by Black, Incy
Dread flooding her. Armed with a fork because that’s all that came to hand, she grabbed one of the lamps and edged her way along the corridor. The five steel doors to the cells hung open. Three were empty, two were choked with discarded cardboard boxes and bits of abandoned, broken furniture. One door left, this one wooden and only semi ajar.
The walls of the corridor pushed in. “Will?” she cried out, panic surging.
No response.
Her skin tight, the light sweat slicking her skin both heating and chilling her, she eased open the wooden door. Will was cramped on his haunches, his back to the wall, staring into the area hidden from her by the fold of the door. He had his mouth and nose tucked into the crook of his elbow.
“Will?” she called out shakily.
“Go back, Angel. You don’t want to see in here.”
She edged the door open wide enough for her to shuffle over its threshold. A rank, sour stink assailed her nose making her gag. Palm tight across the lower half of her face she scurried to him.
Will launched upright. “Fuck. Do you ever do what you’re told?” he snarled.
Which for some reason compelled her to lift high the lamp she held and glance over her shoulder.
The lamp fell from her fingers. She stagger-crashed into Will, her limbs flailing as if unable to decide on a single collective direction to flee.
“OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod.”
Will’s arm whipped around her and dragged her tight into his side. “Easy. Easy. They’re just rats.”
One hand still fisted around the fork, her other clutching the stiff yet washed soft cotton of Will’s scrub top, she couldn’t drag her eyes away from the rows and rows of stacked cages. Lots and lots and lots of cages.
She may have whimpered.
Her eyes growing accustomed to the poor light, she was able to see fuzzy solid shadows, four, maybe five, to a cage. Some low with backs arched, others stretched high on hind legs, their soft bellies pushed tight against wired mesh. All twitching, tiny snouts sniffing the air, eyes beady. Rats.
She definitely whimpered.
Will, one arm around her, the other holding his lamp, shuffle-moved her out of the room using the heft of his body to nudge and steer her.
“They’re in cages, Angel. When I’m finished, I’ll shut the door. They can’t get to you.”
How she kept from clambering his body to get her feet off the floor she’d never know. And then didn’t care. She ceded to her screaming instincts and leaping high, wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms around his shoulders.
One arm folding beneath her bottom for support, he let her clutch and cling and try to press inside his big body while he stood steady as a rock in the corridor.
It took her a while to calm. She didn’t like bugs. She loathed rats. Things that skittered unpredictably when moving about, scared and repelled her. Her face pushed tight to his neck. He didn’t cajole or try to soothe. He didn’t protest. He said not one word, until she was ready.
“Sunshine, I need you to do something for me, okay? I noticed some plastic bags on the shelf beside the tins of food. Think you could go and fetch one for me? Bring it to me? I’ll stand guard right here by the door. Can you do that? Can you do that for me?”
She recognized his technique. He was going for a deep connection, building trust and reassurance, distracting her by giving her something specific to do. Stressing his need for her support… And it worked. She wanted to help.
She nodded against his shoulder then, lifting her head, she wriggled to communicate that it was safe to put her down.
Setting her on the floor, he pressed the handle of the lamp into her hand. “What’s the fork for, Sunshine?”
She looked down at the ridiculous utensil in her hand. “Defense. I was scared you might have been attacked.”
His forefinger traced a line from her temple to her chin. “You thought enough of me to come to my aid? I…I… Thank you.”
She nodded, dislodging his hand. Unintentionally. She wanted that little tracing of his, tender, admiring, forgiving, to last forever.
She back stepped reluctantly. Then turned and went to fetch the bag he needed fast.
Which, when she returned, he turned inside out and fashioned around his hand and wrist in a loose glove. He’d already wrapped his forearm in cardboard, which was odd.
“Now, go back. Check Rhys’s kitchen supplies,” he said. “Look for anti-bacterial wash. Bleach will do at a push. Don’t bring it to me. I’ll come through. And if there’s any means of heating up water, put some on.”
