by Kara Braden
Hunger forced him into the kitchen, where he heated up leftovers. While he cooked and ate, he tried to figure out if the meat was venison, beef, bear, or something else. He couldn’t tell, though he’d had all three during his childhood.
When she finally returned, entering the cabin on a gust of wind-driven snow, he snapped, “Where were you?”
She pushed back her fur-edged hood and pulled off a ski mask crusted white with snow and tiny shards of ice. “Hunting.” Her voice sounded raspy and harsh. She stamped her foot and went right for the kitchen, fumbling to take off thick gloves. Over her shoulder, she carried the rifle she’d brought to Marguerite’s last night.
“You were hunting a bear?” he demanded incredulously. “Alone?”
She threw her gloves down out on the kitchen counter and took a mug out of the dish rack. “Of course not. I have a mule deer tag—but no fucking luck,” she added in a mutter as she used a towel to pick up the kettle. She gave it a shake and snapped, “You couldn’t have kept this full?”
“You left! You said nothing about where you were going! You went out in a blizzard alone—”
“I live alone!” She slammed the kettle down onto the counter and turned, bracing her hands against the edge as she took a deep breath. “I’m cold, I’m hungry, and I’m tired, Ian.”
He wanted to retreat. He wanted to shout at her for how stupid she’d been to take such unnecessary risks. This was why he kept people at arm’s length.
“Go. Just…go into the living room or something,” she said only a bit less angrily. “I’ll get dinner started in a few minutes.”
“I’ll do it,” he said, not realizing he’d spoken until the words were out.
She looked back over her shoulder. “What?”
“I’ll do it!” he repeated. He crossed the kitchen and took the towel out of her hands, and then used it to pick up the kettle. “Go take a hot shower. I’ll make dinner and tea. Or coffee.”
“Tea’s fine,” she said, confused. “But—”
“Stop arguing and go!”
***
The water went from hot to warm, warning Cecily that she had less than five minutes to finish up, but she still felt the cold deep in her body. Only her right shoulder felt warm, and that was an agonizing flame, not a comfortable glow. She stood sideways to the shower spray, aiming the water directly at the bullet scar, and rested her forehead on her other arm, propped against the cold tile wall.
Ian’s words twisted in her like knives. The unspoken accusation had hit home. She should have asked him to come out with her. She’d wanted to, which was exactly why she hadn’t. She didn’t dare grow dependent on his presence. As it was, just having him in her bed was an addiction that she already felt hooked deep in her mind.
The bathroom door opened. She didn’t have the energy to complain that he hadn’t bothered to knock.
Then the light went out, and she looked up abruptly. “Huh?”
In answer, the shower door opened. “The water’s turning cold,” he said, his voice subdued. He slid a hand over her abdomen, startling her into flinching back. A moment later, the shower turned off, and she shivered at the absence of warmth.
“Where’s my—” She cut off as her groping hand encountered rough fabric. Then he was right in front of her, wrapping her in a towel. Wondering if this was some sort of apology for losing his temper (and thinking that she was the one who should be apologizing to him, not the other way around), she said, “Ian, you don’t have to.”
His hands went still, lightly resting on her upper arms. “I want to.”
She nodded before remembering that he wouldn’t be able to see. “All right,” she agreed quietly and shivered as he went back to drying her off.
Instead of taking the towel from her shoulders, he reached for his own towel to dry off her legs. Tentatively, she brushed her fingers through his long, soft hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”
He rose, letting his towel fall. His hands returned to her arms, sliding up, but he stopped at her shoulder as if he knew how badly the bullet scar ached. “I don’t do relationships, Cecily. I don’t even have many real friends. I know hundreds of people in Manhattan, and only a handful are friends.”
“Ian—”
“Don’t say anything,” he interrupted. “I’m not like other people. Neither are you. Everything you think you know about me—everything you think you should fear—is wrong.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
His hand lifted from her left arm. A moment later, soft fingertips brushed over her lips. “Trust me, Cecily. You trusted it last night. Did you regret it then?”
She couldn’t bring herself to say no and she didn’t dare lie—not to him. Instead, she asked, “Why did you turn off the light?”
His hand moved to press against her chest. “You want to hide your scars, though you don’t have to.”
Her heart thudded uncomfortably against her ribs. Was she that transparent, or was he really so perceptive? She was suddenly very glad for the darkness.
“It’s getting cold,” she said evasively, though truthfully.
He left his hand resting over her heart as he leaned down to kiss her. “Get dressed. The kitchen’s warm and dinner’s almost ready.”
When he stepped back, it took all of her self-control not to go after him. As it was, she felt almost dizzy without his warm, steady presence close by. To distract herself, she asked, “What did you make?”
“Meat and mushroom rice. I would have made proper risotto, but I don’t know what sort of rice you have in the bin.”
“‘Meat’? What kind?”
“I’ve no idea. It’s not chicken, fish, or human.”
“Human?” she asked, horrified.
“An accused cannibal tried to hire me to defend him two years ago.”
