CHAPTER 1

Four months earlier, London

CALLUM MCKAY SAT ON THE floor with his back to the wall and looked at the wreckage he’d wrought. His TV was shattered, spreading glass across the room. His books were in shreds. There was a KA-BAR knife sticking out of what was left of his leather sofa. And every piece of wooden furniture in the room had been smashed.

Feeling no regret, Callum clasped the neck of a bottle of Glenfiddich. He brought the whisky to his lips and drained what was left. One swallow emptied it, and he tossed it into the mess in front of him, watching with some satisfaction as the bottle smashed.

He was done.

Totally.

Absolutely.

Fucking done.

He wanted to burn the place down. Let the flames take it all. And him along with it. But he’d need to find his damn legs if he wanted to get up and finish the job. His blurred gaze caught sight of the prosthetics he’d thrown across the room after he’d collapsed against the wall.

A dry laugh erupted from him. He’d have to drag himself over broken glass to get to his legs—if he wanted to get up. Which he didn’t. Because he was done.

Totally fucking done.

He was done pretending he was useful. Done pretending he was normal. Done acting as though his life was the same as it’d been before his legs were blown off in Afghanistan. Before he’d become half a man. Before he’d become a liability to his team.

His head landed back against the wall, with a thump he barely registered, and his eyes focused on the ceiling. The pristine white ceiling. It was perfect. And that was wrong. He didn’t want anything around him that was perfect. Unblemished. Unspoiled. Whole. He should have trashed the ceiling along with the rest of the room.

A loud thumping disturbed his thoughts, and it took a minute to register it was coming from the door and not from inside his head. Callum ignored it, as he’d been ignoring every well-meaning visit from his team for days. No. Not his team. Not anymore. Because he was done.

The banging got louder, and Callum frowned in the direction of his front door. They’d get fed up and leave. They always did. No one wanted to risk facing his wrath. That thought caused another mirthless laugh. He was a bloody cliché. A grumpy-arsed Scot who terrified women and children. He reached for his whisky before remembering he’d finished the bottle.

“Open the door.” The shouted order snagged Callum’s dulled attention. He almost jumped to comply—before he remembered that he’d need his legs to do it, and that Lake Benson was no longer his SAS commander, or his business partner. Because Callum was done—he just hadn’t told anyone yet.

“Callum,” Lake snapped. “Open the door.”

“Go to hell,” Callum roared.

He heard muttered voices and scraping. Bloody stubborn Englishman was picking the lock. Callum didn’t care enough to try to stop him. Anyway, what could he do? Nothing. That was what. Because he was fucking useless.

The heavy door swung open and the room was suddenly flooded with light. Callum squinted against the glare. He could just make out the solid shape of Lake filling the doorway.

“It’s time for this to end,” Lake said.

“Get the hell out of here and leave me be,” Callum said.

“Too many people have been leaving you be.” Lake strode into the room, glass crunching underfoot. He crouched beside Callum, his forearms resting on his knees. “You’re a mess.”

That struck Callum as particularly funny, and he started giggling like a schoolgirl.

“And drunk,” Lake said in disgust.

Callum’s attention was snagged by the sound of movement in the debris that used to be his home. The women. Elle and Julia. Members of his team who smothered him with their pity.

“I’ve got his legs.” Elle waved something in the air, but all Callum could see was her shocking blue hair.

“Don’t touch those! Get out of my house!” Callum reached for something to throw at her.

A strong hand stayed him.

“Give the legs to me,” Lake said.

They were ignoring him. As if he wasn’t a person anymore. For a minute, he forgot where he was exactly. In his head, he was back in hospital being poked and prodded by the team fitting his prosthetics. A team that was more interested in the tech than the person who’d wear it. He’d felt invisible. A project. A pathetic problem to be fixed.

“Get out, get out, get out, get out!” His rage made him dizzy, and he tilted, slipping down the wall.

Strong hands pulled him upright again.

“Leave us,” Lake ordered, and the room cleared.

Of course they listened to Lake. He was whole. He wasn’t an invalid. He wasn’t half a man. Callum stared down at what remained of his legs, hating the sight of them. Hating that there was nothing but stumps where his knees used to be. Hating that he couldn’t see his feet, but could damn well feel them. That constant searing pain that never went away. That constant reminder of who he used to be.

“You get out too,” Callum spat.

“You might be able to intimidate the civilians with your bad attitude, but all it does is piss me off. Now put these legs on so I can help you get out of this mess.” Lake cocked an eyebrow. “Unless you want me to carry you.”

“Fuck off.”

Lake stared at him in reply.

The stubborn bastard would sit there until he got his way. With a snarl, Callum snatched a prosthetic from his former friend and tried to line the cup up with his stump. It wasn’t possible. Everything kept moving. His stump kept slipping out. His hands wouldn’t work properly. And his rage grew again. He lifted the leg, ready to throw it across the room. Lake snatched it from his grasp.

“You’re too drunk to do it.” He looked behind him and yelled, “Joe. Get in here.”

“No!” Callum shoved Lake. He rocked back but didn’t topple.

Callum wished he’d remembered to bring a weapon home. He could have shot the bastard.

“And we’re all grateful you aren’t armed,” Lake said as he stood, making Callum realise he’d been thinking out loud.

“I should shoot you, you interfering bastard. You dragged me into this mess. This team. You should have known I’d be no use to them. I’m a fucking liability. I almost got them killed in Peru.”

“Almost doesn’t count.” Joe stood beside Lake. “You’re talking garbage. Which figures, because that’s what you smell like.”

“Fuck off,” Callum said again, and the American paid about as much attention to him as Lake had.

“It’s going to take the two of us to get him into bed,” Lake said to Joe. “He might need to be restrained. He’s a violent dickhead when he’s drunk.”

“Get out!” Callum roared. “I don’t want you here. I don’t want your help. Or your pity. Leave me alone.”

The two men ignored him as, between them, they scooped Callum up. They carried him in a sitting position, their arms under his thighs and around his shoulders—as if he were a child or an old invalid.

Hell no.

Callum swung his fist and managed to connect with Lake’s jaw.

“You hit me again and I’m going to hit back. You got it?”

Like Callum gave a crap. “Bring it on, English.”

An arm clamped across his forearms, holding them in place.

“Hurry,” Joe said. “He’s strong.”

Callum shouted obscenities until he felt the veins in his neck bulge and his head grew light. Suddenly, the cool cotton sheets of his bed were at his back.

“Get his legs,” Lake said. “Put them on the chest. I’ll put the wheelchair beside his bed. He’s less likely to throw the wheelchair at us. If he wants his legs, he can roll over and get them.”

Callum grabbed his alarm clock and lobbed it at Lake’s head. His aim was off and the clock hit the wall and shattered.

Cold eyes caught his. “I will knock you out.” Lake’s voice was icy calm.

“Bring it on.” Callum made a fist and waved it. “I can take you. You arrogant English bastard.”

Joe shook his head and left the room. Callum could hear voices coming from the other room. All of his damn team were there. All of them. He’d locked himself away from them. And they were there anyway.

“I don’t want them in here,” he told Lake.

“What the hell do you want?” Lake folded his arms and glared down at Callum.

The question knocked the wind out of him. He sagged back into his bed and stared at the ceiling. But he didn’t see it. He saw his past. The part of his life that was never coming back. The part where he knew who he was and what he could do. The part where he’d felt invincible.

“I want out,” he said. “I’m done being part of Benson Security. I want to go home.”

To Scotland. To die.

Because.

He.

Was.

Done.