Living in Shadow (Living In…)

by Jackie Ashenden

  Shock was still running through her system, a terrible, aching kind of grief in her heart.

  Tonight was meant to be the start of something new. Though the kind of relationship she and Luc had planned was going to be intensely sexual, she’d come to think over the past couple of weeks that it could be something more. That, in fact, she wanted more.

  But now all that was gone. Shattered by his confession.

  Luc had been a child soldier. And he’d lived like that for five years.

  Eleanor leaned back on the couch and took a gulp of wine.

  Fuck, the way he’d moved when the drunk had lumbered into her. All that lethally honed grace she’d sensed below the surface of him, exploding into action. Terrifying. Especially when she’d pulled on his arm and had it turned on her.

  And all it had taken was a couple of fireworks to set it off.

  She closed her eyes, remembering the dead look on his face. And then the horror when he’d realized where he was and that he was holding a knife to her throat.

  I’m a killer. A killer who’s very good at pretending not to be one.

  A killer didn’t look at their victim with horror. But a traumatized boy did. And that’s what he was, that’s what he’d been. A terrified boy who’d seen his parents murdered and then had a gun shoved in his hands.

  Tears burned behind her closed lids.

  That kind of trauma broke people and certainly Luc had been terribly scarred by his experiences. Who wouldn’t have been?

  Grief sat like a broken bottle inside her chest, the sharp ends digging into her heart. Hurting for him. For the weight of the burden he’d been forced to carry. For the trauma he must have experienced. No wonder he’d had to cut off his emotions. How else could you survive something like that so young?

  I’m one of them.

  A tear leaked out and ran down her cheek. But she didn’t wipe it away.

  He wasn’t one of them, though, was he? He’d broken through her walls, ripped through the anguish of what had happened to her with Piers, but he hadn’t left her bleeding and broken. Or hurt her needlessly. He’d touched her gently and with passion. Taken away the pain and given her pleasure in its place. Accepted the trust she’d given him and treasured it for the gift it was.

  He’d healed the wounds.

  That didn’t make him a killer, one of those dead-eyed soldiers who raped and tortured because any empathy they had for others had been destroyed.

  That made him a good man. A man who’d drawn a line in the sand and said no. Who’d taken threads from the clothes of the men he’d been forced to kill so he wouldn’t forget.

  So he wouldn’t be one of them.

  And he still wasn’t. Sure, he had cracks running through him that ran deep, but he wasn’t broken. Jesus, he’d come out of five years of hell with a strong will and a passion and had gone on to do so much. That he was even able to function was kind of amazing.

  He was kind of amazing. In so many ways.

  You’re in love with the guy.

  Eleanor opened her eyes.

  Yeah, she probably was, wasn’t she? How completely ridiculous, to fall for one fucked-up man and then, years later, to fall for another who was possibly even more fucked up.

  Yet Luc was strong, honorable, protective, caring. A better man than Piers had ever been or would ever be.

  Her fingers tightened on the stem of her wineglass.

  He was so alone. So isolated. And shit, she knew what it was to feel like that. She’d experienced what it was to feel trapped. To be forced into doing something you didn’t want to do.

  She couldn’t leave him to suffer that by himself. She couldn’t leave him alone in the dark.

  Her heartbeat began to accelerate, a feeling of certainty settling over her like a heavy blanket.

  What she was contemplating was probably insane. The issues Luc had wouldn’t be solved easily or without pain, if at all. Staying with him would mean one hell of a commitment.

  But she could do it. She was strong.

  And fuck, he was worth it.

  Eleanor put down her glass, wiping away the tears and getting to her feet.

  There was just one thing she needed to get.

  Luc threw the meager clothes he had into the kit bag that sat open on the bed. He didn’t need much more than that and his wallet.

  You’re running away for the second time this evening, you fucking coward.

  Too bad. Perhaps he was a coward, but that was better than the alternative. Losing his shit and hurting someone again, like he’d hurt Eleanor.

