Page 13 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

Seven

Moe

Seaborn Base

Eight days.

Do you know how many hours that is? One hundred ninety-two.

That’s eleven thousand five hundred and twenty minutes.

Or, if you really want to piss yourself off with the math, six hundred ninety-one thousand two hundred seconds I could’ve spent with her—wasted.

All of it. Instead, I spent it in Alpine, a fragmented faction in Africa, tearing itself apart from the inside.

As I said, war is a fucking joke.

I brace myself against the bathroom sink, knuckles white, chest heaving.

The mirror is cracked—not from today, surprisingly—but it still distorts my reflection just enough to make me question whether the person looking back at me is real.

I don’t recognize him. Not always. The dirt and dried blood, the scar trailing across my left shoulder blade, the too-bright eyes that can’t stop seeing red.

.. I’m still in uniform, sweat clinging to every thread, the scent of iron and gunpowder soaked into my skin.

No one here knows what I’ve done, what I saw, what I had to become just to get out of there.

They know the mission report. Not the details. Not the pleading screams. Not the sound of an old friend's breath catching as my hands wrapped around his throat. Not the silence afterward.

Everyone has a way of justifying their actions.

They talk about vengeance and necessity, but not me.

Each time I take a life–every pull of a trigger, fractured spine, every set of lifeless eyes–I don’t see the evil in the world or the justice I’m doing; I see myself.

I see my reflection in their eyes just before they go dark, and I feel a part of me fracture a little more.

I slip away into that dark place in my head, and my sanity bleeds out like the life I take.

“Moe!” Sharkie’s voice pounds against the metal door of my quarters, sharp and impatient, as if this isn’t the first time she’s knocked.

How long has she been standing there? I don’t know, but surely she’ll leave when I turn the water on.

I don’t have time to discuss something like a wedding.

I mean, who actually gets married in our line of work, anyway?

We’re not promised tomorrow–for fucks sake were not even promised tonight.

I yank at the buttons on my sweat-drenched uniform, peeling it off with shaking hands.

“Come on!” Sharkie whines like a child, and I grind my teeth in frustration.

I suppose some people might want to get married despite our lifestyle—maybe it gives them a sense of purpose or perhaps it's their way of ensuring they achieve everything they want before the inevitable end, which is likely to occur in a foreign country, far from those they love.

It’s difficult to decide if I'd ever want that, especially now, as images of brain matter sticking to the tips of my boots and wives' cries still plague my mind. Why can't I be normal and be affected by it? Why can't I gag or panic?

“I’ve got to shower!” I call out, tossing my clothes into the hamper.

“Five minutes!” she pleads.

I don’t respond as I shut the door to my bathroom, hoping the extra barrier will send her the hint without me having to spell it out.

Sharkie isn’t the type of person I want to snap at—she doesn’t deserve it, especially after how steadfastly she has stood by my side when she didn't have to.

I mean, she even beat the living daylights out of Sam—a grown man—for me.

I let out a sharp breath as the cold water hits my battered skin.

It was supposed to be a simple mission: neutralize the situation and reiterate the boundaries that needed to be upheld within the faction to prevent events like this from occurring.

I went in with only half the number of men and women I would normally need for a situation of that size, unaware of the chaos that was unfolding.

“Moe!” Sharkie’s yell is muffled but high-pitched enough to be recognizable. I wish she’d stop screaming my name like that. I’d heard it yelled enough as I had Gage's neck between my hands.

My knuckles tighten against the tiled wall.

Her voice echoes through the memory of that moment—his eyes going wide as I strangled the life from him.

I begged him to stop. I tried to de-escalate the situation and reminded him of where he came from and what he was supposed to be fighting for—the world, each other.

But the moment he turned on me, it was over, just like that.

It almost makes me sick at how easy it was to watch the life drain from his eyes—how unfazed I still am knowing I tore another person from this world.

The blood swirls down the drain as I lean into the stinging water. I suppose I’m one of those broken people who find solace in pain; it keeps me awake, a reminder that I’m still here, still functioning, even if my sanity is fraying at the edges.

I step out, towel off, and avoid the mirror until the last possible moment—but, as always, I take a look.

It's not the wear and tear from the week that I see staring back at me; it's something worse, something that only surfaces when my little ray of sunshine is around.

It's that damn smile.

Too wide. Too white. Too real .

The one people try to draw out of me, the one that's all too rare.

I should never have walked into that worn-down building that day.

I should never have looked at the woman who gave birth to me as she smiled with a knife pressed firmly to Cordelia’s throat.

I should never have studied the creases at the corners of my grandfather’s face as he demanded I look at the woman who was supposed to love me most in the world, sprawled out on the floor after Caspian shot her.

It’s their smile.

Before I can stop myself, my fist slams into the glass.

Crack .

It fractures under the impact.

Crack .

Shards hit the sink.

Crack .

Blood mixes with the reflective shards like a warning, but I keep going until the mirror’s a mess of silver splinters and my knuckles are split open.

I hate that smile.

I never asked to be this way but maybe it’s just in me–encoded into my DNA like some haywire virus.

Maybe there’s no fixing what I am.

“This is rude, especially from you, Moe!” Sharkie screams, pulling me from my thoughts. I shake my head as I look at the mess I've created. Panic.

