Saint
Page 8
“She’s just scared. This has been a very terrifying time for her.”
Uba lifted her head and between sniffs and gasping breaths, she said, “They took my dolly.”
Depraved, morally bankrupt, sons of bitches. True monsters. What kind of people did this to their children? She was just a baby. “I’m sorry about what happened to your dolly, but I promise you I will do everything I can to get you back to your mommy and daddy. So, if you could dry those tears, we’ll keep moving safer through here. Is that a deal?”
She used the back of her hand to swipe at her eyes, determination coming into her eyes. She nodded.
“What a trooper,” he said. He turned to look at Aella and she was watching him with a soft look on her face. “Can you carry her or are you too—”
“I can,” Aella said. “You’ll need to be on point in case we get into trouble.”
He reluctantly let go of her face, but she held onto his forearm for just a half second more.
“I can carry her when you get tired.”
“Thank you, Yasmiin.”
Yasmiin wrapped her arms around Aella and said, her voice hushed, “No, thank you. Surely Allah was with us when we were put in that cell with you.”
“I’ve been blessed with your support, too.” She turned to look at Saint. “I knew they would come for me.” She held his gaze for several seconds, and his heart turned over.
Damn, he’d forgotten how beautiful she was. He truly had. With the moonlight on her face, the locomotive that had run over his heart the first time he’d seen her was still rushing over him with the power of steel and metal. She was so radiant, even with the dirt and grime on her, her skin like satin, the curve of her mouth so perfectly sassy, her cheeks flushed with the heat. He couldn’t forget those gorgeous whisky-colored eyes—mysterious, dark-lashed, a deep warm brown shot through with light streaks of amber, like sunlight streaming through a glass of single malt. She was a beautiful mess.
Yasmiin let go of her and she bent down and picked up Uba.
They booked, Aella and the girls following him closely. He keyed his radio as he scanned the area they moved through. “Fast Lane?”
“Go for Fast Lane.”
“We’re compromised. Got away but lost the wheels. We’re moving away from the road for better cover and to avoid detection.”
“Copy that. We’re still headed in your direction. Hang tight.”
“Copy.”
They ran through heavy vegetation and suddenly he smelled water. They were adjacent to the river. He veered away from it.
“Won’t this lead us back to the road?” Aella asked.
“Yeah, but it’ll help with pursuit. They’ll guess we’ll go for the river because we need water. If we cross over, we’ll be going away from the river.”
“But we do need water. You said it was a priority.”
“It is,” he said, looking at her over his shoulder, “but these kids are running on fumes. We need a place to hide and recover.”
When they reached the stretch of road, Saint snapped a quick look, then took off, crossing the road. He stopped until all the trailing females had made it to the other side. He started to jog. There were still a few hours before dawn. They needed to be in their blind before the sun came up.
After several more minutes of running, Saint pulled up, surrounded by a thick, shaded area. He pulled his canteen off his belt and handed it to Yasmiin. “Find water. Try to get some that is as clear as possible. Do it as quickly as you can.”
He looked up at the sky and frowned. It looked like it was going to rain. It would make them damp and uncomfortable but would shield them from searching eyes. He turned to Aella and the other children. “I want all of you to gather branches, and ropey vines. Bring everything back to me. We’re going to disappear.”
Aella opened her eyes with a soft gasp, the shadows from her mind bearing down on her, but then she realized that she was no longer Omar’s captive, no longer in the cramped dungeon of a room. Yet the nightmare was too close to the ordeal she had just escaped.
It had stopped raining and she was a bit damp, but Saint’s amazing blind kept a lot of the moisture off them. The sky was lightening, but there were new thunderheads developing, casting the dark, heavy cloud formations in auras of gold and purple.
Her eyes focused on the man across from her. The man who had come for her. He was propped up against a tree, his alert eyes scanning for any danger. He was in full commando mode, and it wasn’t that she hadn’t seen him like this…it was that she hadn’t seen him like this—protecting her and six children like an avenging angel. Everything about him was hard and dangerous.
She’d watched him stand alone against odds that would make anyone run for cover, RPGs blasting, missiles exploding, bullets flying. In the middle of it all was him, going to one knee, steadfast against the onslaught of Omar’s forces—men, machine, weapons. He never faltered or flinched in the face of that juggernaut of incoming peril or barrage of bullets just missing him.
Regardless of the sleepless night, Aella had no idea how long he’d been awake. He had to be exhausted. She always knew that SEALs were a cut above but knowing and seeing it were two different things. They really were never out of the fight, concussion and all.
There was still blood on his neck, in an encrusted gash on his forehead beneath the brim of his helmet, and minor bruises and cuts all over the rest of his arresting face. She was sure his hair beneath the helmet was still that sable brown shade, still short and tousled. Beard stubble darkened his jaw, and his uniform was torn and singed, but there was no mistaking the solid form beneath the camo. And she knew that hard-muscled body, had mapped each and every thick contour with her hands while he made exquisite, earth-shattering love to her.
