by Selena Kitt
Owned by the Marine
By
Renee Rose
Chapter One
Survivor's guilt.
That's what the fucking Veteran's Administration shrink called it.
Whatever.
All he knew was that he was supposed to be dead with the rest of his Force Recon detail team. Abe. John-boy. James. He had a tat for each of his dead brothers. Cal. Sammy. Jones. He'd lost them the year before. So many, they covered his good arm. Nothing could cover the skin on the other side.
The burned side.
He limped up the steps to his new apartment building. He only had 80 percent flexion in his left knee because of the scar tissue from the burns which impeded the bend. It made going up and down stairs painful. Maybe that was why he'd picked an apartment with thirty steps and no elevator. He didn't want to stop hurting. The pain made him remember he was alive, which was good after the haze he'd put himself in from pain pills.
It had taken him three months to get clean after he'd grown addicted to the OxyContin for the burns. He'd lost fifteen pounds from diarrhea and vomiting when he stopped cold turkey. The temptation still ate him away from the inside sometimes.
But no. He was stronger than that. He was a fucking Marine Sergeant. They hadn't trusted him to Personal Security Detail because he was a wimp.
When he'd come home with the Purple Heart, his mom had wept over him, had begged him to move back to Corpus Christi and live at home to get away from it all. He'd promised her he was done with the pain pills, had promised he'd stay in counseling at the VA. It was the reason he gave for staying in San Diego after his discharge.
He needed a purpose. That was what the shrink said.
Fuck her.
Did she have any idea how dull civilian jobs were? Civilian life? After what he'd seen and done?
"Hey, let me help you carry that," a little redhead—a gorgeous twenty-something redhead—chirped, picking up one of the boxes he'd left at the foot of the stairs.
"No," he growled.
She paused mid-reach. She was girl-next-door cute, with her hair pulled into a high ponytail, and dimples. Yes, fucking dimples. So not his type. But adorable.
He glared at her and waited for her to see his face. Three… two… one… yep. Dimples' eyes widened at the sight of his scarred mug. He was pretty scary-looking. Mottled skin where the left side of his face should be. Not to mention, he was huge, tattooed and muscled. Eight years in the Marines and four tours to Afghanistan had kept him in tip top shape.
To his surprise, she went on with her plan to help him, bending over and picking up the heavy box, huffing a little as she lifted it.
"I said no," he snapped. Yeah. He wasn't used to people not listening to him, especially when he barked. And bark was all he did lately.
"It's no problem," she said, skipping up the steps to where he stood, then past him. "We're neighbors. I live next door to you."
What. The Fuck? The girl couldn't take a hint.
"I don't need help."
"I know," she said, running along ahead, giving him a view of her wiggling ass, which was about as juicy as they come. Round, muscled, and Daisy-Duke clad. His cock stirred in his jeans. That was new. He hadn't been randomly attracted to any girl since he'd been back.
"Benny the manager said you're a Marine Sergeant." She spoke over her shoulder as she pranced ahead.
Jesus Christ. What kind of apartment building was this? He just wanted to be left alone, for God's sake. Would there be any privacy here? He opted for silence. Maybe she would just go away if he ignored her.
When he finally made it to the landing, Dimples was standing outside his door, looking expectant. Like he was going to invite her in to put the box down.
"Leave it there."
"Oh. Um… okay."
She squatted down, the muscles in her long, youthful legs flexing. She looked like a runner. Or cyclist. Someone who worked out regularly.
He should say thank you, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to encourage her any more. She'd probably go skipping back down the stairs to help with the rest of the boxes, and he sure as hell didn't want that.
"I'm Kaitlyn."
Of course you are.
"Kaitlyn Lattigard." She stuck out her palm when he walked up, despite the fact that his hands were full of boxes.
"Oh right. You can't shake. Duh." She blushed. "Wow. How tall are you?"
