Overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of what he had just witnessed, Marcus let his eyes slide shut. The darkness offered no escape; instead, it pulled him back to a time that felt like a fresh, open wound. He drifted to his final firefight—the slaughter that had cost him his entire squad.
There was a sick, familiar resonance to it all—a specific frequency of chaos with a woman standing at the eye of the storm. The similarities were visceral, impossible to ignore, especially in the way the dread settled like cold lead in his gut. Exhaustion dragged him under for a fractured second, and the memory swallowed him whole, transporting him back to the sand, the heat, and his last stand for the Corps.
The Flash Back Part 1
The white cue ball kissed the rail with a dull thud, spun with calculated reverse English, and clipped the eight ball. The black sphere rolled lazily, almost mockingly slow, before dropping into the corner pocket with a decisive clunk.
Marcus Hale didn't smile. He didn't even blink. He simply straightened his spine, the vertebrae popping audibly, and reached for the blue chalk. He scuffed the tip of his stick with rhythmic, practiced motions, letting the groan of frustration from the corporal on the other side of the table wash over him like background static.
"Double or nothing," Jaro muttered, slamming the butt of his cue against the concrete floor. The kid looked sweaty, his eyes bloodshot from too many patrols and cheap local whiskey.
"You're already nothing, Jaro," Marcus said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the humid air. "Save your hazard pay for ammo. You're going to need it more than you need another loss."
The bar was less of an establishment and more of a bunker disguised as a watering hole—a low, squat concrete box capped with a rusted tin roof that trapped the day's heat like an oven. A few neon lights hummed and flickered, casting a sickly, intermittent red glow over the scarred tables. The air was thick, a physical weight composed of stale cigarette smoke, dried beer, burnt popcorn, and the pervasive, metallic scent of CLP gun oil that clung to every soldier in the room.
The pool table sat in a semi-private alcove, separated from the main floor by a half-wall that had been roughly sawed away. It was a strategic architectural choice; it allowed the guys to focus on the game while keeping a clear line of sight to both the main bar and the heavy steel reinforcement of the front door. It was habit, ingrained and unbreakable. In this town, you never turned your back on anything, not even a wall.
Marcus leaned against the table, watching the door, his body relaxed but his eyes scanning. Then, the door to the back kitchen swung open.
Raina.
She slid through the opening with a tray balanced effortlessly on the curve of one hip, moving with a fluid, liquid grace that made the heavy combat boots of the patrons seem clumsy by comparison. She navigated the crowded room like she had done it a thousand times, dodging groping hands and spilled drinks without breaking stride.
"Four more," she said as she approached their table. Her voice was low, rough like unfiltered cigarettes and honey. "On the house if somebody finally lets Jaro win a game. He's going to start crying, and then it gets awkward for all of us."
Marcus watched her, his gaze heavy. She was in her mid-twenties, a creature of hard edges and soft curves. Her legs were long and tanned, exposed by a black skirt that was arguably too short for a war zone but perfect for tips. A white crop top was knotted just above her navel, the fabric damp with perspiration, clinging to the swell of her breasts. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose, messy braid that spilled over one shoulder, framing a face that was strikingly pretty but guarded.
It was her eyes that hooked you, though. They were bright, sharp, and constantly moving—checking exits, assessing corners, reading faces. She looked like she had spent enough time around soldiers to know exactly what could go wrong, how fast it would happen, and where to duck when the shooting started.
The flirting between Raina and Marcus wasn't a new development. It had been weeks of slow-burn agony—lingering looks across the crowded room, teasing touches when she dropped off a round, midnight conversations when the bar emptied out and the silence of the war outside pressed in. It had turned into something sharper, a tension that hummed between them like a live wire. Neither of them was pretending not to feel it anymore.
She set the beers down on the edge of the pool table, condensation dripping from the amber bottles. When she passed Marcus his drink, she didn't just hand it to him. Her fingers brushed against his, cool dampness meeting his calloused warmth. She didn't pull away. Her fingers lingered, tracing the line of his knuckles for a second that stretched into an eternity.
Her eyes locked onto his, dark pupils blown wide. That was enough. The signal was clear.
As she turned away, she didn't just walk. She hooked two fingers through the front belt loop of his jeans, a bold, possessive gesture.
"Help me with something in the back," she murmured, the words pitched low so only he could hear them under the thumping bass of the jukebox. She didn't look back to see if he was coming. She knew.
