Page 51 of Fighting for Valor
I’m two hours late. For most people, most meds, that wouldn’t matter. For me… I rush for my bag, pawing through it with shaking hands. I must look as horrified as I feel, because Ripper kneels next to me and rests his fingers on my arm. “My turn to tell you to breathe. What does your pill case look like?”
“It’s purple.”
He fishes it out in under five seconds and drops it into my hand before pointing at the bed. “Sit.”
“I’m not Charlie, you know.” The dog raises his head and yips, and I stare into his brown eyes. “Sorry, pup.”
“No, you’re not. You’re definitely not.” Ripper helps me to my feet and keeps his arm around my waist as he guides me to the bed. “What you are is exhausted. And we’re going to need to talk. About a lot of things. So you’re going to relax while I make you some tea.”
He’s right. Now that we’re not on the run, my adrenaline’s crashing, hard, and I kick off my too-sensible shoes and curl around one of Ripper’s pillows. It smells like him, and with that, his sweatshirt zipped up to my neck, and Charlie’s soft fur under my fingers as I drape my arm off the side of the bed, I feel safe.
A teapot whistles, and I force my eyes open. I’m so tired, and the world is soft and fuzzy as Ripper moves around the small kitchen. “Charlie?” I say quietly, and the dog sits up and nudges his whole head under my hand. Once I tell Ripper about my past, he’s going to hate me for putting him in danger like this, and I’ll have to leave. “I’m glad I got to meet you. Take care of him, okay?” He licks my fingers, and I skim them around the shell of his mangled ear. “Whoever did this to you was an asshole. You know that?”
“Grade-A asshole,” Ripper confirms as he joins me on the bed and presses a cup of tea into my hand. “Take your meds.”
I do, sipping the fruity tea slowly while Ripper strokes Charlie’s head. “I didn’t understand,” I say as Charlie looks up at Ripper with pure, complete adoration in his brown eyes. “When you said there was something about him you couldn’t ignore. I do now. He’s yours. Completely.”
“Yeah. I think we’re a lot alike.” Ripper clears his throat, and his voice thickens. “About earlier. That kiss…”
“You don’t have to—”
“I do.” He pushes to his feet and heads for the open balcony door. When he’s half in and half out, he rests his back against the jamb. “I spent six years in Afghanistan. Well, no. Longer than that. We were deployed for a couple of years before it all went to shit.”
“We?”
“My team. Ryker and Dax and me—we’re the only ones left.” Sinking down to the floor, he rests his elbows on his bent knees and drops his head into his hands. “Some wet-behind-the-ears comms operator didn’t encrypt his broadcast, and the Taliban knew exactly where we’d be and when. Shot us down, trapped us on a mountainside with no escape.” His voice cracks, and he tugs on his hair, as if he needs the pain.
“They took five of us. Ry, Dax, Hab, Gose, and me. Our sixth, Naz…he died in the firefight. Gose died after a few days. He’d been shot twice, and our captors weren’t exactly concerned with good medical care.”
Oh, God.
My stomach twists into a knot, and I set the tea down, suddenly worried another sip will make me vomit. He’s going to tell me he was tortured.
“Eventually, we landed in a place called Hell Mountain. They’d dug out a whole system of caves deep underground. There were half a dozen cells. A pit we called ‘the hole.’ It was a fucking maze, and they kept us blindfolded and tied up most of the time. Separated. Until they picked one of us to torture for the day. At first, they wanted intel. After a while, I think we were just punching bags.”
He meets my gaze, and I can see it in his deep blue eyes. He’s not in Seattle with me. He’s back in Afghanistan. “Come here,” I say, holding out my hand. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
As he stands, I think he’s heard me, but then he strips off his shirt, and my gasp makes him flinch. Scars run all along his torso. Some straight, others jagged, and still more are shiny ropes from burns. When he turns his back, tears spring to my eyes.
He’s been whipped. Over and over again. The lines crisscross one another, and when his shoulders hunch, they stand out even more dramatically. “After Hell,” he says, his voice rough, “everything got so much worse.”
Worse?
I’m off balance as I shuffle towards him, my meds starting to take effect, and I almost crash into him, but right myself at the last minute and wrap my arms around him from behind. He holds on like I’m the only tether he has to sanity, and I rest my cheek against his shoulder blade.
“I can’t…” he says finally with a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t do this. Not at night. In the dark. It’s too much.”
After another minute, he turns, and I drop my arms. Dragging a knuckle along my jaw, he frowns. “You’re exhausted.”
“Meds kicking in,” I say and rest my hand over his heart. A thick scar runs across his chest and peeks out from under my fingers.
“Don’t. Not now.” Ripper jerks away, stalks over to the closet, and fishes two t-shirts and two pairs of shorts out of a drawer, then passes a set to me. “Use whatever you need of mine in the bathroom. Then, the bed’s yours.”
“No.”
He arches a brow like I’ve forgotten how to speak English. “What?”
“I’m not sleeping in that bed without you. So if you don’t want me sleeping on the floor, you’ll get in.”