Yes, sir. Straight away, sir. He hadn’t even thanked her for the bag. “What for?”
“Well, it sure isn’t because I fancy a cup of tea,” he clipped back sharply.
“You know, if you shared a little bit more about what was going on in your head, Berwick, you might find the number of times we fight cut in half. If—”
His hard stare silenced her. “I found the thumb drive. It’s in one of the cages. If you want to stick your hand in there and risk getting bitten, be my guest.”
She rasped a choking gag and beat a hasty retreat to get what he needed.
She was lifting a should-have-been-condemned-a decade-ago saucepan from the camping stove, the water in it having reached boiling, when Will returned.
The plastic bag, no longer inside out, hung from his fingers as far away from his body as his arm would allow. His lips were drawn tight; all color had leeched from his face. The rapid rise and fall of his chest was violent enough she could hear the cotton of his scrub top rubbing his skin.
“Please tell me you didn’t get bitten,” she gulped, ready with the anti-bacterial wash she’d found.
“I didn’t get bitten,” he confirmed through a locked jaw. He dropped the bag he was holding into another empty one, twisted and wrapped, and then dropped the resulting padded package into yet another bag, again folding and sealing it before setting it aside. “Don’t touch that.”
“I won’t,” she promised in a half whisper. She had a feeling this was as close to the edge as she would ever see Will Berwick. She didn’t push. Her hands were easily shaking as badly as his. “I found disinfectant and boiled some water,” she offered lamely.
No response.
Sensing he needed some time, she eased onto one of the stools by the table and let him be.
Will scrubbed up. Vigorously. Then faced her.
“Hate rats. I fucking hate them.” His full-body shudder would have registered nine on the Richter scale. “And you ever share that with anyone, especially any member of my team, and I will tartan your bare buttocks.”
As if she would. Everyone was entitled to a secret little fear. Even Captain Invincible, Will Berwick.
A single snort-giggle escaped. She slapped a hand to her mouth.
Will scowled at her and then grinned. He sagged onto a stool next to her. “Swear to God, Angel, I deserve a knighthood for sticking my hand into that cage. No, cancel that. I deserved to be crowned and given my own kingdom. Monaco will do. I’m not greedy when it comes to acreage.”
“You were very brave.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me?”
She shook her head vigorously. That action relaxed her lips so that the laughter she’d been holding back spilled out.
“I seem to remember having to carry a certain someone out of that room,” he said indignantly.
Hoping her chest wouldn’t burst at the effort it took to swallow her merriment, she lowered her head and ducked her face behind the heavy fall of her hair.
A curtain which he parted with a rigid forefinger. “Wanna share what you find so hilarious? You were scared, too.”
She nodded, more laughter escaping. “Yes, but whereas I don’t care who knows I’m a scaredy-cat, you’d sell your own mother to avoid it getting out that you’re phobic about furry rats.”
His face turned to stone. She wanted to cut her tongue out with a rusty, dull-edged spoon. Fully familiar with
his personnel file, she knew his mother had earned a fortune acting as an escort for the wealthiest of men. That she now owned a chain of “hotels,” having developed her career. The one time Angel had raised that subject during a counseling session, Will had walked out. “I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it,” he said shutting her down. “It’s okay. That my mother has made a fortune selling her body is her business. She’s very proud of what she’s achieved.”
He thrust from his stool and went over to examine the meager choice of canned foods available to them. “Baked beans all right for you?” he asked brusquely.
She nodded. Her thoughtless words had ruined the all too brief barriers-down moment. Another reminder, as if she needed one, that her self-control was slipping.
Chapter Sixteen
Scary thumb-like sausages jammed into the same tin can as baked beans. Wrong, didn’t work.
Much like her and Will. They could make a close-quarters situation work without some drama erupting—as long as neither of them spoke or engaged with the other.
But the silence between them as they sat across from one another eating, though reasonably non-combative, was boring and, well…kind of isolating.
