by Zoe Dawson
“Let me,” she whispered, wanting…needing to soothe him. She gently touched the rag to one of his shoulders, then dragged it across his back, the hair at the nape of his neck so soft against the back of her hand.
He made an almost inaudible groan, and she couldn’t tell if he was enjoying her touch or if it hurt.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“It’s all right, Chry. Just some bruises. They’ll heal.”
A knot of pain expanded in her stomach. She remembered him saying that before, when he was young, and she’d gotten upset by his bruises courtesy of either his terrible father or even worse stepmother. But she didn’t want him to have nothing but those disquieting memories at the hands of his father. She was sure the beatings Darko and Zasha had given him brought everything back. How he had been so awfully abused.
Nearly overwhelmed by feelings too great to express, she leaned in, pressing her mouth to a particularly nasty set near the top of his neck. He smelled wonderful, a knee-melting combination of clean and spicy, a scent all his own. He made a soft sound again, but this time, she could tell, it wasn’t because it hurt him.
That sound sent something profound and soothing through her as she slipped her arms around him, her forearms resting against the wall of his chest where his heart hammered, her hands wrapped around his broad shoulders. He raised his arm and drew his hand across his eyes with an uneven intake of air.
She held him for a few minutes, her cheek against the middle of his shoulder blades. Above them, the sky was filled with pinpricks of light, a velvet midnight black. They were running for their lives, chased by ruthless people who wouldn’t blink an eye at killing them when they caught them. Taking their lives for revenge, for spite, for nothing.
They only had each other in this moment. “I will always be there for you, Neo. Always.”
He clasped both her hands and held them against his chest, his fingers and palms so warm against hers.
Feeling more than vulnerable, she didn’t want to let him go. But they had to eat and get some rest. She reluctantly pulled away. He turned and took the cloth from her, and she saw the bruises on his torso were just as bad. She couldn’t keep the pain from affecting her expression. The solemn look in his eyes altered, changing to a heart-stopping one that made Chry’s heart roll over.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded and grabbed up the other rag and stripped to the waist with her back to him. She washed herself from head to toe, cleaning up the sweat and grime.
Dressed, she turned back to the fire and saw that 2-Stroke had pulled out the sandwiches and a couple of power bars, the water in the kettle on the fire for tea.
When they finished eating, he banked the fire and they lay down together on the blanket, every part of her aware of him in so many different ways. Yes, as a man who had fought so hard to resist Darko and Zasha. Definitely sexual, thinking about being with him, having him inside her, touching and kissing her with that sexy mouth of his. As the friend and confidant from ten years ago, and as a hero who never gave up the core of himself.
They had a tough time ahead of them, but in this moment, they were together, free, and whole. That would be enough for now.
Closing her eyes, she dropped into sleep, and it seemed like moments later, she was unable to breathe. When she opened her eyes, she was underwater, the surface so far above her, she wasn’t going to make it before her air gave out.
Then she saw him, sleek, dressed in black, his mask over his face, swimming strongly toward her. All she had to do was touch him and he would save her. She reached up, her hand stretching. But then something grabbed her ankle, a cold, clammy hand in a grip so tight, she couldn’t move. She looked down, trying to shake off whatever was stopping her from reaching 2-Stroke.
In the murk, a clawed hand was around her ankle. As she looked harder, the gloom cleared and revealed Zasha’s shrunken visage, her hair, white and thick, billowing out from her scalp, her eyes a ghostly white. With a smile she pulled Chry down.
She came awake with a terrible gasp, 2-Stroke’s arm around her shoulders. She struggled for air and he wrapped his arms around her from behind. “Breathe, babe. Match my breathing,” he said. In her blind panic, the soothing sound of his voice calmed her, and she matched his cadence, her breath undulating in and out roughly.
“It was just a nightmare, Chry,” he whispered, exhaling sharply and turning her into his arms. Closing her eyes against a nearly unbearable surge of feeling for him, she collapsed against him and he cradled her head and pressed his mouth to the top of her head.
