Page 51 of Zeus

Not because I'm having the thoughts at all, but because they seem uncontrollable, like there's this draw tugging at every cell in my body, urging me to leave this room and wander down the short hallway.

Not having dominion over my thoughts and urges at this point in my life seems almost criminal. Wanting something is one thing, but having to fight to keep from doing something seems more like an addiction, and that isn't something I've wanted in my life ever.

I tilt my head, the echo of my neck cracking ringing out through the room. Rivet, the psychologist who works for Cerberus in New Mexico, would have a fucking field day if she were in my head right now.

The living room is bugged.

Why that thought slams into me, I have no idea. I shouldn't have to make excuses or justify myself for not doing something. I should simply tell myself it's not a good idea and move on.

But his room is the farthest area from the bug.

I shake my head, fists clenching at my sides.

It's a mere three steps to the fucking door, so I take two more steps back, feeling more than a little off-kilter when my calves bump into the bed, forcing me to sit down.

I glare at the door as if it’s done something to personally offend me.

I'm better than this.

I've spent years getting my behaviors under control.

I no longer lead with my anger and irritation.

I've taught myself to think before reacting, something that I didn't even consider until I was in the hospital, laid up with bullet holes.

"Yeah," I mutter to my empty room. "Think about that shit instead."

Zeus.

The name I earned in the Marine Corps. The one given to me when people called me a god, a hero.

I've often wondered what they would call me if they knew I acted on instinct without considering all the possible outcomes. Had I been able to guarantee that I'd be here today, I probably would've reacted the same way.

But honestly, had I been given more than a split second to think, I may not have covered my men and taken the brunt of enemy fire.

I felt like such a coward having those thoughts during recovery.

When the pain would get to be too much.

When the visits stopped because it took so long to heal.

When my parents wanted to use my injuries for their own personal gain.

There were more than a few lows after getting shot, and I'm not proud of having those thoughts then any more than I am with them popping up now.

I fall back on the bed, the old, used blanket scratchy on my bare back. I let my eyes drift closed, welcoming the phantom stings piercing my skin as my mind takes me right back to my last day on the battlefield.

What the fuck does it say about avoidance where Zayne is concerned that I'm more comfortable thinking about being shot than what could happen between us if I left this room and wandered down the hall?

Blowing out a deep breath, I do my very best to free my mind of all thoughts. I take a deep breath, imagining a line starting horizontally at my head, moving it down a few inches with my exhale.

I repeat the action, moving the line further and further down my body, relaxing every group of muscles it passes through until it reaches the tips of my toes.

Then I start over, fighting the thoughts and ideas that refuse to drift away.

Another deep breath.

Another push of the line.