Page 128 of The Protective Gryphen

Immediately, Graham put his hand on his back and one on his chest.

“Breathe with me, Gryphen,” he said, as the man matched his breaths in and out.

They were deep, and slowly, the freakout dissipated. Gryphen was able to breathe again.

“Thank you,” he said.

“What happened?” he asked. “Where’s Ian. Nothing happened to him, right?”

He pointed at the kilt shop.

“No, he’s inside.”

The man was confused.

“Did you decide not to get one?” he asked. “Is that why you’re out here?”

He was honest.

Why?

He had no idea.

Maybe it was because Graham was a soldier and would understand.

“My service came up, and it was brought to my attention that I’m a murderer who enjoyed it. I felt the walls caving in, and I had to get out. Sometimes, that happens.”

Oh, he understood.

The same thing happened to him.

“PTSD?”

Gryphen nodded.

He sat there, and Graham stayed with him, saying nothing at first. Then, he went there.

“You dream about it, don’t you?” he asked.

He laughed sardonically.

That said it all.

“Every night?” Graham asked.

Gryphen nodded.

“It used to be every night, and now, it’s less often. Only, when people call me a killer, it makes me feel this shame. I joined the Marines to be part of something and to feel whole. In the end, I ended up just feeling broken.”

Graham was honest.

“We all do. Then, you find that one thing that you can use to fill in those cracks,” he said, pointing as Ian came out of the shop carrying two garment bags. He walked toward the car they’d been using, and put the kilts inside.

They watched him, and as he closed the hatch, he closed his eyes and put his forehead against the car, clearly upset.

“He loves you. When I told him you were outside chopping wood, he was all smiles. Does he make it better?” Graham asked.

There was no doubt in his mind the only reason he was still alive was Ian.

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