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“Okay!” I choke. “Yes, I understand.”
His hand drops from my jaw as if my skin has burned him. He steps away from me, taking his heat and his power with him.
“Good.” His eyes hold mine, narrowing darkly as his mouth hardens. “Good.”
And then without another word, the man who holds my heart in his hands turns and storms out into the night.
Stillholding it; leaving a trail of bloody drips in his wake as he disappears into the darkness.
I stole that kiss. And it wasn’t mine to take.
But the truth is, I only did it because he stole my heart first.
Neither was ours for the taking.
But both come with a no return policy.
Come what may.
2
CASTLE
Memory is a motherfucker.
It’s cold and cruel. Because memory has theabilityto soothe, comfort, and amuse. But instead, most of the time—at least in my experience—it torments and taunts instead.
My memories are filled with ghosts. With battles and bloodshed. With the faces of the brothers in arms I watched die in front of me. With rage, and pain, and scars no one ever sees—and even if they did, couldn’t possibly understand.
With a grunt, I grit my teeth as my fist connects with the bag with a satisfying thud.Jab jab duck dodge, jab left, jab right, hard left hook.Sweat pours down my face and my bare chest, stinging my eyes. But I just shake it off. I just set my jaw a little tighter as I dodge the nonexistent counterpunch and then sink my right fist into the imaginary bastard’s teeth.
Pushing myself to the absolute limit, especially with boxing, is my usual go-to for exorcising those demons of the past.
And I don’t care what they say:everyvet has demons they need to cut, burn, or scream out of their system.
When I first left the Rangers almost ten years ago, I had…otheravenues of escape. Drugs. Drink. Women who didn’t give a fuck about me besides my scars.
But then I found boxing. Andthatwas the exorcism I’d been looking for. That was my channel to vent my fury and my pain. A physical release that cocaine, painkillers, and booze could only hope to imitate.
I grit my teeth, hurling one last volley of punches before I let out a roar and drop to my knees. My muscles ache and burn. My bare chest heaves as the sweat drips over the scars and the tattoos.
I may have gotten into boxing to escape the emotional battle wounds that followed me home. But that’s not what I’m trying to escape today.
Today’s exorcism is about something else entirely.
Something small, soft, innocent, and very, very forbidden.
Calliope Drakos.
My jaw tightens as the memory of last night slams into me all over again: the way her robe dropped to her feet. The way the glittering lights of the city glowed across her perfect, soft, tanned skin and curves. The way she clung to me so desperately. The way she stood on her tiptoes and tilted her head to the side.
The way she tasted.
The way she made the softest little sound in the world when I grabbed her by the throat.
But most heart-stopping of all—even more than seeing her disrobe in front of me—was the way she fucking looked at me with those big, bright blue eyes with so much yearning and hope. Like she thought I could save her.
My lips twist bitterly.
