Page 36 of The Forgotten SEAL (The Real SEAL #1)

I take a step back. There’s a lamp on the table next to his mahogany desk. It’s stainless and solid. Another step back. He follows, leaning over me, trying to scare me. It works because it’s always worked.

“This is how it’s going to work. You’re going to fuck me.

The way you used to. Like you love me. Maybe I won’t beat the shit out of you after.

I haven’t decided yet. You ruined my life, you know?

I can’t forgive that easily. Now, I’m going to make you a drink.

Your favorite, and then I’ll show you how my girlfriend redecorated the master suite.

” I taste the bile. It mixes with hot anger as I watch his back disappear from the room.

Scurrying like a frightened mouse, I head for the lamp and unplug it.

I test the weight in my hand. On second thought, I grab my cell phone and send a text in the group message with Jasmine and Sean from back when they were doing all my errands.

I type, Help. At Roarke’s. Sorry. I picture Jasmine’s face as she reads my message.

Horror. Anger. This was backup. I’m going to take care of myself this time.

I walk out to the wraparound porch out back.

The cement is this beautiful lavender color.

When he selected the color, I thought it was odd, but it’s stunning with the décor, and I do miss this room a little.

The mace is in the pocket of my sweater, and the lamp is in my hand when Roarke walks in with two martini glasses.

The cops are too busy to deal with trivial things like domestic disputes.

“Don’t be rude. I made you a drink,” he says. “I like your choice of room. Drop your weapon. I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. It’s me, babe. I took care of you all those years. Remember?”

I want to beat him to a pulp. I want to cry, but the feeling that overrides them all is that of love. I do want to go to his embrace. It’s fucked up, and I know it. He set this trap specifically for me.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me if I fucked you.

That’s not happening, buddy. Not by a long shot.

So either you let me go right now, or I’ll use the weapon,” I explain.

“I can’t believe I trusted that you’ve changed.

Do you beat her too?” How does he do it?

Keep women under his control. There’s nothing special about him.

I need to buy time and make him think I’m not actually scheming. I’m going to kill him. It’s the only way out of this for good. Deep down I think I knew this would happen when I agreed to come over here tonight. That’s why I slipped the mace into my pocket.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. That draws his eyes from my face. It’s a phone call, not a text.

“Did you call someone?” he asks. His face transforms into something resembling a monster. A dangerous one. He drops both glasses, and they shatter on the beautiful cement. A million pieces of glass dancing across the floor where horrible memories call home.

He springs, and I swing the lamp like a baseball bat.

The phone continues to buzz against my leg.

It keeps me grounded in this moment—it focuses me on what I need this outcome to be.

I hit the side of his arm as he blocks me.

Stumbling, I catch myself on the back of a chaise lounge. Swinging once more, I miss.

Roarke is strong. Much stronger than I will ever be. This is a fact I shouldn’t know firsthand. I have to use my wits to beat him.

I take a step back as he strikes out, a clenched fist aimed directly at my face.

I cry out, a loud, ungodly noise of fury, as I swing the base of the lamp at his head.

It connects this time because my war cry distracted him.

He wasn’t ready for a determined Carina.

He wasn’t ready for my bloodlust. The crack is satisfying, and he goes down hard.

Blood trickles from a deep gouge by his eye as he brings himself up to his elbows.

I’m breathing heavily, adrenaline pumping through my body when he gets to his feet.

I’m frozen to the spot as I watch the dark red liquid pour down his face.

It doesn’t look like I dreamed it would.

My phone vibrates again. He’s incapacitated, so I take it out and look at it. The text from Jasmine says she’s here.

He sucker punches me, and I hear the whiz of his knuckles the second before they crunch into my cheek.

I’ve taken worse from him, but I lose my grip on the lamp and it falls down by my feet.

I cry out. Jasmine is going to get hurt.

Why did I text her? Through the stars and dizzy sensations, I yell for her to stay away, to let me solve my own problems. Roarke kicks me in the ribs like I’m some animal, something not worthy of standing upright.

The mace in my pocket is within reaching distance.

It’s my only chance to right the mistake I made.

The words of rage passing his lips are incoherent at this point.

He won’t stop until I’m not breathing. And neither will I.

