Jack
I smell sulfur and smoke. The singed blackness of burned hair and the char of still-burning skin.
Last thing I knew, I was in bed with Avery.
Now? I’m back in the fucking war again.
I point my weapon into the chest of an enemy operative. He points his weapon at me right back. I fire first, but—fuck.
Nothing happens. I feel my big, bad, high-tech Stanton Industries rifle fail right there in my fucking hands.
The other guy isn’t so damn unlucky. When he fires his gun, it nearly blows my fucking head off. I feel the bullet zip past my face and lodge itself into the wall behind my head.
Close fucking call.
I can’t allow there to be another one.
I decide, fuck it. Toss my gun aside, curl my lips into a snarl and barrel towards the man. He shoots several rounds at me. I know from the pain that some of them must have hit. But I’m in a frenzied rage now. Bullets don’t stop me—they just slow me down.
I can smell the fear on him when I tackle him to the ground. He’s whimpering—begging—
And suddenly, it’s not his face I’m looking at. It’s Avery’s. Sweet little Avery’s beautiful fucking face, with my hands poised threateningly over her throat.
Then, in a flash—it’s the face of the terrorist again, contorted in fear. That’s better. I fucking prefer that. This motherfucker arranged some twenty bus bombings in his city before I got to him. Bastard was targeting mothers and school children, hardworking men and the elderly.
I want him to be afraid of me. He deserves to fucking die.
I reach my hands down to his throat again, ready to kill him like I’ve killed him a thousand times before.
But when I do, in a flash—there’s Avery again. Sleeping soundly, her blonde hair splayed out on something that I vaguely recognize as one of my own pillows.
The fuck?
I shake my head, growling like a fucking animal and trying to get my bearings. I can hear explosions in the distance—no doubt those are more of this son of a bitch’s bus bombs, ripping away more innocent people from their loving families.
And then I blink, and the booms aren’t explosions. It’s just Buck fucking barking, clawing at the bedroom door, trying to get inside.
I blink again. I smell the burned gunpowder of spent ammunition.
I blink again. I smell Avery’s skin, the scent of jasmine and lavender from the perfume of her bath.
When I shake my head, reality comes crashing back to me. I’m on top of Avery, whose brow is furrowed in her sleep. I can feel her fragile, delicate body beneath the blanket between my thighs.
My hands are poised over her neck, threatening to strangle her while she whimpers in her sleep, having nightmares of her own.
Christ. I’m a fucking monster.
This is why I can’t have a woman in my bed. This is why I can’t have anyone in this entire goddamn house.
No wonder Buck is barking up such a storm. Buck and I understand each other. Buck wakes up from his own night terrors too. Sometimes, he’ll snarl awake and come at me, teeth bared, ready to fight some imagined enemy that’s haunting him in his dreams.
It makes me wonder what kind of life my dog led before me. Kind of scared me, having Avery here with both of us being such fucking savages. But by the way Buck is pawing at the door now, I get the sense that he doesn’t want to do anything but help Avery.
He’s a good fucking mutt.
But me? I’m a goddamn monster.
It’s not just my killer’s hands that are threatening to harm Avery when I wake up from my night terror. No, it gets much worse than that.
I’ve got a hard-on like you wouldn’t fucking believe, too. Happens sometimes—it’s not an arousal response, it’s just fucking adrenaline.
But I’m naked, and she’s a virgin, and I’ve got my cock pressed so hard against her body while I straddle her that I’m afraid it might rip right through the blankets between us that I’ll deflower her in her sleep.
Christ. I’d never forgive myself. She’s been so sweet, so fucking trusting with me.
And here I am, poised over her body like some kind of animal, ready to just fucking take and take and take.
The erection softens as I slump away from her, rolling off the bed and finding myself some clothes. I know how PTSD works. Logically, I know that I would never intentionally do anything to Avery that she didn’t want done to her.
But I also know that there’s something inside me that makes me a killer. This time, Buck’s barking stopped me from doing anything that either of us would regret. But what happens the next time I wake up from one of my intense war dreams?
What happens when I dream about fucking Avery—about having her writhing beneath me, cooing and moaning, only to wake up and discover that I’ve ruined her life?
This. This is why I came out onto this fucking mountain.
To be alone where I can’t fucking hurt pretty little ladies like her.
I grab my bow and arrow and pull on my boots. Nothing calms and centers me like hunting does.
Maybe if I can kill something, some of this aggression can filter out of my body. Maybe my blood won’t be so fucking boiling. Maybe I can set my head straight again.
I practically run away from the cabin. I need to get as far away from her as possible. I need to put as much space between Avery and I as can be.
She doesn't deserve this. She deserves much better.
What was I thinking pretending that I could make a life with her? I almost hurt her today.
All I know is that it ain’t gonna fucking happen again.