2-Stroke shifted and draped his leg across hers, then pulled her flush against him. Chry swallowed hard when he drew the blanket over them.
It was all she needed to let go, and she released another sigh as she turned her face against him, his beard rough against her skin, and the trembling slowly abated.
“Tell me. Do you still have that gorgeous Harley?”
“Star? The low rider?” His voice rumbled in his chest.
“Yes, the one with the olive-green paint and those cool exhaust pipes.”
“Yeah, those straight pipes are awesome. I still have it and ride it often. At least when I’m home.”
“I’ve always wanted a ride.” There was nothing sexier than 2-Stroke on that Harley, leather chaps over his jeans, leather jacket molded to his upper body, and a pair of biker boots with all those shiny buckles.
His voice dropped to a hush. “On the bike?”
She laughed. “Don’t tease me.”
“Trying to distract you from that damn nightmare. Bad, huh?”
She stirred, lifting up to look him in the eyes, her hand twisting in his shirt. “Terrible. Zasha…she used water torture.” She explained the dream, and 2-Stroke closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Chry knew that he was remembering his own torture at her hands. They were silent for a while.
“I could kill that woman with my bare hands and not lose a minute of sleep over it,” he growled. “She is pure evil.”
“I get that,” she said, her voice hoarse, “but I don’t want to talk about her.”
He whispered her name as he drew her tighter, his arms like vises around her as he pressed his face into the curve of her neck. “That low rider is a great bike. I’ll give you a ride on her sometime if you want.”
Chry closed her eyes, her body trembling from the explosion of emotion that slammed through her, unconscious of everything except him. “You said it wasn’t a good idea for us to get involved.”
“One ride won’t hurt,” he murmured.
“Okay.” She bit her lip and smiled. His hold on her eventually slackened. Sighing softly, he combed his fingers through her hair, his touch gentle and oddly soothing. Her heart raced wildly as she savored the rousing feelings that coursed through her. It was like no other sensation she’d ever experienced, lying clasped in his arms this way. And if she’d had any doubts about her feelings for him, then and now, they were swept away by the feel of him. “You still have those riding chaps, the black leather ones with the studs and those boots with all the buckles?”
“I do.” Cupping his hand against the back of her head, 2-Stroke nestled her more closely against him, his breath warm against her skin as his lips lightly brushed her temple.
“Oh, my.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You seriously have no idea how sexy you are?”
He laughed softly, his amusement fading on a sigh of capitulation. “About as much awareness that you do.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
His expression softened as he slowly rubbed his knuckles along her jaw. “You’re stunning, Chry.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she hugged him. After a moment, she said, “Right back at you, Neo.”
He stared at her a minute, his eyes suddenly dark and intent, then he exhaled sharply. A tremor coursed through him, and he pressed her even more fiercely against him. His movements unl
eashed a storm in Chry that robbed her of all rational thought, and she lay against him, unable to think, immobilized by an excitement that overrode all else. She tried to twist her head, desperately wanting the hungry contact of his mouth, but 2-Stroke caught her head, holding her motionless against him.
His breath was driven from him on a nearly inaudible groan, and his voice was hoarse and touched with desperation as he ground out, “Just let me hold you. We are strong together.”
Touched by the agony in his voice, Chry fought to stay afloat in all the raw emotion, her chest banded by an overwhelming ache. She responded by tightening her hold on him, her body beginning to tremble from the upheaval he had aroused in her. 2-Stroke’s mouth was warm on her forehead as he nestled her head against his shoulder.
The darkness of the cave enveloped them in a safe cocoon, and Chry closed her eyes, taking comfort from the sensuous and physical intimacy. For now, this was enough, knowing that he desperately wanted her, knowing that he couldn’t let her go. And she also knew that for her, there would be no turning back, that she had passed her point of no return, that Neo Teller had claimed a part of her that she could never take back. And off across the ridge of mountains, like some ominous forewarning, she could once again hear the sound of distant thunder.
