Page 83 of Trigger Happy Ending

“There was a girl.” I sniff, trying to sound as casual as humanly possible. “Once.”

Raine blinks a few times and waits for me to elaborate.

“Didn’t work out.”

“Did she break your heart?”

I take a moment, remembering how it felt to be the only one remaining in formation. The only soldier who had no one to return home to. My heart did break that day, but it wasn’t for Karlie. It was more what her not showing up represented to me. That I wasn’t worthy enough for anyone. My parents set the tone; Karlie just continued it.

“No,” I answer truthfully. “You gotta have a heart for it to break.”

I give her a lazy grin. She returns it, her eyes sparkling again.

“You strike me as a fuck boy anyway.”

Oh, great, the bitch is back. She’s never far away.

I raise a brow. “Yeah?”

“Remember the plane?”

“You know I only did that to get under your skin.”

“That poor girl,” she murmurs, resting her back on the lounge. “She must have thought we were fucking crazy.”

I chuckle softly and stare at the half-empty glass in my hand. “I’m sorry.”

The words tumble from my mouth. Raine’s head shoots up from the lounge, and she blinks, surprised and, for once, speechless.

“Wow.” Her glass lifts in salute. “A bit of self-reflection.”

Playfully, I nudge her in the shoulder. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Well, for what it’s worth … I’m sorry for shooting you.”

“And?”

“And for punching you.”

“And?”

“And for throwing knives at you.”

She turns her head and giggles into her shoulder, and fuck, I know I keep saying it’s the sweetest sound, but it really is. Lightning flares again, illuminating her features. Her black hair is swept up into a messy bun, a few strands now loose over her face. I fight the urge to reach out and touch her. It defies logic. I mean, she fucking shot me. But it doesn’t matter because I fucking crave her. From her scent to her dark energy.

The wind intensifies outside, howling at the windows.

“Does it still hurt?” she asks, nodding to my ribs.

I nod. The small shards, wedged deep inside the bone, will probably always hurt.

“Can I see?” Three words, barely a whisper, escape her lips.

I hold her stare, wondering what she’s playing at. A few moments pass before I lift my shirt up and rip it over my head, tossing it up onto the lounge. She turns to face me, kneeling. Reaching forward, she traces her fingers over my chest. Her nails drag further down, across my lower ribs, towards the gunshot wound. Her touch sends my senses into overdrive. She stares at where the bullet hit me and whispers again, “I am sorry for hurting you.”

My heartbeat spikes, goose bumps rise while that murderous hand moves, tracing erotic lines back over my chest towards the tattoos that mean the most to me.

Her touch is electrifying.