Now he was coming home a failure. He knew he’d always be a SEAL, but everyone else would consider him a fuckup and a nobody. It wasn’t like he needed to prove himself to anyone, but that they’d see him that way ate away at the calm veneer he’d layered over his anger. The anger, inherited from his father, was always simmering below the surface. He’d worked as hard to keep it there as he had to break out of the Blackwood mold. His ma was long gone, and probably lucky at that. Rath’s dad was an angry man who used his fist to make his point more often than he used words. And they weren’t pretty either. Though probably the first bit of abuse Rath had suffered was being stuck with the old family name, Rathmusen. He’d gotten plenty of ribbing over that as a kid. That had stopped when he’d shortened it to Rath—and adopted the attitude to go with it. He did a visual check of his storage unit. No signs of tampering or water damage. Much more secure than storing his stuff at the family’s barn.