Marcus left his cue on the table without a word. He followed her path through the smoke, past the flashing lights of the ancient pinball machine, toward the narrow hallway that led to the storage rooms.
She stopped at a nondescript door, tugged it open, and pulled him inside. It was a supply closet—barely five feet by five feet, crammed with mops, buckets of industrial cleaner, and stacks of paper towels. It smelled of bleach and dust.
The moment the door clicked shut, enveloping them in near-darkness, the pretense vanished.
Raina shoved him backward. Marcus hit the metal shelving unit with a rattle of cans, but before he could regain his balance, she was on him. She kissed him hard—mouth open, hungry, desperate. It wasn't a gentle greeting; it was a collision. She kissed him like she'd been holding her breath for weeks and had finally snapped, needing his air to survive.
Marcus reacted instantly, his restraint shattering. One of his hands tangled into her braid, gripping the back of her head to angle her face, deepening the kiss until their teeth clashed. His other hand clamped onto her hip, fingers digging into her flesh through the thin fabric of her skirt, dragging her body flush against his.
She made a quiet, needy sound in her throat—a whimper that vibrated against his lips. She pressed into him, her thighs parting just enough to nestle her pelvis against the hard ridge of his erection.
Her hands were frantic, roaming everywhere at once. She tugged his t-shirt up first, her cool, slender fingers tracing the ridges of muscle on his stomach, mapping the scars. Then she went higher, dragging her nails lightly across his chest, making his skin prickle with electricity.
"Marcus," she breathed against his mouth, tasting of mint and beer.
She pushed lower, her hand slipping inside the waistband of his jeans with bold, confident heat. She didn't hesitate. Her fingers wrapped around his length, squeezing firmly through his boxer briefs.
He hissed through his clenched teeth, his head tipping back against a shelf of cleaning supplies. "Christ, Raina…"
She grinned against his jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive skin of his throat. "Been thinking about this every damn night. Wondering if you were ever going to make a move."
"I'm making it now," Marcus growled.
He answered her touch by grabbing the back of her thigh. He lifted her leg, hooking it around his waist, pulling her so tight that there was no space left between them. The friction of her heat against his groin was maddening.
His other hand slid under the hem of her black skirt. He ran his palm up the smooth, warm skin of her outer thigh, feeling the muscle tremble under his touch. He moved inward, his hand gliding up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh until he found the edge of her panties. They were thin cotton, soft, and as he brushed against the center of her, he realized she was already soaked.
Raina gasped, her head falling back, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. She pushed her hips forward, grinding into his hand.
"Marcus—don't stop. Please."
He didn't. He cupped her through the damp fabric first, his hand large and warm, molding over her. He rubbed the heel of his palm against her clitoris, slow and firm, feeling her hips buck in rhythm with his movement.
"You like that?" he whispered roughly into her ear.
"Yes… god, yes."
He slipped his fingers under the elastic edge of the cotton, pushing the fabric aside. Skin met skin. She was incredibly hot, slick with arousal. He slid one finger inside her, tight and wet, and she cried out, biting down on his shoulder to stifle the sound.
He found her rhythm instantly. Her internal muscles clamped around his finger, pulsing. He added a second finger, curling them inside her, while his thumb worked the swollen nub above.
Raina was unravelling. Her hand in his pants pumped him at the same pace—slow at first, teasing, then faster, harder. Their breaths mixed in the stagnant air of the closet, harsh and uneven. Their bodies pressed together, grinding, seeking friction, seeking release. The tiny space filled with the wet sounds of their mouths and the desperate friction of skin.
The metal shelves rattled behind Marcus every time she pushed forward, cans of polish and boxes of napkins threatening to spill.
Raina buried her face in the crook of his neck, biting his jaw, then licking the spot to soothe it. "You feel so good," she whispered, her voice wrecked, her breath coming in short, sharp shudders. "So big… so hard."
Marcus groaned, his control slipping. He stroked her deeper, firmer, hitting that spot inside her that made her knees give out. She clung to him, her fingernails digging into his back through his shirt. Her forehead pressed against his, sweat mingling on their skin. They were both right on the edge, muscles tightening, the world narrowing down to this dark, chemical-smelling closet and the heat of each other's bodies.
He was about to lift her up, to pin her against the wall and take her properly, when—
"Hey! Marcus!"
