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CHAPTER 1
Four months earlier, London
CALLUM MCKAY SAT ON THE floor with his back to the wall and looked at the wreckage he’d wrought. His TV was shattered, spreading glass across the room. His books were in shreds. There was a KA-BAR knife sticking out of what was left of his leather sofa. And every piece of wooden furniture in the room had been smashed.
Feeling no regret, Callum clasped the neck of a bottle of Glenfiddich. He brought the whisky to his lips and drained what was left. One swallow emptied it, and he tossed it into the mess in front of him, watching with some satisfaction as the bottle smashed.
He was done.
Totally.
Absolutely.
Fucking done.
He wanted to burn the place down. Let the flames take it all. And him along with it. But he’d need to find his damn legs if he wanted to get up and finish the job. His blurred gaze caught sight of the prosthetics he’d thrown across the room after he’d collapsed against the wall.
A dry laugh erupted from him. He’d have to drag himself over broken glass to get to his legs—if he wanted to get up. Which he didn’t. Because he was done.
Totally fucking done.
He was done pretending he was useful. Done pretending he was normal. Done acting as though his life was the same as it’d been before his legs were blown off in Afghanistan. Before he’d become half a man. Before he’d become a liability to his team.
His head landed back against the wall, with a thump he barely registered, and his eyes focused on the ceiling. The pristine white ceiling. It was perfect. And that was wrong. He didn’t want anything around him that was perfect. Unblemished. Unspoiled. Whole. He should have trashed the ceiling along with the rest of the room.
A loud thumping disturbed his thoughts, and it took a minute to register it was coming from the door and not from inside his head. Callum ignored it, as he’d been ignoring every well-meaning visit from his team for days. No. Not his team. Not anymore. Because he was done.
The banging got louder, and Callum frowned in the direction of his front door. They’d get fed up and leave. They always did. No one wanted to risk facing his wrath. That thought caused another mirthless laugh. He was a bloody cliché. A grumpy-arsed Scot who terrified women and children. He reached for his whisky before remembering he’d finished the bottle.
“Open the door.” The shouted order snagged Callum’s dulled attention. He almost jumped to comply—before he remembered that he’d need his legs to do it, and that Lake Benson was no longer his SAS commander, or his business partner. Because Callum was done—he just hadn’t told anyone yet.
“Callum,” Lake snapped. “Open the door.”
“Go to hell,” Callum roared.
He heard muttered voices and scraping. Bloody stubborn Englishman was picking the lock. Callum didn’t care enough to try to stop him. Anyway, what could he do? Nothing. That was what. Because he was fucking useless.
The heavy door swung open and the room was suddenly flooded with light. Callum squinted against the glare. He could just make out the solid shape of Lake filling the doorway.
“It’s time for this to end,” Lake said.
“Get the hell out of here and leave me be,” Callum said.
