Page 127 of Lesson In Forgiveness

Deafening the room with a bellow of pure fury, Grit levered himself up, shrugging off the mercs to regain his feet. Murphy and Sommerfeld, both new members of the A-team, eyed him with pity even as they circled him away from Tabitha’s body.

He reached out, snagging baby-faced Murphy by the collar of his Kevlar vest and hauling the boy forward into his waiting fist. Pain, he discovered, no longer held the same sensory value; he felt his knuckles connect with Murphy’s jaw, the impact radiating up his arm, but the sting, the burn, the oh fuck, why did I do that pain couldn’t compete against the agony consuming him.

“C’mon, man, don’t make me taser your ass. Not now.” Sommerfeld lifted his palms up. “McKee is our best, Grit; you know this. He’ll do what he can for her.”

“Can he put the blood back in her body?” Grit jabbed Murphy again, blocked a sloppy return, and hit him a third time. “Can he fix the holes those fucking bullets put in her?” Catching a glancing blow to his chin, Grit slammed Murphy with a punch that snapped his head back. “Can he give her back to me?”

As Murphy’s legs buckled, Grit let him go, whirling around to vent the rest of his volatile emotions out on Sommerfeld, or whomever else was in the vicinity. Instead, his eyes fell to the other body on the floor, the one responsible for the death of a good, strong, beautiful woman, and his rage swelled to impossible proportions.

The noise he made was inhuman, scoring his throat with pure hatred. Hands fisting, he strode over to Donaghue’s body and kicked it in the ribs hard enough to flip the fucker over. The crunch of bone levitated him high above any form of humanity; he whaled on the corpse like a madman, using his feet first, then straddling and pounding it as though it was nothing more than a punching bag.

He dropped headlong into the hollow hole in his heart, losing himself. Breathing grew more difficult—he convinced himself it was simply exertion, not the need to cry, that was seizing his lungs. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose, slid down his neck, his temples, his cheeks—just sweat, he told himself, not tears.

By the time his body exhausted itself, his arms too heavy to strike again, there was nothing left to identify Donaghue.

Bracing his fists on either side of the ruined head, Grit tried to catch his breath. Every muscle in his body ached, his head throbbed with pain and adrenaline, and the sense of loss haunting him was just as keen as before.

“You done, brother?”[NP2]

Grit glanced up at the man crouching in front of him. There was blood splattered over his shiny black combat boots and the legs of his camouflage pants. Tabitha’s blood, smeared over his hands. “Yeah. I’m done.”

“Okay then, let’s get you on your feet. Sommerfeld, take his left.”

Arms hooked under his, dragging him off the body and supporting him as exhaustion blanketed his mind. His breathing hitched when his gaze landed on the spot where Tabitha had been; they’d taken her already, the lake of blood congealing on polished floorboards the only sign she’d been there.

“Where—”

“The chopper’s flying her to Denver,” McKee told him gently. “We notified Jasper. He’s already on his way to take you both home.”

Phoenix wasn’t home anymore, but neither was here. Grit didn’t know where he belonged now. His time in Denver, with Tabitha, had made him a better man, a more patient one, but the future and dreams he’d set in her hands were no longer bright and hopeful.

They were just ashes, skittering away in the wind.

“I’m not going back,” he rasped. “Take me back to the hotel, McKee. Leave me there. Tell Jasper I’m sorry, so fucking sorry…”

Finally, he broke.

Shattered.

He barely felt the needle poke into his arm, but he was grateful for the darkness that followed, sweeping him up and carrying him away from the ruins of what was, and what might have been.

Chapter Fifteen

Grit

All Hallow’s Eve

The party was in full swing.

Four months after his world imploded, Grit stood in the middle of a celebration he wanted no real part of and stared down at the section of floorboards he’d last seen stained with the blood of the only woman he’d ever loved.

There was nothing there now, of course; Evander and Elias’s crews had worked their magic, removing every trace of blood, death, and bullet holes. The flooring had been ripped out and burned. The walls, inside and out, were pristine, as though a gun battle hadn’t been waged on the property.

Standing there, he tried to find a connection to the pieces of himself he’d lost. All he found was the same emptiness he’d lived with since summer, the same hollowness he’d carried with him around the country, and then Europe, in his attempt to escape the monotony of his existence.

I learned I have a heart. I love you, Rory.

Fuck, this was the worst idea. Letting Eli convince him to come back for the opening night of Serenity wasn’t his finest moment, but the Brit was scarily persuasive. Especially when Grit was at his lowest point.

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