The voice boomed from the other side of the door, muffled but unmistakable. Jaro.
"You marrying that beer or what? Get your ass back here! It's your shot!"
The reality of the bar crashed back in.
Raina froze. She let out a soft, frustrated laugh that sounded half like a sob, her forehead still pressed against his.
"You've got to be kidding me," she whispered, her body still trembling against his.
Marcus exhaled hard, his jaw tight, fighting the urge to ignore the world entirely and kick the door locked. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"This is cruel and unusual punishment," he muttered, his voice thick with unspent lust.
She kissed him once more—deep, slow, and full of promise, leaving him dizzy—before reluctantly pulling her hand from his pants. She smoothed her thumb over his lip, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded.
Marcus gently eased his glistening fingers from under her skirt. He adjusted her clothing, his hands lingering on her hips for a second longer than necessary. Both of them were breathing hard, flushed, trembling from the sudden cessation of pleasure.
Raina stepped back, smoothing her hair and checking her crop top. Her cheeks were bright red, her lips swollen and bitten. She looked thoroughly ravished.
"We finish this later," she promised, her voice low, warm, and deadly serious. "Tonight. My place."
Marcus straightened his shirt, trying to get his heartbeat under control and will his erection to subside. "Count on it."
They stepped out of the closet into the dim hallway, looking like two people who absolutely should have stayed in it. The noise of the bar assaulted them again. Raina gave him a last, wicked smile over her shoulder as she walked away toward the kitchen to refill her tray.
Marcus watched her go, the sway of her hips burning into his retinas. He forced himself to turn and walk back toward the pool room, rejoining the table like nothing was burning under his skin, though he knew Jaro was going to give him hell for the lipstick smudge he'd missed on his neck.
"Don't encourage him," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a warning rumble that vibrated in his chest. He was still reeling from the sensory overload of the supply closet, his blood running hot and fast, pooling in his groin. He forced himself to lean casually against the pool table, gripping his cue stick like a weapon, trying to ground himself in the grit of the barroom floor.
Raina leaned in to set his fresh beer on the rail. She moved with a liquid, deliberate slowness, invading his personal space. She was close enough that the air between them grew heavy and charged. He caught the complex, intoxicating scent of her—the sharp tang of nervous sweat, the cloying sweetness of cheap vanilla perfume, and underneath that, a clean, simple note of soap that smelled like home. It was a dizzying combination that made his mouth water.
"You're the sergeant, right?" she asked quietly, her voice a husk of sound barely audible over the thumping bass of the jukebox. She tilted her head, a stray wisp of dark hair falling over her eye. "Marcus?"
He stared at her, his eyes tracing the swollen curve of her lower lip where he had bitten her just minutes ago. He didn't remember telling her his name. In their previous midnight conversations, he had always kept it vague—rank and unit only. Names were dangerous things to trade in a place like this; they made you real.
"Maybe," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the pulse fluttering frantically at the base of her throat.
She smiled, a slow, secret expression that curled the corners of her mouth. It was as if that non-answer was exactly what she'd wanted—a confirmation of the game they were playing.
"Well, 'maybe,'" she teased, her eyes dancing with dark amusement. "I saw the way you cleared that last rack. You boys don't shoot that straight when you're sober. Usually, you're putting holes in the felt by now."
"Boys don't," Jaro cut in from the other side of the table, oblivious to the thick tension radiating off his sergeant. He chalked his cue aggressively, blue dust drifting in the air. "He's a machine. A kill-joy machine designed to take my money."
Raina laughed, a sound that was low, real, and vibrated in Marcus's bones. She pushed off the rail to move around the table, her hips swaying in that black skirt. As she turned, perhaps distracted by Marcus's intense stare or simply tired from a ten-hour shift, her hip bumped the edge of her serving tray.
It happened in slow motion.
The tall, amber bottle of local dark beer wobbled on the slick metal tray. Raina gasped, her hands flying out, but she was a fraction of a second too slow. The bottle tipped. It hit the rail of the pool table with a sickening clink, shattered at the neck, and unleashed a torrent of dark, foaming liquid.
The beer washed over the pristine green felt like a mudslide. It soaked instantly into the cloth, spreading in a jagged, ugly stain. It cascaded over the edge, splashing onto Marcus's boots and running down into the corner pocket where the white cue ball was still spinning.
