Chapter 14

If there wasone thing I hated more than being stuck in this bed, it was the people who thought they had the right to sit next to me and preach.

Or read Reacher to me.

Dr. Simmons, a thirty-something counselor with a military bearing and a permanent frown, was explaining how Annie was downstairs, and it was in her best interest for me to be part of her life. All I could focus on was his tie with its teddy bears.

This was his third visit, and I’d listened to him tell me all the crap he thought I needed to hear. Call me a coward, but I pressed the button for meds and drifted away on a cloud of ignoring-the-fuck-out-of-him.

I’d even take another shower with Ryder, if it meant I could hide away—and that was a dangerous thought given all the weird feelings I was having about the idiot ranger. The thoughtful, caring, pushy, stubborn, idiot, ranger.

“August,” Dr. Simmons began and darted in to take the button from me, looping it around his hand and putting it out of reach. “I understand that this is incredibly difficult for you, but we need to talk about Annie.”

“No,” I said, firm and to the point.

“She’s been through a traumatic experience, and we want to ensure that she has a safe and supportive environment to heal, and that might include connecting to someone she knew from before.”

“She barely knew me.”

“You were in that house for six months, pretend-married, you were to all intents and purposes her second dad.”

“I said no.” I clenched my jaw and turned away from him in agonizing increments, gritting my teeth against the pain. What kind of asshole takes away a dying man’s meds? Not that I was dying, not before I finished things with Amos, but still, meds.

I couldn’t bear to think about Annie and the guilt, the fear, and the absolute determination that I shouldn’t be anywhere near her. She wasn’t my daughter. I heard the doc sigh, and then, he pressed on.

“Annie needs stability and love. You were a crucial part of her life whatever you think. We can work together to help her remember James.”

“That’s a low blow and fuck you, she’s not mine.” My heart broke at the lie in my words.

Dr. Simmons scraped the chair to the other side of the bed so I could see him, and his expression was filled with empathy. I didn’t want him to understand me. I wanted him to fuck off.

“You’re a connection to Annie’s father.”

“I kill people for a living.”

“And?”

“Fuck you.”

He leaned back in the chair, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Fuck you, back,” he said as if this was a joke.

I wanted to get out of bed and pummel his stupid face. “I have a gun.”

Another shrug, and he pressed a hand to his chest. “So do I. Three tours, Marine Corps, you want to have a gun-measuring competition, then whip it out, sailor.”

I rolled slowly to face away from him again, wires dragging, pain intensifying, and I heard the damn chair scrape again until once more, he was right in my face.

“We can take it one step at a time, and with therapy and support, we can help her heal, and you can remember the love you shared, and we can undo some of what happened.”

I shook my head, which freaking hurt. “I won’t put her through this. I’m not her family. Find her a family who can give her the life she deserves but keep me out of it.”

Dr. Simmons sighed. “You’re a selfish fucker, August Fox.” I closed my eyes, hoping he’d go away. “I won’t push you—I can’t until you’re well enough for me to knock some sense into you, but please consider the long-term impact on Annie. I’ll still be working with Lizzie on her therapy and healing process, even if you need more time. But I will come back, and I will drag you down to talk to her about her daddy.”

I stayed silent, my heart heavy with this decision, but my determination unwavering. I couldn’t bear to look at Dr. Simmons, couldn’t bear to face the reality of what I was doing. I wanted him to leave, to give me space to wallow in my self-imposed exile from seeing the girl who reminded me of my failures.

It was for the best.

“Morning, Psycho,” someone said from the door—Ryder.

Dr. Simmons rolled his eyes. “We’ve talked about that name,” he muttered, but he wasn’t angry, and I guessed the Marine nickname was as much a part of him as Ryder calling me Navy. I’d never been so relieved to see Ryder so we could break up this shit, but I rolled again, in painful increments, to turn my back on both of them.

When the door shut, I heard the chair scrape, then Ryder started reading again, and I lost myself in righteous defense of having nothing to do with Annie.

It was for the best.

* * *

I didn’t knowhow many days I’d been in this freaking bed, but I guessed it had to be at least a week, maybe ten days, and when I watched Ryder leave after yet another session of him reading out loud and me ignoring it, I was done with being still. I had this restless urge to get up, and the feeling of being confined to that bed, the monotony of the white walls and the constant beeping of machines, was stifling, almost suffocating.

