Page 59 of Glamour and Grit

“You mean call the office?”

“No, silly,” I sigh, letting my eyes close. “I mean me! When you have trouble like you did with your nightmare, when your PTSD sends you on a spiral, you can ask me for help. I can help ground you.”

“I know,” he says softly, stroking my hair with his soft palm. I sigh and lay back against him.

As I drift off to sleep, my last thoughts are that it’s probably too late to stop myself from catching the feels for Dane.

Way too late.

18

DANE

Adark tower billows acrid smoke as I stagger along the blasted street, cradling Selene’s broken body in my arms.

“No, how did this happen?” I cry to the smoke-drenched heavens.

“You know how it happened.”

I snap my gaze around to the sound of the voice. Hans Klaus stands there, staring at me with a mix of pity and contempt.

“You let yourself care about her. That put a target on her back. You should have known the universe has been waiting to punish you, Dane. But first, you had to have something to lose…”

“No,” I sputter. “No, this isn’t real. I have to wake up. Please, let me wake up.”

“You can’t wake up from reality, boy,” Klaus says. “And the reality is, you’ll never be able to keep anyone safe. You couldn’t keep those women and children safe from me, and you won’t be able to keep Selene safe from the Moreno family. Face it, Dane. You’re not up to snuff. One of therealagents at Platinum Security would be a better choice.”

I hang my head. Maybe he’s right. I fucked up with Klaus, andnow, apparently, I’ve gotten Selene killed. I never should have let myself care about her.

“You killed me, Dane.”

My jaw falls open as I stare at the corpse in my arms. Her head turns to face me, eyes full of accusation.

“You were supposed to keep me safe. Why didn’t you protect me?”

I sit bolt upright in bed, chest heaving with heavy pants. I blink away the stinging sweat from my eyes and peel the sheets off me, all the while trying to be careful not to wake Selene.

Stumbling into the bathroom, I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face. My breathing slows as I focus on my surroundings. The softness of the bathmat under my toes. The sound of the wind in the trees outside. The minty smell of toothpaste. All of these things are real.

Selene’s not dead. A giddy laugh struggles to escape my mouth. She’s not dead. It was a fucking dream. Not real.

I stare at my haggard reflection in the mirror. Selene and I might just have something here. But having something means having something to lose. I really don’t want to lose her.

Even more, I don’t want her death to be my fault.

I return to the bedroom, flicking off the bathroom light. Darkness bathes Selene’s slumbering form. The curves of her body show through the thin sheet covering her. For a moment, I consider waking her.

That’s the healthy thing to do, isn’t it? Wake her up, tell her about my dream and how it made me feel. I know this, logically. I’m willing to wager that Selene would even be more than willing to lend a sympathetic ear.

But standing there, looking at this amazing woman, I can’t bring myself to do the smart thing. Maybe I don’t want to dredge up those feelings any further, those feelings of failure and regret. Or maybe I’m a coward and just can’t bear to face the truth, either about myself or my feelings for Selene.

In the end, I turn my back on her and drag on jeans and a T-shirt. After stepping into my boots, I stuff a pistol into the waistband of myjeans and step outside. The moon peeks out from behind rumpled, deep purple clouds as they skitter across the night sky. The breeze carries a hint of the sea to my nostrils. Night insects chirp merrily, uncaring about my problems or anyone else’s, for that matter.

It should fill me with a sense of peace. I can’t get the dream out of my head, though. It seemed so damn real. An unfortunate side effect of having fought on the battlefield is knowing exactly what it looks and feels like when someone is shot right in front of you.

I saw too many of my fellow sailors fall lifeless to the ground. It was even worse when they didn’t die right away, and their screams tore into my heart as much as my eardrums. How many times did I watch as someone I knew by name bled out in front of me? Once would be too many.

I’m upset that I don’t know the exact number. Either I’m a callous ass who doesn’t value human life, or there were so many it was impossible to keep accurate track. I don’t much care for either option.

---