Page 1 of No Turning Back
Prologue
Quinn
“If you walk out that door, I won’t be here when you get back,” I say to Markus’s back.
He pauses, one foot already outside. Then, slowly, he steps back in, shuts the door, and leans his forehead against it. His shoulders rise and fall once.
“Please don’t do this, Quinn,” he says quietly, not turning around. The muscles in his back flex under his shirt.
“You promised me,” I say, voice steady. I don’t have any tears left. I used them all a long time ago.
He turns, eyes dark and tired. “I have to do this.”
“No, you don’t.” I shake my head. “Youwantto. You think going back will make it hurt less, that you won’t feel guilty because you’re willing to die too.”
His jaw tightens. “Please, no therapy speak.”
“You won’t go to actual therapy,” I shoot back.
He drags a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “I was cleared by the Army doc.”
“And I’m questioning his motives.”
“He’s like sixty,” Markus mutters, like that somehow proves the doc's credibility.
“Why don’t you get that Ineedto do this?” he says, voice tight.
“Why do youneedto do this? Once you sign those papers, the army owns you.” I ask, quieter now. Because if he says he needs to die to make peace, I don’t know if I can stay.
I’m well aware of the absurdity of deciding the future of our marriage in a narrow, half-lit hallway, with him ready to bolt and my heart in my throat.
I step back. The couch is just a few feet away, and I sink into it. Arms crossed. Pulse loud in my ears.
When I found out my husband went MIA during active tour, it nearly killed me.
Not metaphorically. Not with a dramatic sigh. Literally.
I've been there. I know what it's like to spend every waking moment wondering if the man you love is dead or worse, wishing he was okay. When they pulled him out, only two people in his unit came back: Markus, and the captain. And apart from a brief, stilted conversation over the phone about a month ago, they haven’t spoken. Not to my knowledge.
That’s when this renewed obsession with going back started. Subtle at first. A lingering stare at his uniform. The way his posture stiffened when the news played clips of a sand-swept convoy.
When he first came back, I tried to get him help, tried to convince him to talk to someone but he said no. Said since I’m “practically a licensed therapist,” he didn’t need any more help.
But then this month, he went behind my back and saw the Army doc. One visit. That’s all it took. One goddamn session and some sixty-year-old with a clipboard cleared my husband to return to the same hell that nearly killed him.
Hell, it nearly killedme, too. And now he wants to go and re-enlist.
Markus drops down beside me, not touching, but close. Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough to remember that love isn’t the issue. We still have that.
It’s everything else.
Markus doesn’t speak right away. Just breathes, slow and tense.
“I didn’t come back, Quinn.” His voice is low, bitter. “I got rescued. That wasn’t my choice.”
“You think mine was?” I snap, turning toward him. “You think my last tour was some graceful goodbye? I woke up in a hospital with my skull stapled shut and a discharge order in my file.”
He flinches, barely. But he doesn’t look away.
