Chapter 20

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I f looks could kill, this douchebag would’ve been six feet under by now.

Red’s eyes went wide, her face turning pale beneath those freckles. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. I looked at her, trying to figure out what the hell she was feeling, but it was like hitting a brick wall. She looked confused, scared, and pissed off all at the same time.

You’d think he’d have the decency to stay the hell away from her after what he did.

But no.

Doctor Fuckface was tall, with that confident swagger that made you wanna punch him in the throat, wearing one of those stethoscopes that hung around his neck, like he’s got a hotline to God.

He had a look about him—a way of holding his head high, of spreading his arms out wide as if to take in the world around him, that screamed ‘I’m better than you’. His eyes were sharp and cold, and they glittered with the arrogance of a man who thought himself above the fray.

“I need your help over there.”

Dr. Jackhole gestured towards Private Punchable, our buddy who was lying on the table with a few minor cuts and bruises. I knew what was going on here—this wasn’t about help, it was about control.

I’d seen this asshole in action before, and he was nothing but a pompous ass who thought he was God’s gift to medicine.

Oh, I was fucking livid now. My blood was leaving my face as Dr. Douchebag continued his soap opera soliloquy.

“I need you to change his bandages,” he said, like he was asking her to hand over the TV remote. “Please,” he crooned, with this fake-ass charm, like he wasn’t the manipulative fucker who’d wrecked her life.

Red looked like she’d seen a ghost, her eyes darting back and forth between me and Dr. Fuckface, who just so happened to be her abusive ex-boyfriend from hell.

Yeah, life’s a real comedian sometimes, huh?

“Hey, Doc,” I said, my voice sounding more like a low rumble of thunder than anything remotely human, “shouldn’t you know that changing bandages is a nurse’s job, not a doctor’s?”

He looked at me like I was the stupid one. “Well,” he said grimly, “sometimes doctors have to step out of their comfort zones and help where they’re needed.”

Doctor my ass. Abuser, more like it.

The bruises, the fear in Red’s eyes whenever he was around. I seethed at the thought of him causing her pain, and I wanted nothing more than to rip him apart limb from limb. My blood was boiling, and I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks like a nuclear reactor.

“And sometimes doctors should stay the fuck away from their ex-girlfriends,” I snapped back at him, taking a step forward.

Red seemed to be holding her breath, like she was waiting for the sky to fall down on us any minute now.

Dr. Dickhead just laughed, like it was some kind of joke.

“And who you might be?” he asked, feigning politeness.

I snarled, my face twisting into a grotesque parody of a smile. I swear, if I wasn’t trying to be the bigger man, I’d rip his throat out.

“Her fucking bodyguard today,” I gritted out slowly, “and if you try anything with her, I’ll make sure you’ll be needing a doctor.”

The room fell silent. You could hear a pin drop.

His eyes narrowed, and he looked me up and down like he was trying to figure out if I was worth his time. I just stood there, my arms crossed over my chest, daring him to make a move.

He shrugged, still wearing that infuriating smirk, but Red stepped in, putting herself between us. Always the fucking peacemaker.

“Dr. Moore,” she addressed him, her voice clipped and cold. “What brings you here?”

Dr. Asshole chuckled, thinking he’s got some comeback that was going to make him look like the fucking hero.

“Well,” he said, drawing it out like a smug prick, “when Captain Collins mentioned transferring you here, I thought they could use an extra pair of hands.”

Bitch, please.

Red scoffed and I couldn’t agree more. Dr. Jackass was needed about as much as a hole in the head, if you catch my drift.

“An extra pair of hands?” she asked, her voice getting louder. “More like an extra set of eyes on my ass.”

Dr. Dickbag chuckled darkly, his eyes sliding down her body without shame.

I was two seconds from breaking his jaw.

“You used to enjoy those eyes, Dr. Davis.”

If this were a Western, we’d be about to draw our guns.

I gritted my teeth harder, feeling the blood pounding in my temples. This asshole was literally begging for a beatdown, and I was itching to give it to him. He wasn’t just hitting on my girl—he was disrespecting her, too.

