The woman who’d answered the door was older, probably his mother or aunt. She wore a yellow sari over what might have been a Muse T-shirt, her hair a tumbling mass of dark brown lightening at the ends towards golden. A red bindi was set between her curiously arched brows. She spoke in Marathi and Ethan could only shake his head and look around for Jack. He was still outside, talking earnestly with their guide, probably extracting promises of silence from him with even more money.
“You speak English?” the woman asked.
Thrown, Ethan stopped the instinctual urge to find a weapon. “Yes. I’m sorry if we’re intruding.”
She pursed her lips, possibly at his British accent, then shrugged. “You are looking for room?”
“If that’s all right.”
Eyes rolling, she said, “We have white boys here before.” Miming taking a picture, she added, “Documentaries.” Her tone said she couldn’t understand why anyone would care, though.
Resisting the urge to apologise, Ethan was saved by Jack coming in. He bowed his head to the woman, speaking in Hindi. The conversation was short and ended when Jack handed over money and the woman tapped the head of the boy watching TV, calling him Suresh and gesturing for him to move.
With the aggrieved groan of teenaged boys asked to do something by their parent the world over, Suresh got up and beckoned for them to follow.
Through another door, they came into a corridor with a winding staircase at the end. Doors lined the walls, those that were open showed various sized rooms from small to medium, all seeming to house at least two adults and some children.
“This is a chawl,” Jack murmured as they followed Suresh up the stairs. “The woman we spoke to owns the building. She rents out the rooms to families. The boy who led us here said she often keeps a spare room for emergencies.”
Ethan snorted. “Are we her usual definition of emergency?”
“Possibly. I got the feeling she’s not very sympathetic towards the police and government.”
They went up three more floors, the rooms getting smaller and corridors more crowded with overflowing furnishings and laundry. Part way along, Suresh gestured to what was either a set of very steep stairs or a permanent ladder leading up to a small opening in the ceiling. Ethan went up first, wondering what surprise awaited him as he reached the ceiling. Cautiously, he poked his head into the space above. It was dark so he took his sunglasses off and looked around. The room was perhaps half again as large as those he’d just walked past, open and ventilated by a window high on one wall. There was a table with a couple of chairs and a mattress with blankets.
Ethan pulled himself all the way in and stepped away from the opening in the floor. Jack came up quickly, squeezing his broad shoulders through the hole. Suresh slithered in lastly and flicked on a light switch.
Blinking in the sudden light, Ethan put his glasses back on and looked around again. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, casting yellow light on the cracked plaster of the walls and showing off the surprisingly intricate pattern of faded black and discoloured white tiles on the floor. A few flies lifted off the walls and buzzed about but the place was clean and warm, if a trifle stuffy.
“Table,” Suresh said in good English. “Bed. I bring you food soon. There is shower downstairs, but you have to get your own water for washing in the morning.”
Jack thanked him and handed over a couple of bills. Suresh disappeared and Jack went to the window, stretching up to open it and let in some fresh air. “We’ll lay low here tonight, then leave tomorrow. It’ll be crowded enough to cover our movements then.” His tone hadn’t lost any of the tension it had held since the Oberoi.
“Jack.”
Spinning around, Jack opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and ran his hands through his hair, grasping at the black curls fiercely. As if that was all that was keeping him from punching something. Or Ethan.
“Jack, I had—”
“No.”
That was all he said aloud, but his eyes, oh, his eyes screamed.
Stomach churning with confusion, Ethan murmured, “Please tell me your sister and niece are all right.”
Jack nodded sharply. “They’re fine. I got to them in time.”
“I’m glad.”
Silence fell, awkward and tense. Weariness tugged at Ethan’s body. The fight with Ten, the ride to escape the gunmen and then the police, the long journey over the past months to get this far, all dragged on his shoulders like a cape made of anchors. The one thing that had kept him going since The Hague—finally having the Cabal bosses in sight—felt like it was even further away tonight than it had been that morning.
