Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three Page 2

  The first time he’d gone through withdrawals coming off his addiction was nearly five years ago. He’d resolutely refused rehab, unwilling to risk the attention and still in deep denial about the extent of his dependence. His brother, Jaime, had hauled him out onto their boat to clean out, and in the coming week, Jack learned what burning agony felt like in crushing, vivid detail. Less than forty-eight hours in, and he’d wanted to throw himself overboard, years of unchecked drug use culminating into unbelievable, raw suffering and more thoughts of suicide than he cared to admit. So many days Jack spent writhing in the sheets of the bed in his cabin, listening to the dark blue waters of Lake Michigan lapping gently against the hull, and inside he’d felt like he was surviving the greatest storm of his life. It was the most pain he’d ever experienced, by a landslide, with Jaime’s presence his only comfort, the only thread he’d been able to hold onto while he struggled to stay sane.

  Now, the second time in, Jack knew what it was to suffer. But this pain—this time it wasn’t the worst. Because it was incomparable to the pain he’d experienced when losing Samantha, once again finding himself staring down at her pale and prone form. She looked so shockingly small against the backdrop of the sterile hospital bedding as he watched her teeter on the razor’s edge between this life and whatever else lay beyond. That pain—that was the most excruciating of his existence. He’d stood helpless against the onslaught, his shame magnified by the fact that while she’d gone head-to-head with her greatest nemesis in Ibrahim Nazar, he’d unraveled, losing himself in the oblivion of mindless sex and dissipation.

  Jack struggled to sit up, flinging the covers off the king-size bed as he padded slowly and painfully across the room. He had to do something. He had to find some way out of this mess. The luxurious Hanseatic suite felt like a prison, miles away from where he needed to be: by Samantha’s side. He pushed open the heavy brocade curtains, staring past the gentle flurries of snow, touching the ice cold windows as he looked to the dark waters of the Alster beyond. Jack stared into the distance, mesmerized by the lights lining the lake, trying to stay focused as he breathed through another wave of nausea, his forehead touching the cold glass as he gripped the windowsill through the worst of it.

  Samantha nearly died protecting herself and her men against Nazar while Jack had faced off with her other nemesis, Lucien Lightner. Jack knew with absolute certainty that given the chance, she’d make the same decisions all over again. Just as he would do battle for her all over again, mortgaging his future and his company to avenge her by taking over Leviathan, Lightner’s company and her biggest competitor. Samantha didn’t know what he’d done. He hadn’t spoken with her since she left him in Chicago. But another secret weighed heavily on his mind now, the last one between them—a burden he yearned to lay down, another lie between them he needed to be free from.

  He’d been so busy laying blame at her door, angry for her unwillingness to let him into her world, he’d overlooked the thick manila envelope that became an invisible wedge between them. A folder full of her secrets. Her career in the military, her kills, and worst of all, the catalyst to all of it—the horrible death of her father and brother, the event that triggered so much of her own guilt and self-hatred for merely surviving.

  Jack had accused her that last night in Chicago of withholding the truth from him, though he’d been doing the very same. He’d told himself that it would only hurt her, distract her from the immediate twin threats of Lightner and Nazar. He reasoned that not telling her would protect her—that he was protecting her, but the fact was Jack didn’t want her to know what he’d done. He didn’t want her to know that he’d gone behind her back to search out details he didn’t trust her to share with him. He didn’t want to admit that he didn’t believe she’d ever divulge secret and vital aspects of herself when she’d done that very thing the last, dreadful night she’d said goodbye. Jack’s eyes went to his open luggage, his gaze falling on the envelope his father had given him on Thanksgiving. A stratum of lurid secrets from her missions and interrogations in the military stacked on one redacted sheet after another, taunting him.

  Jack pushed away from the window, forcing his body to move toward the suite’s luxurious marble bathroom. He couldn’t stand to be here any longer. If he was going to suffer like this, he might as well be near her, try to find a way to set things right.

