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“I’m not a Ranger. I’m a killer. I kill…men, women…and even kids sometimes.” My voice cracks. “That’s what I do. That’s why I’m all fucked up. You want a piece of that?”
NINE
Gwenna
I straighten my spine as shock washes through me, starting in my throat and spreading coolly through my stomach.
I frown up at him. He is wide-eyed, with his hands held out in front of him like he might need to fight, or even turn and run.
“I’m a killer… That’s why I’m all fucked up.”
The rough words echo through my head, but I can’t seem to pin them down or assign meaning to them. I blink slowly.
“Like…in combat?”
He shakes his head. He swallows. Nods. “Usually.” The word is rasped, so soft I barely hear it over the crackling fire.
Usually…but sometimes not? “What does that mean?”
He stares through me, and I feel a bite of fear. Standing there in just those sweatpants, with his arm around his chest and a hand raised to his bowed head, Barrett looks so broken, I have trouble feeling anything but worry for him—for this man who’s slow to laugh and quick to touch me; hard to reach and so easy to want.
I have this memory of him crouching down and touching my ankle. I can feel his finger on my face and hear him telling me I’m beautiful. I almost don’t believe he could kill. If he did, surely it would have wounded him terribly.
I whisper, “Why?” I don’t mean to; the word just comes. I stand up slowly, my heart pounding. “What do you mean?” I shake my head.
His eyes meet mine, and they are haunted.
I want to go to him—to close the distance between us and wrap my arms around him—but I feel heavy.
“I want to get what you’re saying. A— do you mean like...an assassin? Like…a sniper?”
His eyes shift so he’s looking into mine. He doesn’t say it, but can see it in his tight jaw.
So Barrett was a sniper. Okay. I inhale slowly. “In the special forces?”
I can see his throat move as he swallows. His face is impassive; elsewhere.
“I don’t judge you.” I’m not even sure it’s true, but I feel compelled to say it—just to ease him. I step closer. “Barrett… You’re my friend. I’m going to be on your side. You know?”
I catch his gaze and try to hold it, willing him to hear the truth in what I’m saying.
I step slowly closer. “I know how wars work. Think about our great-grandparents. Almost everyone had been to war. You think I don’t get that everyone comes back from that different? I don’t know what it’s like personally, but I can imagine. I can sympathize. Of course it had an impact on you. God, how could it not?” Another step, and I’ve closed the distance between us.
Moving slowly, hedging bets, I stretch my hand out, till my fingers touch his elbow. He stiffens. I wrap my hand around it, fingertips prodding gently at the area where he taught me to squeeze.
“Barrett…” I stroke his damp skin, and he shudders. His eyes are peeled wide, red-rimmed and unfocused. He looks skittish. “Look at me.”
He does, and I see so much pain there, I can barely breathe.
“It’s okay.” I hold his anguished gaze. “You’re a friend to me, yeah?”
As I speak, I wrap my arms around him, pull his heavy body close. His head is bowed again, eyes shut. My throat feels tight and aching. Underneath my fingers, his skin twitches. My hand caresses his nape; I lead his heavy head down to my shoulder.
“I know.” I squeeze him tightly. “You’re having a bad time. I know. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.”
This quiet, kind man—I can’t see him poised behind a sniper rifle. I squeeze his shoulders and, despite his strength, I can’t imagine him ending a life. My gaze laps at his familiar profile. How handsome he is. I see his small, tight smiles and weary eyes. I shake my head.
“Never think that I would judge you. I’m your friend. I’m so sorry, Barrett.”
