“How much do you think I eat?” I ask as I continue to use one of the hand towels to blot at my hair.
“I have no idea.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “If this isn’t enough—”
“This would feed me for a week.” I sink down onto the bed. “Can we go to my place before we head to the office? I’d really like to get a change of clothes and my brother’s book.”
“Not a good idea.” Ryker takes his mug of coffee and a small duffel bag and beelines for the bathroom. Before I can reply, he shuts the door.
Ten minutes later, I’ve done nothing more than push the eggs around on my plate and force down two slices of bacon. Well, nothing more than planning the verbal assault I’m going to unleash on him for dismissing me like that.
“We leave in ten minutes,” he says when he emerges.
I point to the desk chair I’ve pulled to the other side of the breakfast cart. “No. Sit your butt down.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sit. Down.” A knot of anxiety starts to tighten in my chest, but I force myself to look him in the eye. “Someone’s after me. I don’t know why. I don’t know how they found me. But they’re after me. I’m so out of my element, I don’t know which way is up. But I do know you were really sweet last night. And now…you’re being a jerk.”
His ruddy cheeks darken slightly as he swipes a piece of toast from a stack thicker than my laptop. “Sorry.”
“You can do better than that.” I try to arch a brow, but my swollen cheek and eye don’t like that motion, and I stifle a wince. “You saved my life. You slept in front of the door in case anyone tried to break in. You’re like…Rambo or something.”
He snorts and rubs a meaty palm over the back of his head. “I’m not Rambo, sweetheart. Sylvester Stallone’s seventy years old.”
“And you are…?” To keep him talking, I shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth. He was so concerned about my dietary habits, maybe he’ll stay put as long as I’m eating.
“Thirty-five.”
I pick up another slice of bacon. “What’s the tattoo on your back?” When he stares at me, almost unblinking, I add, “It’s beautiful.”
“I’m not interested in ‘chatting,’ Wren. I was distracted at your apartment last night and you paid the price. Take your time eating. I’m going to scout from here to the lobby. You don’t open the door for anyone. Got it?”
I nod, but as he rises, his hands find his hips and he pins me with a hard stare until I sigh. “I got it.”
“How quickly can you get her papers?” Ryker asks as he paces Second Sight’s conference room.
“Two days.” Clive—our relocation specialist—scribbles on a legal pad.
“Not fast enough.”
Clive drops his pen. “Listen, dude. I don’t know who the fuck you are, but it takes time to build a profile that won’t crumble under scrutiny.”
“Dude? You better watch yourself, punk.”
“Enough!” Dax slams his fist down on the table and everyone falls silent. “Ry, I swear to God, if you don’t pull that stick out of your ass soon, I’m going to do it for you. Then beat you bloody with it. Clive, take it down a notch and work faster. We don’t need this to be ironclad. Just enough to get her into the country and hold up to the basic searches the Russian police might run if things go FUBAR.”
Ryker mutters something under his breath, and Dax swivels his head around. It’s spooky how accurate he is. Even though he can’t see Ryker at all, he’s staring right at him. “This is my company. Not yours. You want to run things, go back to Seattle.”
Clive slinks from the room while I hack into the traffic cameras around my apartment building. The ride to Second Sight in Ryker’s rental car was utterly silent. He wrapped his arm around me when we exited his hotel room and kept me tucked to his side the entire time we were outside. I miss his warmth, the gentle way he eased my messenger bag from my shoulder outside the car, his strong hand helping me to my feet after we parked downstairs.
So now, I ignore him—and everyone else in the room. I need to pack a bag for Russia. Check on Pixel. And I need a few minutes alone.
“Wren?” Ryker sinks down next to me. “Did you hear me?” His dark brows furrow when I shake my head, and I swear he looks worried. “Please stay here.”
“No. We had this discussion last night. You need me.” I leave the rest of the sentence unspoken. I need him too. This man exudes danger, and I know, without a doubt, he’ll do just about anything to keep me safe. While I trust the men and women I work with, I’d pick Ryker in a fight every time.
