Page 83 of Collateral Damage
My stomach tightens. “But you weren’t.”
“No.” His voice drops, rough at the edges. “As soon as they were out of sight, I knew I’d made the wrong call.”
I don’t breathe.
“She wasn’t what she seemed.” His gaze drifts, unfocused. “She pushed. Tested boundaries.” He pauses. “I let it go on too long.”
His hand curls into a fist. “Long enough for her to take my radio. First chance she got, she signaled our position.”
His voice turns hollow. “We lost two men before the rest of the team could even break contact. Good men. Men who trusted me with their lives.”
The pieces settle into place, heavy and immovable. This isn’t just a mistake—it’s the moment that defined him. Jericho isn’t a monument to strength. It’s a cage built from his guilt for making a peace treaty with the Gibeonites.
“I’ve spent every day since then thinking every person is hiding something, and it’s shaped how I view everyone I meet,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “But I'm asking you now. Not deciding for you. Asking. Because I trust you, Ava. That isn’t easy for me.”
He is a fortress of a man, yet he’s sitting here completely undefended, waiting for my verdict.
Slowly, I reach out. I don't take his hand yet. Instead, I place my fingers over the pulse point at his wrist. I press them into his skin, feeling the frantic, tachycardic mess of his heart—a rhythm of pure, unadulterated fear.
He expected rejection. He expected me to see a broken commander and walk away.
"I know exactly who you are," I tell him, meeting his haunted gaze. "And nothing about what you just said scares me. Now go to sleep. I’ll be right here when you wake up."
The change is instantaneous. Under my fingertips, the frantic, thudding rhythm of his pulse stutters, then slows—the tachycardia finally losing its grip as his nervous system surrenders.
He doesn’t argue. He just closes his eyes, his head falling back against the thin hospital pillow. His hand turns over beneath mine, his palm upward in a silent, vulnerable invitation.
He doesn't have the strength to grab hold, so I slide my fingers into his and silently promise him never to let go.
Twenty
Silas
The fluorescent lights are drilling into my skull, and the constant, rhythmic hiss of the PCA pump is the only thing keeping the white-hot agony in my shoulder at a manageable simmer. It’s been five days since they dug the lead out of my scapula and pinned the bone back together, and my body feels like it’s been run through a wood chipper.
Ava is standing at the foot of the bed with her arms folded, her weight shifted onto her good leg. She’s watching me with a clinical detachment that doesn't mask the passion in her eyes.
I’m currently attempting to sign my discharge paperwork with my left hand. My hand is shaking, a side effect of the blood loss and the cocktails of antibiotics they’ve been pumping into me. The signature I produce looks less like my name and more like a seismic reading.
“This is foolish,” she says. Her voice is clipped, the sound of a doctor watching a patient commit malpractice on themselves.
“Maybe.” Every word feels like I’m pushing a stone uphill.
“Maybe isn’t a good rebuttal.”
“No, it isn’t.”
The nurse steps in, her expression a mix of pity and exasperation. She takes the clipboard the second the pen slips from my numb fingers and retreats. She’s seen enough of this debate to know I’m not staying, and Ava isn't winning.
"You need monitored rest, Silas," Ava continues, ticking points off on her fingers. "Your hematocrit is still low. You need consistent wound care to prevent sepsis. You need medication administered on a schedule, which requires someone qualified to?—"
"Axel's qualified," I interject. The effort of speaking makes a fresh wave of nausea roll through me.
"Axel is a field medic."
"A very good one. You said so yourself."
Ava’s eyes narrow, shifting from professional concern to something much sharper. "That round hit the door before it hit you, Silas. It didn't go through clean. It hit your shoulder sideways and shredded everything in its path. You have bone shrapnel sitting right against the nerve roots."
