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chickensarentcheap · 3 years ago

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Best Part of Me -Chapter 86

Title: Blame

Warnings: mentions of blood, some profanity

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @innerpaperexpertcloud, @asirensrage, @tragiclyhip, @ocfairygodmother, @kthynes, @secretaryunpaid, @raith-way, @lokitrashocs, @jewelswrites-ish, @ocappreciationtag

TAG LIST IS OPEN

Link to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28860450/chapters/93972952

He slowly regains consciousness. Alertness coming to him in brief, messy fragments; head pounding ferociously as the world spins around him. Feeling as if he’s caught in the midst of a drunken haze; body seeming to sway from side to side and his limbs impossibly heavy and his eyes repeatedly opening and closing. It’s daylight now; tortured rumbling emitting from deep in his chest when he finds himself tortured by the brilliant rays. He can taste a mixture of dirt and sweat upon his lips as the tip of his tongue swipes across them, and there’s a familiar stickiness on the right side of his head and in his hair. The blood is beginning to dry in the morning heat, and the remaining droplets roll down his cheek and onto his bare shoulder and arm; passing over his fingers and dripping into the small, dark pool that discolors the driveway.

Recollections from the dead of night come in short, hazy snapshots. The noises that had dragged him from the midst of an uncharacteristically deep and peaceful sleep; unable to distinguish between reality and the remnants of a dream. The sound of the waves as they lapped at the rocks and broke upon the shore and the rustle of leaves as a steady, refreshing breeze blew through tree tops, scattering loose foliage across the wrap-around patio. The faint dragging of a tin garbage can against the wood; cursing himself at not remembering to put the trash in the garage and enabling the animals to get into it and make a mess. He’d been sure that’s all it was; kangaroos and wombats looking for a quick and easy meal to fill their stomachs. Yet he’d still reached for the gun tucked in the bedside and can recall the familiar weight of the Glock in his hand; the way the weapon seems to curve perfectly into his palm and his index finger confidently hovers over the trigger. Better to be safe than sorry he’d told himself before leaving for Tasmania; a rural and secluded destination is often the first place burglars will ‘hit up’, and he wasn’t taking any chances.

He remembers bare feet against the smooth, slick surface of the deck; wood eventually giving way to cool, damp earth. A chill passing through him despite the humidity that lingered in the air; reaching the core of his bones and causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. No evidence of anything truly amiss yet his instincts on high alert; the wariness that comes with the unpredictability and years spent living on the edge and the knowledge that there will forever be a target on your back. Too many bridges burned and toes stepped on; ruthless people taken down but even more ruthless and cunning and vicious left behind to seek revenge. Every so often that reality creeps in; someone showing to avenge the untimely -although extremely warranted- death of a friend or family member. The fear creeping in while listening to his children giggle and shriek as they scamper around the property; full of happiness and seemingly endless helpings of energy and curiosity. Never doubting their security; their blind faith and trust in their parents and their ability to protect them and keep them safe never wavering. A healthy and content brood being raised without fear of the future and the knowledge that they’re accepted and celebrated and loved beyond all measure.

There’s many moments where he’s knelt by their bedsides and watched them as they slept. Smiles curving their lips and his palm resting on the tops of their heads; thumb repeatedly brushing against their foreheads. These little human beings that he’s helped create; beautiful and smart and full of so much compassion. It’s then that he considers the possibility of retribution; the family of marks wanting to seek revenge and lowering themselves to the point of hurting his children. It is a common occurrence, and one of the reasons -aside from crippling alcoholism, anger issues, and tremendous self loathing- that mercs never settle down; refusing to bring a spouse or offspring into an already dangerous and unpredictable life. And he always wonders if his mother in law’s words actually DO hold some truth. Perhaps he IS selfish; taking on a wife and starting a family knowing full well that they’d always have targets on their backs. Maybe he should have pushed her away after Dhaka; deny and bottle up his feelings in favor of convincing her to leave. It would have stung like hell; spending the rest of his life wondering where she was and who she was with and what kind of life she’d been blessed with.

While he would have hated himself for hurting her, breaking her heart would have ultimately saved her from the kind of existence a merc has provided her with. She would have never had to worry about her own safety and that of her babies. There’d be no saying goodbye to her husband at the front door and then spending a week or two wondering if he’d make it home. No more sleepless nights spent worrying about his whereabouts and if he was still breathing. Instead she would have had a normal life with a normal man who could give her everything someone like him possibly couldn’t. Safety and security behind a white picket fence.

He thinks of her now. The way the moonlight had caught the silver strands in her hair and made them shimmer. She’d been complaining about them as of late; lamenting the gray that was slowly taking up inhabitance and the fine, barely noticeable wrinkles that were suddenly appearing at the corners of her eyes. He always laughed it off; wrapping his arms around her from behind and pressing noisy kisses to her cheeks, chin resting on the top of her head as he assured her that she was the most incredible, desirable woman on the planet. Always had been, always would be. And he’d noticed those faint lines when she’d stared up at him in the darkened bedroom just hours ago; brow furrowed with worry as she nervously chewed on her bottom lip. She’d looked so beautiful; her hair wild and messy and her skin flawless and smooth and those eyes so dark and trusting. Believing him when he’d said that there wasn’t anything to worry about. Animals causing havoc more than likely; feasting on the garbage that he’d forgotten to lock away for the night. And despite his instincts and the years spent assessing threats and potential dangers he’d almost manage to convince himself that it truly WAS the case. Promising her that he’d be right back; her cheek soft against his calloused palm as he bent down to press a reassuring kiss to her lips.

With the gradual return of full consciousness, the memories begin to overwhelm him; chaotic and frightening, vivid and heart wrenching. Being relegated to laying helplessly in the dirt with a gun pointed to the back of his head as she repeatedly screamed his name, hysterically begging and pleading for him to come and rescue her. The tenacity and bravery in her voice when she warned her attackers to not come any closer; her husband would return any second and he’d make sure they weren’t alive when the sun came up. He could do it; easily take their lives with his bare hands and if they wanted to get out of there in one piece, they’d leave while they still had the chance. He can still hear the shattering of glass and various objects as they were tossed around the cabin; his terrified yet determined wife rebelling with all the strength her tiny body possesses. Mounting her own attack would have been her last line of defense; perhaps fearing that he was already dead and refusing to meet the same fate without putting up the fight of a lifetime. Both relief and fear had been in her voice when he’d called out to her; resisting his captors' demands any further would have likely been met with an even more brutal beating and maybe even HER death. There’d been no telling if their threats were nothing more than empty words, and he couldn’t take the chance that they’d make good on their promise of forcing him to watch as they kill her. It had been the hardest decision he’d ever had to make; giving up the fight in order to ensure her survival instead of resisting until he -and most likely she- met their demise.

