Reaper’s grip tightened, knuckles cracking.
Baby. My ass.
It had been six years, and still the poisonous bastard hadn’t moved on. “I’m not your fucking baby, and I sure as hell ain’t yours. Not anymore.”
“Aw, don’t be like that.” Derek’s voice dripped with the false sweetness that used to make Reaper’s entire body lock up, bracing for the blow that always followed. “You know you miss me. All the way out there in bumfuck nowhere?—”
“It’s none of your fucking business where I am,” Reaper snapped. “Using police resources to stalk me is fucking illegal, asshole. And I don’t miss shit about you.”
Derek chuckled, dark and knowing. “Liar. You miss the way I took care of you. The way I kept you in line.”
The words hit like a gut punch, stealing his breath. Reaper’s vision blurred for half a second, the dolmen’s stones swimming in front of him. He could see it—the way Derek’s face had twisted right before his fist connected, the way his voice had gone all soft and sorry after, like Reaper was the one who’d made him do it. Like it was his fault for not being good enough, strong enough, perfect enough.
Abuse is abuse, no matter who it happens to.
Reaper stretched his free hand out in front of himself. He’d been trained by the best the US Navy had to offer. His hands dealt death on a regular basis, and in a court of law, his whole body could be classed as a lethal weapon. It was a hell of a thing when the knowledge that fighting back could send you to jail for the rest of your life, and that kept you under the thumb of an asshole on a power kick.
“That was a long time ago.” But the shame of being a Navy SEAL who, when he went home, became a battered spouse would never leave him. “I’m not yours anymore.”
“No?” Derek’s voice dropped, all pretense of warmth gone. “You’ll always be mine, Michael. Why’d you take that transfer all the way across the country like a little bitch with his tail between his legs? Because now I’ll have to come get you and bring you home.”
Come here, asshole.
I dare you.
I want to see your face just before Bran rips it clean off your head.
Even hearing his fucking voice twisted something deep inside him. He wasn’t able to beat back the breath that came faster, or the pulse that roared in his ears. He was strong. He was a goddamn SEAL. He’d survived hell and back, had blown up half of Afghanistan with his bare hands if the team room stories were to be believed. But standing there, with Derek’s voice in his ear, he was twenty-two again, and trapped in a relationship that he couldn’t find a way out of until the Navy offered him a lifeline and a transfer from San Diego to Dam Neck.
Pathetic.
The word echoed in his skull, Derek’s favorite term for him. His fingers twitched, itching to hit something. To destroy something. “Because we were done,” he snarled. “Because I’m done letting pieces of shit like you tell me what I’m worth.”
Derek laughed, harsh and mocking. “Oh, baby. You think you’re so tough now? Think your little Navy buddies would still respect you if they knew the truth? If they knew what a pathetic little?—”
“Fuck off.” He ended the call. His hand was shaking, hell, his whole body was shaking. He hurled the phone at the ground, watching with grim satisfaction as the screen shattered and the case popped off. It wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough.
He dropped to his knees in the dirt, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his fingers digging into the earth as he tried to anchor himself to this reality, fucked up as it was. Not the one where Derek’s hands were around his throat. Not the one where he was curled up on the bathroom floor, wondering if he’d be better off fighting back and spending the rest of his days in a jail cell, and definitely not the one where he’d stood in front of a mirror and wondered what the hell was wrong with him that he kept going back.
You got out, that’s what counts.
The thought was a lifeline, something he clung to like a drowning man. He was stronger, and he had gotten out. He’d built a life where no one knew, where no one could use it against him. Where no one could look at him and see weakness.
But his memories didn’t give a shit about any of that. They crawled up his throat as bile and flashed behind his eyelids, showing him a reel of memories, ones he kept trying to keep buried, but somehow never quite managed, because they liked to blindside him at times. How Derek had smiled at him the first time he’d hit him, like it was a joke, like he’d been overreacting. The way he’d apologized after, his voice all soft, his hands gentle as he cupped his face, promising it would never happen again. The way it had happened again. Over and over. Until he’d stopped flinching and started expecting and bracing for it. Until he’d believed, deep down, that he deserved it.
A raw and broken sound tore out of his throat, and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, like he could scrub the images away. He wasn’t that man anymore. He wasn’t that victim.
But you’re still the guy who ran rather than fighting back.
Not exactly SEAL-like behavior, is it?
The unwelcome thought slithered into his head. He’d jumped at the chanceof a transfer to the East Coast, and Dam Neck, like a coward, tail tucked, because facing Derek—facing what he’d let happen—had been worse than starting over someplace where only his prowess in Teams mattered.
His breath hitched and his chest burned. He scooted back on his ass until his back rested against the dolmen. In his fucked-up spiral, it almost felt as if its magic thrummed against his skin like a pulse. He was so goddamn tired of being unable to stop the feelings and memories Derek’s voice always brought to the fore. He’d known better than to call that number back. Maybe he was just a glutton for punishment. Maybe he was just a weak-assed man behind the warrior façade.
No. I’m not weak.
I was never fucking weak.
