by Jami Gray
Ignoring the painful pinch of that truth, I shivered and pushed away from the door to shuffle into the bathroom. I went through my nightly routine, my thoughts whirling as I tried to grapple with the fact I was in no shape, mentally or emotionally, to follow through on the temptation to play with the built six-foot-two hottie in my living room—not that Bishop had done anything to encourage me other than being the perfect gentleman all night. His solid presence kept me company as I indulged in a Monty Python binge. Between enjoying in the dry English humor and fighting the urge to lay my head on Bishop’s broad shoulder and sink into the security he wore like a coat, I managed to combat the darker thoughts lurking just outside the light. Unfortunately, spending time with him left me wanting more. Even if I was mixing my imagination with reality, I couldn’t ignore that having him with me was both a blessing and a curse.
I shook my head as I brushed my teeth. What the hell was I thinking? Wrong time, wrong place. Hell, with my luck, whatever draw I’d felt was probably one-sided. Especially considering his blunt assessment that I was the weakest link. Harsh though it was, the label wasn’t wrong. So I was not what a focused, determined man of action would find attractive.
I spat out a mouthful of toothpaste, rinsed, and wiped my face. I worked a desk job for a reason, and as much as I enjoyed escaping into a good story and imagining myself in some intrepid heroine’s shoes, the reality was terrifyingly different. Burying my face in the towel, I took slow, deep breaths as the nightmares surged forward, turning the sullen embers of desire to ash. As my fears slithered back in, I lifted my head and opened my eyes, the reflection of the bright fluorescent lights forcing my demons to scramble back into the dark. I carefully folded the hand towel, set it on the counter, and turned away from the face that no longer felt like my own.
Back in the bedroom, I stripped and threw my clothes into the hamper next to the dresser. After tugging on the oversized T-shirt that doubled as my pajamas, I hit the switch on the overhead light, leaving the lamp on my nightstand as the single guard against the darkness. I crawled into bed and under the covers, turned to my side until I was facing the lamp, and waited while my body temperature slowly heated the cold sheets.
You become the weakest point. The words had not only hurt, but they’d also pissed me off—not that Bishop had said them to be mean. He was simply stating a fact. I just didn’t want him to think of me as weak, even if that was exactly how I felt. While the majority of the last six months was a blur, there was one point during that bleak time when I’d finally stopped fighting and given up. I couldn’t say exactly when, and I couldn’t even explain why. All I knew was that I’d spent the first few days, maybe longer, fighting back, determined to outlast my tormentors. Eventually, it became obvious that escape wouldn’t be an option, and I shut down and hid. There was nowhere to hide, but I tried. When that failed, I started praying for someone to save me because I obviously sucked at saving myself. That was when my imaginary protector had stepped in like some hallucinatory crutch.
I snorted in disgust. Some heroine I’d turned out to be. Self-disgust and self-pity rose, and I fought them back, my choked whisper barely penetrating the quiet of my room. “I’m here. I’m alive. I didn’t break.” Not yet, at least. But that thought tumbled into that aching void I couldn’t seem to heal.
My eyes burned as I stared at the lamp I couldn’t turn off if I wanted any chance of sleep. Okay, so being kidnapped and tortured hadn’t managed to unleash my inner kick-ass warrior, but I had survived. That counted for something. So what happened next would be my choice. Either I would continue to let the monster win and push me over the crumbling edge into a selfish, suicidal decision I couldn’t take back, or I would fight back. Granted, fighting back meant relying on the strength and skills of others, but if that was what it took, then so be it. No shame in using the expertise of those around you.
Tomorrow, I would take the first step and let Wolf poke around in my head. The decision didn’t leave me with the warm fuzzies, but at least it meant I was doing something. That counts, right? Then again, depending on what he finds, maybe not.
Unwilling to slip into the rabbit hole of possibilities that would hold sleep back indefinitely, I got up on an elbow and nabbed my phone from my nightstand. Thumbing through my playlists, I found one with nothing but instrumentals, hit Play, and set the phone on the speaker dock. Then I closed my eyes and sought sleep.