He can still see her. Led out of the cabin with a gun pressed against the back of her head, the comforter from the bed wrapped around her tiny body, covering her pajama shorts and t-shirt and giving her an extra layer of protection from wandering hands and eyes. Her expression had been stern and uncompromising; a lingering defiance not usually associated with someone so small and seemingly fragile. Tyler had never been more proud of her; refusing to back down from those twice her size and refusing to allow them to see just how terrified she actually was. Quite possibly the strongest and most tenacious human being he’s ever encountered; staring down every battle and difficulty that she’s ever been presented with. Pregnant with twins when she’d helped nurse him back to health after Nathan had broken both his body and spirit; exhausted and weary, yet never losing her patience with him or the enormity of the situation at hand. He’s never known her to simply give up; as evidenced on the Sultana Kamal Bridge when she’d saved his life. And she’d surprised her captor with that feisty, warrior side of her personality; brazenly escaping with a well directed elbow into the much bigger man’s stomach and then attempting to rush to Tyler’s aid. So typical of her; worrying about the safety and well being of everyone else BESIDES herself.

Her voice still echoes in his ears. The way she’d screamed when her valiant attempt to reach him had been cut short; shrieking as she flailed, kicked, scratched, and even bit in an effort to escape. The tears finally escaping as she was carried off towards the road; crying out for him and making sure that -if he didn’t survive that night- her voice would be the last thing he would ever hear.

“I love you, Tyler. I love you so much.”

Now, in the aftermath, as the minutes and hours tick by, he realizes how final those words had been.

She’d been saying goodbye.

*****

He briefly loses consciousness, and when he comes to once more, it’s with a heavy, choked sob. His beaten and battered body and mind caught in the midst of a vivid nightmare; back on the bridge in Dhaka with a grievously injured and heavily bleeding Esme laying in HIS arms. Staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes; struggling to breathe and unable to speak as blood poured from her mouth and from a gaping wound in the center of her chest. It’s happened before; dreaming of the tables being turned. Unable to help her and reduced to a sobbing and pleading mess in the middle of the dirty, bullet ridden street; tears streaming down his cheeks as his filthy, calloused palms tenderly cradle her face. Feeling helpless and alone; begging her to hang on just a little while longer and assuring her that help was on its way. But too much damage had been done, and no sooner had he pressed a kiss to her blood stained lips, she gave one final, rattling gasp before falling limp in his embrace.

His head snaps backwards; connecting solidly with the passenger door of the rental car. He can remember being thrown down onto his stomach in the middle of the dirty driveway; hands restrained behind his back and the barrel of a rifle pressed firmly against his skull. He could smell the dirt; damp from the mist cast by the ocean. He could taste it on his lips; a stranger's hand tightly fisting his hair and forcing his face into the earth. His last clear memory is of being kicked repeatedly in the ribs; the blows coming with enough force to turn him onto his back. He is certain he told his wife that he loved her; wanting there to be no doubt in her mind in case either of them didn’t survive. And he’d promised that he’d find her; warning his captives that if they didn’t succeed in killing him, he’d hunt every last one of them down and show absolutely no mercy. They’d crossed a line no one should ever cross; laying a finger on his wife and causing her harm and instilling fear and worry. And his child; five and a half months away from being born and at the complete mercy of outside forces with only their mother to protect them and keep them alive.

Somewhere in between unconsciousness and wakefulness, he’d managed to force himself into a sitting position and up onto his knees. Likely crawling the short distance to the rental car and then propping himself up against it. Or had he been placed there? Shown a small bit of mercy by one of his captors? His head hurts as he tries to make sense of it all; the pain beginning to register as he tests the binds that keep his hands secured together. The zip ties looser than he remembers them being; recalling the burn as the plastic cut into the skin around his wrists. Was he struggling while half dead to the world? Was it his own strength that pulled the ties apart? Or was that someone else’s doing as well?

He bites back a scream as his hands form tight fists; hearing the cracking of bones as they either completely fracture or pop themselves back into place. The pain that courses through him is intense; his stomach churning and his head throbbing as sweat beads across his brow and gathers at his temples and the nape of his neck. His shoulders aching as he narrows the distance between his bound hands; eyes tightly closed as he takes in a deep, shaky breath. Teeth digging into his bottom lip with enough force to break the skin; tasting his own blood as he exhales slowly and then tears his wrists away from each other with as much force as he can muster.

The plastic securing his hands snaps in two and the world spins around him. Agony seeming to fill every inch of his body; vaguely aware of the tears that spill down his cheeks as he raises his wrists to his mouth and uses his teeth to discard the remaining pieces of plastic. A mixture of bile, saliva, and blood joining the shards as he spits them into the dirt; chest heaving with even the smallest amount of excursion. And his eyes close once more as he leans his head back against the cool metal behind him; fingers of his left hand blindly exploring the damage done to the right as he attempts to catch his breath and orientate himself.

The sun burns his eyes when he finally looks up. Tip of his tongue swiping across parched lips; tasting the combination of dirt, blood, and sweat. The physical shock is beginning to wear off. His chest feels heavy and his air flow is slow and laboured; the pain centralized on the left side and seeming to inhabit the surgically repaired lung. He recognizes the difficulties presented with fractured ribs; the burning that comes each time he attempts even the shallowest of breaths. The small of his back on fire; significant pins and needless taking up residence in his buttock and into his right hip. All injuries he’d been left with after his two trips to Dhaka; the sniper’s bullet tearing into his left lung and Nathan’s barely missing his spine. Areas that his assailants had specifically targeted; lingering damage that would either slow him down or take him out of the game entirely.

He has to move.

Planting his feet into the dirt, he drives his power through his legs, managing to push himself up off the ground and then slowly and gingerly sliding his injured body up the car door. He pauses when the light headedness and nausea return; bending at the waist and taking slow, agonizing breaths in order to ground himself. Feeling the blood that trickles from his head wound and lazily rolls down the side of his face; observing in morbid awe and curiosity as it slowly drips onto the top of his feet.

******

His body switches to auto-pilot. Emotionally void as he stands in the shower; the temperature punishingly hot as he uses his one good hand to rub vigorously at body and hair. Sitting on the edge of the tub in nothing but a towel as his eyes survey the room yet and its contents; Esme’s fuzzy bubblegum pink bathrobe hanging on the back of the door, makeup bag lying on its side on the counter top with its contents spilling out onto the granite, the sundress she’d planned to wear draped over the lonesome wooden chair that sits under the window. And while the tears refuse to come, there’s a nagging in his chest and a burning in the pit of his stomach; a mixture of rage and worry and the need for revenge.

