I’m in a dark room. Water drips from the ceiling somewhere. A man’s boots scuff on the ground as he picks up metal implements from a table behind me and sets them back down, humming casually. My body is on fire. My wrists are rubbed raw from where the ropes hold me. The bullet wound in my side feels like it’s festering, and my back is pulsing with agonizing pain from where they whipped me. I spit blood on the floor, forcing myself to straighten and stay strong. If they’re going to kill me, so be it, but I’m going to die like a fucking soldier, head held high and without a trace of fear in my eyes.

The man steps back in front of me. He’s middle-eastern with dark skin and a thick beard. He has oddly kind eyes for someone in his line of work. They are light brown, soft, like his features. I can picture him sitting on the edge of his children’s bed, reading them a story. But now the only story he wants to hear is where I came from and who I work for.

“Go fuck yourself,” I say, spitting another mouthful of blood at his feet.

He regards the blood with disinterest, raising the surgeon’s knife to my face. His accent is thick, but I can understand him well enough. “This knife is sharpened by a special machine. You will not even feel the cut at first. It can slice skin and bone just as easily. I could carve at you for hours before you even lose consciousness.”

My eyes are drawn to the razor-thin blade and I grit my teeth. “Fuck you,” I say.

He tsks, “And I thought we were getting along so well.”

Without preamble or hesitation, he swipes the blade across my thigh. I feel a slight tug, nothing more, nothing less. His lips slowly curve up into a malicious grin as he raises the knife to my face again. It’s smeared in blood now. I try not to, but my eyes fall to my thigh, where I can clearly see a thin black line across my the bare skin. The pain follows seconds later, but he’s right, it’s not much. I watch the blood rise up and spill from the wound. Judging from the bleeding, the cut is fucking deep. I know how little blood it actually takes to bleed out, and I’ve already lost so much. If he thinks he can keep this up for hours, he’s going to be disappointed.

He taps the knife against my cheek. It’s warm and wet, not cold like it should be.

I stir, no longer sitting upright, but lying on my back. I’m not in some dirty fucking torturers paradise anymore, either. I’m outside, in the fresh air and beneath the stairs. The pain in my leg fades to memory and my eyes jolt open. My chest is heaving and my body is covered in a sheen of sweat.

Makayla’s hand rests on my bare chest and she props herself up over me, looking down into my face with so much compassion it hurts.

“Hey,” she says, voice as soft as an angels. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

I sit upright, not wanting to give in to the warmth of her touch, not feeling like I deserve to be comforted. Those dark moments are just part of my penance, the price I pay for what I did and the men I failed to save.

“It’s fine. Just a bad dream.”

“Your hands are shaking,” she says, sliding her fingertips down my forearm to steady my hand by clasping it in hers.

I stand, pulling away from her. I’m still completely naked, and it feels a little strange to be bare-ass naked outdoors in the light of the morning, but I don’t care. She stands, apparently feeling the same because she starts to hunt down her panties and bra, sliding them on.

I’ve played this scene out so many times since being discharged. The morning after, when reality comes crashing back and I realize I want nothing more than to get as far as fucking possible from the woman I just slept with. I keep waiting for that uncontrollable need. It’s part of what really held me back from sleeping with Makayla.

Something in me is broken, and I’ve known it for a long time. I don’t stick around when it comes to women. There might be a brief spark but only emptiness ever follows. I didn’t want the same thing to happen with Makayla. I worried that my darkness would taint even the most powerful and pure feelings I have for my sweet Makayl, but the only thing I feel is the cold morning chill on my sweat-soaked skin. I’m shocked when I realize that last night I was able to cum without completely controlling the situation. We just made loved. There wasn’t anything dirty or kinky about it and I came harder than I ever remember.

I turn slightly to look at her as she bends over to pick up her pants, my cock stirs and I think about moving behind her to grip those perfect fucking hips and…

I still want her. I still want her as bad as the night before, maybe worse. But something else is pulling at my consciousness. Guilt. The sinking, stomach-churning sense that this is more than I deserve. I’m a fucking asshole who doesn’t deserve happiness. It’s not pussy feelings talking or psychobabble left over from my time with the army shrink. It’s a cold hard fact. I’ve killed and I’ve made mistakes that cost men who trusted me their lives. And now I learn that I made a mistake that led to Liam being tortured, and by the looks of it, he got it worse than I ever did. Fuck. I do not deserve her, but I’m going to take her because I’m a selfish bastard. I want her too badly to let her go again, and I can’t stand the thought of her with another man.