Not to mention, I had to get strong enough to rip that phone out of Ryder’s hands so I could pretend I wasn’t enjoying him reading the book.

Dr. Simmonds came back on a daily basis, updating me on Annie. Sometimes it was Lizzie who was working with Annie one to one. I listened to them talk, but I refused to see her. That was a dangerous slippery slope on the way to me messing everything up.

I suggested that I write some things down for her, he responded with some shit about my healing path.

I turned my back on him. End of story.

I craved a glimpse of the outside world, something to remind me that life was still happening, that there was something beyond these four walls, and I wasn’t going to get it sitting here like a freaking invalid.

I felt helpless and vulnerable, and I hated it when I was used to having control over my actions and decisions. This enforced stillness, this dependency on others for even the most basic needs, was driving me insane, and the warrior part of me, that inner voice telling me I could do anything, meant all I really wanted to do was prove to myself I was still capable, despite my injuries. Not to mention the nagging feeling I should be doing something, that resting was somehow a luxury I couldn’t afford while there was still so much to be done.

Then, there was that fucking guilt, acid inside me, devastating, and coupled with the weight of unfinished business. I eased to the side of the bed, my feet touching the floor. The icy cold of it beneath my warm toes reminded me I was alive. I needed that for now, to feel in control, no matter how small the first step might be.

I managed to get to the door, thankfully, not hooked up to drips or machines anymore, and opened the door with caution, checked the corridor left and right, noticed the security camera at the end of the hall, but decided that, fuck it, if someone saw me stumbling about, they’d come find me, and that was a problem for future me.

I headed down the hallway, my steps unsteady—still weak from the injury, and pain a constant companion—using the wall to hold me up, until I reached the end where it met in a T along a walkway that went around in a big circle.

Doc Jen had explained that I was in Maine, and when I stared out of the window, it was obvious with the rock formations, and the rolling ocean, and the chill of spring snow.

This was a blast-from-the-past mansion, the contrast between the old and the new was obvious. Grand and imposing inside, it might well have once been something amazing, but for now, it was clear that the place had seen better days.

While what I assumed was the medical wing had up-to-date everything, with fresh paint and security, out here on a gallery overlooking a big hall, the paint on the walls was peeling, revealing layers beneath, and the hardwood floors, though still impressive, bore the scuffs and scratches of time. I glanced at the ceiling, at the intricate moldings dulled by years of neglect, but it was obvious that sections had been restored or were in the process of being renovated. These areas—like the room I’d been in—were in stark contrast to the faded grandeur of the rest.

The sound of laughter pulled me to the railings of the galleried walkway, and I searched for the source of the noise, a man sitting at a large table spread with art supplies, kids milling around, maybe ten of them, and there was paint everywhere. The man had a large piece of white paper, and it seemed as if they were all making hand prints of something. I leaned over a little more and spotted Annie sitting at another table with a young woman who was helping her with a jigsaw, and my heart stopped. Annie’s hair was in bunches, and I recalled how much she would wriggle when James tried to do her hair, even at two, she’d been stubborn as anything. She glanced around her, and I stepped back in case she saw me, then, I leaned against the wall, my energy draining, watching the other kids paint. Lost in staring, I didn’t notice Jen approaching until she was right beside me. So much for my training.

Her voice, sharp and tinged with irritation, snapped me out of my thoughts. “What the hell are you doing out of bed, Lieutenant Fox?” Doc Jen’s tone was way past concerned and right on to angry. She stood with her arms crossed, frowning at me in frustration.

I straightened, feeling a twinge of guilt for causing her distress, and a lot of pain in my belly. “I just… needed to stretch my legs,” I replied, my voice unsteady, trying to justify my actions.

She wasn’t buying it. “You’re not in any condition to be wandering around,” she snapped. “You need to rest and heal. Get back in your room.”

“Doc—”

“Do I need to get someone?” I knew at once this had been a rhetorical question given the cameras and the panic button she’d just pressed in full view of me. I didn’t know how long we had, but I had questions.

“Who are they?” I asked as she tried and failed to peel me from the wall, my voice barely above a whisper.

