Promises in the Dark

by Stephanie Tyler

  Despite her ire, she had to admit that Doc J was doing a good job here. They had a stockpile of IV antibiotics and shots and an OR for visiting doctors. So they actually were doing medical work at this camp.

  What was she here for—her medical skills or because she could handle a gun, and herself?

  Probably a bit of both.

  Dammit, she’d dealt with much worse, hadn’t been shaken. So Doc J’s clinic housed weapons, and no doubt offered more than a simple safe haven. She’d been a soldier, used a gun, seen people flourish under the kind of services he was providing.

  Why she was looking for an excuse to leave bothered her, kept her tense and irritable—and made Doc J steer a wide berth around her.

  Now, back in her tent, most of her things shoved into her bags, she assumed that Tristan wouldn’t be taking her into town in the middle of the night.

  She’d showered after she’d packed, the cool water refreshing her, and she remained covered by the single towel she’d brought with her.

  The feeling of physical need was an indescribable ache, a jolt of desire unable to be stuffed back inside with a cold shower or a good night’s sleep.

  Even an orgasm by her own hand wouldn’t get the feel of Tristan’s body from hers.

  She’d worked among men like him for years now—strong, capable, handsome. Men in uniform who could turn a girl’s eye with a smile and a nod.

  But she’d never reacted to one on the purely physical level she had with him.

  She dug out the small bottle of tequila, courtesy of Shelley, a friend she’d left back in Iraq.

  For those days you really need it, Shel had written, and today was certainly one of those.

  Shel had even given her a glass, salt and a lemon, which admittedly had seen better days by now. Rowan tossed that aside but rimmed the small shot glass with the salt.

  She downed the first shot, didn’t flinch as she welcomed the hot burn. She downed a second one just as quickly, and when the towel unwrapped and pooled around her lap she didn’t bother to pull it back up.

  To completely obliterate herself, it wouldn’t take much, she supposed. It had been a long time since she’d gotten drunk.

  She poured the next one, took a small sip and let the salt mingle with the warm tequila on her tongue before swallowing. She licked her upper lip, paused as a slight breeze came through the opened window, stirring her body like a lover’s touch.

  As if she’d called to him out loud, Tristan barged into the tent, without a knock or an apology, his demeanor unchanged from earlier, an unresolved anger still burning in his eyes.

  “I’m ready to drive you back to Freetown,” he said, his jaw clenched, and she knew that had to be a lie—no way would they travel this time of night.

  He stared at her bared breasts—his erection, obvious through his pants, did nothing to hide it—looked at her with a blatantly carnal lust that made her want to rip off his clothes immediately. And still, his eyes remained cold somehow, despite all that heat radiating through them.

  She said mildly, “You’re not going to try to stop me from leaving?”

  “No.” He hooked his fingers in his cargos. “This place could save you, if you let it.”

  “A place that trains killers.” She shook her head. “And I don’t know if I need saving.”

  “We all do. And we train men to protect missionaries and other vulnerable people visiting this region,” he corrected her, the truth of his words written plainly across his face. “We do good things here.”

  “Good for you. But I’m fine the way I am.”

  He didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled his shirt off and started toward her. His pants were unbuttoned by the time he got to her. Wordlessly, he yanked her up roughly by the shoulders, and the towel was history. She was bared to him, and all she could do was murmur, “What are you doing?”

  “Saying good-bye.” He dropped his pants. The only light in the tent was a small kerosene lamp, but it was enough for her to see him fully.

  Then his hands wound around her waist, pulled her close to him, her body brushing his.

  They’d barely said hello, and she wasn’t sure if she was coming or going. All she knew was the feel of his mouth on hers, the way she gave in to his touch.

  There was no going back. She’d barely been able to go forward, and yet here she was, the future naked in front of her.

  “I haven’t done this in a while,” she murmured when he pulled his mouth away.

  “I’ll make sure you don’t forget anything.”

  The laughter bubbled out then—part tequila, part pure joy at being in a man’s arms again and feeling like she belonged there.

  The laugh faded into a soft moan when his tongue ran down the side of her neck and up behind her ear, as if he was tasting her. His strong hands held her waist firm, his erection jutting hard into her belly, her ass pushed against the flimsy card table, which would never hold both their weight.

  But he had something different in mind, sank to his knees in front of her, spread her thighs open impatiently, and she felt herself tremble as she anticipated that first touch.

  She knew it would feel like a lick of fire.

  His tongue found her wet cleft, dragged along her folds and then concentrated on the tight knot of nerves, sucking it until the tension built to an unbearable level. It felt incredible.

  Her hands gripped the edges of the table, her body straining toward his caresses. He penetrated her with his fingers, his tongue. Her clit tightened and she shuddered toward release against his mouth, unable to hold back the near scream that erupted from her.

  Her legs began to buckle in earnest as the orgasm shot through her—she was still in the throes of it when he picked her up and laid her down on the cot.

  He stood over her as she watched through her haze. He was big everywhere, his cock jutting out toward her, thick and heavy.

