That part was complete BS, but he couldn’t very well tell her that the killers had been there for Hale’s mate, Karissa Bonifay, since there was no way he’d be able to explain that Karissa was a Paladin, aka a superhero, who roamed the world protecting the innocent. Or that the person behind the attack at the auto plant was her arch nemesis, a two-hundred-and-seventy-year-old embodiment of the Greek god of dread. Something told Carter that it wouldn’t do his return-to-duty status any good if he attempted to explain that crap to his psychiatrist. As Mike said, some people could handle the truth about the world they lived in and some couldn’t.
“Mike’s report mentioned you got into a hand-to-hand fight with one of the attackers,” Dr. Delacroix said, glancing up at Carter curiously. “Was that by choice or did you just lose your weapon?”
Carter wondered for a second if she was trying to make a joke. Lost his weapon…seriously? Who asked a SWAT cop a question like that?
Apparently, Dr. Delacroix, a little voice in the back of his head answered. A woman who’d apparently decided that the kid gloves could come off for their third session. Like a three-date-kind-of-thing.
“The place was so crowded people were practically crawling over each other to get out of there,” Carter said quietly, telling himself that he could explain what happened that night without getting emotionally invested in the words. “I got off a few rounds with my M4,” he continued, then added, “the carbine rifle used by SWAT in high-threat operations.”
When Dr. Delacroix wrote something on her notepad but didn’t say anything, he decided to keep going. In for a penny and all that crap.
“The man was wearing body armor, so my weapon wasn’t doing much besides putting everyone around us at risk, so I changed tactics, intending to take him down by hand.”
Body armor seemed like a reasonable explanation for why the bullets from his weapon hadn’t bothered the guy. Better than telling her that the man he’d been facing had been a supernatural creature with impervious dragon scales for skin and an insatiable need to track down and fight other dangerous creatures. Like Paladins—and werewolves.
How did you explain supernatural Roman gladiators to a psychiatrist who lived firmly rooted in a world where everything was supposed to have a scientific explanation?
“So, just like that, you decided to go hand-to-hand with one of these heavily armed men?” Dr. Delacroix asked, her tone not the least bit judgmental. “Weren’t you scared?”
Carter opened his mouth to answer but hesitated when he realized he wasn’t sure if he should go with the sensitive answer and tell her that he was terrified or stay macho and say he laughed in the face of danger.
Or maybe you could just tell her the truth?
He wasn’t exactly sure where that idea had come from, but in a rare moment of clarity, he realized this was his chance. Dr. Delacroix’s question was the crux of what these sessions were all about, even if she didn’t know it.
He’d been openly against therapy when Mike had suggested it, but after this morning’s episode, he realized he needed help—desperately. Because he was terrified, only not in the way she was implying. His inner omega werewolf was completely out of control and he had to do something to get that control back before someone else died.
And yet his heart beat faster at the mere thought of being this honest with her.
“I probably would have been scared if I’d been in control,” he finally said.
She glanced up from her notepad. “What do you mean by that?”
He hesitated, fighting to maintain perspective as relived that night. “I barely remember charging at the guy. After the first punch or two, I don’t remember much of anything at all, except the rage.”
Dr. Delacroix regarded him thoughtfully. “Has that ever happened to you before?”
The urge to lie and keep his secret safe was nearly overwhelming. But he had to do this if he ever hoped to get better. But while he needed to tell her the truth, he couldn’t tell her the entire truth.
“It used to happen frequently right after I got out of the Marines,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I thought that was all behind me until it started up again three weeks ago. It’s happened multiple times since.”
“What happened three weeks ago?” Dr. Delacroix asked. “Something specific or traumatic?”
Even though he’d already spent hours thinking about that very question, Carter still went through the motions of reviewing everything that’d occurred back then. The problem was that there wasn’t anything of note. There’d been the typical SWAT call-outs—domestic violence, barricaded suspects, hostage scenarios—but none of them stood out. Until the incident at the nightclub with those supernaturals. He’d initially thought the fight with them had started all of this, but after this morning, he was beginning to think his problems weren’t related to them at all.
“I can’t think of anything,” he said. “Nothing but the usual things the SWAT pack deals with on a daily basis.”
She stopped writing, lifting her gaze to study him. After a moment, she leaned forward to rest her forearms on the desk. “That’s okay. We don’t need to worry about that information right now. We can work on other stuff and put the initiating event on the back burner.”
“What kind of stuff?” he asked a little warily.
“Tell me more about the blackouts,” Dr. Delacroix suggested. “At the auto plant opening ceremony, it happened while you were fighting. Are those the same types of situations that triggered it the other times?”
Carter’s heart beat faster even as he told himself that his inner wolf was still under control. “I feel like I’m constantly on edge all the time, but yeah, it’s getting into altercations that seem to trigger the worst of it.”
“What does it feel like when you lose awareness?” Dr. Delacroix asked.
He glanced down at his hands and realized they were shaking a little. Adrenaline started pumping at the thought of putting himself back in that horrible moment. But then he looked up to see Dr. Delacroix sitting behind the desk, regarding him expectantly, and he forced himself to continue.
