Enemy Zone: Enemies-to-Lovers Standalone Healing-Love Military Romance (Trident Rescue) Read online

  Bar was the only one of the five of them who’d had a girlfriend, then a wife. And though they’d given him nothing but shit over it at first, Bar’s contentment far outweighed any of their teasing. Of all of them, Bar had been the most at peace with everything that had gone down overseas, and he’d come right out and said the reason for it was Adrianna.

  “I remember watching Bar’s widow sob at his funeral,” Cullen said. Besides, from everything he’d seen about Sky, Cullen knew he was a bad match for her. Sky pretty much disdained everything he held in high regard, and God knew Cullen had his own baggage. It would be a bad mix.

  Not that Cullen planned to ever mix permanently with any woman. He couldn’t inflict himself on someone. It’d be a nightmare. Not to mention unfair. He wasn’t fit for a relationship and never would be.

  “I scare her.” The words escaped Cullen before he could stop them. “When I ran into her at the Rescue yesterday, I hadn’t expected anyone to be there. She surprised me, and I…yelled at her. She gaped at me like I was a knife-wielding serial killer.”

  Eli cocked a brow. “But she patched you up anyway,” he said, letting the words settle for a heartbeat before stepping away to release the tension and starting them back to Sky’s room at too peppy a pace.

  A tech carrying a suture kit appeared at Sky’s door just as Cullen and Eli did. As Eli—who’d efficiently had someone bring his car over to the hospital for him—called Jaz out to take her home, Cullen placed the Frappuccino on a shelf and walked up to stand beside Sky while the tech laid out his tools.

  “We can go home after this,” Cullen said, laying a hand on Sky’s shoulder to feel tension vibrating through her whole body—and flowing directly into his. Stitches. It was just a few stitches, not a blown-off limb. And yet…it bothered him in a way he wished it didn’t.

  “Right.” She tried and failed to sound peppy.

  “Let’s get you numbed up,” the tech told Sky. In dark blue scrubs, the man seemed competent enough—but he wasn’t one of the staff Cullen knew personally. Glancing at the name tag, Cullen saw Denver ER stamped into the plastic. A recent transfer, then. That explained the new face. “Small stick.”

  Sky gasped as Denver slid the needle in, her eyes glistening. It hurt. Of course it hurt. But it didn’t have to hurt so much.

  “Slow up pushing the lido,” Cullen said. “And I mean by a fucking factor of ten.”

  Denver glanced up at him wearily, but did slow the injection, giving the tissue more time to absorb the liquid.

  “Did you buffer it?” Cullen demanded.

  Denver sighed. “Buffer it?”

  “Sodium bicarbonate. It—”

  “Buffers the pH to mitigate the sting. We do that for pediatrics,” Denver finished for him. “Sir, can you step back, please? You’re blocking the light.”

  “You should do it for everyone,” Cullen snapped, reaching overhead to adjust the light for the tech’s convenience.

  Sky hissed as Denver finished up the injection, Cullen leaning down so low toward her that his chest nearly rested on her strawberry hair. With his hands braced on either side of Sky, he watched Denver lay the first suture, go to start the second, then push himself away from Sky altogether.

  “Sir? Sir, would you like to take over?” Denver asked, meeting Cullen’s gaze without flinching. “Because right now, your choices are to suture Ms. Reynolds yourself or get out of the room so I can work.”

  “Sorry,” Sky told the tech before Cullen could respond to that. “Cullen has issues with letting people do their own jobs. It’s a personal quirk of his.”

  Stiffening, Cullen took a full pace backward and leaned against the wall behind him. A more than just compromise, as far as he was concerned. Denver, apparently knowing better than to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory, grunted and went back to his work. Admittedly, the man was competent, but the gash would likely leave a scar anyway.