“I need to be able to move around without worrying about you,” he snaps.
“I won’t leave the hotel.” At his frown, I roll my eyes. “Or wherever you want us to hole up. I need a hardline or a strong Wi-Fi signal, power, and to be left alone. You get me that, I’ll find Elena and her brother.”
Dax clears his throat. “You don’t know her like I do, Ry. Accept it. She’s going with you.”
When Ryker curses under his breath and flops against the back of his chair, I can’t hide my smile. “So…when do we leave?”
10
Ryker
Two days. We’ve been stuck in this hotel room for two fucking days. At least I was able to upgrade us to a suite. I don’t need the second bedroom—a hell of a lot safer to sleep in front of the door—but at least this way, I don’t smell honeysuckle constantly.
Only every time I pass by her room. Which is probably more often than I should.
Slowly, I let my gaze rove over the large bath towels spread out on the floor in front of me. Two pistols, a rifle with a collapsible stock, half a dozen magazines, five boxes of bullets, a tactical knife, fully stocked med kit, two coils of rope, black greasepaint, a compass, two batteries capable of charging any of the four burner phones, cables, two IDs for me, two for Wren, and two for Elena and Semyon—if they’re even still alive.
I still feel like I’m missing something. Or many things.
Dax and his team came through—in a big way—but he made a point to send Ford to deliver all this shit rather than come himself.
Why can’t I settle? This mission isn’t any more dangerous than Colombia. Except, West almost died on that trip. I can still feel his blood running over my hand. And he’s a goddamned SEAL. Wren…she’s not trained.
Her bedroom door is open a crack, and I can hear her talking to herself. Or maybe to the dog. Ford is going to keep the little fur ball while we’re gone, but since the Fairmont allows dogs, I told him to bring Pixel here until we leave.
Wren’s face when she saw the dog…I don’t know that I’ll ever forget it. The woman hasn’t cried once in the four days I’ve known her, but her eyes watered and her lower lip wobbled when Pixel ran into the room.
Pushing to my feet, I wince as the gunshot wound twinges. I can fight—proved that laying the two assholes out the night Wren was attacked—but I’m not 100%. And damn. A hard knot tightens in my chest.
Creeping to the cracked door, I listen to Wren coo to the pup. “I’m going to miss you, baby girl,” she says as she nuzzles Pixel’s neck. “Ford will take good care of you. And when I get back, maybe we’ll go up to Maine for a few days and you can play in the ocean.”
Returning her focus to the well-worn copy of Harry Potter, she mouths a string of letters and numbers, then enters them into some decryption program on her laptop.
“What the hell are you trying to tell me, Z?” She twirls her wrist gently, and I hate seeing the bruises staining her pale skin.
“Does it still hurt?” I don’t mean to disturb her, and she flinches as her entire body jerks.
“N-no. And sheesh. Have you ever heard of knocking?” Pixel jumps off the bed and pads over to me, sitting at my feet and thumping her tail on the carpet.
“The door was open.” Turning my attention to the dog, I crouch down and peer at her hopeful expression. “Trying to tell me something?”
She y
ips, runs back to her little bed in the corner of the room, and whines softly. Though I think we’re safe here, I won’t let Wren walk the dog. So now, the little thing comes to me every time she needs to go outside.
“All right, fluffball. Come on. Get your leash.” I jerk my head towards the main room, and Pixel snags her leash between her teeth and drags it over to me.
“Can I come?” Wren slides off the bed, and I frown. “I haven’t been outside in two days.”
No. Stay inside. Stay in Boston. Stay alive.
Despite my fears, the look in her pale green eyes…I relent before I realize I’ve opened my mouth. “Fine. But cover up that hair.”
She grabs the black knit cap I got for her yesterday and hides her curls as she hurries after me, but skids to a stop and gawks when she sees the weapons.
“Cracker Jacks,” she whispers. “Do you really need all…that?”
“Maybe.”
Cracker Jacks? Where does she come up with this shit?
