Renegade (Phoenix Rising)

by Blake, Brynley

  “Not just as a friend. You’re my everything. You’re the one I think about when I fall asleep and the first thing I think about when I wake up. When something good happens, you’re the one I want to tell, and when it’s bad, you’re the one who always knows how to make me feel better. You make me want to be a better person. I want to be the one you turn to when you’re sad, the one who protects you from everything, and the one who sets your mind and your body and your soul on fire.”

  Her eyes are shimmering with tears again. Christ, I’m fucking up everything. I scrub my hand over my face.

  “I’m sorry, baby. I know I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I have no right to tell you any of this. I know you said your safe word…you stopped me because of the thing you have with Declan.”

  “No, you idiot. I didn’t say my safe word because of Declan. I said it because of you.”

  “What?”

  “I love you, too, Walker. I think I always have, but you always had so many beautiful women chasing after you, I knew you couldn’t be interested in me…”

  “Like hell!” I swear. “It was always you, since the day I first laid eyes on you in Mrs. Patterson’s Algebra 2 class and you smiled at me.”

  Her eyes are still shimmering with tears, but she’s smiling, and I suddenly feel like I’m staring at a rainbow after a torrential downpour.

  “This week with you…I didn’t know I could feel the way you made me feel. Every time you kissed me, every time you made me come, every time you took my vulnerability and turned it into something beautiful and strong, I lost a little more of my heart. Tonight…” She falters. “Tonight…you wanted it all. And I knew if I gave you everything, I’d never be whole again. That’s why I said my safe word.”

  I pull her to me, crushing her against my chest as I hold her tightly, my chin on her head. “Oh, baby, I do want it all,” I growl. “I want all of you. I won’t settle for any less. Just because you fight the world on your own doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to rest your head on my shoulder at the end of the day and know I’ve got you.” I tilt her chin up so I can see her face. “What about Declan?”

  “There is no Declan. I told him I wasn’t interested. From the beginning, I thought it was the dynamic that I craved, that made me feel alive, but it was you. When Declan came over tonight, I felt nothing. It doesn’t mean anything without love. I can’t drop the barriers and be vulnerable to someone and give them the ultimate power over me without being able to trust them. And I can’t imagine trusting anyone the way I trust you. Or loving anyone the way I love you,” she adds softly.

  “Me too, sweetheart. I love you with all of my heart and soul, with everything that I am.”

  I take her hand, threading our fingers together as I bring our joined hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles. She smiles. “I hate to break it to you, Walker, but you are a fucking dominant, whether you realize it or not.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You think?”

  Lines furrow her brow as she frowns. “Yes. But there’s always a certain tenderness with you, and I always knew in my heart that I could let go with you because you’d never let me fall. Maybe it’s not the role that defines the relationship; it’s the relationship that defines the role. Maybe you’re only dominant with me. And maybe I loved doing all those things because they were with you.”

  “I don’t care, sweetheart. Kinky or not, I just want to be with you. Every day. For the rest of my life. Do you have a marker?”

  She looks at me with confusion. “Yeah…”

  “Where?” I’m already headed to the kitchen, pulling open drawers until I find a black Sharpie. Striding back into the living room, I grab her around the waist, taking her with me as I fall back onto the couch. She squeaks with surprise, and then starts giggling as I position her ass up over my lap.

  “Oh no, you don’t.”

  She tries to wriggle away, but she’s no match for my strength, and I can tell by the way her breath is coming in those fast little gasps I love that she’s enjoying every minute of our power struggle as much as I am. There will never be a dull moment with Gemma.

  I give her ass a warning slap, and she giggles and wiggles deliberately over my crotch. God, I love this woman. I hold her down firmly as I uncap the marker and write mine across her ass before turning her over so I can look into her green eyes that are stormy with love and passion. For me. I’m the luckiest fucking man alive.

  “That will have to do until I make it official with a ring.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “Oh, yeah. You’re marrying me, sweetheart. We’ve wasted nine years. There’s no way I’m letting you go now.”

  “Was that supposed to be a marriage proposal? Because the common practice is you’re supposed to ask.” She’s laughing, but her eyes are shining, and I have no doubt what her answer is.

  “Sweetheart, there’s nothing common about us. There never has been. You are one of a kind, and so is my love for you. Marry me and I promise you’ll never be sorry.”

  She cups my face tenderly. “I would marry you a thousand times.”

  I kiss her then, and I grip her throat lightly, not to cut off her air but so she knows unequivocally what I’ve known all along. “You’re mine,” I whisper.

  “I always was.”

