave?” she asks and then lets out another adorable giggle.
Goddamn, part of me wants to record the sound of her laughter so I can play it any time I’m feeling grim and instantly make my world a brighter less grim place.
“I guess this is one good thing that’s come out of my temper tantrum, huh? It’s finally got you talking.”
I chuckle and nod. “Yeah, but don’t call it a temper tantrum, my little artist. You have every right to express your emotions. Especially with me.”
I pause, thinking about her question. Why did I leave?
“An op went bad,” I tell her. “It was my last tour and I was in charge of leading a group of us into a heavily occupied village to capture a senior member of a terrorist cell. We’d planned for it and everything seemed locked in… but somehow these bastards learned about our plan and they were waiting for us. It was hell, Zoey. It was carnage, mayhem, one of the worst ambushes. So many of my men lost their lives that day.”
She stares at me, her eyes wide. I search her expression for any sign of judgment – like the judgment I aim at myself constantly, a never-ending stream of it – but all that’s there is her acceptance, her patience.
“We managed to regroup and put up a fight, but our comms went down and we were stuck, pinned down. So many men, my brothers, roaring out as bullet after bullet rained down. Fuck. It was horrible, what happened that day. And you know what happened to me?”
“What?” she murmurs, blinking and causing a tear to slide down her cheek.
“I survived,” I growl. “I was one of the only two who survived, and I’ve lived with that every day of my life since it happened. Many tried to tell me it’s not my fault, and technically they’re right. Technically there isn’t much I could’ve done except what I did. Fight, bleed, fight some more. I managed to fight my way out with one of my men. He was heavily wounded and, shit, Zoey, they gave me a medal for that, a medal for saving him.”
My voice wavers and I can feel the memories gnawing at the edges of my equilibrium if I haven’t already lost that. I feel like there’s something sick and broken inside of me, twisting its way through like barbwire.