  The problem was that this whole situation had been unnecessary. Feeling his hands curl into fists, Cullen strode out of the treatment room before his suddenly flashing memories of seeing Sky being thrown into a wall made him do something foolish. Breathing deeply through his nose, Cullen tried and failed to slow his heart’s pounding against his ribs. How could someone as intelligent as Sky think sprinting headfirst into danger to get Frank tabloid fodder was a good idea? Goddamn it, if—

  “It’s all right.” Waddling over, Michelle patted Cullen’s shoulder. “My husband passed out cold when I was having my first one. And I don’t mean the birth—he only made it long enough to see them start the IV. We never like to see those—”

  “One more word out of your mouth, Michelle”—Cullen’s voice dropped menacingly low—“and I will make sure HR stretches your maternity leave to a full six months starting yesterday.”

  18

  Sky

  Cullen opens the door to his truck for me, his hand warm on my back as he helps me inside. For all the prickliness he works so hard to show the world, the moments when he lets his guard down show a different side of him altogether. One that Cullen seems determined to hide most of the time. The man has been oddly quiet since walking out of the room in the middle of my getting stitched up, but if the wave of exhaustion now hitting me is anything like what’s rolling over him, this isn’t the time to ask what happened. Actually, I don’t even have the energy to ask. Or to buckle my seat belt.

  Reaching across me, Cullen slides the belt into place, his clean, spicy scent washing over me.

  “I could have done that,” I mutter.

  “And I’m a Disney princess,” says Cullen. Walking over to the driver’s side, the man pulls a bottle of water from his pocket, opens the cap, and hands it over, along with a dose of 800 mg ibuprofen.

  I swallow the pain meds, leaning back against the comfortable leather seat of the car as Cullen sets us quietly into motion. My eyes drift closed to the silence, the white noise of the motor, and the feeling of Cullen beside me lulling me into an exhausted sleep.

  I open my eyes to the sound of a garage door opening, Cullen’s truck climbing nimbly into a massive three-car garage that is most certainly not on Lincoln Drive. I sit up quickly, rubbing my face. “Where are we?”

  “My garage.” After getting out of the driver’s seat, Cullen walks around to open my door.

  “You said you were taking me home.”

  “I never said whose home,” says Cullen. Unbuckling my seat belt for me, the man starts to slide his hands beneath me. Another second, and I know I’ll be in his arms—the thought of which is too tempting for comfort.

  “I want to walk on my own,” I mutter.

  He stops, his face tight as he watches me climb out of the passenger’s seat, as if it hurts him to watch me struggle. Strange. I would have thought he wouldn’t miss the chance to needle me with another variation of I told you so, but for some reason, just this moment seems to be a line not to cross for him.

  I swallow. “You could have taken me to my place.”

  “I didn’t want to,” says Cullen.

  My gaze snaps to him.

  The man crosses his arms over a broad, muscular chest. “Your place is a shit hole not fit for the mice who live there,” he says, back to being his smug self. “It’s also about three blocks away from where you just got four people arrested. So how about you don’t show your face on Lincoln Drive for a bit?”

  He has a point, but then again—he also has a bank account. I’m not living on Lincoln Drive because I choose to. I’m renting what I can afford. But that’s a conversation for a different day. At this point, I’ll happily curl up on a doormat if I can just go to sleep in peace.

  I follow him through a minimalist-looking foyer painted in soothing bluish tones and decorated only by a series of stainless-steel coat hooks and past a massive open living space with a fireplace I could probably curl up and sleep in. Walking down a well-lit hallway with a single piece of abstract black-and-white artwork, we finally stop at what Cullen tells me i
s the guest bedroom.

  I eye the tall queen-size bed while Cullen pulls out a set of towels and a large gray shirt he says I can sleep in. Given how massive the man is, the shirt is bound to come to midthigh.

  “That door right there is the bathroom,” he says, resting a muscled forearm against the doorframe. “My room is at the end of the hall if you need anything. I’ll leave the hallway light on.”

  Whatever reservations I had about staying the night disappear as I settle onto the highest-end mattress I’ve ever felt and dissolve into sleep without bothering to change or take off my shoes.

  The next time I open my eyes, my shoes are no longer on my feet, and the cool cotton sheets beneath me brush against my bare thighs. Sitting up with a start, I pat myself down to discover I’m wearing that gray shirt Cullen had brought, my clothing nowhere in the room. My heart pauses for a beat, then jumps into a gallop as I feel around in the dark for my phone.