His traitorous body sagged and ached and desperately wanted to fall onto the mattress and rest—preferably with Jack wound around it. But his thoughts raced between all the mistakes he’d made in order to lose Ten and all the decisions he should have made to avoid them. He shouldn’t have closed with Ten. Should have hidden and followed him when he left. The trap Ten had laid outside the suite, that’d nearly cost Ethan his life, would have been obvious and easily avoidable if he’d just been thinking clearly. If he’d been thinking at all.
It was the situation with Two all over again. He was failing. He wasn’t the assassin the Cabal had trained him to be. He’d failed the final test, even failed to kill Ten three months ago. He couldn’t even keep Jack safe, because here he was, right in the middle of the whole mess, his life once again sitting in Ethan’s hand.
He had to leave. Had to go back out there and find Ten, find Jäger—find the Cabal, and finish this.
Jesus fucking Christ. Ethan was going to be the death of him. Either from a stray bullet or a bloody aneurism. Temples pounding with the effort to keep his anger in check, Jack shrugged out of his leather jacket, hoping it would cool his head. No real luck, sadly.
He knew part of his anger was an irrational response to witnessing Ethan’s near death. But part of it, a large part of it, was entirely rational. Twice, Ethan had had the chance to reach out to him—literally—and he’d chosen to walk on by both times. He’d kept up his personal crusade on his own, nearly getting caught in Nova Scotia and fleeing across the USA with just about every letter agency in the world after him. All leading up to today, when Jack had had to rescue him from falling thirty floors to a hard marble floor.
God. He’d almost lost him. For good.
And apparently he was going to lose him again if he didn’t stop the man from leaving.
Ethan was at the hole in the floor, one foot down on the ladder.
“Oh, no you don’t.” Jack marched over and grabbed Ethan’s arm.
“Jack, I have to—”
“What? Throw yourself from a speeding vehicle again? Finish what that bastard tried to do to you today?” Jack hauled Ethan across the room and all but threw him into a chair at the table. “Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“You don’t understand—”
Jack held up a finger and Ethan clamped his mouth shut. “I understand more than you fucking think I do.” He grabbed his jacket and pulled out the roll of knives. “Fucking hell. Haven’t we had this conversation before? I work for an intelligence agency. I understand exactly what you’re doing.” Pulling free two plastic cuffs, he stood behind the chair and, one wrist at a time, fastened Ethan’s arms to the back legs. “Christ. Did it ever fucking occur to you that I was trying to catch you not to stop you, but to help you?”
Ethan hadn’t been struggling—probably because he had a way of getting out of even this usually effective means of securing a prisoner—but he went still then.
“Three fucking days I spent talking to Seven. She’s fine, by the way. Couldn’t do enough to help me understand.” And suddenly Jack ran out of steam. He sank to his haunches behind the chair and leaned his forehead on the backrest, his hands still curled around Ethan’s biceps. Not tight or restraining, but just to keep contact. “She told me so much. Nothing directly about you. That’s for you to tell me. I asked he
r to leave you out of it because I know . . . I know you need to be the one to tell me. But everything else . . .” Tears gathered and he shook them away impatiently. He’d cried in the interviews with Seven—everyone who’d been listening had—and now wasn’t the time to dwell on those horrors again. It was time to do something about them. “Jesus, I almost felt sorry for Two.”
Jack grabbed two more restraints and tied Ethan’s calves to the front legs of the chair. That was, of course, when Suresh returned with food.
Ready to explain, Jack found he didn’t need to. The Indian youth just looked at the white man tied to a chair, shrugged, and left the tray on the floor by the hole.
Letting out a long breath, Jack retrieved the food and set it on the table. Then he looked at Ethan’s face. It was stone, sunglasses pointed directly at the opposite wall, mouth a straight line, jaw clenched. Damp trails marked each cheek.
“Fuck.” Jack grabbed one of the towels covering the food and dried the tear tracks. “I’m sorry. It’s just that ever since Seven told me what you all went through, I’ve been crazy with worry. Ask anyone I work with, they’ll tell you I’ve been real prick. Well, more so than usual.”