She threw him a begrudged look.
He threw her a warning one back.
She herded a scary thumb-sausage to the side of her white tin plate—charmingly decorated with irregular black spots where the enamel had chipped off.
He leaned the width of the table and, without so much as a by your leave, forked the processed excuse for meat and shoved it into his mouth—just as he’d already done the previous four occasions.
She sighed. Deeply.
He echoed her. Deliberately—she suspected.
She chased a couple of beans across her plate with her fork. Awkward little buggers. Another romantic dinner with Will Berwick—how lucky could a girl get? Not that she wanted romancing, but she did want something—anything—from him. Fine for him to contentedly detach, but what about her? She never sought attention, she didn’t need it, but that didn’t mean she liked being ignored.
She couldn’t stand it. “You’re male; you tell me. What kind of man locks a person underground and just leaves? What kind of brother does that to his sister? What kind of human being does that?”
“He’ll be back, Angel.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No, but you probably need the reassurance. And you wouldn’t like my answer as to the type of man Rhys is, so I think I’ll stick with: he’ll be back.”
God, he was annoying when being reasonable.
She scowled at him as he slid off his stool, crossed to their food supply, and selected a tin of peaches.
“Want some?” he asked, bending back the lid with one of those ring-pull things that never worked for her.
“No. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He started forking the orangey-yellow slices into his mouth straight from the tin.
“Shouldn’t we be rationing or something?” she asked. Who ate peaches like that? Lapping off the syrup before sucking in a plump fleshy segment through kiss-poised lips. Talented lips, she remembered, that could press hard or soft, tease or soothe, suck, demand, and gift.
Jesus Christ. She adjusted her position on the stool.
“Delicious, you can’t beat a sweet, juicy peach… And no, we don’t need to ration our supplies, because Rhys. Will. Be. Back.” Another piece forked, lapped, and sucked in, this time accompanied by a low groan and lowered eyelids.
Oh. My. God. Who did that? Openly simulated food sex when trapped deep underground with a woman he was determined not to start anything with? And why the hell was her body responding?
Her thumb hooking in where the neckline of her scrub top narrowed to a V, she discreetly lifted the cotton away from her hardening nipples. There wasn’t a lot she could do about the zing where she did not want a zing, so she tried to ignore it.
She looked up to catch him watching her, his lips rolled inward to prevent a grin. A grin that danced his eyes nevertheless. Damned tease. His sex play with a peach slice? Deliberately provocative…
And she wasn’t aroused. Just…melting in the heat down here. “You’re disgusting,” she huffed, tossing back her hair and folding her arms across her heated breasts. He is so not disgusting. Ankles crossed, his lean hips propped against a low shelf at his back, scrub top tight across pecs thrown into relief by strong, wide shoulders, another slippery peach sliding between his lips.
“And you’re fractious. I’m trying to distract you. Relax, Angel. Let’s discuss the sleeping arrangements.”
Yes, because that particular topic was renowned for inducing a Zen state of mind.
Will Bloody Berwick, all hard muscle and physical, sexual because far be it for him to deny his instincts, and temptingly sexy as a result, no matter how shrilly her mind screamed at her to ignore that side of him. No, sleep wasn’t on the cards, not for her. “You’re supposed to be Mr. Gadget Man spy-savvy. Can’t you use that camping stove to blow a hole in the lock or something?”
He set the can of peaches aside and crossed to a thick fold of yellowing canvas. Picking it up, he carried the bundle to one of the brick pillars and looped the rope tie to the metal hook protruding from it. Then he unraveled the canvas so he could attach a second tie to a matching hook on the wall. “Hammock,” he said, stating the obvious.
“I’m not climbing into that with you.”
He stared a give-me-strength look at the ceiling. “I wasn’t inviting you to. When cleared, you can sleep on the table. Take Rhys’s sleeping bag. Once the trains stop running, it could get chilly.”
