Page 72 of Cohesion

“Yes.” He wasn’t ashamed to admit that. He cared about Jericho and wasn’t interested in finding him lying face down on carpet, protecting someone that didn’t deserve it.

“I’m always careful. We need to find something to tie this guy up with before he wakes up,” Jericho said. “There might be something in the kitchen.”

Peyton stopped in his tracks, bile rising in his throat. “Fuck me,” he breathed out. It didn’t matter how many atrocities he’d witnessed,caused, or come in afterward to clean up, it never got easier. No one with a soul could look at this and feel nothing.

A man tied to a chair with zip ties and duct tape. Eyes wide in horror. Blood dripped from multiple wounds. He was clearly dead, but they needed to check, anyway.

“Check the bedroom for anything,” Jericho said, sliding a hand down Peyton’s arm. “I’ll have a look in here. Then we need to call Quinn, get him down here.”

Peyton nodded and stumbled backward. Quinn. Right. To arrest him. And deal with the crime scene. More reasonable than cutting his throat and leaving him here to bleed out, or a bullet to the back of his head.

It didn’t matter how far he travelled from where he’d been, he was stuck there. The “real world” was a foreign concept, anillusion that he tried to fake his way through, but the cracks always ended up showing.

Peyton checked the bathroom first, though he didn’t know why. The only thing long enough in there was floss, and that wasn’t going to be of any use. He tried the bedroom next. If there wasn’t anything else, a jumper or pants could do in a pinch. They wouldn’t need to hold him long. Just long enough for Quinn to arrive.

There was rope hanging up in the wardrobe. Peyton blinked as he pulled the carefully coiled white rope off the hook. The fuck? Why was it white? And why was it in the wardrobe and not in the garage?

He headed back out to where Jericho had the man in the living room. He’d dragged out a dining chair and was crouched behind it, holding his arms.

“This do?” Peyton asked, handing the rope over. “It was hanging up in his wardrobe, which is weird.”

Jericho grinned slyly as he took it with one hand and smoothed his thumb over it. “It’s soft.”

Yeah, Peyton had noticed that too. The texture wasn’t as rough as he’d expected. “So?” Did that mean something specific?

“So, baby, this rope was for activities specifically for the bedroom,” Jericho explained as he expertly tied the attacker’s wrists together and then looped the rope around the chair’s legs. There was enough length that Jericho used it around his legs, securing them to the chair as well. He wasn’t getting out of that in a hurry. “Looks like the lawyer was a kinky motherfucker.”

The man was coming to now, his head lolling as his eyes blinked in confusion. Blood dripped down his mouth and chin from the broken nose, and the first thing he did was spit it out. Peyton grimaced and stepped out of the line of fire.

What did Jericho mean by kink— “Oh.” Peyton’s cheeks heated.

Jericho winked at him as he yanked on the cords, checking the knots were solid, before he stood.

“Let me go,” the man slurred. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

Jericho dismissed him completely as he took hold of Peyton’s elbow and steered him to the far side of the room.

“It’s not just the nightmares, is it?”

Peyton wished he could pretend he didn’t know what Jericho was asking. “No.”

“PTSD wasn’t in your files.” He was looking at Peyton exactly the way he didn’t want anyone to look at him. Like he was broken. Like he had a sickness.

“Because I don’t have it,” he replied, crossing his arms uncomfortably across his chest.

Jericho ran his hands over them, resting his palms on Peyton’s upper arms. Caressing. Comforting. Peyton didn’t need anyone’s comfort.

“You think that avoiding getting an official diagnosis means you don’t have it?” Jericho asked. “I hate to break it to you, but it doesn’t work like that.”

“So what, you don’t want me on your team anymore? Am I a liability now?” Peyton asked bitterly. His biggest fear. If his team had ever found out, would they have done the same? They were more than his team. They were his friends. Hisbrothers. Would they have cast him aside because he was no longer whole?

“You are,” Jericho said bluntly. “Weapons are dangerous in the wrong hands. And when you’re not fully here, you’re already dangerous. Adding a weapon would only make that worse. We’re not here to use you, Peyton. We want you on our team as an equal. Do we want to use your capabilities to our advantage? Absolutely. You’re an incredible asset. Do we see that as your only purpose? Hell fucking no.” He tipped Peyton’s chin up, and Peyton was forced to look him in the eye. “We’re only human,and we’re all flawed. I see you, Peyton, all of you. And it only makes me want you more.”

Peyton wanted to see him too. “Take them out,” he said. He couldn’t help the plea at the end. He wasn’t looking at Jericho. He was looking at a mask. That mask didn’t belong to him, and he didn’t want to see it.

Jericho kissed him softly, their lips clinging. “Whatever you want. All you have to do is ask.” It took him mere seconds to get the contacts out, shoving them in his pocket instead of dealing with them properly, ensuring he couldn’t put them back in. Then Peyton was looking at his dark-brown gaze. Looking athim. He didn’t know why that settled him so much. Why the turmoil storming in his gut calmed at the sight.

“As far as we’re all concerned, you’re already one of us,” Jericho said. “This adds another step in our process, but it doesn’t change anything. Not for us. Not for me.”

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