Chapter 17 #2
“That was Derek.” He kept his voice as bland as possible. “The jaw, too, and the arm, and the back.”
“Jesus.” Zero made a disgusted noise. “That fucker’s got a screw loose.”
Kaze shook his head and agreed. “No shit.”
Reaper’s chest ached, the old wounds opening up like they were fresh. He could still hear Derek’s voice twisting everything until he had believed the lies more than his own memory.
You’re broken.
You’ll always be broken.
But I can fix you.
Why can’t you do anything right?
Do you have to make me do this?
I hate that you make me do this.
I’m sorry, baby, I hate hurting you. I’ll never do it again.
Except he had. Over and over again.
The words echoed, and for a second, he was back in that house, trapped and drowning, his own mind turned against him, unable to find a way out.
Trace’s voice cut through the memory, snapping his mind back to the here and now. “You know that shit was never your fault.”
Reaper’s throat tightened. He didn’t answer. Logically, he knew that, but knowing and believing were two different things.
Viper’s gaze locked onto him. “You hear me, Rodriguez? That man is fucked in the head. What he did to you? That’s on him, not you.”
Reaper nodded, but the words didn’t stick. They never did. No matter how many times he heard them or even said them to himself, the guilt still clung to him, a second skin. He’d heard so many times that it was his fault that, on some level, he’d probably always believe it.
“Why now?” Kaze asked. “Why tell us now?”
“Because Derek sent me a text message and called just before we went to Tír na nóg to find Cian. He’s tracked me to New York State.”
“Shit, Ward is at home.”
“Cian is, too,” he reminded Viper. "He’ll protect Ward if necessary. I’d kinda like to see Derek’s face when my Grá Croí appears with his double swords.”
“Hah, my cameras will catch that shit if it happens,” Trace promised. “But you better call Ward just in case, maybe send him and Cian to Tír na nóg until we get back.”
“Good thinking. As soon as we’re done here, I’ll ask Command for permission to call out.”
“Does Cian know?”
“Yeah, I told him the night we got back.”
“That explains his bad mood,” Trace deadpanned. “I was starting to think he was clairvoyant or something and could feel the mission coming down the pipe.”
“Nope, he’s kinda murdery about the whole thing.”
"Ha, I'll bet." Viper snorted. “Where’s your head, bro? You need to bench this one out?”
“I’ve carried this shit for a long time and on every mission,” he told them seriously. “This time, the contact is closer to spin up, and not giving you warning would be stupid and shitty. But I’m solid.”
“Good enough for me.” Trace pushed away from his chair, the legs scraping against the floor. He moved to the whiteboard and snatched a marker. “Alright. Change of subject. Let’s talk about how we’re gonna make this op hurt for these particular fuckers.”
The team shifted, the tension easing as they fell into mission mode. Now that he’d told them everything, he allowed himself to focus.
They knew and didn’t immediately boot my ass out the door.
Phew.
The planning session dragged on, details about load-outs and insertion points bouncing around the room.
Reaper sat at the table, marker in hand, determined to ignore the insistent pull in his chest. He'd been in rooms like this too many times to count for more than a decade, so why this time did it feel like something was missing?
“Reaper?” Trace’s voice snapped him back. “Got feedback on the comms tech?”
Reaper blinked, forcing his thoughts into order. “Yeah. Solid. Should hold in adverse weather.”
Trace studied him, his gaze too knowing and way too perceptive for his liking. When the others filtered out of the room, he lingered, waiting until the room was empty before jerking his chin toward the hallway. “Come on.”
Reaper followed him, unsure what Trace had to say, but hopefully it was some nugget of wisdom about Cian and not more questions about Derek the asshole.
Trace let him down the corridor, stopping outside the doors and cocking his head to one side as if he or Bran were listening. The fourth door he opened and waved him into the room, then leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his sharp gaze never leaving Reaper’s face. “You good?”
The question was casual, but Reaper heard the layers beneath it.
Am I good about what?
