Page 36 of In His Veins

underneath my body, tossing them into his hamper by the bathroom door. He grabs a t-shirt from his drawer and tosses it on the bed. It comes halfway down my thigh, but it smells like his pine detergent. I slip under the sheets, and he pulls the duvet over us.

I’m lying on my side and he wraps an arm around my waist before pulling me against his chest. He manages to avoid brushing against any of my cuts and I snuggle into his embrace.

“I still have a lot of questions for you,” I mumble, already half asleep.

“Are they urgent?” He asks, repeating his question from earlier. I smile even though he can’t see me.

“Very urgent,” I say through a yawn. “Don’t let me miss work tomorrow

morning.” He kisses my shoulder.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Viper.”

22

AVA

My eyes fly open. It’s still dark outside, making it hard to tell how long I’ve been asleep. Unsure of where I am, I look around the room, seeing my painting on the dresser. The night’s events suddenly rush back to me. I sit up in bed, the lacerations on my stomach resisting the movement.

I turn to Cal and realize what woke me up. He’s twitching in his sleep. For a horrifying moment, I think he’s having a seizure. He’s talking too, but it’s so low I can’t make out the individual words. I gently place a hand on his arm, worried about waking him up suddenly and causing him further panic.

“Cal?” I whisper. Nothing. He continues to twitch and thrash on the bed. I try again.

“Callum?” This time I run a hand up and down his arm, slowly. “Please wake up, Cal.” I move my hand to his chest and say his name again, louder this time. He’s instantly alert and lunges toward me. Cal rolls on top of me, eyes wide and chest heaving.

I have a brief moment of fear and force myself to dismiss it, raising a hand to cup his cheek. “Cal, you were having a nightmare. You’re safe.”

I don’t know where the words come from, but I can’t fight the urge to console him. He holds his hand over mine as he continues to stare down at me like he doesn’t recognize me. Slowly, he becomes more aware of where he is and sits back on his feet.

“Fuck, Ava. I’m so sorry.” He drags a hand down his face, refusing to look at me. I sit up and reach for his hands, holding them in both of my own.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I whisper. His eyes cut to mine for a moment, then away. The look is brief, but the pain there is enough to take my breath away.

“No.” His voice is clipped, but not unkind. Cal lays on his back and stares at the ceiling.

“You have PTSD.” It’s not a question, but he answers it anyway.

“Yes.” His throat bobs and I curl up against his side.

“How long have you had it?” He doesn’t look away from the ceiling as he

answers.

“I got the diagnosis a few years ago when I left Special Ops. Who knows how long I had it before then.” I listen to him breathe for a few minutes before he speaks again. “I have the same nightmares over and over. They alternate, but it’s like my brain is pulling from a catalog of the things I’d like to forget the most.” He chuckles, but there’s little humor in the sound.

“Sometimes I forget that I have it. I only have issues at night,” he adds. I listen to his heart beat in his chest, as I try to imagine the horrible things he must have seen.

“What are the most common ones?” I’m not sure he’ll answer me at first, but then he sighs and pulls me closer to his side.

“I watched a mother use her own child as a distraction for a suicide bombing. He was right with her, and I will never forget his face. He knew what was coming, and he was terrified. I didn’t realize what was coming until it was too late.” I’m silent as I process the horror of the situation and how he must feel to live with the guilt of that memory.

“I dream about my mother a lot. My dad beat the shit out of her for years, and even though I didn’t see him kill her, it’s a nightmare that I have with some frequency.” His breathing is a little steadier now, but I can’t hold back my next question.

“How did you kill him?” I ask it so quietly that he could pretend that he hadn’t heard me. He closes his eyes as if he’s imagining the moment.

“I shot him execution style in the middle of the Canadian wilderness. Chase and I found him in Vermont and threw him in the back of the car. He knew his reckoning had come the moment he saw me on his threshold. He fought, but it wasn’t enough in the end. He sobbed and begged me to spare his life. He died like a coward and is rotting in an unmarked grave.”

“I’m sorry, these questions can’t be conducive to sleep,” I whisper.

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