7
Master Chief Dean “Striker” Teller sat at a small café in Sarajevo sipping his coffee. There was one thing the Bosnians did well, and it was java.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” his number two, Iceman, said. “We could have just gone in and found them ourselves and then gotten our asses out without anyone being the wiser.”
He turned to look at his teammate. Chief Petty Officer Christopher Snow, better known simply as Kit or Iceman, wasn’t short on confidence. With his icy blond hair in a short mohawk and his Roman gladiator looks, he oozed alpha out of his pores.
One of the waitresses smiled at him and Iceman smiled back. There was always a woman involved when any of them saw him show much of any emotion. He did have a way with the ladies.
“Yes. We’re crashing another team’s op. He’s my brother, but he’s also their teammate. It’s the right thing to do.”
“It’s your call, boss. But give me a knife, drop me in, and I’ll have them back in Sarajevo in a day.”
“I can hear your brass balls clanging all the way across the café, Iceman.”
“At least I have balls, Preach,” Iceman said, giving him the finger.
Striker laughed softly as Petty Officer Boyce “Preacher” Carmichael set his cup down and pulled out a chair. He was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over his dark hair and penetrating cobalt blue eyes. “That area isn’t any joke. The PM is a stickler for who goes in and out of his hometown. If Stjepanić has that guy’s ear, then Banja Luka and the surrounding area will be locked down. We might have to get…creative.”
“Isn’t that why Uncle Sam pays us the big bucks?” Iceman said. “Tier One operators do the hard stuff.”
“Yeah, we’re talking about a leader who is opposed to NATO but green lights the European Union. He’s pro-Russian and a Serb nationalist. We can’t trust anyone, not the police force and certainly not the citizens.” Preacher took a sip of his coffee. “Not to mention we’ll be going through open countryside where there could be mines. It’s a good thing we speak the language because there isn’t much English spoken.”
“Darko Stjepanić has managed to escape every attempt to apprehend him. I’d say he knows what he’s doing, and he’s on home turf. We’re at a disadvantage,” Fast Lane said.
Striker looked up to find Fast Lane, Saint, and a stunning, curvy woman.
“Sir,” Striker said as he rose, taking Fast Lane’s outstretched hand. “Lieutenant, meet two of my squad, Iceman and Preacher.”
Fast Lane nodded and Striker thought the man looked like he had a lot on his shoulders. Striker knew what it was like to navigate the shark-infested waters of high command. But in this case, he was going to ignore them. Neo was out there being tortured and there was no way he was going to sit on his hands when his little brother was in that kind of danger.
“Saint and ATF Agent Aella Mikos.”
“Aella. That’s a pretty name,” Iceman said, leaning forward.
Striker smiled as the woman inclined her head, then sat down next to Saint. He looked at Iceman and shook his head.
Iceman shrugged and Preacher grinned like a fool.
“Thanks for meeting me. I’m just giving you the courtesy that I’m going after my brother. Screw orders.”
“That’s a dangerous path to be following when it could mean an international incident, or worse, war.”
“The PM isn’t going to go to war over a few Navy SEALs in their territory. We all know that’s just bluster. I’m not leaving Neo at the mercy of that fucking psycho Darko Stjepanić and your former liaison treasonous bitch Kelly Sparks.”
“Zasha Vasiliev.”
“Whatever.”
“This could mean your command,” Fast Lane said. “Separation from the Navy, losing your trident.”
Striker’s gut clenched and he looked away. Going after Neo meant he might have to lose everything, but when his brothers had needed him the most, he wasn’t there for them. Neo had to see Riley murdered in front of him and to protect his own life, shoot and kill their father.
He wasn’t going to abandon him now. “I know. If that happens, it happens. I’m going after him regardless of the consequences to my career. You’re not going to talk me out of it.”
“I’m not here to talk you out of it. Great minds think alike. I want to add two to your party.”
“Who?”
“Saint and Agent Mikos.”
Striker had no qualms about Zach “Saint” Bartholomew. “You sure you’re up to this, Agent Mikos?”
