by Nikki Logan
His lip curled and he stepped away from her. “You don’t know me. You know nothing. Nothing.”
He stalked out of the room, leaving her unbound, but locking her in. She glanced at the floorboard. Waited a full minute to be sure.
Just as she started toward it, footsteps outside the door stilled her. She sank onto the bed. Someone was out there, pacing the halls. It wasn’t Alpha—his footfalls were measured and heavy, and after what had just happened, she wasn’t expecting him back any time soon. These sounded light and uncertain, like a rabbit’s heartbeat. Had someone been told to stand guard while he was away?
Her skin prickled at the sudden silence outside the door.
She held her breath, praying the footsteps would start up again.
A sharp crack sent her rolling sideways off the bed. A second sharp whack had her backing into the corner, desperation slamming through her with the noise.
The lock!
She hated that lock with a passion, but right now it was her best friend. It was all that stood between her and whatever danger was out there. Or it had been…until this moment. The door inched open but no one entered. Her muscles closed ranks around her most vital organs, tightening painfully in her chest and abdomen. She forced herself to breathe.
Not Zimbabwe…please…
It was only in that moment that Clare realized she’d mentally given herself a fighting chance against any of the other men. But not the brick wall, Zimbabwe. And she would fight, just as Alpha had taught her. She’d kick. Scream. Scratch. She’d use whatever defenses she possessed, as long as she possibly could.
Boots slipped into the room like an eel, closing the door behind him. She turned her lips up in a snarl.
“Now what kind of welcome is that?” He crossed the room, stepping around the bed even as she slunk along the far wall, away from him.
His hands were clenched by his sides, his movements unnaturally stiff as he followed. She didn’t need his body language to tell her he was taking a massive risk crossing Alpha.
And there was only one thing he’d be taking that kind of chance for.
“Haven’t you heard? We’re leaving. We may not have another opportunity.”
Just what she wanted. A chance to be alone with the filth.
She assessed her situation. She was close to the hidden cache of sedatives, but he was closer to her. If she dived for the floorboards he’d be on her in a flash.
Never take your eye off a predator.
She held his feral stare and did the math. Even if she could reach her stash before Boots reached her, using a syringe now would reveal her escape plan. She’d have to follow through with all four of the other men, and she wasn’t confident she had enough sedative for all of them.
“That’s better, sweetheart. It’s better not to fight me. This is really all about your boyfriend, anyway. No way I’m leaving here without taking what’s his.”
Clare swallowed back a trace of vomit and crouched against the wall.
Second rule of the wild: Never run.
If you ran, you were dead.
Boots shook with sick excitement, and a bulge strained hard against his pants. The sight very nearly broke her. Her whole being wanted to snatch the syringe and shove it deep into his body, over and over. Wanted to hurt him. Then she heard Alpha’s calming voice in her head. Whatever gets you the advantage.
It was like a caress of strength through the chaos of her fear.
Sturdy. Focused.
Dredging up the courage from somewhere deep inside, she took a fortifying breath and lunged straight at Boots. With a wild scream, she slammed into the stink of his body, swiping at him with all she had.
He countered with a sideways slam and they went down in a violent tangle onto the bed.
She screamed again as he slapped her across the eyes, immobilizing her under his weight. Yanking her hands over her head, he pinned them, but she kept lashing out furiously, and it took all his attention to keep her nails from ripping into his face. She wouldn’t give up. Every second she kept up her attack was one more precious second he couldn’t fulfill his disgusting intent.
“You know what he just didn’t get? Finders keepers. You were mine the moment I got into that truck,” he said with a sadistic grin.
He pressed against her thigh, angry and erect. She struggled harder.
He dropped one of his hands, sacrificing a whole bunch of skin cells to her nails. Reaching down, he pulled a deadly steel hunting blade from a holster near his ankle and held it, cold and sharp, against her heaving throat. He leaned his weight into it in warning.
She stilled immediately.
“There we go,” he said with a leer, fumbling at his pants, his eyes fixed on hers, clearly gorging his perversion on the fear in them. “That’s more like it.”
She squeezed them closed, her courage and hope shriveling down into the same place her soul went for safekeeping. He yanked at the zip of her cargos.
Maybe it had always just been a question of when…
All at once, the weight pressing her down lifted, and Boots flew backwards across the room, the knife spinning free and clattering in the corner. A giant, angry shape launched itself at his throat.
Alpha.
Clare rolled off the bed to crouch on the floor, trembling. She knew with sudden certainty this nightmare was not going to end well for her. If not Boots, then Zimbabwe. And if not him, then Baldy. And then she would die.
Layer after layer of danger she couldn’t even begin to negotiate whirled through her mind. And her only hope was the conditional compassion of a criminal who barely tolerated her.
Alpha slammed Boots into the far wall and the bastard’s breath retched out of him. Every time he opened his mouth to curse, Alpha’s fist found it, until he was gargling in his own blood. Something deep inside Clare, primal and female, stretched up closer to the sun, triumphant, every time fist met flesh. The smaller man scratched and twisted against her rescuer’s strong hold and finally scrambled free and staggered to the door. Alpha caught up and pursued him out of the house, Boots’ now-flaccid penis flapping like a distress flag.