“Oh, so that’s what this is about?” I asked. “You’re just here to stroke your fucking ego?”

Wait. Did I just say my girl?

Dr. Dickhead’s smirk faltered just a bit, but it was enough for me to know that I’ve hit a nerve.

Good.

He looked like he was about to jump across the room and choke the shit out of me, his face turning a deep shade of red, veins popping out of his temples and I was grinning like an idiot. Damn, I was having way too much fun pissing him off. But my victory was short-lived, as I felt Red’s cold stare trained on me.

“That’s enough. Both of you,” she said, separating us like a cowboy breaking up a barfight. “We’re here to save lives, not fight each other.”

I watched her take a moment to compose herself, her hands shaking as she reached up to straighten her hair.

“I’ll do it,” she whispered, her voice trembling, like she was trying to convince herself more than him. “I’ll change his bandages.”

Dr. Fuckwad motioned to the soldier and of course, Red—our fucking little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes —rushed right over and started checking him out, all the while looking like she was holding back the fury of a thousand suns.

Way to go, Red.

I couldn’t believe it. After everything that motherfucker had done to her, she was still listening to him, still doing his bidding like he was the fucking messiah. She was literally asking to get hurt all over again.

Stockholm syndrome in its pure form.

I was standing there, feeling defeated, pissed off, and just plain done with this shit. I didn’t say anything. What the hell was the point? Red had chosen his side.

I needed space. I needed time to cool off and figure out what the hell was going on in my head. And I sure as hell didn’t need to be around Dr. Shitstain and his bullshit drama—especially when it involved Red.

I swallowed my pride and stormed out, muttering a stream of curses under my breath that’d make a sailor blush. Fuck it. This wasn’t my fight; was Red’s. But damn, I couldn’t believe she was letting him get away with this shit again.

In the end, it was her ex, her stupid decisions, and her life that she chose to ruin.

It’s been a hell of a day.

Fuck, the bag felt like it was made of steel today. I was throwing everything I’ve got into these punches, but it just wouldn’t budge. My knuckles were killing me, and I felt the blood dripping down my fist. You’d think they’d have better equipment in a military base gym, but hey, we were here to break our bodies, not work out properly.

This gym was a pit. Dark, musty, reeking of sweat from a thousand guys before me. Ceiling leaking like a goddamn faucet, dust covering everything, but it beat going outside and getting bombarded with more bullshit training exercises or whatever mindless crap the higher-ups decided was essential to make us ‘better soldiers’.

My fists were flying, each hit hard enough to crack bone. The bag almost felt like it was screaming, but I didn’t care— I needed this. The frustration and anger, it was tearing me up inside. My body just needed to let loose, and I did. Fuck, I did.

I wanted to drown myself in whiskey and forget everything, just drink my way into oblivion. But no. Instead, I was here, beating the shit out of a bag, trying to convince myself this was the right thing to do.

My fists crackled and popped as my fight or flight response kicked into high gear. The job had been a bitch today—endless ops [2] briefings with Captain Asshat and sifting through piles of pointless reports that qualified as a war report around here.

Fucking circus.

I needed to beat the shit out of something, and this bag was as good a target as any. It was heavy, hanging from the ceiling in a room painted a flat, ugly green. It stank of body odor and old leather but that was the least of my worries as I stepped forward, swinging hard. The impact echoed through the room, my fist hitting the soft, squishy surface of the bag with an audible smack.

Then there was her. Red. She was everything I fucking hated—weak, soft, and way too good-looking for her own good. She’s got this fucking smile that just wouldn’t quit, and those fucking eyes that just seemed to look right through me. And then there was her laugh. It was like music to my ears, but at the same time, it was like a hammer hitting me in the chest.

She was a breath of fresh air, and I fucking hated it.

I hated her for getting under my skin, for making me care. I’ve been in this game long enough to know better, but here I was, like a fucking moron, falling for her.

What a goddamn idiot.

We were both screwed. I was beating the shit out of this bag, and she was probably crying herself to sleep because she couldn’t figure out why she still let that piece of shit walk all over her.

