’Lias
Chapter fifteen
‘Lias
Rain hits the windows stretching along the far end of her bedroom.
Some of the droplets are harsh, sending muted ticks into the stillness.
Low rolls of thunder follow the far-off flashes of early summer lightning that sparkle through trickles creeping down the glass panes.
Somewhere between her soft sighs and the rain hitting the window, I’ve found nirvana—or something awfully close to it.
Nothing exists outside of the bubble I’ve built around us, nor do her riders seem to be screaming in her pretty head while she rests plastered to my right side.
I’m posted between her and the door that leads into the rest of her place.
Old habits die hard. The constant vigilance reaches the bone; not a terrible thing since Sadie has little to none.
Suppose she gets a pass, living with voices inside of her that pull her in a hundred different directions.
I’m sure it’s exhausting without having to maintain her surroundings.
Desert Shield was my first go at war. I can still smell the scorched earth, over-poured fuel, and odd films left on the side of the heavy-duty cargo transports and utility vehicles.
The grit of sand blasted my face the second my boots hit the ground; can’t forget how fucking loud everything was either: commanding officers shouting, the cadence of obedient soldiers, rolling tracks of tanks, and artillery popping in harsh bursts near the training zone. A sensory overload.
Basic and MOS training is a crash course in what to expect at war. You don’t get your wheels or wings—whatever branch you belong to—until you’ve spent six months to a year in a hell hole. You have to follow every shitty order given to you while wondering if you’ll make it back to your family.
My first OP was a disaster. Two teams attempted to infiltrate an enemy bunker barricaded and buried in the unsteady terrain.
We lost men due to missed trip-wire mines—damn things ripped the teams apart.
Before my contract came to an end, many years later, one of the survivors had just been promoted to Colonel and was making waves.
He wanted to build a SpecOps team so classified, photos of them are forbidden—no small black boxes over their faces, complete anonymity.
I imagine the strain from having multiple things trying to operate Sadie’s body is a lot like that, or the scrambling of a team that’s been blown to pieces. Then forced to put aside fear and pain to select a new leader to make it home alive? I can’t imagine.
That’s the only way I can conceptualize what Sadie goes through, and right now, the way she’s melting against my side and managing to rest is her version of mandatory medical leave.
Leave first, R her demons our enemies.
Stealing another glimpse of her, I catch the emerald I locked around her neck sitting at her hollow. A delicate mark that will hold its secret meaning while existing as an inconspicuous piece of jewelry.
I’ve never considered myself a man interested in the BDSM community, but I’d be a fucking liar if I said I haven’t done a little research and found interest in a few things.
Like the power play from earlier, having her at my will, commanding her, the vulnerability in her being completely bare while I remained fully clothed.
She took to it as well as I did—both of us losing ourselves to the moment without having to overthink or be strategic.
I gave her an order, and like my personal soldier, she followed.
One day, when she’s ready and willing, I’m going to leave real marks on her.
Bruises, bites, faint scruff burns up the sides of her neck—anything to remind her who comes home to her.
Leaning in, I give her bottom lip a slight nip and watch her smirk.
“I know you’re in there, open those pretty eyes.”
“Mmm.”
My face splits in a grin. I nibble on her lip again, then softly scrape my teeth to pull blood into her flushed skin. Squirming, she pops free and finally pries her eyelids open—her pupils flex to account for the darkness and the slight flashes of lightning.
“That’s better. Thirsty? Hungry? Think I saw some orange juice in the fridge earlier. Your leftovers are still on the counter too. I can heat them up.”
Unfurling from her, I roll to the edge of her bed and on my feet seconds later.
There’s an illusion of free will we are all victims to, her more so since I’m getting her something to drink and food regardless.
If she wants to fight about it, we can go down to the gym again and she can work off the frustration there—after she’s eaten.
Out of her room and into the kitchen, the flooring sends spikes of cold up through my feet and calves with each step.
Though I take care of myself as much as possible, beating the hell out of your body when you’re younger doesn’t help when you’re in your fucking fifties.
Most days I wake up in pain only to end the day with something else hurting—usually my back and shoulders.
The flashbacks and memories are agony by themselves; I manage them mostly.
While it’s not her business—no, scratch that, it’s not her burden—her manic episodes set me off, too.
She could be in the middle of a meltdown and next thing I know, I’m spiraling as well.
Vividly, might I add. At times, I can feel the hard press of a gun barrel at the back of my neck, or hear explosions when she slams things, but I tamp it down.
