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She’s so damn strong. After Afghanistan, she recovered much faster than I did. Hell, I still haven’t recovered. But she endured their hell, too, and she didn’t just survive – she triumphed. Even during our captivity, the bastards gave her a wide berth, because she showed them from day one what she would do, given half a chance. She’s delicate-looking, perpetually optimistic, exceptionally outgoing, and a total badass.
The same bastards that left her bruised have fucking destroyed me.
My train of thought derails as vivid images start leaking in around the edges of my mind. I try to squelch them, fighting the memories.
Don’t think about them. Don’t think about them. Don’t –
But my exhausted state is no match for the insistent torment, and suddenly it’s all I can see and hear and feel – their coarse laughter, the slicing of their whip and the broiling heat of their brand, and those eyes, those goddamned soulless black eyes.
His eyes are always my undoing.
Panic explodes like a mushroom cloud inside me, boiling up, its claws grasping and clutching inside my chest, tightening my throat.
Fucking hell.
I drop to my knees, vaguely aware of pain as they smash into the tub floor, and I gasp for air, feeling the bands closing ever tighter around my chest.
Then I hear Mark.
Breathe, Baby Girl.
Just breathe.
I’ve got you.
You’re safe.
I squeeze my eyes shut, clinging to the voice in my head. Eventually I’m able to slow my panting. It seems like hours before I stiffly get to my feet, before I’m able to unclench my jaw and unfist my hands. I let the scalding water pound my tense neck, hammering out the knots along my shoulders.
When the water cools, I hurry to wash my hair and scrub my body. I towel off and dress before drying my hair. Despite the warm air from my blow dryer, I’m freezing. I tuck my gun snugly in its belly-band holster, catching sight of my reflection.
These past three months have taken a serious toll.
My brown hair hangs dull and listless, in desperate need of a trim. My plummeting weight makes my green eyes look much too large in my pale face, and dark circles shade the area below them like fading bruises. The clothes that fit a few weeks ago are now at least two sizes too big.
I smudge concealer beneath my tired eyes in a pointless attempt to hide the shadows from Lila. I brush my hair and twist it up in a clip before going downstairs. I need caffeine in massive quantities.
The warmth seeps through my huge white coffee mug, thawing my chilled hands as I settle on my overstuffed beige sofa and pull a crimson blanket around me. Reaching for the sheaf of paperwork, I try to focus, but my head throbs and my eyes burn. I finally surrender, huddling beneath the blanket and closing my eyes. Maybe a few minutes of rest will ease my headache.
It’s still dark when Lila arrives at five-thirty. Her keys jingle in the lock, and she knocks firmly before announcing herself, calling my name when she opens the front door.
I bolt upright, throwing aside the blanket and papers as I scramble to the foyer. Lila drops her purse and a bakery box onto the table and pulls me into a long hug before studying me with her piercing violet gaze.
“You look like hell, Charlie,” she says, sadness and worry tinging her voice. “You’ve lost weight, you’re as pale as a ghost, and you look like you’ve not slept in days.”
“Thanks. You look amazing, too,” I reply glibly, but of course, she does, even at this hour. She’s dressed in form-fitting jeans, a loose silk shirt that echoes her eye color perfectly, and gray suede ankle boots. It’s a stark contrast to my baggy clothes and bare feet. I shrug nonchalantly. “Hospital food is terrible, and I just need a decent night’s sleep. I’m fine.”
Lila raises one eyebrow skeptically. “You need time to recuperate, too,” she says instead. “Tara, Tom, and I have the clinic under control. When you guys come home, you’re taking two weeks off to rest and eat.” She smiles and lightly shakes the bakery box. “Now get that paperwork and meet me in the dining room. I brought warm raspberry danish bites.”
I fetch my coffee cup and papers. “Things are already looking up if pastries are involved.”
Lila chuckles as I follow her down the hall, her boots drumming a staccato rhythm on the hardwood. “Why was your flight diverted to Oklahoma for twelve hours?”
I pass her a pair of saucers, and she piles them with danishes and gathers napkins while I fill a coffee mug for her before topping off my own. “An instrument panel malfunctioned not long after takeoff, so they diverted us. As soon as we landed in Oklahoma, they grounded all flights due to severe thunderstorms and tornado warnings. Hundreds of us were jammed in the terminal like sardines. It was awful. My flight to Pueblo didn’t board till after one this morning.” I shudder, recalling hours unable to escape a toddler’s earsplitting screams while his mother apologized profusely, explaining that flying made his ears hurt.
Lila gives me a commiserating smile. “I hate airports. Everyone’s grumpy. That’s why I prefer red-eye flights. Everyone’s half-asleep or keeps to themselves.”
“Definitely.” I’m a diehard introvert. I prefer people in small doses with limited interactions, something commercial airlines don’t offer. Their least-objectionable option is a red-eye flight.
