Page 33 of Destroyed (American Street Kings 4)

I swallowed. “What is it you want to show me?”

With slow, calculated steps, he moved closer, and my heart started racing. I held my breath, unable to take my eyes off him. He looked fucking beautiful in that moment, the art on his skin decorating every muscle, every curve, creating an image of a man bathed in authority and dripping with dominance. It took me five years, two months, and twelve days to see it.

“I’ve never showed anyone.” His throat moved as he swallowed.

“What is it?”

“This.” Slowly, he turned, and I gasped softly, a wisp of air rushing past my lips as I stared at the image that covered every inch of his back. A dragon, scaled and magnificent, engulfed by flames—just like his drawing of the phoenix. But it wasn’t the tattoo that had my legs unsteady beneath me. It was the scars—scars I could only see because I was standing so close to him. Hidden under the detailed scales of the dragon were scars, every line, every shade and shadow touching marred skin.

Without thinking and completely mesmerized, I reached out, my fingertips burning with the need to touch. The second I placed my finger on the tip of the dragon’s curled tail, I heard him inhale sharply, and my heart physically hiccupped. I could feel it, the affliction hidden beneath the black ink, the pain buried beneath the scars—I felt him.

“Ink—”

“I was twenty-two.” His voice was soft, husky as he hung his head, his shoulders taut. “My brother asked me to babysit his two-year-old daughter.”

“You have a brother?”

“Had. I had a brother.”

“Oh, my God,” I whispered. “What happened?”

“It was only supposed to be for an hour or two while he went out to buy his wife an anniversary gift.” Ink snorted. “Fucker forgot about it, and by the time he remembered, it was almost time for his wife to get back from work.” He paused, and his shoulder moved as he breathed. “Mia was sleeping in her room, so I stayed behind while he rushed out. I fell asleep. I fucking fell asleep after working two shifts at the hospital.”

I frowned. “The hospital?”

He glanced halfway over his shoulder. “I worked as a nurse in the ER before…” he choked, “…before my life got shot to shit.”

If this was any other time, I would have chewed his ass relentlessly, cracking everymursejoke there was. But there was too much weight in his words, a heavy burden that had his shoulders slumped. I just…I couldn’t believe the Ink I knew worked in a hospital, saving lives. Yet now it made sense how he would always be around helping with my injuries, always knowing exactly what Doc was talking about.

“It’s hard to imagine, right?” He shot me a half smile over his shoulder. “Anyway, I fell asleep on the couch downstairs. Exhausted. Her screams woke me up—high pitched, panicked screams that sliced through me.”

I pulled my hand from his back like his skin had burned me, and I whimpered.

He turned to face me, his expression grim with regret. “There was smoke everywhere. I couldn’t see shit. I didn’t know what the fuck was going on. It was only when I rushed up the stairs that I realized what was happening. Jesus.” He leaned his head back, eyes cast up to the roof like he was searching for strength to finish his story. “Flames blazed down the corridor, the smoke so thick I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to see where I was going.”

“Jesus,” I gasped, placing my hand in front of my mouth, my vision hazy with unshed tears.

“It’s funny. I only saw the flames for a second, but when I heard her scream again, the fire, it disappeared. I didn’t care about the smoke burning my nose, threatening to suffocate me. I didn’t give a shit that I couldn’t even see my fucking hand in front of my face. All I cared about was her.” His voice cracked, pain leaking from every word. He sniffed, and when he looked back at me, I saw the regret well up in his eyes. “I had to follow the sound of her crying to find my way to her. I remember screaming her name, telling her I was coming. That I would save her. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.” Crouching down, he held his face in his hands, his jaw clenched as he tried to keep his shit together, to not break down. “The flames wouldn’t let me through. It wouldn’t let me get to her. Her cries were supposed to get louder the closer I got to her, but it didn’t. It only grew softer while the flames got angrier. The last thing I remember was the roof caving in, and I tried to crawl my way through the flaming debris, the searing pain on my back unable to slow me down. But I no longer heard her. Her screams died.” He looked up at me, a single tear slipping down his face. “And so did she. Mia died, and I couldn’t save her.”

“Ink.” I hunkered down to face him, and my chest tightened, my body erupting in chills. I had no words, only images of the horror he had to carry with him every day of his life.

Regret etched across his features as he stared at me. “I couldn’t save Mia, and I blame myself as much as my family does. They never forgave me, and I still haven’t forgiven myself.”

“No.” I shook my head. “It’s not your fault. What happened isn’t your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. If I was awake, I could have gotten her out of there in time.”

Suddenly, all the pieces came together, and I frowned, searching his face. “That’s why you’ve been sneaking into my room, sitting with me while I sleep…isn’t it? You’re afraid to fall asleep.”

His brown irises swirled with grief as he relived the memories of his past, but he reached out and cupped my cheeks with his palms, his body a breath away from mine. “I can’t fall asleep thinking that you might need me, and I won’t be able to get to you in time.”

It all made sense now. Everything clicked into place. This was him. This was who he was, the kind of man he had always been. All the times when the guys got hurt, the time when Dutch got shot, and me, after what happened to me, Ink was always there. Always helping. It was in his nature to care for people who got hurt. Everything made fucking sense now. Finally, I saw the real him. Not the manwhore he pretended to be, or the hard-ass sergeant-at-arms of the American Street Kings. But the man with a fucking heart of gold.

I placed my hand on his chest, flattening my palm against his warm skin. He closed his eyes, as if my touch alone freed him. “I’m sorry, Ink.”

“No. You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Yes, I do. All these years, I…I misunderstood you. I didn’t know—”

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