Page 76 of Fighting for Valor
“All of my belongings fit in a small suitcase. Never was one for stuff.” Glancing around the yard at the small family, half of whom stood up for Ripper without even knowing him, I blink back a tear.
“Rip, what the hell are you doing? This is a celebration. Cara looks like she’s about to face a firing squad,” West says as he sets two plates with burgers and ears of corn on the table next to us. “If he’s being a jerk, Cara, just tell me—or Cam or Inara. They’ll put him in his place.”
“I…it’s okay,” I stammer. “I don’t need—”
“You’re part of this family now.” West grins. “We take care of our own. Even if that means the newest member of Hidden Agenda gets his ass kicked. Hey, Graham!”
The young guy talking with Inara looks over. “What happened to probie?”
“You moved up in the ranks, kid.” Pushing to his feet, he claps Ripper on the shoulder. “This is the new probie. Feel free to lord it over him for at least a few weeks, you hear?”
“Sir! Yes, sir!” Graham salutes West, then offers Ripper a sheepish grin and a shrug. “Sorry, probie. No one crosses the SEAL.”
“We’ll see about that,” Ripper mutters. But the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile, and for once, the gesture seems to fit him.
I cup his cheeks and turn his gaze to mine. “I’m not going anywhere. Except with you. Probie.”
Epilogue
Ripper
A week later, this new life of mine starts to seem real. Cara’s clothes hang in my—our—closet. Her tea has its own shelf in the kitchen, and when I come in from a long walk with Charlie, the smells wafting through the small space make my mouth water.
She stands at the stove, earbuds in, humming to Queen’s Radio Ga Ga as she stirs a bunch of chopped vegetables in some sort of sauce. The dark bruise on her cheek is fading, and the dizzy spells that plagued her for days every time she stood up seem to have passed.
A soft yelp escapes her lips when she notices me watching her, and her cheeks redden. “Sorry. I didn’t expect you back until dark.”
Charlie pads over to her and sits, waiting expectantly, and she laughs. “All right. Only because you’re the best dog ever.” The little jar on the counter labeled “Spoiled Rotten Dog Treats” was one of her contributions to the apartment, and she lifts the lid, holds up a biscuit, and waits until Charlie starts wagging his tail. “Good boy.”
He retreats to his bed while I wrap my arms around Cara from behind and peer over her shoulder. “This smells amazing. What is it?”
She adds tomatoes, milk, and crumbled bread to the sauce pan, gives it all a stir, and then turns down the heat. “It will be my famous Bolognese. In about three hours.”
“How much of that time do you need to be at this stove, sunshine?” My lips find her ear, and I score my teeth over the shell.
“Maybe once an hour…for five minutes,” she says on a shudder. “God. I’ve missed you, Ripper.”
I haven’t touched her like this since before she was taken. Once I got her back, she was so bruised and beaten up, I was terrified I’d hurt her. And now, my own fears return. What if I can’t? What if the other day was just a fluke? Desperation born from more than six years of loneliness and pain?
As if she can read my thoughts, she wriggles out of my hold. “Bed. Now, soldier.”
I don’t hesitate, even though my heart is pounding so hard, I can feel it in my ears. After she angles a lid over the top of the pot, she unties her apron and drapes it over one of the stools at the breakfast bar.
“Talk to me,” she says, fitting her body to mine. “I can always tell when you’re getting stuck in your own head, you know.”
“I know. It’s kind of creepy.”
She jabs me lightly in the shoulder, then sobers. “You get this look in your eyes, Rip. Like you’re bracing for a blow.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” Her finger touches my lips. “Don’t ever apologize for the darkness inside you. I don’t expect you to banish it. Or hide it. Or for it to suddenly disappear. The only thing I need is for you to share it with me. When you can.”
I want to say the words. The three words we’ve both been dancing around, but can’t force ourselves to say. Instead, I thread my fingers through her hair and guide her on top of me. “I don’t know why you want to be with someone so…damaged,” I whisper. She smells like passion fruit and mango, and there are times I look at her and I can’t believe she’s real.
“We’re all damaged in different ways.” Her brown eyes fill with pain, and she skims the backs of her knuckles along my jaw. “What they did to you was vile, and I hope West and Graham killed every single one of the men who hurt you.”
“Pretty sure they did.”
