Chapter 16

“Shit,”I heard Ryder mutter, and he stopped so fast it jolted me.

I was past the point where it hurt now, healing well, desperate to get out of the room, and now the chair, and even though I was still riding that anger of him insisting I see Annie, I wanted to throw something at him.

A quip, a one-liner to make light of the situation.

I’d gotten too used to his smiles, and he was my anchor in the ocean of shit, where the world outside seemed to go on as usual, people living their lives, while I was stuck in a holding pattern.

“You see a shark, Army?” I snarked, but he still hadn’t shifted, and that was when I saw her—Annie, my little girl, with that guy Josh, who was always poking his head in my room asking me if I wanted anything.

Yeah, I wanted out.

He never listened, just freaking smiled at me.

He was talking with a hand puppet as they walked. Annie was laughing up at him, and jealousy stabbed me. What was she doing with him? Why did he get to see her smile?

But the burn of envy turned to ice in my chest—he would make a good dad, right? Always smiling, had a kid of his own, which he’d told me in detail when I’d been too broken to turn over and ignore him. Annie deserved a big brother, and a dad who was stable—dads—or a mom maybe.

But his husband was Ethan, and Ethan was Shadow Team, and that made him vulnerable and…

My head hurt.

This wasn’t some kind of parade for potential parents.

Fuck this. She was four, and entitled to smile at the man who was helping her, when I couldn’t. Flashes of that last morning, of James and the pancakes, and Buzzy-Bear, and Annie’s smiles made my chest tight. As they drew closer, she slowed down, frowning at the two of us—Ryder behind, me sitting in the damn chair. Her approach was hesitant, and she gripped Josh’s hand, heading toward me with careful, measured, steps. I could see confusion in her eyes as she drew closer, then she passed by with a quick glance, chattering on with Josh, who glanced at me with an expression of something like sorrow. There had been nothing in her beautiful eyes—so like James’s.

She didn’t know me.

I didn’t want her to remember me.

I didn’t want to tell her about her dad, and Buzzy-Bear, and…

Fuck. I want her to remember me.

“Ryder, move.”

“August—”

“Please.” I wasn’t demanding now, I was begging.

He didn’t argue, but pushed me in silence into the main house, waited for the old elevator, and neither of us talked as we headed up to my room. I got myself out of the chair, got myself into bed, laid down, and turned my back to Ryder.

“You can go now,” I said, monotone.

“If you want to talk?—”

“Just go.”

* * *

That night,after watching Annie down on the pathway, my dreams were vivid, filled with her and James. Annie was there, right in front of me, James holding her. She was laughing, her eyes sparkling, and he was blowing her a kiss. We were in a place that felt both familiar and surreal—a playground, maybe, or our backyard. The details were blurry, but the feeling was crystal clear—a sense of everything being okay, something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I reached out to them both in the dream, my arms open. James let go of Annie’s hand and she ran towards me, her small feet pounding on the soft ground. The moment she reached me, I scooped her up, lifting her into the air as she giggled. The sound of her laughter was beautiful, and then James was there, and I was promising to keep them both safe.

As I held Annie close, spinning her around, I felt a surge of emotions—love, relief, a fierce protectiveness, a certainty that I would do anything for this little family. In that dream, Annie could know me, because I wasn’t a murderer driven by revenge and a thirst for killing.

But the dream changed, as it always did, James took her from me, making me promise to call, to tell him I was safe.

You need to be safe. Stay safe for me.

Then, there was blood, and pleading, and I woke myself up, with tears on my face, shaking, and so damn angry it burned, panting, and trying to catch my breath, scrubbing at my eyes.

I wouldn’t get any more sleep now.

I checked my watch, five a.m. I used the bathroom and showered, then dressed in the loose sweats that formed half of my wardrobe, along with a collection of generic T-shirts in various colors. At least, it was better than a hospital gown, but still, the sweats sat low on my hips, weighing nothing, and felt wrong when I was used to wearing tight jeans and a holster. I made a coffee, searched for a halfway decent snack, then, finding none, stared out at the ocean as best I could, given sunrise was still an hour away.

At least, I could hear it.

I let myself out of the room, passing the cameras and sketching a wave at whoever might be watching before I headed down to the kitchen to find a real snack.

Chocolate.

Cookies.

One of those frosted cupcakes from Ryder that I’d turned down.

Low lighting ran through the entire house and only the main doors were locked at night, so any one of the guests—me, the staff, or the kids—could walk around any part of the interior. There were several intriguing corridors, one with extra cameras and a key card lock, which I assumed was where the kid’s dorms were, a tall woman armed to the teeth sat at a desk by the hall, and we exchanged nods.

Should I try to find Ryder’s room? He might be awake, and the thought crossed my mind that he could make things better.

