“I don’t,” she whispered. And she didn’t. She hurt everywhere it was possible to hurt but she could tell that it was muscle pain not organ pain. She somehow knew the difference.
He bent his head. “Okay.” But he sounded unsure.
He needn’t be unsure. “Trust me, I don’t have any internal bleeding or serious damage.” Somehow, she knew it was true, as if she’d just had a full body scan.
Even those few words exhausted her though. She had to close her eyes, concentrate on breathing.
“Okay,” he said again. “Can you change? We need to get you out of those wet clothes fast, they’re wicking heat away from your skin. Metal and I will turn our backs. I’m not happy leaving you alone but we can give you privacy.” She opened her eyes to see his grim face, frown between black eyebrows. One thing stood out. He was worried — for her. He took her hand and it was the one spot on her body that felt warm. Otherwise she was freezing. He was absolutely right — she needed to get out of these wet clothes clinging to her.
She opened her mouth to say yes but nothing came out. She nodded and he nodded back. She’d given her consent though she hadn’t said the words.
“All right. I’m going to help you up.”
She nodded again.
Matt pulled gently on her hand, his other hand against her back. She sat up with difficulty, wobbling a bit. But his hand against her back was rock steady.
Her mind was foggy but she knew one thing, not with her mind but with her heart. With the essence of her. She hated feeling this weak, simply hated it. Something told her she was used to feeling strong. And that this weakness was unusual.
It was awful. Unbearable. She didn’t quite remember who she was but she knew this wasn’t her. She’d survived something, something terrible and it had taken a chunk out of her. This was not her.
She managed to move her legs — it was harder than she thought — and slipped them over the side of the bed.
And collapsed. Or would have collapsed if Matt’s strong hands hadn’t caught her. He held her against him for a moment, dark face above hers, dark eyes watching her carefully. Where her body touched his, heat bloomed. He was like a furnace. An amazing sense of strength infused her, just for an instant. Like a charge.
The clouds in her head parted for just a moment and she had a memory of him saving her in the water, swimming across a raging river to bring her to the bank on the other side.
He’d saved her life. And he was still saving it.
She couldn’t even stand and he was holding her up. She reached back for the bed, muttering “Sorry.”
The frown deepened. “Nothing to be sorry for.” He breathed out sharply. “Listen, we really need to get you out of those wet clothes. May I help you?”
She looked around at the nice furnishings. Urbane, comfortable and stylish. Not a rustic cabin. Where were they? Weren’t they near Mount Hood?
It was too much. She was shivering, exhausted, confused.
The words were there, they just couldn’t come out. I need to change these wet cold clothes but I must do it myself. I don’t want to strip down in front of two men I don’t know, even if one of you saved my life.
But moving toward the stack of clothes made her gasp, wince, a sharp pain like someone sticking a knife in her ribs. Did she have a broken rib? Her side hurt badly. Whoa. Now that she was paying attention, everything hurt. Muscle pain, not internal organ pain, but still.
He saw and he understood. She had the feeling he saw and understood a lot of things.
“I think you should stay still, ma’am. Until we know if you are badly injured.”
It hurt to breathe. But she managed to get out, “No internal hemorrhaging.”
He nodded. “That may be. But you might have a cracked or broken rib. I’ll ask your permission to cut those wet clothes off you and I’ll help you put dry clothes on.” His dark eyes held hers, serious and steady.
There was so much fog in her head, her world was shaky and her memory was shot. But she’d known violence at men’s hands, not so long ago. They had had an evil air, in the old-fashioned sense of the term. They’d been almost soulless and they’d delivered cruelty casually, without thinking. Their eyes hadn’t had anything she recognized as humanity.
Somehow she knew cruelty and evil. She didn’t know how she knew it but she did. Something in her past, or job …
A sharp pain shot through her head, like someone had jabbed an ice pick into her brain. She gasped, clutched her head with her free hand. The other hand was held in a painless but unbreakable grip.
