“Coen . . .” I swallowed roughly and looked away when his thumb brushed against my jaw. “I’m trying to save all of us a lot of hurt down the road. This can’t work between us.”

“How do you figure? Because last night and this morning, I could’ve sworn you were thinking the opposite.”

My cheeks heated and I tried to push away the memories that kept assaulting me from our time together. “Almost all of our conversations begin with arguments. Have you realized that?”

“Yeah,” he said without missing a beat. “And how have all of those arguments ended? Just like this one. With you in my arms, and with you fighting what you want.”

“That’s not something to be proud of, Coen. It can’t be healthy for ­people in a relationship to have most their conversations start as fights. What if Parker starts catching on to that? And I don’t willingly go into your arms, you always back me up against something so I don’t have any other option!”

Coen just smiled and shook his head once as he got somehow, impossibly, closer to me. “We argue because you’re a bitch and I’m a dick, and neither of us know how to keep our mouths shut. We argue because you’re usually fighting me on something, or trying to protect yourself and Parker, and I’m trying to get you to see how ridiculous you’re being. We argue because that’s our way of talking through things. We get loud, yeah, but we don’t scream at each other, we don’t throw shit, and you will never in your life see me raising a hand to you or any woman. So we argue? Who fucking cares, Reagan? At least we don’t have to worry about our first fight. At least we don’t have to worry about communication issues. This is how we talk, and when we’ve talked everything out, we’re fine.”

“Always the charmer, Coen. You really think you can call me a bitch, and I’ll just swoon or something because you tried to justify it?”

He looked at me for a few seconds before whispering, “Yeah, Duchess, I do.”

“That’s not how—­” My words cut off on a high-­pitched whimper when his mouth pressing firmly against mine, and it took a few seconds of giving into his kiss before I pushed him back. “No, I’m not done being mad!”

Coen’s dark eyes held mine, the humor now gone. “You’re not mad at me, Reagan. You’re trying to protect yourself again, and in doing that you’ve tried to find reasons to be pissed. If anyone should be mad here, it’s me. You tried to take you and Parker from me because you thought I would run. You tried to take away my say in our relationship. If I really thought you wanted to break up, then this wouldn’t be happening. But I know what you’re trying to do, and I’m not going to let you.”

“I’m—­”

“Scared. You’re scared, baby, I know.”

My jaw trembled harder and tears pricked at the back of my eyes.

“We can have this argument a thousand more times than we already have, Duchess, and I’m still going to be here, fighting for our chance. What Parker said scared you today. Not me. You. But like I said, I know you don’t want to break up. I know you want this just as bad as I do. We can go back a few steps, we can slow things down. I won’t come over, I won’t stay the night . . . whatever it takes for you not to be scared.”

“We can’t, Coen, that’s just it. Did you not hear what I said to Keegan? Everything’s fast with us, but fast feels right when I’m with you. I just—­” I cut off on a strained sob and dropped my face into my hands. “This isn’t some insecurity of mine that you will leave me. This isn’t me being ridiculous because I don’t want to lose you. I can’t have Parker lose you, do you understand? I can’t have him fall in love with you and lose you! It seems dumb to you, it may seem dumb to everyone . . . but his heart is my priority . . . not mine.”

Coen moved my hands from my face, and tilted my head back so he could brush the tears back. He stayed silent for long minutes as he cradled my face in his hands, and I braced myself for when he would finally agree with me. Agree that he couldn’t do this.

“I can’t promise a future, Reagan,” he began softly. “I can’t promise a future because I’ve seen too many lives cut short. Nothing is certain. But with what you know about me, with how I feel about you; you can be assured that leaving you—­leaving the woman who silences my demons—­is the last thing I want. You asked me why I pushed so hard for this . . . do you not see me still fighting for us? Fighting after only a ­couple weeks for something that neither of us can guarantee?”

Blinking away more tears, I looked up into his pained expression, and everything in me ached at the hurt I saw there.

“You’re terrified of what will happen to you and Parker if I leave . . . have you even realized that you already gave me a taste of what it would be like for you to leave?”

“Coen,” I cried out, and covered my mouth with shaky hands.