  Christ, her terrified face and blood on her skin. His knife so close to her throat.

  A shudder rippled through him, his hands shaking as he balled up a T-shirt and flung it at the bag.

  He’d never had a flashback like that before, not once, but he knew why that was. Because he’d never had Eleanor before. She’d brought him back to life, warmed up the part of him that was numb, brought all those emotions he’d managed to bury back to the surface again.

  And that couldn’t happen. He couldn’t have another flashback because, Christ, what if he hadn’t stopped? What if he’d killed that guy?

  What if you’d killed her?

  Cold sank down into his bones. A deathly cold.

  He began to shake again. He needed to get out of here, get away from everyone until he’d managed to force all these fucking feelings down. Until he’d gotten himself back under control. Had found that detachment once more. Yeah, he hated feeling numb but at least that protected him and the people around him.

  At least it would protect her.

  Luc closed his eyes. He had to remember that cold, hold tightly to it with everything in him. Because if he hurt someone again, especially her, fuck, it would destroy him.

  Better to leave. Better to go now, while he could. It didn’t matter where he went, as long as it wasn’t here.

  Abruptly there came the sound of someone hammering on his front door.

  What the fuck? Perhaps if he ignored it, whoever it was would go away.

  He threw the rest of his stuff into the bag and scanned around his bedroom to see if he’d missed anything. Considering there wasn’t much there to start with, he didn’t think he had.

  The hammering on his door didn’t let up.

  Cursing, he strode down the hallway.

  It could be her.

  He stopped dead. No, it couldn’t be her. Why would she come after him? After he’d held a knife to her throat? After he’d told her what he was? She was an intelligent woman. She’d probably never want to see him again.

  Pain looped around his heart, but he ignored it. He had to remember the cold. Stay detached.

  “Luc! Open the door!”

  Oh fuck. It was her. What the hell was she doing here? What the hell did she want? Didn’t she have any sense of self-preservation at all?

  He began to turn away. If he didn’t answer it, she’d leave eventually.

  “I know you’re in there, Luc!” she shouted. “I saw the lights in your window. If you don’t open the door, I’ll just stay here. All night if I have to.”

  He shouldn’t open that door. He should walk away and leave her.

  But something in him wouldn’t let him do it.

  Cursing, he jerked it open and there she was, standing in the hallway with her hair loose, down her back, and dark circles around her eyes.

  And a line of dried blood at her throat.

  Fear and grief sank claws into him, sharp as blades. He tried to force it down, going for anger to frighten her off. “What the fuck are you doing here, Eleanor? You need to leave.”

  “No,” she shot back, taking a couple of steps toward him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Are you stupid?” He blocked the door, drawing himself to his full height, wanting to intimidate her so she’d remember what he’d done to her. So she’d leave and save herself. “You’ve still got blood on you from where I cut you with my fucking knife, and now you
’re coming back? What the hell do you want? Me to finish the job?”

  Her chin lifted, not looking intimidated in the slightest. “You put the blood there, you can fucking clean it away for me.”

  “What?”

  She didn’t answer. With a move he wasn’t expecting, she suddenly ducked under his arm and stepped into his apartment.

  He tried to make a grab for her, but she dodged him, already walking down the hallway toward his bedroom.

  “Eleanor, for fuck’s sake!” He slammed the door and went after her, anger escaping his control and beginning to burn hot inside him. What the hell was she doing here? What did she hope to achieve? She couldn’t want him, so what was the point of her being here at all?

  He was too dangerous to be around, and if she had any brain in her head at all, she’d be as far from him as she could get.

  Following her down the hallway, he found her in his bedroom, her back to him. She’d dropped her bag on the floor and was in the process of taking something out of it.

  “Eleanor,” he said, hard and cold. “You need to get the fuck away from me.”