“Aella,” she said, then nodded. “Your typical macho bullshit aside, I’m tougher than I look.”
Preacher laughed. “I like her.”
“She could probably take you in a fight,” Saint said.
Iceman laughed, then sobered when she looked at him. “He’s serious?” Iceman said.
“Yeah, she’s pretty badass. We might have to keep up with her,” Saint said. Aella smiled and laughed softly, nudging him with her shoulder.
“We’re leaving at first light from this hotel.” Striker slid a piece of paper across the table. “Be on time. We’re not waiting.”
Early morning twilight infiltrated the cave, brushing weak sunlight across her closed lids, the chilling breeze from the cave opening touching her back with a goose-bumping crispness. She carefully pulled the blanket up over them as the sound of the horses stamping for a morning drink and some grass echoed into the cave.
She shivered and eased deeper into 2-Stroke’s warmth as he turned his body instinctively toward hers. Chry had never been so totally aware of him as she was now. The imprint of his arm around her, the texture of his hair and skin, every breath he took. She rested in his arms, absorbing even the smallest detail, so full of gratitude she could hardly breathe. They were so lucky to have escaped. He slept soundly, something so vulnerable in his boyish face, in the dead weight of him against her, and she experienced a kind of protectiveness that wasn’t anything new to her. She’d felt it for him all during their childhood and teenage years.
Not many people experienced the kind of relationship they had built together, making it all the more heart wrenching when he’d become so distant and aloof. She wanted questions answered, truthfully, without holding anything back. Just like when they were kids and needed each other desperately.
They weren’t kids anymore, but they needed each other again.
She knew those ties of their past bound him as much as they bound her. And, for her, the pain of his loss was hard to bear in the six years that had passed since he’d left for BUD/S, following in his big brother’s footsteps.
The short time they had been together made her realize that she craved to have it all back the
way it used to be, but now this delicious added attraction and sensual need wrapped around her feelings for him. She had been a girl back then, but she was a woman now and well aware of the pleasures of the body and the depth of love that was possible. Her connection to 2-Stroke went soul-deep.
It made her ache to think he might have moved on.
It took a special kind of person to rise above abuse, and Neo had become a bully’s nightmare. Anytime he saw injustice, he would step in regardless of the odds. Neo had closed up and had tried to check out of their relationship when his father and brother died. He hadn’t quite pulled it off.
She had hope after last night. She would hold onto that.
He finally stirred as dawn lightened the sky. The patter of rain on the cave’s broken opening and in the surrounding vegetation permeated the dusky stillness. They were in for a miserable day and night.
He shifted beside her, his beard scraping against her as he turned his head, his breath warm against her neck as he muttered her name. She knew he wasn’t fully awake, and the sound of her name did unbearable things to her heart. With infinite care, she smoothed back his hair and cradled his head against her, flooded with such tenderness that it made her chest hurt. Damn, but she had missed him, part of her so empty without him.
With drowsy languor, he smoothed his hand along her rib cage. Releasing a contented sigh, he slid his arms around her and gathered her closer. “If this is a dream, don’t wake me,” he said, his voice gruff with sleep.
Easing a breath past the aching fullness in her chest, she gave him a little hug. “We’re in the middle of nowhere, hunted by psychopaths who will kill us on sight, barely have enough food to sustain us, in a foreign country, heading to a hostile city, and it’s raining outside. That’s a strange idea of a dream,” she whispered unevenly.
He chuckled. “Okay, that’s a pessimistic point of view, flower girl.”
Everything stilled in her. He hadn’t called her by that nickname since he was fourteen. The sound of it set off a swell of emotion inside her that she had to clench her jaw against. Cupping the side of his face, she tipped her head and pressed a kiss against his forehead. 2-Stroke shifted and found her mouth, taking it in a slow, lazy kiss that sent her pulse skittering. Releasing his breath in an unsteady sigh, he tightened his hold on her face and drew away. “I want you, babe,” he murmured.