Chapter Thirteen

As the afternoon sunshine faded into evening’s dreary grey, Kyle stretched beneath the heavy down comforter. Sleep had finally left his body, but the bed’s comfort held him captive. Along with the faint perfume that clung to the pillows and marked Aimee’s presence. How easy it would be to settle into routine. To pretend he could spend the rest of his years not needing someone he could confide in. Someone who was strong enough to share his darkest secrets.

If he thought for one minute he could find satisfaction in a half-empty marriage, he’d stay in a heartbeat. He loved holding her, treasured the incredible way her gentle kiss could make him forget all the horrors he’d seen. All the death he’d not only witnessed, but also created. Last night he knew that safe haven. He could experience it again, if he were willing to sacrifice his own needs. And while there were many things he would give up for Aimee, the months after her miscarriage, when he had swallowed his worries and the danger he confronted every waking minute—he had learned he couldn’t exist that way.

Which made the conversation he must have with her tonight all that more unavoidable. He needed her to realize they didn’t have a future. Needed her to understand he could never be the person she married six years ago. Beyond his injuries, Denton had permanently damaged him. Kyle had murdered. Not in the name of war. Not as a means of providing security to his country. He had killed his friend outright, and justified it as merciful.

Worse, his lapse in judgment had brought two others to their death and injured Conner as well.

Hours of drifting between sleep and wakefulness led him to one conclusion—the only way to make Aimee comprehend and stop pushing for a reconciliation was to tell her the truth. Walk her through that afternoon in Saif’s home and make her see, once and for all, even if his career was destroyed and he didn’t need the outlet he once had in his wife, he didn’t deserve her forgiveness.

Bells tinkled downstairs, signaling the opening of the front door. Kyle muttered, not wanting to leave the downy comfort, but knowing he must. He grimaced as he pushed himself into a sitting position. His right leg still ached, his knee protesting any position but fully extended. He leaned over to massage the offended joint.

“Kyle? Are you awake?” Her voice carried up the stairs like music.

“Yeah,” he called.

“I’ll be right up. Need anything while I’m down here?”

“I’m good.”

Plastic crinkled in the surrounding silence, telling him her shopping spree had been a success. Guilt niggled at the base of his spine. He should have done something for her for Christmas. His lack of mobility was no excuse—if nothing else, he could have asked Betty Renfield to pick up something Aimee would like. He hadn’t, though, and with the stores closing in a few hours, and what looked to be snow clouds building beyond the window, he couldn’t impose on Betty now.

He supposed gifts didn’t matter. In a short while, Aimee would walk out the door. If she waited out the holidays to go to San Antonio, she’d stay with Conner, or Mom Walsh. Either way, she wouldn’t be here, and she wouldn’t care whether he’d gotten her anything for Christmas or not.

Kyle shifted position, easing his legs to the floor. Walking hadn’t been much easier the few times he’d wandered to the toilet than it had been last night. But he couldn’t avoid the stairs. He didn’t want to have this conversation in their bedroom, didn’t want the distraction of the years of intimate pleasure they’d found in this bed.

Gritting his teeth, he stood. Two steps took him to his dresser where he found a pair of loose lounge pants and pulled them on. As Aimee ascended the stairs, the treads creaked. Her footfalls, however, stopped on the landing outside the bedroom door. More rustling drifted to his ears, along with the rich low tone of a wide-mouthed bell.

Kyle chuckled. If Aimee had things her way, their entire house would be decorated in Christmas bells and snowmen year round.

“I’m coming,” she assured him. “Just finishing up something.”

Curious, Kyle wandered to the doorway and braced a shoulder on the dark wood frame. She bustled around the banister, weaving a thick strand of fake green foliage through the balusters and around the smooth railing. All the way up the stairs, she’d wound the greenery. Every three vertical bars, she had pinned a bright red bow. As she worked, she hummed Silver Bells.

His chest tightened uncomfortably as he watched. She looked so happy. So absolutely content. Christmas hadn’t always found her so cheery, however. The first one they spent together as a couple, he’d had to prod her into the holiday spirit. Her broken childhood hadn’t left much room for frivolous decorations. But once he lugged home a wreath, she quickly caught on. In a normal year, one where he was at home not overseas, she began nudging him to drag the decorations out of the basement the morning after Thanksgiving.

In a normal year, her happiness would have brought him joy. Now, it only reinforced his suspicion that she’d read too much into last night.

Hating himself for what he was about to do, Kyle hobbled to the loveseat against the wall and sat down. Quick and simple. Spit it out.

She glanced over her shoulder with a welcoming smile. “You didn’t need to come in here. I said I’d be there.”

“I needed to get out of bed.”

“Oh, well, in that case, let me get this wreath centered. I brought home Thai carryout. I’ll bring it up in a jiffy—we can eat in here.” Opening a sack, she pulled out a wreath of garland and white-painted pinecones. The low ringing he had heard came from the large bell that dangled from the bottom.

As she fluffed the branches, Kyle dropped his gaze to his bare feet. Keep it quick, Garland. Don’t drag this out. He opened his mouth, closed it. Swallowing, he wetted his dry throat. “I killed a man.”

Her hands stilled over the wreath, but she didn’t turn around. The long dark hair cascading down her back made it easier for Kyle to forge ahead. He focused on her narrow shoulders. “I looked him in the eye and pulled the trigger. I watched him die.”

In slow motion, she lowered the wreath to the carpet and turned to look at him. Kyle braced for the condemnation in her eyes.

Instead, Aimee shrugged one shoulder. “You were at war. You aren’t exactly supposed to invite the enemy to barbeque on the back deck.”

