Page 21 of Tide of Treason
Strong features, granite-hard. Stormcloud eyes that usually froze everything they touched were burning, fierce and urgent. His lips moved, words tumbling out in a low rasp, but they drowned in the static roaring in my ears. He glanced over his shoulder, barking something into his walkie.
My gaze slipped back to Abel.
The medic on the team took one look at him and shook his head slowly.
Rafael swore, digging his fingers into my jaw to snatch my attention. “You hear me,meu amigo?”
I nodded, numb. It was enough confirmation for him to pull me to my feet, keeping me upright when my legs threatened to give out. He hauled me past the blood, past the gathering crowd, past the stares of thesoldatiand our team.
I didn’t fight him.
What was the point?
All I could feel was the weight in my pocket. The wedding band that used to mean forever. The blood on my hands. And the gaping hole in my chest that told me the closest thing I had to family was gone, and I was back to the beginning.
Alone.
Always alone.
I didn’t remembermuch of the trip home. There were a few flashes. A pinkening sky. A car. The quiet. A soft palm touching my cheek, wiping silent grief away.
“Tell me something,” Kayla said, calm but authoritative.
“He spent two years in the marines. Only signed up so he could clear my name.” I didn’t expect anyone to recognise how important that was, how much of a debt I’d carry, heavier than concrete, colder than ice, for the rest of my fucking life.
Reaching into my pocket, I gripped the gold ring. Flipped it between my fingers, Abel’s easy smile flashing in my mind. Blood smeared my knuckles. I closed my eyes. Breathed through the suffocating pain lodged in my lungs. Kayla left a gentle touch over my knuckles before resting her hand back on the steering wheel.
I watched the world flash by us for the rest of the short drive to my place. Trees. Buildings. A few lonely souls walking down the sidewalk. Once we were inside, she closed the door behind us, the quiet click echoing off walls that had seen better days.
“You don’t have to stay,” I told her. “I’m fine.”
She swept a cool, assessing gaze across my apartment—a lopsided sofa that creaked under its own weight, a rickety table marred with cigarette burns, walls stained with years of neglect. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the shelter. Better than waking up to the stench of piss and despair, tostrangers ready to gut you for a crust of bread or a blanket.
My hands had bled for it.
My pride had been swallowed and spat out a thousand times to keep it.
I’d learned to appreciate the small things. A door that locked and kept the world out. Four walls that were mine and mine alone, where I didn’t have to sleep with one eye open or clutch a knife under my pillow. A sofa that might have been ugly, might have been uncomfortable, but it didn’t smell of rot. The battered table wasn’t a masterpiece, but it wasmineto scratch up, to burn with cigarette butts.
“You have a habit of barging in when my life’s a shit show.” I took a breath. “I’m fine.”
“Stop feeding me bullshit, Lucius.”
I didn’t have the energy to play at annoyance. Pulling my shirt over my head, I dropped the blood-soaked cloth into the trash. My hands went to my pockets, emptying them onto the counter. The wedding ring rolled, spinning until it came to a stop by one of the cabinets. I reached for it, running a thumb over the cool metal. Then the pill bottle. Xanax. Prozac.
If she lectured me about pain management right now, I’d make sure she regretted it. My tolerance for her holier-than-thou judgments was running dangerously thin.
Wordlessly, I walked away and took a scalding shower, trying to scrub away the feel of blood and the stench of loss. It helped, marginally, to have the water burn my skin and the steam clear my head. By the time I returned to the kitchen dressed in sweats and a plain gray T-shirt, Kayla was still there,looking down at a bottle of water, eyes narrowed pensively.
“Your freezer is a travesty,” she stated quietly. “Only thing you have in here is vodka and pizza rolls.”
“Some of us don’t have butlers stocking the fridge with filet mignon. Budget’s tight. And before you say it—no, I’m not popping more pills. So save the doe-eyed ‘I’m worried about you’ act for someone who gives a fuck.”
“I’ll stop looking at you like that when you stop giving me a reason to.”
A caustic retort rose on my tongue, but she cut it down with a swift click of her tongue.
“Come here.”
