Man of Honor (Battle Scars #3) - Diana Gardin Page 0,79

She’ll be fine.

Those thoughts turn into a chant for me as I grab a duffel bag, and kiss her good-bye.

24

Mea

When I woke up to the morning sun streaming in through the window, my first thought is that Drake is gone.

Hugging his pillow to my chest, I allow myself to become overwhelmed with the rising emotions. Crying, my tears soak Drake’s pillow.

I don’t know if I’m crying because he’s gone, or because the prospect of sleeping without him tonight is unbearable.

Maybe it’s because I never got to tell him that Aunt Tay had heard from…that man. I won’t call him my father. He doesn’t deserve that title. But I know he wants something, and I’m going to have to face it alone now. Not with Drake, my big, strong protector, by my side.

You’re strong, Mea. You’re in control. You always have been. A few months of happiness with Drake didn’t change that.

Maybe it didn’t, but it allowed me to believe I didn’t have to be so strong by myself all the time.

A bright spot lights the darkness of last night’s events. Drake opened up to me about his mother, about his childhood. His past is a subject he’s never previously broached, and I’m proud of him for divulging what he went through. I’m proud that he picked me to share it with. I have a feeling not very many people know the inner workings of Drake Sullivan, much like they don’t know the pulleys and gears that make me tick.

Maybe last night didn’t sever a bond. Maybe it made ours stronger. He’ll come back to me.

Rising from the bed, reluctant to leave my moment with Drake’s ghost behind, I plod toward the bathroom. I turn on the shower as hot as I can stand it, and then step back to study myself in the mirror as it heats. Stripped down, my body looks properly ravaged from my time in the kitchen with Drake last night. Just thinking about it brings a rosy glow to my cheeks and a pulsing ache between my legs.

Last night he was needy, and he was rough. But he was mine, and I wouldn’t have him any other way.

Mine. I smile in spite of the despair lurking just beneath the surface. I pull the pins out of my disheveled hair, knowing that as soon as it gets wet my wild and crazy curls will be back. Maybe I’ll text Drake a picture of the curls he loves so much.

The mirror begins to fog, and I step into the shower. Taking my time, I wash Drake’s scent from my body, hoping it won’t be long before he’s all over me once again. The steam rejuvenates me, makes me feel powerful and in control once more.

I’m going to need that power and control during my coffee date with Aunt Tay this morning.

Once toweled off, I dress quickly in yoga pants and a soft cotton tee before leaving Drake’s room and padding down the hallway. As soon as I enter the kitchen I’m bitch-slapped by the powerful scent of bacon. Greta stands over the stove, frying up breakfast.

“Greta?” I clutch my stomach, and as she turns around, her sculpted eyebrows knit with concern. Covering my mouth, I rush back through the bedroom and into the bathroom. I only just make it kneeling in front of the toilet before I’m throwing up.

Retching and heaving into the toilet when you haven’t yet eaten for the day is a miserable experience. The heaves just keep coming, keeping me coughing and doubled over. My throat burns and my eyes sting. Greta is behind me, pulling back my still-wet curls and speaking to me in a soothing voice.

“It’s okay, Mea. I’ve got you.”

When my body finally finished the wracking, wretched upchucking, I stand on wobbly legs and lean over the sink. Taking a few deep breaths, I fill the cup beside the sink with water and rinse my mouth out. Greta’s eyes follow me in the mirror as I load toothpaste onto my toothbrush and stick it in my mouth.

But at the first taste of my toothpaste, my face drains of color and my stomach roils again. Quickly pulling the toothbrush from my mouth I rinse it and slam it back into the holder beside the sink.

What the fuck is going on?

Weakly, I turn to face Greta, leaning against the sink for support. “Um, hey?” I wave a halfhearted hand. “Thanks for holding my hair.”

Her eyes hold massive amounts of concern, wide and knowing. But