  Epilogue

  Liam

  I notice the smell first. It’s an unmistakable, familiar antiseptic smell, and for a minute, I think I’m back in the hospital with my mom, reading her her favorite romance books and entertaining her with stories of my last mission while poison drips slowly into her veins. But no. The rush of memories washes over me like a tidal wave. Mom’s voice, so tired and frail, saying she doesn’t want to suffer anymore. Dad holding her in his arms and Kenzie and me holding her hands as the morphine took effect and she slipped away forever. A funeral, and a year later another one—my dad’s this time. Mounting bills. A guy with dark hair and a Boston accent, and the relief that it was all going to be okay. But the memories are fleeting, and as soon as I grab hold of one, it seems to flit away.

  There’s no doubt I’m in a hospital. My eyes feel like they’re sealed shut, and no matter how hard I try to open them, I can’t. I can’t move, either, but I know not to panic. I do what I’ve been trained to do. I stay calm and focus on the details around me, assessing the situation, although I can’t say how or why I know to do this. Still, I catalog my observations in my mind. The efficient sounds of people going about their business. The soft slap of shoes on tile. The beep of machines. The murmur of voices speaking a language I don’t understand. But the smell prevails. I’m certain I’m in a hospital, but I have no idea why or how I got here. I try to think, but my head feels thick and foggy, and I fight sleep. Where the hell am I? The darkness closes in.

  The chatter of voices wakes me up again, but this time I can open my eyes. I’m definitely in a hospital, but it doesn’t look like the hospitals I’m used to. It’s small and primitive by U.S. standards. I turn my head to see a row of cots filled with patients, but none are blond like me, or white.

  “You’re awake.” I turn toward the softly accented, feminine voice. A kind-looking, middle-aged woman with brown skin looks from me to the beeping monitor above my head. “We were not sure you would make it. You have been in a coma.”

  “A coma?” My voice is a hoarse croak. “How long? What happened?”

  “Shh.” She places a cool hand on my forehead. “Let me get the doctor for you.”

  Five minutes later, a man with glasses and an air of kind authority arrives next to my bed. “I’m Dr. Singh. Welcome back,” he says with a smile. “You are at a hospital in Punjab. You’re in India.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “A couple of months. Do you know your name?”

  I can hear my mother’s voice calling to me in my head. “Liam.”

  “Liam what?”

  I think hard, but I’m drawing a blank. I shake my head.

  He nods, writing so
mething on his clipboard. “Do not worry. It is quite common. Your memories will return slowly. Do you remember what happened? How you got here?”

  I think back, trying to remember something. Anything. “No. What happened?”

  “You arrived under rather mysterious circumstances. You’d been shot, and perhaps had been in some sort of fire or explosion, as you had burns. Someone had taken excellent care of your wounds and got you here, but they left you with a nurse and disappeared. Her description of the person could fit just about anyone. You had no identification on you, only a cell phone, which was password protected.”

  “Where is it?” McKenzie must be worried sick. I struggle to sit up, but the edges of my vision turn black, and I suddenly feel woozy.

  Dr. Singh places a hand on my shoulder. “Rest. Tomorrow when you are stronger, you can contact your family. It has been several months. Another day is not going to make a difference.”

  I lie back against the bed, exhausted. “They don’t know where I am?”

  He shakes his head. “The local police were called in to investigate, but your fingerprints did not match any passports or confirmed entry. There was no way to identify you. We are a small farming community. Our resources are limited, but we can call the consulate for assistance if your memory doesn’t return.” He places a hand reassuringly on my arm. “But I think it will. Over time, it is likely that many of your memories will return, although you may never remember all of the events surrounding the time of injury. Sometimes it is a blessing. Rest now.”

  Over the next twenty-four hours, I eat, thrill the nurse by pissing into a bedpan, drift in and out of sleep, and try to remember what happened. Memories return, but they’re spotty, fragmented pieces that don’t make any sense. Diving with my college friend Anthony in Malaysia. Walking off a military plane with a duffel bag full of guns. A silver necklace with a design etched on it. They all seem so bizarre. Maybe they’re not memories at all, but simply dreams I had while I was in the coma.

  I rack my brain, frustrated by my inability to remember who I am or what the hell I’m doing on the other side of the world.

  “You should get some sleep. Your brain needs time to heal.” It’s the nurse again, and I’m grateful for her kindness. She gives me a pill, and I slip off into the abyss again.

  I feel stronger the next morning, and after I pass several rounds of cognitive and physical tests, Dr. Singh brings me my phone.

  I turn it on but realize I have no idea what my password is.

  Day by day, the memories slowly come back. Some of them, at least. Eventually, I remember that my last name is Prescott, and that I am a Navy SEAL, although I don’t share that information with anyone, even Dr. Singh. I think it’s best to keep it to myself until I know what happened to me and why. Unfortunately, those memories still elude me.

  For some reason, I dream of Charlotte, one of McKenzie’s two best friends, almost every night, and almost every morning I wake up with a stiff cock, her scent permeating my nostrils. While it’s good to know that appendage is still working, I don’t know why I dream of her, or why my dreams are so vivid. I can’t really know the things I dream of—intimate things, like the little whimpers she makes when she comes, and the tiny mole at the small of her back. Although I think of both her and Kenzie’s other best friend, Gemma, like family, I’ve never even dated her.