I woke with my heart pounding and my mouth stretched wide around an airless scream. Terror locked my muscles in a painful grip, making my struggles useless. Remembered restraints morphed from cruel metal into a tangle of sheets. Half-formed images danced across my mind. Clinging to the light from the lamp, I fought to bring my heart rate down as the wisps of paralyzing fear faded, leaving behind a dull ache. Bit by bit, the familiar surroundings of my bedroom reformed, but the unsettling sensation of something lurking just beyond the light persisted, leaving me shaky.
“It’s just a dream.” A whisper was the best I could manage, but the sound of my own voice helped, pushing the unease back another step.
I dragged air into my lungs until I was sure my body would work. Shifting to my side, I drew my legs up, huddling under the covers like a little kid. My thoughts spun without catching, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember what had chased me awake. I wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse than my normal nightmares.
When my body finally calmed, I checked the time. Just after three. Great. Experience told me there was no way sleep would return, nor was I keen about being alone in my mind, which didn’t seem like the safest place at the moment. Normally, I’d shuffle out to the front room and zone out in front of the TV, but with Bishop camped out on the couch, that option was out.
Blowing out a breath, I uncurled from my protective ball and forced my body upright. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I scrubbed my hands over my face as exhaustion gnawed at me. A sketch pad taunted me from the bookcase, but I turned away. There was no way I would breathe life into the images stalking me. If I’d liked alcohol, I might have seriously considered seeking oblivion at the risk of my liver.
I left the bed, dragging the throw with me as I did the next best thing—I sought refuge in my chair and my Kindle. Books were to me what comfort foods were to others. I pulled up one of my favorite authors and revisited my favorite storyline. It took concentrated effort to get lost in the story. By the time I heard Bishop moving around, it was closing in on five thirty. When the door to the hall bathroom closed, I figured it was safe to get up. I pulled on a pair of PJ pants and snuck down the hall to the kitchen. My eyes burned, and the only cure was a shot or three of caffeine.
I hit the empty front room to see Bishop’s blanket neatly folded over the back of the couch. Piled on the coffee table were his phone, wallet, keys, change, and sunglasses. His bag was open on the easy chair, but that was the extent of his presence. Since it seemed he was really awake, I made sure to brew a full pot of coffee instead of the two cups I normally needed to function. I had my breakfast options narrowed down to eggs and toast when his rumbled “Morning” jerked my attention from the fridge. The man who stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the counter short-circuited my brain while hot-wiring my hormones.
Holy mother of pearl. I knew he was built, but man, oh man, he is… wow. I was just as susceptible as the next woman to a good-looking guy, but Bishop, bare chested and fresh from the shower, took good looks to another level. The man hid a ton under his T-shirts and jeans. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed to see the line of dark hair arrow from that broad chest and down those well-defined abs and disappear into his jeans. Who could get muscles like that? I’d thought such things existed only in books. Before my mind could delve into things best left alone, I managed to bring my gaze back to his face, taking note of the stubble shadowing his jaw. Man, he was giving my coffee a run for its money.
“How’d you sleep?” He rubbed the towel hanging from his neck over his dark
hair. The hints of red in the waves were muted.
“Umm…” I forced my mouth and brain to engage even as heat hit my cheeks. “Okay,” I lied, not wanting to get into why I’d had another restless night.
He dropped the end of the towel and folded his arms over his distracting chest, his eyes narrowing.
My gaze dipped, but I yanked it back up. Bad, Megan. No staring.
Unfortunately, based on the light of amusement in his eyes, I hadn’t looked away fast enough. I bit my lip and looked back at the fridge. “Would you like breakfast? I was going to make eggs and toast.”
“Sure. You want help?”
Did I want him invading the already small kitchen with his presence, which might lead to me setting the kitchen on fire? “Nope, I’ve got it.” I grabbed the eggs and butter and turned away from the attractive male behind me.
Wood scraped over tile as he pulled out a barstool and took a seat.