After I drape the bedspread over my gear, I clip Pixel’s leash to her collar and hold the door open for Wren. She eyes my hip, but I’m not about to reassure her. The pistol probably is overkill.
“How in the world did you teach her that leash trick?” Wren asks as I check the door locks.
After a shrug, I meet her gaze for a split second before returning my focus to our surroundings. “Didn’t have to.”
Down the back stairs, out the hotel’s rear door, and around the block we walk, complete silence between us. Pixel is in heaven. Sniffing the sidewalks, stopping at each tree to give the dirt around it careful consideration before choosing one on the corner to deposit her scent.
Wren glares at me while the dog does her business, huffs out a little breath, and jams her hands on her hips. “You really don’t know how to carry on a conversation, do you?”
I register her words as a group of guys—dressed for a night out on the town—amble down the sidewalk towards us. They don’t look like threats, but I won’t take a chance with her safety, and I put myself between her and the group, staring daggers into them as they come a little too close for comfort.
Behind me, Wren holds her breath, and dammit, why do I even notice?
Get out of your own head, Ry.
Clenching my free hand into a fist, I turn to her. “You want conversation? Or you want to stay alive?”
“Both. This is ‘tourist central.’ I don’t think anyone’s going to try to grab me right outside the hotel at nine o’clock at night.” She rolls her eyes at me, then stalks back through the front door. Pixel paws at my leg, distracting me, and I scoop the little dog up in my arm and follow Wren back inside.
By the time we reach the stairs, Pixel starts to whine, as if she can sense how close I am to snapping.
“Ryker—”
“Wait,” I hiss as I wave my key over the door lock. She wants to push me, she’ll see the monster inside. But I won’t let him out in public. “We’re not doing this in the middle of the fucking hallway.”
Easing the dog from my arms, she carries her into the bedroom, coos to her for a moment as she unclips the leash, and then stalks back into the main room. Pixel wisely stays away.
I don’t know what to say to her. How to share space with her. How in hell I’m going to protect her once we get on that transport plane tomorrow.
“We’re not in the hallway anymore.”
Her biting tone has me snapping my gaze to hers, my hands balled into fists and my teeth grinding together so loudly she must be able to hear them. The challenge in her eyes surprises me, but I just take a step closer, forcing her to tip her head up to meet my eyes.
“Are you angling for a fight, sweetheart?”
Unlike the other day, the endearment falls bitterly from my lips. But something inside me cracks at my tone. Fuck. I can’t decide if I want to hit something or gather Wren against my chest and kiss her until she can’t remember her own name.
She cocks a reddish brow at me. “You sure are.”
Forcing a deep breath, I uncurl my fingers. This was a terrible idea. I don’t care how much she pushes me. I’m not unleashing my never-ending darkness on her. Not after she’s lost her brother. “What do you want from me, Wren?”
Where did that come from?
She waves her hand at the weapons and gear under the bedspread. “Tell me why we need an arsenal. Stop grunting one-word answers. Sit down and eat a meal with me instead of carrying your plate into the other bedroom and shutting the door. Anything but this constant silent treatment.”
“I need all that shit to keep you safe! You have no fucking clue what you’ve gotten yourself into with this. I’ve seen what the Russian mob does to their enemies. In the past five years, I’ve extracted two women from trafficking rings in Eastern Europe. Both strung out of their minds, covered in bruises, and too scared to even cry. How’s that for an answer, sweetheart?”
“Ry…”
My hands shake as I shove them into the pockets of my jacket. Every time I close my eyes, I descend into my own personal hell. Dax, barely alive, burned and blistered skin all around his eyes. West bleeding out. Inara doing her best to keep Royce upright after Coop nearly killed all of us. Stalking over to the window, I angle my gaze to the sidewalk below. Situation normal on the street.
But when her fingers slide over my arm, my control snaps. I grab her and spin her until she’s pressed against the wall, her well-worn MIT sweatshirt clinging to her small breasts as her breath heaves and then catches. “You want to know why I don’t talk to you, little bird?”
