The Problem with Peace (Greenstone Security 3)

Yet he continued to hurt her. Even when it wasn’t necessary. He didn’t need to be following her around every day on some bullshit protection detail. He was worried about that fucker of an ex, but not enough to warrant the constant surveillance. He’d used that as an excuse to be with her every day. It was a shitty thing to do, even shittier because he treated her like dirt.

But she’d still fucking kissed him.

Walking away from her after that kiss was the hardest thing he’d ever done. No, leaving her after only forty-five hours of knowing her, of taking the most precious thing she had to give and taking it with him to get bloodied and dirtied by a war zone, that was the hardest.

Walking away after that kiss was a close second.

He’d done it because he knew she’d give him everything, even after the way he’d treated her. And he was mad as fuck with her for it all. But she didn’t deserve the brunt of his rage. He knew that Craig had done something ugly to her. He didn’t know what. But he knew it was something. Something she was hiding.

And he’d turned into a bad person. She hadn’t turned him into that. Not on purpose. It was them. He’d been of the opinion that he wasn’t going to make her forgive another man that didn’t treat her right.

Him.

He was trying to be too fucking noble by walking away and he’d regretted it. But he held firm because that was who he is. He stuck to decisions. Even stupid fucking decisions.

He would’ve broken at some point. Maybe that very night. Since Duke had texted him and told him the name of the bar he’d damn near driven over there. Reading that had been a punch in the chest.

She went there.

After everything he’d done. Everything she’d done.

She fucking went there.

And then she came to his place.

Slept on his chest.

Rode his cock. Hard, fast, beautiful, fucking perfect.

And that was it. She was gonna be his. She was gonna stay his.

So he’d gone out to provide for his woman because he didn’t have shit in his fridge to eat. ‘Cause he’d been here as little as possible. Living here was his version of torture. Because it was full of her. It was all he fucking had of her.

And it was pathetic. His home that wasn’t a home. No pictures. No personality. But she had seeped into the walls, and no way was he moving when that’s all he had left. He could afford a bigger place. He could buy one.

Cash.

Keltan paid handsomely, he lived simple.

But what was the point?

Now there was a point.

He was making a mental note to hire an estate agent while loading his cart full of that healthy shit Polly loved. She took care of what she put into her body.

He liked that.

Even if it confused the shit out of him. What in the fuck was a chia seed pudding? He didn’t know, but he had ten because he knew she ate them.

And didn’t eat meat. That would be a transition since he was a carnivore. But he’d give up meat in a second if she asked. She wouldn’t ask. She’d fry him a tenderloin every fucking night if he asked.

That was her.

His phone had rung as he was deciding between almond and oat milk. How the fuck did someone milk an almond? Or an oat for that matter? Throwing both in the cart, he’d answered.

“Need you in the office, now,” Keltan clipped.

Heath was on alert the second he heard the tone of his friend’s voice. Shit was going down. And when shit was going down, Heath was there. Because he had nowhere else to be and work was where he found his peace. Even if peace was helping Rosie chop the balls of a rapist when her husband was busy.

Or when her husband didn’t know she was doing it since she was now pregnant.

“Can’t come in,” Heath replied.

There was a pause.

Heath knew why.

Because he’d never said no to Keltan. Not since he said yes to the job when he came out of the Marines.

“What? You on your deathbed, missing a limb?” Keltan demanded.

“Busy.”

Another pause.

“You’re never busy unless…fuck,” Keltan muttered, putting two and two together. “Well, then you definitely better get in here.”

Heath froze with some shit called kombucha in his hand. “What?”

“It has to do with Polly, or more accurately, to do with Craig, and it’s not fuckin’ good.”

He left the cart and went straight to the office.

He should’ve called Polly, but he didn’t. Because he assumed Polly would sleep most of the day away—she sure as shit needed it and he made sure to exhaust her—and he’d be back before she woke up.

He didn’t plan on it being any other way.

Didn’t plan on his whole fucking world blowing apart.