“Umm. Peachy.”
Trace didn’t buy it. Of course, he didn’t. The man had a nose for bullshit sharper than his wolf had for blood. “You have a weird feeling here?” Trace rubbed the spot over where Reaper knew the shifter’s mating mark was.
Reaper let out a breath of relief. He was asking about the ache that had taken root in his chest the moment they’d stepped away from Cian. The one that made every breath feel like it was harder and harder to take, and not about the memories and shit he’d thrown out into the open in the team room.
Reaper exhaled through his nose, his fingers flexing against his thigh. “Yeah. What is that shit, man?”
“You’re thinking about him.” Trace grinned. “And he’s thinking of you. Think of it as your comms link to Cian.”
Reaper’s jaw tightened. He was so tempted to lie, and he knew he could deflect with the best of them. But Trace would see right through it, just like he always did. So he stayed silent, staring at a chip in the paint on the wall like it was a Van fucking Gogh.
Trace scrubbed a hand down his face. “Look, I get it. Leaving your Grá Croí behind?” He shook his head, a flicker of something raw passing over his features—a memory, maybe, or the ghost of his own bond with Juice. “That’s not easy. But you’ve got a job to do.”
Reaper’s molars ground together.
I know.
But we argued so horribly just before I left, and damn, I know I pissed him off.
He did know. Duty always came first. Always. But knowing didn’t make the pull under his sternum any less insistent, didn’t stop the phantom warmth of Cian’s hands from lingering on his skin, or the niggling voice in the back of his head that reminded him Cian was not Derek.
Get a second opinion.
Trace will give it to you straight.
“I think I may have picked that fight we had before we left.” Didn’t that make him sound shitty? If it didn’t, it should, because it had been a nasty thing to do to Cian, who only wanted to understand what was happening and why.
“I figured that as soon as you told us about your asshole ex.” Trace once again confirmed why he was one of the best Ground Branch intel collectors on the planet. “Cian will never do you dirty, as the asshole did. It’s just not in him to do that.”
Thank fuck he’s liaison on our team. I’d hate to be on the wrong side of him.
“I know.” He did know, deep down in both his heart and soul, that Cian just wasn't built from the same type of cloth as Derek.
“Good.” Trace’s voice dropped, rough and conspiratorial. “Worst comes to worst, with your ex. You fall asleep and let your wolf eat the fucker in his sleep.”
The image flashed behind Reaper’s eyes of Derek’s throat torn out, blood pooling black under the moonlight, and for a second, the feral part of him loved the thought of it.
His lips twitched, and Trace smirked, sensing the shift in him, the way the air around him seemed to vibrate with the promise of violence.
“Or,” Trace continued, tilting his head, “you point Derek out to Cian, and your Grá Croí will happily do the honors without a second thought.”
Reaper almost laughed, but the sound died in his throat, choked off by the vivid mental snapshot of Cian in battle with his swords flashing, moss-green eyes alight with the predatory gaze of Failinis. He could practically hear the man’s voice in his head.
“I will hunt you.”
Only this time, the prey wouldn’t be him.
Trace’s expression softened, the sharp edges of his teasing blunting into something closer to understanding. “You’re a Wolf Walker, Mikey. That means you’ve got options. Asshole Derek ain’t gonna know what hit him.”
He exhaled. He could breathe again. “Yeah.”
Trace clapped him on the shoulder. “Now. About that bond.”
He tensed, every muscle locking up again. “What about it?”
Trace’s grin was knowing. “You’re gonna need to learn how to dial it down, or you’re gonna be useless out there.
” He tapped his own temple, then his chest. “That thing’s a live wire right now.
Every time you think about him, it’s like you’re broadcasting on all frequencies.
And trust me, you don’t want that to be the distraction that gets people killed. ”
“Nope, let’s not do that. Show me how to dial it down.”
“You got it, bro. But first, you need a crash course on how to use it, before we get to the dialing shit down stuff. You game?”
“Damn straight.”