The first time—and last—Trace had given into the dangerous urge, he’d been on deployment in Pakistan with his and Jake’s Delta Force unit.
The team had been tasked with locating and bringing in a twisted fuck in charge of a major sex trafficking ring. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the bastard would take his pick from each of the new shipments, and then force the young women and girls to submit to unspeakable acts for his sick pleasure.
But it didn’t stop there.
This particular target was especially twisted. Not only did he thrive on the power he had over the helpless and innocent, but the sick fuck also got himself off by inflicting as much physical pain as he possibly could.
If the women under his control hesitated, he’d beat them. If they tried to fight back, he’d beat them.
If he ejaculated too soon because he couldn’t control his fun-sized dick...he’d beat them.
Then, when he’d had his fill, he’d order that captive to be killed, and a new girl would take her place.
Though more than a decade had passed, Trace could still see the look of surprise on the monster’s face when he’d kicked in the door to the man’s private ‘office’.
In reality, it was a twelve-by-twelve torture room, complete with cuffs and chains attached to the wall to render the women helpless from his vicious attacks.
Trace had been so naïve back then. Certain he could handle what he’d find on the other side of that door.
But there was no amount of training that could’ve prepared him for the scene that had awaited him.
Using chains he’d had installed in the ceiling, their target had stripped the girl nude and hung her by her wrists. He’d then proceeded to beat the hell out of her.
With a paddle. A whip. His fists. Whatever he was in the mood for at the time.
Something happened to Trace that day. Something that hadn’t happened before or since.
He lost control.
Seeing that poor girl like that, all bruised and bloodied and unable to defend herself, broke through his training. His soul.
One minute, Trace was kicking in a door—same as he had on countless ops before that one. And in the next, his teammates were pulling him off the bastard in order to keep him from murdering the sick son of a bitch.
Though his teammates never knew it, it had taken Trace weeks to bury his residual hate and anger toward a man who was still rotting away in a cell with no hopes of ever seeing the light of day again.
Once he learned to bottle that shit up inside, he’d kept it there and never looked back.
Throwing on the same clothes he’d worn after his shower last night, he turned and stared at the bathroom door.
Trace thought about the woman on the other side of it and wondered how he should approach things with her today.
Should they talk about the kiss? And about what he’d said to her after?
Yeah, not sure what the hell you were thinking spouting off that crap about making her dream come true.
If he was being honest with himself, Trace would admit that he’d said those things because in the heat of the moment, he’d meant them.
As he stood here now, hiding behind a fucking bathroom door, part of him hoped they could just pretend as if it never happened.
Good luck with that.
Drawing in a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped into the suite. Expecting her to still be asleep, Trace was surprised to find Emma awake and standing in the room’s kitchenette.
With her hip leaning against the counter and a piece of pizza in one hand, she lifted the slice and smiled. “Breakfast of champions. You want some?”
So, we’re pretending like nothing happened. Works for me.
“I’m good.” He moved further inside the room. “But thanks.”