CALLEN (Second Chance Novels Book 3) (25 page)

"Tell me," I ask softly.

"Everything is dead," he says in a hollow voice after four aching heartbeats. "Bennett, Spades, Riggs, brotherhood…
Evvie
. It's all gone."

A single tear drips from my eye to see him empty and hear him grieve so deeply. None of his words surprise me but one: brotherhood. I expected him to describe
himself
as dead.

"I'm sorry," I whisper genuinely.
 

"She's gone," he says through a tight, empty voice. His remaining focus on her squeezes every muscle in my body painfully. Still, a piece of my heart celebrates his closure, and my soul grieves for his loss.
 

Callen finally accepts the tragedy of all of this, no mission to distract him. In seeing his unfiltered self, a single truth enlightens me. He may have killed, manipulated, intimidated, and lied to accomplish his goal, but somehow he remains a good man. His acute pain proves his humanity.
 

I never would have expected myself to think like this. I suppose I'm compartmentalizing his darker side, at least while I hold him here with love and comfort.
 

I already have seen his light and darkness battle painfully in his mind. I know both sides and I believe I can handle him. I know I can love him. I hope to God I remember I can't change him.

I allow more minutes of processing for both of us before I speak gently to him again. "Why did you say brotherhood?"

He shakes his head slowly in his inability to express the concept. Finally, after excruciating silence, his voice comes to me almost flatly.

"What was left of our unit is destroyed. Riggs took off, and I'm sure I'll never see him again. Mason nearly broke, and my role will no longer be brother. He'll need me as a father again. I saw the lost child in him as soon as it was done. And me…" he trails off.

I force myself not to sigh. He has no idea about himself, which means he can't conceive of a future with me. He's here, but he's empty of everything, including our lost connection. I hope he can find his way back to me in more than physical form.

 
I continue to stroke his stubbly hair gently while I also consider his grace, strength, and growth. I believe he's grown more in the past year than he has his entire life. He owns his actions and dictates his own path. The same path that lead him to revenge is the same path that lead him to me. Once his grief eases, he may finally recognize his need to stand as his own man.
 

"Callen," I murmur, gently breaking another long silence. "Come up here. Please."

He finds enough resolve to lift his tired frame from the floor and settles against my breasts as I lay us down together. I continue to stroke his hair as he slowly grips the fabric of my shirt in a crumpled need to bring himself closer, then begins to sob. The depth of his angst and years worth of walls crash in his mind. Reality as he knew it no longer exists. He wraps his arms around me and holds onto me desperately. I keep his body tight against me with all my strength. A part of him is dying, and I'm keeping the rest of him safe while he lets his final demons leave him.

What keeps me from breaking along with him is the knowledge he'll be reborn stronger and with a better sense of his place in this world. The umbilical cord of his past will be severed completely. Forward motion will be natural, and his strength will return. In seeing him cry almost violently, I have no doubt he'll move on. I long to see his confidence again, and I expect I'll see his shoulders held broad and strong very soon. If I'm right in my assessment of him, his need to manipulate his way through life will be gone along with the rest.
 

I don't know how much time passes before his sobs ease into quiet tears, but I hold him tightly the entire time. My muscles ache with the strain, but I barely notice. When his total exhaustion drops him into an emotional coma, I allow him to sleep on my breast. I consider every complex angle of him, and every facet of my love for him. My heart swells knowing I can be his foundation.
 

His bond of brotherhood may be broken, but I see now his connection to me isn't. If anything, I stand as his forward motion, and I will have more of him than ever.
 

I ease my body from under his, and he doesn't stir at all. With love, I cover him with a blanket and pour myself a much-needed glass of wine. I don't know how long he'll sleep, but I'll stay near him until he wakes. I won't add to his heartache by allowing him to wake up alone.
 

For at least an hour, I sit in my favorite reading chair and watch Callen sleep. His entire body seems made of lead; his entire expression is one of pain. His body may rest, but his mind will not. My worry for him returns.

I return to uncertainty, unsure if he'll
fully
recover from yesterday's events…no, from yesterday's
murder
. I should admit to myself the reality without glossing over the details. I suppose I remain unsure about my own ability to recover.
 

I sip my wine as delicately as I'm able, but
gulping
may be a more accurate description of my
sipping
. Only minutes pass before I pour myself a third glass.
 

By the time I'm on my chair again, I'm ready to think. One more gulp motivates my brain to begin processing my role in this bizarre turn in my life. I willingly walked through this door.
 

Looking down at my hands, I realize I'm playing with my thumb-ring again. My father's wedding band seems my go-to nervous habit. Today, that object of occasional comfort hits me with a new slew of complicated emotions, especially now that murder returns to my life.

My father, murderer. My love, murderer. Freud would pop popcorn to watch this one. I wonder if finding Callen is some twisted cosmic joke, or if I somehow drew myself to him knowing the truth in my gut. Am I simply fated to live in a world of damaged men, or are they brought to me for my ability to understand and love?
 

My head spins in the endless analyses of myself, and also in memories of my father. I loved him and had no concept of what he was capable of until the FBI was at my door. To me, the man was hard-working and devoted. His importance in his job took him across the country to oversee operations in satellite facilities. To us, even his employer celebrated his character.
 