I let out a silent breath. Good. As long as he stayed over there, I should be fine. Pulling out the frying pan, I asked, “How do you like your eggs?”
“Scrambled works.”
Fortunately, my culinary skills were up to his request. I concentrated on the demanding job of whisking eggs in a bowl. It didn’t take long for the quiet to get to me. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry if I woke you.”
“You didn’t. I was already up.” The quiet beep of the coffee maker sounded as I poured the eggs into the pan. The barstool squeaked against the tile, and I looked over my shoulder to see Bishop get up and head in my direction.
“Where are your mugs?” Catching my look, he added, “I’ll get the coffee, seeing how you have your hands full.”
“Um, thanks.” I tilted my head to the cabinet just to the right of the fridge. “First cabinet on the left. Spoons are third drawer in. Creamer is in the fridge, and sugar’s that red canister by the coffeepot.”
“Appreciate it, but I take mine black.” He looked at me wrinkling my nose and added, “How do you like yours?”
“Two spoonfuls of creamer, please, and just half a spoonful of sugar.” I went back to the eggs, listening to him pour and prep. His hand landed on the small of my back, and I couldn’t stop my instinctive jump. He kept his hand in place as he leaned in and set a steaming cup on the counter next to me. “Thanks,” I muttered as I divvied up the eggs before I started in on the toast portion of our breakfast. I gave a quick downward check to ensure that my oversized T-shirt was hiding my body’s reaction to his simple touch. Thank you, Lord!
Instead of going back to the other side of the counter, he took a step back and to the side until he could lean against it. “You normally get up this early?”
Managing a half-hearted shrug, I answered, “Sometimes.” The toast popped up, and I got to buttering. After handing him his plate, I took my breakfast to the two-seater bar dividing the kitchen and the front room.
I managed a few bites before he quietly said my name, and I lifted my head to find him studying me. When he had my gaze, he continued, “How much sleep did you get?”
I had no reason to continue my lame evasion. “A couple of hours.”
His fork paused in midair. “You can’t keep going like this.”
His words lit a spark of anger. “I’m highly aware of that, Bishop.” I looked at my plate and carefully corralled the last of my eggs onto my fork.
Not put off by my snippy tone, he kept on. “So, are you taking anything to help?”
His question scraped too close to the therapist’s persistent, if gentle, suggestion of using pharmaceuticals to sleep. My hand tightened on my fork, but I kept my voice level. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I prefer not to.” My patience was at an end, and my response came out sharper than I’d intended. When he didn’t say anything more, I looked up to find him studying me with a frown. A sliver of guilt wiggled under my irritation, and I gave him as much of an explanation as I comfortably could. “Look, I’m sorry I snapped, but honestly, I’m not comfortable with using drugs to sleep.” I took the last bite of the now tasteless egg and choked it down.
“I get that.” He sounded sincere. “But you need to find some way to sleep.”
A very wicked inner voice made a graphic suggestion that had my hormones cheering. Doing my damnedest to ignore it, I set my fork on my plate, pushed it away, and pulled my coffee closer. “Kind of why I’m hoping this meeting today with Wolf works.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
If it didn’t, I was screwed and not in a good way.
When I didn’t answer, Bishop sighed, set his plate aside and crossed the kitchen. He put his coffee on the counter across from me and leaned in. He didn’t say anything, and even though I refused to look at him, I could feel him watching me as I tried to enjoy my coffee.
Finally, unable to take the tension, I lifted my eyes. “What?”
“If you’re worried about Wolf, don’t be.”
Not quite following, I asked, “What?”
“The reason you didn’t sleep last night. If it’s because of today—”
I was shaking my head before he could finish. “Last night was just par for the course. It had nothing to do with Wolf or what may or may not happen today.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
Knowing he could easily stop the upcoming visit that threatened to eliminate the only line of hope I could see, I panicked. Before I could think better of it, I grabbed his wrist and held on. “No, it’s the only good idea I’ve had since I got home.” My hand tightened as I tried to make him understand. “I’ll be able to sleep when I’m not worried I’m going to snap.”