Matt’s face grew even grimmer. “Ma’am?”
“Help me, please.” She couldn’t get her voice above a whisper. Everything hurt.
Something in her knew it wasn’t broken bones or bleeding, but it hurt to move. There was no way she could get these wet clothes off herself unaided.
As if her words were a start pistol, Matt sprang into action. He somehow had shears and gently set about cutting her clothes off her. The entire time, he kept his eyes on hers. He must have excellent peripheral vision because though he moved adeptly and quickly, he didn’t seem to see her body. Soon she would be naked.
Naked and wounded. That idea should have made her feel vulnerable, worse than that dark memory of being restrained, though fully dressed, in front of cruel men.
She didn’t feel vulnerable.
His entire body language spoke of utter safety. He’d given a sharp glance to the other man, the one who had the weird name of Metal. Metal nodded and turned his back.
Matt took the shears and cut down the front of her sweater, including her bra, then quickly cut the front of her slacks, down the legs. He returned to her torso, lifted the neck of her sweater away from her skin and started cutting from the neck down the left sleeve. He froze, stepped slightly back.
“Metal.” His voice was low, urgent.
Metal turned, walked to the bed carrying a medical bag but then he, too, froze.
What?
They were staring at her left arm. She turned and for a moment couldn’t figure out what she was looking at. The clouds in her head parted for a moment and she saw clearly what was there.
Someone — was that her handwriting? — had written MATT WALKER and digits, which she recognized as GPS coordinates, on her upper arm.
She stared at the man, the man who’d introduced himself as Matt Walker.
“That’s — that’s you?”
He nodded. “Yup.”
What the fuck?
Matt glanced at Metal, shocked. Matt had been a SEAL for ten years. He’d had a new one ripped by the CIA. He’d been betrayed by his government. He thought nothing could shock him anymore, but this did.
His fucking name on this beautiful woman’s arm. So astonishing that it distracted his attention away from the woman’s slim body. The skin was badly marred by bruises but where there were no bruises she had smooth pale ivory skin, small perfect breasts, a flat little belly.
He’d heroically kept his eyes on her face, but it wasn’t easy. But then he was used to heroics and before the blowup of his career, he’d won several medals for valor.
But fuck, not staring at that body — he should get a medal for that.
He heard a noise next to him and saw Metal, who was pretty unshockable, too, looking a little dazed.
Then he got his head out of his ass and realized he was dealing with a wounded, probably concussed, freezing woman who’d been rescued from a river full of snowmelt and he was standing there with his mouth open and his dick in his hand, figuratively.
He should be ashamed of himself. There were a lot of scumbags in this world but his parents hadn’t raised one, no sir. They’d tried to drill manners into him. Not much in the way of formal manners stuck, but by God, he wasn’t about to disrespect a woman who was wounded.
He had a warm fleece zipup tracksuit and light wool zipup sweater and he had to get her into them. He finished cutting away the wet sleeves, then, lifting the o
utfit from the foot of the couch, he held it out to her. “May I help you get dressed?”
She nodded and shivered. Yeah, she was freezing. And she looked so weak and vulnerable his heart clenched.
As gently as he could, Matt helped her put on the sweater, the jacket of the tracksuit, then quickly pulled away her pants and panties and slid the tracksuit pants up her long, slender legs. The Grange had everything, including warm woolen socks. Once she was dressed and dry, she lay back with a sigh and closed her eyes.
In the meantime, Metal had taken her wrist and was counting her pulse with a frown. Nobody believed it, but Metal could measure BP via the pulse. Matt had seen him do it countless times.
“BP ninety over sixty. Fifty bpm,” he murmured.
“That pressure is low. Pulse, too,” she said with a weak voice, without opening her eyes.
Metal shot Matt a glance. When he’d pushed her sleeve up and seen the clear signs of a shackle his jaw had tightened. Metal hated men who beat up on women and kids. Said there was a special place in hell for them. All the men of ASI hated that with a passion.
