childhood and the place he’d shared with the other members of Torpedo Ink as well as those who didn’t make it.
The moment he thought of it, the smell was there of blood and death, the moans and cries of the dying. Of the brutalized. Boys and girls. Sometimes they waited in rows of two, lying on the floor curled into bloody balls of what once was human flesh and now was just a mass of blood he was supposed to miraculously cure. It had been cold. So cold, there was no way to warm those bodies, or himself.
He shook his head, his hands curling into two tight fists. He couldn’t go there, not now, not when he had a second chance at life—a real life. It was dangerous to go back, at least for him, to even think of those days when he was too young and had no way to save the dying. He could only whisper to them, tell them not to be afraid, and that someday, he would avenge them. That was all he had to give to those little boys and girls with the open, weeping sores and infections that smelled so bad he knew they were rotting from the inside.
Deliberately, he inhaled, taking Breezy’s scent deep, knowing his woman could drive out every bad thing, every ugly place, the smells that seemed to follow him wherever he went and replace it all with her. It didn’t matter if it was temporary, she gave him what no one and nothing had ever been able to do.
Right now, his entire room smelled fresh and feminine. He leaned one hip against the door, looking at his woman lying in the middle of his bed. She’d always done that—curled up like a little cat right in the center of the bed. She had all that thick tawny hair and it spilled across the pillow, covering most of her face from his sight.
A thin sheet was pulled over her body and she shivered continually. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her arms were held tight into her. He moved closer to her, leaning down to look at her face. She’d been crying, and his heart turned over. Still, there wasn’t a single line there. She looked like an angel with her fair, rose petal skin and the sweep of those thick, tawny lashes. He should have known she was underage when he’d met her. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to know, not with his body’s reaction to her.
He’d never had that—a real reaction—not that he could remember. His training had been brutal, just like the others’. The beatings. The sex. Learning to kill. He hadn’t had it like some of the others. Reaper. Savage. Ice. Storm. Maestro. They’d been nearly wrecked as human beings. He didn’t know how they’d survived—but then he didn’t know how he had. In truth, there were parts of him that hadn’t.
Steele couldn’t help himself, he covered Breezy with the blankets and then stepped back. All the way across the room to the door again. Away from her. Just having her that close was dangerous to both of them. He wanted her with every breath he took—he had from the first time they met. His body reacted the moment he inhaled her scent, fresh from the bath. He tended to get his way in all things—especially with her. Breezy had given him that. She might have continued if he hadn’t sabotaged the relationship.
He recognized what he’d done. He was intelligent. He felt he didn’t deserve her—and he didn’t. He’d sent her away as much for his own punishment as to save her. He was that screwed up. Now she was back, and he had to find a way to keep her. He’d tried living without her, and it hadn’t gone very well. He would be fighting her as well as fighting himself because if he didn’t find a way to keep her, this time there would be no survival for him.
He looked slowly around his room. He was a doctor. A surgeon. He’d had more specialized training than most doctors. Over and over, he’d violated his oath—his need—to heal others. He’d murdered his enemies, keeping his promise to the dead. He’d assassinated for his country. He’d been following orders—but it was still murder. He went after child predators, but he’d made the same mistake he killed others for. He hadn’t known her age, but then he hadn’t bothered to find out. He was guilty