A Broken Christmas (13 page)

He hiked himself up another step and disaster struck. White-hot fire arced up his spine, and his leg gave out. Kyle dropped to his good knee, slid off the step. Only his tight grip on the railing prevented a full-out backwards fall. Grabbing at the banister to adjust his hold, his fingers slipped. Before he could regain any modicum of balance, he laid face-first on the stairs, eating carpet fibers.

Defeated, he remained motionless. Shame and humiliation stole in to make his eyes burn with tears he had buried when he pulled the trigger and sent Denton into the arms of angels. Desperate to stop the flood he knew he couldn’t control if it broke free, he bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the coppery tang of blood. He would not cry. Not now, not ever. This was his rightful punishment for surviving.

And he’d be damned if he called out for Aimee’s help.

Pushing to his elbows, he shifted his weight until he had centered himself on the stairs. Then, hand-over-hand, he crawled. Up one step, then the next, and the next, until the landing stretched before him, and he sprawled onto the floor panting.

Kyle rolled onto his back, his towel somewhere on the steps below, and stared at the ceiling. What he would give for one of the heavy-duty painkillers the doctors in Germany had wanted to prescribe. He’d refused, unwilling to open himself to the risk of addiction. At the moment though, obliterating his conscious awareness sounded damn fucking good.

How pathetic. Once he’d been able to crawl miles. Now, he couldn’t manage a few steps. It made no difference whether those mile treks came with the use of two good legs, and now his left strained from compensating for the right. The simple fact remained: he failed.

No way in hell would he make it back down to the couch. Which left him with the floor.

His gaze slanted to the top of his head and rested on the darkened doorway to his bedroom. Or the bed. With Aimee…

Fuck it. If he slept on the floor, tomorrow would bring just as much agony to his leg. He needed to rest it, and even the couch hadn’t allowed the full out stretch his muscles required.

Kyle flopped back onto his belly and sucked in a deep, fortifying breath. Twenty feet, and he could stretch out on the mattress. Forget the humiliation. Escape.

Rising to his knees once more, he threw his weight into his good leg and began the slow trek to his bed. Months of limited workouts and even longer months spent cooped up in a bed took a toll on his strength. An aching tang spread through his shoulders, down his arms. Nothing like the agonizing throbbing in his right leg, but enough to add to his disgust. They’d warned him to take it slow, even suggested he consider a chair, and he, determined to prove he could stand on his own, had ignored the advice. If he was lucky, that fall hadn’t destroyed the last surgery.

At the edge of the bed, unfathomable relief swamped over him. He summoned the last of his strength, grabbed the mattress with both hands, and through sheer force of will, dragged himself on top of the down comforter. Using his good hand, he pulled the bedding from beneath his battered body and slid under the sheet. The soft pillow beneath his head called out for him to close his eyes. Wanting nothing more than to flee the humiliation, Kyle surrendered.

A movement to his left, however, had his eyes opening again, and his head turning to gaze at Aimee. In sleep, her features softened like an angel’s, but the moonlight shone across her face, accenting faint mascara stains that marred her pretty cheeks. His gut twisted at the evidence of her own hurt. He had put those tear streaks there, he and his determination to protect her from the truth of what he had become.

Once again, as he sought to protect her, he brought her pain.

Compelled by a force he could not name, Kyle twisted awkwardly onto his side and captured her hand in his. She wriggled deeper into the pillows, but to his immense relief she didn’t wake. Contented by the innocent contact, he shut his eyes once more.

Chapter Eleven

Aimee woke to a sharp sting across the bridge of her nose. She bolted upright, eyes wide open, and warm sticky wetness seeping from her nostrils. A drop of crimson landed in her lap. Frantic she pinched her nose between thumb and forefinger. What the hell?

Thrashing beside her cleared the cobwebs from her disoriented mind. As the mattress bounced, her surprised gaze fell on Kyle. He tossed his head side to side, kicked with his legs, and one arm flailed sideways, nailing her pillow exactly where her head had been.

“Kyle. Wake up.”

He murmured something unintelligible, but the nightmare refused to let go. He twisted sideways, tangling the sheet around his legs.

A burning sensation spread across her cheekbones, and her head pounded in time with the startled hammer of her heart. Damn it. Aimee gingerly pressed her fingers around the cartilage in her nose, testing it for breaks. When it failed to move, she hesitantly let go. Blood poured forth, spurring her into a groan.

“Kyle, you’re dreaming!” she called more loudly.

Her nasally voice only seemed to provoke him further. Another sideways thrust of his leg nearly knocked her out of the bed. She scooted off the mattress, plucked a Kleenex from the nightstand, held it to her nose, and went around the footboard to Kyle’s side. How in the world had he slipped in beside her without her knowing? And what in the world was he dreaming about?

“Denton,” he mumbled. “Can’t do it. Can’t.”

Oh
.

Aimee’s heart twisted at the sight of Kyle’s suffering. He didn’t deserve this. He had served his country bravely, never once shying from the often-horrific duties his team carried out. In exchange, he not only lost his mobility, but whatever caused those physical injuries tormented his soul.

Reaching out, she gripped his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. “Kyle, wake up, you’re dreaming.”