  She turned. There was a black, silky-looking blindfold in her hand. The look in her eyes blazed, full of all the emotions he was struggling to contain. Fury, passion, desire. “But I don’t want to get the fuck away from you,” she said flatly. “In fact, leaving you is the last thing on earth I can imagine doing.”

  The pain around his heart pulled so unbearably tight he tried to force it away, to hold on to the cold instead. “Then you’re a fucking idiot. I’m dangerous. I’m unstable. I could—”

  “You’re not any of those things, Luc.” She stepped forward and held out the blindfold. “You think I’d give a killer my absolute trust? I made the mistake once before of giving it to a man who didn’t deserve it. But you do. And I want to prove it to you. I used to like not being able to see, but Piers made it…awful.” She took a breath, her knuckles white around the black fabric. “I want to reclaim that. I want to be able to choose this for myself, make it good again. And nothing is awful with you, Luc. So please take it. It’s my gift to you.”

  A sudden, desperate craving pushed against the cold inside him. The need to take that blindfold, give her what she wanted. Then hold her and all her blazing warmth until he was nothing but ash.

  But he couldn’t. He’d held a knife to her throat. He’d made her bleed.

  How could she hand him a blindfold and tell him she trusted him after he’d done something like that? After what had been done to her?

  He ignored the material in her hand. “Get out, Eleanor. If you knew what was good for you, you’d get the fuck out of here without looking back.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, but the determination in her eyes didn’t flicker, not even for an instant. Then she turned away, going over to the bed and laying the blindfold down on it. Her hands went to the buttons of her cardigan and she began unbuttoning it.

  “Eleanor.” He put every ounce of command he had into the word. “Get out. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  But she didn’t even pause as she shrugged her cardigan off and pulled her T-shirt over her head, dropping them on the floor. Then she reached around to unhook her bra.

  The longing pushed harder inside him, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “If you don’t get the fuck out of here, I’ll pick you up and carry you out.”

  “Go ahead. But I think you should punish me for ignoring your orders first.” She kicked off her sandals, pushed down her jeans, taking her panties with them.

  His breath caught, the pain in his chest unbearable as she stepped naked from her clothes and turned around to face him. The moon came through the windows, gleaming pale over her hair and white skin.

  “You can’t do this,” he said desperately. “You don’t understand what I am.”

  “I understand what you think you are. And you’re wrong, Luc. You’re so fucking wrong.” She crossed the space between them and he wanted to back away to protect her from himself. And yet at the same time he wanted to hold on to her with everything he had.

  “Yes, you’ve killed, but you’re not a killer. You’re a good man, strong, a survivor. Someone who lived in hell and who came back alive. But, honey…” she put a hand on his chest before he could stop her, “…no one who’s lived in hell is without scars. No one comes out of that untouched.”

  He didn’t want her to touch him, didn’t want her to start bringing him back to life again. And yet…he couldn’t seem to bring himself to step back. “I’m dangerous, Eleanor. I’m… I can’t…”

  Her hand didn’t move, only rested on his chest like a hot coal, burning him. And he didn’t want to look at her, naked and beautiful in front of him, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He’d always thought of her as the sun. Even at night she was bright. She had the moon and the whole fucking Milky Way galaxy in her eyes.

  “Here’s the deal, honey,” she said very softly. “I love you. And I’m not leaving you alone. Not ever again.”

  When was the last time someone had told him they loved him? Too long.

  He could feel the longing pushing against his throat, pushing against his heart. A desperation that went bone deep. That didn’t want detachment, that didn’t want numbness.

  That was tired of being alone in the dark.

  “Soleil…” he whispered and he didn’t even know what he was pleading for this time. For her to leave or for her to stay.

  She took her hand from his chest.

  And dropped to her knees at his feet.

  She didn’t know if he’d understand what she was doing, what she was offering. But she couldn’t push him into this. He’d been forced into so many things; this had to be a choice he made consciously.

  And in order to make it, he had to overcome the fear that he was one of those soldiers. One of those killers.