The tension in Ethan’s shoulders eased a fraction. “You would have truly helped me?”
Jack’s heart thumped at the hollow hope in his man’s voice. “Yeah. You know I would have. The Office would have as well. They are, in fact. That’s the only reason I got here as quick as I did. I was coming after you no matter what, but they got me here as fast as possible.” And just in time.
To give himself a moment, Jack stretched up and hooked the towel into the chain the light bulb hung from. The material draped over it and dimmed the room considerably, but left Jack enough light to see by. He set out the bowls and plates, discovering dal and naan and fresh fruit and yogurt. There were two bottles of water as well.
At a nod from Ethan, Jack took off his glasses. Ethan blinked, then looked up at him. Holy fuck, Jack had missed those eyes. White irises, too wide pupils, those stupidly long and thick lashes. He was still angry. Probably would be for a while yet, but his chest grenade went off, blazing through him for the first time in what felt like forever. It was lust for this beautiful, sexy man, yes, but it was so much more than that. Jack might have had his head up his arse for far too long, but he knew what that sensation meant now. It was a sign of so many things, but right now, it simply meant he had to take care of Ethan, even if he had to tie him to a chair to do it.
Jack opened a bottle of water and held it for Ethan to drink, which he did in slow sips until a third of the bottle was done. Jack took a couple of mouthfuls as well, then contemplated the food.
“I’m not really hungry, Jack.” Ethan at least sounded like his usual self.
“You need to eat.” Seeing a solution to his logistical problem, Jack swung a leg over Ethan’s and sat on his lap, facing him. Twisting around, he picked up the bowl of dal and a piece of naan. He rested the bowl between their bellies and tore up the bread. He scooped up some of the legume dish on piece of naan and held out to Ethan.
“Isn’t there a spoon?” Ethan asked mildly.
“Nope. Open up.”
Lips sealed, Ethan cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Come on. Most Indian food is made to be eaten with the fingers. It makes it taste better. And you need to eat. And rest.” When that got him nothing, Jack batted his eyelashes. “For me?”
The corner of Ethan’s mouth turned up, but that was it.
“Eat it and I’ll give you a reward.”
“Will you untie me?”
“Maybe. Eat it and find out.”
Ethan resisted for several more moments, then opened his mouth. Suppressing a triumphant smirk, Jack fed him. Chewing, Ethan watched Jack suspiciously the entire time, probably wary of this threatened reward. Jack ate as well, unable to stop the smile.
When he was finished, Ethan said, “And the reward?”
Jack swallowed his own mouthful. “Coming right up.” And he leaned over and kissed him.
It was barely enough to be called a kiss. A brush of his lips over Ethan’s, then he pulled back, heart in his throat as he waited to see what response he’d get.
Ethan licked his lips slowly. “You still want to kiss me?”
“Always want to kiss you. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still angry. Open up.”
Ethan did so and Jack popped another bit of naan and dal into his mouth. They both ate, then Jack kissed him again. Ethan’s lips pressed back this time, capturing his for a moment longer, then released him.
Belly tingling with warming anticipation, Jack sat back and prepared the next morsel. Ethan didn’t need to be told to open up this time and his tongue swept out to catch the food, brushing Jack’s fingers.
Holy fuck was this the wrong path to take right now. The anger still simmered in his bones, but Christ, his blood yearned toward Ethan like the tide chasing the moon. They’d had plenty of angry sex in the past. It was unavoidable when Ethan was a little shit and Jack’s anger had a hair-trigger. Generally, it worked for them because when the rage-sex was over, Ethan was a useless puddle and Jack had forgotten what pissed him off at the first sight of Ethan’s blush. This time, though, Jack wasn’t sure that was how it would play out, for various reasons. Yet he leaned in and kissed him again, his tongue delving into Ethan’s mouth, welcomed enthusiastically.
He followed the same pattern until the bowl was nearly empty and the kisses lasted longer than the chewing. Ethan made plaintive little noises with each kiss, slowly growing into moans as he pushed harder at Jack, straining against the ties holding him to the chair.
