And then more reality kicked in—the part where he’d utterly lost it on Sky’s fiancé. At least that was what Liam’s radio transmission said, though nothing about what Cullen witnessed was fiancé-like. Of course, his own behavior had been nothing short of feral. In fact, Cullen still felt like he hadn’t fully regained control even now, his mind and emotions like a grenade with the pin pulled despite the explosion. Shit.
Blinking, Cullen pulled away from where Sky still held him, the vivid details of what happened hitting him like ice water. A few yards away, Kyan was walking Jaden away to the medical staging area, Liam checked a small cut on Jaz’s forehead, and Eli stood back quietly, ensuring that no passersby came too close. That was good. For the past couple of weeks, Cullen had a feeling that someone was watching him. Dogging his steps. As for Sky… She was still there, crouching on the ground beside him after having walked out of his life.
A familiar, clawing pain raked over Cullen’s heart. The same ache he’d woken up to every night for the past week, when he’d jerked awake to an empty bed and unanswered calls. She’d never given him a chance to talk about the argument that had her walking out of his life. He still didn’t know whether it was his callousness that drove her away, or the fact that he’d uncovered the truth about her past, which she’d worked so hard to keep buried. Did her fiancé’s return have something to do with it? Or some story Frank Peterson had told? Maybe if Cullen hadn’t kept cutting her off midsentence in his office, if he’d shut his mouth and truly listened to what she’d been trying to say, things would have turned out differently.
She’d always listened to him, hadn’t she? Oh, she might argue, or push back, or disagree—the woman’s mind was as captivating as her heart—but she never shut the door in his face the way Cullen had done to her.
He scoffed at himself. She’d left because she was too fucking smart to be anywhere near him. It was his own fault that he’d let himself get too close, as if he didn’t know his own volatile nature. He’d never been fit for normal company, and given the last two weeks of spiraling nightmares culminating in unrestrained violence, he never would be.
He rose to his feet, grunting at the sharp stabbing pain piercing his left shoulder.
“Cullen.” Sky reached for him, the concern on her face telling him exactly how awful he must look just then. He’d hurt her. He’d nearly killed a man before her eyes, for fuck’s sake. Any reasonable person would be halfway to Canada by now just to get away from him. But Sky had always had more compassion than reason, hadn’t she?
He stepped back, putting himself out of Sky’s reach, though his every fiber longed to feel the coolness of her fingers just one more time, to inhale her passionflower shampoo and let the scent wash away the acrid memories pounding against his mind. Every inch of distance hurt, but it was the least he could do for her. She’d been right to walk away from him, and he cared too much for her to let her undo that decision.
“Don’t touch me,” he told Sky.
Her hand lowered, but the desperate concern painting her beautiful face did not. “Talk to me,” Sky whispered. “You aren’t all right. This isn’t you.”
“Oh yes, it is.” Cullen snorted. “If you haven’t figured that out by now, then you’re either stupid or a liar.” Turning his back so he didn’t have to watch his words hit her, he walked away from the scene, all his self-control engaged to keep from breaking into a sprint until Skylar Reynolds and the others were out of sight. Once they were, however, once Cullen had only the full range of nature sprawling before him, he ran.
Five miles later, the rage inside him still hadn’t dissipated. So when he came across a thick, gnarled tree three times wider than him, Cullen reared back and punched it with all his strength. Agony spiraled up his arm, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from doing it with his other hand. Only when he’d bloodied both sets of knuckles and the pain had become prohibitive did he cease his attack.
Shaking, he peered at the damage he’d done to himself, both with the tree and when struggling against Liam’s hold. Cullen’s heart hammered against his ribs, the scent of pine filling his lungs not holding a candle to the calming tang of passionflower that he’d never again inhale without thinking of Sky. His left shoulder wasn’t moving correctly, but at least the fury had burned itself out like a fire started with an accelerant, leaving fatigue washing over him.
He hadn’t felt steady ever since finding Sky’s “I quit” note, but making someone bleed in front of her was a new level of damage. Rubbing his face, he surveyed his position for landmarks and slowly made his way toward Denton Valley. Once he made it back to a paved road, he dialed an Uber, giving the driver directions to get him the hell out of town.
The clerk at the hole-in-the-wall motel off Interstate 25 gave Cullen a wide berth, watching him with an eagle eye as Cullen collected his door key and requested extra towels for the room.
“The police patrol this here place every day,” she said, looking over her brown-rimmed glasses, her tone that of a displeased nun. “We may not be a large chain, but we don’t stand for any poppycock around here. I thought you should know.”
“No poppycock, yes, ma’am,” Cullen said, starting to give the woman a mock salute with his left hand. Twelve inches into the movement, the blazing pain that had eased in the car ride returned with bazooka-level vengeance, Cullen’s knees buckling beneath him. The piece of shrapnel. Shit.
“Sir?” the clerk’s tone shifted from condescension to concern. “Sir, do you want me to call an ambulance for you? You’re very pale.”
Swallowing, Cullen shook his head. “Thank you for the towels,” he managed to say without his voice cracking before he headed into his room. It was surprisingly homey. Double beds with matching quilts in a block pattern. Simple maple headboards. A stack of three extra pillows on the table next to the old CRT television set. The place smelled comfortingly like fabric softener. It might not be the Ritz, but it was a hell of a lot better than the stony wasteland he’d slept on overseas.
After taking a quick shower, Cullen sat on the closest bed and wrapped a makeshift sling over his arm, the room swaying gently around him. He’d done it. Exactly what Dr. Yarborough warned him about. But the thought of going into surgery scared him nearly as much as facing Sky ever again did.
Arranging himself as comfortably as he could on the bed, Cullen attempted to get some shut-eye—which refused to come despite his deep exhaustion. Moving on to plan B, Cullen sank into the slightly lumpy mattress and attempted to empty his mind. Bar had been into this meditation crap—had sworn by it, in fact, despite the hazing he took for it—and at this point, Cullen was willing to try anything to get ahold of himself. Staying in this fucked-up state wasn’t an option.
That all ended fifteen minutes later when some trucker used his Jake Brakes right in front of the motel. Cullen startled out of his meditative state—not that he’d been in much of one in the first place—his gaze snagging on his lit-up phone. He had it on do not disturb, but that didn’t mean anyone had quit calling him. Eli. Liam. Kyan. Even Jaz. Yeah. He wasn’t answering any of them. Life would just have to go on without him for a while.