  She kept her head bowed, her gaze on the floor. Hoping and praying.

  Then his hand on her head, gentle, causing a shudder to go right through her.

  “I can’t trust myself,” he murmured. “Not with you.”

  “You don’t have to trust yourself. You only have to trust me.”

  Luc didn’t move and for a long time there was only silence, his hand on her head. And she could feel the tremors in his fingers as they rested in her hair.

  The darkness of the blindfold had been terrifying after Piers but she had no fear when it came to Luc. He’d covered her eyes the night she’d told him what had been done to her and though she’d been scared, she’d pushed through it.

  Now she wanted to reclaim the anticipation of the unknown she used to love. And with it, restore his trust in himself, as he’d helped her restore hers.

  “You have my absolute trust,” she said quietly into the silence, reminding him she was there. “But now I need you to give me yours…Sir.” She hadn’t said that word in a very long time but it felt right now. Felt good.

  The fingers in her hair stilled. “Stand by the bed.” His voice sounded rough.

  Hope uncurled inside her, but she didn’t let it show on her face, not wanting to give in to it too soon, rising to her feet and doing what he said.

  He followed her and she saw him reach down, pick up the blindfold from where she’d laid it on top of the bedclothes.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned punishment straight-up like she had. But it was too late now. She was committed.

  “You remember your safe word?”

  “Yes.” Bracing herself for the darkness, Eleanor closed her eyes in preparation.

  The material came over her face, soft against her skin, and she felt him knot the ties at the back of her head firmly. She had to force herself to breathe slowly, in through her nose and out through her mouth, fighting through the instinctive panic.

  His palm came to rest at her nape, his fingers around her neck, exerting a subtle pressure. The hold centered her, the panic vanishing completely to be replaced by a new and much mo
re pleasurable tension. Anticipation.

  “Lie down,” Luc instructed, his hands guiding her onto the bed and down against the crisp cotton of the sheets. “Hands above your head.”

  She did so, more soft fabric binding her as he tied her wrists together.

  Oh yes.

  She lay there breathing fast, tied and blindfolded, blackness in front of her, shivering as nervous tension chased over her skin. Waiting.

  God, she remembered how much she’d got off on this. How she’d loved the psychological aspect of not knowing what was going to happen, of not being able to move. It had been intense and now…somehow it was even better. Because of Luc.

  “Sir?” she asked, testing him.

  “I’m not your Sir.” His voice came from down at the end of the bed. He must be standing there, watching her.

  Her sex clenched at the thought of his gaze on her as she lay there helplessly on the bed.

  “Yes you are. The first time you gave me an order, held my hands behind my back, you were mine. You want this as badly as I do. You crave it just as much. And you need it like I need it. So why don’t you give us both what we want?”

  “I can’t, Eleanor. You should find someone else.”

  “I don’t want anyone else. You’re the only one I’d let do this to me. You belong to me, whether you like it or not, like I belong to you.” She took a shaky breath. “Sir, please…”

  There was a long silence and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath as she waited for him to reply.

  “Fuck, Eleanor May.” Luc’s voice was rough edged. “You’re a bad girl coming here and not leaving when I told you to go. Thinking you’re safe with me.” The bed moved and she gasped aloud as she felt him lean over her all of a sudden, his mouth near her ear. “And most especially you’re bad for loving me, soleil.” His hand trailed down over the curve of her abdomen, between her thighs, fingers brushing the outer lips of her sex. She gasped again, fire shooting through her. “Because I’m not worthy of that kind of gift. But…” he stroked her and through the haze of pleasure she heard the catch in his voice, “…I want to be. Oh, Eleanor, I want to be.”

  “You are,” she murmured. “A killer deals in death, Luc. Not pleasure. Not caring. Not tenderness. And those are the things you’ve given me. Your strength, your command, your control gives me pleasure, never pain. Don’t ever doubt it. So why don’t you show me how I belong to you? How you own me?”