He tears a towel into several sections and uses one to bind his injured hand and the other to secure his ribs. Fingertips trailing over the boot impression left on his stomach and chest; already turning a deep shade of purple and tender to the touch. And he traces the long, faint scar left behind from the surgery in Dhaka; the bullet entering from the back and becoming lodged dangerously close to his heart. A section of the lung had been ��obliterated’ according to the surgeon and had caused far more damage than the one that Farhad had put in his neck. It should have killed him; the decimation of his lung, the excessive blood loss, and the fact he’d coded twice on the operating table and they’d had to fight like hell to bring him back. Instead he’d been left with permanent reminders of what he’d gone through; a frontal lobe brain injury that preys on his short term memory and temperament and a lung that rebels against him and turns a simple cold into something much more hideous and stubborn.

“Small prices to pay,” Esme had once reasoned; flashing that brilliant smile and clasping his face in her hands as she pecked his lips. “Because you’re here. You’re alive. And I can’t imagine my life without you. I don’t even want to try.”

He forces himself to keep going. Dwelling and wallowing will get nothing accomplished; Esme’s captors have an hours long head start and there’s still so much to do. Preparations will be long and arduous; groups of men needing to be organized into small ‘platoons’ and placed in each coast in order to monitor the airports and the shipping docks. A home base will need to be set up and Yaz will have to be contacted; the only person he truly trusts when it comes to technology and intel but thousands of miles away in Ireland. Nik perhaps willing to jump on board; despite their rocky pasts and a rather fragile and tedious friendship, she’s always been one of the few that he can truly rely on to have his back. No questions asked. Bringing with her years of experience and tremendous respect from many involved in black market ops. Well known for being able to find the proverbial needle in a haystack; possessing skills on many different and seeing situations and surroundings with a brilliant mind.

His head spins. Too much to think about, too much to do and in no shape to tackle it all on his own. For now he concentrates on the immediate tasks; fighting through pain and lingering dizziness and nausea as he attempts to dress himself. Frustration grows with each passing second; one good hand struggling and fumbling with the button and zip on a fresh pair of jeans. The emotion is raw and intense; an overwhelming and volatile cocktail of immense anger and profound worry. He’s unable to prevent his brain from delving into all the possible scenarios; the anxiety gnawing at his chest and causing sweat to bead across his forehead and gather at his temples. His head and heart filled with nothing but sheer doom and gloom; all consuming and excruciating and come at the speed and ferocity of a freight train. The possibility that her captors have managed to already get her out of the country; leaving not even a trail of breadcrumbs for anyone to follow. The sheer thought of them laying their hands on her makes bile rise in his throat; other men touching her physically AND sexually. Perhaps she’d been taken with the goal of holding her for ransom; resulting in hours or even days of unimaginable abuse until they’re ready to make contact with him.

Whatever they want…whatever their demands…he’ll meet them. More than willing to give up every cent he has to his name if it will ensure her safety; gutting the bank accounts and maxing out every credit card if it means she comes home to him. Nothing else matters; more money can easily be made and he can replace material possessions. He’ll sacrifice it all if it means her survival; handing over every last dime if it means his entire heart and universe is returned to him. Life doesn’t make sense without her in it; the love of his life and his best friend and most loyal confidant and safety net. The woman who saves his life every single day; who’d given him a second chance and a beautiful family and who is solely responsible for the incredible life that they’ve managed to build together. None of it would exist if it wasn’t for her.

HE wouldn’t exist.

The discomfort grows in intensity; injured hand throbbing and the muscles in his chest and across his lower back burning as he slips into a t-shirt. It’s almost too much to handle and he feels as if he may pass out; sweat glistening across his forehead and trickling down his spine and the nausea returning with a vengeance. And he drops heavily onto the edge of the bed and lays his forearms along his thighs; eyes closing as leans forwards and drops his chin into his chest. He needs to be able to function; find relief for the pain and a more appropriate binding for his hand and ribs. A proper brace would allow him to hold a weapon, and he could work through the agony that would likely come with the simple act of pulling the trigger. He knows he has an uphill battle; an army of people that will insist he hand over the reins in favor of staying home and recuperating. They’ll say he’s in no shape to be out there getting his hands dirty, and that even if he WERE, he is way too personally invested and won’t be able to keep his head on straight. In turn he’ll argue that being that involved and connected to the situation will ensure that he’s at the top of his game. That with Esme’s life -and that of his unborn child- hanging in the balance, his focus and control will be even better than usual; nothing will be able to deter him or knock him off his game.

There’s no way in hell he’s NOT going out there. The need and desire for revenge is too great. He’s possessed with a desperate longing to get his hands around the necks of everyone who dared to touch her. And is looking forward to the satisfaction he’ll feel when he looks them dead in the eye while they take their final breath.

Once dressed, he takes stock of the damage done to the room. The screen on the patio entrance sliced away from its frame and sliding glass door completely off its track; definitely the point of entry for the assailants that had preyed on Esme. The entire thing had been extremely well planned and carried out; no longer than fifteen minutes from start to finish. They’d been well versed in the layout of the land and the cabin’s various points of entry, and had known they needed to immediately take Tyler out of the picture; they couldn’t let him get the upper hand and attacking from behind was their only way of ensuring they could bring him down. And they’d been aware of his ‘weak spots’; targeting the chest and the small of his back before zeroing in on the head. Knowing that even the smallest of screw ups would be their undoing; even managing to get his hands loose would have led to a much different ending. His rage and the ferocious need to protect his wife are the only driving forces he’d need to leave several mangled and bloody corpses in his wake.

Up-ended furniture and pictures knocked off the wall in both the living area and sleeping quarters; the covers torn clear off the bed and the bare mattress stained with streaks and drops of blood. Not enough to indicate a serious or life threatening injury, but enough for his breath to catch in his chest and his stomach to painfully twist and contort. His hands tremble as they gather up the blankets and sheets, and he pulls them apart and shakes and snaps them vigorously before carefully inspecting them; the cotton littered with small, dark specks of drying blood. He racks his brain, attempting to recall if Esme had appeared injured or in pain. It had been dark out; the light pouring through the cabin’s open front door not giving him near enough light to properly see faces or expressions, never mind open and bleeding wounds. But she’d been too feisty for someone that could have been hurt; fighting off a man twice her size in an attempt to get to her husband and then continuing to kick and flail and scratch when she was carried off. And there isn’t enough blood to warrant the worry and terror that is quickly growing inside of him. Nothing to suggest that something terrible had happened to her.

Or the baby.

A lump of emotion gathers in his throat and the tears threaten once more. It isn’t the time to lose his self control; there will be many moments in the near future where he can succumb to the slowly building mental breakdown. It’s all becoming too real now; shock giving way to acceptance which in turn brings its own helping of immense rage and profound fear and worry. The anger is far more productive and will serve him well when it’s time to both seek and enact revenge; he can allow himself to finally snap and just surrender to every ounce of fury stampeding through his body.

