“We got a problem?” Max asked when he walked up beside him.
“None whatsoever,” Shane answered, trying to hold it together. “The lady was just leaving,” he continued then turned on his heel and headed for his truck as his hands shook and adrenaline pumped through his veins.
***
“That’s the problem, I can’t go home,” I whispered as I watched Shane retreat.
“Why can’t you go home?”
I turned at the question and found a beautiful older woman with long gray hair braided down her back. She was trim, smartly dressed in jeans and a lightweight sweater, and she shrewdly assessed me, looking back and forth between the retreating Sergeant and myself.
“I, ah, sorry, can you excuse me for a moment?” I answered then took off after Shane.
Something wasn’t right with him, and after years of dealing with abused kids and their emotional baggage, I had a bad feeling I knew what.
“Wait!” I called out, but he kept walking at a fast pace. So I kicked up my own and caught up with him.
Grabbing Shane’s arm to halt him, I gasped when he swung around. There was obvious pain written across his face when he turned, but he quickly wiped them clean of emotion and began to glower.
“Oh. My God. You blame yourself for Emma’s death, don’t you?” I spit out quickly.
“Go home,” he ordered again.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Go. HOME,” he roared.
I jerked back, my hands rising out of habit to protect myself when a man raised his voice, but I pulled myself together and straightened my back against his anger. I couldn’t allow this man to blame himself.
“Sergeant, just as words have greater power than any blow a man can throw, this guilt you’re carrying over Emma’s death only has power because you allow it to. You have to know deep down that her death wasn’t your fault.”
“Stop talking,” he forced out between his teeth, his tone almost begging as he held on to what was left of his control.
“But I want to help—”
In a move I’d experienced many times before by my stepfather, Shane crowded into my personal space in an attempt to intimidate me. However, it accomplished the opposite this time and I didn’t cower. I knew what type of man he was from Emma’s letters, so his attempt to scare me off backfired. Instead, his nearness caused my breath to hitch and my knees to grow weak. He was so close and undeniably male, my body tingled with awareness. And the worst part was he caught my reaction. His expression softened minutely when I gasped and he scanned my face as if he was searching for an answer to an unknown question. When I licked my lips, nervous at having him that close, I swear his attention settled on my lips and grew hungry. There was a moment of pause as we stared silently at one another. His size and strikingly handsome face stirred something deep within my bones and the need to comfort him was strong. Without thinking, reacting solely on instinct, I raised my hand to his face and placed it gently on his cheek. His eyes closed at my touch. My own moved to his lips as they tightened in response, and I found myself whispering, “You’re lost, aren’t you?”
He didn’t answer at first. Then he mumbled softly, “Yes.”
“You feel unworthy of happiness.”
“Yes.”
“You blame yourself for Emma’s death,” I concluded and he mouthed, “Yes,” without a sound spilling from his lips.
“Please don’t blame yourself. I don’t.”
His expression changed from bitter sorrow to disbelief in a blink of an eye. Then, without warning, he clipped, “Not another word or so help me God,” on a short growl, crowding me backward as he spoke.
I liked to think I was good at my job because I’d been one of those kids who’d hid beneath the bed when their stepfather had been drinking. I didn’t like the loss of control or the frustration that came along with it. And this man, who had been kind to my sister, who had looked out for her while away from her family, had lost control and was suffering because of her death.
“I’m a counselor, Shane, I know how guilt works. Which means I also know it’s sent you spiraling down a dark hole. You’re off balance, Sergeant. You need something concrete to hold on to, a reason to live, something to steer your focus away from your guilt so you can gain back control. You need to—”
Shane moved suddenly, stopping me mid-sentence. I took a startled step back, flinching, hands raised again out of habit, and bumped into the bed of his truck, which allowed him to pin me against it. He was breathing hard trying to gain control. His attention dropped to my lips again, then moved to my hands pressed to his chest, and he mumbled, “Fuck.” Then, without warning, he bent at the waist and tossed me up and over his shoulder like a child. I was stunned silent, afraid to move. It had been a long time since someone had physically compelled me to do anything against my will.