  The cot sagged under their combined weight, but she didn’t care if it collapsed as long as he remained on top of her, spreading her open. She couldn’t protest when he entered her, stretching her with a pleasurable pain. And then he took her with a brutal hunger that threatened her sanity as she continued to contract through the aftershocks. There was no way she could come again this soon, but a second climax ripped through her without warning.

  “Tristan …” She said his name at least three times in a row, if not more, although she sounded completely incoherent to her own ears. It must have triggered a response in him because he bucked wildly above her. He jerked through his release, his muscles taut, a low growl drumming from the deep recesses of his throat that vibrated against her.

  When his gaze met hers again, for a brief moment, she swore there was no ice in his eyes.

  CHAPTER

  12

  She wants out the first chance she can. But first, you have another pickup.

  Doc J hadn’t looked happy when he caught up with Tristan earlier and told him that Rowan planned on taking off—a new record.

  When Tristan slipped out of Rowan’s tent now after sleeping next to her for a few hours, she hadn’t made mention of leaving again. Why she’d affected him so swiftly—and so deeply—was something he hadn’t stopped to consider last night when he’d stomped into her room like a caveman and acted like he was freakin’ claiming her.

  But he had done it. There was no denying either the urge or the act.

  Shit.

  He’d go grab the doctor and some guy who was protecting her first and then attempt to get Rowan to town by dark if she still wanted to go. If that didn’t work out, she’d just have to wait until morning.

  Or forever.

  Jesus, what the hell was wrong with him?

  He slid into the old Land Rover, which remained hidden from view of the road by the building that housed the weapons. The car had been a pet project, born of necessity; one he’d started when he first arrived, working when things were quiet. He’d refurbished quickly in order to have more reliable transport than D
oc J typically used to go into the smaller villages, which were easier to reach than the town.

  He’d gotten farther than expected because the weather held out and parts had come in, all a fucking miracle, he’d told Doc J, who’d merely smiled.

  Whether or not the man’s prayers worked—well, hell, Tristan wouldn’t question. It wasn’t worth it. But he did like to call Doc J old man to drive him crazy, because it seemed only fair.

  Tristan had come here immediately following his discharge from the Rangers. No, it hadn’t been that simple. Doc J had sent for him because he’d known Tristan had nothing at home to go back to. Nothing and no one, and that was the most dangerous situation for any man to find himself in, especially one used to combat.

  He’d planned on the Army being his whole adult life. Counted on it. And when that rug had been pulled because he’d gone against direct orders, he’d shut down hard. Took a dishonorable discharge to avoid court-martial and all the bullshit that went with a trial. He’d allowed himself to be shuffled here by a well-meaning sergeant who’d felt bad that Tristan had taken the brunt of the punishment.

  It had promised a lot of solitary time, which Tristan hadn’t minded. He’d never liked making connections. Those he’d made during his early childhood and teen years had nearly cost him his life. When the military provided an escape from that, it became another affiliation he’d been uncomfortable with.

  The training for long-range reconnaissance he’d received with the LRS unit had proved invaluable out here, and the solitary, spartan lifestyle suited him more than he’d ever have believed when he was younger and thought he needed the world and its riches at his feet to make him happy, to make him a man.

  Doc J had given him a second chance—something Tristan knew he deserved—and he also knew the man would never make him feel indebted.

  We’re here to help people in need, Doc J had first told him.

  Most people thought Doc J was deeply religious. Tristan had wanted to laugh at both the man’s conversion and his assertion that the help was only in the religious sense.

  Men of God weren’t supposed to lie. Tristan guessed there were still some things even God couldn’t beat out of a former Ranger. Furthermore, Doc J continued to hold true to that assertion, never mentioning to outsiders either the arsenal of weapons or the men scattered throughout this continent utilizing said weapons, who were there to bring help and consolation to the weary and chronically unprotected.

  Yeah, Doc J could give a mean speech when he was feeling inspired. And Tristan hadn’t been inspired in a long damned time.

  Rowan’s last words to him floated through his mind now. Don’t think so much.

  Yeah, thinking was the last thing on Tristan’s mind, thanks to her.

  Jesus, touching her yesterday in the weapons storage tent had burned. He’d gone under the hose to cool down, stayed there for ten minutes, wasting precious water in an attempt to cool the throbbing between his legs. And it hadn’t worked worth a damn, because all he could see was Rowan’s face, a pretty, aristocratic blonde who would never look at someone like him if she were back in the real world.

  She’d walked in all long-legged and blond and slim, like she could be walking on a runway or holding court at a society ball.

  Not that he’d ever been to one, but hell, he’d seen pictures.

  And she wasn’t headed to a dance—she was here instead, dusty and dressed down … and ready to break his heart.

  No, he’d been there, done that with a rich girl a lifetime ago, and it hadn’t ended well.

  He was nowhere near that place—and this world was too real for his taste most of the time.

  So real that he was sure he should be convincing Rowan to get the hell out of here instead of planning ways to make her stick around.

  There had been other women, sure. But not many had wandered through here, and none of them had stayed.