I had all this burning anger, and maybe if we sparred, I could get it out of me? My belly gave a sympathy wince, and I sighed. Fuck this shit. All these days, and I was done being an invalid, fucking Amos shooting me, fucking Amos deceiving me when I was trained to identify guys like him. Fucking everything. Finishing my walk to the kitchen, I grabbed a family-size bag of Doritos, stared at it, swapped it for candy bars, then with a put-upon sigh, put those back as well, and instead, grabbed a pack of chocolate-covered raisins, which were as healthy as it gets, I guess. Then, I made a hot chocolate and rounded the corner to a seating area, shocked to find someone else already there. Ryder. Snoozing on the sofa, the television on an infomercial about some magic stew pot thing. I stopped dead and backed out slowly.

“It’s okay,” Ryder murmured, his voice sleepy. “Come in and join the one-pot-wonder marathon.” He stood, stretched tall, and I couldn’t help but look. Come on, he was there, and his belly was flat, and he had a six-pack, and his low-hanging pajamas left nothing to the imagination.

Nothing.

“I should go,” I said, scrunching the pack of raisins and grasping my mug tight.

“No, you have to watch. Did you know that this pot cooks two to six times faster than traditional methods?” Ryder asked, and I wasn’t sure if he wanted an answer. “Imagine, I’m making a stew, and it cooks in minutes.”

“You do that? Cook I mean?” I asked, intrigued. The most I’d ever cooked was heating up MREs when we were on mission.

“I am a master cook,” Ryder chuckled. “I can do a mean mac ’n’ cheese.”

I watched as he crossed to the snack cupboard and pulled out the Doritos, pouring some into a bowl, then sitting back down, and through all of it, I stood there, not quite sure what to do. Then, he patted the sofa next to him, and somehow, it felt right that I sit with him.

We watched the infomercial repeat, as it did every twenty minutes, and I relaxed as the dregs of the dreams faded away. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d dreamed of impossible things and woken up angry, but I’d never considered infomercials to send me back to sleep.

With soft light coming from the muted glow of the television screen, I felt a strange sense of calm. It was late, the rest of the world asleep, leaving Ryder and me, plus the guard outside the kids’ part, in this quiet bubble of time and space. My belly didn’t even hurt, and the raisins were enough sweetness to keep me happy.

Ryder stood, turning off the TV, plunging the room into near-total darkness. I followed suit, standing, feeling a mix of uncertainty and something else I couldn’t quite name. There was a tension in the air, a charged silence that seemed to speak louder than words.

“Bed,” he announced, breaking the epic stare-off we had going on, and I fell into step with him as we headed up the stairs to the medical wing.

“Your room is up here?” I asked, confused.

“Nah, I’m walking you to your door.”

“Where is your room?”

“Second floor, east corner. Why? You coming to visit?”

“No,” I said, then huffed a laugh. “Why would I do that?”

“Because we’re friends?” Ryder suggested and elbowed me in the arm.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” I deadpanned, and by that time, we’d reached the door, and I opened it, turning to say my goodnight—I could be polite when I wanted to. Only, he sidestepped me and shuffled inside, closing the door behind us.

We were alone in my room. And again, staring at each other not knowing what to do or say.

“Ryder?” One of us needed to say something.

“I think I’m going mad,” Ryder said at last, his voice was barely above a whisper, yet it cut sharply through the silence.

“Why?” I asked, trying to make out his expression in the dim light.

“All I can think about is kissing you. That’s madness, right?” His voice was tinged with a mix of confusion and sincerity. “I mean, you’re focused on the Amos thing, and you’re hurt, and?—”

Something inside me snapped. I closed the gap between us, my hands cradling his face, and I kissed him, driven by raw emotion. Tension and the anger of a dream, and attraction I’d refused to think was real made me snap.

The kiss was a collision of need and desire, a release of pent-up emotions. As our lips met, the world around us seemed to fall away. The pain, the grief, the uncertainty—it all melted into the background, leaving only the two of us in that moment. It was reckless, but it felt like the most honest thing I had done in a long time. In that kiss, I wasn’t a soldier—I was August, raw and open, connecting with someone who had come to mean something to me.

Ryder scrambled to hold on, gripping my hair, twisting his fingers in its messy length, tilting his head to kiss me deeper, hard against me, and groaning low in his throat. He pushed me, or guided me, or fuck knows, but I was against the door, and he moved, and he goddamned cradled me as I needed to be held, and he gentled the kiss, resting our foreheads together. This was the moment it was over—madness he’d said—and maybe I could convince myself of that, and then, he kissed me again. Slow. Gentle. Shifting so he was between my legs, but still not crushing me, achingly slow, and when he pressed his cock against mine, I swear I was close to losing it there and then.

It had been so long.

He slid a hand between us, tugging at my sweats, then his own, and our cocks were bare, sliding against each other, the rhythm steady as I lost myself in perfect kisses and murmurs of need.

“We need this,” he whispered against my lips.

I know that I used words in return. I mean, I don’t know what I said, but he chuckled, and circled us both with a strong hold, and as our thrusting became jagged, I was lost in the chase to come.

