Page 51 of Searching for Valor

An owl hooted mournfully in the distance, its cry echoing through the valley.

It was beautiful. Peaceful. Everything he didn’t deserve.

“You need to go,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I don’t want you here.”

He heard Rhiannon’s sharp intake of breath, but he didn’t turn to face her. He couldn’t bear to see the hurt in her eyes, knowing he was the cause.

“Rylan, please,” she said. “Don’t do this. Don’t push me away again.”

He gripped the railing tighter, his knuckles turning white. The rough wood bit into his palm, and he welcomed the pain.

“You’re my brother,” she continued, her voice softening. “I love you no matter what. Even when you’re being a stubborn, self-destructive idiot. I will never give up on you. Never.”

“I said go.”

“Rylan—”

“I said go!” he growled, still not looking at her. “I don’t want you here. I don’t need you here.”

Rhiannon’s chair scraped against the wooden deck as she stood. Rylan braced himself for more arguments, more pleading, but instead he heard her soft footsteps retreating. The sliding door opened with a quiet hiss.

“I love you, Ry,” she said softly. “When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here.”

The door shut behind her.

He should feel relieved. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be left alone?

But as the sound of Rhiannon’s car faded into the distance, a crushing weight settled on his chest. The silence he’d craved earlier now felt oppressive, suffocating.

With a frustrated growl, Rylan pushed away from the railing and stalked inside. He needed a drink. Something stronger than bourbon-laced coffee. Something to numb the ache in his chest and quiet the voices in his head.

But he was out of bourbon.

He stumbled into the kitchen, yanking open cabinets until he found what he was looking for— a dusty bottle of cheap vodka left by the house’s last tenants before he bought the place. He’d never liked vodka and only drank it back in those dark days after his injury when any alcohol was better than none. But tonight… tonight he needed it.

He unscrewed the cap with shaking hands and took a long pull straight from the bottle. The liquor burned going down and brought tears to his eyes, but he welcomed the sensation. It was something to focus on besides the crushing guilt and self-loathing.

He slumped against the counter, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold tile floor. The bottle dangled from his fingers as he stared blankly at the wall.

What the hell was he doing?

He’d worked so hard to get clean, to rebuild his life after hitting rock bottom. And now here he was, sitting on his kitchen floor, drinking cheap vodka straight from the bottle.

He knew he should stop, knew he was spiraling dangerously close to the edge. But he couldn’t seem to make himself care.

Images flashed through his mind—Alejandro’s blood-stained face, Fuse’s lifeless eyes, Shane’s scarred body. The devastation on Rhiannon’s face when she’d found him living on the streets. The disappointment in his parents’ eyes.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memories, but they kept coming. The intervention at RWCR headquarters. The concern and pity on his teammates’ faces. Izzy face when he told her he could never forgive her…

Rylan’s vision blurred, and he realized he was crying. Silent tears streamed down his face as the weight of everything he’d been carrying crashed down on him.

He was so tired.

Tired of fighting.

Tired of pretending he was okay when he was falling apart inside.

Just. So. Fucking. Tired.

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