She floundered. Aside from a few flare-ups of irritation, Will’s patience with her was impressive.
The sensation started small. The merest hitch in her breathing, the gentlest of heat pushing at her skin. Shame, a feeling not unfamiliar, but one she tended to bury fast in case it submerged her. Stupid Rhys, taking the blame for her. Stupid, stupid, stupid her, for staying silent and letting him.
The claw in her chest tightened its grip. Pushing from her stool, she started clearing the table. “I’m sorry for trying to deceive you into my bed. I’m sorry for behaving like a bitch, even after you provided me with sanctuary in your home. I’m sorry for Rhys, for all the terrible things he’s done. I’m sorry for covering for him. I’m sorry for the freak-outs and all the idiotic stuff that pours from my mouth when I’m stressed. I’m sorry for that insensitive remark about your mother… But most of all, I’m so very sorry for filing your psych report without discussing it with you first and putting your career at risk. It was unprofessional, and it was mean.”
“Forget it, all of it. Move forward, Sunshine. My behavior’s hardly been exemplary.”
She wished he’d stop scouring the plates that were as clean as they’d ever be and look at her. Her words would carry more weight if he could see her contrition. “I’ll revise the report I submitted, Will,” she promised. “Though I still think you’d benefit from some counseling, having spent some time watching you bear up under pressure, I see no risk in you returning to full active duty. I’m sorry Butters used my initial assessment to compromise you.”
Setting the dishes on the side, he flicked the wet from his hands and turned to face her. “Sunshine, I compromised myself. Rather than resenting the support you were offering and behaving like an arse, I could have cooperated with you. That way, I might have stood half a chance of passing the bastard assessment.” He paused, and lifting the hem of his scrub top, used it to finish drying his hands. “No more counseling though. I don’t need it.”
She wasn’t touching his denial with a ten-foot pole…not yet. “How badly is this situation with Rhys going to impact your career?”
He shrugged. “They train us to think beyond our orders when a mission becomes fluid.”
“Not sure that includes breaking free a suspect from containment, and then giving her undisclosed sanctuary in yo
ur home, Will.”
“I’ll find a way to survive. I always do.”
“Yes, maybe, but not necessarily with your aspirations satisfied. Accepted rumor has it that five years down the line, you want a shot at the Commander’s job when he retires. The way you’ve disregarded all protocol, that’s in jeopardy now.”
Will glanced at the ceiling and shook his head. “And to think I once congratulated myself on how clever I’d been to keep that little ambition of mine under wraps.”
He stalked over to where he’d hung the hammock and yanked savagely on the rope tails fixing it to the pillar. “Wanted it, yes. Likely to have got it, no. And not because of your report, though it won’t have helped. Advancing beyond my current rank, no matter how hard I bust my arse, or how closely I comply with the rules and regulations, is about as likely to happen as my mother being declared the Virgin Mother.”
Bitterness, from Berwick. She fought to keep her expression impassive. “I don’t understand, Will,” she said softly. “What’s the connection between your mother and your career? Because I sense a killer current of resentment toward both.”
He didn’t bark at her to stay out of his head, but he did roll his eyes.
“Sex, spies, and spilled secrets. As the son of a woman who’s likely shagged half the House of Lords, a good too many foreign diplomats, and some of the most powerful men on the planet irrespective of which side of the law they are on, I’m considered a risk by association.”
“That’s outrageous.”
“That’s the Establishment, sweetheart. You can sanction the use of troops as human guinea pigs in medical trials and get away with it, but God help you if they think you can’t keep your mouth zipped while your fly is down.”
“I’m so sorry, Will.”
“Don’t be. The fight’s not over until I tap out, which will be never. I may not get what I want, Angel, but at least I’ll have the satisfaction of being a thorn in their asses until the day I retire, or I’m forced out… Now, because I can’t be sure how much battery life is left in the lamps, I need to extinguish them, but I’ll leave one turned on low. Will you be all right with that?”