She looked down at the children and some of her anger subsided. “Victims of human trafficking. This place—Kingscliff—it’s like a halfway house for the ones we’ve managed to rescue. A safe space to start healing.”

Her words hit me like a physical blow, worse than any gunshot to the gut. Victims of human trafficking. The very thing I had fought against, the darkness I’d tried to shield Annie from. And here they were, children who had seen the worst of humanity, yet still found a way to laugh and play. At least, they were here, and I assume the twenty-one I’d managed to divert with Sanctuary’s help had also made it here.

But what about all the other ones I couldn’t stop—the ones Danvers had made secure before I even got there; the hundreds of kids that would be lost in the system?

“What about the ones I couldn’t save?” I murmured, my voice cracking. “The shipments I couldn’t divert…”

Doc Jen placed a hand on my shoulder, and I tore myself away. I didn’t want her understanding or gesture of comfort. I didn’t deserve it.

She tried again to touch me, and this time, I stepped back, the wall the only thing holding me up. “You’ve done more than most, August. You can’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

But her words did little to wash away the guilt surging within me. What about other children? The ones still out there, still suffering? The thought was overwhelming, a tide of helplessness and regret threatening to drown me. My belly ached, my throat tightened, and I felt nauseous, the walkway spinning around me, and for a second, I thought how easy it would be to find another part of this walkway where no one would see me jump.

My fingers found a raised doorjamb, and I glanced up, the sign on the door indicated a bathroom, and I was so sick, my body rebelling against the emotional turmoil. I shoved it open, then slammed it shut, locking it against Doc Jen, and I barely made it to the sink before I vomited, the violent heaving straining my already injured body. There was the sharpest of pains in my side and a wetness spread across my gown. My stitches had opened, the wound exacerbated by my hasty movements.

“Fuck,” I cursed, pressing a hand to my side in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding. I leaned against the sink, my reflection in the mirror a pale, haunted version of myself.

I’d survived a gunshot, but the wounds that ran deeper, the scars that weren’t visible, those were the ones that felt impossible to heal, and they hurt.

Fuck, they hurt.

As I stood there, blood seeping through my fingers, the bathroom door was heaved open—some force used, the wood slamming back into the wall—and an avenging angel rushed to my side, a pissed Doc Jen peering in.

“You’ve opened your stitches,” Ryder stated as he reached me.

“You don’t say,” I snarled back at him, pressing my fingers to the blood, feeling it wet on my skin. I pulled my hand away, saw the scarlet stain. What if I pressed harder? Could I make it bleed more? Then it would be easy to lie down here and?—

“Fuck’s sake, Navy,” Ryder snapped, and lifted my arm over his shoulder, dragging me out.

“Get him back in bed,” Doc Jen snarled.

Jeez, was everyone angry at me? I chuckled, but the sound was more like a groan as Ryder near carried me back to my room, mumbling under his breath some nonsense about idiot frogmen.

“I’ll show you, idiot,” I tried to say, but it was a rumble in my throat that never left my lips.

“Whatever, Navy, you stupid asshole.”

He heaved me toward the bed, but then, as I thought he might shove me down and leave me, his touch gentled, and with my head tucked into his neck, he placed me down and helped me back onto the white sheets. He knew how to balance his strength with care, and for a moment, I didn’t want him anywhere near me even as his steady hold ensured I didn’t collapse onto the mattress. Behind him, Doc Jen issued orders, a flurry of motion as other people entered the room. The pain from my wound flared, a sharp reminder of how fragile I was. Ryder appeared to sense this, his grip tightening to take more of my weight.

Once I was on the bed, he didn’t let go. Instead, he made sure I was properly positioned, adjusting the pillows to provide better support. His help was unhurried, each action deliberate and considerate.

“Okay, how does that feel?” he asked, his voice laced with concern, ignoring Doc Jen trying to get to me. It was as if he knew I needed time, and he stood by the bed, ready to adjust anything if needed.

I let out a breath. “You can go,” I managed to say, despite the discomfort, and he nodded. That was about all the thanks I could manage; all the apologies wrapped up in that single command. Then, he left the room, and Doc Jen fussed, and there was a bright light, then darkness.

I fucking hated the dark.