Great job, Rogue. Real fucking hero.

And don’t even get me started on Viper. That dumbass nearly got himself killed earlier today. Guy’s stable now, but he’s a walking disaster. I swear, if he keeps pulling this reckless shit, I’m gonna lose my mind. I can’t stand the thought of him—or anyone—dying on my watch. So yeah, add that to the pile of crap I’ve got to deal with.

I was angry with myself. Angry that I let my guard down for her. Angry that I let myself feel something for her. But most of all, I was angry that she listened to that asshole. That she couldn’t see the truth— he’d never stop hurting her. That he was toxic to the core.

“Fuck!” I roared, hunching my shoulders and throwing my entire weight into the bag, pulling it toward the center of its heavy steel chain anchor.

The heavy, dull thud of my fist connecting with the bag was the sweetest sound in the world, as if every punch I threw was a direct hit on the bastard’s face.

The bag swung back, but it was not much compared to the force I was putting into it. My hands hurt from the friction of the bag, my knuckles raw and rubbed raw but it was not enough.

I needed more.

One arm came back, fist cocked back. I swung with all my might, connecting with a sickening crunch. The canvas on the floor beneath my feet shook with the impact, throwing off the balance. The bag swung back, my knuckles screaming in agony. I swear, it has more life than a zombie after a headshot.

I wasn’t sure if it was the sweat dripping down my forehead, stinging my eyes, or the sheer physical exhaustion that was making me see stars, but I couldn’t keep going.

One more punch. Two more punches.

Three. Four. Five.

This was better.

I punched the bag one last time, my arm aching from the strain. I backed away, breathing heavily, the sweat dripping down my face. I looked at the clock on the wall, seeing how long I’ve been in here. An hour? Two? I didn’t fucking know, and I didn’t fucking care.

I caught my breath, wiping the sweat from my brow. Everything felt hazy, and I couldn’t quite focus. My vision was blurred, and my mind was racing.

At least for now, the rage was gone. But deep down, I knew it’d be back.

And so would he.

Then I stopped, my chest heaving, gasping like a fucking animal as I leaned hard on the bag. My hands were a bloody wreck, knuckles torn to shit, but it didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered anymore. I wasn’t even a man at this point—just some hollow shell, drowning in my own stupidity and the chaos I dragged along with me.

I collapsed onto the cold, filthy floor, panting like I’d just run from hell itself. My vision started to blur, and I almost welcomed that creeping darkness, but of course, that’s when I heard footsteps. Just my luck. Pyro strolled in like nothing was wrong.

“Capt. wants to see you,” he said, and I groaned, not wanting to deal with any more bullshit.

My day just kept getting better and better.

“I’m sure he does.”

Pyro chuckled, but it was more out of nerves than amusement. “He said it’s important. Something about a mission.”

He stayed annoyingly calm, like none of this bullshit fazed him. And that pissed me off more. How the hell was he always so calm? Like the world could burn down around him, and he’d just stand there, smirking. Meanwhile, I was over here losing my fucking mind, bleeding all over the place, and he’s as cool as ice.

I took a deep breath, trying to stand up, but my legs weren’t having any of it.

“Give me a minute,” I croaked, gasping for air as I tried to pull myself up from the floor.

Pyro nodded, his eyes never leaving the damage I’d done to myself.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Rogue?”

I looked down, seeing the blood. It was splashed all over the bag, drizzled onto the floor from my fists, and streaked down my t-shirt. But instead of feeling like a failure, I felt... proud. Yeah, proud of that mess. A twisted sense of accomplishment that I’ve beaten something worth beating.

“Nothing, man,” I barked, wiping my bloody knuckles on my pants, leaving red streaks behind. “Just working out the kinks. You should try it sometime.”

Pyro just shook his head, his eyes locked on the floor, like he didn’t want to deal with my shit. “Come on,” he sighed, “you know that’s not what I meant.”

And just like that, I let out a grunt, pushing myself up off the floor and following him out of the room. Yeah, there was something wrong with me. I knew it. But fuck if I was gonna admit it to anyone else.