Page 70 of Once a Killer

As if he’d read her mind, he said, “Bree.” His voice was low and throaty in the quiet of the room. “You were doing your job. Don’t think about the lives you ended. Think about the lives you saved. Those young men and women who served alongside you. How many of them would be dead today if you hadn’t been watching out for them? Protecting them? Eliminating the people who wanted to kill them?”

He rubbed his hands over her back. Her shoulders. Long, soothing strokes, meant to settle her. Calm her.

Staring at her hands, which had slid down to his chest, she whispered, “I don’t know. But, yeah, I definitely saved some of them. So did the other snipers.”

“Can you think in terms of lives you’ve saved, rather than lives you took?” He stared into her eyes, as if willing her to see it from his point of view.

“Even if I could, I still have blood on my hands.” She swallowed.

“The people who set those IED’s in the road have blood on their hands, too. So do the ones who walk into crowds, wearing explosive vests.” His voice was hard. “You probably saved a lot more lives than you took.”

“Maybe, but I can count the lives I took. The ones I saved are theoretical.”

His arms closed around her and he tugged her chest against his. Her breasts flattened against the hard planes of his upper body. Her face fitted perfectly into the curve of his neck, where she inhaled his scent. Let it flow through her, settling her. He stroked her back, over and over. Soothing her. Comforting her. Finally, after a long moment, she allowed herself to relax against him.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Bree,” he said, his hands lighting little fires down her back. Stirring her. Exciting her. But oddly, also comforting her. “You shouldn’t carry a weight of guilt about your job. I know you well enough to understand you’ll never be proud of what you did in the Marines, but you should be able to accept it. Be okay with it. War is always ugly, and some parts are uglier than others. Your job was to save your fellow soldiers, and that’s what you did.”

“I still see their faces in my dreams,” she whispered. “The dead men and boys. They point their fingers at me. Blame me.”

His hands tightened on her sides, his fingers pressing into her ribs. Then the pressure eased, and he began stroking her again. “Have you ever talked to a therapist about what happened in Afghanistan?”

“No. I haven’t.”

“The VA hospital could connect you with one who’d be experienced in your issues. Think about it. It might help.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

He stroked her back, his hands gentle. Soothing. Bree was suddenly exhausted. She’d carried the burden of her guilt for a long time, and it had gotten very heavy. But sharing it with Jameson had somehow lightened the load.

“Thank you for listening. For not judging,” she whispered.

“Nothing to judge you for,” he murmured. “And I’ll listen to anything you want to tell me. Anytime.”

Her eyes were heavy, and weariness swept through her. “You’re a perfect pillow, Jameson,” she said drowsily as she burrowed into his embrace. “Perfect for me, anyway.”

“No one else I want sleeping on me,” he said, his hands stroking her back rhythmically.

“No one else I want to sleep on,” she mumbled.

“Good to know, Bree.” His lips brushed her head, and she turned, needing those lips on her mouth. But he continued stroking, and her eyes grew heavy. Just as she was falling asleep, she pressed a kiss to the soft skin of his neck and drew his scent deep into her lungs.

* * *

When Bree’s eyes fluttered open, pinks and oranges painted the sky through the open curtains. Early, then. Dawn. She frowned. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept through the night without waking up. Her dreams usually dragged her awake at least once during the night, leaving her sweating and shaking in the darkness.

Not tonight, though.

She rolled over and bumped into a warm, hard body. Froze. Turned to look and saw Jameson sleeping beside her. His eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell slowly. Steadily.

How had she ended up in Jameson’s bed?

Her hand burrowed beneath the sheet and duvet and landed on her shirt. Went lower and found the pajama pants. The same ones she’d put on last night?

The last thing she remembered was curling into Jameson’s chest, her face tucked into his neck. He must have carried her into bed, then climbed in beside her.

She eased back to study him and found him lying on his side, facing her. One arm was draped over her, his fingers curled into her waist. His other hand was tucked beneath his head.

She edged closer, until her chest was against his and his spicy, outdoorsy scent washed over her. Then she moved even closer, until her legs were tangled with his. She could stay here for a while, enjoying being so close to Jameson. He was sound asleep. He’d never know she’d moved closer, cuddling against him instead of sliding out of the bed.

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