  It’s there. On the bedstead. Plugged into a charger, 3:23 a.m. glowing in big white numerals on the screen. All right. So Cullen had actually undressed me sometime after I fell asleep. Which was overstepping things, but somehow nice anyway. Pulling off the thick down comforter, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and wince at my aching body. Still, I’m lucky to be alive. A tremor runs through me, starting at the base of my stomach and running up my shoulders.

  Get it together, Sky. Slipping onto the floor, I walk over to the bathroom—which is larger than my bedroom on Lincoln Drive—and wash my face, the sound of the running water as soothing as its coolness. When I turn off the faucet, however, a grunting sound, like a bitten-back scream, catches my ear from down the hall.

  I walk gingerly to my door, the hardwood floor cool beneath my bare feet. Peering into the hallway, I see a long stretch of parquet floor and a tall white table displaying a pewter chess set, ending with a door at the very end. Cullen’s bedroom. The bitten-back scream comes again, escaping from beneath the door. My breathing quickens as I head toward the sound, my hand hesitating on the round door handle.

  “Cullen?” I call, pushing the door open slowly to behold a battle scene. In the light streaming from the hallway, I see sheets and tossed pillows crumpled on the floor. The blanket, which I imagine started its evening atop Cullen’s grand king bed, is now a balled-up mass in the corner. And in the middle of a luxurious mattress, Cullen’s whole body is tense as if curling protectively over something while invisible blows rain onto his shoulders.

  With him dressed only in boxer shorts, I can see every muscle coiled beneath taut skin as he thrashes, grunting and fighting whatever nightmare is holding him in its grip. My chest tightens, my mouth dry as I approach the bed. I don’t know what Cullen might do if I wake him now, but I don’t know that I can bear to walk away either.

  As the man recoils from an invisible blow, my stomach clenches.

  “Cullen.” I reach for his shoulder, ready to jump away if he wakes swinging. “Cullen. Cullen, wake up! Please.”

  His eyes snap open just as his hand closes into a fist, the man pulling the blow as he jerks awake. Sweat mats his short-cropped hair and slides along the groove of his back. He twists to me, his chest heaving from the unseen battle, his eyes sweeping the room before finally focusing on my face. “Skylar.” His voice is gruff. “What’s wrong?”

  “I…” I heard you in pain, and I couldn’t bear it. “I had a nightmare.”

  His eyes narrow on me. “Did you?”

  Wishing I was a better liar, I bite my lip and shrug. “A lot happened.”

  He rubs his face, his head shaking. “Do me a favor, Reynolds. Never play poker.”

  I give him a half-hearted chuckle, but the truth of it is that I was only half lying before. With the worst of the fatigue behind me, I fear what awaits me the next time I close my eyes as much as I fear hearing Cullen scream again. “I don’t want to be alone tonight,” I say softly.

  For a moment, he says nothing, studying my face as my pulse continues to pound. Then slowly, he extends a honed arm toward me. “Come here.”

  An invitation. An order. Whatever it is, my treacherous body responds to it with a wave of relief. Climbing up onto the bed, the mattress yielding gently beneath my knees, I let Cullen draw me up against him. As he settles onto his back, tucking my head securely under his chin, his clean male musk washes over me like a security blanket.

  Closing my eyes, I brace myself for flashes of Undershirt throwing me into the house siding, but instead only feel the rise and fall of Cullen’s chest. With my face resting against him, the slowing steady beat of his heart chases my thoughts away. Putting my arm on his chest, I find myself slipping into unconsciousness, Cullen’s body slowly relaxing beside mine.

  19

  Sky

  I wake to a mix of blissful softness urging me to slip back into unconsciousness pitted against the ache in every damn muscle in my body. The aches win, bringing me back to the surface against my will. I blink my eyes open, expecting to see my dingy, dark apartment, and instead catch sight of the opposite.

  Sunlight pours in through windows so clean, it’s like there’s no pane, the brilliant snow-capped summit of Pikes Peak visible in the distance. God, what a view.

  Cullen’s view.

  Cullen’s house. Cullen’s bed.

