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Except I don’t feel like a survivor. The outside of the bunker is a new form of prison. The only thing that drags me down further than the memories that haunt me is my inability to talk to him. I sit up in bed and drag my IV pole with me. Briggs sees my intent and shakes his head in warning. Ignoring him, I manage to get to my feet, and in seconds he’s next to me.
“Scottie, stop—what are you doing?”
His hands are on my hips, and I turn to face him—so close we’re sharing breath. I bask in the feel of his proximity as we lose ourselves in the contact.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” Verna, my night nurse, scolds as she rounds the bed, and I lose his touch. He takes a step back, and I flinch at her hands on my body, at her intrusion.
“I want him in here.”
His face is covered in concern while his eyes fully drink me in. I know I must look like hell, and I’m sure I could use a run with a toothbrush, but I can’t help the compelling need inside me to be near him.
“Scottie, we have to follow the rules so you can heal.”
“Since when do you give a shit about rules?”
“Where you’re concerned, they matter.”
“Stay,” I beg as the nurse looks between us curiously. “I can’t sleep. Please, just stay.”
Verna hoists me back into bed and checks the nonstick padding that covers my burn. I wince as Briggs catches sight of it, and his mouth parts slightly.
“Sexy, right?” I joke half-heartedly as his eyes flit to mine. I wonder briefly if he’ll ever look at me the way he did, with longing and hunger, instead of pity. Regardless of the way he feels, this need for his presence won’t dissipate. Seconds have been agonizing without hearing his voice. My days and nights are spent trapped in dreams I can’t wake from. The only thing I have to look forward to is seeing his face when I finally release myself from their hold.
The nurse drags a chair across the room and places it next to my bed. “You’ll need to wash your hands, and don’t touch her.” She leaves us without a parting glance as Briggs makes his way over to the sink. I stare at his form; his frame is too thin. The weight of the months we spent in captivity lay heavy on his shoulders. He glances my way as he washes, and my heart cracks because he can’t even muster the smile I’ve grown to love. Dark circles outline his eyes, and he pumps more soap onto his hands. It seems like a small eternity before he’s back at my side, although it’s only been seconds. I drink him in, free of the debris from living in filth. He’s so insanely gorgeous. His amber eyes have lost a bit of their sparkle, and I wonder if he sees the same defeat when he looks at me. We sit, wordless, until I can’t take it anymore.
“Please, Briggs, crack a joke, something.” I don’t want things to be weird between us. I couldn’t take that.
“I’m trying here, Scottie.”
“Stop trying, just…just say what you’re thinking.”
“How do you feel?”
“Better, every day.” I swallow hard, assessing him. “God, you look so good.” My eyes trace the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips.
“You’re such a liar.”
“I’m not. I mean, if we’re comparing injuries—”
His sharp retort cuts me off. “You win.”
“Don’t,” I say with a shaky voice. “Don’t. Just don’t even go there.”
“I don’t want to upset you.”
“Then don’t upset me,” I say coldly and finally rip my eyes away.
“You can talk to me.”
“I am.”
“You’re not,” he scolds. “And you can’t keep it in there to fester. You need to come clean.”
“For who? For you? Do I need to make you feel better about what happened to me?”
“You want me to say what I’m thinking?” It’s a challenge. My eyes meet his, and slowly I nod in reply.
“I think that they failed. They tried, but they failed. You need to remember that they failed when it gets heavy. Katy, look at me.”
Anger boils just beneath the hurt he sees on the surface. I don’t want any part of what he’s saying. I feel like if I let it out, it won’t stop. I’m nowhere near ready for that shitstorm. I meet his eyes in the orange light of the room, and there I get lost.
“You’re still beautiful, full of life, and so strong. So fucking strong.” His voice cracks. “Even with me, especially with me, but you don’t have to be, Scottie—not with me. You don’t have to be strong. It’s not your fault.”
“I know that.” I duck away from his scrutiny. “I know exactly what it was.”
“It’s my fault. They saw it. They saw what…” He falters as he pulls his chair in closer and runs a hand down his face. “If I hadn’t been so fucking obvious…”
“And I wasn’t? We needed each other,” I whisper before I let what I’m thinking pass through my lips. “I still need you, Briggs.”
His misty eyes pierce mine.
“I don’t want to worry about what that means; I just want to be okay with needing you.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes his head.
“Scottie—”
“Please, please.”
He chokes as he grips my hand and presses his lips to the back of it. He holds them there, and I close my eyes at the feel until a gut-wrenching sob escapes him, and his body starts to shake. Ignoring the burn, I lean forward and run my free hand down the back of his neck as he breaks in front of me. I take in the flutter of his lids and the thick black of his lashes as thin tears escape beneath them. They fall on our joined hands, on the bed between us. He gathers himself in our touch as he kisses my hand, again and again, each kiss more feverish, more reverent. He turns my wrist palm up and covers it too with his soft lips as mine part at the feel. Awareness of his touch pricks down my spine, and it’s all I can do to keep from begging him for more. The second his gaze meets mine, it’s all back—the longing, the hunger, the need. We sit and stare, our hearts beating in sync until he starts to pull back.
“Don’t. Please don’t.”
“Jesus, Katy.”
“Please, just stay.”
He leans forward, burying his forehead on the side of the bed. “They’d have to throw me out.”
“Don’t let them,” I murmur before I lay back, never letting go of his hand.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Katy
“Please state your name for the record.”
“Staff Sergeant Kathryn Nicole Scott.”
The devil is in the details. I stare at the man across from me, who no doubt has a drawer full of chest candy. His glower is a mix of subtle accusation and interest. The accusation part is to keep me on my toes, to keep me honest with my answers, but as I delve further into those fucking details, his face pales. He chokes on the button at the top of his collar, and at one point I visibly see him flinch. He’s heard it all, probably, firsthand accounts from POWs, but from the way he’s firing off his tells, I’m positive he’s never heard it from a woman. Hands shaking, I speak with an emotionless voice, yet I feel every word and every act I recall, in detail. And I swear as I recite the facts of the doomsday before we gained our freedom, I’ll never utter the words again.
If this is numb, it’s not fucking helping. I yearn for Briggs, who I’ve only seen twice since the night at the hospital. His visits are brief and always interrupted by the staff, our connection lost in his inability to meet my gaze. He was released after our night alone in my room, and while I couldn’t be happier he’s fully recovered, the selfish part of me still wants us here, together. I was finally discharged this morning but can’t leave until after this final debriefing.
“Thank you, Staff Sergeant. On behalf of the United States Army, I thank you, and your country thanks you.”
He rattles off more procedures for the coming months as I wait for useless words of encouragement to pass his lips. He tells me the army needs dedicated soldiers like me. I have no interest in being a soldier, and by choice, I won’t be one much longer. The irony isn’t lost on me that, in the four months I was deployed, I accomplished so little. Certainly not enough to justify the price.