The door to Clare’s holding room hung wide open but she was too shaken to move, let alone summon the strength to run. Besides, with three more of them out there, what was the point?
Really, what was the point in any of it?
…
By unspoken agreement the four other men departed early, a bloodied and half-conscious Corby dumped onto the backseat of the bakkie. Simon had wanted to go on plowing his fists into that soft, weak parasite out in the dirt in front of the farmhouse. Just a pity Dyson had intervened and called a halt to the thrashing. Every cell in his body still burned to tear Corby apart.
Now he watched the billowing trail of dust following their vehicle up the long track, making sure they were really gone. An impala skipped out its displeasure at their passing, flinging itself across the track behind them, legs jerking. The strong afternoon sun baked the side of his face the way British light never could. It soaked down to the cold fury he harbored inside but couldn’t begin to thaw it.
He turned back to the house.
Ten Hours.
He had ten hours before Sergeant came back for him.
Ten short hours.
Though it was a lifetime for Clare. Literally.
He found her still in the room, arms wrapped around her torso, huddled on the side of the bed. It was impossible to say what damage Corby had done, physical or otherwise, but he’d seen the knife cutting into her skin. He’d repaid that offense with the harshest interest.
He left the bedroom door open to the empty house and sat next to her on the mattress. She flinched, and his heart sank. But then she groped out blindly with one hand, found his, and grabbed it like a lifeline. Trembles wracked her body and tiny sounds of grief came from deep in her throat. He threaded his fingers through hers and turned as she pressed herself into his arms. Close. Trying to burrow clear under his skin.
His gut churned with rabid guilt that he’d let such harm come to her. That he hadn’t done more. She’d seen enough violence here for a lifetime. He rested his cheek on top of her chocolate locks and wrapped his arm around her waist. She nestled down further under his touch, exactly like a child, and he was lost. His hand softly dug into her hair, stroking and dissecting the tresses, trying to offset the horrors of minutes before. He glanced down to where her cargos splayed open. What the hell else had Corby done to her? Not as much as he’d intended, he was sure.
Bile burned deep in his sternum.
“Shhh.” The silent wracks broke his heart. “You’re okay now. You’re okay…”
He gathered her closer to him, half-dragging her across his lap, gently rocking.
He closed his eyes and buried his nose in the thick mane of her hair. It was just another form of contact, one more thing to give her a shred of comfort, but he monitored her closely in case she thought he might be picking up where Corby left off.
She didn’t, and the show of trust burned in his soul.
Am I really any different?
He had forced himself on her just yesterday, practically mauling her into submission. Was the line between that and this terror really all that wide? Maybe she’d acquiesced to him, then, as some kind of strategy?
You’re my best chance of survival…
He’d grown careless and forgotten how some predators make up in raw persistence what they lack in finesse. His mistake—and today Clare paid the price.
“I’m so sorry…” He rocked her again. “He’s gone, Clare. They’re all gone.”
She went very still. “Gone?”
“And if they come back, they won’t find you here.”
She breathed in, long and slow, and looked up at him. “Because this is where you kill me?”
The unconcerned flatness in her voice twisted in his gut. He tightened his hold. “No.”
It was always going to be ‘no.’
Her nostrils flared. “Will saving me put you in any danger?”
He’d never lied to her. Withheld the truth, yes, but he’d never lied. “Yes.”
She pushed up into a seated position, re-fixed her cargos and lifted her chin. “Then I’m not going to let you.”
He smiled down at her. “Good luck with that.”
She thumped him on the arm, hard. “Don’t patronize me. I don’t want your help. I’ll get myself out of this—”
“Yes. Because you’ve been doing a bang-up job so far.”
She wobbled to her feet, her arms returning to her protective hug around her battered torso then turned back, her tear-swollen brown eyes blazing and her jaw set.
He drowned just a little bit more.
And knew with a stab of helplessness as he went under, this woman was going to be the death of him.
…
Clare burned to tell him she was doing a bang-up job and that, in fact, her being back in his custody was all part of her carefully laid plan. But she couldn’t, and so she didn’t.
You’ll see…and then you’ll be proud of me.
The thought brought her up short. Since when was it important that he be proud of her? It had no bearing on their present situation. Yet it did. She wanted him to admire her courage and her cunning. She wanted him to view her with respect as an equal.
She cared what he thought about her.
Oh… That wasn’t good.
“Why don’t you just go?” he said dully, nodding toward the gaping door. “You could just go.”
“They’d know it was you,” she pointed out.
And they’d kill him.
It was funny how when things actually came down to life and death, they got a whole lot clearer. Things that would normally matter—that should matter—melted away. The question of whether he was a bad guy or a good guy suddenly became less relevant than if he was a good man.
“You don’t deserve to die protecting me,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Clare, I knew all along I might have to choose.”
He was choosing her. A whole mess of feelings tumbled along her bloodstream.