  Less than an hour later, Jack trudged into the hospital still sweating and shaking underneath his fine cashmere overcoat, coughing from the cold and the withdrawals as he entered the sterile, glass-enclosed entrance of the hospital.

  It was the middle of the night, and the hospital’s head nurse on staff took one look at his gray pallor and the residual cuts and bruises left over from his beat down by one of Lightner’s goons and immediately tried to admit him with brisk efficiency.

  “No—I’m here to see my wife, Samantha Wyatt,” Jack muttered, hoping the ruse from the hospital in Rio would work here, as he shook off the orderly trying to help him into a wheelchair. “I need to see her—” he continued, leaning heavily against the nurse’s station counter, trying to recall which vaguely familiar hallway led to the critical care facility he’d been in only a few hours earlier.

  “Visiting hours are not until tomorrow—” the nurse told him, her German accent thick. “And you are clearly unwell, sir. Let us help you—”

  Jack only just managed to ward off the orderly with a stiff arm, the cramping in his abdominals making him wince as he stumbled back.

  “No—” Jack insisted through gritted teeth, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I want my wife—I want Samantha—” He pushed away from the desk, stumbling down the brightly lit corridor, his dilated eyes stinging. He didn’t notice the hospital doors sliding open behind him as he gripped the hallway railing, steadying himself through another bout of nausea.

  “Jack—?” He felt a broad hand fall on his shoulder. “Jack—what the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night? Rush told me he sent you to the hotel—” The relief Jack felt at hearing Carey’s voice made him sag against the wall. Samantha’s partner and closest friend peered at Jack through worried eyes as he unwound his thick scarf from his neck.

  “When’d you get here?” Jack asked, leaning back against the wall.

  “Few hours ago.” Carey answered, hand still on his shoulder to steady him. “Jesus—you look awful, Jack.”

  A hoarse laugh came from him unbidden. “I feel awful.”

  “Sir—we think he should be admitted—he’s obviously very ill—” the nurse behind Carey told him.

  “I’m inclined to agree with her, Jack,” Carey told him as he squeezed his shoulder, his blue eyes concerned. “You’re not okay, man. Is this from what went down in London?”

  “Yeah,” Jack lied, hoping to buy enough time to see Samantha. “I need to see her, Carey. Just, please—let me see her. I’ll admit myself after.”

  “But Ms. Wyatt is still in critical condition—” the nurse interrupted.

  Carey held up a hand, silencing her as he took a hard, long look at Jack. They stared at each other for what felt like minutes. “Tell you what,” Carey said after a moment. “I’ll let you see Sam for a bit, but then you tell me what the hell’s going on with you, alright?”

  Jack only just managed a nod as he swallowed against the dryness in his throat.

  Carey patted his shoulder. “You want the wheelchair or can you make it on your own steam?” he asked, nodding toward the waiting orderly.

  “I can make it.”

  Carey turned toward the nurse, speaking in rapid German as they came to some kind of agreement. She was clearly unhappy with the terms, but Jack knew a hustle in any language when he heard it. Carey’s tone brooked no argument as he horse-traded the terms of Jack’s admittance to Samantha’s secured room in critical care. He kept his eyes closed against the dizziness until Carey slid an arm around his shoulder, gently prying him off the wall.

  “I thought Mitch was the one who got sho
t,” Carey muttered, guiding Jack down the sterile hospital corridor and through another set of security doors.

  Jack leaned heavily against him, half in relief and half because the hot shivers shooting down his spine made it impossible to stand on his own now.

  Evan Rush pushed away from the wall where he’d been standing sentry next to Lee Talon. “Jesus H., Jack—I thought I sent you back to the hotel with Wes. You look like death warmed over,” he said, concerned eyes running over him as Carey propped him up.

  “You did,” Jack admitted as he sagged against the wall, shaking. “But I had to see her—”

  “Man, you’re looking the worse for wear,” Talon commented, shaking his head.