And Saint had been a very tactile lover. Big, snug, warm embraces. Small intimate touches. He made her feel protected and cherished, and so very much appreciated. All that seemed painfully absent in her relationships right from the beginning.
She couldn’t count the nights that she had lain awake as her partners slept, feeling empty and alone, aching for that kind of touch, that kind of physical gentleness. There had been times when she couldn’t keep the loneliness at bay, when she would remember those times with Saint. And the emptiness would be so wrenching it was like losing him all over again.
Curse her ambition and her plans and the distance that separated them. How could she reconcile her own plans with his work and keep her self-respect? She’d never followed anyone blindly and given up her own aspirations. She would loathe herself if she ever exchanged opportunity for weakness.
But God, he was temptation personified. The angles of his face were damn near perfect, wide nose, a firm, sensuous mouth and those eyes, sultry cornflower blue, which were definitely a window into his formidable soul. They were absolutely unwavering…absolutely locked onto any movement or hint of danger.
He’d been the only man since her tough and exacting father to throw her off her stride.
And that’s what they had here in this dusty, sweltering, lawless and chaotic country. With that thought, everything came crashing down on her, the death of her partner Jason Farber—another crime to lay at Darko and Zasha’s feet—her feverish push to get to Darko and Zasha, the bust of the ATF mission to get them and the weapons they were selling. Her failure, her miscalculation, hers to live with for the rest of her life.
Her heart laboring against the awful tension, she closed her eyes to ward off the onslaught of guilt, pain, longing, and a burning need for justice.
When she heard the soft whimpers, she opened her eyes and found Saint off his perch against the tree and crouching near Uba. He shook her gently and she woke with a wail, but he pushed his rifle to the side of his body and gathered up her small form.
Saint’s voice was soft and reassuring. “It’s okay, baby girl. It was just a nightmare.” He rocked her gently, then said, his tone quiet and calm. “You’re all right. You’re safe.”
A sob of relief wedged in Aella’s throat, and she swallowed hard against it, refusing to allow herself the luxury of falling apart. He had found them, and they were safe, and that was all that mattered.
Aella huddled on the ground, her trembling hands wedged beneath her cheek, aware, so desperately aware of Saint. She knew that this awful reaction of hers was warranted, she had been threatened, kidnapped, made to fight men to their deaths, been almost raped, her life hanging delicate and tightly in the hands of an unspeakable beast. In her mind she could rationalize it all, but it was as if everything were hitting her at once, sending her whole body into shock. The sixth months of stress, losing Saint to the distance between them, the emotional jolt of seeing him again in the worst circumstances, and the violations to her body and soul.
Sleep deprivation added to it. How could she really, truly get a night’s rest with Jason on her conscience, the terrible two still loose and plotting, planning, murdering and scheming.
She knew she should be grateful that he had come to her rescue and her reaction should be one of hope and freedom. But even though she knew it, she couldn’t stop the breakdown from happening.
The harder she tried to hold back the awful trembling, the worse it got. It was as if her whole nervous system was shutting down on her, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it.
Swallowing hard, she wrapped her arms around herself, her vision blurring. God, if she started crying, she would never stop. Vaguely aware of Saint moving back to his position, she worked at willing away the awful constriction in her chest and throat. Maybe that was the problem. She had bottled up so much over the past few months—it was as if there simply wasn’t enough room for anything more and it was finally spilling out, whether she wanted it to or not. Especially the memories of Saint, the way he made her feel, and how abjectly lonely she had been even in David’s arms.
She must have made a soft sound because his attention shifted from outside of the blind to her.
She met his gaze. Eyes that were not only fierce, but observant. Damn him. In those silvery blue depths, she saw an intent affection, so direct, so open, so…naked. Exposed. As exposed as she felt. He looked far into her, with such blatant support, she felt touched so deeply she didn’t know it existed within her.
She held his gaze, finding something strong and steady there, something she could latch onto. She couldn’t look away, didn’t want to, the longing in her was for solace and comfort.
From him.
A muscle in his jaw flexed, and she caught a glimmer of tenderness in his eyes. Aella’s vision blurred and as her tears spilled, Saint’s face contorted in compassion. He was off the ground and dipping down to her, pulling her into his arms in a fierce embrace that she felt down to the very heart of her.
Her world stabilized…again.
“Ah, darlin’,” he said with a soft, muffled sound, and her heart stopped tightening, loosening up, freeing more of her pent-up tears. She buried her face in his neck, the scent of him musky and familiar. Locking her arms around him, she cried harder, her voice trapped in the pain and fear.
His hand tangling in her hair, he shifted so she was curled against him. She closed her eyes tighter, the rush of sweet tender sensation so intense that she had to grit her teeth against it. He tightened his hold on her and held her with nothing but kindness and comfort, softly rocking her like he’d rocked Uba.
He held her for a long time as her tears lessened and her throat stopped cramping.
