"Because I trust you."
He exhaled with more calm. "There. That's not so hard, is it?"
She took a long moment to respond-if that was how one could label her wordless turn from Reb, followed by a determined stomp down the path through the tall grass, toward the lake. But in every stiff step she took, Rhett could interpret the words she'd left unspoken, the message hurled behind on the air like holy water tainted with a curse.
Not so hard?
That was probably one of the most hellish things she'd ever done in her life.
* * *
The silence also brought the waiting.
Because of course, as long as the subject of hell had come up, the Rhett Lange version deserved a visit, too.
Hours' worth of it.
The recruiters never talked about this part of the job, even in Spec Ops training. Tumbling from a plane at twelve hundred feet? No problem. Navigating from a swamp without electronics or a compass? Piece of cake. Hand-to-hand combat with everything from an armed hostile to a rabid gorilla? Fuck, yes. But keeping oneself from tearing off their own skin while waiting for night to fall? Not a single manual on that. Not a word of advice to fight the insanity that crawled up a guy's bloodstream-or the memories that taunted his mind when there was nothing to fill it but time, stretched into torture.
At least that was how it had seemed … to his ten year-old mind. Eight hours of a trans-Atlantic flight, even filled with the coolest books, movies, and video games, were still eight hours to ask the questions he didn't dare voice aloud-for fear of the answers he'd get in return.
Why'd they even have me, if they can't live on the same continent?
Why do I have to be the ping pong across the ocean every month?
Why don't I belong with either of them?
And the worst ones of them all …
Was I the one who caused this in the first place?
What did I do wrong, to make them give up on each other?
He'd called them The Ghosts: the demands that refused to go away, even when shoving them to the darkest places in his soul. But as the years went by, he was tired of letting the demons have that power. He fought them, chasing them to the reaches of his conscious. But it wasn't far enough-so he turned the whole world into his ghosts. He'd lashed out at everyone, indiscriminate in his choice of enemy.
Three years, twenty suspensions, and six expulsions later, Mother and Father had him transported to the Heritage Military Academy in upstate New York.
It was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
For the first time in his life, his anger received structure, his violence was transformed to effectiveness, and his loneliness was filled with seventy-five brothers, all as fucked-up as him.
And the ghosts?
Banished.
Washed away by the irreverent humor and easy Creole drawl of the force of nature they'd assigned as his roommate. Rebel Masterston Stafford was like nobody he'd ever met-or likely ever would. Their connection proved that opposites really could magnetize and repel at once.
A truth that'd held all the way to this day.
To this minute.
Though soaked with sweat from a run around the ranch's grounds, his blood still simmered, too hot for the hours left of this goddamn waiting game-still at the temperature it had boiled to when discerning Rebel's skank move from this morning. But what the hell then? Go high and mighty and ask him what the fuck he was thinking, taking advantage of two solitary hours with Brynna?
Right. And brand himself a hypocrite in the doing.
Same opportunity? Same circumstances? You would've made the exact same move, asshole.
And God, could he imagine that opportunity. Those circumstances. The sky cruising by outside the window. Sam conveniently "occupied" in the cockpit. The engines vibrating through the seats. Brynna looking up with those wide chocolate eyes, breasts peeking from beneath that rough work shirt. Reb staring back, eyes glittering with black-violet dominance …
Shit.
Shit.
"Hey."
Wasn't that convenient. As if manifested by the force of Rhett's thoughts, Reb strolled into the kitchen, bare to the waist. He was sweating to the point of sheen, simply missing a ship deck and some Hessians to transform into one of the sea scoundrels from whom he was descended. Damn it, even the laces on his black sweats weren't tied.
Motherfucker.
"Where the hell have you been?" It was practically condemnation and Rhett didn't care. Might as well get the agony of this over with. Reb enjoyed providing details of his conquests between the sheets, and Rhett doubted this would be any different. He pushed both hands against the counter, bracing himself for the guy's play-by-play of what had happened with Brynn, heartened by the knowledge that in a few minutes, the ordeal would be done.
Yeah. That was for the best. Get it handled and put away by the time Reb left for Austin tonight.
"I hit the gym." Rebel grunted, wicked the sweat from his neck with a towel from a nearby drawer then filled a glass from the water purifier. "Did you see the setup Dax has in there?"
"No."
"You need to. Dude's got the American Ninja Warrior trials going on in there. Truth. He's got a spider wall and a parkour run."
"Oh."
"You get in a run?"
"Yeah."
He peeled off his own shirt, able to dip his head into it, hiding the new color on his face. Christ. Was this for real? Was he stammering and blushing in shame, all because of where he'd assumed-with justification-where the dipshit had just been?
Or perhaps was headed now.
Of course. That had to be it. Made more sense, considering Reb's nature. To him, free afternoons weren't trips to hell, but fields of opportunity. He'd have gone for a workout first, capped perfectly by a romp with Brynn. She was probably naked and ready for him right now …
"So where's Brynn?"
Which thoroughly justified blurting that out.
He prepared for Reb's innuendo-spiked reply. Instead, without anything but sincerity, the guy filled in, "Asleep. For a while, I think. Makes sense. She didn't leave Shay and Zoe's place until about four a.m."
"True."
He ducked his face again.
You're such a moron.
A moron with validation. Was he just supposed to ignore Rebel's whoremonkey antics-again?
Reb finished off his water then slammed the glass to the counter with an ear-ringing blow. "Okay." He brought his palm down with just as much force. "Out with it, fuckhead."
Shit. Or … not. If a come-to-Jesus was what Reb wanted, that was what he'd get.
"Out with what?"
"The reason why you've been a spitting churl since Brynn and I got here. What the fuck, Lange?"
A laugh felt agonizingly appropriate. "A … churl?"
"You prefer shit fungus? Douche canoe? Wanker of the day?" Reb tossed the Brit slang at him with chin raised high. "You're still not getting a goddamn trophy for it."
The expression, one of the asshole's favorites to sling in their Heritage days, worked no nostalgic miracles now. Instead, it made Rhett think of how Rebel had treated women since the day they'd met, pouring on the bayou charm to get between their thighs as fast as he could. During their adolescence, it had made Reb a demigod in his eyes. Through boot camp, Special Ops courses, and Live Environment training, it was understandable as a pressure release-but in the last few years, as they'd learned about BDSM together, it wasn't cute anymore. It sure as hell wouldn't keep getting his blind eye. Starting now.
"Fine. Trophy's all yours, Moon. Congratulations." As the words spilled, so did his resolve. What the hell was the good of this? And why was he even doing this, right now? Brynn had already proved she was able to physically handle herself, so why was he in such a fucking twist about protecting her emotionally?
Because it's not her who needs the protecting?
Yeah. It was so time to be done with this bullshit.
"I'm going to take a shower."
"The hell you are." Rebel caught him around the bicep and spun him back. "We're not done."
"That sounds like a personal problem, man."
"You haven't answered me."
Rhett ripped his arm free. "Does it matter if I do?" Dared raising his glare to Rebel's face. The bastard's gritty gaze and tight mouth betrayed what a shitty night's sleep he'd gotten, a pre-mission norm for him. The guy needed to bathe then crash. Badly. "It won't change a thing, Rebel."
Cords of tension twisted down Reb's neck and shoulders. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"That you fucked her."
Well, that was one way of blowing his strategy to hell.
"Fucked who?"
Now that was really funny. "I don't believe this. Who else, dipshit? You going to tell me Brynna was just practicing a new show number, draping herself all over you like that?"