Bree already knew Kruze Sinclair was part-man and part-machine, compartmentalized to get the hard jobs done, just as quick to leave when those jobs were finished. She watched while his fingers adjusted knobs, dials, and the angle of sight on that huge, impressive rifle. When he pressed his cheek to the weapon’s butt-stock and peered through its scope, the air rippled with lethality, purpose, and power, the kind of power that came with only the few true alphas of the world. So this was who he was when he wasn’t charming foolish women? This was his livelihood and Kruze did it well. It was second nature to him. Yet the more she watched, the more Bree realized his job was more than just a means to get by. This was his calling. His life. Maybe even his one true love.
Which was sad at so many levels. He could’ve had a very different life—if he’d truly cared about her and what they’d done together. But after he’d sneaked away from her bed that one perfect night… Bree shook off the dream that didn’t stand a chance of seeing daylight. There was a time she’d longed for his arms around her again, but that day was gone. The longing she’d felt back then was the stupidest dream ever. She’d already gotten the best of him, hadn’t she? If he only knew.
His dark hair was extra shaggy tonight. The last time she’d seen him, it had been neatly trimmed and he’d been close shaven. When Kruze didn’t offer any insights on what he was watching, she assumed he’d zeroed in on the rebel camp. At least, he hadn’t shot anyone. There was some comfort in that.
Bree was warm enough, but disillusioned to her core. There was a day when she’d loved working for USA Timeline, one of New York’s many media giants. But as much as she’d looked up to, had even appreciated Harvey Lantz for hiring her, she doubted the owner of USA Timeline contacted the United States President to secure her safety. It would be nice to know who had. Bree would like to thank that person. But it wasn’t Harvey. He wouldn’t have wasted the time.
Harvey Lantz was as driven as Kruze. But after working with Lantz, Bree knew he was a man without the empathy or compassion Kruze had. Lantz’s demand that USA Timeline surpass all other media outlets, no matter the cost to his human resources, was a hard burden to bear. He had no use for most of the people who worked for him, neither newscasters, writers, reporters, nor journalists. Not even his secretary. He was old school and believed workers were slaves who lived to make him look good. Ebenezer Scrooge had nothing on Harvey Lantz. What a crazy, backward place the civilized world had become.
“We can’t spend the night here,” she called to Kruze. “Please. We should pack up and leave.”
Turning from the crack in the wall, Kruze performed an eye-catching push-up and jumped to his feet. The man really did have awesome biceps, and his hands seemed capable of doing anything. Once he double-checked the view outside, he returned to Bree’s side, folded his long legs, and settled beside her. “Why?”
His brows waggled. Man, he still had some gorgeous, thick, black hair. Ruffled by the wind, it was shaggy enough that a lock dipped over his forehead and fell into his dark eyes. She wished she could see the sparkling green color she knew was there. If Bree felt better, she’d run her fingers through that hair and pull it until he complained—or purred. Once upon a time, she had known how to pet this beast. She wondered if his hair had been cut short then because he’d still been active duty.
Not that she cared. Her cocky, over-confident persona, the one that wanted to tell him her secret, died back in that narrow hole in the rebel’s camp. Two of the women had attended to her needs there, but they’d made sure she knew American women were sub-human whores to capitalism. Bree hadn’t been warm, not once in the last two months, and there hadn’t been enough room in that narrow post hole of a prison to sit, even to turn around. At least, not at first. After she lost weight, she’d had more room. Not much else.
Three times a day, her surly caretakers had pulled her up by the rope tied around her chest and under her arms, so she could relieve herself. They’d given her crusts of dried bread then, and tiny cups of piping hot chi, sometimes a piece of cheese if they were feeling generous. But other times, they’d simply scoffed and lowered her back into her pit of despair, without anything to eat or drink. Those had been the longest, hardest, loneliest days of her life.
“What’s going on, Bree?” Kruze asked, gently running a finger along her jaw. “Talk to me. Are you hurting? Did I miss something? Another sliver?”