Tossing the sheets onto the bare mattress, he reaches for the comforter that sits at the foot of the bed. Lightly shaking it and dislodging the cell phone that had been caught in its midst; the device falling heavily to the floor and bouncing twice before landing face down on the hardwood. It renders him motionless; the sparkly pink case covered in Hello Kitty stickers that Addie had been allowed to affix to it. With its hairline crack that travels across the top of the screen and the thousands upon thousands of pictures that are stored in its gallery. She’s never without it when they leave the house; constantly snapping photos of everything and everyone around her and always managing to talk him into smiling while he’s driving and convincing him to take selfies with her. And suddenly he’s flooded by guilt; regretting all the times he complained about how annoying she was and how she didn’t need to take so many damn pictures and if he had to smile for one more…

He’s unable to stop himself, crouching down in the middle of the bedroom floor as he reaches for the phone. A simple press of a thumb against the side brings the screen to life; the ache in his chest and in the pit of stomach increasing as he stares down at the image that greets him. The only photo of just the two of them that Andy had caught during the most recent family pictures; a spur of the moment event during a break from the struggle of getting seven children to cooperate. Their eyes closed as they stood barefoot in the surf, her hair being whipped about by the wind as he cradled her face in his palms. Esme on her tiptoes with her head tilted up towards him; a tender, content smile curving her lips as his rest against her brow. Just a quiet, spontaneous moment between them that their friend had been able to ready his camera for. It had been nothing more than a quick break from the craziness of the afternoon; a chance to get back some of the energy expended while wrangling such a large brood of kids. Yet somehow, it had turned into something so beautiful.

His hands tremble. Fingers struggling with the simple task of putting the four digit passcode. And it isn’t until he begins swiping through the gallery of pictures that he realizes he’s crying; hot, bitter tears that slip down his cheeks and splatter on the phone screen. An abundance of photos that he’d either forgotten about or hadn’t even been aware of her taking; selfies with different filters on them, others of her making funny faces with one of the kids, ones of her alone and beaming from ear to ear with the ocean or a sunset in the background. Tons of the kids; spur of the moment candid shots that she’s stock piled. Little ones splashing in the surf and burying each other in the sand. TJ and Declan with their surfboards; on their stomachs as they paddle further into the water. Millie confidently conquering waves that would make a grown man nervous. Tanner relaxing under his favorite tree; in possession of a pad of paper and a pen as he writes yet another short story.

Videos. So many videos. Millie winning her first surfing competition; victorious over girls and boys twice her age. TJ scoring a game winning goal in lacrosse; broad shouldered and tough as hell, towering over the other kids his age. Tanner finding out he was the winner of the school talent show; running over to her with tears streaming down his face while shrieking, “Mumma, I did it! I did it!”. Declan trying on his rugby kit for the first time; big and strong and strapping for only eight years old. Brooklyn at her first horse show with her riding gear on and a second place medal around her neck; a whole family event that saw them camping out for the weekend. Takota learning how to swim in the backyard pool; splashing and kicking and flailing before finally managing to doggie paddle towards his waiting father. And Addie. With that tiny voice of hers -already possessing a strong Australian accent- and infectious, high pitched giggle; feeding Charlie a peanut butter sandwich out of her hand and then squealing with pure joy when he licks her fingers and allows her to pet his ears.

If anyone was made to be a mother, it’s her.

He presses play on the last video she made; five days before they'd made the trek to Tasmania. Smiling, yet choking back as sob as her face fills the screen; hair wild and messy, her cheeks and bridge of her nose slightly sunburnt, freckles on full display.

“We are going to go and see what the husband is up to.” She addresses the camera as she steps out onto the back deck; turning the vantage point the opposite way and giving a view of the brilliant blue sky, expanse of beach and the rippling waves. “The kids have been gone for two hours, and he hasn’t come into the house. I know for a fact that he didn’t have work to do today. So something tells me he's working up a sweat. Let’s go see.”

The camera work becomes shaky as she lowers the phone to her side; camera facing upwards. Excitedly chattering about the goats and the new kids expected within the coming weeks and the plans on building a bigger pen area; the addition of a bigger, comfier and more secure barn and play structures for their ‘four legged babies’.

“Georgie is a little whore,” Esme muses, as she pauses to film the goats; the aforementioned Georgie coming to the fence in hopes of treats. “She has birthed babies from FOUR different men! And it’s not like there’s NOT other girls here; we have Harriet and Hermione and Arwen. But do they get knocked up? No. Just Georgie. The boys like Georgie best. It’s because you’re a little slut, right Georgie?” She lowers the camera as she reaches through the fence with her free hand; rubbing her knuckles against the white and black goat’s nasal bridge. “She’s really pretty though. I’ll give the boys that; they have great taste. But we’re going to have to slow you down, girl. Put a chastity belt on you or sew your vagina up or something. Time to retire your floozy days. We think THIS is the baby daddy…” The camera focuses on a gray ram. “....he’s the man whore. That’s Gaston. He’s always humping someone or something. Like another man in this house I won’t name. Anyhow, we’re pretty sure Gaston and Georgie had a wild night not so long. Maybe even a few. I can’t come in guys…” She turns the camera onto her own face; dramatic pout curving her lips. “...my days of wading in goat poop and mud are over. At least for now. Tyler would have a fit.”

She passes by the chicken compound and pig pen next; talking about how the eggs still need to be collected that day and Bella and Edward the pot bellies need their ‘bedding’ in their lean to changed.

“Okay….” Her hand falls on the door to the gym. “...I think he’s in here. I can’t hear anything, so he’s got his ear phones on. Let’s try and NOT scare the shit out of him this time. Last time he was in the zone and suddenly he saw my reflection in the mirror and nearly yeeted me across the room. Well, not nearly. But I bet he COULD HAVE.”

The camera spans across the gym; taking in the rows of various free weights and equipment and exercise bikes and treadmills.

“Why we need three of everything I will never know,” Esme says. “But this is his baby and I just let him do what he wants. I probably should be spending more time in here myself, but it’s going to have to wait; not a good idea taking little bean along for the ride. Speaking of little bean and how little bean came about, there’s the guilty party.” She zooms in on Tyler across the room; stepping out from underneath a heavily loaded barbell as it rests on the safety bars of the squat rack. “Well, shit. Mark this date down, folks. It was leg day. Which doesn’t happen very often around here. But those chicken legs are getting some really nice definition in the thighs. And that butt…” she gives a low whistle, then lowers the camera to the area. “...see what I mean? Nice bum, where ya from? What are you doing?!” She calls out, just as he peels off his headphones; tossing them and his phone onto a nearby weight bench. “And when are you going to realize that they make wireless ones now?”

“I like these ones. What are YOU doing?”

“I’m here to annoy you. I figured what’s the point of being married to a crazy hot and buff man if you don’t get to see the muscles in action every now and then. How sweaty are you?”

“Sweaty enough. Come here and see.”