“We should head back,” I say.

She bites her lip, looking drop-dead gorgeous in her lacy black panties and red bra with black trim. “Only if you keep those clothes off.”

I smirk, glancing down at my rock-hard cock and naked body. “That might not be the best way to avoid notice.”

She steps in closer, hand circling my cock. “I might need to take care of this for you if you plan to fit beneath the steering wheel.”

I lick my lips, stealing a handful of her perfect ass and kissing her softly on the lips. “As much as I would enjoy that, we really shouldn’t linger here. “Makayla… my dog Makayla, has probably crapped all over the apartment by now.”

She gives me an amused look. “I’m starting to get a lot less flattered that you named your dog after me.”

I grab my clothes and start to get dressed. “I told you. The shelter named her that.”

“Right,” she says.

I park in the garage across the street from my apartment building. “Stay here,” I say to Makayla. “No running off this time.”

She glances around the parking garage a little nervously. “I think I’ll take my chances with you.”

Looking around I realize she’s probably right. It will be safer if she’s with me. I can’t be sure how much manpower these people have. If it’s a small operation, there’s no way they would find us here. But if they’re well-funded enough, they could have eyes all over. I pull out my Glock, checking the chamber and re-holstering it.

“You really think you’ll need that?” asks Makayla.

I motion for her to stop before we step out of the garage and onto the sidewalk, making sure it’s clear. “I don’t know. But they know I’m coming back.”

I hear her take a deep breath as we cross the street and step into the lobby of my building. There is quite a bit of activity, and I recognize most of the faces, but there are too many tenants for me to know everyone, so I move carefully, always touching Makayla and doing my best to shield her with my body.

We take the elevator without incident and reach my hallway. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but hell, being paranoid is my job.

My muscles are all tight, ready to engage at a moment’s notice as we cross the distance, stopping outside my door. I unlock all the locks and then draw my gun.

I’ve been around danger enough to have developed something like a sixth sense for violence, and right now, my sixth sense is going fucking haywire. I’m positive there are going to be people waiting inside my apartment, and I’m equally sure they aren’t in there to throw us a surprise party.

I briefly consider asking Makayla to wait outside in the hall, but they might also be expecting that. Whatever happens, she’s safest with me. “Stay behind me,” I whisper to her.

She nods as we creep inside. My hair prickles on the back of my neck when I hear my dog whining from the bedroom. The door was open when I left. She shouldn’t be trapped in there. I close the door behind us and quietly re-lock it. If we’re not alone in here, I don’t want any surprises coming from behind.

I turn off the lights. The blackout curtains make the apartment almost pitch black, despite the rising sun outside. “Stay right here,” I whisper. I guide her through the absolute darkness to crouch behind a thick bookshelf that should shield her from most directions. It’ll have to do for now.

I can barely see the whites of Makayla’s eyes as she nods. My dog whines in the distance, but I don’t hear anything else. I move past the kitchen, stepping silently and sliding a chef’s knife from the block on my way. I hold the knife in my left hand, which is still a little weak from the hold Liam put on me last night, and my Glock in the right. I’m about to reach my bedroom when I hear a sudden rush of movement. I whirl toward the sound just as there’s more movement from behind me, coming from the guest room. One of the assailants bumps into a side-table in the near darkness and I hear him crash into the floor. The other tries to take cover behind my couch. I can’t see much, but when I hear the groan of the couch’s leather armrest, I know exactly where to point and shoot.

I squeeze off two rounds, catching split-second freeze frames of the room in the bright muzzle flash. I see a black hole ripped through the inside of the couch’s armrest from my first shot. A second hole appears an inch to the right and this time I see a man falling out from behind the couch, clutching his chest. I turn just in time to ram the knife in the other assailant’s stomach.

