Flopped on his back, he was tangled in his layers. River tore at his hood, finding a shaved skull, the man’s nose and mouth covered by a flap of cloth.
There was no time for delicacy. She ripped the fabric away, scratching his face in her haste. It got a reaction: the male jerked.
He was alive.
Numb fingers pried apart his jaw. The man twitched again. Panting, she rolled him onto his side, certain by his garbled wheeze the giant’s lungs were full of water. She stood, and kicked the bastard square between the shoulder blades.
The instant gush from his mouth confirmed her suspicion.
Pressing his back to the rocky shore, angling the man’s thick neck, her lips went to his. She gave him her breath. There was hardly a need for compressions before he spit up another wave of water. After clearing his mouth, she breathed for him again.
When she puffed air into his mouth, the man’s eyes flew open. An inhalation, rattling and unhealthy, was sucked deep even as she tried to turn him to his side so he could vomit up the rest. Shifting her feet, loudly cursing him to high heaven, she kneeled, fisted her hand, and began to vigorously rub his chest in hard, brutal circles.
With each retch, his color slowly went from purple to an unnatural shade of green. Jerking movement became erratic, panicked. A series of racking coughs pushed out the last bit of lake water, but the man, the great beast she was trying to tend, was far more obsessed with fighting her off than spitting up the fluid.
It was such a strange thing to witness, a powerful man gagging, shuddering, and wielding a muscled arm so big it seemed it could break her in two, yet so weak he could not move her an inch.
Batting his flailing arm away, she kept him on his side and helped him cough up the last of the lake water. The way he watched her, the hatred, she almost hesitated, unsure if she would be safe should she continue to revive him.
But honor mattered.
She met a wide-eyed death glare with a squinted warning of her own. A huge noisy breath was immediately sucked deep. Then another, expanding a rib cage so massive, she felt the need to back away. It was not a sensation she humored. Instead, she stood and offered a hand. “You lost your footing, stranger.”
Bowed over, clearly struggling, he loudly cleared his throat, hacking as he got to his knees and shoved her back.
Ass to the ground, the rocky shore digging into her butt—cold, sopping wet, and pissed off, she barked, “If you want something to panic about, it should be the coming dark, not abusing the woman who saved your life.”
She knew he was in shock. It was clear from the way he trembled and the settling confusion in his bloodshot eyes.
Her muddy boots came into his line of sight. There was hardly any time to snarl before the woman had the nerve to strike him in five concurrent blows on his back. His body reacted and he spit up again, the liquid flowing past his lips and landing right on her feet. He wheezed, sputtered, and then the bastard had the audacity to look up and actually growl at her.
“Yeah, fuck you too,” she said, cocking her chin once toward the frozen river. “You think I wanted to wade into that shit? Now, get on your feet or freeze to death and waste the life I just gave you.”
Standing, throwing one of her long braids over her shoulder, she offered the stranger a hand again, her eyes warning that if he didn’t take it, she would leave him to die. All the male did was look up at her, as if measuring her, as if debating some great matter. She knew what he found in the appraisal: a filthy, wet woman. A woman with mud smeared all over her, glowering at him, brows drawn tight.
She was also shivering, every bit as cold as he was.
She’d been out in the elements too long, but River waited, her hand extended, her glare challenging. A palm came up, gripped her about the elbow. She mirrored his hold and he let her help him to his feet.
He almost fell right back down. One of his ankles was badly damaged.
“Right,” she grunted, frowning at his twisted boot. “Put your arm about me.”
The damn limb was heavy. He gripped too hard when she huddled to his side and rolled her shoulder, shifting the weight of her rifle to accommodate the press of his body. There was no time for talk, no need in her mind to make any type of introductions, not with the swell of the sun’s orange disk descending behind the mountains. She took a step, he followed, allowing her to bear a portion of his weight, and together they moved into the dark of the woods.