She blinked up at him, needing to focus on the here and now, instead of the hellish misery she’d endured. Over the last two months, Bree had come to understand how much she appreciated freedom and her country. Which had been a very rude awakening. At first, her mind had a hard time grasping the concept that poor, uneducated women, like her caretakers, hadn’t wanted to be educated, well-paid, or to have brighter futures for themselves and their children. To brush their teeth or pluck their brows. To bathe regularly.
But Bree understood now. Those women—these people—wanted to live their lives and fight their wars their way. If and when enlightenment came to them, it would come on their terms. Not because some high and mighty ‘woman’ from the other side of the planet showed up to tell their story for them.
Kruze was watching her, his eyes dark and keenly assessing. The pan of soup he’d heated, waited nearby, but was probably cold by now.
“You shouldn’t have come for me,” Bree whispered, her strength and courage failing.
He leaned down into her face, fingered a chunk of her dirty hair, and tossed it over her shoulder. “Because…?” He drew that word out.
“Because the bonfire was a celebration. That day my women jailers pulled me out of the hole for the last time. They set up a tent, and they gave me privacy. For the first time in two months, I was allowed to wash my hair and bathe, while they watched and whispered. I thought they’d decided to treat me better because of the Geneva Convention’s rules on humane treatment for prisoners. But I was so dumb. After I was clean, and they’d dressed me in these awful rags, Josephus shoved his way into the tent. He’s the one who gave me that stupid scarf.”
“The red thing?”
“Yes. He said it was a gift for my wedding, and he forced me to wear it while we traveled. He wanted everyone to see it.” Bree cringed, remembering the creepy lust in the guy’s squinty black eyes; how he’d looked her over as if she were his to do with as he pleased. “He…” Her mouth was so dry it was hard to speak. “He said he’d brokered a deal with a very important man, that I should be honored.” The deal where she would’ve lost her country and her soul forever.
“What kind of deal?”
“The worst. With General Berfende. When he found out that I was still alive, he ordered Josephus to present me to him, preferably on my hands and knees, by the end of this week. Josephus sold me to him for three US Army Hummers and two tanks.”
“Sounds like Berfende’s trying to start a war,” Kruze growled. “And that scarf’s called a shara buke. Only it’s usually placed on the bride’s head after the wedding. I’ve never seen a red one before, though.”
Kruze couldn’t have said anything worse. Bree dropped her gaze, frightened all over again. “Does that mean I’m already married to that awful man?”
“No way.” Kruze tipped her chin up with his index finger. “Look at me, sugar. You’re safe. I’ll get you out of here. Promise.”
Her heart stuttered up her throat at that tender endearment. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it did. The man who’d been so impatient with her back on the road was gone. Concern glowed in his eyes like it had long ago.
“But I might be. Betrothed, I mean,” she worried out loud. “That’s the only reason they let me out of the hole. That’s why the big, whoop-dee-doo celebration. It was for me, Kruze, one of those bizarre pre-wedding parties where bastards count their chickens—or bridal dowries—before they’re hatched. Not that there’s much difference between chickens and brides around here. We’re just chattel to be bartered, killed, ruined, or in my case,
sold into slavery. What was I thinking?”
“Hey there,” he soothed as he took hold of her hand. “You’ll be okay.”
Bree still lay on Kruze’s blanket, too weak and too tired to pull herself upright to sit. Again, the man she’d once thought she’d loved, held her life in his hands. It shouldn’t have meant anything, but it did.
“The women in charge of me said General Berfende always wanted an American woman. I’m the perfect, gullible idiot who walked into his trap, Kruze. Don’t you get it? He’ll be angry once he finds out that I got away. He and his men are probably already looking for me. They’ll kill you if they catch us. Me, they’ll probably—” Bree couldn’t say the word. They’d kill her in the same gruesome way they’d killed Mehmet. After they’d brutalized and degraded her. And then they’d dance on her dead body while they sang hosannas to Allah.
Carefully, Kruze tugged her off the floor, folded her onto his lap, and into his arms. “Hey,” he breathed as he pressed her head under his chin and made sure his jacket still covered her backside. He readjusted the blanket on her legs. “No one’s going to catch us. It’s been a helluva day and you’re exhausted. You need to eat. Then you’ll feel better.”