It was awful to consider, but she couldn’t quite hold back a choked laugh. She could all too easily picture him assessing the meat in the deep freezer and choosing dinner based not on a particular recipe but on the “not cannibalism” requirement.
Impulsively, she reached up and pulled him close for another kiss. “Thank you again.”
***
“You’re not going outside tonight?” Ian asked when Cecily joined him on the sofa. She’d finished the dishes and they’d had their coffee, which meant it was time for her to do her usual check of the property. “The blizzard?”
“I spent enough time outside. We have firewood and water even if a pipe breaks. Everything else can wait until daylight,” she confirmed, turning to sit sideways opposite Ian, rather than cuddling close beside him, as he would have preferred.
He had taken the guitar from its case and had been idly playing. He considered putting it back, but instead held it across his lap and began practicing his fingering. His fingers were less dexterous in the cold.
“So, you keep saying you know me,” she said. “How?”
He couldn’t hide his smirk. “It’s more than that. Anyone who’s not dead or comatose takes in far more information than most people realize. Right now, what are your senses telling you?”
For a moment, he was disappointed to see confusion on her face, and he braced against the bland report of “It’s cold” and “The fire’s lit.” Then she said, “The fire’s been lit all day, but the ashes haven’t been shoveled, so the flame’s not as hot as it could be. I probably need to clean out the soot, too.”
“Good,” he said, unable to hide his surprise. “Very good.”
She grinned. “The wind’s from the northwest, so hopefully it won’t still be snowing come morning. I can just barely hear the water heater. It’s running but not filling, so you can have a long shower. You get tetchy if you don’t have two showers a day.”
He laughed. “True. What else?”
“Um…” She looked around. “That’s it. I mean, it’s my house. It’s not like any of it’s unfamiliar.”
He nodded, resting his hand on her warm wool sock for a moment. “Your right shoulder hurts. The damp and cold aggravates the scar where you were shot, but you went out this morning anyway,” he said, feeling the subtle shift as she tensed.
“We could use the venison,” she said with a tense shrug.
He looked pointedly toward her scarred shoulder. “You’re sitting with your right side to the back of the couch. You keep shifting because your shoulder hurts when you put any weight on it, but you want to stay facing me, so you’re enduring it for now.”
Unconsciously, she lifted her right hand to rub at the site of the bullet wound. Then she caught herself and shrugged, lowering her hand again. “Okay. All true.”
He pressed his fingers against her shin a bit more firmly to ground her, rubbing in little circles. “You were shot while standing or kneeling over someone,” he said more quietly, keeping his voice very steady and calm.
Her eyes widened, and she hitched in a quiet gasp before she stopped breathing altogether. Her lips parted, shaping the word How? though she said nothing.
“The angle between the entrance and exit wound is too sharp. The bullet most likely fractured your collarbone, rather than shattering it, and exited out the top of your trapezius muscle. There’s a chance it nicked the upper part of your shoulder blade, but I doubt it.”
“God,” she whispered. She swallowed hard and licked her lips.
He considered remaining silent, but he knew that they needed to have this discussion at some point. Best to get it out of the way now, rather than leaving her to worry over it for days or even weeks.
“It was intentional,” he said quietly. “The shot was disabling, not fatal.”
“Intentional?”
“You were targeted. Most likely, you went to a civilian’s aid. He was someone you didn’t know, but he appeared wounded and in need, so you trusted him enough to lower your guard. As soon as you were in range, he shot you from a prone position.”
Her skin had gone ashen. “How—How do you—”
“Something like ninety percent of people are right-handed. The shot was precisely placed to disable but not kill. An inch in any direction and it could have been fatal, especially without immediate medical treatment. So he was a crack shot, able to play at being harmless to lure you close, and capable of taking precise aim and shooting flawlessly.”
“He did,” she whispered. “He looked like a civilian. I thought…”
When she didn’t continue, he filled the silence, saying, “It happened at night, somewhere outside a city.”
“Fucking hell.” She turned, pulling her foot free so she could turn and sit properly, feet on the floor. She rested her elbows on her knees and let her head hang down, taking deep breaths.
Tentatively, he moved toward her, though he sat back as soon as her shoulders tightened. “You went to help someone you perceived as a noncombatant, and you were attacked—”
“Noncombatant,” she whispered tightly. She lifted her head, eyes closed, and drew in a harsh, deep breath. “I had my rifle slung. I didn’t even see him aim. I saw him go down and I thought… He looked young. He wasn’t carrying a gun—not that I could see. He was near my position, so I ran to help him.”
He studied her profile, taking in a thousand little details, from the way the firelight muted her freckles to her steady hands. Carefully he said, “That’s when you were captured.”
She turned just enough to look at Ian. “Your brother—”
“Your scars,” he corrected. “You weren’t treated by a military surgeon or even a proper doctor.”
She started to nod, but her self-control broke. She rose, pushing away from the sofa, and paced stiffly into the kitchen. He stayed where he was, knowing she needed to feel open space around her. He listened intently for the sound of the whiskey bottle or the metallic clatter of her sidearm, but all he heard was the sink running. After a few seconds—just long enough to fill a glass—she turned off the water.
