Killer Countdown (Man on a Mission 6)

He has to know that’s not true, she protested silently. He had to know emotional distance had quickly gone south when they’d both accepted you couldn’t overrule your heart with your head no matter how much you tried. But Shane was a protector. Would he sacrifice what he wanted, what would make him happy, if he thought Carly would be better off without him?

“In a heartbeat,” she whispered to herself. “And that’s exactly what he thinks he’s doing—protecting me.” A part of Carly was touched, but a bigger part just wanted to slap Shane upside the head and knock some sense into him.

If he thought she would let him just walk away to keep herself from being hurt again, he had another think coming. “They don’t call me Tiger Shark for nothing, Shane,” she muttered. She was already moving toward the front door closet, her purse in one hand, her car keys in the other. She grabbed a light spring jacket from the closet and had barely shrugged into it before she was out the door.

* * *

Shane was sitting in his family room, an unopened book in his lap, doing nothing except staring at the fire in the fireplace. The main reason he’d rented this older house in Virginia, instead of an upscale condo in DC like Niall, was because of the wood-burning fireplace, which reminded him of the one in his parents’ home in Denver and the one in their family’s cabin near Dillon Reservoir in the Rockies.

A real fire was a lot more work than a fake gas log because he had to haul the wood into the house and clean the ashes out of the grate, but it was worth it. Usually. Now the fire leaped and crackled, as usual, and the dry apple wood he paid extra for was doing its best to hold a conversation with him. But he wasn’t really hearing the hiss and pop, just as he wasn’t really seeing the flames. He was hearing Carly’s voice in his ears, seeing her face in his mind.

Juxtaposed with his memories of Carly was the recent one of Dr. Rachel Mattingly, his neurologist at the Mayo Clinic. Whose voice and face were filled with gentle concern and regret as she said, “We’ve increased the dosage steadily and we’ve given it enough time. I think we have to admit this medication isn’t going to work for you, and try something else.”

Which meant a brand-spanking-new prescription bottle now resided on the counter in the master bathroom next to the old one that hadn’t worked. He’d been taking the new medication since Friday evening, but they hadn’t taken him off the old one, not cold turkey. “Ramp up and ramp down” is how Dr. Mattingly had described it. Steadily increasing the dosage on the new medication while steadily decreasing the dosage on the previous one. Another six weeks before he’d know if the new medication alone worked any better at controlling the seizures—and the “chilling” symptoms.

In the meantime the seizures could continue. Hell, if the new medication didn’t work, they could go on indefinitely. And as the doctors had told him back when he’d first been diagnosed with epilepsy, while the seizures up until now hadn’t caused any damage visible on his MRI, that could change. Uncontrolled, they could transform from tiny seizures to big ones, and they could migrate from one localized area in his temporal lobe to other areas in his brain. Causing damage. Irreversible damage.

His dreams had come crashing down around him. He couldn’t fool himself into believing he had things under control any longer. He couldn’t keep Carly dangling on a string, either. He couldn’t make promises his brain might not allow him to keep. He loved her too much to ask her to tie herself to a man who could end up the way Jack had...or worse. Better to ease himself out of her life. Better to free her to find a man who didn’t have a giant question mark hanging over his future.

Only...why the hell did it hurt so much? When he thought of Carly with another man, his heart ached and throbbed like a broken bone that refused to heal, denying him sleep.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was being deprived of Carly’s presence in his life. Not being able to reach out his hand and touch her. Just touch her. Not seeing her blue eyes lighting up with humor, or hearing that gurgle of laughter she couldn’t suppress. Not expressing his love in the way he loved best—the way that made her sigh and moan and call his name in ecstasy. Not holding her as she slept, breathing in the scent of warm woman that was uniquely Carly. Not being with her, keeping her safe.