He lets me into his apartment and shows me a room I can use. It’s furnished in whites, grays, and steel blue. He doesn’t say a word as he pushes me inside and shuts the door. I breathe out heavily when he’s gone, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding up my hand, watching as it shakes.

What the hell am I doing?

Watching the way he treated the guy in the alley and how close he came to killing him… it was like a slap in the face. He’s not just some innocent, wounded puppy I can scratch behind the ears and fix. He’s a man who has killed and will probably kill again if what I just saw is any indication. He’s dangerous. I have no doubt he’s capable of protecting me, but who’s going to protect me from him?

I wander to the bathroom attached to my room, leaning over the sink and splashing water in my face. I look up in the vanity mirror and rub my eyes. I look like a mess. A little over twenty-four hours ago I was cornered in the stairwell by a stalker in a mask. Less than twelve hours ago Jesse sauntered back into my life and shook it to the ground. Thirty minutes ago I saw real, life-threatening violence for the first time in my life and barely stopped Jesse from killing someone. Now?

Now I’m still in his apartment, playing along with this game for reasons I don’t even understand. I could leave. I could just walk out the door and hire another bodyguard. He would let me leave if I really wanted to, wouldn’t he? The doubt in my mind makes my stomach queasy. I should leave. I know I should. But I don’t want to.

I keep thinking back to the journal in his room. I’ve waited so long to see him again and to find out what made him leave me. Maybe I’m an idiot for thinking so, but I still can’t believe he was faking the way he felt about me all that time. It never felt right. I always had the lingering sense that Jesse didn’t tell me everything. Now the thought of walking away when he’s so close scares me more than the very real danger of staying near him. And as much as I hate to admit it, my decision would be a whole hell of a lot easier if he wasn’t so goddamn gorgeous. Just thinking about the way his green eyes seem to pierce right through me and light a fire in my chest has me squeezing my thighs together to suppress the need that arises for him. The hunger.

I hear the door open to my room. I step out of the bathroom and see Jesse looming in the doorway, holding the journal in his hand. He looks at it and then tosses it on my bed. “You already started reading it. Might as well finish.” WIthout another word he turns and closes the door, leaving me in stunned silence.

I move slowly to the journal and pick it up. It practically burns in my fingertips. The fact that he wants me to read it only furthers my curiosity. Does he think the contents will change my mind about him somehow? I flip it open, finding where I left off.

November 24th, 2013

For the record, I still think this journal is a waste of time. But if my CO keeps telling me I have to cooperate with the therapist, I’ll keep cooperating. We’re stationed near Turkey right now, about fifteen clicks south, just below the Syrian border. We’re supposed to kill some terrorist mastermind named Asaad Yousif. To be honest, I’ve never heard of the fucker, but if they say he had anything to do with the September 11th attacks, then I have no problem ending his sorry life.

Dr. Croft says I need to talk about my feelings too. Feelings though? All I really feel is numb. I guess I had to close it all out. If I think too hard about it… there’s too much in my past I want to forget. I want to forget what happened to my dad and I want to forget the way I treated her. I wish I could just wipe it all away, then I could deal with what I’ve become. But I guess it doesn’t work that way, so I’ll just keep hurting. But if I have to suffer for my country and for the memory of my father, then I’ll fucking suffer, no problem.

I frown at the pages, surprised when I realize my eyes are watering. He was still thinking about me? Or was “her” some other girl? Was she just some other victim in the long line of broken hearts littering Jesse’s past? I flip to the next page.

December 25th, 2013

It’s fucking Christmas. The guys are in the mess hall right now getting drunk on improvised eggnog that’s probably going to make them puke later. I should be there with them, but… fuck. It’s harder around the holidays. I think of what I left behind. I guess the hardest part is I know it’s too late to fix what I’ve broken. Even if Makayla forgave me for what I did, I can’t go back to her anymore. Not like this. Not after what I’ve done. How could I touch her with the same hands that have squeezed the life out of men? The fucking hands have caused so much pain I don’t even know if they’re capable of anything else anymore.

Ha… listen to me, like fucking Faulkner or something over here. I’ll give myself a pass for being a little sappy on Christmas, I guess. I just keep wondering if I did the right thing. I knew she would wait for me, however long it took. I knew she would because she was that kind of girl, perfect, sweet, and way better than I ever deserved. So what did I do? I lied and told her I didn’t care about her.

Shit. I’ve had to pull pieces of skull from my fatigues and brush brain matter off my face and none of that was as hard as what I did to her. I still remember how it felt when I walked out of the restaurant that afternoon. It was like someone reached in my chest and just fucking squeezed my heart until it burst. After that, everything has been… less. You know? Like some of the color drained out of the world. All the killing, the pain, the suffering, it just seems muted compared to what I did to her.

The truth is I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her a widow. When my father was killed, I knew I had to come here. I had to do something about it, to fight for him. And I knew I couldn’t honor his memory if Makayla was still waiting for me back home. I’d find some excuse to come back, or I’d leave before the job was done. Worse, I might pay the ultimate price over here. Whatever pain I had to put her through was a small price compared to what she’d go through if I died.

