Unhinged

by Natasha Knight

  Her gaze is moving from my eyes to my hand, then my cock and back, and I know she doesn’t believe me.

  “I won’t hurt you,” I repeat.

  When my fingers slide over the seam of her sex, her breath catches. I want to open her, look at her. I already smell her and she’s aroused. I feel it too as my fingers dip between her thighs and touch the moisture there. I drag them up to her swollen clit and trace a small circle, closing my eyes for a moment, imagining it’s my tongue on her, tasting her, circling that hard little nub.

  “Please don’t,” she whimpers.

  I open my eyes.

  “Please.”

  But her pupils are dilated, and she’s licking her lips.

  My fingers still, but I don’t pull them away.

  “I bought you that night,” I say without looking at her. “Bought this. Everything happened because of this.”

  “Zach?”

  It’s like I’m back there again and she’s on that makeshift stage and I’ve just called out a bid that doubles the highest one made. And I know I’ve fucked up, but right that second, some sick part of me has come alive with the knowledge of what I’ve just done. What I’ve just bought.

  “It’s mine,” I say again, rubbing her clit, shifting my eyes to hers.

  “Please don’t.”

  I’m watching her. She’s crying, but she’s not struggling. She knows it’s useless.

  “I wanted you that night. I wanted this.” My touch turns into a pinch and she gasps. “My men died because I wanted this.”

  She shakes her head no. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Then whose fault was it?”

  “This isn’t you, Zach. You can’t do this.”

  “I can.”

  “You won’t.”

  Our eyes lock, and I don’t know what I’m doing. What the hell I’m thinking. I just know what I said, that I can do this. It’s more true than I want to admit and I can’t let that be.

  I pull my hand away and stand.

  “You don’t know me, Eve. You don’t know what I’ve become.”

  I turn and, without looking back, I leave her bedroom and get out of the house and I walk. I walk for what feels like hours, and all I can think about is her. Her that night. Her now. Her almost naked.

  Her brother stripped her then, I did it now. I can still feel how she felt. Fuck, I can still smell her. I can almost taste her. If I put my fingers in my mouth, I will.

  I fist handfuls of my hair and tug. Who the fuck am I? What kind of monster have I become? How far would I have gone tonight?

  I’m standing outside her house again. It’s quiet. I want her. Fuck, I want her. I want to be inside her. It’s like that’s become the only thing now. I should stop drinking. Should get what I need from her and move the fuck on fast because all of this—her—being this close to her...it’s muddling things. It’s confusing what was once clear. I have a mission. I have to remember that mission. Get the truth, find out who fucked us, and kill them. What happens after that doesn’t fucking matter because I know this is big. And I know I won’t cheat death twice. Someone wanted me dead that night. Wanted to wipe out my team. This is a suicide mission, and I have to finish it.

  My back burns. It’s like every name traced onto it is reminding me of my mission. Reminding me of that life. Of what I owe each of those men.

  I won’t survive this. I know it. Always have known it. It’s just this is the first time I’m admitting it.

  Something nags at me. It’s been bothering me since she told me her contact after that night was an American. Why the fuck did she survive that night? Who wanted to keep her alive? And why?

  I take a deep breath in and make my way back up to her front door. I walk inside. She’s lying on her side and watches me closely. She doesn’t look surprised or even frightened right now, and I guess I’m relieved for the latter.

  Her shoulders must be killing her. She doesn’t speak when I enter the bedroom and uncuff her. She just lies there, eyes on me, as she rubs her wrists.

  I strip down to my boxer briefs. She’s watching me, and I’m watching her. I don’t know what she expects, but I’m not a rapist. I’m just fucking tired. I lie down on the bed, my back to her.

  “I’m fucked up, Eve.”

  It’s quiet for a long time. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. She’s so close. I can feel the heat of her body, and the memory of how her pussy felt haunts me. I’m staring at the wall, the window. I’m almost startled when I feel the tips of her fingers at my back. It’s when she starts tracing the names that I squeeze my eyes shut. I wonder if I could cry if it would be better. Easier. I can’t though. There’s no room for tears. All I have is rage. And it makes my vision go black.

  “I knew them all,” she says, her voice so low it’s almost a whisper.

  “I know.”

  I’m holding my breath. I think she might be too. When she’s traced every name, she touches the bumpy skin on the other half of my back. Then she does something that genuinely startles me. She kisses it, that scarred, hideous flesh. I suck in an audible, broken breath. Her lips are so soft. So damn soft.

  I turn to face her and something in my eyes must frighten her because hers go wide, and it takes her a minute to settle down.

  “I recognized you that night. When the bidding began,” she says.

  All the men covered their faces so only our eyes peeked out from beneath the scarves wrapped around our heads.

  “It was your eyes. The horror inside them.”

  I remember. And—my God—what I’d give to forget the look inside hers.

  “Armen used me to find you in that crowd.”

  She’s started crying and sits up. I follow, studying her so closely, but she won’t look at me. Not right now. She’s focused on her hands, nervous, just like she was the first time I saw her in that interrogation room.

  It takes her a long time to speak, and her voice sounds strange when she does.

