by Zoe Dawson
Pulling the handgun from his holster, he entered the tidy kitchen, the hum of the appliances soft in the air. He checked closets and moved into the living room, then climbed the stairs to check both upstairs bedrooms and the bathroom situated between them. There was no one there.
He quickly descended the stairs and retrieved Chry, shaking at the cold. He was worried about her, the blood still seeping from her wound. He started up his combat breathing to calm himself. Panicking would lead to mistakes and, in this case, death. With his training kicking in, he was thankful for the way it always saved him, kept him grounded. Keep a clear, calm head and he would get through this, get Chry through this. Re-entering the house, he closed and locked the door, then without turning on any lights, headed for the stairs. The stairs creaked gently on the risers as his boots barely made a sound. Once he was in the largest bedroom, he set her on the bed
He went to the bathroom and flipped on the light. He found a fully stocked first aid kit under the sink and he headed back to the bedroom.
He stripped off her wet clothes, covered her lightly with the throw at the end of the bed. He went to the dresser and found underclothes and jeans. He pulled out a clean white T-shirt and briefs along with a pair of jeans that looked like they would fit him. He dressed, then took all of the wet clothes to the bathroom and dropped them all into the tub.
He grabbed the first aid kit and pulled off the throw. She shivered and groaned, then opened her eyes.
“Neo,” she whispered in a panicked tone. She reached for him and he clasped her hand.
“It’s all right, babe. We’re at the safehouse.” He pulled on the gloves in the kit.
She relaxed back as he assessed her wound. It was low on her abdomen, just above her hip. He slipped his hand under her butt and gently turned her, then breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s a through and through,” he said.
“Good.” She licked her lips. “No bullet.”
There was still debris he needed to clean out of her wounds. He found some painkiller and rushed to the bathroom for a cup and some water so she could swallow them. With a pair of tweezers, he worked quickly to pull bits and pieces of cloth out of the wounds. Chry gasped a couple of times, but otherwise she was a trooper. He opened up several packets of cleansing wipes and thoroughly cleaned the wound. She was still bleeding bad enough, but he’d have to make do without battle gauze or pressure bandages. He packed both wounds with regular gauze, then helped her to sit up. She groaned and clutched at him, her wet hair falling over her breasts. He pressed one large gauze pad to the front wound and the back, then rolled tape tightly around her waist. As gently as he could, he helped her to lie back down.
He cleared up all the first aid debris and pulled off the gloves, wishing for his tac vest that had his own personal first aid kit with antibiotics. He would have to see if he could get his hands on some. She was going to need them.
He rose and went back to the dresser, searching until he found a soft pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt. He helped her to dress, then lifted her, jerked down the covers, and set her back down, pulling the blanket over her.
He went downstairs to the fridge and found bottled water, cold cuts, and bread. He made several sandwiches and some chicken noodle soup he found in the pantry.
Back upstairs, he made her drink one whole bottle of water and coaxed most of the broth from the canned soup into her. Only then did he let her sleep.
It was his plan to go to the consulate here in town and get their help. He wasn’t sure if they could even protect them from Darko. The man had no regard for international laws. He and Zasha were nothing but renegade thugs.
He guessed that Darko would go to the consulate first. He had no idea how much time they had, but Chry couldn’t travel in the shape she was in. For now, they were safe, and for now, she was bandaged, fed, and hydrated.
He headed for the dresser where he’d set his gun. He gripped it, found some oil downstairs and broke down the firearm, cleaned and dried it, then put it back together. He thumbed on the safety and set it next to him.
He sat down in the chair beside the bed and watched her sleep. His body was fatigued, but his mind wouldn’t let him rest. Someone else had a key to this house. He would need to keep watch in case they came back.
Reaching out, he brushed her partially dried hair off her face but she didn’t stir. He checked her pulse for his own peace of mind and sighed when it was strong.
All day as they rode toward the river, he’d wrestled with his feelings at the same time as he kept vigilant. It was now second nature.
His feelings weren’t.
He couldn’t outrun all the things that were chasing him. That rage. It had scared the hell out of him. So much anger, pain, and frustration, and not all of it was tied to seeing Chry practically getting blown up.
He was sure he couldn’t outrun himself—or images of her. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Chry as she’d been early this morning, her naked body gleaming in the moonlight, the aching truth in her eyes when she’d told him she loved him.
But it wasn’t just her. There were other disturbing memories taking shape at the edges of his mind, memories he didn’t want to let out. He had learned a long time ago how to erect barriers. Even as a kid, he’d known how to do it. He had tried to do it with Chry. And now all those things were shifting around in his head, and it scared the hell out of him. He knew deep down in his gut that the flashbacks and the haunting nightmares were stemming from an unwillingness to deal with anything to do with his past.
When he’d shut it all down after Riley’s death, it had to include Chry, but now she was bringing back so much, and he was drowning in the sensations.