“I can’t promise you forever. But neither can you. All I can promise you is that I want you, I want to be with you, I want to be there for your son—­and I can’t begin to fathom hurting either of you.” His dark eyes moved back and forth between mine for a few seconds. “Okay?”

I nodded and managed to choke out, “ ’Kay.”

A soft breath blew past his lips as relief settled over his face. “Now can we stop with this bullshit? I told you, I’ll have this same fight with you a thousand times, but Duchess, that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t stop. There has to be some kind of trust between us. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I whispered.

Brushing a kiss across my lips, he wiped my cheeks with his thumbs once more before letting his forehead fall against mine and releasing a heavy sigh. “Jesus Christ, Duchess. I told you, you’ll be the death of me,” he said softly, before stepping back and bringing me away from the wall.

Walking us back toward the couch, he pulled me down so I was sitting sideways on his lap and wrapped his arms around me. “I’m sorry.”

His hand paused for a second before continuing on the path up and down my back. “I know you are. But we fought it out, talked everything through, and it’s behind us now. So there’s no need to say you’re sorry anymore.”

I couldn’t even remember if I’d said sorry before, and I needed to apologize for everything I’d done. I looked up at him, and waited for his dark eyes to meet mine. “I’m not sure if I agree with—­”

“Parker, wait!” I heard Erica say just before I heard my son’s voice. “Coen!”

Coen easily slid me off his lap, a large smile replacing the worn-­out mask from our fight. “Hey, bud!”

“Are you going to be my dad?” Parker jumped up on the couch on the other side of Coen and waited expectantly for an answer.

Even though Coen knew this was probably coming, even though we’d just talked—­er, fought—­about this, my body still tensed at what Coen’s reaction would be.

Coen seemed to think really hard for Parker’s benefit before shrugging slowly. “I don’t know, bud. Your mom and I still have a long ways to go before we’ll know that.”

Parker’s face scrunched together, and I knew he didn’t understand why Coen didn’t have a definite answer right now.

“But I promise you this: You’ll be the first one to know if I get to become your dad. Deal?” Coen asked, holding out his hand.

Parker slapped his hand against Coen’s and smiled widely at him. “Deal!”

Get to . . . he said get to become your dad. My heart warmed and somehow seemed to ache even more when I realized I’d almost taken this away from all of us. Again.

When Parker took off for the kitchen, Coen leaned toward me and pulled my legs over his lap again. “Jesus. Thank God you warned me about that. If I would’ve gone into that blind, I might have taken off.” Coen blew out a heavy breath before giving me a teasing grin.

I slapped his stomach and narrowed my eyes at him. “You just ruined this perfect illusion I was having of you.”

He smiled warmly and pulled me closer to place kisses behind my ear. “Then we’re right where we should be, Duchess, because I’m nowhere near perfect.”

Chapter Eight

Coen—­September 16, 2010

A GUTTURAL YELL tore through my throat as I flew up into a sitting position and looked wildly around me. My breaths were coming too fast, and it took my mind too long to comprehend that I was once again here. My condo. Where I was every morning I wasn’t at Reagan’s.

But everything had once again felt too real. I could feel the dry heat, hear the tortured screams, smell the rust, human waste, and gunpowder, see the—­

I pushed the heels of my palms against my eyes, and let out an agonized breath.

Standing from the couch I’d fallen asleep on sometime late this morning, I pulled my sweat-­soaked clothes off my body and threw them in the hamper as I walked toward the bathroom. Turning the water on as hot as it would go, I paced anxiously as I waited for the room to begin steaming up before standing under the scorching spray. I gritted my teeth against the initial sting, but soon my body began relaxing under the relentless pelting, and I rested my hands against the wall, letting my head hang as I tried to forget.

Some of the men on base told me it was best to let go. Let go? I couldn’t fucking let go. They were gone. My men were gone . . . and I hadn’t saved them. I’d had to see their wives, their children, and their families when I’d returned. I’d had to look one of their very pregnant wives in the face and tell her I hadn’t been able to keep my promise in bringing her husband back.

There was no letting that shit go. Not when the only reason I was here, instead of in the ground with them, was because I’d fallen into a trap—­which triggered the ambush—­and was knocked unconscious while they were all captured. I should have been paying better attention. I should have seen it coming. And I hadn’t.