Kyle blinked. She had no idea how close to the truth she was. Countless times he and Sind Krait had met with Saif for the Afghanistan version of barbeque and decks. He pushed the rising image of Saif’s face aside. War or not, Aimee wasn’t hearing him.

Time to drive the nail into his coffin. He took a deep breath and let it out over the span of several heavy heartbeats. Quietly, he added, “He wasn’t my enemy. I killed Denton.”

Her ghastly look of horror and shocked outcry didn’t come. Nor did tears and accusations. Instead, Aimee crossed the distance between them and sat by his side. One hand she tucked between her knees. The other, she rested on his thigh. Her quiet gaze held questions, but to Kyle’s absolute disbelief, she said nothing at all.

****

Aimee waited, silently encouraging him, knowing how she reacted was critical to whether Kyle continued or not. Questions pounded against her skull. Screamed for release. Why? What happened? What did Denton do? Had he compromised the mission? Had he betrayed the team? On and on they drilled into her brain. But this was Kyle’s burden to shed, and whatever pace he chose—even if he said nothing more—she must respect.

She rubbed her palm down the length of his thigh.

Kyle braced one elbow on his knee and sank his forehead into his hand. “I killed him, Aimee. Two hours earlier, I was laughing with him. We were meeting Saif. The man in the pictures.” He ran his hand over his stubble-covered chin, then squeezed his temples between thumb and forefinger and hid his face again.

Aimee didn’t move. Her hand stilled. She barely breathed.

“Saif was our source. He was going to lead us to our target. We’d been working with him for two years.” He drew in a deep breath, blew it out hard. When he spoke next, grief thickened his words. “I trusted him.”

At the simple remark, Aimee closed her eyes. Betrayed. Oh, God, Kyle’s worst fear. He knew sources could only be trusted so far, but Kyle was smart. He picked up on oddities. For someone to dupe him, he had given seldom placed, true trust. She squeezed his thigh, signaling in the only way she could think of, that she understood.

“Something was off. I knew it… I fucking knew he wasn’t right. And what did I do? I sat there. It was my responsibility to look out for my team, and I blew us up.” His jaw worked as he swallowed down threatening emotion.

Then, Kyle lost the battle. Doubling over, he buried his head in both hands, and an anguished sob broke from his throat. Aimee’s heart shredded at the bitter sound. In seven years of life with him, she’d seen him cry at funerals, shared his grief over the loss of their unborn child, but not once had she ever witnessed such raw, unfettered emotion. Uncertain how to offer comfort, she pulled her hand off his thigh and rubbed the broad expanse of his back.

The gesture unraveled him further. Words came out in a broken, jumbled mess. Bits and pieces of the events got lost in ugly tears. His shoulders heaved, his body shook. And somehow, she managed to comprehend what exactly had happened the day his leg had nearly been blown off. Taliban insurgents tortured Denton. Knowing he wouldn’t live, Kyle gave him the quick death he desired. An act only a saint could have performed without lingering effects. They were brothers. Maybe not as close as Kyle and Walsh had once been, but Denton, Parker, and Jones were Kyle’s family.

Worse, Conner had stopped Kyle from eating the bullet that would have let him escape the necessary execution and what Kyle perceived as his failure to bring his team out alive. Conner understood. Hell, who wouldn’t? She understood why Kyle couldn’t look Conner in the eye.

Only Kyle had one thing grossly wrong. He hadn’t failed. He had done his job, as he understood it, and given the circumstances, she could find no fault in his actions.

She wrapped her arms around him, drew him into her embrace. For once, Kyle didn’t resist. His arms wound around her, holding on fiercely.

“He should have left me there, Aimee. Left me there to die.”

“No,” she whispered as she caught his face and tipped his red-eyed gaze to hers. “He brought you home. To me.” With her thumbs, she wiped away his tears. “To us, Kyle.”

On a soggy sniffle, he shook his head. “There is no us. We’re divorced. I fucked that up too.”

But he never told her why… The thought flitted through Aimee’s brain, and she swatted it aside like a pesky fly. That didn’t matter right now. Whatever answer he gave if she should ask, would be so filled with self-repulsion, it would skew beyond proportions. That was a different discussion than the one they were presently having, and she’d tackle it later.

“You’ve got to go. I’m not what—or who—you think I am anymore. Something inside me died over there. And all that’s left is ugly. I don’t even have the chance to go back over there and disappear in the desert.”

Aimee leaned forward and brushed her mouth across his. “I don’t want you to disappear.”

Brief annoyance flicked across his expression, and he pulled away with a snort. “Yeah. Say that again when I fall down the stairs. When I can’t cut wood for winter. When I can’t get out of the goddamn bed for a full fucking day.”

“Kyle,” Aimee whispered. Scooting close enough to his side that their thighs touched, she reached between his knees and picked up his right hand. As she pressed it to her heart, she settled her opposite fingers under his chin and turned his head toward her. “For better or worse, remember? I made the vow. I meant it.”

“You’re not bound to those words anymore. Go to San Antonio. Go live your life.”

Holding his gaze steady, she shook her head. “No. I never broke my vows. The court took them from me.”

He blinked, and a solitary teardrop rolled down his cheek. Jade green eyes filled with a strange mix of puzzlement, disbelief, and wonder. His voice was hoarse as he asked, “Why, Aimee?”

What he asked went so much deeper than her refusal to sign the divorce papers. In his broken stare, his swollen eyes, his wet eyelashes, she heard the cry from his soul. Why him? Why stay?

Why forgive and accept him as he was?

She answered with the only truth she knew. “Because I love you.”