  “The day of the arms sale—the auction—Armen was different. He was stressed. Anxious. That afternoon, he came with others. He called me a whore.” Her voice breaks. “He said I was the Americans’ whore. And it was time for my punishment. He knocked me out with some sort of drug, and when I woke up, I was at the auction.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it, and I feel that rage building inside me. That’s good though. That’s what I need. Anger. Fury. I need the strength to obliterate my enemies.

  “Look at me.”

  She shakes her head.

  I touch her chin, lift her face to mine. She’s struggling to keep from sobbing, I can see it.

  “See, you’re right about something,” she says, tears sliding down her cheeks and falling on my arm. “It was my fault. If it weren’t for me, they’d all be alive.”

  I want to tell her she’s wrong. That it’s not her fault but mine, but I have to remember she could be lying to save her neck. Trying to make me believe she’s sorry. Make me trust her so she can slip away.

  At that thought, I slide my hand down her chin and close it around her throat. Her eyes go wide when I push her backward against the headboard. Her neck is at a strange angle and I know it hurts her, but I get up on my knees and straddle her.

  I have to remember why I’m here.

  She’s a weakness. I have to keep a tight leash on the chaos she wreaks inside my head. And the way to do that is to see her, all of her. Not just what I want to be true.

  “Were you part of the setup?”

  I realize her hands are clawing at my forearm. Her nails have broken my skin, but I don’t feel it. It’s my damaged arm. I loosen my grip a little.

  “Did you know all along?” I ask and my voice is so low, so deep, she shudders with the question.

  She shakes her head. Or tries to.

  “Because you know what I can’t wrap my brain around, Eve?”

  She’s still trying to drag my arm away. Her face is red, her eyes redder. I’m squeezing too hard.

 
“How the hell did you survive that night?”

  I know the answer the instant I ask the question: because she’s a trap. She’ll be my downfall. Not once, but twice.

  I stare at her, almost not seeing her as this realization dawns on me. I draw my hands away, releasing her before getting off the bed and grabbing my jeans. I need to get out of here, out of this room. I can’t be this close to her. Not right now.

  At the bedroom door, I turn to find her kneeling in the middle of the bed rubbing her neck, watching me. When I speak, my voice is level and I sound much calmer than I feel.

  “I can’t figure out what your role is. I don’t know if you’re lying or if you’re a pawn in this too. All I know is you’re alive, and everyone else is dead. You don’t get a free pass like that, not from people like Malik the Butcher. Not from covert US military operations. And until I figure it out, you’re mine. You will do as I say, and if, when all is said and done, I believe you’re innocent, you’ll be free to go.”

  I take a step toward her and she plasters herself against the back of the bed.

  “But if I find out you’re a fucking liar, I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.”

  I notice the pistol and ammunition from earlier. I gather it all up along with my duffel bag, and walk out. I don’t have to warn her not to try anything stupid. She will, at some point. And I’ll stop her. And if I need to, I’ll punish her.

  7

  Eve

  I wake to sunlight pouring in from the bedroom window. I’m sweating and I want to say it’s because the windows were closed all night long, but I know that’s not it. I’m amazed I got any sleep at all after what happened, and even after all of that, all my mind goes back to is him cuffing me to the bed. Him on top of me. Kissing me. Touching me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut because I know what I should feel is hate. Anger. Fear at his final words. But all I can do is remember his touch. How gentle he’d been, at least at first. Before his memories took hold of him. Made him remember why he was here.

  But it’s the part before that moment my mind keeps going to.

  The bedroom door is open. He didn’t sleep in the bed with me. I don’t know what he did after he walked out of here. All I know is his behavior only confirms one thing: he’s on a suicide mission. And this thing—his need for vengeance—it owns him.

  I get out of the bed. My dress falls to my knees, reminding me I’m naked underneath. Reminding me he took my panties.

  Barefoot, I silently creep down the hallway, but he’s not here. Not in the living room, kitchen or bathroom. I peek out the windows and don’t see his truck, but I’m not sure that means anything. My cell phone rings and I realize he left it on the kitchen table. I run to pick it up. It’s Devon.

  “Hi Devon,” I say. I haven’t checked in with him since yesterday.

  “Eve, good morning. I’m glad I caught you. I tried calling last night. Left several messages.”

  “I’m sorry, I…” I run a hand through my hair. “Just had a long day with Michael.”

  “A productive day, it sounds like. He’s meeting you at noon to see the McKinney house again?”

  What?

  “Think he’ll make an offer today?” Devon asks before I can get my thoughts straight.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.” Zach’s been in touch with Devon? “I’ll let you know as soon as I do, though.”

  “Well listen, it’s a shorter drive from your place so I figure you’ll head straight there rather than coming into the office first.”

  “Devon, when did you talk to him?”

  “Michael?”

  “Yes.”

  “This morning. He got here a few minutes after I did. Seems excited about the property and was very positive about you.”

  I’m confused, not sure what to make of this.

  “Anyhow, I’ll let you go. Just wanted to tell you good job and if you need anything, I’m here.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you this afternoon, I guess.”

  “Oh, you had a couriered package arrive by the way. I signed for it. Remind me to give it to you when you get here.”

