Chapter 9 #2
“Fuck…” I swallow through my dry throat and look away from her, toward the small window above the bed that lets in the flashes of light that warn a bigger storm is coming. “It was about what brought me up here in the first place.”
RAVEN
I hold my breath, the shock Connor’s frantic screams in the tiny cabin still enough to leave my heart racing even as I try to remain calm and appear unaffected for his sake.
What he just said is more than I’ve heard this man admit in terms of vulnerability in all the years I’ve known him. Certainly in the time since the tension between us became something so tangible.
Connor McBride is never weak.
Connor McBride is never exposed.
Especially when I’m anywhere near him.
But the man sitting in front of me is more than that right now.
He’s wounded.
He’s raw.
He’s dangerous like this, maybe far more so than he ever was when he was that solid, unmovable wall of anger and animosity that I’m so used to having full-blown nuclear war with every time we’re in the same room.
We’ve never been in such a tight space together before, and certainly never with this type of tension, which is somehow more powerful and frightening than when Connor has been screaming and livid with me.
Both of us have said things over the years that were intended to hurt. Low blows and personal attacks. Lines we never should have crossed were leapt over in the name of winning the argument.
But he just said something that shook me more than anything I’ve ever heard from Connor McBride before.
Something I never would have expected to hear.
It was something real.
It’s a crack in his armor.
A small opening that I can attempt to pry apart further to get to the truths he keeps locked away so deeply inside of his strong, muscular body that seems so impenetrable.
He continues to tremble where he sits on the chair that is far too small for him and scrubs his hand over his face again, his gaze averted as if he doesn’t want to, or can’t, look at me.
It’s likely both.
Rain continues outside, a storm raging around us while it feels like one is building inside, too.
I swallow through the tightness in my chest, forcing down the unease so I’ll have the courage to push him—the only time it hasn’t come completely naturally before. “You were dreaming about the attack on the homestead?”
He nods, still staring at the small window.
But it’s more of an admission than I expected.
“Does that…happen a lot?”
It does for me. Just like I told him when we first argued about the story, he isn’t the only one with nightmares. He isn’t the only one haunted.
They’ve plagued me since I first got the call that night.
Every single detail still lives in my head with crystal clarity.
The frantic phone call from Lucky…
Her barely able to get out the words to explain what was happening as Connor drove them to the hospital in Asheville…
Rushing to get to my car…
Trying to call Willow…
That long drive up the mountain to find Tony’s squad car and my hysterical best friend clutching her baby to her…
A furious Killian still clinging to his gun as if he expected more danger to come…
And soon enough, the arrival of the FBI and eventually Agent Michaelson…
My anger when I was told it all needed to be kept under wraps…
When I was told I couldn’t write a story about the attack on the McBride homestead or what the Lorells had done to Lucky…
They kept me from seeing the bodies, from viewing the real carnage that occurred on the property I loved so much, to the people I loved so much, but I saw enough.
Enough that the nightmares came.
Waking in a sweat-soaked panic…
My heart seizing in my chest thinking someone was coming after them again…
I wasn’t full of shit when I told him he wasn’t the only one who was suffering, but I never could have imagined how bad it has been for him.
Not until this very moment.
Not until seeing him like this.
Connor slowly turns his head until his gaze meets mine, and the haunted look in his eyes makes all my hatred for him disappear, at least for a second. Because I see the answer to my question in those dark depths even before he says it.
“Every single time I close my eyes, and most of the time when I don’t.”
Lightning flashes, and the following thunder seems to punctuate his words.
It takes all my willpower not to react to his confession. But for once, my inclination isn’t to make a snide remark or witty comeback. I don’t want to take a jab at him, despite that being what we’ve always done.
We’ve always pushed and prodded.
Poked and probed until it hurt.
We have slung arrows of hatred at each other, and we’ve reveled in the war.
We have enjoyed the battles—probably far too much.
Not this time.
This time, my body’s response is to begin trembling as badly as he is.
I knew that what happened was tearing him apart, but I don’t think anyone realized how bad it was.
He has had himself locked away in that cabin of his on the McBride homestead.
The way he kept pushing everybody away, no matter how hard they all tried to break through to him, wasn’t just because he was being Connor McBride.
It wasn’t merely his typical standoffish personality coming to the forefront.
It was because of this. Because he didn’t want anyone—not even his brothers—witnessing this.
And I don’t know what to do about it.
I’ve never seen him this completely vulnerable. He certainly never has been with me. Nor do I think he has been with anyone else, for that matter, and I don’t know whether pushing him will make it worse.