Page 22 of Beckett (Warrior Security #2)

I brought the chair over, and Coop set it up just outside the fence where we could watch Beckett work with the dogs.

He’d started running them through basic commands—sit, stay, heel.

His movements were mechanical at first, muscle memory more than conscious thought.

But gradually, they became smoother, more natural.

“He’ll be okay,” Coop said. He must have seen the worry on my face. “This helps him more than anything else.”

“How often do these sorts of episodes happen?”

“Less than it used to.” Coop leaned against the fence, eyes never leaving Beckett. “Maybe every few months now. Used to be weekly when he first got back.”

“From Afghanistan?”

He glanced at me, evaluating. “That’s Beck’s story to tell.

But yeah, his last deployment. Bad mission.

Lost someone he was supposed to protect.

” He paused, choosing his words carefully.

“The thing about Beckett is he’d kept everyone safe his whole career.

Never lost a single person under his command. Until that last mission.”

I watched Beckett work with Duke on heel commands, his movements becoming more fluid, more present. “Someone named Rodriguez?”

“You heard him say the name?” When I nodded, Coop sighed. “Sergeant First Class Miguel Rodriguez. Good soldier. Better man. Had a wife and two kids waiting for him in Texas.”

The weight of that settled in my chest like lead. A family destroyed. No wonder Beckett carried such guilt.

“It wasn’t his fault,” Coop continued. “Official investigation cleared him completely. Hell, he got a commendation for getting the rest of his unit out alive. But try telling him that.”

We both looked out at Beckett.

“The dogs help,” Coop said, changing the subject. “They don’t judge. Don’t ask questions. Just offer what he needs—purpose, routine, unconditional acceptance. Some days, they’re the only things that can pull him back from the edge.”

As if to prove his point, Duke performed a perfect recall, racing across the yard at Beckett’s whistle, skidding to a stop at his feet with tail wagging furiously. Beckett actually smiled—small, tired, but real.

“I should go,” Coop said after another ten minutes. “He won’t want me here when he’s fully back. Too much like admitting weakness.”

“But you just got here. Shouldn’t someone?—”

“You’re someone.” He studied me with those sharp eyes. “He let you call me. That’s huge. Beckett doesn’t let people in, especially not when he’s vulnerable. The fact that he gave you my name, trusted you with this… that means something.”

“He didn’t have much choice. He was barely conscious.”

“He had a choice. Some part of him decided you were safe.” Coop pushed off from the fence. “Look, I don’t know what your deal is?—”

“I don’t have a deal.”

He gave me a look that said he wasn’t buying it. “Sure. But whatever brought you here, whatever you’re running from—and don’t deny it, I can see it all over you—Beckett sees it too. He recognizes broken when he sees it, probably because he’s intimately familiar with the territory.”

“I’m not?—”

“You don’t have to explain. Not to me. But that man in there?” He nodded toward Beckett. “He’s one of the best people I know. Loyal, protective, would die before letting someone under his protection get hurt. He’s also stubborn as hell and thinks he doesn’t deserve anything good after Rodriguez.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Just thought you should know who you’re working with.” Coop headed for his truck. “My number’s in his phone if you need it. But I don’t think you will. You did everything right today.”

He paused at his truck door. “Oh, and Audra? We all have our demons. Some of us are just better at hiding them. But the thing about demons—they’re a lot less powerful when you’re not facing them alone.”

With that, he drove off, leaving me standing by the fence watching Beckett slowly piece himself back together with the help of four-legged therapists who asked for nothing but his presence.

Another thirty minutes passed before Beckett’s movements fully returned to their normal fluid grace.

He worked each dog individually now—Duke on scent work, Atlas on agility, Rosie on basic obedience.

Jet had joined them at some point, participating like he belonged there, like he understood Beckett needed all the support he could get.

Finally, Beckett returned the dogs to their kennels, giving each one extra attention, extra treats. When he turned toward where I waited by the fence, his face was composed but exhausted, like he’d run a marathon in combat boots.

He lifted his hand in a small wave but didn’t come over. The message was clear—he was okay, but talking about it wasn’t happening. Not now. Maybe not ever.

I waved back, understanding the need for distance after being so vulnerable. We both had our walls, our ways of protecting ourselves from further damage. Today had cracked his wide open, and he needed time to shore them back up.

“I’ll check on the cats,” I called, giving him an out.

He nodded, relief flickering across his features before he headed toward the guest house. His gait was steady now, but I could see the exhaustion in the line of his shoulders, the weight of what had happened pressing down on him.

I watched until he disappeared inside, then turned toward the cat barn. My hands were finally steady, but my mind raced. Coop’s words echoed: The thing about demons—they’re a lot less powerful when you’re not facing them alone.

But that was his truth, not mine. I touched the back of my neck to the burn scar there. My demons weren’t about the past; they were about the present. And they were still hunting me.

The safest thing for everyone was distance.

The cats greeted me with their usual mix of disdain and demand.

Princess Whiskers actually hissed when I reached for her food bowl, as if the morning’s drama was somehow my fault.

In a way, maybe it was. That crash in the barn—I’d caused it.

I’d triggered whatever hell Beckett had just relived.

I went through the motions of feeding, watering, cleaning.

But my mind stayed on Beckett, on the weight he carried, on the way the dogs had brought him back from the edge.

We all had our ways of surviving. His was the dogs and the routine and the walls that kept everyone at a safe distance. Mine was running and hiding and never staying long enough to matter.

The cats didn’t care about any of it. They wanted their food, their water, their litter boxes cleaned. Simple needs. Clear transactions. No complicated emotions or shared trauma or understanding that went deeper than words.

But as I finished with the cats and headed to the next chore, I knew one thing for certain: we both didn’t like to share our trauma. He’d shown me his today, unwillingly, and now he’d retreat behind those walls twice as high.

And maybe that was for the best. We were both too broken to help each other without causing more damage.

At least, that’s what I told myself as I went back to work, pretending the bruises forming on my arm didn’t ache, pretending I hadn’t just seen the strongest man I knew brought to his knees by memories that wouldn’t let him go.