Page 82 of Duty Devoted
My hands curled into fists. Across the room, Ben shifted slightly, staying out of the confrontation but watching. Smart man.
“I don’t have to listen to this.” I stood, chair scraping against the floor.
“Yeah, you do.” Ty stood too, blocking my path to the door. “Because we give a shit about you, even when you’re being a self-destructive asshole.”
“Move.”
“Make me.”
For a second, violence crackled between us. My body coiled, ready, almost eager for the physical release of a fight. Ty saw it, welcomed it even, that reckless grin spreading across his face. I’d sparred with him a few times—what he couldn’t match me with in strength, he made up for in speed and agility.
“Logan.” Ben’s calm voice cut through the tension. “When’s the last time you went home for more than a gear swap?”
The unexpected question made me blink. “What?”
“Home. Your apartment. When did you last spend a full night there?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. The answer was too pathetic to voice.
“Brother, I’ve got my dog right here and none in this fight.” Ben scratched behind Jolly’s ears, not looking at me. “But let me say this—it’s hard to face what you’re avoiding when you never stop moving long enough to let it catch up.”
“Yeah,” Ty snickered. “Just take a seat and put your feet up. Or we can skip all the hair-braiding, get-in-touch-with-your-feelings shit and fight this out like we’re not pussies.”
The younger man had no idea how much I wanted to. So fucking much.
“Enough.” Ethan’s command filled the room before I could respond. “Both of you, sit down.”
Neither Ty nor I moved.
“That wasn’t a request.”
Something in his tone—maybe the echo of all the missions we’d survived together—made me step back. Ty held my gaze a moment longer before dropping into his chair.
I remained standing. “I’m taking the next international mission. That’s final.”
“No,” Ethan said simply. “You’re not.”
“You can’t?—”
“I can and I am.” He pulled out a folder, thick with papers. “This is your medical workup from the Somalia extraction. Want to know what the medic wrote? ‘Operative shows signs of extreme exhaustion, malnutrition, and multiple untreated injuries. Recommend immediate stand-down for recovery.’”
“Field medics always?—”
“This is from Ukraine.” Another paper. “Six bruised ribs, partially torn rotator cuff, refusal of medical treatment.”
Fuck. “Ethan?—”
“Bangladesh. Second-degree burns on left forearm, festering knife wound that required eleven stitches, again refused follow-up care.” He closed the folder. “Should I continue?”
The list of injuries I’d been ignoring suddenly felt heavier. My left shoulder throbbed on cue, reminding me why I’d been favoring it for weeks.
“People need help,” I said finally. “I’m good at helping them.”
“We all know that isn’t what this is about,” Jace said. “This is about Corazón. This is about Lauren Valentino.”
Unreasonably, red hazed my vision. The words that wanted to emerge would burn bridges, end friendships. I bit them back, barely.
“I’m done here.” I headed for the door.