“He gets a little ripe,” she laughs. “But is it weird that I’m used to it? Like, it’s familiar. It’s Tyler. When he’s been working hard. It’s not gross. It’s…nice.”

“YOU’RE weird.” Placing a hand on the small of her back, he leans down to peck her lips. “Seriously, what ARE you doing?”

“I wanted people to see how hot you are. Make the thirsty bitches even more jealous than they are.”

“Well in that case…” Smirking, he plucks her phone out of her hand and lays it beside his own before pulling her into a long, steamy kiss.

“Let me turn the thing off first,” she giggles. “Because this is going to get X rated very quickly. Your post workout excitement is poking me.”

“Not the only place it wants to poke you. Leave it on; we can watch it later. For science.”

“For science, huh? Yeah, right. Tyler!” She squeals when his teeth clamp down on the side of her neck; both palms slapping her ass. “That’s gonna leave a mark. Let me turn the phone off!”

“We need a new video.”

She gives a derisive snort. “You and your homemade porn.”

“Only porn I watch, baby.”

“Such a pig,” she grumbles, then picks the phone up and offers a smile and wave before ending the video.

He’s unaware of when he’d collapsed onto the floor; sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him instead of in a squat. And he realizes now the intensity of both his trembling and his emotions ; his entire body shuddering violently as it lets loose loud, choked sobs. Everything else momentarily replaced; no pain, no rage, no frustration.

Just agonizing heart ache and the act of grieving someone he hasn’t really lost yet.

******

He falls into a restless, concussion driven sleep. Plagued by incessant and increasing pain and nightmares about his wife being brutalized in every way possible; hearing her screaming in agony and terror and begging for him to come and help her. SAVE HER. Kicking down doors but finding nothing but empty rooms; listening to her repeatedly cry his name as her voice echoes through long, dark hallways. When he bolts awake and upright the room spins around him; the nausea returning and the pain from his various injuries steadily increasing. Every breath he takes is uncomfortable, and when he lifts his shirt and releases the makeshift binding to inspect the injury to his chest. he finds a perfect boot impression; the force of the blow likely fracturing his sternum and tearing through muscle and ligaments. And he nearly screams in pain when he forgets about the hand injury and reaches up to investigate a patch of damp, sticky hair; the wound on the side of his head reopened and leading to a trickle of blood down the side of his face and onto the clean bedding.

He forces himself out of bed, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress and then slowly and gingerly standing up. His legs feel impossibly weak and everything hurts; a dull throbbing that starts at the roots of his hair and seems to travel all the way to the tips of his toes. And it’s a painful and arduous walk to the kitchen; the small of his back and his right hip feeling as if they’re on fire. Sleeping had been a bad idea; he should have kept moving after he’d called for help instead of lying down with the sole intention of ‘resting his eyes’. His body beginning to stiffen as the full weight and effect of the injuries inflicted become all too apparent; an ache settling in each one of his joints and his pace slowed and his head constantly swimming.

A plastic container of meds sits open on the kitchen counter and he briefly rummages through it; scooping out the bottle of pain medication and opening it with his teeth. His standard dosage for managing his daily aches and pains is two at a time, no more than eight a day. And he’s been good at keeping to his word of never going back down the slippery slope of addiction; never exceeding the dosage, never getting annoyed when his wife gets on his ass about how many pills he’s taken, never losing his shit when she actually dumps the bottle to count how many are left versus how many days since the script was picked up at the drugstore. He’d proven time and time again he couldn’t be trusted; the demon of his addictions louder than his sobriety. But his days of not keeping promises are far behind, and despite the sheer agony he’s experiencing and the desire to silence it with at least half the bottle, he dumps three of the tablets into his mouth and swallows them dry before returning the vial to its storage container.

“You’ll get through this. It’ll pass. It always does. You just need the edge taken off. So you can function.”

He can hear her voice plain as day. One of the many ‘pep talks’ she’s given him over the course of the last twelve years. Always the voice of reason; his rock and his safe place despite her tiny size. The one person he can trust implicitly; the keeper of his deepest and darkest secrets. No matter how many times he’s failed her and fallen off the wagon, she’s always been the person to pick him back up. A one woman cheering section. Helping him stay sane through the throes of severe withdrawal and talking him down off many a ledge when the pain became too much to bear and he didn’t want to live with it anymore. Sitting quietly alongside him while he ranted and raved at her about needing more…much more…to even slice the surface of his suffering. Holding his face in her hands and kissing the tears away when he begged and pleaded for help and told her that he couldn’t take another fucking second; he didn’t want to live like this and he certainly didn’t want her or the kids to see him as someone so broken and damaged. And -when an ‘episode’ was over, she’d cradle his head to her chest and repeatedly run her fingers through his hair; allowing him to come completely undone with no judgment or ridicule. Staying with him until he fell asleep before slipping out from under him and tenderly tucking the blankets around his much bigger, heavier frame. Later on, when he’d awaken and seek her out to apologize for the things he’d said in moments of rage and fear, she’d never mention what happened. She’d let him hold her and kiss her and then she’d smile up at him -with nothing but love and adoration and respect in her eyes- and ask him what he wanted for dinner.

It’s just who she is. Who she’s ALWAYS been. And the thought of never experiencing that smile or her touch or her kiss again…

A pounding at the door snaps him out of his misery, and with his injured hand tucked into his chest, he slowly makes his way to answer. A fingertip pushing down slats on the blinds that cover the small window to the side of the entrance; Koen and Shaena -the latter carrying a large medical bag and a wheeling a plastic container of more supplies- waiting for him to answer. Both stern faced and nervous; Koen occasionally glancing over his shoulder at the small team of men he’d assembled to begin an area search for any clues of who’d been behind the attack. And where they could have taken Esme.

“Jesus fuck, mate,” Koen shakes his head in disbelief when Tyler finally opens the door. “You look like utter dog shit. Like you’ve been hit by a fucking truck.”

“Feel like I’ve been hit by a whole fucking convoy.” His legs feel weak when he attempts to turn away, and he feels his friend’s hand on his bicep in an attempt to steady him.

“He needs something to eat,” Shaena instructs, as she uses a hip to close the door behind them. “And electrolytes. Lots of them. You have gatorade? Anything like that?”

“In the fridge.” He attempts to nod towards the kitchen; grimacing and laying a hand on the back of his neck when pain -starting at the nape of his neck- shoots all the way down his spine.

“Get him some gatorade and make him something to eat,” Shaena orders Koen. “Sugar and carbs. His blood sugar is low. He’s probably on the edge of dehydration too. And by the looks of things…” Taking Tyler’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, she turns his face towards the window. “...he’s got a pretty bad concussion going on. Pupils are all over the place.”

“You realize I’m standing right in front of you, ya? That I CAN talk?”

“You need to get some food and some fluids into you. And you might want to think about going to the hospital and getting your head checked and…”

“No hospital. It’s why I called you. So I wouldn’t have to go to one. I don’t have time for that shit.”