  “Trust me, I feel it.”

  “Anybody been in since I was gone?” Carey asked, nodding toward the closed door to Sam’s room.

  Rush shook his head. “Just the nurses and the doctors checking in, but she’s still out.” He watched Jack closely, his gaze assessing. “You know Sammy’s on enough painkillers to be in a medically-induced coma, right? She won’t even know you’re here.”

  “I just need to see her,” Jack insisted, wiping the clammy sweat off his brow.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Talon asked, his dark eyes worried. “If you’re sick—you shouldn’t go in. Her immune system probably won’t be able to handle it—”

  “It’s just stress and some crap I ate at the airport catching up to me—” he lied, moving toward Samantha’s room. “I’ll have the doctors here check me out as soon as I see her, alright?”

  But Rush sidestepped him, his hazel eyes narrowing as he blocked Jack’s entry.

  “Bullshit it’s food poisoning,” Rush replied gruffly, his normally laid-back demeanor gone. “I’ve seen enough wounded service members coming off of painkillers to know what withdrawal looks like.” He pushed Jack back, eyes narrowing. “How long have you been using?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous as he held Jack against the wall.

  Carey and Talon’s gaze swung to him in shocked recrimination.

  “The fuck you talking ’bout?” Carey asked, incredulous.

  But Jack saw the awareness in Evan Rush’s eyes. Knew he was certain. Rush was a trained corpsman after all, the Navy’s equivalent to a medic. Of course Rush would have seen the symptoms a mile away. Jack squeezed his eyes shut, debating his options as the withdrawal pains only worsened, making him blanch.

  “Look at him,” Rush said, contempt making him bristle. “He’s got the shakes, his skin is gray, and his eyes are dilated the size of dinner plates—”

  “He’s a junkie?” Talon looked shocked.

  “I’m not a goddamn junkie,” Jack denied, glaring at him.

  Rush shook his head, disgusted. “Spoken like a true junkie.” He let Jack go and stood in front of Samantha’s door, crossing his arms. “You’re not getting anywhere near Sam until you start talking. How long have you been using, Jack?” Rush repeated.

  Christ. It was now or never.

  Jack reminded himself he’d come here of his own volition. He’d wanted this—to lay it all down and let the chips fall where they may. He just hadn’t expected to be confessing his indiscretions to anyone but Samantha. He was defenseless, unguarded, and he hated that. As Samantha’s team stood in front of him, barring his access, he knew he’d have to come clean. No more dirty little secrets. No more smoke screens.

  “Tell us, Jack. You tell us or the deal’s off,” Carey told him grimly. “No truth, no Sam.”

  He took a shaky breath, his throat tight. Now or never.

  “After Rio.”

  The subsequent silence was deafening.

  “Jesus,” Talon murmured first, shaking his head. “What the fuck have you done, Jack?”

  “What are you on?” Carey asked tersely.

  “Painkillers mainly. But anything, really.” Jack let out a grim cuff of laughter as he ran a hand over his face. “Fuck, maybe I am a junkie.”

  Rush continued to watch him. “When was your last fix?”

  “It’s been a little over 24 hours,” Jack admitted, shame tinging his cheeks.

  “Shit,” Carey uttered, squeezing the back of his neck. “How the hell did you let it come to this, Jack?”

  “It’s only going to get worse,” Rush said to Carey. “He’s going to be falling apart any second now. Look at him, he can barely stand—”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Jack told him, pushing away from the wall, though it cost him, his nerve endings on fire. “I just need to see her, then I’ll check myself into rehab right here.”

  “You’re in no condition—”

  “I’m just asking for a few minutes with her,” Jack said as he turned to Carey. “Afterward, I need to speak with you about something important. Something both you and Samantha need to know—”

  “This about you buying out Leviathan behind our backs?” Carey asked, crossing his broad arms. “Because The Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, and just about every other major newspaper already broke that story.”

