Page 90 of Catch Me When I Fall

“You put that in?”

“No, Jake did last night,” I told her simply.

“Well, how much is it?”

I looked to the ceiling. This fucking woman. “Free.”

“But—”

My eyes met hers again. “I thought you had more questions than that,” I reminded her.

She pondered for a moment, her eyes assessing me. “Are you going to answer all my questions?”

“I’ll try. Can’t answer too much about my work, though,” I informed her.

“How did you get into that?” she asked.

That, I could answer. “Got into bounty hunting as a favor to a good buddy of mine. We met in the Marines, got close, and he told me he had a half-brother somewhere out there. One night, when we were both on watch, I promised him that if we made it out, I’d find his his brother,” I explained, keeping the memories of war at bay. I’d done a good job of not succumbing to them for the last three years, and I had no plans of stopping now.

“Did you ever find him?”

My hand froze, the blade hovering above the next bundle of oregano. “No, I’m still looking for him,” I told her honestly.

“Does this buddy work for you?”

I resumed chopping. “No, he works down on a ranch in Colorado.”

She was quiet for a second. “Did you get your scar in the Marines?” The question came out softer than the rest, like she was afraid to ask it.

I finished chopping the leaves, crushed some between my fingers, and sprinkled it over the sauce before looking at her. She watched as I yanked the collar of my shirt down, revealing the rest of the scar that started at my temple, skirted my eye socket, down my cheek, into my beard, and down my neck. “Interrogation gone wrong,” I answered, watching her flinch. The phantom pain was back, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been in June. I could talk about it. There was just something about the anniversary that triggered my mind, sending signals to my body, reminding it that I should be in pain.

Her eyes widened as they trailed the length of it. “How long ago?”

“My first tour,” I answered simply, righting my shirt and turning back to the food, giving it a stir and checking if the pot of water on the next burner was boiling yet. The tenth of June.

“Are you okay?” she croaked.

I turned to her, opening a cabinet. “Do I not look okay?” I returned calmly. I knew I would have to talk to her about this eventually, that I’d have to brace for the reaction I thought I would get.

She blinked, squeezing her lips together. She was about to cry. I didn’t think she would cry for me.

Fuck.

Closing the distance between us, I gently cupped her face. “Don’t you dare shed anymore tears for me,” I murmured, wiping the first one away. What happened in the past was done. My scars, inside and out, were for me to bear, not her.

“I’m so sorry,” she rasped, her hands latching onto my sides.

“It’s in the past, baby,” I told her, assuring her. “I’m okay. I made it out.”

“You were tortured,” she croaked, her breath hitching. “I hate that you were in pain.”

This woman and her fucking heart. “It’s alright. It happened a long time ago.”

Her fingers flexed at my sides. “Did you get them? The guys who hurt you?”

I couldn’t tell her all the details about that mission—it was classified—but I could give her this. “My buddy? The one I just told you about?”

“Yeah?” my woman whispered.

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