If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the day he’d left. It was as if so much of his world was ending…and maybe it had. He was going to BUD/S, and there was no room for anything, hadn’t been room since he was fourteen. But lying in the barracks on that first night and seeing her number come up on his phone made him feel like he’d slammed face first into a concrete barrier.
Fury had erupted inside him at the unfairness of life, a fury he channeled into determination that got him through BUD/S at the top of his class.
But now that uncontrollable anger was back. He would have to understand it, wade through it, force himself to face it all, or he would certainly lose his mind.
Of one thing he was sure as he looked at Chry, her face pale in sleep—there was no doubt in his mind that he loved her with the same desperation, depth, and soul-deep feeling he had for as long as he could remember.
He’d been with many women, but most of them were unavailable and he’d never pursued a relationship with them. His first sexual encounter had been with a married woman, an unhappy worker on the base. From there he’d gone on to one-night standers, frog hogs, shallow women. His last had been Mad Max’s nurse, Lieutenant Marion Murphy. She had been older, pretty great in bed, and different from the rest of the women he’d had. Of course, it would have been career suicide for her to continue to see him, but the several times he’d been with her made him long for substance. Through all those encounters, he’d always kept Chry close to his heart. Even though he had never been with her, what they had was something special.
He jerked awake. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:27. He checked Chry and some color had seeped back into her face. He moved the blankets and saw that she had bled through the gauze. He changed both dressings as she stirred briefly, then fell back to sleep.
The shadows chased him, and some of the things he’d been trying to outrun finally caught up with him.
And those things all had to do with his brothers, Riley and Dean, and…Chry. Deep down, he’d directed his bitterness at his brother, wanting someone to blame for not being there for them, for leaving him and Riley at the mercy of their father, Pierce Teller.
It was long past due that he voiced everything he’d felt back then instead of working it into a ball of unpleasantness and buryin
g it deep. Those feelings had festered and poisoned him. The moment he had the time, he would talk to Dean…about everything.
Then there was Chry. She wanted more from him, and truthfully, at the moment, he wasn’t sure he could give it. He didn’t like the nagging feeling he had used her in some way this morning or taken advantage of the situation. He had been torn; he was fully aware of that. But he let it happen anyway.
The minute he’d touched her, it had been like quicksand—once he was in, there was no damned way he could get out. But what made his gut clench even more was knowing that she had every reason to believe what had happened was something special.
And it had been. Very special.
She’d held nothing back, and what she had given him was real—her passion, her need. She had been with him every step of the way; there was no doubt in his mind about that. But it was that look on her face when he’d told her that he couldn’t talk about a future until they got out of this dangerous situation that clawed at him. They had a long way to go before they could have that discussion. But was that hope there inside him that it would happen?
The truth was, he couldn’t talk about a future until he faced the past.
Feeling hollow and aching, he climbed onto the bed and slipped under the covers. Drawing her limp body to his, warmth, while tenderness, and a fierce protectiveness flooded him. He picked up the weapon and kept his hand on the gun’s grip, as he snuggled her and felt instantly better.
When he woke again, it was light outside. He immediately checked her pulse. Still strong and steady.
“What is the prognosis, Doc?” she murmured. She turned her head and smiled.
“You’ll live to kick ass another day,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes at him, a hint of laughter in her expression. “Is that your professional SEAL medic opinion?”
“It’s cold hard facts, flower girl.” He sobered and said, “I should have—”
She shifted, turning to her good side, then covered his mouth, a move that turned into a caress against his lips. “You gave me the best chance to get away by sacrificing yourself.” She held his gaze for a moment, then looked away. “Do you know how hard it was to run away from you when I wanted to stand and fight with you, for you?” she whispered. “I’m so thankful you’re all right.”
He lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “I almost lost you. It was agonizing.” 2-Stroke looked away, struggling with the tightness in his throat and the burning in his eyes.
Her expression softened, and she almost smiled, her touch feather-light as she traced her fingertips along his collarbone. “Aw, it’s okay,” she said. “Before you know it, I’ll be kicking your ass.”
“Don’t give me a hard time, flower girl.”
“God, you’re so cute when you go all SEAL macho.” She laughed, then clutched her side, her expression contorting into a wince. “Maybe not anytime soon,” she said.
He leaned down and kissed her, then lifted his head, smiling. “You sure liked me armed and dangerous a few hours ago.”
“That is for sure. And can we talk about your body?”
He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “What about it?”
“Where do I start?” She sighed. “Hmm, those shoulders are so broad, your back muscles like a rock. Nice wide chest tapering down to that six-pack, and your thighs. Wow. Where do I address my thanks to the Navy?”
He chuckled. “How about you give me all the credit. I’m the one working my ass off.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s pretty fine too, not to mention the parts that make you oh-so-male are knee-melting, especially when you’re fully aroused. It was so worth the wait.”
“Are you trying to drive me crazy?” He leaned down and whispered, rubbing his lips against her temple. “My dick is getting impressive even as we speak.”
“Too bad I got shot,” she said.
