9
Connor dried off from his shower and stepped into a clean pair of boxer briefs. He’d just pulled them over his ass when he heard a strangled cry in Shanti’s room.
He grabbed his Glock, opened her door, and stepped inside, his weapon ready.
The room was dark—no movement, no sign of intruders—but he could hear Shanti weeping.
Her voice broke the silence. “Connor?”
She sounded afraid.
“Are you okay?”
She switched on her bedside lamp, looking defenseless and terrified, her hair in tangles, tears on her cheeks, her words coming in sobs. “There were soldiers… Noor was there… My grandfather…”
Her vulnerability and fear tugged at Connor, put a knot in his chest. He forgot that he was in his underwear and walked over to sit beside her, setting his firearm on her nightstand.
He’d already held her once today, so taking her into his arms again was easy. “Come here. It was just a dream.”
She clung to him, her breasts pressing against his ribs, her head resting against his shoulder, her hair spilling like silk over his skin. “I was in one of the camps. Noor was trapped in a burning hut. I tried to reach her, but then I saw heads rolling on the ground. One rolled so I could see its face. It was my grandfather.”
Connor knew what it was like to have nightmares like that. “Someone once told me that dreams are the mind’s way of taking out the garbage. You saw some really awful shit today.”
“I don’t know how he did it.”
Connor wasn’t keeping up. “How who did what?”
“How can the soldier who filmed all of thishorrorkiss his wife and hold his daughter after what he’s done? How can he rape and kill women and children one day and then go home to his wife and child the next?”
Her words struck that sore spot inside Connor, guilt sliding through him. “I guess he compartmentalizes it somehow.”
That’s what Connor tried to do.
It was an accident. It wasn’t deliberate.
She drew away, looked up at him. “Last night, you said something about all the things you’ve seen and done. Do you have nightmares?”
“Yeah—sometimes.” He wiped the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs, his gaze drawn to her lips. It would be so easy to lean down and taste them.
Not the right time and place for that, buddy.
Tower and Corbray would have his balls for breakfast if Connor touched her.
“Elizabeth told me about your Hot Wheels and how you wanted to give one to that little boy who died today. I’m so sorry he was killed. You’d made a connection with him. It was still incredibly sweet of you to try.”
Connor brushed off her praise. He wasn’t a hero. He’d likely been as motivated by guilt as anything else—as if giving one child a toy could make up for taking another child’s life. “We aren’t going back to the camps, so it doesn’t matter.”
You’re pathetic.
“Maybe we can ship them to Pauline.” That was Shanti—never giving up.
“Maybe.”
Then Shanti grew quiet, her expression troubled. “How do you do it? How do you face down gunfire and make yourself fight, knowing you might die?”
“You have to make your peace with death. Then fear disappears.”
“I can’t imagine that.”