  “No.” Jack shook his head. “It’s about intel related to Robert’s and Ryland’s deaths 15 years ago,” he admitted, shocking the shit out of Carey in the process. Jack watched surprise, then anger and suspicion run riot across Carey’s even features.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked gruffly, eyes narrowing. “What do you know about Sammy’s daddy, or Ry for that matter?”

  Jack saw the sliver of light, the one hope of getting in to see Sam. So Jack played the only hand he had left, hoping it would buy him what he needed. “You let me have some time alone with Samantha, and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Jack sensed Carey’s conflict like a physical barrier as he debated whether to let Jack in. Rush and Talon wouldn’t like it, but they would fall in line with whatever their leader decided. Carey was the one person Jack had to convince.

  “Carey—I’m begging you,” Jack told him, looking him square in the eye. “As your friend and as a man who loves Samantha as much as you do. Please—please let me see her…”

  During that long, tense stand-off, Jack tried to hold himself together, even as the tremors made his hands shake so bad that he had to shove his hands inside his coat pockets.

  “If you’re using my Uncle Rob and Ry’s memory to play to my sympathies, and I find out you’re gaming me, rehab isn’t the only thing you’ll be needing, Jack,” Carey warned him, his jaw tight.

  Jack nodded slowly, and Carey eventually gave a curt nod of acquiescence, granting him reprieve. Though Rush was clearly against the decision and Talon was uncertain at best, Jack watched the men step aside, letting him pass through Samantha’s hospital door.

  The cool, dark room was dimly lit with the electronic florescence of the machines surrounding Sam’s bed. Jack stepped toward her slowly, his eyes running over her prone form swaddled in hospital blankets, her dark hair spread across the pillow she was propped against for support.

  “Tesoro…” he breathed, deeply upset by the sight of her like this—his beautiful, vibrant queen silent and still, pale as death.

  “We’ll be right out here,” Carey murmured from the doorway.

  Jack nodded solemnly as he pulled a seat closer so he could sit down beside her. He lifted her cool fingers, careful not to knock off the tubes taped to the back of her hand. He couldn’t resist resting his cheek against her skin—a small but much-needed comfort. He was in physical and emotional agony, but just being able to touch her again made him feel infinitely better, an unspeakable relief coming over him at being close to her again.

  “Tesoro,” he murmured again, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Sei la mia vita. Sei tutto cio’ di cui ho bisogno.”1 Jack lifted his head and kissed her fingers. “I thought I would be able to let you leave me. I thought I could move on—that I’d somehow find a way without you… But I was wrong, Samantha. You entered my life out of nowhere, and now I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you in it.”

  T
here was no answer, no movement. Jack searched for a sign in the stillness, wondering if she could somehow hear him. But the only sounds in the room were from the quiet whirring of the machines and the lonely beeping from the monitoring of her heart rate.

  “Before you, Samantha, there was only me and my family,” Jack continued. “As small and closed off as that sounds—I only cared about who was in my immediate circle—and that which was under my influence. I ruled my realm completely. I needed nothing. I wanted for no one.” He ran a gentle fingertip down her cheek. “But then you knocked me for a loop from the first time I laid eyes on you, and I realized that I needed someone else, and before I knew it, tesoro—I belonged to you.”

  Jack shut his eyes, realized belatedly that he was shaking again as he gripped her hand. “I am yours now, Samantha. Everything that I am—everything that I have—as imperfect and fallible as it is—it’s yours.” He pressed his lips to her skin, praying she could hear him. “I will be the man you need,” he promised. “When you wake up, I will stand beside you no matter what. I will do whatever you ask of me.”

  Jack took a deep breath, bowed his head in this dark, sterile confessional, holding onto his beloved’s hand like it was a lifeline, and said the only prayer he could remember…

  *

  S A M A N T H A

  Hurt.

  Everything hurt.

  …darkness…

  “Ángele Dei—”2

  She knew that voice.

  “Qui custos es mei…”3