“I tore open a Reaper with my bare claws,” I continue, voice raw. “It was already dying. I didn’t care. I wanted to see it bleed. I needed something to hurt as bad as I did.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Ido,” I snap. Then softer, “Because I never said it out loud. Not once. Not to the brass. Not to my unit. Not even to myself.”
I stare at the oil-stained concrete.
“There’s pieces of me scattered across battlefields no one remembers. And the parts that made it back?” I turn my head. Meet her eyes. “They don’t know what the hell they’re supposed to be now.”
Alaina doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush to comfort.
She just wraps her arms around me like she’s holding the storm itself.
And for a while, I let her.
Because if I say anything else, I might fall apart.
“You ever think,” I whisper into her hair, “that maybe heroes aren’t meant to come home?”
Her grip tightens. “Maybe home is what makes them whole again.”
I don’t deserve this woman.
But stars, I want her.
Not just in bed. Not just in banter.
I want her hope. Her fire. Her quiet strength that won’t let me drown.
“You hungry?” she asks after a long while.
“Not really.”
“Too bad. I made baked zinta. Extra spicy.”
“You trying to kill me with heartburn?”
She stands and holds out her hand. “Call it emotional damage control.”
I take it.
And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I feel just a little lighter.
Not fixed. Not fine.
But not alone.
And that’s a start.
CHAPTER 24
ALAINA
The bar hums with a steady pulse—music too loud, laughter too sharp, glasses clinking like war drums. It’s Friday night, the kind where tips roll in and patience runs thin.
Then I see him.
Not Troka—no. This is Levi Renson, all six-foot-four of cocky charm and honeyed lies. I haven’t seen him since before stretch marks and bottle warmers, back when I thought dancing till dawn was a personality trait.
