SABINE
The water runs too hot but the burn feels necessary, steam filling the bathroom until the mirror fogs over and the walls disappear behind a veil of white. My hands press against the tile while the shower beats down on my shoulders, and the first sob breaks free before conscious thought can stop it. Then another. Then another, until crying turns into gasping and my legs give out enough that lowering myself to the shower floor is the only option left.
I can't get Ethan's face out of my thoughts. I hit him so hard and he was bleeding. And he was so drunk too. Maybe if we had approached him before he was wasted he would've agreed, or maybe not. Maybe I’m just telling myself that because I feel too guilty over what happened.
Beating him didn't make the rage go away, though, and watching Jace put a bullet in his head didn't feel like anything remotely close to justice. It just felt awful and gut-wrenching. Another body added to a list that keeps growing while the real person responsible continues his career untouched and protected by the same system that was supposed to keep people safe.
The water continues burning me and my hands come up to cover my face, fingers pressing into my temples while the crying turns ugly and raw. Nobody taught me how to handle this. The army trained me to push past emotion, to compartmentalize trauma and keep moving forward because soldiers don't have the luxury of falling apart. But those lessons are failing now, crumbling under two years of buried grief and rage and violation that I've tried to soldier through without ever stopping to acknowledge how completely it broke me.
Weakness.
That's what this feels like.
Weakness and failure and proof that I'm not as strong as I'm supposed to be. Staff Sergeant Sabine Hart doesn't cry in the shower after watching someone die. She processes, adapts, and moves on to the next objective without letting emotions compromise her effectiveness.
But I'm not Staff Sergeant Hart. I'm just Sabine, the woman who was raped and never got justice, and Sabine is tired of being strong when strength hasn't gotten her anywhere except more isolated and more damaged than she was before.
Time loses meaning in the steam and the heat, and when the water finally starts to run cold my body is pruned and my crying has subsided into occasional hiccups that shake my chest. Standing requires effort and my legs feel unsteady, but the routine of turning off the water and reaching for a towel provides enough structure to keep moving through the motions.
The towel is rough against my skin when patting down, and the mirror has cleared enough to show my reflection staring back with red-rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks. This version of myselfis unfamiliar, stripped of the armor I wear every day to keep people at a distance and maintain the illusion that everything is under control.
The woman in the mirror looks broken. That threatens to bring more tears to my eyes. But I blink them back and scrunch my hair in the towel, then brush my teeth and flick off the light.
My bedroom is quiet when stepping inside with the towel wrapped around my body and water still dripping from my hair onto my shoulders. The bed is made. Not just pulled together in the haphazard way civilians usually manage, but properly made with the sheets tucked in tight and the pillows arranged.
Jace stands near the dresser crumpling the sheets he must've stripped from the bed. I watch him for a moment as he limps a few steps and winces. He glances up when hearing footsteps and his eyes meet mine for a brief moment before dropping back to the laundry in his hands.
"Thanks for letting me use your bed." He talks softly as he hugs the dirty sheets, stained with his blood, to his chest. "Figured now that I'm up and moving around, you should be comfortable in your own space again. Changed the sheets—I'll wash these ones."
The gesture is slightly surprising. He's a hitman, not a housekeeper, and he barely knows me. Nobody has taken care of me in any capacity since I enlisted and left my parents' home, and the simple act of climbing out of a shower to clean sheets and a bed I didn't have to make is heartwarming.
"Thank you." I hiccup a little because my body is still worked up from crying so hard. "You didn't have to do that."
"Seemed fair, given you've been sleeping on your couch while I recovered from being stabbed." He shrugs a shoulder, and I don't miss the humor in his tone, but I can't smile with him.
His eyes linger across my body but I don’t feel intimidated by him. If Jace Morelli wanted to hurt me, he could’ve done so at any point in the past four days. His gaze travels from my face down to where the towel ends mid-thigh, and the water droplets still clinging to my shoulders and collarbone hold his attention for a fraction longer than strictly necessary before he catches himself and looks away.
"I'll give you privacy." He moves toward the door with a limp, and I watch him go without responding because emotion has hollowed out a spot so big inside my chest, I'm not sure I can form words.
The door closes behind him, and I move to my dresser to pull out my clothing. Muscle memory—it's the only thing keeping me upright right now. I have to rely on training and years of discipline. It's how I've survived things—worse things than just watching someone die. And right now, I can't afford to fall apart. We still have to locate the others, which means I have to have my shit together enough to go into work and access those files.
My bed is an oasis compared to that hard couch. My head sinks into the pillow and exhaustion pulls at every muscle, but the moment my eyes close, Ethan Caldwell's face appears behind my eyelids and the tears start again before conscious thought can prevent them.
This crying is quieter than the shower, muffled sobs that I try to contain by pressing my face into the pillow. The emotion feels endless, a well that should have run dry by now but insteadkeeps refilling with everything I've refused to process over the past two years.
Bryan's hands on me.
The investigators who didn't believe me.
The way my former squad mates stopped returning my calls.
The isolation of being the person who spoke up and paid the price while everyone else moved on with their lives untouched.
I should feel vindicated after watching Jace kill him. He covered up what that man did to me, the horrific things I suffered. But I don't feel vindicated. I feel sick and angry. And I feel like I want to hurt him all over again.
The knock on the door doesn't register through the crying, and when the door opens, I don't hear it over the sound of my own sobbing. The mattress jostles slightly, and that's what finally cuts through the haze, making me turn my head to see Jace standing beside the bed with his phone charger in one hand and concern written across his face.
"Forgot—" He stops mid-sentence when seeing my face, and whatever he was about to say dies in his throat. "Are you okay?"