  I remember his hot, tense body easing into sleep around me, the feeling of being cocooned in safety settling around me as securely as the down comforter. Then the rest of the night rushes back as well. Falling asleep in Cullen’s bedroom. Waking. Finding him in the midst of one hell of a nightmare, his muscles coiled and flinching from invisible attack.

  The investigative journalist inside me itches to know what can possibly haunt a man as strong as Cullen, but my heart just aches over the bitter helplessness of watching him thrash in pain. What do you see when you close your eyes, Cullen? What—or who—are you trying to shield in that nightmare of yours?

  If he were anyone else—if he were a normal sane person—I’d just ask. But with Cullen, my gut tells me that what I saw last night wasn’t ever meant to be witnessed. If I go about figuring this out the wrong way, if I press too hard or open too wide, Cullen will ensure he is never ever vulnerable around me again. And for some reason, the thought of that happening bothers me.

  A lot.

  I know without having to look that Cullen is no longer there. The bed feels too large and empty. I wonder how much of his leaving while I still slept was to keep away the awkward moment of us staring at each other across the sheets. It’s for the best, of course, and yet a jolt of regret still shoots through my chest.

  Blocking my eyes from the streaming sun, I swing my feet over the side of the bed and discover a clear garment bag hanging on the wrought iron railing of the headboard. A bright orange sticky label on the parcel declares Express Delivery: Overnight. Frowning at the clear film, I see a pair of feminine jeans, a long-sleeve top, and several other items that are most certainly not meant for Cullen’s body. And just in case that isn’t clear enough, a second—roughly scribbled—note attached to the bed reads: Reynolds.

  My heart quickens slightly as I pull out the clothes to discover that they’re not just jeans, but Gucci’s, and in my exact size. Shit. I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled. But given that I came home in borrowed hospital scrubs last night, I’m not above pulling on the clothes—carefully hiding the tags instead of taking them off altogether. If Cullen can give me a ride back to my place, I can change, and he can return these.

  Walking past a walk-in closet that rivals my basement apartment in size, I engage all my self-control not to give myself a tour of Cullen’s wardrobe, and instead veer off into the master bathroom. One step into the giant space and I’m barraged by a sea of gray-and-navy-blue tile. In the corner, a shower with a waterfall nozzle beckons me inside, especially since the cabinet above the toilet is full of white towels. Stopping first by the long ceramic vanity, I cringe at my reflection. I look how I feel—and I hurt.

&nb
sp; Opening Cullen’s medicine cabinet, I pray the man has a stash of ibuprofen within reach. Instead, I’m presented with a bottle of aftershave, razor refills, deodorant, and, uh…an extra-large box of condoms. The one and only medication in sight is a bottle of prazosin. I pause, my gaze hovering on the typed prescription lettering. Yeah. I know prazosin. My father had the same damn prescription, and it did nothing to stop him from smacking me and my mom around.

  Slowly closing the cabinet, I rub my face, the pieces of Cullen’s puzzle coming together. The nightmares. The short fuse. The way he’d reacted to the drunk at Hannigan’s. PTSD. The realization squeezes my chest, everything inside me simultaneously longing to wrap my arms comfortingly around him and run the hell away.

  My mother always said my father’s mental health issues weren’t his fault. But they weren’t the fault of the seven-year-old me either, yet I was the one in the ER.

  I shake myself free of my memories, really not wanting to think about all that right now. No, what I need right now is to shower and seek out the owner of my temporary accommodation.

  Trekking through the hallway ten minutes later, I pass the living area with its awesome fireplace, but don’t see Cullen anywhere. I find a nice-size kitchen with a copper pot rack and gleaming stainless-steel appliances, but the room looks so immaculate that I wonder if it goes mostly unused. Finally, I follow a series of thumps and grunts to an exercise room overlooking a sunny terrace and find my host in the middle of walloping the crap out of a punching bag.

  In a pair of loose gray shorts and a sweat-soaked sleeveless tee, Cullen dances around the punching bag with a predator’s deadly grace. Each time he moves, his coiled muscles shift smoothly beneath slick skin, the speed and force coming from each blow sending vibrations through the room. Thump. Thump. Thump.