With my marriage dissolved, I’d thrown myself into my duties, rising through the ranks to be Staff Sergeant Ethan Stone.

Based in Afghanistan for more than ten years, I’d seen my fair share of horror - men beheaded in the streets by rebels, girls as young as twelve married to the highest bidder, and so many other gruesome sights associated with conflict.

Nightmares just aren’t for kids. I’m thirty-two years old and I still dream of a real-life horror. A girl of about sixteen years old and I couldn’t get to her without risking my own life . . . something I selfishly wasn’t prepared to do. Every time I close my eyes, I see the vile scene play out. Her captors holding her down while they take turns violating her in front of me as I hide behind a pile of empty boxes. I’ve never felt as helpless as I did in those moments.

I’ve never forgotten her.

“Stone,” a voice says beside me. I glance up to see my best friend and fellow Army brother, Damien Keets, slide onto the bar stool next to me.

I say nothing, simply raise my half-empty beer glass in a brief, silent greeting.

“Whiskey,” Keets calls to the pretty, young bartender, who pours us both a glass before moving to serve a young couple at the other end of the bar.

“How much have you had to drink?” Keets asks, his voice barely audible in the loud bar.

I look at my half-empty glass then at my friend. In answer, I raise the glass to my lips and down the remaining beer before pulling the new glass over to me.

“You have to stop doing this to yourself,” Keets scolds. “You’ve been home three months, and I’ve yet to see you sober.

“What do you fucking care?” I finally snap, slamming the glass down on the bar. Whiskey splashes over the edge and hits the back of my hand, but I ignore it. “I’m here, and I’m getting drunk.” I can hear my voice slurring as I raise my glass, gesturing around the room. “Just like everyone else.”

“Not everyone else has seen what you’ve seen,” Keets states, draining his whiskey and signaling for another. “Look, man, I get it, okay? I do. But you can’t keep beating yourself up over this. You know you couldn’t save her.”

I glance over at my friend. Keets is the only soul I’ve ever told the details to about that horrible night. I’d spent six hours curled up behind some boxes as I listened to her screams grow fainter. They hadn’t been small men; she’d never stood a chance. I couldn’t help the constant feeling of guilt that I should have at least tried to help her.

I finish my whiskey and stand up, steadying my hand on the bar as the room sways around me. I pull some money from the pocket of my jeans and throw it on the bar before looking at Keets. “I’ll see you later,” I say. I’m so fucking tired all of a sudden. I just want to go home.

I try to walk away, but my legs are becoming increasingly unsteady. I must have had more to drink than I thought. I limp toward the front door of the bar, but a woman’s scream above the music behind me makes me pause. Slowly, I turn back around.

“Let go of me!” the pretty, blonde barmaid is yelling, slapping away the hands of a man who’s clearly had too much to drink.

“Come on, love. You can’t expect to go waltzing around this bar in those tiny shorts and not let me get a feel,” he sneers, his crooked teeth standing out as he grins. He’s sitting at a table with three other men. They are laughing amongst themselves, encouraging him. “I bet that ass is as soft as it looks.”

I watch as she recoils from the man’s lust-filled gaze, and something inside me snaps. Once more, I’m back in Afghanistan, hiding behind some boxes as the young woman is terrorized. This time is different, though; this time, I can stop it.

I straighten up and take three steps toward the men. They never see me coming, never see my fist until it connects with the first jaw.

From there, it’s an all-out brawl. I need to save her… have to save her. I throw punch after punch. Someone is grabbing me, but I fight them off. A fist connects with my throat and I drop to my knees, clutching at my neck as my lungs burn and threaten to explode. I can’t breathe, the dusty room fading into red as the blood pours down my face. I manage to wipe a hand across my eyes and I’m once again in the bar, lying on my side as a small crowd gathers around me. The bar is deathly quiet; even the band has stopped playing.

“Stone,” I hear Keets call out as he kneels beside me. “Stone, can you hear me?”

The pain in my chest is so severe, I can’t answer him. It feels like someone has taken a sledgehammer and hit me across the ribs a few dozen times.

The pain intensifies until I see white spots in front of my eyes, and I close them for a moment of relief. There’s a ringing in my ears and the voices around me become fainter and fainter, until they finally disappear altogether.

The ringing in my ears is so much more intense this morning, and I groan as I open my eyes, wincing at the light. My left eye is swollen almost shut and my mouth is as dry as cotton. There’s no denying it: this is the mother of all hangovers. I slowly lift my head, groaning again when the first wave of nausea washes over me. Christ, how much did I drink last night?

With great effort, I get to my knees, frowning as I realize I’m still in the bar.

What the fuck am I doing here?

The place looks as though a tornado hit it. Chairs are upturned, broken bottles are strewn everywhere and tables lay in pieces.

The front door opens, and I instinctively turn my head to see a beautiful blonde in tight, black jeans and a white tank top step inside.

Her large eyes round as she stares at the mess.

“What the fuck happened?” she gasps, stepping over a broken chair as she moves behind the bar and begins moving glasses around.

“I don’t know,” I say, still on my knees. I must have startled the woman because she spins around, her mouth opening in shock. “Wh-who are you?” she stammers. “How did you get in here?”

“I woke up here,” I say, getting to my feet as she comes around to the front of the bar.

I make a move toward her, but I’m quickly brought up by the tip of the large knife she pulls out of the back of her jeans.

“Jesus,” I cry, throwing my hands up in surrender. I’ve never been beaten in combat, but this fucking hangover has screwed up my reflexes. “Look, lady, I—”

“I don’t know who you are, or how you got in here,” she seethes, her blue eyes narrowing. “But you fucked up my bar.”

“I know,” I reply, taking a step backwards, tripping over a chair leg, and going down on one knee. Pain rips through my abdomen as my body is jolted by the sudden movement. “Just let me explain.”

“You can explain everything to the cops when they get here,” she hisses. “Don’t you fucking move.”

I watch her warily as she points the knife at me. She’s tiny, only about five-foot, and my hands could easily span her waist. If I really wanted to, I could get myself out of this situation. I’m a trained soldier; it would be child’s play for me to take the knife. Her chest heaves in her tank top and I find my eyes drawn down to her small breasts, probably just big enough to fill my palms.

Just the way I like them.

I’m surprised at the sudden tightening of my pants, and I pray she doesn’t choose this moment to look down. My moment of distraction is clearly all she needs, as I don’t hear her draw closer. I flinch as the tip of the knife touches my throat. I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat, trying to ignore the bite of the blade as I look up at her. She reminds me of a china doll my grandmother used to have on display in a glass case. Her hair, although tied back in a loose bun, is full of golden ringlets, and her big, blue eyes are expressive behind long, dark lashes.

And right now, they’re expressing rage at me.