by J H Spade
I'm going to try things differently from now on.
“Shouldn’t you be more concerned with where you are?” he supplies softly.
I can't help but smile after hearing him speak. And immediately after, I can feel heat begin to rise to my cheeks because the last thing I should be doing is smiling, but I can't do a damn thing about covering up my embarrassment with my hands tied. I hate believing he must think I'm crazy and need my head examined for more than the obvious reason.
“No, you’re keeping me here.” The object of my obsession, my mind says. I keep myself from voicing this to him, raising up mental guards with thoughts of wondering what may lie outside my window. He imperceptibly shifts, and I wonder if he thinks me capable of breaking these chains and throwing myself out the window. I think this would be quite interesting as I continue to study his movements and play this game of cat and mouse with him. I decide not to ask for what I obviously should–for him to untie me, because I want him to trust that leaving is the last thing on my mind. Wherever I'm going, so is he. It's that simple. I don't care if I have to knock him unconscious and launch myself out the window with him over my shoulder. It is very clear to me someone has gone through great lengths to keep me, and I plan to find out if it's him and why.
“I’ve gathered that much from the few times I’ve woken up, so what is your name?” Who are you to me? remains unvoiced even if it is what really concerns me.
He nods in understanding before his inquisitive eyes return to stare at mine, open, and without reservation he begins to explain, “My name is Darius.” There is a slight pause while he pointedly looks at me, nothing happens though–not the Big Bang of memory I was hoping for, but I hide my disappointment.
“Darius,” I try it on my tongue, hoping something will come to me. I know he’s waiting to see if there will be recognition at the sound of his name, but I’ve decided to keep my features neutral no matter how much the sound of his voice latches onto my soul with every spoken word. There is an instinctual need of survival I’m operating under, so I try to think through the cloud of my emotions for him as he continues.
“Your name is Emmaley, and I’ve brought you to this facility to help you. If anything I tell you is too much for you to hear, let me know, and I will stop. I’m here to assist you process and adapt to your new life as painlessly as possible . . . and get you anything you may need to do it. We can always continue this conversation when you’ve had more rest.”
I immediately object. “No, I need to hear you . . . explain. Tell me how I came to be here.” The truth is I just want to hear him speaking combined with the ever present need I have to be with him. The silent alarm hasn't tripped, so I'm guessing we've been cleared on it. He also looks to have some type of monitoring pad on his forearm, so it’s something I have to be mindful of when an opportunity presents itself.
I try not to stare at it while I wonder about accessing it, requiring a security code most likely. He’s telling me how my cooperation is key in helping him catch whoever did this to me. Hearing him talk for as long as I’m lucid is what I’m after, but that tidbit he doesn't need to know, especially when there is a gun strapped to his thigh. The memory of being shot by one of the guards is still fresh, and the experience was quite painful. Plus, I don’t trust the place he’s keeping me in. If we were lovers as I expected, shouldn’t I be waking up in our home within his arms with no guns in sight?
He interrupts my thoughts. His brow is in a deep furrow, signaling that what he is about to say is difficult, when he begins, “You were recently kidnapped. You come from a very important family. They are very concerned and rightly so since I was hired to retrieve you and keep you safe. It is how you came to be here. For your own wellbeing, you can’t know the details until the day comes when I can take you back to them.” Darius stops then, his eyes are looking down at my lap. It’s when I follow his gaze looking at my hands on my thighs, and I realize they are in tight fists with a few drops of blood escaping my palms.
He turns his face into the dark shadows of the room and has gone even more still if that's even possible. I can't have him stop speaking to me at my first sign of distress, so I ease my hands, my nails no longer digging into my palms when he stands.
“Wait, don't go. I'm okay I promise.” I try to lift my arm to stop him, but jerk on the chain keeping me strapped to the bed instead.
I won’t ask why he's keeping me tied, instead I think of putting him in a position where he will have to release me.
“I’m not going far,” he says while trying to reassure me, but nothing will until he's back on my bed.
The light from the moon hits him just right, although he's turned away, so I can't see his features anymore. I can see the rest of him, though. He’s incredibly tall, a male in his prime with wide-set shoulders that taper into a narrow waist, and he’s more than double my weight, but I can see it is all lean and lethal weight he carries. He is dressed in what appears to be very similar to a SWAT uniform with a bulletproof vest. My vision seems to be pretty normal now which is disconcerting, and that’s another thing I don’t mention. Must I be under duress to have heightened strength and vision?
I have to test things out before I set any plan in motion.
He’s walking away as I do my best to tear my eyes from him and see exactly where I am. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what it is we are dealing with because we are definitely a thing even if he is lying.
I’m sitting up on an intricate brass bed, a white dresser with a large mirror hanging over it is against the far wall, an armoire and nightstand to my right, and all the furnishings except the bed are an antique white wood finish in what appears to be my bedroom. I notice there is a white wooden table with two arm chairs done in a pretty paisley print by the window to my left as he bypasses it on his way to a door at the end of the wall. His strides are long, powerful, and confident as his legs eat up the space in no time, taking him through as he opens the door. My best guess is it’s a bathroom in this charming but ordinary room. This is the most normal room I’ve woken up in however long I’ve been here, I think. He appears at the door with tissue in one hand, the box in the other.