“You have a serious head wound and…”

“I have two, actually. Got nailed on the back too.”

Sighing, she turns on her heel and heads for the living room. “Let’s go. We’ll get you looked at. But if I even get the slightest feeling that things are more serious than we realize, you ARE going to the hospital.”

“Nothing that wrong with me that you can’t take care of.”

“Well you look like you went a few rounds with Mike Tyson. What does the other guy look like?”

“Didn’t even get a chance to get a swing in.” Injured hand cradled against his chest, he slowly lowers himself onto the couch. “They took me out. Before I even realize what the fuck was going on. They knew they had; take me down and make sure I couldn’t get up.”

“What else do I need to know about? What other sore spots?”

“You mean other than my entire body?” He struggles to peel off his t-shirt; allowing Shaena to assist him in pulling it up his back and over his head.

She issues a low whistle as she snaps a pair of surgical gloves onto his hands. “They knew just where to get you, didn’t they.”

“Totally planned. They knew they had to get me alone and take me down. That they wouldn’t stand a chance if they didn’t.”

“How many were there?” Gentle fingers comb through his hair; moving the strands away from the open wound on his scalp. “This is going to need stitches. I don’t know if I brought anesthetic to freeze it, so…”

“Just do what you have to do. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been sewn up without it.”

“I still think you need to be seen. Obvious concussion, probably a cracked sternum, maybe a couple of fractured ribs. Maybe we should call Marco.”

“Fuck Marco.”

“He’s the merc doctor. That YOU hired.”

“He’s a pain in my ass.”

“Anyone’s a pain in your ass when they’re trying to get you to take care of yourself. With everything you’ve got going on here, it’s probably better that…”

“Marco’s in Lisbon. Waiting to see if a couple of my guys’ get shot to shit. Just do what you have to do. Stitch me up, fix shit, set things right. Whatever. I don’t have time to waste.”

“You aren’t really thinking of going out there, are you?” Shaena asks, as she uses a bottle of saline and a gauze pad to clean the gash along his hairline. “In this kind of shape?”

“You think I’d just sit on my ass and let someone else handle things? That’s my wife out there. If you think I’m just going to hang around and let other people do the dirty work…”

“You’re going to need to take at least a couple days. Maybe even a few. What good will you be out there all busted up like this? You really think you’d be any help? All messed up like this? You’re going to have to take some time. Rest up.”

“I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

“Which could be sooner if you don’t let yourself heal a bit. You really think Esme would want you out there? In this kind of shape? Do you think…?”

“I think you need to leave her out of this. I told her I’d find her. I promised her. And that’s what I’m going to do. So if you don’t mind…” He winces as the needle and thread make their first pass through his skin. “...just fix me. As good as you can.”

Shaena relents; concentrating on the suturing the ragged and bloody gash to his hairline. He’s unsure how he feels; besieged by a mix of overwhelming, suffocating emotions. Tremendous fear and worry sitting at the very top of the heap, then closely followed by extreme rage and the lust for revenge. And there’s a numbness he can’t quite explain; a lethargy not related to the onset of dehydration or the concussion or the blood loss he’d suffered. A state of shock that refuses to let him go. He’d spent years wondering when the other shoe would drop and one of the bridges he’d burnt would come back to haunt him. Always hoping and praying that he’d be the one revenge would come for him. That whoever had their target on his back would recognize the innocence of his wife and children and would leave them alone. Only now…

Koen appears at the side of the couch; setting a bottle of gatorade and a hastily made plate of last night’s leftovers on the arm. Returning Tyler’s small smile of appreciation with one of his own, followed by a playful, affectionate tousle of the hair.

“How you holdin’ up?” Koen asks, as he pulls the coffee table closer and perches on the edge; forearms resting along his thighs, hands clasped tightly together. Unable to hide the concern; brow furrowed and lips tightly pursed together as his eyes slowly take in his friend’s visible injuries.

“I’m doing alright.”

It’s a lie of course. He’s anything but ‘alright’. While the shock of the incident is finally starting to wear off, it’s being replaced by a multitude of other things. The darkest and most dire of thoughts running rampant in his brain; the concern over how he’ll break the news to their children and the question of whether he’ll ever see her again. The list of ‘what if’s’ is long and plentiful. What if he never finds her? And even worse, what if he does and she hasn’t survived? How will he function as a widowed father of seven? Spending the rest of his life vividly remembering the last night he ever spent with her. The way his hands and his mouth had explored her body and how her hands had yanked at his hair; nails scraping down his back and across his shoulders and over his ribs. How his name had sounded when it tumbled from her mouth; whispers, sighs and gasps replaced loud, drawn out moans and finally orgasmic screams. And that blissful afterglow; that warm, soft body cuddled so perfectly against his as breathed in that familiar scent that always reminds him of home.

There’s also profound worry when it comes to the health of her and his unborn child; mixed with the confidence that Esme will do whatever she has to do to keep their baby safe. She’s smart and resilient and can play even the smartest and most cunning of villains at their own game; a tiny and seemingly weak, little thing that becomes absolutely ferocious when it comes to protecting her young. But at the same time, he knows the state of her physical AND mental health. Quickly going back to the conversation they’d had only thirty six hours before; Esme confessing that she’s terrified of something happening to her during labor and her request -ridiculous in his mind- that he pick their child over her if it comes down to it. She’s in a fragile place right now; doubting her own abilities despite numerous pregnancies under her belt and worried -as usual- about the issues that plague HIM.

And then there’s the anger. Powerful and all consuming. The need for the bloodiest and most vicious of revenge. Planning to make good on the promises he’d made not just to her, but the men who’d dared to defile their ‘safe, happy place’ and lay their hands on her. The worst thing they could have done was leave him alive; had they been smart they would have pulled the trigger and left his body in the driveway to simply rot under the blazing sun. But he’s alive and he’s hell bent on tracking both her -AND them- down.

“Well I know that’s a huge pile of horse shit,” Koen declares, and nods at the plate of food; a silent request for Tyler to eat. “I’ve got guys all over the place. Going over every inch of the beach in both directions, around the perimeter of this place, down the driveway.”

“What about the road?” Tyler can’t help himself. It’s the nature of the beast; years spent getting his hands bloody with special forces, followed by his time as an active mercenary, and now as a boss with many lives counting on him to ‘get things right’. “Shipping docks? Airports? What about…?”

“I’ve got it all covered,” his friend assures him. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. Although it ain’t looking so pretty right now, I’ll tell you that much.”

“I want the best guys out there. The ones with the most experience. The ones that don’t get shit wrong. This isn’t something I want people fucking around on. If there’s even one little mistake…”

“I’m taking care of things. I know what I’m doing. I learned from the best of them, didn’t I? Although I remember when I was in charge of your scrawny little ass. ‘Member that? You coming into the fold back in Afghanistan? All fresh out of high school and wet behind the ears. And cocky as all fuck.”