So I had to make her hurt. I had to hurt her so much that she wouldn’t care if I died. I had to make it burn so bad she would curse my name and happily move on. I guess I just thought the wound would’ve healed over for me by now, but if anything, it gets more raw every day, more fucking painful. I know she’s still out there, and she thinks I betrayed her.

Fuck it all to hell. I really do know how to make a mess out of things.

The guys are breaking shit now. I need to get out there.

Merry fucking Christmas, Dr. Croft.

A hot tear falls on the journal and I hastily wipe my eyes, sniffing and closing the book. I know there’s more, but I don’t know if I can stand to read more right now. Jesse lied. He still cared about me. It was all because he wanted to protect me. I don’t know how to feel. I’m surprised to find I don’t immediately forgive him. If he had just been open and told me how he was feeling, I would’ve understood. I would’ve still waited for him, and I wouldn’t have felt so broken all these years.

It wasn’t his fucking choice. He isn’t the one who gets to decide if I should be sad over his death. We were in a relationship for better or worse, and it was my decision to make.

He thought he was protecting me, but he did more damage than he could ever know. All the trust issues I’ve had because of his lie… all the times I’ve pushed myself to do more because I wanted to somehow prove he made a mistake, like he was watching from somewhere and would see me on the TV screen and regret what he did. I laugh humorlessly, realizing for the first time how much of that is true. Sure, I love being on the screen and the challenge of acting, but how much of it was really just to spite him? Did I just want him to see what a mistake he had made?

I’m storming from the bedroom before I know it. I find him sitting on the couch, holding a hand in front of himself and watching as it shakes. The sight makes me pause, just for a moment. I realize I’m holding the journal. I lift it, scowling as I shake it at him. “All this time?” I ask, hating how thick with emotion my voice is.

He looks up. “I’m not going to make excuses for myself. You know the truth now.”

I slam the journal on the ground. “You ruined me. You threw my heart on the ground and stomped all over it. You call that protection?”

“Yes. Especially after I saw how you reacted when you watched me in the alley. You were scared. Well, that’s the real fucking me, Kay.”

Hearing him use the pet name makes my heartbeat race a little, adding a confusing surge of warmth to the anger I feel. “No. That wasn’t you. I know you.”

“You knew me,” he corrects. “War changed me. Everyone wants to look at me like some fucking hero since I came back. You know what I see when I look in the mirror? A killer.”

I want to reach out and touch him. He’s so strong and powerful, but I can see how much he hurts, how much he needs some compassion. I wonder if he gets anything but lust from women and I suddenly feel sorry for him. I’m afraid of him. I still feel that, and I’m still not ready to forgive him for what he did, but I don’t want to see him hurt. He’s suffered enough for me and for everyone else he went over there to protect.

I move closer to him on the couch, reaching for his knee, but he stands before I can touch him.

“Don’t,” he says. “I don’t want this to get complicated.”

I can’t help laughing a little. “Well you’ve done a perfect job of preventing that.”

He stalks off toward his bedroom, but I don’t give up. I follow after him. He turns to face me. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Let me in. Let someone in.”

He dismisses me with a wave of his hand. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for the people who have had the misfortune of crossing my path. Yourself included.”

“Stop with the tough guy bullshit,” I snap. “You showed me the journal. You wanted me to see how you felt even if you couldn’t talk about it. So why don’t you just let me help?”

He sits on the bed, forearms resting on his knees. “That’s not why I showed you the journal.”

I sit beside him, painfully aware that I’m sitting next to him on his bed. My heart flutters a little as vivid images of him pinning me to the soft mattress with his powerful arms flash in my mind. “Then why did you show me?” I ask, voice practically a whisper.

“Women think they want a guy like me. They think the danger is exciting. How many of them would still be sniffing around if they watched me jam a fucking knife in a young kid’s heart? There’s a big difference between fantasy and reality, and back there, you saw it. I figured you would try to run off on me soon. I just thought you deserved to know the truth before you left.”

I can practically feel the unspoken question hanging between us. It thrums in the air like something electric. Something alive. You’ve seen the real me. What will you do now?

Part of me is screaming to kiss him, to pull him into me and kiss him with everything I have, to let him take me. Another part is begging me to run. He’s dangerous and he’s damaged. And he broke my heart into a million pieces. I should just walk away, but I can’t. I put my hand on his thigh in an attempt to show my compassion and immediately regret the decision. His thigh is thick and hard, tempting me to squeeze and move my hand along his lean leg.

I nearly pull my hand away, but then I see the bulge of his cock against his pants growing. Jesus. I had forgotten how big it was. Hell, maybe it has gotten bigger. I bite my lip.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

I move my hand up his thigh, frowning as I do. It’s almost as if my hand is moving of its own volition. “Helping you to relax.”

He stands, shaking me off. “Well stop it. You think fucking you would relax me? I don’t mix business and pleasure. It’s that simple.”