“They wanted a hostage,” she said, just loudly enough to be heard in the living room.
He rose, intentionally bumping against the sofa to make noise. He walked to the kitchen archway but stood on the other side, away from the sink where she was still standing, back to the room.
“One of their leaders had been captured,” she said tonelessly. “They wanted a female hostage to trade. Better impact in the media. They ended up taking me and two of my troops.”
He remained silent, though he moved into the kitchen, putting himself into her peripheral line of sight. She put down her glass of water and took two mugs from the dish rack. She set them on the counter and went to the pantry. She took an old, faded box of tea bags from the shelf and dropped it when she tried to open it. Her hands shook as she crouched down, balanced on the balls of her feet, and started scooping up the sachets of tea. Finally she got all but two back in the box and replaced the box on its shelf. She ripped them open as she walked back to the counter.
“How long did they have you?” he finally asked.
“Don’t you know?” she snapped. Then she shook her head and said, “I’m sorry.” She dropped one tea bag into each mug.
“It was at least three days,” he said, unable to could stop himself. “Perhaps as long as six or seven.”
“How do you know that?” she demanded. She’d picked up the towel she used to handle the kettle. Now, she threw it down and turned toward him, her face a mask of shock and anger. “How do you know?”
Silently berating himself—he always had to be clever, too clever for his own damned good—Ian considered his options. There was no room to lie convincingly, and he had a feeling she wouldn’t accept anything but a full, complete answer, so he forced himself to look up and meet her angry gaze as he admitted, “I saw the video.”
Chapter 13
October 29
Cecily breathed in, tasting smoke and steam. She was cold, especially the lower half of her body, but her hands were warm. Everything around her was quiet, except for the crackle of flames and the familiar bubbling gurgle that she identified as a water heater.
Water heater. The cabin.
She opened her eyes and found herself staring at the wood floor of her kitchen, with its layers of scuff marks and polish and dried mud. Another inhale brought the distant sense of snow under the taste of wood smoke.
Her hands twitched, reflexively tightening around warm ceramic. She looked up and tried to sit up straight, only to have her back and right shoulder scream in protest.
“Fuck,” she muttered, closing her eyes when she saw Ian sitting on the floor, off to one side. Her throat felt tight, and her eyes were stinging. She lifted the mug in her hands and took a sip. The tea was lukewarm and tasted stale and bitter.
“The floor is cold,” he said quietly. “Should I get you a blanket?”
Embarrassed, she shook her head, wondering why the hell she’d blacked out. “I’m fine,” she said, though it was a lie.
She shifted the mug to her left hand and tried to lift her right to scrub at her face, but doing more than twitching her fingers sent shooting pains down from her shoulder. She stopped trying to move and tried to breathe through it.
She glanced at him, hating how difficult he was to read even at the best of times. Now, he looked at her calmly, impassively.
“Aspirin?” she requested, needing a moment of privacy to recover her composure as best she could.
Ian nodded and rose stiffly, as though he’d been sitting on the floor for some time. She looked to the window, but all she saw was the reflection of the oil lamp hanging over the sink. She put the mug down beside her hip and rubbed the damp tracks on her face.
After a minute, he returned with three aspirin. Lecturing him abou
t dosages was pointless, and she was actually regretting not having anything stronger, so she just took all three, washing them down with the tea. When she went to put the mug back on the floor, he took it instead.
“Do you want to stay here?” he asked as if it was perfectly normal for adults to sit on the kitchen floor.
She shook her head. Thankfully, he didn’t offer to help her up, though he stayed a bit too close as she got awkwardly to her feet. She couldn’t feel her toes or tailbone. Exhaustion lay heavy in every muscle, making her want nothing more than sleep. She just knew that if she tried, she’d have nightmares.
She went to the bedroom anyway, knowing that somewhere in her fucked-up mind, she considered it the safest spot in the cabin. He followed, still silent, and went to the hearth to build up the fire, which left her free to go right for the bed. As was her habit, she drew her gun and set it on the nightstand, only then realizing that he had left her armed despite her loss of self-control.
The last thing she wanted to do was to discuss what had happened, but she’d already neglected his safety too much. She sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Ian.”
“Hm?” he asked casually, focused on building up the fire.
She clasped her hands tightly together, trying to think of where to begin. The words were all there in her head—everything she needed to tell him, to make certain they were both safe if her self-control broke again—but she couldn’t figure out where to start. For a writer, it was doubly frustrating to fumble through mental false starts and incoherent phrases all jumbled together.
When the fire was blazing, filling the room with warmth and light, he took the two steps to the edge of the bed. He sat, turning to face her. Despite Preston’s warning that he could be short-tempered, he seemed the embodiment of patience, as if he would be content to sit all night in silence. Finally, she decided there was no point in trying to explain. Ian probably knew more about this than Cecily herself did.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said without looking at him. “If…that happens again, you can’t leave me armed.”