Page 46 of The Darkness Within

“You cook?” Nash asks.

“Shit.” He laughs, drawing out the word in his Spanish accent. “I was a Navy cook for four years. Assigned to one carrier after another.”

“I believe they call it a Culinary Specialist,” Tex teases, flitting in wearing a satin peacock robe and black satin pants with a bare chest.

Nacho swats his ass with a spatula. “Check out the kitty.”

Tex sighs dramatically. “How many times do I have to correct you? It’s a bussy, not a pussy.”

“No, perra, I meant the actual kitten.”

“Ohhhhhh, pretty boy!” Tex flutters all over the kitten while Nash clutches it to his broad chest like Tex is trying to poison it or something. He’s not letting go.

His eyes find mine, and he looks guarded and slightly panicked. Fuck, I hope I didn’t make a mistake by letting him bond with the cat, in case we find its mom today.

He doesn’t look like he’s giving it up. Ever.

Nash doesn’t usually have a strong appetite, but I’ve never seen him eat slower. He’s dragging out breakfast, his fingers scratching constantly through the kitten’s fur. Fuck me, if he didn’t already have a hold on my heart, he definitely would now. I’m a total sucker for a vulnerable yet possessive man, and that description fits Nash to a T.

Wounded. Vulnerable. Possessive. Brave. Loyal. Badass. Capable…

Okay, fucking quit, Brewer. Get a hold of yourself, jeez. One hot AF man cuddling a kitten and you’re jizzing your fucking pants.

“You finished?” Nash looks at his plate and then at the kitten, and nods slowly, almost reluctantly. I pop a handful of pills down by his glass and collect his plate. “Let’s roll.”

As we circle the neighborhood, I try my best to distract him by preparing him for his recovery plan.

“In addition to working the twelve steps together, you also need to continue with therapy, both mental and physical.” Nash just nods, stroking the kitten between the ears. “There are some techniques I want to try to improve your PTS. We’ll do those in my office, so we can control the environment. As for the stepwork and the counseling, I think we should find a different approach, outside the office. Something more natural.”

“I like that idea.”

I don’t like the idea of being his therapist. Already, I feel compromised. Biased, even. But I also don’t relish the idea of giving up control to someone else. There’re only two people I trust most with Nash’s mental health—me and him.

On my second trip around the block, I pull the car to a stop, biting my bottom lip. A dark lump lay in the street, clearly lifeless. It’s the spitting image of the little fluff ball in Nash’s arms, same black hair.

Was this going to trigger him somehow?

I feel like sometimes I walk on eggshells, trying to avoid setting him off, but that’s no way to live, either. Slipping my hand in his, I concede, “We’re keeping the cat. Might as well think of a name.”

“Just drive, please,” Nash rasps, sounding close to tears.

This huge man, with balls of brass, who has seen unimaginable horrors, endured literal hell on earth, was close to tears over a dead cat in the road.

Hell, so am I now.

Is he upset that the cat is an orphan or that his mom died a horrible death?

“Let me take you both home.”

He’s silent, stroking the kitten who licks his thick fingers like he’s a tasty snack—which he undoubtedly is—until he blurts, “Carbine.”

I assume he’s choosing a name for the cat, but Carbine? As in the machine gun? Mental face palm.

“Do you think he looks like a Carbine? He’s a little small for such a badass name, isn’t he?”

Nash chuffs, almost like he’s laughing at himself. “How about… Valor?”

“I think Valor sounds perfect.” Fuck, those damn tears again. Blinking them back, I take a deep breath. “Nash’s Valor.”

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