Her Forbidden Hero Read Free Page A

hurt his kids, literally. Brady and Alyssa had shown up at his house with more than one bruise or cut over the years. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t planning to visit the old man.
    Marco crouched down and sliced the blade of the utility knife along the seam of the next box.
    The Scotts’ experience, wanting to stand up for other people who couldn’t stand up for themselves—that’s what made him want to join the military. Now who did he stand up for?
    “Aw, hell.” A headache flared up under his left ear. He sank to his knees and closed his eyes, concentrating on the breathing exercises he’d been taught. In for two. Out for two. Over and over until his head stopped swimming. Opening his eyes, he found himself kneading at his left arm, the one that had been torn apart from bicep to wrist by a booby-trapped explosive he barely remembered. Surgeons had rebuilt his arm as good as could be expected, especially since the nerve damage was so extensive they’d initially doubted he’d have coordinated use of his hand, but the tendon transplant never healed right. His fingers remained weak, and his elbow was stiff as hell.
    But the shit with his brain was worse. It blanked out a big spot in his memory and tormented him with haunting nightmares and frustrating apraxia, the occasional inability to say a word and communicate his thoughts. And surgeons didn’t have a fix for those.
    All of which gave him a one-way ticket to separation and retirement.
    Do not pass go.
    Do not collect two hundred dollars.
    Marco ripped the box open and removed the bottles, lining them up next to him. Seeing Alyssa again made him feel trapped between two worlds but not fully a part of either. In those few short moments they’d spoken, her very presence had pulled him back in time to when he knew who he was and what he wanted. When he believed he could do or be anything.
    And then she’d said how glad she was that he was home, and it was like a sucker punch to the gut—because all he’d wanted for ten long months was to be back out there, doing what he’d trained to do. Which was never going to happen.
    Letting go of that man and those dreams… He’d never find his way to being okay with that.
    On a curse, Marco tossed the empty box behind him.
    This right here was the problem. Twenty minutes of Alyssa’s presence had him all up in his head, thinking about things he really didn’t want to be thinking about. Stack. Count. Beer. Wine. On tap. By the bottle. Red. White. These were the thoughts he could handle. These were the thoughts he wanted to handle.
    Not how he could barely stand the sight of his own reflection.
    Not how he’d succumbed to the pain and weakness.
    Not how every fucking thing had changed.
    And sure as hell not how three deaths lay at his feet.
    Hands pounded a rhythm on the bar top. “Hey, lunch break?”
    Marco spun on his heel and darted up, braced for battle. His knee smacked into the neck of a bottle sticking out of the recycle bin on the floor beside him. Like an avalanche, the bottle and two others careened over the edge. He flinched at the crash and spray of glass. “Shit. Sorry,” he said, looking sideways at Pete on the far side of the bar.
    “No worries, kid. I’ll grab the broom.”
    Marco started collecting the big pieces, heart racing ridiculously in his chest, and tossed them one by one into the bin. If this was what her presence was going to do to him, he’d rather she—
    “Here, I’ll help.” Alyssa crouched in front of him, reaching around a box to retrieve a shard.
    “Don’t,” he snapped.
    She jerked back.
    Marco clenched his fists, hating his jumpiness, his short-fused temper, his loss of control. “Why are you here?”
    Alyssa brushed her hands on her thighs as she stood, then retreated from behind the bar.
    He rose and faced her. She eyed him like he was an unpredictable animal. Good. “I just meant, what are you doing now? Why are you still in the bar?” He pressed his fingers into