Was she coming on to him? Seriously? Before the scars he used to get a lot of action—girls flirting shamelessly in bars and that sort of thing, but not since the burns. Most people took one look and politely backed away. It wasn't just the scars. They could feel the darkness in him. They sensed the rage so they gave him wide berth. And that was the way he wanted it.
The last thing he needed was to make idle chit chat with strangers—hell, with anyone. Nothing underscored his pain more than trying to interact with people who just. Didn't. Get it.
"Hey, not to be rude, but I didn't ask for your help. Can you give me some space, here?"
Dimples paled, her coppery freckles standing out against her porcelain skin. "Oh."
A twinge of regret ran through him. But no. Fuck that. If she would've taken a hint in the first place, he wouldn't have had to be so blunt.
She stumbled back. "Okay, yeah. Sorry. Um. I'll just be next door if you need anything."
"I won't need anything."
He pushed open the cheap, practically cardboard door to his apartment and stalked through, letting it swing shut and slam behind him.
Damn.
Well, the sooner Dimples got her sights off him, the happier she'd be. He didn't do young innocents. He didn't do sweet. He didn't do clean, pretty or cute. So yeah.
He may live next door, but he sure as hell wasn't the boy next door.
* * *
Kaitlyn stood in the hall, her heart thudding against her chest.
It's not about me.
The Marine had pain. Not just the physical kind. It simmered in his gaze, radiated from his pores. And those burns. God, that had to hurt. A wounded warrior. Her heart ached for him.
Clearly he'd taken her attempt to help as an insult—probably he thought she felt sorry for him because the stairs were a struggle. She considered waiting for him to come back out, to explain that she was just being neighborly, but no, that was too much. He'd already made it plain he didn't appreciate her company. Except her experience as a social worker told her he was full of crap. He needed human interaction as much as he shoved it away right now.
Or maybe he was just a jerk. No, she didn't think so.
She pushed through her own door and poured a glass of iced seltzer water.
Maybe she'd make him cookies or something as a welcome.
No. Too much. She was going to come off as desperate. She wasn't begging for a date, she just… well, what? Wanted to help?
Yes, but she'd be lying if she said that was all. The Marine intrigued her. He'd been gorgeous before the burns. And his body was still all hard-muscled perfection. He was her kind of guy, wounds and all. Maybe especially with the wounds.
New to San Diego, she had yet to find her groove socially. She didn't love the surf-y California pretty boys. They were too self-centered, too shallow and body-focused.
She'd joined a few online dating sites, and had been trying to find someone with a little more depth. She had a few prospects going right now, and her first face-to-face date was scheduled for the following Saturday.
Too bad it wasn't with the Marine, because he made her knees weak with that tough guy thing.
Her phone rang and the screen lit up with a picture of her friend from work. She was ten years older than Kaitlyn, but they talked a lot.
"Hey Becky."
"Hey, how are you?"
"Good. How about you? How's Charles doing?" Her friend's husband had just had surgery for prostate cancer and Becky had been worried beyond belief.
"He's okay. He's in a lot of pain, but the s
urgery went fine. He might be able to go home tomorrow."
"That's great."
Personally, she thought the turd deserved a little pain. Charles was a self-absorbed baby-man, and he treated Becky like his mom/live-in slave rather than a wife. It was a good thing they didn't want kids, because her hands were full with her husband-child. But whatever. Kaitlyn didn't have to live with him, and Becky claimed to be happy, so she shouldn't judge.
"How was your date?"
"It hasn't happened yet. It's Saturday. But a hot Marine just moved in next door."
"Oh really?" Becky asked.
"Yeah. Looks like a wounded warrior. He has burn marks on his face and he limps."
"Let me guess—you want to somehow save him."
"Shut up."
"Am I right?"
"It's not like that, no."
"But admit it, the wounded thing makes him appeal more to you."
Kaitlyn scowled. Why did Becky have such a good read on her?
"So what? That doesn't mean I want to save him."
"Listen, I think it's sweet that you have such a big heart, but you can't fix the whole world. For once, why don't you find a guy who can take care of you, instead of vice versa?" That was rich coming from the woman who did everything for her husband.