There’s a lull in his abuse, so I’m able to get the small bottle palmed in my hand.

I scream out and through searing pain I make a lunge toward him, grabbing his pants with my free hand to help myself up. He can’t shake me off.

As I’m spraying the repellant in the general direction of his face, Smith is breaking down the screen door on the side of the porch with Jasmine and Sean close behind. He makes light work of the titanium masterpiece Roarke had specially made for this room. I cough on the fumes of the potent spray.

“Get the fuck away from her,” Smith roars, charging toward us like a battering ram. I think it’s the blood leaving my body, but time starts slowing down—the moment crystallizes in a dreamy sort of way.

I can compare it to how I feel when I’m writing a scene. I’m there, and yet I’m not. I have control, but no true power.

Smith’s beautiful, tired eyes turn to me on my knees, and the grimace on his face shifts to that of fury—untamed, unmatched, tangible in quality.

I could reach out and touch it, taste it, hide from it.

Roarke goes down in one solid blow from Smith.

I don’t know what he looked like moments before it happened.

I wish I could have seen his face as he watched Smith rush him, knowing what terror truly looks like.

But Smith is here. He’s real, and he’s alive, and there’s no way I can turn away from the sight of him.

Jasmine has me wrapped in her arms in the next second. While her gesture is tender, her words are sharp and cruel. “I deserve this. It was a stupid decision to come here,” I reply, nodding my head into her chest.

After confirming Smith doesn’t need help, Sean stoops down next to us. “I would have come with you. That was the plan. First and foremost, I’m your friend. How could you do this? Come here?”

I shrug. Blood trickles down my face and falls onto the shoulder of my blouse.

“I needed the legal file. He came over a few weeks ago to apologize. He seemed different. As dimwitted as it sounds, I thought he would give me the file and I’d be on my way,” I explain.

“What’s he doing here?” I whisper, nodding toward the living, breathing caricature of anger and jagged, life-altering beauty.

He’s restraining Roarke with plastic zip ties even though he’s knocked out and looks to me like he’ll stay that way for quite some time.

Jasmine closes her eyes and takes in a deep, long breath.

“I’ve been in contact with him. Just quick calls so he can check in on you.

He happened to be over at my house when you texted.

It must be fucking fate, Carina, because you’d be dead if he wasn’t.

” This wasn’t part of the plan. He wanted me to move on so he could be with Megan without guilt.

I was a piece of his past he was moving on from, not checking in on.

Fate is a bitter, lying bitch. I shake my head. Not only am I in physical pain, but my best friend went behind my back. It stings.

“You act like I wouldn’t have stopped it,” Sean says, pride wounded.

Jasmine sighs. “They took away your guns, remember? There’s no way you could have gotten in here as quickly as Smith did. ”

Sean sits back. “Whatever, Jaz. Fuck you,” he snarls. “I’ll be in the car. You need anything, Bulldozer?” he tosses Smith’s way.

“I need to talk to Carina. Alone.”

I take my sweater off to press it to the cut on my cheek and hobble to my feet.

Not taking my eyes off his, I walk past him, over the bloody glass, and into the house.

He’s following me, his gaze boring a hole in the back of my head.

I feel hot and cold at the same time. The blood is rushing to my head and not to my heart.

It’s the oddest of sensations. This hasn’t been my house in a long, long time, and I feel at home as I open the freezer and grab a bag of peas to press against the side of my head.

When I turn around, I find Smith inches from me, seething mad, his teeth clenched together and his arms coiled. “How could you be so stupid? How could you do this?” he asks. Smith is controlling his breaths, and I realize I’ve never seen him angry. Not like this. Not like Roarke.

I swallow down the sweet emotions I feel at seeing him and focus on hurt. “Seems to me you gave up the right to worry about my actions and my stupidity. I don’t understand why you’re even here.”

He shakes his head and takes another step toward me, his presence more sinister than ever before. “I don’t understand how you could be so fucking stupid!”

I take in a sharp breath. “What? Are you going to bounce me off the walls? I’m out of practice. Just so you know.” The metallic taste of blood makes my stomach heave, and the headache I knew was coming arrives. Closing my eyes for a moment, I try to make sense of all of this.