He’s holding a taser and a small black club, both thump to the floor as I ram the knife into him. Hot blood rushes over my hand and I instinctively pull the knife free, driving it home through his heart, ending him in an instant. I cross the distance to the downed man behind the couch, aiming my gun in his direction as I approach. I kneel, dragging the blade of the knife across his throat to finish the job.

I wait outside the door to my bedroom, staining my ears to listen for any sound, but all I can hear are Makayla’s panicked breaths. She’s trying to keep as quiet as possible, but her breathing is too rapid. I hate that she’s here for this, but I hope the darkness has shielded her from most of the bloodshed.

I open the bedroom door and rush in, gun raised. There’s a burst of light and an ear-splitting sound as someone fires a heavy caliber pistol toward the doorway. I roll inside, distracted as my dog rushes toward me, whimpering. I fire three rounds toward where I saw the gunman, but I still hear movement and cursing from behind my bed.

I didn’t hit him.

I run past my dog, sliding down on the other side of my bed and then lifting the frame and mattress in one quick motion, flipping the whole thing over toward the gunman on the other side.

He’s forced to run out into the open. I fire once, hitting him in the shoulder. His gun clatters to the ground and he’s jolted backwards, squeezing a hand to the bullet wound. I rush him, pinning him to the wall by the throat.

“What the fuck are you here for? What do you want?”

“You,” he croaks. “We were supposed to capture you and...” his words are cut off as my hand tightens. I’m forced to ease up, letting him get enough air to speak. “Boss wanted to make you watch while he fucked your girl. Then he’d kill you.”

My blood burns like acid in my veins. I grip his throat again, digging my fingers into his flesh until I feel his tendons straining. His eyes bulge and he claws at me. I ease up one more time. “Who is he? Who’s your fucking boss?”

“The Jackal,” he coughs, voice like sandpaper as he collapses to the ground, retching and trying to crawl away from me.

I aim my Glock at the back of his head and fire, dusting my carpet and walls with his blood. Makayla rushes into the room, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. She stutters to a stop, taking in the violence one piece at a time.

“Are you…” she mutters, eyes glassy.

I move to her, taking her shoulders and easing her from the room. I’m probably smearing blood all over her, but I talk in low, soothing tones, trying to calm her. My mind is elsewhere. Liam did this. I let him go because it appeased my guilt and now I’ve put Makayla in danger because of it. And as long as I’m involved with her, she’s never going to be safe. I keep my hand on my holstered gun as we step into the hallway.

“Come on,” I whisper, slapping my leg to get my dog’s attention. She hurries after me, happily panting and slobbering. “We can’t stay here. Cops are probably already on the way. I should be in the clear because it was a home invasion, but we can’t afford to get tied up with questioning right now. We have to stay on the move and low key. Okay?”

Makayla’s eyes are still distant, but she nods. “They’re dead, aren’t they?” she asks.

“Yeah. They’re dead. They can’t hurt you now.” Those men can’t, but whoever else Liam plans to send still can and will. And if I keep selfishly staying involved with you, they aren’t going to stop.

We take the elevator downstairs. An elderly couple steps inside with us and the woman smiles up at me sweetly.

“Honey,” she says, touching my arm. “You’ve spilt ketchup all over yourself.”

I look down at my left arm and side. It’s misted with dried blood. My hands are caked in the stuff and Makayla’s clothes are too. “Oh,” I say. “I just really love hamburgers. I must have gotten carried away.”

She laughs, touching my forearm. “You’re too funny.”

I give a strained smile, hoping neither of them notice how traumatized Makayla looks. The distraction of looking after her is helping keep the flashbacks at bay, but the smell of sand and blood reaches my nose. I can feel the sun on the back of my neck, even though I’m in an artificially lit elevator. There’s a rifle strapped to my back…

No. I’m in an elevator. I’m not in the desert.

The doors ding when we reach the lobby. I lead Makayla and my dog to the garage, ushering everyone into the car.

I rip out of the parking garage and head toward my safehouse, stomach clenching when I think about what I am going to have to do to keep her safe. I’m going to have to break her heart again, and I fucking hate myself for it.