Matt in particular was filled with fiery rage at the sight. Unshackling kids had been his downfall and he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Metal took out a pocket light. “Can you open your eyes?”
Her eyelids flew up and Matt nearly took a step back, but checked himself immediately. Those eyes were not only of an otherworldly beauty but they were keen. In pain, probably concussed, but intelligence shone out of them.
Metal bent over, the light shining in her eyes, first one, then the other.
“Are the pupils dilated? Are they the same size?” she asked and Metal’s eyebrows rose.
“Slightly dilated, the right pupil is a little smaller than the left.”
“Mild concussion,” they said at the same time.
“I think we should take you in —” Metal began.
“I said no hospitals,” she said quickly, voice barely above a whisper. She shifted her gaze to Matt, as if he held authority. And, well, he did. He was the one who saved her and he felt responsible. Hell, he was responsible.
“Only if Metal gives you the all clear,” Matt said. “His word goes.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“After which, if you do get the all clear, you agree to take it easy. Rest and eat and sleep.”
“God, yes.” She closed her eyes for a moment.
“All right.” Matt stepped back, let go of her hand, which she been clutching. It was surprisingly hard to do. Touching her reassured him.
He nodded at Metal, who sat next to her on the bed. He had a stethoscope in his hand. “Ma’am? I’m going to do as thorough a check up as I can, considering you won’t let us take you to a clinic.”
He stopped, disapproval in his voice. Metal in disapproving mode was pretty scary. Not handsome at the best of times, now he looked like a clean-cut, sandy-haired enforcer and to someone who didn’t know him, he looked like he could easily beat you into submission with his pinkie.
She showed no fear, though, none at all. Either she was fearless or she had a sixth sense that Metal would never hurt her. Or hurt any woman.
Metal had a fiancée he loved deeply. She was pregnant and could wrap him around her little finger. It was a good thing she loved him right back just as deeply, otherwise he’d have been in deep shit.
He also had a protective streak a mile wide, like all the ASI guys. Matt loved the company he was going to work for, even though he didn’t want to start just yet. He was delighted to join ASI after clashing with a lot of scumbags in the military. It wasn’t just the CIA scumbag. There were others. They seemed to proliferate, like rabbits in the wild. Self-serving careerists. Half the time he found himself following orders he found borderline illegal or immoral, sometimes both.
With ASI no one would ever order him to do something he’d disapprove of, and if they did, he’d refuse with no consequences.
So he knew Metal would be his partner in protecting this woman he’d fished out of a river. A woman who’d been shackled, a woman who was running from bad guys.
Here he was, here they were. Protecting her. This is what they did.
Metal ran through a checklist, examined her carefully and concluded that she was bruised and battered but essentially intact. No broken bones, though maybe a bruised rib. Slight concussion.
After asking her permission, he took a blood sample. Carefully stowed it.
She nodded when he finished, as if corroborating that he’d done a good job.
“Now something hot to drink,” Matt said, pouring out a cup of hot tea from a Thermos. He held one arm against her back and held the cup in front of her mouth. “Should have done this sooner. Thank God it looks like we were able to avoid hypothermia.”
“Yes,” she said, leaning back into Matt’s arm. She blew on the tea, sipped and sighed. “Good.”
It probably wasn’t good. Matt knew zero about tea, but it was hot and it had honey and that was what she needed. She was dry, dressed in warm clothes, under blankets and sipping tea. He predicted that she would fall asleep soon.
After she woke up, he’d feed her. He had boiling water down pat, and could make breakfast, though anything else was beyond his abilities. But the Grange was super stocked with fabulous food cooked by the wife of a teammate. Isabel Delvaux-Harris, famous blogger and incredible chef. They had entire freezer lockers stocked with plastic containers of anything anyone could possibly want. He’d nuke some soup and thaw out one of Isabel’s five-grain bread loaves.