“Tyler cocky?” Shaena smirks. “Well I never….”

“You should have seen him. Walking around like he was the King Shit. Like he was just going to show up and be some regular fucking GI Joe. All nineteen years old and pimply faced and green as fresh baby shit. Knew I had to take it upon myself to knock him down a peg of two. And now look…” Koen gives a derisive snort and shakes his head. “...now I’m letting this drongo boss ME around.”

They lapse into silence. Shaena focused on the administering of stitches and the cleaning of wounds as Tyler attempts to concentrate on the meal and drink in front of him in an attempt to ignore his body screaming out in agony. The pain now travelling from head to toe; settling deep in the muscles in joints and making the discomfort of suturing of wounds without anesthetic seem minute in comparison. It isn’t the first time he’s had to go without numbing creams or needles prior to tending to various injuries; many a time he had to fix himself up while at war and out in the field as a merc. And Esme had had the unfortunate task of stitching him up in Dhaka; using a sewing needle and dental floss to close the nearly bone deep gash on his right bicep. He can see her now; chewing nervously on her bottom lip as she worked by the light of a bedside lamp in one of Gaspar’s guest rooms. Her hair still damp from her shower and pulled away from her face and secured in a messy bun; petite frame clad in just her underwear and an oversized shirt that Gaspar had given her while her clothes from the day were laundered.

Maybe THAT’S when he’d known that he was in love with her; hit by the realization that he wouldn’t hand over that kind of trust to just anyone. Nor -while holed up in that hotel in the market- would he have given her such easy access to his deepest and darkest secrets and his most painful of regrets. Something had ‘clicked’ between them the moment they’d met at that old, rundown shack; when she’d flashed that killer smile and offered a hand in greeting. He’d found himself both intrigued and bewildered by her; a seemingly fragile little thing with her variety of piercings and tattoos and her enormous, dark eyes. A quiet confidence that she possessed and he enjoyed; the way she readily accepted his offer of a drink and then began peppering him with questions about life in Australia. No mention of the job or the task they’d been entrusted with and instead delving into personal, yet completely noninvasive conversation. As if Dhaka and their looming departure had ceased to exist; the mercenary and the intel specialist replaced with just two people dipping their toes into the awkward ‘getting to know you’ pool.

And he’d like it. He’d liked HER. The way she’d make eye contact when they’d chatted and how she ‘talked’ with her hands; impossibly small with their neatly manicured nails with their coat of deep purple polish. The way she’d tap her thumb against her glass and tilt her head to the side as she listened to him speak; never interrupting and her eyes sparkling as a soft smile curved her lips. While other people would have been intimidated by his profession and his sheer size and initial gruff demeanour, she’d shown no signs of nervousness and never hesitated to answer the questions he’d put forth about her life in the States. She was intelligent and well spoken, and he’d found himself enjoying the sound of her voice and the way she laughed; amused by that little bounce of her heels and slight toss of her ponytail. Totally unlike any woman he’d ever encountered on the job; managing to somehow hold onto that bubbly and outgoing demeanor despite the environment and life she’d submersed herself in and the people that she surrounded herself with.

Exactly a week later, he’d found himself in that arm chair in Gaspar’s guest room; gritting his teeth and bearing the discomfort each time the needle passed through his skin. Taking the occasional pull from a bottle of scotch in hopes of numbing both the head to toe pain and the fear he was experiencing. Worried that he was feeling way too much, way too soon and getting far too attached to someone he’d just met. And that he was letting her get way too damn close. After all, in the end he’d only hurt her. Fail her in some way. It’s what he was good at; breaking the hearts of anyone and everyone that dared to love him. She’d deserved more than that. Way more. A normal life with a normal guy; someone who could give her stability and would live up to his promises and who wouldn’t run when things got tough. The best thing for her would have been to push her away; close himself off and make himself emotionally unavailable and let her down at the beginning instead of spending months…years…stringing her along and then just destroying her.

But he hadn’t been able to do that. Selfishly he wanted more of her. More of THEM. And instead of simply walking away from her or finding a way to force her to do the same, he’d held on even tighter.

“Stand,” Shaena gently orders, and when he does the dizziness returns; eyes closing at the room spins around him. Thankful for Koen’s presence; the older man immediately on his feet and clasping a sturdy, strong hand on Tyler’s shoulder.

“You’re in bad shape, mate.” There’s no playful goading to his voice; no accompanying witty cheap shot. “Maybe you SHOULD get looked at.”

“I’m fine.” Tyler insists, and shakily reaches for the now half empty bottle of Gatorade. Shaena was right; the weakness and lightheadedness a sure sign of dehydration and blood loss. “Just need to get my feet under me is all.”

“What you need is a doctor,” Shaena argues. “And probably a hospital.”

“They’re only going to do the same thing you are. I don’t want to be stuck there. I’ve got shit to do. I’ve got to find her. I promised her. I told her I would.”

“And you will,” Koen assures him. “Once you get looked at. You’re no good to her like this.”

“I just need a few hours. Just need to get home. Sleep. I’ll be fine after that. I’ll be good to go.”

“Mate…” Koen’s grip on him tightens. “...you need more than that.”

“I’ve gone through worse. Been a hell of a lot more beat up. And got right back there. I’m lnot etting her down. I promised I’d find her. And I will.”

Sighing heavily, Koen exchanges a worried, skeptical look with Shaena. “Not someone you can do yourself,” he points out. “Let me handle the basics. Let me draw up an initial plane and get people where they need to be. You’re not in the right place for all that. You need to get home and rest. And be with your kids.”

“I don’t even know what to tell them. They’re going to want to know; why I’m back and mumma is nowhere around.”

“We’ll help you think of something,” Shaena promises. “But for now…lets…” Fingertips gingerly explore the boot impression and accompanying bruise on his chest; the simplest of touches making him wince in pain. “...definitely a fracture of some kind. I can feel the shift; part of the clavicle is higher than the other. Ribs don’t look too bad, but…” Starting on the right side, she presses each rib; frowning when he bites back several yelps of pain. “...either really badly bruised or broken. Tyler, you really need to…”

“Tape ‘em. Pop ‘em back into place if you need. I already said no. No hospital.”

Holding her hands up in surrender, she snaps open the latches on the wheeled suitcase; rummaging through the contents before locating and removing the supplies in question. “You really ARE the most stubborn man on earth.”

“I don’t have time to fuck around. This isn’t just ANYONE out there. They didn’t take just some girl off the street. It’s Esme. MY Esme.”

“She’s tough,” Koen reminds him, and then begins his own search of the room. “She knows how to handle herself. And they obviously want her alive. Or…”

“They said she was no good to them dead. Their exact words. And they had every chance to kill her. And me.”

