Viper grabbed a bottle of water and downed half of it. “I just saw your records, and the shit I needed to see. Why?”
It was too late to stop now. They’d only bug the shit out of him if they tried to. “I was in—uh—a pretty full-on relationship before I moved.”
Trace’s expression darkened, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you still in it?”
Now I know what the tangos feel like when they see us coming.
“Hell no.” His fingers tightened around the edge of the bench, and he squeezed until his knuckles went white. “It wasn’t exactly the best of shit, ya know? I’d been looking for an out for a bit. It’s one of the reasons I pushed myself as hard as possible. A transfer to another team might have kept me on that side of the pond. But DEVGRU… that was an East Coast transfer and an ‘I’m just going where the Navy sends me’ thing.”
Juice’s chair scraped as he leaned forward. “What’d ya mean it wasn’t the best of shit? Lay that out for us.”
His jaw worked as he tried to keep his voice even. “Remember the broken ribs on my record?” He directed the question at Viper, but couldn’t quite force himself to make eye contact.
“Vaguely.”
“That was Derek.” He kept his voice as bland as possible. “The jaw, too, and the arm, and the back.”
“Jesus.” Zero made a disgusted noise. “That fucker’s got a screw loose.”
Kaze shook his head and agreed. “No shit.”
Reaper’s chest ached, the old wounds opening up like they were fresh. He could still hear Derek’s voice twisting everything until he had believed the lies more than his own memory.
You’re broken.
You’ll always be broken.
But I can fix you.
Why can’t you do anything right?
Do you have to make me do this?
I hate that you make me do this.
I’m sorry, baby, I hate hurting you. I’ll never do it again.
Except he had. Over and over again.
The words echoed, and for a second, he was back in that house, trapped and drowning, his own mind turned against him, unable to find a way out.
Trace’s voice cut through the memory, snapping his mind back to the here and now. “You know that shit was never your fault.”
Reaper’s throat tightened. He didn’t answer. Logically, he knew that, but knowing and believing were two different things.
Viper’s gaze locked onto him. “You hear me, Rodriguez? That man is fucked in the head. What he did to you? That’s on him, not you.”
Reaper nodded, but the words didn’t stick. They never did. No matter how many times he heard them or even said them to himself, the guilt still clung to him, a second skin. He’d heard so many times that it was his fault that, on some level, he’d probably always believe it.
“Why now?” Kaze asked. “Why tell us now?”
“Because Derek sent me a text message and called just before we went to Tír na nÓg to find Cian. He’s tracked me to New York State.”
“Shit, Ward is at home.”
“Cian is, too,” he reminded Viper. "He’ll protect Ward if necessary. I’d kinda like to see Derek’s face when my Grá Croí appears with his double swords.”
“Hah, my cameras will catch that shit if it happens,” Trace promised. “But you better call Ward just in case, maybe send him and Cian to Tír na nÓg until we get back.”