  It takes two weeks before I remember the password to open my phone. I tell Dr. Singh, who puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Several months without contact from a loved one can be hard. People act…unexpectedly. Take your time.”

  He’s a good doctor and a kind man. I know enough about the medical system in this part of the world to know I was lucky to have been dropped off in his hospital. Another doctor would have left me on the streets, or let me die. “Yes, sir.” I salute him with a smile, and he smiles back before he pulls the curtain around me, giving me a tiny bit of privacy.

  It seems to take an eternity for my phone to turn on, but as soon as it does, I click on my contacts. My finger hovers over Kenzie’s name as Dr. Singh’s words echo in my head. It’s ten hours earlier back home—around two in the morning. McKenzie’s always been reserved and anxious. Maybe I should at least wait until she wakes up before I call her and tell her I’m fine.

  I feel the hairs on the back of my neck raise as I realize there are no missed calls—not from Kenzie or my best friend and SEAL brother, Walker, or any of the guys on my team. How does a guy disappear from his Navy SEAL team for several months and no one looks for him? I know Kenzie; she would have been beside herself with worry, calling and texting me. But there are no texts or calls from anyone. With a prickle of foreboding creeping up my spine, I google my name.

  Apparently, I was killed rescuing an aid worker in Afghanistan. I had a lovely memorial service, but I’m kind of pissed that no one played my in-case-of-death playlist, which included “Stairway to Heaven,” “Another One Bites the Dust,” and Monty Python’s “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”

  There’s more—rumors that I had been illegally running guns, selling them to a Mexican drug cartel. I sit in stunned silence for a long time. Did I do that? Did I betray my country and smuggle guns out of Iraq? Was that hazy memory of carrying guns through customs real?

  I have to find out. And I have to find out while the rest of the world thinks I’m dead, or else I’ll end up in jail before I can prove my innocence. Or my guilt, I think grimly. Either way, I have to do it alone. I can’t implicate anyone else in this. I know Walker would believe me—he’s the brother I never had—but he’s probably been made commanding officer after my “death.” Being a SEAL means everything to him. I can’t take that away from him, or involve him in this.

  I set my phone down, the doctor’s words about my memory returning echoing through my head. Sometimes it’s a blessing.

  Fuck that! I’ve got to get strong, and I’ve got to clear my name. But most importantly, if I did take the guns, I’ve got to find them before anyone else does and make this right.

  “Were you able to contact your family?” Dr. Singh asks when he comes back to check on me.

  “It’s complicated,” I say. “There are things I don’t remember that I need to before I go home.”

  “I can’t keep you here any longer,” he says gravely. “You have no money, and we are short of beds.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  “That is why I would like to open my home to you. You can recover quietly there. And when you are ready, you can go home.”

  “Why would you do that? Why did you take care of me all these months when I couldn’t even pay you?”

  “I am Sikh,” he explains with a shrug. “Hospitality and protecting the weak are pillars of my religion.”

  Weak. It’s not a word that has ever applied to me. I don’t like it.

  I spend the next six weeks at Dr. Singh’s house regaining my strength and stamina, helping care for goats, teaching his two young boys English, and waiting for my memory to return, but the holes remain. Every day I comb the news, hoping to find clues or that one thing that will spark my memory and create a new path for the memories to surface. But there’s nothing.

  Then, I see Charlotte’s face staring back at me, and the headline that accompanies the photo makes my blood run cold—“Charleston Wedding Planner Missing; Foul Play Is Suspected.” I skim the news article, my heart in my throat.

  Charlotte has been kidnapped, and I know instinctively it has something to do with me, although I have no idea how. My time in India is over. I throw my things into a bag. If Charlotte is in trouble, so is McKenzie, and everyone close to me. Whether I stole the guns or not is irrelevant now. Someone is messing with my family, and that will not be tolerated.

  Now it’s personal. It’s time to kick some ass.

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&nbs
p; About the Author

  A lifelong reader with a taste for adventure, Brynley Blake writes the kind of books she likes to read: steamy contemporary romances featuring smart, sassy heroines with a sense of humor and strong, dominant alpha males who love their women a little feisty. She lives in Texas with her family and an assortment of pets, and loves rainy days, hot coffee, cold beer, red wine, traveling, and spending time with her family. She writes contemporary and erotic romance as Brynley Blake and Brynley Bush.

  Sign up for Brynley’s newsletter, stay up-to-date on current news, and chat with her on all her social media homes: www.brynleyblake.com.

  Don’t miss book one in the Phoenix Rising series…

  Rogue

  Discover Brynley’s bestselling Black Brothers series…

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  Matchless

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