  “Couriered?”

  “It’s on my desk, but you know how my memory is.”

  “I’ll remind you.”

  “Good luck today.”

  “Thanks, Devon.”

  We hang up and I sink down into one of the kitchen chairs. I’m not sure what the hell is going on. Zach wants me back at the McKinney property? Why? He can come and go as he pleases here, that’s clear. So why have me meet him out there?

  My phone buzzes with a text message. I look down at it. It’s from a number I don’t recognize. I swipe and enter my code to read it.

  Don’t keep me waiting and don’t do anything stupid.

  It’s him.

  He’s set this up for me to meet him at that house. Is it because it’s so remote he wants to meet there? What does he plan to do to me?

  I get up and walk back into my bedroom. He won’t hurt me. Not yet. If that was what he wanted, he would have done it last night. He wouldn’t have told Devon he’d be with me today if he had any intention of hurting me. He wants to make sure I come.

  Choosing a suit, I quickly get dressed, pull my hair into a messy bun at the back of my head, dab on mascara and lip gloss, and head out of the house. I’m not going to run. I can’t. He still has my passport. And besides, I won’t run. I’m as involved as he is in this, whether I like it or not. Something is going on, it’s almost like someone expected him to be alive. Knew it. Because hadn’t I asked the same question he did last night?

  Why had I survived that massacre when no one else had?

  Why was I alive?

  I drive the thirty minutes to the McKinney property and park behind his truck on the driveway. He knows the lockbox code so he’s already in the house. My heart is racing as I walk up the porch steps, and I don’t bother to knock. Instead, I walk inside.

  As I pass the kitchen, I see two empty beer bottles and a bag of takeout food, and realize this is where he’d come after he left my house.

  “Zach?”

  He doesn’t answer. I walk into the dining room and come to a stop. All I can do is look at all the walls, the photos he’s posted along them. He has one of two men, well, of their backs, and he’s drawn a red question mark over top one of the men. Next to it are several shots of my brother, Armen. I walk toward them and goosebumps cover my flesh as sadness fills me up. There are photos of him before he began to work with Malik, but only a few of those, and then there are the ones after. I’m shocked to see the differences in his appearance. Had I seen it back then too? Or maybe it never registered since living together in our family home, we saw each other almost daily.

  My other brothers are here too. These look almost like mugshots. I reach out and touch those, Rafi and Seth. Younger than Armen, but older than me. I don’t have any photos of them. It’s been years since I’ve seen them, and I miss them so much. If I knew what happened to them, even if that meant finding out they were dead, would it make it easier?

  “Closure doesn’t help.”

  I jump and spin around to find Zach watching me. It’s like he read my mind.

  He’s wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I look at his hands and remember them touching me. Remember them wrapping around my throat and strangling me.

  I shake off those thoughts. “You can’t just stay here,” I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes. “It’s not a hotel.”

  He shrugs. He eyes me once before he walks into the dining room. “You’d rather I stay with you?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  He goes directly to the six images along the back wall. I watch him stop before each one. I wonder what I’d see if I could see his face right now.

  “You also can’t call Devon and give him the impression you’re buying this place just to get me up here.”

  He turns to face me. “You think I need to do that to ge
t you here?”

  My heart is thundering against my chest but I refuse to show fear.

  He steps toward me, and it takes all I have not to take two steps back. But when he reaches out to touch me, I flinch. One side of his mouth rises as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “If I want you somewhere, you’ll be there.”

  His voice is so deep, so low, it sends chills through me. His gaze wanders to my mouth and I catch myself licking my lips. My body is betraying me. It thinks it wants him. Wants to be close to him.

  Dropping my head, I take that step back.

  “What is this?” I ask, stepping toward the back wall. “Another graveyard?”

  The instant the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Zach corners me against the wall, trapping me with his body to my front and his hands pressed to the wall at either side of my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t—”

  A moment hangs between us and I’m not sure what he’s going to do, how he’ll react, but when he smashes his mouth against mine, all I can think about is him, his hardness, the contrast between it and the softness of his lips, even as he takes the kiss without my permission. My hands are pressing up against his chest but I’m not sure if I’m pushing against him, even as my brain screams for me to. For me to get the hell away from him.

  When he breaks the kiss, he takes my jaw in one hand and turns my face away, just a little. His forehead is against the wall and he’s breathing hard against my ear.

  “I don’t understand why every fucking time I see you, every time I’m close to you, all I can think about is this.”

  When he releases me, I remain as I am. He’s rubbing the scruff of his jaw against my cheek. I don’t move. I stand utterly, completely still, my heart racing, every breath drawing him in. And I don’t know what I should do, what I’m supposed to do, what I want.

  I can run. Right now, I can run. Slip under his arm. I don’t think he’ll stop me. But I don’t want to.

  He moves a little so we’re facing each other. His head is bent low and our foreheads are almost touching. Without breaking eye contact, he takes my hand and presses it to his chest. His heart. His skin is warm through the thin barrier of his shirt and his heart is beating frantically. He doesn’t blink as he slides my hand down, down over the ridges of muscle over his belly, down to the thick hardness of his cock.