Page 228 of American Hellhound
Some of the single guys were camped out on the sofas, unmoving beneath their blankets, dead asleep. There was no sign of Reese – God knew where he’d gone – but he wasn’t the only one lurking and awake in the underwater light of dawn.
In the kitchen, Kris pulled up short when she found Roman sitting at the small café table pushed up against one wall, hands wrapped around a steaming white mug. The smell of coffee was sharp and welcome, as comforting as the look on his face was disturbing.
“Hi,” she greeted, just a whisper, lingering in the threshold.
He didn’t look up. “Hi.”
It was stupid to feel wrong-footed around him. Very stupid. He’d seen her chained to a bedpost, for God’s sake. So she walked to the coffee pot and poured herself a mug. Added three spoons of sugar, because she could. She could eat and drink and do whatever she wanted now, and she was never going to skimp on sugar, not ever. Then she went to sit across from Roman.
His head lifted, and he looked worse than she’d first thought: lined, and gray, and hollowed-out. She didn’t see the flash of fear or anger in his eyes, the way she imagined it in the other men splashing their faces and peering into bathroom mirrors this morning. No, he looked resigned. Grim.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He shrugged and avoided her gaze.
“Are you scared?”
He made a face. “No. Aren’tyou?”
“Terrified,” she admitted on a shaky exhale. “I don’t want to go back.”
“You won’t.” His eyes came to her then. “Kris, youwon’t.”
She offered him a bare smile. It was nice of him to say that, but he wasn’t in a position to promise her anything.
Nobody was.
~*~
Ghost smoothed down the last Velcro strap of his flak vest and shrugged his shirt on over it. It was black, a white silhouette of a dog on the front. They were going soft colors today, plain jackets, no cuts. If shit got crazy, he didn’t want their patches flying all over the evening news.
God forbid.
His twin Colt 1911s went in his shoulder holster, under his jacket. .38 in his boot. Bowie knife strapped to his leg; backup knife in his other boot.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the dressing table mirror as he turned for the door. The black of his eyes and hair. The shadow of gray at his temples, and along his jaw. The lines on his face. The trim waist and hips, beat-up jeans. Glint of his wedding ring; his other rings, chunky and hyper-masculine by comparison to that simple band.
He looked like a soldier, he thought.
He hoped he looked enough like a king.
He ran into Aidan and Tango in the hallway, the two of them leaning close together, talking in low tones, their own flak vests visible beneath their shirts. Tango had a .45 crammed in his waistband. Aidan had a love bite on his neck, just beneath his ear, a souvenir from a worried old lady. (Ghost said a silent thank you, again, for Sam, and her positive influence on his boy.)
They both glanced up when he appeared, expressions tight with stress…but ready. All set to receive orders and carry out the grisly tasks he set before them.
Ghost felt a lump form in his throat. Mercy was his son-in-law, and he loved him, yes, but he felt more like an equal. A brother.
These two, though, they were his boys. Always babies and awkward kids in his mind. He loved them fiercely, in ways he didn’t normally let come to the surface. And he was so, so scared for them today. They had wives; they had futures. They were better than him, more innocent, even after everything. And he wanted to wrap them in cotton and stuff them in a dark closet until everything was over.
“Hey,” Aidan said. “Are we–”
Ghost stepped in and caught them both at their napes, pulled their heads in close to his, their foreheads warm and smooth against his jaw.
Tango leaned into him.
Aidan’s breath caught on a hitch.
“Love you boys,” he said, chest tight.
