Noise, so much noise, loud noise that didn’t stop. Day and night, and the next day again. On and on until I couldn’t hear myself think or breathe or feel parts of my body that had seized up, grown numb. My lungs hurt, my heart pounded in my chest, and I couldn’t hold back the saliva that drooled from my lips. They had found me wounded, separated from my battalion and had taken me prisoner. They had patched me up... But that was only so they could keep me alive long enough to question me. Which had been worse? Kidnapped at twelve during the incident and held for a month, or taken as POW at twenty-seven and being interrogated?
They had subjected me to the noise, the clanking, the thrash of heavy metal, the hard sounds that had reverberated through my skull, that stopped me from sleeping, from breathing… From living.Oh, God, I want to die. Kill me, already. Now, right now.I’d raised my eyes heavenward, and pleaded with whichever higher power was there watching over me. Please take me away, take me out of this pain, this misery. Put an end to this helplessness that grips me, this powerlessness that incapacitates me, this vulnerability that shrouds me, that wraps around my chest, my throat, that squeezes down so I can’t breathe anymore. Can’t breathe.Breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
I force myself to draw in the oxygen. Force my lungs to inflate. Deflate. Again. Focus on the small things. The smoothness of the steering wheel under my fingers. The scent of leather. The fabric of my T-shirt against my skin. The feel of my toes inside my boots. Breathe in again. Another breath. A third. Will my heartbeat to slow. My pulse rate to drop to normal. Then I straighten, open my eyes, wipe the sweat from my face. I turn toward the car door, only to have it wrenched open. I am hauled out of the SUV, and pushed to the ground. The impact of the crash reverberates through my body. I glance up to find my assailant standing over me. The sun slants in my eyes and I can’t see his face. Then he bends to grab my collar again and a pair of familiar eyes fill my line of sight.
"You?"
3
Baron
"Get up," Saint growls.
I push myself up to a standing position. "I don’t want to fight you."
"But I do." He lunges forward and his fist connects with my nose. Pain slices through my head. Sparks of red and white explode behind my eyes. I stumble back, straighten, sense him move and duck, out of instinct.
His fist whooshes by my face. The breeze from it lifts the hair from my forehead. He follows that up with another hit, this time to my side. Pain blooms up my spine. "Fuck."
He lunges forward, catches me in the stomach. The breath whooshes out of me. I double over, and he brings his fist up to connect with my chin. My head snaps back. Darkness overwhelms me.
Something wet licks my face, my nose, my mouth. I pry my eyes open to find a pair of doggy eyes staring down at me.
"Hey, Max, here boy," a voice calls… One I recognize as Sinclair’s. The dog whines, glances from his master then back. He pushes his nose into my shoulder as if to apologize, then turns and darts off.
I groan, throw my arm over my face, and the movement sends a shudder of pain racing up my spine. Fucking hell. I draw in a breath and my throat burns. My ribs ache. My face feels like I’ve connected with a wall… Or Saint, in this case. Fucking Saint. I draw in a breath, and my ribs protest. My stomach lurches and I pant and stay still, hoping, praying, the sickness in my stomach will subside. I must have dozed off for a few seconds, maybe, when a touch to my shoulder has me jackknifing up to sitting position. Instantly, my head throbs, my chin hurts, and my stomach twists in on itself. I gasp, lower my head. Take in a breath and another.
"Easy now." A man’s voice—another one I recognize—reaches me. "You’re a little banged up."
"No shit." I tip up my chin and scowl at the familiar features of my friend. I clear my throat. "Hey, Doc. How’s it going?"
He shrugs. "I guess we’ll find out, once we work out the reasons behind why you left the way you did—"
"Not to mention, finding out why you’re back," a low voice growls behind me.
I blow out a breath, turn to Saint, then wince when a throbbing slices through my head. "I know you’re angry—"
"Angry?" he snaps. "You think I’mangry—?" His voice rises in tandem to the pain that thud-thud-thuds against my brain.
"From where I am, that’s a calculated guess, I’d say." I raise my hand to shield my face from the sunlight that pours down on me through the windows high up in the ceiling. I move to the side, take in the features of my friends.
Saint stands with his hands bunched at his sides. Next to him, Damian’s arms are folded across his chest. On his other side, Sinclair stands, his body relaxed. Next to him, Max whines and Sinclair bends to scratch behind his ear. He straightens, fixes me with an unblinking glare.
Weston walks around me to join the rest of the men. I recognize it for what it is. A show of unity. Four against one. Arpad’s missing, probably because he’s on his honeymoon. Yeah, I’ve kept tabs on my friends. I may have left London and my friends behind, but they never left me.
I push myself to standing and my side screams in protest. My face feels numb, my ribs twinge, and I bite down the groan that works its way up my throat.
"I take it you are not happy to see me?"
My voice echoes around the empty warehouse.
"Whose choice was it to meet here, anyway?" I glance at Sinner. "Can’t be you, Sinner. You never did have a flair for the dramatic. As for you, Saint?" I train my gaze on him, "You’re too hotheaded. When you’re that angry, you can’t think straight."
