Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128812 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 644(@200wpm)___ 515(@250wpm)___ 429(@300wpm)
The living room is bugged.
Why that thought slams into me, I have no idea. I shouldn't have to make excuses or justify myself for not doing something. I should simply tell myself it's not a good idea and move on.
But his room is the farthest area from the bug.
I shake my head, fists clenching at my sides.
It's a mere three steps to the fucking door, so I take two more steps back, feeling more than a little off-kilter when my calves bump into the bed, forcing me to sit down.
I glare at the door as if it’s done something to personally offend me.
I'm better than this.
I've spent years getting my behaviors under control.
I no longer lead with my anger and irritation.
I've taught myself to think before reacting, something that I didn't even consider until I was in the hospital, laid up with bullet holes.
"Yeah," I mutter to my empty room. "Think about that shit instead."
Zeus.
The name I earned in the Marine Corps. The one given to me when people called me a god, a hero.
I've often wondered what they would call me if they knew I acted on instinct without considering all the possible outcomes. Had I been able to guarantee that I'd be here today, I probably would've reacted the same way.
But honestly, had I been given more than a split second to think, I may not have covered my men and taken the brunt of enemy fire.
I felt like such a coward having those thoughts during recovery.
When the pain would get to be too much.
When the visits stopped because it took so long to heal.
When my parents wanted to use my injuries for their own personal gain.
There were more than a few lows after getting shot, and I'm not proud of having those thoughts then any more than I am with them popping up now.
I fall back on the bed, the old, used blanket scratchy on my bare back. I let my eyes drift closed, welcoming the phantom stings piercing my skin as my mind takes me right back to my last day on the battlefield.
What the fuck does it say about avoidance where Zayne is concerned that I'm more comfortable thinking about being shot than what could happen between us if I left this room and wandered down the hall?
Blowing out a deep breath, I do my very best to free my mind of all thoughts. I take a deep breath, imagining a line starting horizontally at my head, moving it down a few inches with my exhale.
I repeat the action, moving the line further and further down my body, relaxing every group of muscles it passes through until it reaches the tips of my toes.
Then I start over, fighting the thoughts and ideas that refuse to drift away.
Another deep breath.
Another push of the line.
Rinse and repeat.
I was told once that fighter pilots would do this as a way to fall asleep quickly so they could be refreshed the next time they were needed to fly.
My body feels heavier, my muscles relaxed as I give in to my exhaustion.
I imagine myself smiling for the win, but my face is too lax to make any physical movements.
Flashes of memories, both from war and from my past with Zayne, tangle together in my mind, but I'm beyond the point of being able to control where I'm taken. Instead of fighting it, I give in.
Chapter 21
Zayne
I've experienced a lot of terrible shit in my life. I've borne witness to some of the most heinous acts people are capable of committing against each other.
I'm no stranger to nightmares due to my trauma. Hell, a repeat nightmare I have is witnessing my sister being beaten to death in jail. Despite not being there when it happened, my mind has been creative enough to fill in the blanks left in the incident report I've read. It eats me alive, and the fear of having to witness her final moments in my dreams has often kept me up, afraid to go to sleep.
I know Zeus has seen some shit, too. You don't get shot and not feel some sort of way about it. You don't go through that much pain and expect your psyche to leave it in the past. It's just not possible.
I would understand if it were sounds of fear, whimpering, or even shouts of pain coming from his room, but those weren't the noises that drew me out of my room a few minutes ago.
With my ear pressed to his bedroom door, I know now there's no mistaking what I'm hearing.
If I weren't positive no one else has entered this house, I'd swear he was in there fucking the hell out of someone.
The noises of pleasure, whispers of how good he feels, sink lower inside of me, lengthening and filling my cock in a way that makes it nearly impossible to ignore.