She thought about the huge Marine walking down the hall with two giant boxes stacked on top of one another. "Oh, I think this guy could take care of me. And I don't think the wounded thing appeals because I want to fix him. It just tells me that he has a little depth. You know, he's had to endure hardship. It's more than most of the guys I've met around here."
"Probably most of the military heroes who have returned home are going to have that. The rate of PTSD is staggering."
And Becky thought she had the bleeding heart complex. Well, they were both social workers, although they worked with child and family resources, not returning veterans.
"I know, but I haven't met any of those yet."
"Who is the date with on Saturday?" Becky asked.
"His name is Alexander and he's a chiropractor."
"Hm."
Yeah, she knew. That didn't sound nearly as hot as a Marine, did it? Well, that didn't mean he wouldn't be a great guy. They'd been talking online for a couple weeks and the guy seemed pretty cool.
"Let me know how it goes, okay?"
"Yeah, okay. And tell Charles I hope he recovers quickly."
"I'll do that. Talk to you later."
She hung up and tapped her fingernails on the kitchen table, still thinking about the Marine. Okay, yeah. She would make him brownies. It was the only neighborly thing to do. Besides, he wasn't going to come around on his own. She'd have to chip at that wall of his, and she was nothing if not patient and determined.
She pulled out her mixing bowl, feeling cheerful. Nothing made her happier than doing something for someone else.
An hour later she tapped on the Marine's door.
He opened it and peered out, looking unbelievably hot in the skin-tight t-shirt, his tattooed arms bulging out of the sleeves.
She resisted the urge to reach out and test his bicep. Yeah. It was probably harder than concrete. She somehow swallowed the desire to drag her tongue up his body from navel to throat.
With the plate of warm brownies extended, she said, "Hi." She sounded breathless. Damn.
Deep breaths, Kaitlyn, deep breaths.
The Marine Sergeant's eyes traveled down from her face, but instead of landing on the brownies, they rested on her breasts. Her nipples hardened under his scrutiny.
"I, um, never caught your name," she said.
His eyes jerked back to her face and narrowed with suspicion. "Rob Gentry."
"Hi Rob. I—"
"Listen, I'm kinda tied up right now." He jerked his thumb toward the living room, where it appeared he was in the middle of installing a flat-screen television.
"Oh well, I don't mean to bother you but—"
Unbelievably, he swung the door shut in her face.
Her face flushed as she stood there in shock.
The door opened again. "Are those for me?" He looked at the brownies.
Her lips parted but no words came out. She wanted to say something witty or cute. Like, "Only if you invite me in," but his icy blue stare stopped her.
He reached for the plate of brownies.
She thrust it at him, still unable to make a sound.
"Thanks." He took the brownies and shut the door again.
A strangled laugh bubbled up in her throat.
Well, at least he took the brownies. She looked like a goofball with a capital "G", but he'd taken the food.
It was a start.
Chapter Two
Rob yanked the laces on his sneaker so hard they broke.
Fuck.
Was he really so out of touch with his own body that he couldn't tie a shoelace anymore? He yanked the broken laces out of the shoe and stared at it in disgust. Great. How was he supposed to go running?
After a moment of spluttering, his brain arrived at the obvious solution of pulling a lace from another shoe. He retrieved the lace and started over, this time being careful not to yank too hard as he tied it.
He kicked open his front door. Once more, he gauged poorly and the door slammed open, making a dent in the plaster behind it.
No, that wasn't his fault. The doors in this apartment were made of cardboard. He shut the door and locked it, slipping the key in his pocket. As he jogged down the stairs, his eye caught the flash of red hair in the lobby.
Damn.
Dimples again. He'd run into her three times in the past week and every time, his cock got hard while he pictured himself doing all variety of depraved things to her hot little body.
She was bent over her phone—no, it was an Mp3 player. Great, was she going running too?
He almost stopped to go back in his apartment until she left, but it was too late. Large green eyes lifted and crinkled at the corners. The dimples deepened with her wide smile.