“Yes.” She holds my gaze, her eyes a dark jade now, with little copper flecks that sparkle in the lights. “Tell me.” Her voice lowers, and she whispers, “Show me.”
Sliding my fingers into her hair, I tip her head back and claim her mouth. After a soft moan, she molds herself to my body, and when I sweep my tongue against hers, she yields, opening to me.
Pure, raw need surges, my dick jutting painfully against my zipper. If I don’t stop, don’t walk away, I’ll break her. Or…maybe I’ll break myself.
Crawling through the Afghan desert bleeding from a dozen wounds was easier than releasing her, but after I memorize her taste, her scent, the way her ass feels cupped in my hands, I pull away.
Confusion paints her face in shadow, and she reaches up to touch her swollen lips as if she doesn’t remember what it feels like to be kissed. I almost lose my resolve, but then I see the bruises around her wrist, and I turn, knowing I have to put some distance between us.
Shutting my bedroom door, I rest my back against the thick wood. This is for the best. I shattered into pieces six years ago, and I’ve never been able to put myself back together.
11
Ryker
Silence. Blessed silence. I hold my breath long enough to make sure Wren isn’t about to push through the door. She’s determined enough to try to “make” me talk. Of course, she has no idea how useless that endeavor would be.
I didn’t break during fifteen months of Hell. A little wisp of a woman half my size isn’t going to do what half a dozen Taliban couldn’t.
My laptop screen flickers on, and I stride over to the desk. Despite our strained relationship, Dax tasked his people with finding out everything they can about the Nevsky Bratva.
Wren’s facial recognition software just pinged with a hit. The girl is Elena Smolyskia. No proof of life, but no record of death either. If she’s alive, she’s buried deep. Ford will be there at 0700 to take you to the airfield. You need anything else?
Yeah. Someone to tie Wren up and stop her from coming with me. But since Dax actually thinks it’s a good idea for her to go to Russia, I know better than to ask. But there is one request I have to make.
Only one thing. If I don’t come back, my letters will be in with Wren’s civvies. Three of them. Inara Ruzgani. West Sampson. And you. But if you read yours and I’m still alive, I will tell your entire company how you couldn’t hold your liquor that night i
n Mobile and paraded around the barracks naked for an hour.
I close the lid on my laptop two seconds after I send the message. I don’t want to read his response. If he even sends one.
Unable to face the possibility Wren might be waiting in the main room for me, I rewind every moment from the time we returned to the suite in my head. Open the door. Let Wren go first. She takes the dog. I turn, lock the door, set the deadbolt, wedge the chair under the knob. Okay. I can risk sleeping in here. Or…trying to anyway.
Stretching out on the bed, fully clothed except for my boots, I stare at the ceiling, praying the sweet release of sleep finds me quickly—and that the nightmares don’t follow.
“Ryker? Ry?” Two quiet knocks rouse me what feels like minutes after I drift off.
“What’s wrong?” Instantly awake, I’m up and have the door open before I finish speaking. Oh fuck.
Wren hugs herself tightly, wearing only a skimpy tank top and short shorts. The gesture emphasizes her breasts and the creamy skin at her throat. Thank God I’m still wearing my jeans. I’m half-hard already, and if I don’t put some distance between us, the strongest denim in the world isn’t going to hide my arousal.
“You’re…not sleeping by the door. I worried…”
Fuck. Think. Reassure her, you asshole. “We’re safe here, sweetheart. I just—” Scrambling for words, I take a step back to try to drive her scent from my nose. “I needed some space.”
“Oh.”
Kicking myself, I reach for her arm as she turns away. The hurt flickers over her delicate features for a brief second, but that’s enough. I have to fix this. “Wait.”
“Get some sleep, Ryker,” she says as she ducks out from under my grasp and heads across the main room. “I need you at your best tomorrow.”
“No.” I rush forward to plant myself in front of her, and she drops her arms. Utterly defenseless—emotionally and physically. The raw need swimming in her eyes matches the emotions flooding me. “Wren, about earlier…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
On His Six Page 8