by Kit Smart
The fury drains out of him. “If you’d known that I would sit down at your desk and snoop through your computer?” He asks with exhausted good humor. “You couldn’t have anticipated that.” Hand still covering his face, he shrugs. “You know what they say about eavesdroppers never hearing anything good about themselves.”
“I’m not sure it qualifies as eavesdropping.” I tell him. Despite my resolve not to push him, I find myself on my feet without conscious thought. “And it—the letter—it doesn’t reflect on you.”
“Doesn’t it?” He massages the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Because it seems to me that you don’t trust me.” He says quietly as he drops his hand back over his chest.
“I trust you.” I suck in a breath, and use my hand to rub at the suddenly achy place above my heart.
He nails me with a look. “Do you? Or has everything—the PTSD—made you doubt me professionally? If it has, I understand, but I need to know. I need to know if we can continue to work together, or if we need to make changes.”
“Changes?” I whisper stunned.
“We can’t work together if you can’t trust me.” He tells me harshly. “I can’t function like that.” He drops his eyes abruptly to my chin. “I couldn’t bear it if I had to come in here every day and face that.”He takes a careful breath. “To have you treat me as if I were broken.”
Oh.
“And what would that mean for us?” I ask him because it needs to be asked. “Could you love me if didn’t trust you; if I treated you as if you were broken?” Please say no.
I force myself to breathe as I wait for him to answer.
“Yes.” He says, and I think for a brief moment that I might die of the pain that answer evokes in me.
“I’ve worked hard to get myself together professionally.” He explains. “I’m not a mess at work. I can handle things here.”
“But outside of work?”
“I’m broken.” He says steadily. “An absolute disastrous mess of a man.”
I take a careful breath. “So, it’s fair for me to treat you like that? To not trust you? To look at you like you’re broken?”
“Yes.”
It’s my turn to close my eyes as I struggle to pull myself together in the face of his admission. I know that it’s a thing that happens with trauma; that wounds and insecurities, and soft spots aren’t created in a moment, and that they take more than a moment, or a single word to heal, but it pains me to see this insecurity reappear again and again.
Particularly now, when something I’ve done has contributed to it.
A thousands times; a hundred thousand times; a million times—however long it takes for him to understand it—to believe it—I’ll tell him.
“Owen.” I am impressed by how level—how firm—my voice is given the maelstrom of emotion coursing through me. “You’re not broken. You’re not a mess. And you deserve much better than to have someone who looks at you like you are.” Opening my eyes, I step out from behind the desk. “And I do trust you, professionally as well as personally.” I watch him for some sign that he’s receptive to me approaching him. “With my life, and with my heart.” I gesture toward the computer. “That—that was just a reflex, a habit—a maladaptive habit. One I’m working on.” I search his face. “I’m sorry that I did something to make you think that I didn’t trust you; that I’d just leave without—” I swallow hard as emotion hits me in the throat. “I won’t ever do that to you.” I open my hands. “I will probably make mistakes, make messes, but I’m trying—will you let me try?”
His eyes darken with pain, and then he drops his hands from his chest and straightens to his full height.
I am across the room and in his arms before he has regained his balance, and he falls back against the wall with a soft grunt that turns into a laugh. His voice is a low, warm rumble against my ear as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into the solid warmth of his body. “How could I not?”
Epilogue
Owen
“Just so you know, if I get the chance I am so getting a dinosaur.” Seri tells me as she fastens her weapons harness over her chest.
I smile at her to let her know that I appreciate her attempt to lighten the moment. “I don’t think there are dinosaurs where you’re going.” In fact, I know there are no dinosaurs where you’re going.
“Well, I’m sure there’s something interesting.” She gives me her most angelic smile. “So, you’d best be prepared for it when I get back.”
I shift my hips against the edge of the table I’m leaning against and rearrange my legs in an attempt to dispel some of the restlessness coursing through me at the thought of sending her off on one of the ships.
When she had been explicitly seconded to the NSU for this particular mission, I had been so preoccupied with my relief that she wasn’t being transferred, that I hadn’t protested her secondment.
Now though, everything in me is telling me to stop her.
Tie her up, lock her in a closet, send someone else. Whatever it takes to stop her from leaving.
Not because I think she’s incompetent, or not up to what’s in front of her.
The way she handles herself, pulling on her gear and running through her checklist as she goes over each weapon, each piece of gear to confirm that it is in working order before snapping, or locking it into position, speaks volumes about her training and mindset.
My girl can handle herself.
It’s because the thought of returning home and getting into bed without her tonight terrifies me.
Makes me contemplate the worst.
Things happen.
People don’t come back.
Something could happen to her.
Something she isn’t prepared for, even with all of her training.
A lifetime of going home without her; of sleeping without her looms before me.
Stop her.
“Owen.” I hadn’t even realized that I had dropped my gaze until her booted feet enter my field of vision.
I look up.
“I’m not a damsel in distress,” She cups my face in her hands and stares in my eyes. “I’m the damsel who does the damage remember?”
“Yeah?” I reach out and smooth my hands around her hips; slide them up under jacket until I can feel the bare skin of her lower back.
“Definitely.” She shifts closer, slides her hands down my face to rest along the sides of my neck and lowers her head to kiss me gently on the lips. “I’m the nightmare that haunts the dreams of every monster, dragon, and evil-doer around. All of those psychotic, serial killer types passing themselves off as princes charming, quake in their boots at the sound of my name.” She smiles against my lips, and the sensation sends a little jolt of pleasure through me that starts to thaw the edges of cold gripping my spine.
I take in the way her brown eyes sparkle with wit. “Seri.” I return her kiss. “You are very funny, but, I don’t think I’m quite up to it right now.”
She regards me quietly. Her eyes are clear, when she speaks. “What do you need from me?”
The easy acceptance stuns me, as it always does—as I suspect it always will. I clear my throat. “I need you to tell me that you’re coming back.”
She smoothes her thumbs along the line of my jaw as she leans in for another kiss.
She does it because she knows that it feels really good, and she wants me to make this good for me. “I will always come back.” She murmurs as she presses her mouth against mine and kisses me passionately.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kit subsists on the hope that if she lives and behaves in the appropriate manner someone somewhere will permit her to be a pirate. In the meantime, she enjoys drinking copious amounts of tea and writing stories about unconventional heroes with the assistance of her three feline 'crew members'.
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