“I’m pretty sure he started drugging me before I even left the hospital.” Tears well in my eyes and I shrug, because what else can I do? “Alec took over my entire life. He responded to every email, every text message I got, pretending to be me, and eventually Connor caught on. Started trying to find me. He went to my old apartment, picked up a box of things my landlord had kept—including my journal. My brother hunted down the 911 report from the night I fell to get the address where Alec had me. He showed up one morning, punched Alec in the face, and carried me out of there.”
I’m crying now, silent tears that land on Clementine’s fur, and she pops her head up with an inquisitive littlemrrp. Graham rises and stalks into the downstairs bathroom, and I hope to God I haven’t lost him admitting how incredibly weak and stupid I was for so long.
But a minute later, armed with a handful of tissues, he sinks back down and folds me—and Clementine—into his arms. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever met, Q. And I work with honest-to-God heroes every day.”
“You’re not…mad?” I swipe at my cheeks, unwilling to look at him.
“Oh, I’m fucking pissed. At Asshole. If heeverthreatens you again, if he sends you another email, messes with your groceries, calls you, or God-forbid, shows up here, I will make him regret the day he was born. But shit, baby. You thought I’d be mad atyou?”
“I’mmad at me. For not seeing who he was sooner. For falling down those stairs. For not fighting harder.”
“You survived. Escaped. You built yourself a new life all on your own, and every single day you work to make it the life you want. I could never be mad at you for that.” Graham cups my cheek, skating his thumb just under my eye to catch another tear. “You’re a fucking miracle, Quinton.”
Chapter Nineteen
Graham
“Areyousureyou’ll be okay if Asshole tries anything?” I ask, my arms wrapped around Q’s waist as we stand on his porch a little before 10:00 a.m. the next morning.
The sun bathes us in warmth and lightens a few wisps of hair that fall over his forehead. “He’s two thousand miles away, darlin’. He can email or call or send me cases of cider, and the worst thing that’s going to happen to me is a panic attack. Or several.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Cupping the back of his neck, I press soft kisses along his jaw and up to his ear. “Cam and Royce can come by and check on you. They’re both army vets, and I trust them with my life. Plus, Cam built that security system you have.”
Q shakes his head and stands up a little straighter. Despite his wince, he says today’s a good day, with his pain only three out of ten, and the hours we spent the previous night talking seem to have lightened the burden of shame he carried since the accident. “For a year now, my therapist has been telling me that my worst enemy isn’t Alec. It’s myfearof Alec. I always thought she was full of shit, but I understand now. I’ve come too far to eventhinkof going back to him, so all his antics? The worst they can do is trigger memories.”
“That’s not nothing.” I squeeze my eyes shut, hearing the taunts of the men who attacked me all those years ago, and my stomach twists into a knot.
And then he’s rubbingmyback. Comfortingmewhen all I want to do is protect him. “No, it’s not nothing. But I’m stronger now than I’ve ever been.” His firm mouth presses to mine, and with a bold stroke of his tongue against the seam of my lips, he begs for more, and I let him in, tasting the coffee we shared, a hint of his toothpaste, and…home. “As much as I love y—err, having you here, being with you…I need to know I can be alone too. Go be a badass in the jungle, and by the time you come back, maybe I’ll be able to meet you at the corner.”
“I’d like that.” Sliding my hands under his shirt, I graze two of the longer scars that run along his spine. He survived injuries and abuse that could have easily killed him, and I need to remember that. I want the possibility for a life with this man, and that means not treating him like he’s broken. “Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything.” His breathy reply makes my heart beat a little faster, and fuck. I’m so far gone over him, I ache to tell him, but when I do, I’m going to do it right.
“Memorize that code I gave you. If you need me—or need anyone—that code guarantees your message goes straight to Wren. And she can reach us over comms any time.”
Q’s smile lights up his brown eyes. Leaning in, his lips brushing my ear, he rattles off the code and adds, “Be safe, darlin’. And come back to me.”
* * *
Transport planes areone of the worst ways to travel. Loud, cold, and uncomfortable. Canvas bench seats with a mesh backing. Our rucks are strapped in next to us, easily fifty pounds each. The engine noise makes it impossible to talk without headsets, and even then, the urge to shout is hard to resist.
Raelynn looks a little green, and Inara elbows her in the side. “When was the last time you jumped out of a plane?”
“Five years ago. Promised myself I’d never do it again.”
West hands each of us a tablet. “Updated scans of the compound. The target was moved overnight. He’s now underground, dead center, with six hostiles guarding him. It’s a four-hour hike from the safest drop point. We’ll set up eight kilometers from the compound, then split up into two teams. Romeo and Indigo take first watch while Golf, Lima, and I catch some shuteye.”
“No more Jimmy Olsen and Steve Rogers?” I joke.
Ryker—Romeo for this mission—shoots me a look that could knock this plane right out of the sky. “Those are only in play when we’re in public. The alphabet’s simpler. Get over it.” He waits a beat, then adds, “Jimmy.”
The pilot breaks in. “Fifteen minutes to drop site.”
“Gear up,” Ryker orders, and we stow the tablets inside specially made pockets in our rucks, then spend the next ten minutes checking and double checking every hook, clip, carabiner, and strap on our own gear and each other’s before West opens the side cargo door.
Six hours on this fucking plane, eight hiking, another six spent on recon and rest, up to four hours for the actual mission—if we’re lucky—and another six hour flight home. At best, it’ll be twenty-four hours before I talk to Q, and it’s eating me up inside.
Ryker hasn’t said a word about being away from Wren, but I know Ripper and Cara are checking on her often. She refused to stay with them overnight—saying she had to be close to her equipment if we needed her.
