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“So then you do know,” Karissa said softly, cuddled so close our noses were touching. “You know what it is to lose a brother.”
“Brothers,” I co
rrected her. “And yes. I only served two tours, one near Kabul and one just outside of Kandahar. I lost friends in both. People closest to me, who disappeared on patrol. Men I woke and slept beside every single day, who came back scarred or broken or worse.”
“And you saw combat?”
She asked the question hesitantly, as if weighing whether it could be taboo. I nodded slowly.
“I saw more than my share of fighting. Ambushes. Missions in which I was set against men whose faces I never saw, and who never saw me coming.” I blinked as she slowly stroked my cheek. “Fortunately for them too.”
She shook her head, trying to understand. “Why would you call that fortunate?”
“Because the fear, the anticipation — that’s the worst part. Not knowing is always better.”
I shifted and felt her bare leg slide over mine. It was warm and comforting. They were feelings I’d missed.
“You did what you had to do,” she told me. “You were brave, Camden. Heroic.”
“I hurt people, Karissa,” I told her. “At first I thought that part would be easy, because the recipients deserved it. And most times they did.” I lowered my chin to my chest. “But nothing’s ever that black and white,” I whispered quietly. “And I learned it’s the grey areas that can keep you up at night.”
In the span of silence that followed I could feel her heart breaking for mine. It’s not what I wanted. Not at all.
“Listen,” I said. “I saw good things there too. Change. Vast improvement in the way people lived their lives. In lots of ways we helped people, and there was a purity in that I’ll never forget.” I turned to look at her again, and her eyes glimmered in the darkness. “But the more I lost people, the more I missed what I had here. When my mother got sick and it coincided with my end of tour, I took the opportunity to come home.”
Karissa frowned sadly. “And you lost her too.”
“Yes,” I answered. “It was quick, and for that I was grateful. But it made me realize I didn’t want to go back. I was tired of losing, tired of loss. I’d tasted too much of how fragile life’s connections can be, and I wanted nothing more than to be back here with my real family.”
“Bryce and Roderick,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
I could see she was getting it: the reason we did everything as a trio. How easily the three of us could be in business together, or fall for the same woman. There was a sense of connection, of kinship forged through so many years of experiences that no other feeling came close. It wasn’t something you could force out of any other relationship. It was something that money could never buy.
“The guys were gracious, cutting me into the business they’d already started building while I was gone. We became equal partners. We built everything together, including this.” I pointed upward, swirling a finger at the parlor’s beautifully vaulted ceiling. “We’ve come so far with this place. And a huge chunk of that has to do with you.”
Karissa snuggled into me, kissing my chest lightly. Her lips were warm against my skin. The touch, sweet.
“You know none of what happened with Reese is your fault, right?” I asked abruptly.
I felt her freeze for a second, then relax. Clasping my hands, I pulled my arms even tighter around her.
“I learned that straight off,” I went on. “The friends I lost, the heroes I saw buried… they were taken through the actions of others. Just as — and I know you might not want to hear this — your brother was taken through actions that were all his own.”
It was a risk. Something that could’ve been considered a barb, thrown at the end of a deep conversation. Ultimately though, Karissa heaved a big, shuddering sigh.
“I know.”
I tilted my chin and kissed her on the forehead. “You did everything you could to save him. But he had to save himself.”
She nodded into me, her golden hair still a sex-ruined tangle. When she spoke again, she pulled back enough to look at me.
“Survivor’s guilt sucks.”
“It sure does,” I agreed.
“Roderick has a bad case of it I think,” she said. “That’s why he’s always somber, always sardonic. He carries the guilt of having survived the car accident, when your poor wife didn’t.”