And Bree was back where she’d once thought she’d belonged. She closed her eyes and breathed him in. Should she tell him? Did she dare? No. He’d had his chance. She shrugged out of his arms, her palms flat to his chest.
“We don’t have time. We need to run, now,” she told him earnestly. “You have a sat phone. Use it. Call someone to get us out of here.”
“Already called back-up, sugar. They’ll be here as soon as they can. Just breathe. You’re hyperventilating.”
“Stop calling me that!” Bree put a sting in her words to get him moving. “They killed the Turkish photographer I was traveling with. Mehmet was a sweet, gentle man with a wife and two kids. They tortured him, Kruze. Don’t you get it? We need to run before they find us and torture and kill you. It doesn’t matter what they do to me. I deserve it for being so stupid, but you don’t.”
By the time she’d finished begging, her throat was dry and her bottom lip had cracked. Bree swiped her finger over that patch of bleeding, chapped skin. What she wouldn’t give for a hot bath, some actual shampoo, lotions, and deodorant. A toothbrush and toothpaste would be nice. A tiny tear glistened at the corner of her eye for all she’d lost these past months. Her dignity. Her human rights. Her American-ness. All the little things she’d taken for granted were gone. If her parents could see her now. There wasn’t a day she hadn’t thanked God for them.
Instead of arguing, Kruze tipped back on his haunches, reached into his bag, and produced a small, black tube. Thumbing its cap off, he reached between them, smoothed the emollient over her lips, and… Bree closed her eyes and stopped ranting. The emollient wasn’t thick and waxy, but slick, soft, and soothing. That tiny tube of kindness felt good, so did her hands on his chest.
“Better?” Kruze asked quietly, the tender light on his face hard to miss.
Bree’s fingertips tingled. They remembered that hard wall of muscle. She flexed her fingers, just because he felt good. And warm. “Do you have any breath mints?” she asked, just in case this ended in a kiss.
“Sure. Want one?”
“Yes, please,” she replied, embarrassed at her wretched pleading, but so damned hopeful.
As easily as if he rescued desperate women every day, Kruze dug into his shirt pocket and pulled out an already opened roll of peppermint wonderfulness. “Here. Keep it. I’ve got another.”
Greedily, Bree peeled one perfect, sparkly white disk out of the foil. When she popped it into her mouth, an exquisite explosion of zesty mint hit her tongue first, her sinuses second. She coughed, surprised that an American-made breath mint could reduce her to tears. She’d toughed out starvation, dehydration, a rash of painful sores on her backside, two months of utter hell, and so much abuse. How on earth had a tiny tube of wax and one minty lozenge tipped her over the edge?
“Hey, it’s okay. You’re just scared,” he murmured, his hands so big and warm, once again holding her steady, when that was the last thing she was. “Go ahead, cry. It’ll do you good.”
Squeezing her eyes tight, Bree wished she were bigger, braver, and meaner. Maybe then she wouldn’t feel like a weak, little girl. Dragging her sore fingers over her face, she wiped her tears away and met Kruze’s steady gaze. “You’re right. I am scared.”
“Well, don’t be. We’re up high enough, and, with my scope, I can see for miles. We’re safe. No one’s coming for us. I would’ve told you if they were.”
As big as he was, Kruze’s hold was gentle. But now was not the time to be nice. Bree pushed away from him. He was her biggest heartache and her worst mistake. She didn’t want to need him like she did.
Instead of releasing her, he settled her firmly back under his chin and against his chest. Her ear landed over his heart, and she couldn’t help it. Like before, she was too weak to resist him. Her entire body snuggled into this ruggedly handsome man-pillow.
“You’re not going anywhere. We’re here for the night,” he told her, his voice even and low like she remembered, a baritone purr, like big, burly jungle cats made when they were as happy as kittens.
“But I don’t want to.” She knew she sounded like a spoiled brat, but Bree had no more to give, not even to save herself. “I know what I’m talking about. You have to listen to me.”