Jack removed the bowl from between them and slid up Ethan’s lap until they were touching from chest to groin. His dick was steel-rod hard, pressed against the inside of his jeans, aching for more than that inadequate friction. Ethan was just as hard, tenting up the front of his cargo pants. Jack ground against him, making them both gasp at the sudden pressure. Hips rising off the chair, Ethan panted into Jack’s mouth, striving for more.
“Jack,” he whined, then moaned, “Jack,” when Jack met him hip thrust for hip thrust.
Jack touched him. Couldn’t not touch him. Hands glided over his tensed biceps and across his torso, lamenting the too many layers of clothes that didn’t let him trace muscles or ribs, or tease nipples until they were hard and making Ethan suck in a deep breath when he rolled them between his fingers. Fingers lingered along his stubbled jaw, stroking the pulse points in his neck, then up into his hair, getting a low groan and tipped-back head in response. Jack shifted his mouth to that exposed throat, licking and nipping until Ethan was a babbling mess.
Then suddenly, Ethan’s hands were free and curling through his hair, pulling his head up so he could kiss Jack’s mouth again, greedy and possessive.
Fuck. Take-charge Ethan was as mind-blowingly sexy as submissive Ethan. It was Jack’s turn to melt and let Ethan have his way. He nudged his way under Jack’s chin, tongue lathing its way across the soft skin, making Jack’s shoulders shiver and his dick throb. Ethan’s hands pushed under his shirt, hot and hard as they rubbed over his abdomen, around his waist and up his spine to grab at his shoulder blades and dig in. Teeth raked over Jack’s throat, making him whimper.
God. The man was infuriating, but so fucking gorgeous like this. When Ethan decided what he wanted and went after it, no holds barred, Jack could only ever stare in awe.
Except when what he’d decided was to make a solo suicide run against one of the most powerful and secret groups in the world. Then Jack could only do his best to keep the man alive.
Ethan shifted under him, growling against Jack’s skin. With a muttered, “Blast,” Ethan’s hands were gone from his back and before Jack could dazedly work out what was happening, Ethan had one of the knives from his kit. The silver blade flashed in the dim light as the assassin spun it around in his palm, grabbed the handle and slashed downwards.
Snick. Snick.
&nb
sp; The knife clattered to the floor and Ethan slapped his hands to Jack’s arse. “Hold on.”
Jack barely complied before Ethan surged to his feet, chair falling backwards, and set Jack down on the edge of the table. Legs wrapped around Ethan’s hips, Jack pulled in a startled gasp, then he was being kissed, thoroughly, deeply, demandingly. Ethan shoved the tray with its remaining food aside and pressed until Jack was leaning back on one elbow, his other hand clutching at Ethan’s shirt, unsure of what it was doing.
This shouldn’t happen. Not now. Not like this. But Ethan ground against Jack’s dick and all he could do was hitch his legs higher and grind back. Then Ethan slid a hand over his straining bulge, rubbing and squeezing.
“Jack.” The name was ragged and breathless.
“Present,” he managed amidst the fogging lust. He pushed up into the touch, trying not to but helpless to resist. “Oh shit.” Maybe this would be okay. Maybe Ethan could fuck him and this wouldn’t end the way he dreaded it would.
Ethan popped the button on Jack’s jeans and shoved his hand inside them. “I need you, Jack. Please.” His fingers slid along the length of Jack’s shaft.
Eyes rolling into the back of his head, Jack moaned. God. This was karma all over again, back to bite him in the arse.
A low rumble started in Ethan’s throat, an almost feral leer turning up one side of his mouth. “Naked, Jack. Now.”
“No.”
It was the weakest protest ever but Ethan heard it and froze.
Jack groaned and pulled Ethan’s hand out of his pants. “Jesus, I’m sorry, but no. Not now.”
Slowly, Ethan closed his eyes and pushed off him, seeking distance. Jack locked his ankles together at the base of his spine and grabbed his wrist, holding him close.
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