“Shit!” I mutter through uneven breaths, frantically wiping up as much of the glass from the counter as I can, sending pieces to the floor.

How long has she been out there? How much did she hear?

I scramble, heart hammering, and swipe the blood into the sink as quickly as I can. The faucet rushes over my busted knuckles, stinging like hell. I try to nudge the worst of the glass under my towel with my foot.

It’s a useless effort.

“Uh–J-Just a minute,” I rasp, still breathless.

Pathetic. I’m a grown man having a panic attack over my own reflection.

God, this proves it—I’m so out of my mind that I should be committed to an institution, yet everyone lets me walk free like a lost puppy.

Rushing out of the bathroom, I slam the door behind me and quickly pull on a pair of jeans and a black shirt, buttoning it haphazardly.

“I said hold on!” I snap, flinging the door open. Cordelia is already mid-eye roll, arms crossed, but her expression softens when she sees me. I try to play it off with a smirk, leaning against the doorframe while gripping the handle at the back.

I know that looking like a mess right now won’t help my case—I definitely don’t want her running to Caspian to inform him that his brother is a complete psychopath. So, I count each drop of blood that beads on my knuckles, sure that it will stain the handle and the linoleum floor.

“Whoa,” she whistles. “Someone’s in a mood.”

“Sorry,” I push my damp hair back with my free hand. “Lost track of time.”

“I heard things got chaotic,” she says carefully, eyes flicking toward the bathroom. I shift to block her view, heartbeat still racing.

“Yeah. Kade blew up half the base for no reason. Gage didn’t help.” I pause, trying not to let the bitterness drip into my voice. “He’s not helping anyone anymore.”

“I read the mission report.”

“Oh.” I swallow. She’s yet to mention the wedding or anything related to it, and it's making me feel like a jerk, so I shoot her a grin and decide to take the initiative.

"So, uh... the wedding. Getting close, huh?"

Cordelia's smile falters. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

That’s unexpected.

Damn, I'm not good at this. I glance into the hall to ensure my brother isn’t about to come barreling around the corner and tackle me away from his woman like the possessive bastard he is.

“Do I need to beat him up?” I offer, leaning closer like I’m sharing a secret. “I will. Just say the word.”

“He’d kick your ass,” she says with a half-laugh.

“Maybe, but I’d give him a run for his money.

” I wink, hoping she’ll give me one of her famous grins—the kind that looks like she might bite you, yet is so bright it nearly blinds you.

She always deserves to smile, especially after everything she’s been through, and I won’t let my messed-up thoughts ruin that .

“I'll sic him like some guard dog, and when he knocks me to the ground, I'll bite his ankles like one too,” I say as I chomp my teeth. And then there it is—bright, beaming, and real.

"That's Sam's job," she laughs. It’s a sick joke related to his years as a war dog that we make. We say he’s Jasmine's guard dog now.

“Yeah, well, I think I have to take on that role too, as your soon-to-be little brother.”

She sighs, her smile faltering as she looks down the hall. “I don’t need that. I just need... something to take my mind off it all. Caspian thinks I’m getting cold feet. He doesn’t understand the pressure. The eyes are on us.”

“He’ll get over it,” I murmur. “He just loves you.”

Cordelia finally looks me in the eye. “You’re a good brother.”

I smile back, genuinely this time. “You don’t need a distraction. You need to silence those voices in your head, or whatever it is you say...”

“Replace the voices with one you like,” she corrects softly.

“Exactly.” I shift on my feet as Cordelia starts looking around the hall like she can sense someone watching us.

“Actually, while I’ve got you…”

Her shoulders stiffen. “Moe, I don’t have answers about your father—”

“No, not that.” I raise my good hand. “Greenport.”

She stops. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

“I’ve read the case files–or rather have attempted to. I’ve got every briefing Sam gave me. I know what happened in the past, but no one’s told me why I’m actually going. Not really.”

Cordelia looks away and lets out a breath like she's been holding it. “That’s your mission. Just make sure you complete it.”

I feel like I’m in the fucking twilight zone when it comes to this damn assignment. My fingers flex again behind the door.

“You sound like Caspian,” I mutter .

“Look, a pattern has been established. Captain Jonathan got a tip about a possible hostage situation—maybe this time we’ll be ahead of it instead of cleaning up the mess after.”

Captain Jonathan Cash. I remember him from one of Jasmine’s older missions.

We never spoke, but I watched him from a screen while watching Raylen on another.

I remember the hours I spent there, cataloging her shifts, the way she smiled at specific customers, how she never let anyone get too close, the way she scowled when the sun shone.

God, I hate how well I remember that.

"Right," I mutter under my breath.

Footsteps echo down the corridor, and Cordelia stiffens.

"Thanks, Moe," she says quickly, already stepping back.

"Come on, little siren!" Caspian’s voice booms, lighthearted and full of energy.

As I slip back into my room, I gently shut the door just in time for him to pass without noticing me. Twelve drops—that’s how many fall onto my wrist from three knuckles.

Twelve reasons I should be locked up. Twelve reasons I should talk to someone. Twelve fucking reasons I’ll never tell anyone how close I came to breaking completely.

I growl in frustration. Just like Cordelia, I know I need a distraction. Everything is still too fresh in my mind, but luckily, I have promised my little ray of sunshine a date.