Page 44
“Everybody died except me.”
Silence crashes down between us.
Outside, a mix of snow and rain pounds against the cabin roof while the fire crackles softly nearby, but inside the kitchen everything suddenly feels painfully still.
“You were injured,” I say quietly.
“Shrapnel.” He flexes one scarred hand absently. “Leg got torn up pretty good too.”
That explains the limp.
The scars.
The constant tension in his body like he’s waiting for disaster before anyone else notices it coming.
“I spent three months in a military hospital learning how to walk right again.” His mouth twists slightly. “After rehab they made me a recruiter because apparently traumatized twenty-two-year-olds make great motivational speakers.”
Despite myself, I huff out a soft laugh.
Rhett’s gaze flicks toward me.
“There she is.”
“What?”
“That sound.”
“What sound?”
“You laughing.”
Heat creeps up my neck instantly.
“I wasn’t laughing at your trauma.”
“I know.”
The way he says it makes my pulse stumble.
Careful.
Too careful.
“How long were you a recruiter?” I ask, trying to regain control of this conversation.
“Eight years.”
“And then?”
“I got tired.”
The simplicity of that answer somehow feels bigger than anything else he’s said tonight.
“Tired of what?”
“People telling me institutions protect you.” His voice hardens slightly. “They don’t. People do.”
The words land directly in my chest.
