Page 40 of Fighting for Valor
“You have displeased me, Isaad. As restitution, you will fast for seven days. You will be allowed tea and water only. Damsa!” Faruk calls for the slight woman who cooks meals for the compound’s residents.
“Yes, Amir Faruk, sir?” She rushes into the room, bows, and stares down at me cowering on the floor.
“Isaad will be fasting for the next week. See that he receives plenty of Kahwah tea, but nothing else.”
“Of course.” Sympathy flashes in her eyes for a split second, and then she’s gone, and Zaman’s vise grip fastens around my arm before he drags me out of the room.
“Ripper? Shit. Answer me!” Warm hands rest over mine, and I jerk away with a snarl.
“Don’t touch me!” My breath wheezes through my clenched teeth as I roll up into a crouch, scanning for ghosts, ready to attack. “Fuck.”
“What triggered you? Tell me. Right now.” She’s kneeling two feet away, her hands raised slightly, and the commanding tone to her voice drags me just far enough out of my panic-induced episode to answer her.
“Cardamom.” The single word escapes on a whisper, and she swears under her breath as she rises and limps quickly back to the kitchen. A cabinet door slams, water splashes, and paper rustles.
“What about hibiscus? Peach? Mango? Strawberry?”
“Fruit. Anything fruit is fine.” I scrub my hands over my face, equal measures ashamed and curious about this woman who knows exactly what happened and why.
Two seconds later, she’s at my side with a paper packet of tea. “Smell this one and tell me if it’s okay.” She rests her palm against the back of my neck, and I don’t pull away as I inhale. Scents of peach and honey reach me, along with whatever she uses in her shampoo, and my heart stops trying to punch through my chest.
“Fine.” As I meet her gaze, I find glassy, tear-filled eyes, and the knowledge that I hurt her—even a little—kills me inside. “Fuck, Cara. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t. You can’t control your triggers. I should know.” Before I can ask her to explain, her warmth fades, and she’s back in the kitchen, peach tea brewing as she rummages around in her fridge. “I have fruit, English muffins, and the lasagna I brought you. Do you want anything?”
“No.” After a pause, I shake my head. I can feel the hunger, even if I don’t recognize it as a desire I’m allowed to have. “I haven’t…uh…eaten since breakfast.”
“Lasagna then.” She slides the box into the microwave, pours the tea into mismatched mugs, and sets them on the small dining room table. “Sit.”
This isn’t a good idea. I was about to wrestle her to the ground and beat the shit out of her. My nightmares are violent, and more than once I’ve woken up with a new tear in my sleeping bag or my pocket knife in my hand, ready to kill anyone who approached me.
But I sink down onto one of the chairs and wrap my fingers around the mug of peach tea. It’s warm, and I’m still shivering.
Get your shit together, Richards. Now. You need to hoof it back to your apartment and stay there the whole fucking night. No matter what. Sleep like a normal person. Act like a normal person. And don’t ever see Cara again.
The microwave beeps, and then Cara joins me with plates, silverware, and napkins. Her movements are precise, careful, calculated. As if she’s done this a thousand times in exactly this order. Two white pills next to her dish. A paper napkin spread across her lap.
“Cara?”
“Just a minute.” The pills disappear one at a time, and she glances at her watch, nods, and then picks up her fork. “Sorry. I…get a little OCD about taking my meds. This late at night, I forget things if I’m not super careful.”
“I just had a flashback from the scent of cardamom, of all things, almost threw you across the room, and your response is to make me tea, reheat lasagna, and tell me you’re OCD about taking your meds? I thought I was a little off my rocker.”
“You don’t know the half of it. I’m a mess, Ripper. And my meds keep me alive. Dig in. Because while my life might be two steps away from falling apart, there’s one thing I know how to do.” She digs her fork into the cheesy pasta and meets my gaze. “I’m a great cook.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cara
Ripper stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. And when I take a bite of lasagna like it’s the most natural thing in the world to eat after the events of the past hour, he braces his hands on the table. “Cara, you don’t know anything about me.”
“And you don’t know anything about me.” After another sip of tea, I can feel my meds start to kick in, and the world seems a little less intense as my heart rate normalizes.
Across the table, the former Special Forces soldier grasps his fork like he’s never seen one before, then digs into the pasta. Neither of us say a word as we eat, but his shoulders tense a little more every few minutes, and he keeps darting glances at the closed drapes, the door, and me.
“The window in the kitchen opens,” I say as I set my fork down.
He lurches to his feet and practically runs for the small window. After a couple of deep breaths, he clears his throat. “I thought…I could do this. Be inside. But…fuck. I was wrong.”