This woman had been held prisoner, had escaped, God only knew how, and had nearly drowned. Isabel’s food would make up for a little of that.
But before she fell asleep…
“Ma’am?”
Her eyes had been closing, dragged down by the thickest, longest eyelashes he’d ever seen. They opened again.
“Yes?”
“What’s your name?”
“My … name?” A look of alarm crossed her face. Her red-brown eyebrows drew together. A hand went to her head. “Oh, oh! Crazy. So crazy. I can’t remember. How can that be? Oh man, my head hurts …”
Matt exchanged a quick glance with Metal. She was making a little mewling sound of distress. God.
“That’s okay,” Matt said quickly. Amnesia was definitely possible after what she’d been through.
She put the cup down, raised her right sleeve above the elbow, showed them the crook of her arm. “They — they drugged me. Look.”
Matt and Metal bent their heads over her arm and, yeah. He ’d noticed. The sign of an injection and gummy residue from medical tape.
Metal gently touched the skin. “I saw that. An IV puncture.”
She craned her head, stared at it, closed her eyes, flopped her head back. “Yes.”
Matt breathed out his fury.
The CIA kept prisoners pumped full of drugs during interrogations. The drugs would be hung from an IV tree, and the prisoners would be infused for hours, days. No escaping the drugs. A few had been reduced to vegetables, mind gone, drooling sacks of meat.
He leaned a hand on the headboard and bent his head toward her. “Can you try to remember?”
Her hand was still holding her head. She swallowed heavily. “Honor?”
It was a question. Was Honor her name or a quality?
“Honor.”
“Yes?” she answered, as if he’d called. So it was her name.
“Honor what?”
She whimpered.
Metal tapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t think we should push it, man. But one thing — Honor, are you a doctor?”
“Yes.” The word came out sure and strong. She didn’t know who she was, but she knew what she was.
“Here. Have some more before you rest.” Matt gently pulled her up against the pillows and placed the mug of hot tea in her hands. They shook. Before she could spill hot liquid on herself, he cupped her hands while she lifted the mug to her lips. A long sip,
another one. A sigh.
Metal placed the back of his hand against her brow. He could tell temperatures as accurately as any thermometer that way. “Ninety seven. Chilled but no danger of hypothermia. Good thing you got her here so fast. It was touch and go.”
She sipped again, eyes closed, finally handing Matt the cup. And just like that, sitting up, she fell asleep.
Matt studied the beautiful sleeping woman. A little color had come into her skin. When she’d first arrived the skin of her face had looked like white marble — a dead, still white, veined with blue. Her lips and nostrils had been blue and she looked like she’d already died. Heat inside and out had turned her lips pale pink, the nostrils looked normal and so did she.
The memory loss was probably due to the drugs, not to having banged her head against a rock.
Matt and Metal exchanged a glance. They’d been out in the field together so often they understood each other without words. Matt fished out his cell from his jeans pocket, took a few photos of her and followed Metal out of the room.
“You should keep an eye on her,” Metal said.
“On it.” Matt showed him the cell screen where Honor was quietly sleeping. The rooms and hallways had video cameras that were kept off when unnecessary. Matt had turned the system on. He’d warred with himself briefly. It was an invasion of privacy of a woman who’d already suffered. But he had to monitor her for her own safety, so privacy had to take a hike.
He was about to invade her privacy again.
“Is Felicity at work?” he asked Metal. Metal’s fiancée, IT super genius, was expecting twins and interspersed work with projectile vomiting. Metal begged her to stay home, everyone in the office did, but Felicity maintained she’d rather be busy when not staring into the bowels of the porcelain god. Metal was tough but Felicity was tougher and she won.
Metal’s face pulled in a grimace. “Yeah,” he said sourly.
“She still hurling?” Matt asked sympathetically.
Metal sighed.
“Can she do something for me?”
Midnight Renegade (Men of Midnight Book 7) Page 3