“So why didn’t they? Did they say anything else or…?”

“Just that it wasn’t me they wanted. When I offered myself in exchange for her, they told me that they didn’t give a shit about me. She was who they were looking for.”

“And did they give you any clue as to who was behind it? Who’d want her? Can you think of anyone who would? Someone you’ve pissed off or…”

“I’ve pissed off a lot of people.” With the taping of his ribs completed, Tyler tugs down his t-shirt and then drops heavily onto the couch. “But this had nothing to do with me. It was all about her. And I think we both know who’s behind it.”

“It’s not a coincidence that’s for sure,” Shaena pipes up, as she begins to investigate his injured hand, locating obvious fractures and displaced bones; the latter easily -yet extremely painfully- popped back into place. “He’s the first person I thought of.” She reaches into her kit for an elasticized medical bandage. I’ll wrap it for now. When we get you home I’ll find you something better. That’ll let you move your fingers more. I’d say that you definitely need a cast, but I know that’s out of the question.”

“I’ll get the cleaning people in here,” Koen says, as he returns to the seating area; once more perching himself on the edge of the coffee table. “Do it right up. Like nothing ever happened. Now, let’s get down to the important shit. Wanna tell me what the hell happened?”

“Not really,” Tyler admits, then frowns when Shaena pushes up the sleeve of his t-shirt and jabs the tip of a syringe into his bicep. “What the fuck.?!”

“Morphine. A damn good dose too. When we get back, I’ll write a script for something stronger than what you usually take. There’s no way they’re going to have you feeling better any time soon.”

“I don’t want anything else. I can’t…”

“We’ll keep an eye on you,” Koen assures him. “We won’t let you get out of control. Just let people take care of you, for fuck sakes. What did HAPPEN, Ty? What the fuck went down?”

He ignores the use of the annoying nickname and finishes the remains of the gatorade in one swallow. “I can’t even wrap my head around it, mate. I’m still struggling with it. Trying to piece it all together.”

“Just take your time,” Sheana gently encourages. “No rush. This isn’t going to be solved in the next hour or even the next day. So…”

“We were asleep. It was two thirty in the morning. I woke up because I heard something outside; sounded like stuff being banged around and dragged across the deck. Wasn’t sure if it was the wind or if some animals had gotten into the garbage; I forgot to put it in the garage before we went to bed. I thought maybe some kangaroos were tearing shit about. So I went out to check.”

Koen arches a quizzical brow. “Armed?”

“I didn’t know what the fuck I was going to find. If I was going to find ANYTHING. I packed the gun because Mark was getting way too close and I’ll protect Esme at all costs. Maybe some part of me was thinking he’d try some sneaky shit. That it was better to be safe than sorry. But I sure as fuck didn’t expect THAT.”

“So you went outside and…”

Tyler scowls. “Why are you questioning me like I’ve done something wrong? What is sounding like I’m being accused of something here? Why…?”

“No one is accusing you of anything,” Shaena assures him. “We just want to know what happened. I think we need to know, don’t you?”

“I brought a gun because that’s who I am. It’s ingrained me. I can’t completely shut that side of me off. No matter how hard I try. And I wanted to keep her safe. I wanted to know that if he did pull some shit, I did everything I could to protect her. And I tried. I fucking tried.”

“We’re not saying you didn’t.” She tends to creating a makeshift splint around his injured hand. “We’re not saying that at all.”

“Well it sure as fuck sounds like it. Like you’re wondering how the hell I let this happen. How I let them just take her.”

“Not wondering that at all,” Koen says. “I know you. I know how much you love that woman. That you’d do anything for her. Even give yourself. You wouldn’t just sit back and let something like this go down. I’m just trying to find out exactly what happened. That’s all, mate. I’m not accusing you of anything. You know I’d never do that.”

“I brought the gun in case I needed it. I didn’t want to be surprised by anything. Or anyone. I wanted to protect her. That’s all I wanted. And I couldn’t do it,” his voice cracks with emotion. “...I promised I would. That I ALWAYS would. And look what happened. Look what they did.”

“He doesn't need to talk about this right now,” Shaena addresses Koen. “It’s still too fresh and the shock hasn’t worn off. Getting him to talk about it THIS soon…”

“I told her I’d be right back. That I was just going outside to check on things. That there was nothing she needed to worry about. That I wouldn’t be gone long.”

“Why don’t you just try and rest?” Shaena suggests. “You need that more than anything right now. Getting yourself worked up isn’t going to do you any good. You’ve eaten and you’ve gotten something to drink and now you need to take it easy. Not to mention the morphine will be kicking in. I gave you a pretty strong dose. Even for your size. So why don’t you…”

“I told her.” He continues. “I said I’d be right back. And then I left her. I left her here. ALONE.”

“You didn’t know what was going to happen, mate,” Koen attempts to reason. “You had no clue. Don’t blame yourself. There’s nothing you could have done differently.”

“But I left her. By herself. I promised her I’d be back. I left her alone and look what happened. Look what the fuck happened! Look what they did! I don’t care what they did to me. But look what they did to her! They took her! Because I left her alone!”

Shaena tentatively reaches out to rub his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Tyler. None of this is your fault. They knew what they were doing. They knew they had to separate the two of you. And that they had to immobilize you. You didn’t stand a chance.”

“They have her. She’s gone. Because I left her.”

“He needs to rest,” The nurse informs Koen. “He can’t do this right now. This isn’t the right time.”

“Why don’t you just lie down for a few,” Koen suggests. “Until we tidy this place a bit and I get a hold of the cleaners. Just stretch out on the couch and close your eyes and…”

“I have to find her. I HAVE to. I promised her I would.”

“And you will,” Shaena says. “You DEFINITELY will. Please try and rest. You’ve been through hell. Try and get a little sleep. You need to take it easy.”

He grabs a hold of her hand as she prepares to step away.. “She’s always said that I’m the first person that’s ever made her feel safe. Protected. That she never even realized that she needed to feel those things. And now look. Look what I did. I failed. I failed HER.”

“No.” Reaching out, she clears the hair from his forehead with gentle fingertips. “You didn’t. You didn’t fail her. I don’t think you did. And I know for a fact she doesn’t think that either.”

“What if I can’t find her? Or what if I do and she’s…” He’s unable to continue; tears flowing freely as he drops his chin to his chest.

“It’s going to be alright.” Gathering him into her arms, she gently cradles the back of his head in her palm as he rests his brow against her stomach. “It’s all going to be okay. SHE’S going to be okay.”

#Tyler Rake #Extraction #Tyler Rake fan fiction #Extraction fan fiction #Rake Lives #Extraction 2 #Chris Hemsworth #Chris Hemsworth Extraction #Tyler Rake fan fic #Extraction fan fic #Tyler Rake x OFC #Esme Rake #Tyler and Esme series

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