"Shit… shit, sorry," she hissed, panic instantly replacing the flirtatious warmth in her eyes. The color drained from her face. She scrambled, grabbing rough bar towels off her tray and blotting fast at the felt, her movements frantic and jerky. "I can fix it, I can soak it up…"
"It's fine," Marcus said, stepping back to avoid the drip, his voice calm. "Raina, leave it. It's just beer. Really."
But it wasn't fine.
The manager had already seen.
He was stationed behind the main bar, a man in his forties named Vance who looked like he had been poured into his clothes and left to curdle. He was soft around the middle, a paunch straining the buttons of a grease-stained silk shirt that was half-unbuttoned to reveal a thicket of chest hair and a heavy gold chain. His thinning hair was slicked back with too much oil, shining under the neon lights. He was the local heavy—a man who survived in a war zone by being meaner to his own people than the enemy was.
He'd been watching Marcus's squad all night, his beady eyes weighing their gear, counting their drinks, calculating their threat level.
Now, he slammed his meaty hand onto the counter, the sound cracking like a pistol shot.
"Raina!"
The name was a bark, ugly and violent. Raina flinched visibly, her shoulders hunching as if anticipating a blow. She stopped scrubbing the table, the beer-soaked towel dripping in her hand.
"It was an accident," she called out, her voice trembling. She turned toward him, holding up a hand in a placating gesture. "Vance, I'll clean it. I'll pay for the felt. I'll—"
He didn't listen. He came around the bar fast for a man that soft, knocking a stool aside with his hip. He pushed between two chairs occupied by local drunks, his face flushing a deep, mottled red that crept up his thick neck.
"You stupid bitch," he spat, the words wet with saliva.
He closed the distance before Marcus's brain could fully process the escalation. Marcus took a step forward, his hand rising, but he was on the wrong side of the table.
Vance didn't stop to yell. He backhanded her.
It wasn't a warning tap. It was a full-force strike with the back of a heavy hand, fingers laden with cheap rings. The crack of skin on skin cut through the music of the jukebox, a sharp, sickening sound that stopped conversation dead in a ten-foot radius.
Raina's head snapped sideways with the force of the blow. Her braid swung like a pendulum, lashing across her face. She stumbled back, crying out, and collided with the edge of the pool table. The towels fell from her numb fingers, landing with a wet plat on the floor.
Marcus was already moving.
Logic, protocol, and the Uniform Code of Military Justice evaporated. The red haze of combat dropped over his vision. He vaulted the corner of the pool table, his boots skidding on the beer-slicked floor, gaining traction on the concrete.
Rook and Jaro hesitated that critical half-second. They were frozen by the chain of command, by the unwritten rules of off-base bars, and by the sheer tactical nightmare of the situation—too many guns in too small a room, too many unknown variables.
Marcus didn't care.
He stepped between them, inserting his body as a shield between the manager and Raina. He moved with the terrifying speed of a man trained to kill, bringing his momentum to a halt inches from Vance. He slammed one hand onto the big man's chest, fingers splaying wide over the damp silk shirt, locking his arm out rigid.
"That's enough," Marcus said. His voice wasn't loud, but it was deadly flat. It was the voice used to check a perimeter breach.
The room tightened instantly. The atmosphere went from rowdy to lethal in a heartbeat. Every drunk, every mercenary, every local heavy with a concealed piece turned slightly in their chair, hands drifting toward waistbands and jackets. The air crackled with the static of impending violence.
Vance stumbled back a step from the shove, looking surprised that anyone had dared to touch him. His eyes, small and piggish, dropped to Marcus's uniform. He took in the patches, the rank insignia on the collar, the worn fabric that spoke of field time. His gaze traveled lower to the service pistol holstered on Marcus's hip and the combat knife sheathed on his vest.
He sneered, curling his lip to show yellowed teeth, but there was a small, involuntary shake in it. He recognized a predator when he saw one.
"This is my bar, soldier," Vance growled, trying to regain his dominance by puffing out his chest.
"And that's your problem," Marcus said, not backing down an inch. He kept his hand ready, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. "You want to yell at your staff, do it without your hands. You touch her again, and we're going to have a very different conversation."
Behind him, he felt a frantic movement. Raina's fingers curled into the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric tight. He could feel her body heat radiating against his back, her breathing coming in fast, hot gasps against his spine.