“Sweetheart, stop.” He presses his finger gently over my lips. “Please. I’m still decompressing, and you’re not well. I want you—I always want you—but honestly right now it’s all I can do to keep my s**t together because I want to kill that bastard so bad I can taste it. I’m . . .”
He stops abruptly, then laughs, but it sounds dark and scary. “Honestly, I think I’m a little f****d up.”
My throat tightens and my chest starts to ache. “Okay.”
He groans. “Oh God. Don’t sound like that.”
Hiding my face in his chest, I whisper, “This is my fault.”
His big exhalation stirs the hair on top of my head. “Jesus. We’re gonna need a s**t-ton of therapy.”
At the same time, we both start to laugh. It’s grim and humorless, but still laughter, and so it’s a start.
“All right, Annie Oakley,” he says
