Page 48

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

I NEVER WORRIED about getting sleep. Not since the desert. Not since the noise in my head started screaming louder than any battlefield.

The nightmares used to rip me apart nightly, faces I couldn’t save, screams I couldn’t drown out, blood that wouldn’t wash off no matter how long I stood in the goddamn shower. The VA tossed pills at me like that’d fix what was broken. Some numbed it. Most didn’t touch it.

But lately…it’s been quiet.

Not inside my head, not completely. But the kind of quiet that don’t come from a bottle or a script. The kind that comes from breathing in someone else’s peace.

Zeynep sleeps like she’s waiting for something to go wrong. Curled tight, always facing me, like I might sneak away. But her presence—her steady breath, her warmth next to me—it settles something in me.

I don’t flinch awake anymore. I don’t wake up choking on sand and blood.

She doesn’t know it, but she’s the only thing that’s ever hushed the war in my head. And that terrifies me more than any nightmare ever did.

I lit a smoke. Let it burn down until it kissed my fingertips, just to feel something real. Then I crushed it out under my boot, watching the smoke curl like a ghost that didn’t want to leave.

Wasn’t long until I was standing outside her door. Most nights, I didn’t give a damn where anyone was. Hell, I didn’t check on people. I wasn’t that guy. Never had been.

But her?

She was different. Since we found her and especially since we started sleeping in the same bed, without her there was no sleep for me.

I hesitated, hand hovering to knock. Then I just opened the door.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, blanket pulled tight around her. Her eyes met mine, soft, welcoming, and not a lick of hesitation in them.

“I was getting worried,” she said, her voice a whisper, threaded with that soft Turkish accent.

“Sorry,” I muttered, stepping in.

She didn’t ask why. Just nodded, slow and quiet.

“I figured you’d already be asleep.”

She shook her head. “No. Not without you.”

I dragged the chair from the corner and dropped into it with a grunt, taking off my boots. “You always have trouble sleeping?”

A small shake of her head. “Yes... it’s always loud. In here.” She tapped her temple. “Even when it is quiet outside.”

“Yeah.” I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “I know that kinda loud.”

For a while, neither of us spoke. We just sat in it—the stillness, the memories. The shit we kept locked away.

“You ever seen somethin’ like that before?” I asked, glancing toward the dark window like Troy’s body was still out there.

Zeynep didn’t answer right away. Her voice came slower this time, quieter. “Drago... he hurt people all the time. He didn’t care if I was in the room.”

I frowned, stomach twisting.

“He said I was his and he didn’t hurt me because he loved me.” Her eyes dropped to her lap. “But when he was angry at me… he made others pay. So I would feel it. Guilt... pain... just not on my body.”

I sat back a little, jaw tight. “He’s a piece of shit.”

She gave a broken breath that might’ve been a laugh. “I begged him, once. ‘Hit me instead,’ I said. But he wouldn’t. He wanted me to watch. To remember. To see what my not listening did to others.”

Jesus.

My hands curled into fists. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“I was not the one bleeding,” she whispered. “But it still got inside me.”

I looked at her, really looked. “You carry it different than most. Still on your feet. Still breathin’. Still smilin’.”

“It’s not as easy as it seems.” Her lips trembled, but she held steady. “I think... wish that I would have been the one he hurt. Then I would not feel so much shame.”

I leaned forward, voice low and rough. “Ain’t your shame to carry, sweetheart. That’s his. You hear me?”

Her eyes flicked up to mine. “You act like I’m not broken—used and dirty.”

“’Cause you’re not,” I replied harshly, hating that she thought that about herself. “Hell, you’re the strongest person I’ve met in a long damn time.”

She stared at me for a beat, then—softly—“I was brought up to think love was supposed to keep you safe.”

“It’s supposed to,” I said, voice thick. “But people twist it. Use it like a chain. I know somethin’ about that.”

Her gaze didn’t leave mine. “You loved someone once?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “Not like you’re thinkin’, not by a long stretch but I get you.”

She looked at me, then, with that special look reserved only for me. “You’re such a good man.”

“Not always,” I said, dropping my head.

Her breath hitched. Just a little, and then—slow, gentle—she reached out. Her fingers brushed the scarred side of my face. Never with fear. Never with pity. Just... a touch. But with her it felt like my fucked up face didn’t exist.

“You make me feel normal again,” she whispered. “Like no evil can touch me.”

I didn’t pull away. Didn’t even breathe.

“It can’t,” I murmured.

Her eyes didn’t drop. And in that quiet, shadowed room, something even deeper passed between us.

I was still truly and royally fucked.