He didn't turn the light on in the bathroom, so he's either afraid of me seeing him, or he's afraid of seeing me.
“What do I look like?” I ask wanting all the information I can get without really letting him know what I'm after, if I’m lucky he’ll think it’s vanity.
“Like any other sixteen-year-old.”
This shocks me, and it's very apparent I do a terrible job at covering up how upsetting it is when he leisurely smiles as he leans against the doorframe and says, “My god, you would think this is the worst news I've shared with you thus far. No shock at the mention of your kidnapping, but true to teenage youth you hate to know you’re just a baby.”
I'm sure no one would blame me, being only feet away from a man like him. “No . . . I just feel like I've been through hell, I suppose–nothing a sixteen-year-old should have lived through.” I say as a cover up, but, of course, it's not true. He really screwed up his story with this bullshit I’m a teenager. I’m angry now because I know I can’t trust him. He's in his late twenties or early thirties. There's no way I'm sixteen. Plus, I feel like I’m a hundred years old.
He laughs at my obvious anger, brushing it aside. Walking towards me, his rich laughter completely messes with me, so I look away.
“Here, this is for your hand, try and be more careful. Your wounds are taking longer to close because of the medication you're on,” he says, extending his arm while blindly placing the tissue box on the other nightstand. I can feel the heat of his stare on me, but I don’t give in.
I uncross my arms over my chest and reach for the tissue, not looking up at him because he’s too close, looming over me. My blood has seeped into the thin white cotton sheets with the lace trim overlay and into my pale-pink pajama top, so I take interest in it instead of him. I pull lightly on the tissue, hear the small t
earing noise, but he doesn’t release the thin paper, so I impatiently turn quickly to look at him and say, “I can handle it, thanks.”
“I’d rather you let me do it, but as you wish.” He’s gone all solemn and mysterious now, reluctantly letting go. I can feel that connection between us spark at how close he is, the heat from his body dizzying my senses as the room shrinks, enclosing us in its small space.
I catch an almost tortured look on his face before he can cover it up, so I think it's time I get out of this bed.
“It’s only a small cut, I’m sure it will close soon,” I say rather unconcernedly, hoping he doesn't become suspicious. Blotting the tissue, I hold it in place before I look up at him and decide to test my age theory. “I need to go use the bathroom,” I say lightly.
“Sure, I’ll unhook you from the IV and the restraints, but I’m afraid I can’t give you much privacy since you tried to hurt yourself in the past. I'll turn around while you're in there–until you can get your strength back and there have been no further incidents.”
I nod, not really caring. It’s actually good for my plan if he’s in there. “And, don't worry, it’s understandable after all you’ve been through and being so highly medicated, you probably didn’t know what you were doing, but I’d rather keep you company for your own safety,” he says conversationally, slightly bending to unhook my IV. Once he's done he straightens, pushing the IV pole aside as it gently rolls away.
I hide my satisfaction of being so close to getting him to do the things that will get me closer to the truth. This is almost too easy, and with any luck, I can slip my hand into his gun holster and demand he tell the truth.
As long as I have some privacy, I’m good with that. I would rather not be left alone anyway.
I hesitate briefly before I ask, almost afraid he’ll acquiesce, but feel the need to in order to appear more normal than not. “Is there anyone else?” If he says yes then maybe it will be for the better. I'll have more luck subduing and threatening someone else and getting them to tell me the truth. He looks like a tough shell to crack.
“I’m the only one with high enough clearance to be near you. Your father doesn’t trust anyone else to handle you after your ordeal.”
“Of course. When will I see him?” I ask as upbeat as I can manage while he's concentrating on unbuckling the leather straps. I can tell there's tension in his body, all coiled muscles with precise movements as he's reaching over and begins releasing my left hand free of its restraint.
“When it's safe,” he supplies in a voice that seems colder than before, efficiently keeping me in the dark and gifting me with very little information, as he reaches for my other hand. I lay very still and think of my next move.
He must think the stillness that has come over me is due to the mention of my family because he continues speaking of them while watching me closely. I'm really considering how close we have to be for a slight of hand trick to disarm him. It would probably be best if I fainted or fell on him, so he would be less apprehensive of me when I decide to strike.
“Your father does not want the media outlets to know that you were found or your current location, not until it's safe for you, and the terrorist and his cell have been neutralized by my team. Now tell me, is there anything you remember?”
I shake my head in a daze as he's leaning in with his face a couple of inches from my lips, placing his arms under mine to loop them around me and help me out of bed. My voice comes out a little shaky, which is fine for what I’m about to say, “No, all I remember is being very afraid, of suffering, and of looking for a way to escape, so I could return,” ‘to you’ is on the tip of my tongue, but I don't say it because it doesn't align with his story and what I’m feeling for him. What he's telling me is that we are complete strangers to each other when I can feel the absolute opposite. Especially now as I let my body fall into his while he carries all my weight, effortlessly bringing me flush against him and out of bed. I take a deep, steadying breath of his ocean-breeze scent into my lungs.