Jesus, she was cute.
She wore a pink midriff shirt, tight around her perfect, perky tits, and short shorts. Her muscular legs extended a mile long. He hated girls like her—sorority girls with every hair in place. No, that wasn't true. Kaitlyn wasn't a sorority girl. She was… well, he wasn't sure what she was, but she was definitely still too perfect and too innocent to even be looking at a guy like him.
Did she have any clue what he liked to do to women? If she did, she wouldn't stand there looking at him with that bright smile.
"Are you going for a run?" she said.
He considered walking past without answering. It wasn't like he hadn't already been rude. But she had made him brownies. Damn good ones, too. The kind with chocolate chips and walnuts. "Yeah."
"Me too." She hesitated and darted a glance at him as she passed through the front door and held it open for him. If she was waiting for an invite, it wasn't going to come.
He took the door from her and held out his hand. He may be an asshole, but he still knew how to be a gentleman, and he sure as shit wasn't going to let a woman hold the door open for him.
She flashed her megawatt smile, revealing a row of perfect, white teeth. "See ya." She jogged down the steps and took off running.
Wait. Was that a challenge? Did she actually think he wanted to race? Or was he reading too much into that impish smile? Either way, the most competitive part of him kicked into gear and he jogged down the stairs, wincing at the pain in his goddamn knee.
If that little girl thought she could outrun him just because he was wounded, she had another thing coming. He took off behind her, enjoying the view.
Kaitlyn had nice form. Her legs kicked back with easy grace, her ponytail swayed in rhythm with her gait. She started off and maintained a steady pace—not too fast out of the gates, not too slow. Her legs looked gorgeous as the muscles flexed and lengthened, and that ass… he suppressed a growl. She did have the best ass he'd seen in a long time.
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Too bad she wasn't his type, because he could think of at least nine different things he'd like to do to that ass, and most of them involved implements of torture.
Yeah. He liked to hurt women. He could be a sick fuck.
Of course, it was all consensual. And the women he played with wanted it—begged him for it, actually. Thanked him profusely when they were done because he delivered. But that part of his life was over now. Because who would submit to anyone as fucked up as he was right now?
Kaitlyn looked over her shoulder. When she saw him, she turned and jogged backward.
Oh no. Fuck that.
He spun his index finger in a circle in the air, indicating she should turn the fuck back around.
She actually laughed. Yes, laughed.
He was going to laugh when she tripped and fell on her ass. No, he wouldn't. The irony of being a sadist was that he didn't like seeing a woman hurt, except well, if they were playing. Otherwise, the urge to protect overrode all else.
He grit his teeth and picked up his pace, ignoring the searing pain in his hip and knee. When he reached Kaitlyn, she turned around to run forward, but that didn't stop him from giving her a pop on the ass. And yes, it felt damn delicious. "Running backward could get you killed."
She grinned, obviously not taking him seriously. "Oh yeah?"
He wanted to wipe that smile off her face—to teach her to call him "sir" and obey the fuck out of him when he gave an order. He wanted to flip her over his knee and spank that juicy ass pink.
"I'm serious," he growled.
She shrugged. "Okay. I'm running forward now." To his relief, she didn't say anything else, just fell into rhythm, running beside him. This he could get used to. Quiet companionship. Make that silent.
Of course, it was too good to last. After a few blocks, she peered up at him. "So, are you active duty?"
He frowned. "No."
"Retired disabled?"
The words hit him like a blow to the chest.
Holy fuck.
He'd better get used to them. That was his reality. It would forever be his story. Early fucking retirement due to permanent disability. Like a fucking weakling, he was now collecting retirement pay for the rest of his life. Which was why finding a job hadn't been a high priority. There were many guys who would be satisfied with his lot. He'd made it out alive. He didn't have to find work now, if he didn't want to. But yeah, he was considered unable to perform his former duties as Force Recon, which was a highly selective team of special ops guys—the Marine equivalent of a Navy SEAL or Army Special Forces. He'd been so fucking proud to serve his country that way.