Tell him…
That she had a perfectly good strategy all ready to go. But maybe she wouldn’t need hers if he had one? “Don’t you have a plan?” she asked.
“Not a good one.”
Tell him, tell him… Voices clamored in her head, but something stopped her. A seed of doubt. As if bringing him into her confidence might actually mean a whole lot more. She twisted more towards him on the side of the bed.
“It’s not a very attractive quality, you know,” she hedged.
“What isn’t?”
“This defeatist, self-pitying business.”
That got his attention. Had no-one ever dared accuse him of being sorry for himself before?
“And you, of course, are the poster child for proactivity,” he countered.
“When occasion demands, yes.”
“I have yet to see anything vaguely proactive from you, Boston.”
“I escaped.”
“And we caught you 400 yards from the homestead. I’m hardly convinced.”
She groped around in her memory for something standout that she could share. That wasn’t still secret. He raised both eyebrows in challenge, sensing victory. She lowered hers in determination.
And her self-restraint ran out.
“Maybe this will convince you, then…”
She pushed him back into the mattress and slid across to straddle his hips, enjoying the momentary victory of his speechlessness. Unbelievably, he lay there not moving. About as tense as she’d ever seen him. Her bravado faltered. She suddenly felt very stupid sitting astride him while he lay dangerously still beneath her. She tossed her hair back.
“What are you doing?” he gritted.
“Going after what I want.”
And she was. It suddenly felt very, very right and very, very important that she not back down.
“Clare, you’re confused. And upset. After what just happened…”
Her chest tightened up. “What just happened was theft. This is my choice. And I’m making it freely. I don’t want that awful memory in my head.”
She wanted this one.
She needed it.
She needed him.
His eyes softened. And crinkled. “Well, far be it for me to stop you. Knock yourself out.” He lay back to watch, folding his hands behind his head.
Determined not to back down, she moved her hands over his chest, awkwardly at first, exploring the toned geography of his torso. It felt nice, very nice, but somewhat sterile given his carefully measured breathing. She roamed her hands down to his midriff. His expression remained impassive. It eroded her confidence. She traced lower but although his nostrils flared, he didn’t so much as flinch.
“You know, it’s not very sexy when there’s only one person doing the work,” she puffed, exasperated.
He tipped back his head and laughed, his Adams apple bobbing in his throat. She suddenly realized how many times she’d looked up at him, seen that lump working, and wanted to touch it. Without thinking, her hand went up and gently traced its contours.
The laughter died in Alpha’s chest, as though it was the most intimate thing a woman could do to a man. He grabbed her hand and warned her with darkening eyes. “If you touch me like that again, you’d better mean it.”
“I do mean it.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“Last chance, Clare. I’m serious…”
This was it. Do or die. If she climbed off him now she might still be able to hobble barefoot up that stony track to the highway and flag down a passing rescue. Someone who wasn’t as dangerous as the poachers she was fleeing. But she’d still be vulnerable, right up until she was back with people she loved in a place that she knew, with her passpor
t in her hand and cash in her pocket.
But if she stayed…there had to be a way they could both come out of this unscathed.
If she stayed, she could have a few more hours with Alpha. With him wrapped around her. Where she couldn’t imagine being safer.
Ever.
Her lips were the only part of her to move. “I’m serious too,” she breathed.
Something primitive within responded to the overwhelming sense of rightness she felt in his arms. It tugged at her conscience, at war with her more sentient dissection of her feelings for him.
And yet she couldn’t pull herself away.
Didn’t want to.
She leaned forward and gently kissed him on the mouth. His lips were soft and warm and she savored the taste of him. He tilted his head a fraction to fit their mouths together more fully, gently biting at her lips. It was a cautious kiss, exploratory and safe. Clare enjoyed it for a moment, in no rush to end it.
He cracked first, slipping the tip of his tongue between her lips and escalating the kiss from lazy to inferno. When he finally broke the kiss, she drew her tongue across his teeth, unwilling to let it end.
He clenched as though punched. “That might just be the sexiest thing anyone’s ever done to me,” he said, his voice low and husky. “Except, for the life of me I can’t remember what anyone else has done to me. Ever.”
The strain of not touching her showed on his face. Her hands roamed all over him, running along the outside of his clothes. Heat scorched against her skin wherever her hands went.
“Touch me,” she pleaded.
“I can’t. I have no right…” The agony of restraint showed itself in the bulging veins of his throat and temples.
“I give you permission to touch me. I want to feel you touch me. I don’t want to be the only one feeling this.”
That gentle, awkward invitation was all it took. Suddenly, his hands were on her, urgent but not rough. He pulled her mouth down to his, kissing her hard and long. She wriggled to fit more comfortably over his hips. She could feel him, rock hard between her thighs, his jeans and her cargos all that was keeping them apart.
“Clare…” He eased her upper body away while he stripped off his T-shirt with one hand. His other hand molded her bottom but his eyes never left hers. He had a beautiful chest, smooth and flawless and muscular. She wanted to feel those muscles move against her bare skin.