Beholden (The Belonging Duet, #2)(21)

Jackson draws a breath and leans his head against mine. “I love you and I’ll try not to make you stab me in the leg.”

I laugh and kiss him, “I hope you try hard because I’ve refrained a few times already and I can’t promise I have much willpower left.”

Before he can respond the nurse appears.

“Okay, Mr. Cole. You’re all clear. You have all the medication for the ride home. Dr. Allison already spoke with the doctor in New York who’s going to follow up. All I need is your signature on this form and you can head home.” She smiles brightly.

Jackson signs the form and we exit the hospital that’s kept him alive. The ride to the airport is quiet as we both enjoy the freedom of the outside world. It’s been a rough few weeks and it’s not over yet. Luckily, it’s not a long ride and we get on the plane easily, thanks to two sailors who rode with us to help. I knew I couldn’t lift him, so the SEAL team in Germany sent help.

We head to the bedroom in the back of the plane and Jackson sleeps holding my hand. They gave him a mixture of painkillers for the long journey, and thankfully, he didn’t argue about taking them because he knew it would be rough. I lie here looking at him and allow myself this time to let out the emotions of the past few weeks. I let the tears fall and watch each one stain the pillow. They’re not tears of weakness, they’re tears of strength. There is no shame because this has been hell. I’ve never been more scared yet determined in my life.

I run my fingers through his hair as he dreams. I listen to his breathing and marvel at him. This strong but damaged man who loves me. Jackson came into my life like a force of nature. Pushing me to feel and refusing to give me a chance to run away anymore. I’m sure I’ll run again, only this time I’ll run to him.





“Jackson!” I shake him as he’s gasping and clutching his chest.

This is the fifth night in a row he’s had a thrashing nightmare. Even with the sleeping pills the new doctor prescribed, he still wakes in a pool of sweat and doesn’t remember what happened—or at least that’s what he says.

“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” He pushes the hair out of my eyes and cups my cheek.

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” I ask as I start to shuffle out of bed.

He reaches for the pills on the side of the bed but grabs his leg. “Fuck,” Jackson groans as his hand wraps around his thigh.

“I’ll get you some medicine.” I scramble by the bed trying to find the pills. “I think we should call the doctor. It’s getting worse.” The nightmares and the pain seem to be getting more consistent. Partly because he refuses to listen to a damn word that anyone says. I catch him without the walker trying to maneuver to the bathroom.

“No doctor. I’m fine!” he lashes out through his clenched jaw.

The first week he was home everything was fine. He seemed to understand his limitations and accepted my help freely. Now though, because he feels better, the aggravation overrides any understanding he previously had.

“Right … sorry, I forget you don’t need anyone,” I say with sarcasm. I’m over his crap. I grab the medication and put the pills in his hand.

Such a jackass.

He grabs my arm before I can walk away. I don’t look at him. I’m so pissed and tired of his attitude. It hasn’t quite been two weeks yet and I’m ready to call for a live-in nurse and go home. He gently rubs his thumb against my arm.

“Please look at me,” he pleads.

I look up but I’m pissed off. This isn’t easy for either of us, but there’s only one of us being considerate—and it’s not him.

“You don’t get it. My head is all f*cked up.”

“I don’t get it because you won’t talk to me,” I say quietly, trying not to let this escalate into another fight. “Tell me then, what are the dreams of?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Jackson shakes his head.

He keeps telling me they’re nothing or he can’t explain. I hear him though. I hear his screams for Mark and Aaron. When he yells about the shooter or cries out in pain, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they’re about. I’ve kept that information to myself knowing he doesn’t want to talk about it. He grows more and more frustrated with each dream. More sullen and pushes himself harder to get past this.

“You don’t get to treat me like shit because you’re hurting. I’m tired too. I’m busting my ass working, getting everything in line for the launch. Then I come here and you’re moody and crabby. I know this isn’t easy for you. I know you’re tired and in pain. So don’t tell me I don’t get it. But you’re taking it out on me, babe, and I’m on your side.” I let it all out as I fight back the urge to cry.

“All I remember is the end with extreme pain in my leg or arm. So I’m going to assume it’s the shooting,” he says, surprising me that he even said that much.

“Jackson, you went through a lot in the last month. You lost a friend, and you were shot … It’s a lot.”

“I have you though.” He looks away and swallows the pills.

Standing before him, I take a deep breath and focus on him weighing each word before I say them. “Yes, you do—but I’m getting close to calling Mark—or your mom. You’ve gone through two nurses in a week. That’s not normal and it’s not you,” I say the last part softly.