His voice was low and gruff. “Tell me he didn’t—”
“No,” she whispered. “I fought every second of every day he had me to keep him away from my body. I’d rather die than let him violate me.”
He released the hard hold he had on her. Saint stared at her for several seconds, then he shut his eyes in an expression of immense torment, and Aella closed her eyes against a wrenching surge of emotion as his arms tightened once again in a consoling, crushing hold.
Holding on to him with every ounce of strength she had, she roughly turned her face against his neck and choked back a fresh sob well aware of what would have happened to her if he hadn’t shown up in that small room where she’d made her life vs. death, respect vs. capitulation, her strength vs her fear decision. She waited for the awful ache in her throat to ease. “Thank you for coming for me. Thank you so much.”
“I would have moved heaven and gone into hell to get you back, Aella. Don’t ever doubt that.”
Her avenging angel. Her Saint. Her Zach.
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, remnants of the well of emotion that was brimming over.
He started to speak, then he abruptly cut off, releasing her enough so that she could see the glimmer of moisture in his eyes. Her eyes burning, she lowered her head and rubbed a spot over his heart, her fingers trembling so badly she could barely manage the task.
Shifting his hold, Saint caught her along the jaw and tried to raise her head, but she resisted, not wanting him to see the tears in her eyes. He rubbed her chin with his thumb. In a husky tone, he said, “There’s no shame in feeling everything, babe.”
She nodded, needing time for her tight throat to release. He covered her hands, holding them still against his chest.
“Let me clean you up a little,” she said.
Her throat spasmed again, and she closed her eyes and rested her head against his, struggling against the swell of emotion. She wouldn’t go back to sleep, and it was time for her to pull her weight here. Feeling too exposed, she sighed when he nodded. Taking a deep breath, she turned her hand under his, then laced her fingers through his. Reaching deep for some control, she lifted her head and looked at him. “It would help me to take care of you for just a few moments,” she whispered brokenly.
He tried to turn away, but Aella saw how hard he was fighting to keep from losing it. Struggling with her need to tend to him, she moved to get up and he exhaled roughly and let go of her hands. She heard him take a few steadying breaths, and she gently eased away and rose.
“Over here,” she said, keeping her voice low so she wouldn’t wake the kids.
It was in the spot where he had been keeping watch.
“First aid kit,” she asked.
He reached for his pack and opened it pulling out a large kit.
“You can’t help being a doctor, can you?”
“Corpsman, Aella. I’m a medic.”
“Sure,” she said, feeling almost like her old self. All she needed was a little tender loving care from Saint. “Hand it over…medic.”
He set it in her hands with a lifted brow and amusement in his eyes.
“There’s that pushy—”
“Bitch?”
“Um, no, I was going to say lady.”
“Hmm, right. Sure, you were.”
He chuckled and the sound of it went through her like sunlight.
She delved inside, pulling out gauze pads, a suturing kit, antiseptic and butterfly bandages. She reached for his canteen and opened the top, pouring out some water to wet a large pad. “Could you remove your helmet?”
He caught the chin strap and with a click released the heavy bands, then pulled it off.
She cupped the nape of his neck and gently guided his head forward. There was a gash and a sizable swelling on the back of his head. Must have been where his head hit something unmovable after the blast that had almost killed him.
At the thought of how close he’d come. She gritted
her teeth against the thought of losing him forever. Aella experienced a kind of protectiveness that she had never experienced before. She pressed the pad against the gash, and he made a soft groan at contact.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“It’s all right. Keep going. Nothing about this is going to feel good.”
Once the wound was clean, she applied antiseptic.
“Son of a—” he said through clenched teeth.
Now that the laceration was clean, she could see that it needed stitches. “You trust me to sew this up?” She released him as his head came up.
“How’s your sewing?”
7
She shrugged, flashing Saint a smile. “Passable. I did love to cross-stitch when I was younger.”
His mouth turned up at the corner with a wry lift. “Great. No cross stitches, just straight stitches.”
She laughed and it felt good. “I think I can manage that.”
“Stellar,” he said, then bent his head down again. She got to work and when she was done, she didn’t think it was half bad. With his head taken care of she moved to his face.
Very carefully she cleaned up the side of his neck, then tackled the rest of the blood on his face to finally carefully wash away the blood on his forehead.
“More stitches?” he asked.
“Yes. Stay still.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawled and her affection for him created such a load of emotion in her that she could barely breathe.
She used the same local anesthetizer she had on his scalp, then closed up the short cut. Using butterflies to keep the cut stable, she leaned back finished.
“There,” she said. “All done.” She tilted her head. “Those cuts and bruises give you a rough and tumble cast to counter your pretty boy looks.”
He smiled widely and her chest tightened. God, he was so irresistible when he did that.
“I guess it would ruin my big, bad commando cred if I asked you to kiss my boo boos.”
It was her turn to laugh. “Is that the medical term?”