“Need. Fuck.” I groaned, and my orgasm hit me hard, making my muscles hurt, feeling him stiffen against me, coming hard, and then, falling silent.

“Need,” he repeated, then he pulled up his pajamas, tugged up my sweats, and kissed me once more, so gentle I thought I might have imagined it.

When that kiss broke, and we pulled apart, a heavy silence hung between us.

“See you in the gym,” he murmured, and let himself out, and after a few moments, I sat on my bed, my side hurting, but my head buzzing.

What had I done?

What had we done?

And why did it feel so right?

* * *

Eric was one pissed-as-hell trainer.

PT sessions were a necessary part of my recovery, and we focused on strengthening my core muscles, which had been severely impacted by the gunshot wound blahblah… no undue stress on the healing tissues blah blah. I did listen the first time, but I didn’t need to hear his lecture every day.

Yes, I was stubborn, and yes, I pushed too hard, so yes, Eric was quietly seething with everything I did that was just a little more than he asked me to.

Or a lot more.

Eric was a good guy, competent and professional, and while I’d tolerated him at first when it was all I could do to stay awake, I’d begun to appreciate his straightforward approach.

He told me to do certain exercises, first in the bed, then when I was more able, down in the gym in the basement.

I did the exercises, pushed too hard, and he got pissed.

But somehow our weird, him angry and me defiant, relationship worked, and I was improving every day.

“There’s pushing for progress, and then, there’s overdoing it,” Eric snapped. Again.

“I’m not?—”

“Don’t even with me,” he muttered and wouldn’t let me explain. “Freaking SEALs, never fucking listen.”

And that was something else—he was a Sanctuary guy, so he had experience with all branches of the military, yet somehow, he had it hard for the Navy SEALs. Or maybe, as he called us, moronic fucking heroic asshole frogmen. Sometimes, he used all of those words, sometimes only a couple of them, either way, he let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I was an idiot.

I respected the fact that he called it as it was—begrudgingly—but I wanted to heal, I wanted to be out there, and when I caught myself pushing too hard, I didn’t want to be pulled up on my idiocy.

I wanted to be told I was strong, and that I could do this.

I needed it as much as I’d needed to come all over Ryder’s tight abs in the early hours of the morning.

Each session left me exhausted, but I could feel myself getting stronger, more in control of my body. The pain was still there, a constant reminder, but it was becoming more manageable day by day.

And after all the comments about me pushing too hard, as I finished a particularly tough set of exercises, Eric gave me a nod. “You’re exceeding expectations, August,” he said, checking his notes. “Another ten days at this rate, and you’ll be cleared for light duty.” He stared at me, daring me to suggest otherwise.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, feeling a surge of determination. “I’ll be out in three,” I said.

Just then, Ryder walked into the gym, catching the tail end of our conversation, limping, and not relying on his crutches now. He raised an eyebrow, a slight smile playing on his lips, his eyes narrowing on me, his gaze dropping to my shorts, then back up to my face. “Three days, Navy? Should I start the countdown?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “You might want to,” I said, and I might have preened a little. Having him there, witnessing my progress, gave me an extra push.

Also, he was in shorts and a T-shirt, and boy, was he hot.

Sexy and gorgeous, rough around the edges, distracting, and far too often, up in my face. And what was worse was that I knew what he tasted like, and I knew the sounds he made as he orgasmed, and I knew he could cook mac ’n’ cheese.

Fuck. I knew way too much about someone I would never see again after I left here.

Eric, noticing my growing tension, and probably thinking it was about the ten-day thing, cautioned, “Remember, it’s about balance, August. Pushing too hard can set you back.”

I shot him a glare, the unspoken message clear: I knew my own limits. “I’m fine,” I snapped, more harshly than I intended.

I gritted my teeth, pushing through another exercise. “I don’t need babysitting. I need to be operational.”

Eric sighed,—then there was a note of firmness in his voice. “Let’s take a break, August. You’re doing great, but we don’t want to overdo it.”

I eased off, every muscle protesting, and as I sat there catching my breath, the room felt stifling, the walls too close. I was tired of this, tired of being confined, of being a patient, and when Eric left, with a warning for no more today, I was tired of my body letting me down.

Ryder didn’t come over to talk about last night, or this morning as it was, probably sensing my mood. Or maybe, he thought I regretted what we’d done.

I didn’t.

If anything, I wanted more.

I needed more.

I lay on the massage bed, feeling every ache in my muscles, and my mind couldn’t help but drift towards Ryder. For the first time since I’d joined the Navy at eighteen, I was feeling something for another man, and Ryder confused me.

His muscles, defined and evident under his fitted shirt, were all about strength and discipline, and I remembered touching them before I’d become lost in the act of getting off. But it was also the way he carried himself—it was raw sex and power, despite the limp.

All I could imagine was him striding over here, straddling me, and grabbing my cock and making me come all over again.