“Lainie,” he said. The nickname her brother had called her ever since they were toddlers.
A sob caught in her throat. She clapped a hand to her mouth and tears rushed down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, honey.” The sorrow in his voice was like a fresh wound. As fresh as her still-beating heart, which had just been ripped from her body.
She launched herself into his arms. He caught her and held her against his chest. She burrowed her face in the crook of his neck, hating Oliver for doing this. For wearing the same uniform Roarke was dressed in. For doing another tour after she’d begged him not to.
Hating a life she now had to live without her best friend.
Roarke held her so tightly her back ached. She didn’t care. She wanted the pain. It was the only thing that kept her from slipping to the ground and dissolving into nothing.
He carried her inside and kicked the door shut behind him. Swooping his arm under her legs, he moved to the sofa, hitting the light on the way.
“What . . . how?” she whispered.
He sat down, and his fingers stilled on her spine. “We were sweeping a compound after a strike. They must’ve had an IED planted underneath the stairs ... never should’ve fucking happened. One minute he was there laughing at me, and the next?—”
She pulled away, straightening on his lap. Strain creased the corners of his eyes, and pain shone in the myriad colors of his irises. She’d known these eyes for more than half her life. Ollie had befriended Roarke in middle school, and the two had become inseparable. She didn’t have many memories after the age of ten that didn’t include Roarke.
With his arm curled around her, his heat so strong and gentle, she couldn’t help but lean into him.
“I wasn’t there,” she said, her voice a wobbly mess. “But I know you protected Ollie with your life. You always have.” She fought the urge to close into herself. To push Roarke away and disappear to her room until she found the will to live.
Roarke’s pain stopped her from succumbing to her own. For now. He needed to understand that she didn’t blame him. That she still cared about him and would honor her brother’s memory through their friendship. If she had the words, she’d have said these things, but her tongue was heavier than her heart.
He cradled her head with his palm and pulled her to rest against his shoulder. They sat in silence. Tears dripped soundlessly over her chin.
Eventually, he spoke. “Twist told me to take care of you.” His words were thin, hollow. Void of the gruff personality she knew and loved.
She closed her eyes. The nickname usually made her smile, but right now, she couldn’t. “He would say that.”
“Don’t know why,” Roarke said with a scoff. “I couldn’t even take care of him. Not sure how I’m supposed to look out for you.”
She covered his hand resting on his thigh with her own. “You always have, Roarke. But Ollie wasn’t your responsibility, and neither am I.”
He stiffened. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
She lifted her head. Her damp cheek was suddenly cold without the heat from his chest. She rested her palm on hisbristly jaw. Emotionally exhausted, she’d probably drop if she stood. “I hope you know I’m glad you’re here. That you came home. Ollie’s death doesn’t make your life worth any less.”
The corner of his mouth spasmed, suggesting he was humoring her. His fingers, large and brawny, curled around her wrist and gently lowered her hand. “It shouldn’t have been him.”
His words ravaged her heart and yanked away any questions about how he felt about his survival. She opened her mouth, but he circled his arm around her shoulders to steady her and ease her off his lap, then stood. “You should sleep. It’s late. I’m gonna crash on the couch if that’s okay with you.”
His hand fell away, taking with it any strength she had. He caught the nape of her neck and kissed her forehead. “Sleep, Lainie. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She nodded and turned toward the stairs. Each step was like hammering a nail in her coffin. By the time she’d closed her bedroom door, she couldn’t hold in the sobs.
Roarke saton Laine’s couch, where he’d taken up temporary residence. It’d been a week since he delivered the devastating news of Ollie’s passing. He’d helped Laine plan the funeral and handle all Ollie’s shit, and yesterday they’d buried her brother and his best friend.
Fucking horrible.
Part of him wanted to run; the other never wanted to leave.
Every time he looked at Laine, his heart broke even more. His tour was up, and he had nowhere to go. No plan, no job ... just nothing.
He couldn’t stay here, though. Before last week, it’d been eighteen months since he saw Laine. Still so damn sweet and pretty as ever.
At twenty-five, she was two years his junior. They’d grown up close, and he’d always had a soft spot for Twist’s little sister—hell, who wouldn’t?