When he didn’t open his eyes, she shook him more firmly.

With lion-quick reflexes, Kyle shot forward, and his hand clamped around her neck. Malice glinted in his eyes, the stone cold stare of a man bent on killing. True fear skittered down Aimee’s spine. She pried at his cruel fingers as her throat closed and cut off her air. “Kyle,” she croaked.

Recognition registered in his gaze. He jerked his hand away, his expression horrified. “Christ! I thought you were…” A hiss tumbled off his lips.

“Was who?”

He shook his head. Struggling upright, he shoveled his fingers through his short hair. The effort it took to gather his senses and place his surroundings showed in the tight frown that settled into his brow. He glanced at his hand, clenched and unclenched his fingers, then looked to her. “Get away from me, Aimee. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Aimee settled onto the edge of the bed and rested her hand on his muscular thigh. “It’s just a dream, sweetheart.”

He let out a derisive snort. “I almost killed you.”

“No.” She gave his thigh a reassuring squeeze and summoned a teasing grin. “You almost broke my nose.” Removing the Kleenex, she waited for her nose to drip. Tingling pricked her face, but blood failed to dot the tissue. Convinced the bleed was over, she crumpled the Kleenex and pitched it at the trashcan between his nightstand and the bed.

“You need to go,” he murmured. “Away from me. I’m a monster.”

The ache behind her ribs intensified, and Aimee leaned in close to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “No. I’m staying right here. Go back to sleep, it’s not yet five.”

As his gaze locked with hers, she read the anguish behind his eyes. His whisper sent chills rolling down her spine. “I don’t want to hurt you. I shouldn’t even be here, but I needed clothes, then I fell on the stairs. I couldn’t make it back to the couch. Thought I’d sleep a little here…” He trailed off with another disbelieving shake of his head.

The man sitting before Aimee resembled nothing of the man she had married or the soldier she sent off to war. This one was on the verge of total meltdown, and the fact it was Kyle broke her heart. She slipped her hand into his, entwined their fingers. “Tell me about the dream?”

He lifted his gaze, his eyes pleading with her to understand. “I can’t.”

For the first time since she’d been issued the standard party line, she heard the truth. Not can’t.
Wouldn’t
. Kyle’s silence didn’t come from covert orders. The broken quality of his voice told her he didn’t
want
her to know.

Tonight wasn’t the time to push the issue of what happened in Afghanistan. Lifting his hand, she brought his knuckles to her lips then tucked their joined palms into her lap. “Is this why you said you don’t sleep so well anymore?”

Kyle looked to the window and answered with a short nod.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since…”

“Since Denton died?”

Again, the short, deliberate nod that pinched her lungs together and curdled her stomach. She ran her free hand up his strong forearm then smoothed the fine dark hairs she had lifted. “When was the last time you got real sleep?”

His jaw worked as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. In the bright moonlight, shadows deepened across his face. Her fingers itched to smooth away those lines of anguish, but she resisted, sensing the gesture would only force him into retreat.

“Tell me what to do, Kyle,” she whispered.

“Just go.”

“That’s not an option.”

Releasing his hand, she rose to her feet and crossed to the master bathroom. There, she rummaged through the cabinet until she found the small box of sleeping pills her therapist had prescribed. Kyle wouldn’t like it, but the nurse inside her refused to accept any other alternative. His body couldn’t heal, let alone his mind, if he didn’t get some honest rest.

She palmed a pill then filled the toothbrush glass with water. As she turned, she noticed the cracked-open partition door that divided shower and bath from the toilet and sink, and pulled it shut. Returning to the bedroom, she caught him attempting to stand. Aimee quickly moved in front of him and pushed on his shoulder to prevent him from leaving the bed. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m not letting you trip down the stairs and break your neck.” She opened her closed fingers, revealing the solitary capsule. “Take this. Dr. Moriarti prescribed it for me last spring.”

Kyle warily eyed the pill.

“I know you don’t want to be dependent—on friends, on me, on pills. But you can’t heal if you can’t sleep.” She eased back onto the bed beside him. “I’ll be right here, Kyle. I’ll pitch the whole bottle tomorrow if it makes you feel better. But tonight…” She sighed. “Get some sleep. You need it.”

Prepared for battle, Aimee experienced a moment of brief surprise when Kyle snatched the cup, and the pill, and gulped it down. He set the plastic glass on the nightstand with a disgusted mutter then reclined against the pillows.

Aimee ran her hand down the length of his shin before she stood once more. With the way her own head was pounding and the lingering throb in the bridge of her nose, she wouldn’t easily return to sleep herself. Though it was early, Kyle would be out for a few hours, and she could fix him a breakfast he could eat on waking, while she finished her last minute shopping. She had gifts for everyone but him, and Christmas would come bright and early tomorrow.

Besides, if he felt better this evening, there was still their ritual Christmas Eve one-gift exchange. She intended to honor the tradition, if for no other reason than to try and generate a little Christmas cheer. And the gift she planned this year, he couldn’t unwrap.

The bedding rustled as she eased to her feet. “I’m going to get something to eat. I’ll check in on you in a little bit.”