Coaxing Sadie back to reality and out of her spell is more important than me freaking out and being weak because I chose the military over some other boring white-collar job.
PTSD is a terrorist in its own way. It rips you apart from the inside out then glues you back together with the sweat you’ve dumped because you couldn’t stop seeing, hearing, or feeling the lie it’s feeding you.
Sure, there’s therapy and medication, but I do my part in throwing everything in the closet with the rest of my skeletons, pretending it’s not there.
Then the VA? A joke. It’s hard to get the coverage needed to see one of these illusive therapists, let alone finding one willing to take on a combat vet, or working your way through the list before you try to eat gunpowder and spit a slug.
Unpacking Sadie’s leftovers, I dig a clean plate out of her dishwasher, dump the contents onto it, and slide it in the microwave.
The low hum almost masks her muted footsteps as she saddles up behind me while I lean against the island with my arms crossed—a comfortable posture, guarded and relaxed in one go.
Tilting my head, she shifts into my peripherals in a baggy shirt with the last fading pieces of some SEGA gaming logo.
Guess she wasn’t lying about hitting up every Goodwill between here and New York, because that shirt has seen better days.
The fridge pops open, spilling light into her still-dark kitchen—the domestic aches and pains of home life existing between us.
Like the untamed thing she is, she unscrews the top to the orange juice and drinks straight from the container instead of using a cup like a civilized individual—I’d do the same thing.
Three, two, one.
Before the microwave can beep, I press the button to pop it open and grab her food—the eighties left its mark—within seconds I have her food on the marble island.
Nodding to it, I dig a fork out of the silverware drawer and hand it to her before she can protest. Ravenous, she digs in.
Satisfied, I locate my glass from earlier, bring it to the sink, rinse, and refill with another two fingers of whiskey.
“Hmph, how long do you plan on staying?”
Her question has my brow arching as her clinking fork assaults the tense atmosphere with bone-shivering scrapes across the ceramic plate. Taking a slow drink, eyes focused on her, I assess my answer before speaking. I’m going to catch heat from her, like always—surprise surprise.
“Morning.”
Sadie’s fork stalls at her mouth, a glare descends upon her sharp stare.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I’m staying until morning. It’s two a.m. and I don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow.”
The fork from before? She nearly swallows it when her chewing becomes aggressive.
Here we go.
“Got something to say, Sunshine?” I prod her.
Without missing a beat, Sadie hits me with another verbal assault. She’s going to kill me one day.
“You think dicking me once gives you permission to stay the night like you belong here?”
“Ever tell you how cute you are when you’re being nasty? I’m here more than you are—consider me a permanent fixture.”
“The hell is that supposed to mean, here more than me?”
“Literally or figuratively?” I dish, knocking back the rest of my whiskey.
“Ignorant as fuck to answer a question with a question.”
“Ouch, right in the heart,” I quip, returning a bit of her dryness.
“Yeah, feel that because my fork’s about to go in it.”
“I’ve been shot, stabbed, hung, hit with a truck, and thrown thirty feet or more from explosive blasts.
Your little fork doesn’t scare me. Literally, however, I’m here more than you are—digging your hair out of the drain, fixing the holes in your closet from where you stabbed it like it personally offended you, and taking care of things you never have to call maintenance for. ”
Sadie’s face goes red, like my own vicious little cartoon.
I must have struck a nerve.
On her feet, she scrapes the last two or three bites into the trash then places her dirty plate in the sink with the delicacy of a mortar.
Spinning around, she lifts a finger and shakes it at me.
I probably shouldn’t laugh, but the chuckle breaking up her tirade is unavoidable, especially with how adorable her five foot seven, one-hundred forty-five-pound ass looks scolding me.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, thinking you have a place here. That shit from earlier? It will never happen again. I’m not even into old men, let alone men one twisted ankle away from being sent to an assisted living facility.”
Typically, I don’t respond to provocation quickly but sometimes she gets the best of me.
Most of what she’s said is loaded, trying to get a rise out of me or see if I cave—I haven’t in the past and that shit isn’t starting today.
Covering the distance, my hand captures her neck and drives her into the front of her fancy fridge with just enough force that something falls over inside.
Now in her precious bubble, my tone lowers and loses its warmth.
“I beg to fucking differ. It will happen again and the more you swing your kitten claws at me, the sooner it does. It’s about time you’ve learned I’m not deterred by your venom.
In fact, it makes my dick hard, and if there’s anything we’ve discovered in the past several hours, is dick makes your mouth shut. ”