  Missy had lasted longer than most, but for both of them it had been much more about scratching an itch than having a future. She’d moved on last year and he’d missed having a warm body to lie next to, but they’d had nothing in common beyond their military backgrounds.

  It hadn’t been enough. Then again, what did he and Rowan have in common?

  You know nothing about her, except for the fact that the two of you go off like firecrackers when you’re together.

  Who’s to say that wasn’t enough? She might’ve repacked her bags and readied to leave yesterday, but hell, she’d unpacked them first. He’d checked after she’d first arrived. His own were still packed, as if he was ready to take off at any time. To where, who the hell knew.

  She’ll heal and move on. He’d seen it happen a hundred times and he’d never really cared before as much as he’d been jealous that it had happened so easily for them.

  We all have different paths, Tristan—some just take the long way around, Doc J would say, and Tristan would sneer, but secretly he hoped the old man was correct.

  For Tristan, peace was always an uneasy level of truce in his head. The voices of the past telling him he wasn’t good enough and never would be, the voices of the future telling him to move on.

  It was the voices of the present he damn well needed to figure out, and they sure as hell hadn’t spoken a single word to him … not until last night, when he’d laid with Rowan.

  At least an hour had passed before Zane gently shook her, said, “Hey, Liv, we’ve got to go meet our ride.”

  The tent flap was unzipped, allowing a breeze to come in. The rain had stopped but it was still dark, and thanks to his quiet yet insistent words, Olivia sat up and immediately missed the contact with him. She’d fallen asleep curled into a ball with her head against his thigh. It appeared he’d remained up and alert, his gun drawn. Her eyes felt swollen from crying—her throat was dry, and so she took a few long sips of water from the canteen he pressed into her hand.

  She wondered if, one day soon, all the alloted tears would be gone and she wouldn’t have to endure the gut-wrenching sobs or the smaller, uncontrolled trickle of tears down her cheeks anymore.

  She’d known that sleep was a hot commodity and that had forced her to take advantage of any downtime they had. But it was more than that—the intimacy between the two of them had grown so much in the past hours, threatened to overflow the small space.

  Threatened to completely overwhelm her.

  Why she’d told him everything, why he treated her like none of it mattered, was something the logical part of her brain struggled with. She certainly wasn’t ashamed of her past—she was a survivor—but she’d never expected a man to be okay with all of it too.

  And either Zane was putting on a damned good show, or he accepted it, all of it—and her.

  He rubbed the side of his head absently while staring out into the darkness, waiting for her to get herself together.

  “How’s your head?” she asked, moved to check his pupils using the penlight. Decidedly a concussion, but he presented fine.

  “I’ll be okay—this has happened before,” he mumbled, but he was definitely hurt. “We’ve got to go. No one’s come through because the rain was steady, but we need to get to the road to catch our ride.”

  He slid out of the tent first, grabbing both their bags as he went. He seemed to disappear into the darkness and she crawled out quickly. He immediately rested a hand on her shoulder and she took a breath, then held the penlight so Zane could disassemble the tent. And then he dragged both their bags to his shoulders and took the light from her. “Ready to go?”

  “If I said no?”

  He gave her a small smile. “I’d tell you, tough shit.”

  She didn’t know him well enough to be able to say he was kidding or not, but she suspected he wasn’t.

  Without another word, Zane turned off the light and guided her through the darkness. Her hand on his belt kept them close, and she walked through the heavy brush, refusing to think of anything else but one foot in front of the other.

 
; An hour or so later, when she tripped, he shifted the bags to his sides and helped her climb onto his back and he carried her the rest of the way, stopping only when they got close to the meeting place.

  He let her climb down and moved a few steps ahead to view the road. Then he motioned for her to follow and in less than a minute, they were there; an old Land Rover waited for them, lights and engine off.

  Relief made her knees go weak. She couldn’t take another step, even though maybe twenty separated her from the car. Dawn was breaking—finally, she could actually see.

  They’d made it here just in time.

  She should be running to the car—and the man with the rifle standing beside it, since they represented her freedom to stay here, to not return home with Zane.

  Instead, she turned to Zane, buried her face against his chest. The things he’d already done for her … because of her.

  For love, you had to be willing to risk everything. She didn’t know if she’d be able to do that, but she’d already risked a great deal. As had Zane.

  She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

  “Your experiences haven’t changed you—they’ve just solidified who you are.”

  If they could stay here, not face anything, they’d never have a shot. Could never give the fledgling relationship a chance to grow.

  “There’s never really been anyone for me … not like you. There’s never been someone important. But now is not the right time.”

  “I figured you’d know better than anyone that there’s no right time. If it works, it works.” He stared at her with a gaze so commanding she shivered and then he motioned for her to walk with him to the car.

  No one had ever pushed her like this. Ever. It both thrilled and scared her and she had no choice but to follow his lead.

  Zane’s back was up the second he met Tristan, had recognized himself behind the man’s semi-mellow greeting as he’d given both Zane and Liv the once-over.

  This was no regular volunteer. And Zane knew he was headed to a clinic that was anything but run of the mill.