“Yeah, but we’re here now and it’s only a matter of time before you heal. I waited a long time for you, Chry. We can actually make love in a bed for once.”
She stared up at him, her eyes suddenly clouding. She swallowed hard and shifted her gaze. She swallowed again. “Don’t,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Don’t, okay?”
2-Stroke caught her along the jaw, turning her head so she had to look at him. “Don’t what?” he asked quietly. She hesitated, her expression stark, unhappiness dilating her eyes. He gave her head a small shake, prodding her to answer. “Don’t what?”
She took a deep, unsteady breath, then looked away, her face drawn. “Don’t bring up the past.” She sighed, obviously struggling. There was despair in her eyes when she looked up at him again. “I don’t want to hash that out here. At least for now.” She frowned and looked away again, as if her emotions were too raw to hold his gaze. Finally, she looked up at him, her face drawn and anxious. “We need some time to work through everything before we talk about it.”
He stared at her for a moment, then toyed with the wild tumble of her hair, a cold jolt making his gut knot. He understood what she was saying—perhaps too damned well. There had been some bitter realities that they had simply pretended didn’t exist back then. They had lived in their own isolated little worlds. Only those worlds didn’t exist anymore. And he was just starting to resurrect the past. He had enough reservations about the present.
Brushing back some stray wisps of hair at her temple, he finally met her gaze. “Okay. I am struggling too, but we can shelve it for now.”
Trying very hard to smile, she swallowed hard and stroked his collarbone again. “That’s settled. Can I get something to eat now?”
Sensing that she had a lot of baggage about the past that could include some of her own anger, he rubbed his thumb down her throat to her pulse point. “You pulling the invalid card, then?”
“Yes,” she said.
He went to slip off the bed but heard the front door open and close. He fit the gun into her hand and moved slow and easy to the backpack and pulled out another handgun. He put his finger to his lips.
When the figure came through the door, he shoved the gun against the person’s head and said, “Don’t move.”
Saint lifted the curtain of the of the hotel room window and looked out to the street. Alek had been a Godsend. He wasn’t kidding when he said he spoke the language. They had ducked into the hotel in the back and he’d stolen a uniform. When no one was looking, he swiped a key card, and they were now warm and dry.
Saint picked up the satellite phone and called Fast Lane. He answered on the first ring.
“It’s about time,” he growled. “What is going on?”
Saint explained everything. “We’re in Banja Luka now, LT. But we don’t know where 2-Stroke and Chry are holing up.”
“Hmm. I think I might be able to find that out,” Anna said. “It’s possible that Chry is using one of the CIA’s safehouses. There are stashes of goodies out there to help if an operative needs assistance.”
“Can you research that for us from your end, Anna?”
“Yes, I can, but there are a lot of them. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Copy that,” Saint said.
Aella was mothering the kid again. He’d taken a slice to the arm. Saint had bandaged him up, but she was hovering over him like a mother hen. He watched her and everything he was feeling sizzled through him. The woman was so sexy in every way. But there was so much more to her, her compassion, her skill, her determination…it only made him want her more.
“Hey, kid,” Iceman said. “Want to go get some food? Do your thing with the language skills?”
Alek nodded enthusiastically and rose. Aella smoothed back his hair. She was dressed in the same white terry robe he was in while their clothes had dried. “I’ll bring you back some good stuff,” he said, his eyes bright.
Striker and Preacher rose. “We’ll go with you. I need to stretch my legs. Not used to this inaction.”
Spoken like a true team guy.
T
he boy left the room with the three SEALs, and Aella wrung her hands together.
He walked over to her and smiled. “He’s fine,” Saint said.
She turned to him. “What?” she challenged, her eyes narrowing.
“You’re hovering,” he said with accusation.
“He’s been traumatized,” she responded.
“Maybe, but kids are resilient.”
“How do you know that?” she asked, gasping softly when he took her hands into his.
He smiled slow and broad, then cupped her jaw in his palm and kissed her. Really kissed her. Not like he hadn’t done a damn fine job of it before this time. He was full of patience when she wanted to plow ahead. Each roll of his mouth made her deepen the kiss, her hands tightening in his hair.
She shivered, her hands spread wide over his chest, parting the robe, something battling behind her dark eyes. “I was wondering when you would make a move. It’s been damned frustrating,” she whispered.
He swore his heart stopped.
“And me caught flatfooted with all my Southern charm unused.”
“Oh, Saint, you don’t need to wield that charm. It comes naturally.” Her gaze lingered over him, her hands caressing the contours of muscle. She lifted her gaze to his as she tugged the robe’s sash. “I’ve never been shy, never let what I want escape.”
“What is that?”
“You, Zach. Just you. If that’s not clear, then I’m doing something completely wrong.”
She smiled with grace and spread the robe, exposing her breasts, smiling no doubt at the cold-cocked look on his face.
Geezus. She was beautiful. So fucking beautiful, her breasts large and round, the nipples a tantalizing peach color as they puckered. Her hand went behind his neck, and she drew him close. “Maybe we can use…body language.”