I reel back, stung a little and feeling an unexpected wave of anger rise up. “God. Just when I think I can forgive you for being an asshole, you--”

“Careful,” he says, pointing a finger at me. “Watch that fucking mouth of yours.” There’s anger in his face. Red, hot anger that would terrify me if I didn’t also see a hint of lust behind it and the bulge of his cock against his pants.

Why does being scolded like a child make my skin tingle? Jesus Christ. I know what I’m going to do before I do it, and the idea terrifies me. “No, you watch my fucking mouth real close so you don’t miss a word,” I say, fighting the mischevious smile that threatens to split my face. Getting pissed turns him on? Well, that shouldn’t be hard... “Asshole. As in you’re a fucking--”

He closes the distance between us in a heartbeat, pinning me to the bed and gripping my cheeks so that my lips smoosh together. He looms over me, eyes dark and face even darker. “You don’t want to piss me off,” he snarls.

On the contrary… I’m finding myself in the middle of a fantasy I never knew I had. I’ve spent so long trying to project confidence and control. The idea of a man like Jesse wrestling that control away from me has all my nerves prickling in anticipation and my nipples hard. My body feels so alive, electric, almost. My wild eyes follow the strong line of his arm as he holds himself up over me, the muscles of his forearm straining as he pins me to the bed.

I jerk my face out of his grasp, mustering up all the venom I can manage. “You’re too scared to fuck me because you can’t handle me,” I gasp, shocking even myself with my boldness.

He straightens, getting off me and standing up. For a disappointing moment, I think he’s going to walk away and leave me here, exposed and embarrassed. Instead, he flicks the buttons of his pants loose in one a smooth motion. He lifts the black shirt over his head and takes my breath away with the rigid lines of muscle that cover his body. I could cut my tongue on any one of those perfectly sharp lines, and if this goes on much longer, it’s a risk I may have to take.

I watch as he drops his shirt to the floor with so much menace that it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Makayla what in the hell are you doing? Doubt creeps up in the back of my mind, logical, reasonable doubts. The biggest of which is the fact that I haven’t seen Jesse in ten years, and now I’m about to sleep with him after just a day of him being back in my life?

He moves toward me, all the power in his body directed at me, practically paralyzing me. What am I doing? I ask myself again.

He climbs on the bed and flips me over. I struggle a little, but it’s half-hearted at best. He pulls my pants down with one hand and I turn just in time to see him raising a hand, as if he’s about to fucking spank me.

I close my eyes, expecting it to come. The moment passes and I look back at him. He freezes. The heat in his eyes melts away and soon his cool, green eyes are back, regarding me. He lowers his hand and shakes his head. “Not like this,” he says simply, almost sadly.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp, suddenly embarrassed and pulling my pants back up. “It’s not your fault, it’s just--God. I’m such a fucking idiot,” I say, rushing from the room and leaving Jesse on the bed.

I shut the door behind me, pacing around his living room, seriously considering bolting for the tenth time in the last hour. Just leave. There are probably thousands of bodyguards I could hire. So what if I paid his ridiculous fee already. I make enough money to cover it. I go to my room and grab my phone from beside the bed. It’s the only possession of mine at his apartment other than the clothes on my back. Leaving would be so simple. So clean.

Even if I leave, I know he’ll find me. He may be arrogant and he may be an asshole, but I have no doubts about his competence. There’s no way I could slip away from him for long.

No. I can’t leave. I’m stuck here, and my stupid stomach is rumbling with hunger. Just thinking about having to face Jesse after trying to seduce him and then the way I couldn’t even look him in the eyes after he stopped me. I just ran out of the room like a chicken. He probably thinks I’m batshit crazy. I go to his refrigerator and open it, raising my eyebrows when I find a jar of my favorite kind of pickles. I twist the metal lid off and crunch into one, turning and nearly dropping the whole jar when I see Jesse standing there, blocking my exit from the kitchen.

“You always did go to pickles when you were upset,” he says, smirking a little.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, forgetting there’s a half-chewed pickle in my mouth.

Jesse covers his mouth with the back of his hand, trying not to smile. “There’s nothing to be sorry. I’m the one who let my tastes cloud my judgment. I shouldn’t have...”

An image of his raised hand over my bare ass pops in my mind. His tastes… “No, it wasn’t you. I just got carried away. I practically jumped your bones. I don’t, well, do that. I’m not a prude or anything, but I don’t just sleep with guys like it’s no big deal. I made a mistake. I take full responsibility.” My cheeks burn red and I can’t make myself meet his eye.

He quirks an eyebrow, stepping in to grab a pickle and snap off a bite. He was kind enough to put his shirt back on and re-button his pants, but my memory still burns with the image of how incredible he looked. “I shouldn’t have taken your bait,” he says. “I don’t want to compromise our professional relationship.” He lowers his voice. “And if I did, I’d…” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Maybe we should just keep this simple. It’s a job, right? That’s all.”

“Right,” I say, a little too quickly. “We should keep this simple.” For now, at least.

We may have poured water on the flames just now, but I feel a growing certainty that it’s only a matter of time before I end up pinned beneath his hard body again, and I’m not sure either of us will be able to stop next time.