The scent of cedar, the smell of cold crushed plant life, was sharp in each deep inhalation as she cursed him, barking orders that only earned her a death threat of a glare. “Move your ass! We still have half a mile to hike and you’re never going to make it crawling like a baby.”
The tree line blocked a portion of the biting wind, but the air was still cold, their breath visible. She was sweating into her wet clothing, winded from the labor of dragging the steroid addled idiot up the mountain to shelter.
They crested a rocky summit, the scent of the air took on a fragrance of wood smoke, and she smiled, a thing the man did not see. He did, however, see the small log cabin buried farther up in a copse of trees.
For the briefest of seconds, she felt her companion hesitate, looking up to find his eyes locked on her. She met that murderous gaze, aware he was thinking of how much bigger he was, how much stronger even injured. Her eyes were black, the pupils almost indistinguishable. It was there he glared, his blue irises lacking everything hers had in abundance.
Life. River was full of life. And she had given a portion of it to him—to a stranger.
Waiting ahead was her home, a small box made of logs that most likely lacked electricity.
Under the threat was a deeper contemplation. She was not the type of woman he was familiar with.
By the look of him, unfamiliar things were vastly unsettling.
Flexing the arm around the much smaller female’s shoulders, her cargo sniffed the air, cycling fresh breath scented with the smell of her sweat and the fishy waters freezing in their clothing.
One curve of his elbow, one wrench, and he could snap her neck.
His eyes shined with malicious temptation. Lodging was waiting, River certain he was considering she might possess supplies, first aid necessities… transportation.
Her thin shoulder lurched under his arm, signaling that now was not the time to stop for a chat. Her teeth showed white against the tawny warmth of her skin. “Move!”
An unsteady voice barked, oddly intoned and not at all what she’d expected. “No one orders me.”
She could swear there was an unspoken, not anymore, in his statement. A bruised ego was an easy thing to smell on a man.
When she spoke again, her voice was just as nasty and baiting as the first time. “Move now, or make the way yourself. I’m cold.”
Her boots shuffled forward, he followed in sync, and the stranger did move. A few more minutes and she was jerking the latch and kicking her door inward. There was no lock on her house, nothing to keep the dark things out, and even in his weakened state River could see he marveled at it.
The sound of the door banging into the interior wall was nothing compared to her groan as she sagged, exhausted. Swallowing, she sucked in a breath and shuffled the pair of them through the miniscule living area to where a basic table and chairs were situated across the room beside a small rudimentary kitchen.
He limped where she led him, leaving a trail of slush and mud on the worn area rug and plank floors. Dumping her ungrateful cargo into a spindle chair, she fell back onto the floor, splayed and panting.
The remnants of a fire were burning, warming the small space, but from the look of ice crusting her guest’s clothing, it was clear more work had to be done immediately to prevent the sting of frostbite.
Stringy strands of hair escaped a pair of long braids and lay plastered to her face. She ignored them, using her teeth to pull off her thick gloves. Spitting them to the side, River rolled up as quickly as she could to tear at the laces of the stran
ger’s boots. Ignoring the bite of the floor against her kneecaps, she yanked, freeing a huge wet foot, throwing the sodden shoe behind her before reaching for the man’s damaged ankle.
There was no gentleness, no concern for potential broken bones. She took the wet leather, peeling it away to throw it where its partner was marking the floor in a puddle. Next, his jacket zipper was yanked down, the garment parted and shoved over the swell of broad shoulders.
River tugged, pulling, yanking, to get her way and take the damn thing off the motionless brute. She fought him for the jacket. When he did not obey, she kicked his bad ankle. Sudden pain halted foolish resistance. Fingers flying, every layer covering his top half was forced over his head, each sodden garment dropped unceremoniously to the floor.
There was no time to recognize the state of his flesh before her, to count the scars or the bruising, or even admire that he was pure muscle with hardly enough body fat to keep him warm. Once he was bare-chested, she scurried toward the small couch, snagged a homespun blanket and wrapped it over his shivering shoulders.