“I am listening, sugar, and I believe you. Josephus isn’t anyone to toy with, and General Berfende is a cruel son of a bitch. But neither of those asshats can get to you, and you have to trust me, too. I’ve been in these mountains before, and I know about Berfende’s army. They’re not a well-trained militia. Most are dirt-poor farmers, just trying to survive. They’re not the zealot he is, and friendly forces are in the air to us right now. All we have to do is stay put until they show. We’ll be okay.”
“But what if Josephus finds us first? What if—?”
Kruze’s index finger landed on her lips. “Shush, sugar. It’s too dark to climb, it’s snowing, and you’re in no condition to walk. We need to eat. I’ll keep you warm. Remember that hot toddy I promised?”
She looked up at Kruze, her hand once again splayed on his chest, two of her fingers stuck between his shirt’s buttons. That insignificant invasion of his personal space was another one of those tiny normal things that shouldn’t overwhelm Bree with its insignificant significance. But it did. True, her fingers were only touching his undershirts, not his skin. But the simple contact with this familiar man warmed her in ways she hadn’t expected.
Kruze was larger than life, and he’d come for her. Just her. True, he still hadn’t recognized her, but he had risked his life saving her. Yes, he was complicated and gruff one moment, kind to a fault the next, and he was uncommonly handsome in a rugged, untamed way. He surely could be an ass. Kruze was certainly all-male, one of those capable, highly-trained warriors the military produced. He knew precisely how to survive in this unforgiving environment, and he had gotten her away from Josephus, those mean-hearted women, and possibly Berfende.
Because of Kruze, for the first time in months, Bree felt incredibly safe and fiercely protected. Sheltered even. And so very thankful.
“You didn’t have to, but you saved me.”
“No worries,” he replied easily.
She reached one semi-clean hand up and cupped his chin. Her fingertips threaded into his beard. All those crisp, masculine hairs and the strong, square chin beneath them became another tipping point. Another step closer to the edge of her control. “I can’t save you if you won’t let me,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotions she didn’t want to feel for this man.
That earned her the boyish, lop-sided grin she had once adored. This man was still a charming sight for her sore, tired eyes. “You? Save me?” he teased. “Hmmm. I thought I was here to save you.”
He dragged the pan of soup over t
he floor and close to his side, reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a shiny, metal—spork. Bree nearly laughed at the teasing light in his eyes. Kruze looked so pleased with himself. Without another word, he dipped the spork into the pan, and before she could protest, he began feeding her. After what little she’d eaten the past sixty-three days, that first taste of rehydrated meals-ready-to-eat was heavenly. She couldn’t help it—she moaned at the incredible salty flavor seducing her taste buds.
“I can feed myself,” Bree muttered when he refilled the spork.
“Shush. Eat,” he murmured, the heat of his body and the command in his mellow voice enticing her to relax.
“You do know it’s physically impossible to shush and eat at the same time, don’t you?” she asked, as he pressed another sporkful to her bottom lip and forced her to open wide.
It was so darn cute, the way he opened his mouth and mimicked her eating. Everything about this man had softened. She almost liked Kruze Sinclair again.
Bree let him have his way. Josephus and Berfende didn’t seem to worry him. As prepared as he’d proven to be, maybe it was time she believed in Kruze. That he wouldn’t let Josephus drag her back to the rebel camp and stuff her into that hellish hole. That he’d fight for her the way he already had, the way she wished he’d fought for her—for them—a long time ago.
Bree lost her will to argue. Kruze insisted she drink, so she sipped the lukewarm water from the tube of his CamelBak. Dehydration was relentless at this altitude, and she was exhausted. But warm. So wonderfully, deliciously warm that, after all she’d endured at the hands of her captors, hope seemed possible again. She shouldn’t trust Kruze again, and yet—she did.
The sheer comfort of his body heat was the deciding factor. With a sigh and a lick of her comforted lips, the need to sleep tugged Bree under. She leaned into the massive wall of his chest, took a deep breath of the man she remembered, and simply let go.
Damned (SOBs Book 4) Page 5