Now I think I won't be acting if I do faint, because when he stands me on my bare feet the whole room dances circles around me.
My face is buried in his vest, and I can hardly move my hands from holding onto the straps over his sides. I can feel the heat his body is emitting as it’s pressed against mine, and his ribs expand with the deep breaths he’s taking as well. His soft breaths ruffle my hair, and I can feel how turned on he is. I know I couldn’t have picked a better moment when he’s more vulnerable than now. I think of the gun and possibly throwing more of my weight into him, but I'd be lying to myself if I thought for a second I could pull it off when I can't even stand without his help. If I did grab a hold of his gun, which seems extremely unlikely considering my weakened state, I'd be more likely to shoot myself than threaten him.
“I don't think I can walk,” I shut my eyes, hating to admit I'm so vulnerable.
It hurts to be so weak, so I try to quickly make sense of it all.
And as I'm going through all the information I've gathered, he scoops me up, lifting me into his arms as my head limply falls against his chest.
I say as a way of distracting myself from how good he feels, “Why all the gear? I’m a helpless teenage girl after all.” Never for a moment have I forgotten the strength I've shown in the past, so I decide to wait for its return before I try to overtake him. I can’t put him on high alert, not giving myself a fighting chance over a half hearted attempt.
I can hear his smile in his voice, “I just got back from searching a lead we uncovered. I came directly to see you when I was told you would be waking up soon. I'll remove it in the bathroom if it’ll make you more comfortable.”
“What happened?” I ask hoarsely when he walks inside the bathroom.
*****New Chapter
“I’m not at liberty to say. But what I will say is you have nothing to worry about. You’re safe, Emma. As long as you’re with me, you’re safe.”
“Yes, of course. I do feel safe with you. You’re all I can remember, which is good in a way, I suppose. I mean, there's no trauma from what I can tell. Surely, you can explain why. Did you find me?” I asked, hoping that by divulging some information he would share more with me, as he deposited me gently on the toilet, his breath fanning my neck. I can read him well, and he’s reluctant to let me go, to speak. A nervous smile plays on my lips at how close I always find him to be. He's either touching me, trying to, or raking me over with his eyes while invading my space—the combination of the two have the same effect of hiking up my nerves.
His voice comes an octave deeper than before. With his face barely an inch from my own, he looks almost menacing, alerting me he wants to do heavy damage to the man responsible. There is a dark glint of unwavering steel to his eyes, a flash of awareness hits me at the type of man he is. One who has no qualms about killing for a living, making me wonder if maybe I’m out of my depth with him.
A voice inside whispers, You’ve killed, too.
I don’t have time, or the energy to study it further when he answers and efficiently pulls me from my thoughts. “I did. And don't forget there's plenty of trauma when your mind has hidden everything from you and you suffer from recurrent nightmares.” Straightening his body to glance down at me, he folds his muscular arms over his chest, waiting and angry, although, I can’t think of why.
Did he somehow suspect I was waiting for a chance to unarm him?
“Can you get the light?” I ask, the words quickly slipping out as I try to cover up the shivers he leaves behind.
“No, leave them off. Your corneas are too sensitive to light. It will be so for another week.”
The long list of questions that jumped into my mind didn't make it to my lips and didn't seem as important when his fingers reach for the straps of his vest. The muscles in his forearms snap wildly with his rapid movements. My heavy-lidded eyes linger on his hands, calling up flashes of memories with them, but nothing concrete. A small sigh slips from m
y lips because if he would only go further and undress, then I’d surely sink to my knees which was exactly what I’d wanted to do when I first saw him.
He has great hands, I think in a dreamlike hypnotic trance. Hands I can't help but need to feel running all over me[12][13]. I clench in need, a response I have no control over, breathing his sea-mist scent deeper into my lungs as I fight an internal battle over my emotions.
The warmth of his hand finds my chin and gently strokes my flesh, creating a lightning charge with the way my whole body lights up like a storm. I shudder at his touch and can’t help from tipping my head back in invitation for him to cover more skin as the blood rushes from my head. Without warning, he grips my neck with enough force that tells me he can easily snap it like a twig. My eyes open wide in shock.
“Don’t play this game with me,” he warns, loosening his hold to drop his hand like I’m suddenly made out of a rare crystal, looking more feral than I’ve ever thought possible.
This is maddening, my thoughts are all scattered as I look up and see him staring down into my eyes, lifting his body armour and placing the heavy pile on the counter. There is challenge in the heat of his gaze. It's too much, making the room sizzle between us . . . and it frightens me. I think maybe he's done it on purpose, so that when I really take a look around me, and see I’ve got no one but him, I have no choice, but to lay my plans to rest. I can't possibly think straight with him so close, so I postpone them until a better opportunity arises.
“Can you turn on the faucet for me and turn around?” I ask, needing the space between us for a change and a chance to catch my breath.
Darius stands unmoving for a moment longer, a brewing hurricane readying to unleash all of his power on me, only to change course at the last minute, “You got it, just give me a second. It’s been a long night,” he says, walking towards the sink, turning the faucet on and leaning over as he begins splashing his face with quick successive bursts of water that trickle down his hard granite-like features.