“There now.” Her voice was softer, River tucking the fabric around him.
She went for his belt. He resisted, shivering, when she yanked at the buckle.
“Shy, hmm?” It was mildly amusing. Cocking her lips, she pinched him until his hands moved out of her way. “I have never met a man who didn’t want to jump out of his clothes when I started to undress him…”
The glare he gave her… it was something to be seen.
“Tough crowd…” she gave a nasal snort, stripping his belt from the loops. “Well, stranger, I have seen a naked man before. To be honest, you all got the same parts, so I promise I won’t act the blustering maiden should I see your dick.”
He was giving her that look again, and she was still smirking, pulling downward on his zipper.
A moment later her upturned eyes found his, but her expression was serious. “If you struggle or kick me, there will be consequences.”
The stranger did not nod, he only held her eyes.
Bunching the wet fabric at his thigh, it took River four or five good yanks to force the wet pants from under his weight. Fisting her hands around the cuff of the garment, she leaned back and pulled until his legs were bare and she was an awkward pile on the floor... again.
“Now, since you seem to be the shy type I am tempted to leave you in your drawers…” She looked him dead in the eye, struggling to get up. “But your balls won’t be coming out of your rib cage anytime soon if you don’t get warm and dry. Your call.”
He didn’t answer, so she stood, reaching for a kitchen towel. Without asking, she began to dry his head.
“Take the damn things off!” he snarled, batting her hands away from his face.
Unimpressed with his attitude, she tossed the towel aside, reached under the blanket draped from his shoulders, and tugged at the elastic waistband of his briefs. For once he helped her, lifting his hips so she could pull the saturated fabric down his thighs.
Once it was done, River had had enough of him. “I guess I should have mentioned your testicles from the start… it would have made this a lot easier. And I mean this, cold or no, you’re an absolute asshole.”
And like that he was dismissed. Her wet clothes had to go and there was no point in being bashful when she was fucking freezing. Each layer was peeled off before the fire. Standing naked as the day she was born, River reached for another blanket, wrapped it around her, and built up the blaze with her free hand. New wood caught and flames were building. Warmth spreading, the woman went back to where he sat, and she reached an arm around him. Without ceremony, she took him to the old sofa, sat him before the fire, adjusting the scratchy blanket on his shoulders before adding another to his lap.
She palmed his cheeks, turning his head left to right, persistent when he tried to jerk out of her grasp. “You might have a minor concussion. Your pupils are slightly dilated… Are you in pain?”
“No,” the denial was growled but meek.
His good behavior earned him a soft smile.
Standing, she took the same old wooden chair from the kitchen and set it before him, helping him lift his leg to elevate his injured foot, resting it on a throw pillow. “Let’s hope it’s not broken. Out here you will be in a world of trouble if it is. Not to mention potential pneumonia. Also, try not to die on my couch. You’re too fucking big to move by myself and grave digging in this weather…”
And with that she left him and went to the kitchen. From the sofa, he heard the telltale click of a gas range igniting. When she reappeared, still wearing that blanket tucked around her breasts, the woman strung a cord from wall to wall, proceeding to hang up their dripping clothes, frowning at the water marking her floor. Glaring at him under lowered brows, seeing him watching her, she made it clear she was not at all happy about the state of her home or his part in it.
And what a bizarre home it was.
For starters, it was very small. Secondly, there were no modern comforts: no television, no washer or dryer, only a gas range for cooking and lanterns for light. For a westerner, she was very strange. For a young woman, she was even stranger.
Mismatched shelves lined the walls of the living room, titles jammed in, spines worn. That was what held her guest’s shaky attention as River puttered around, wiping the mud from the floor and muttering under her breath.
The kettle sang and moments later she reappeared with a steaming cup she tried to press into his hands. When he made no move to take it, her grip came back to his cheek. Pinching his mouth open, caught between balancing the cup and trying to force him to drink, River fought him. He yanked on her wrist.