The sharp edges of his face softened. “You’re not going to snap.” Although his tone was gentle, I didn’t miss the core of steel running through it.
As much as I appreciated his belief, it was important to be realistic. “You don’t know that,” I said. He opened his mouth, but I cut him off with a sharp shake of my head. “Don’t. Ever since I got out of the hospital, it’s about all I can do to keep from screaming. Half the damn time, I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t.” Watching him, I was sure my plea was falling on deaf ears, so I had to be more direct. “Take you, for example.”
Drawn up short, he blinked. “Me?”
Fighting a stupid blush, I let go of his wrist and sat back. “Yes, you.”
“What about me?”
There was no way I could share how much he reminded me of my illusionary protector or how he made me feel safe. He’d be out the door like a flash, not to mention how pathetic it would make me sound. Cuddling my coffee cup, I scrambled for a less crazy answer. “You stuck with me yesterday and insisted on staying the night.”
His jaw tightened. “No way in hell was I leaving you alone.”
I tilted my head and decided to try a different tack. “Be honest. If I hadn’t come to the colonel’s office, how soon would you have gotten the order to show up at my door?”
Color rose in his cheeks, and something flared in his eyes. “A day or two.” He sounded reluctant, but he hadn’t lied—a fact I was grateful for.
I gave him a tiny smile to soothe the sting of what I said next. “I’ve worked with Delacourt for a while. Long enough to understand that she has no problem making ruthless decisions for what she considers the best of her teams.” Unable to hold his gaze, I fiddled with my half-empty coffee cup and managed a negligent shrug. “To that end, I’m sure sending you in to get close to me was the next step on her agenda.”
“Megan…” he growled.
Worried that he would think I was blaming him, which was so far from the truth, I rushed on. “Don’t worry, Bishop. I’m not looking for apologies. I get it.” I gave him a half smile. “Boy, do I get it.”
He cocked his head, his expression suddenly hard to read. “What is it you think you get?”
I might not have been some super-psychic action heroine, b
ut I was far from dumb. This was Colonel Charlene Delacourt we were talking about. But if he needed me to verbalize it, I could do that. “She needs to know what, if any, kind of threat I pose. I can’t ask her, or you, to trust me if I can’t trust me.” Just thinking about that caused a tiny pang of hurt. “At least this way, it’s my choice.”
For a seemingly endless moment, the quiet stretched. Then he asked warily, “Why aren’t you upset?”
Not quite following his question, I frowned. “About what?”
He stared at me like I was some new alien life-form. “Most people wouldn’t be so cavalier about being seen as a threat. You don’t even blink.”
His guarded observation sounded like something my brother Dev would say—a wariness common among those who shed their blood for their country—but I understood Bishop’s question. “Why would I? I might work behind a desk, but I’m not blind to what’s happening, you know.”
He settled deeper on his forearms, leaning in and shrinking the counter space between us. “And what is it you think is happening?”
He was so close that his face became my entire world. His wavy hair was still damp, the tips barely brushing his shoulders. They would shorten and lighten to a burnished amber when they dried. His deep-chocolate eyes were slightly uptilted at the corners and edged with lashes any woman would envy. The close-cropped goatee framed his upper lip and shadowed his chin. I wanted to just cup it and feel it rasp against my palm. Bishop was so close it was difficult to keep my mind away from paths best left untaken. I managed to wheeze out, “Someone is targeting the teams.”
Deep in those dark eyes, something lethal flared. “How do you figure?”
That look scared me, but it also intrigued me. I licked suddenly dry lips, wondering when all the air in the room had disappeared. “Before I was taken, Delacourt assigned Kayden and Tag to investigate the deaths of their former teammates who just happened to also be psychic, which was possibly one reason they were targeted. When I was in the hospital, she caught me up with what happened there.” Her explanation had also included how the four were killed by a man previously thought MIA who had an ax to grind and a plan for lining his wallet with classified information. Oh, and he liked collecting psychic abilities from those he killed, which left me shaken, considering Bishop’s involvement in that situation and what could have happened but fortunately didn’t.