As I told Callen, I remind myself his travels were nothing of the sort. He took himself across the country to find new victims. I shake my head at the surreal cloud over my childhood.
 

More surreal to me are the many visits to my father in prison. My aunt, his sister, took me there without my mom knowing. I watched him devolve from the clean-shaven father-figure to a tatted-up, twisted killer. Jail allowed him to shed his perfectionist skin and dive fully into his darkness. The man I loved more than any slowly died as the demon inside took over.

What kind of system allows such a thing to happen? No one helped him. I understand the idealistic, naïve thinking my teenage-self employed, but those thoughts shaped my adulthood nonetheless.
 

Clinical and Behavioral Psychology forged my path to attempt an understanding of him; my job at the prison paved my way to redeem they system's failing my father. My
dad
, as I once knew him.

Working at the prison has taught me countless lessons on humanity and the rose-colored glasses I keep solidly over my eyes. I refuse to be pulled down by the evil. I stand at the ready for any prisoner to show signs of remorse. I push the system toward rehabilitation as much as I can. What few differences I make keep me steady on my path. I am a nightingale.
Callen's nightingale.

And as I sit and twist the ring on my thumb, I look at Callen again. I see a good man with a damaged past trying his damnedest to lead a life of service and justice. I also see the cold, vengeful murderer he has become, and how that reality has drained him.

I have no idea how his future will play out, nor my role in it. I finally believe,
after
experiencing his tears, that my path is clear. I am destined to be with this man in some capacity. Loving him may be my own undoing, or may redeem the impossibility of helping my father. As for Callen, whether having me as lover or counsellor, he will belong to me, and I to him.
 

Dysfunction may abound, but what better complement could the two of us be? In a deliberate step forward, I remove the ring from my thumb.

I gulp the rest of my wine and walk to the couch. He needs me close, and I hope his subconscious recognizes my presence. With little other way to rest with him, I settle a pillow on the floor, and arrange myself leaning against the couch so I can rest my head on his strong leg. Carefully my fingers lace through his, and I relax.
 

Sleep finds me fairly quickly. Between the exhaustion of my day, the alcohol, and the time I took to think, my brain slips into oblivion while my body is warmed from every point of contact with Callen's.

CALLEN

When consciousness threatens me, I fight waking up. The harder I fight, the more resolved my eyes become to open.

My lids seem cemented shut from tear-induced swelling and utter exhaustion. When I'm finally forced to reality, I check the clock: eighteen hours of catatonic avoidance. I've allowed myself to slip in and out of consciousness entirely too long.
 

I blink my eyes groggily and move to rub my face in an attempt to wake completely, but my hand is stopped by Quinn's. I look down to see her sitting awkwardly on a pillow beside the couch, sleeping with her head against my thigh and holding my hand.
 

I'm tempted to slip back into delirium. The overwhelming emotion triggered by her love and concern threatens to drag me under. I only remain awake as a way to honor her.
 

Her goal is to love me without judgement or condition. She does this naturally and with undeniable warmth. Quinn Porter is my salvation. I allow myself to grieve Evvie for one final moment, silently thanking her for waking me up to a world beyond that of a soldier. I thank Quinn quietly for having the strength to keep me here.

She doesn't stir at my whisper, and I use her continued sleep to recognize a fact which eluded me yesterday. Revenge darkened a part of me, but letting Evvie go illuminated so much more. I have no need to compartmentalize the evil in my life, because I've allowed that poison to drain from my mind. Quinn's the second chance I never thought I'd have. Hell, I never thought I'd have a first.

Another half hour passes before Quinn sits up stiffly, and with her free hand rubs her eyes before lifting them to check on me.
 

"Good morning," I murmur cautiously. "Or afternoon, as the case may be."

"Hi," she whispers back without a smile, her expression both strained and concerned. I can only assume love fuels those emotions, but her eyes don't shine like they most often do.
 

With the hand holding hers, I draw her up onto the couch with me. I'm ready to share my epiphany and promise forever as I rest her head on my chest and wrap her in my arms, but Quinn speaks before I can start.
 

"I don't want you to say anything, Callen. Please not yet," she whispers in a raspy, sleep-deprived voice.
 

With painful restraint, I hold my words for her. My body language will speak for me with as much love as possible, I massage away the tension in her neck, and I kiss the top of her head and gently caress whatever parts of her back and arm I can reach.
 

Another forty-five minutes pass before she speaks. "What you did sickens me, but I understand your mindset and intentions. Knowing you remain a good man keeps me loving you."

"Quinn—"

"Please not yet."

I can only continue to allow my body to speak. Carefully I use my knuckle to guide her chin up. When her gray-blue eyes meet mine, I hope they convey the message as well.
 

She allows me to place a gentle kiss on her lips as I cup her cheek and rub my thumb softly along her flawless features. Her expression remains one of caution, but now with a touch warmth I'm accustomed to from this phenomenal woman.

"Yes, yet," I say gently but with conviction. "Yesterday was the hardest day of my life. Harder than two days of physical torture at the hands of an enemy."