She yanked back.
A pained noise passed his lips even as she was pressing the hot liquid to his mouth. It burned all the way down. Choking on water heavily laced with honey, he trembled.
She tipped the cup up from the bottom and pressured him to drink more. “Swallow it all. It will help your core temperature rise.”
There was the warmth of water pouring down his face, not only from where the beverage spilled, but from his eyes. He would have done almost anything she demanded at that point, falling into the delirium of hypothermia. Every last scalding drop was swallowed. When he was practically convulsing, her fingers gave him what he wanted. She pulled the drink away and let him breathe.
Standing over him, watching the great beast suck in air, she stepped out of the man’s reach.
He was furious, calculating something that made her wish she had left him floating in the lake. It was his attention on her hair, the way he studied the two thick messy braids hanging to her waist. She knew, with just one look that he fantasized choking her with the ropes.
Almost superstitiously, she stroked her hands down his would-be murder weapon, brushing off some of the collected dirt.
River sneered.
Chapter 2
It wasn’t the discomfort of Stephen’s ankle that woke him, but that of his neck, angled back sharply atop an unfamiliar couch. Sweating under coarse wool blankets, he fumbled at the cumbersome layers, exposing a damp chest to much cooler air. From the muddled inability to focus his eyes, Stephen was certain the bitch had poisoned the drink she forced on him all through the night.
The foul-mouthed woman was nowhere to be seen. There was no sound of shuffling feet. Her jacket was gone.
Pressing palms over raw eyes did nothing to shut out the sharp memory of why he was there—the fall into the water... the pain. He should not have been alive. Those who had tried to kill him certainly would never have expected he might survive their treachery or that a filthy woman might have pulled him from the water.
The callousness one would expect from a disappointed spymaster... Stephen should have seen it coming. One low flying plane, one open door overlooking tundra, and one boot to the chest. All the while Stephen had just stood there, too dumbstruck to even flail when the man who had practically raised him shoved his body into freefall.
Mikhailov had thought it through... plotted. If the drop hadn’t killed Stephen, the encroaching inability to move once ice froze in his veins would assure fatality. He’d lay suffering for his failure where exposure, wild animals, or simple starvation would finish the job.
But the spymaster hadn’t counted on unsolicited compassion.
It didn’t matter. Everything was lost.
And for what? For a single missed assassination of the man he’d stalked for years? For Senator Barne’s assistant jumping in front of a well-aimed bullet when she saw him pull the gun?
Since boyhood, since Mikhailov had taken him from the orphanage, Stephen had followed every last rule, exceeded where others had failed... lived the demanding monastic lifestyle required of a dedicated soldier.
What was one failed mission?
Mikhailov said kill, he’d ripped the target to shreds with his bare hands. Mikhailov said steal, he’d dragged back twice as much as he’d been sent for. Mikhailov wanted interrogation, carnage, anything... Stephen had delivered.
Still, he’d been thrown to his death for a single mistake.
He was nothing now. Purposeless.
The latch clicked, the cabin’s door swung in. The woman looked up briefly, stomping snow from her boots, and froze when she found him awake. In one arm was a basket of wet laundry, three fresh caught fish dangling from the fingers of the other.
Tossing the catch aside, she approached, seeing his color had improved, that his eyes were lucid. “Looks like the fever broke.”
She sounded wary and the reason was there in the light purple blotches around her eye.
“I struck you.”
A smirk at his word choice preceded, “That you did, pretty boy. You’re quite a flailer... fought like the devil each time I tried to pour medicine down your gullet. You even puked on me twice.”
“I did not vomit.”
“Sure you didn’t.” She shrugged, reaching out to test his brow. “How are you feeling?”
No one touched him directly outside of combat, and the sensation, the cold brush of foreign fingertips, made him pull his face away. “Fine.”
Hero Undercover: 25 Breathtaking Bad Boys Page 139