The Lost

by Cole McCade

  Next to the article was a stark color photo of Gabriel Hart—the same man who stretched out just feet away, only a few years younger, his jaw clean-shaven and his hair cropped short. His face was blank above the collar of his uniform. Too blank. Deliberately so. The same cold, guarded gray eyes looked out from her computer screen, but instead of the eyes of a hunter…

  …they were the eyes of a wounded beast looking for a place to die.

  She tucked her legs up in the chair and pulled her damp hair down from the towel to comb her fingers through it. What had he been like, before Afghanistan—and before his sister’s death? Had he known how to laugh, how to be human? She clicked through a few more articles, but each one showed that same grim, blank face, that same carefully emptied coldness, as if he’d poured all his emotions out on the ground with the blood from his wounds. Amid more grief-mongering about returning vets and their families was a CNN brief on the ambush, and the US and UK soldiers taken prisoner during the battle. The article made only vague mention of Staff Sergeant Hart’s crippling injury.

  “Quite the nosy little mouse,” Hart said, and Leigh jumped, heart rocketing up into the back of her mouth, practically rolling onto her tongue. “Sniffing about for crumbs.”

  She slammed the laptop closed with a loud gunshot thunk and whirled. Hart sat upright in bed, her iPod in his lap, his shoulders propped against the headboard; she hadn’t even heard him moving, too caught up in reading. Hard lines cut across his face, his mouth drawn tight. She pushed herself against the corner of the high-backed chair, instinctively making herself smaller.

  “Well?” Scathing-cold acid crackled in his voice. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I wasn’t…I wasn’t looking for anything.”

  “The same way you weren’t looking for anything at my house?”

  “I was just—God, what is your problem?” She ground her teeth. “I can’t even blink without you acting like I’ve broken twelve international laws and a dozen rules in the unspoken codex of Gabriel Hart. You have no fucking right.”

  “I have a right to not want nosy little girls poking into my life.”

  “I’m not a little girl!” Yet she felt like one, when she balled her fists up and pulled her knees close to her chest. “Look, I was fucking worried about you, all right?”

  He stilled. His jaw tightened. “I hadn’t thought you capable.”

  “I’m capable of a lot more than you think. You don’t know me.”

  “You’ve yet to prove me wrong.” Her iPod tumbled off his lap as he pushed himself up farther, moving with an ease that would have masked his pain if not for the stiff, unbending way he held his leg. “Let’s satisfy your curiosity, then. Will that make you happy, little mouse?”

  She didn’t understand what he was doing until his hands fell to the waist of his jeans, flicked the button open, dragged the zipper down. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and lifted himself, sliding the denim down over trim, toned hips slicked in white boxer-briefs, a tightly translucent sheath over tawny skin. A wince just barely made the muscles in his jaw tick and jump—but it dragged her from her shock. He was hurting himself. The fucker was hurting himself, just to make a point to her.

  “Stop it.” She tumbled from the chair and to the edge of the bed, pressing one knee to the mattress and curling her hands against his shoulders. They rippled under her palms, a vicious shudder tightening his skin. She pushed him back firmly against the headboard. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it.”

  But he didn’t stop. He dragged his jeans down, bunching them at his spread knees and baring long, tanned thighs, sleek and gleaming in the low lamplight. The narrow ridge of an angry scar crawled out from the hem of his boxer-briefs, snaking down his leg toward his knee—not very thick, but with that particular raised gnarl that said it had cut deep. And deliberately, carved in a strange and whorling pattern that branched out in jagged curves, as if someone had tried to brand him with the point of a knife. Leigh’s stomach bottomed out, and she sank down to sit next to him, staring at the harsh red line against his dusky skin.

  “Gabriel.” She clutched her hands together in her lap. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear her mind from the image of Hart suffering under a gleaming blade, his jaw clenched with a stubborn refusal to scream, to cry out, every muscle in his body drawn tight as crimson poured over his skin in glistening trails and mapped lines through dirt and sweat. It was so vivid she could almost smell the agony, smell the blood, and she worked her tongue as her mouth flooded with sour saliva. “Why…? Why would…anyone…”

  “War,” he answered, simple and soft and yet so very bitter. “That’s what war is, little mouse.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She reached out to touch, feathering her fingers along the outer edge of the scar, careful not to brush the inflamed flesh around it. His breaths sucked in, and he tensed. She jerked her hand back from the warmth of his skin, wide eyes darting to his face.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” He watched her, mouth set grimly, brows a dark knot coming together fierce and tight, eyes hard with something she realized was pride. Pride, strong and deep and refusing to fall into the role of the damaged man just because she’d seen his pain. “You can’t hurt me any more than this.”

  But I can, she thought. Because I’m not good for you. I’m not good for anyone.

  She leaned across him to catch the waist of his jeans in trembling hands and pull them up. “Enough. You made your point. I…I’m sorry for prying. Just rest.”

  Rough fingers snared in her hair, digging in deep, burning pain igniting in her scalp until she cried out, grappling at Hart’s hands and digging her nails in. He dragged her head back, looking down at her flatly as he dragged her close—his arm clamping against her back, crushing her against the hardened fire of his body, nothing barring her from bare skin but the thin layer of her borrowed shirt. He hauled her against him and she fell across his lap, her knees flanking his upraised leg, his thigh pressing up against her, naked under the shirt, bare flesh to bare flesh. Taut-burning skin rubbed against her slit until she whimpered, back arching. Heat ignited inside her—the heat of raw, wild fury, and she nearly screamed with it as she raked her nails down his arm; he didn’t budge.

  “So is your kindness only pity, little mouse?”

  “No,” she hissed, bracing her knees, pushing herself up. She wasn’t doing this again—wasn’t letting him jerk her around like this. She twisted, clawing at him. “Fuck you—let go! I’m not playing this fucking game with you!”

  “No?” He wouldn’t let her escape. Still his thigh pushed up against her, rubbing, teasing, grinding against her until that deep hungry part of her wanted to rock her hips and drag herself against him to ease that needy ache, that wet tight pull. “You want me. Deny it.”

  “I don’t want some fucking prick who treats me like that asshole from the other night!”

  That grip relaxed. She thrust herself away from him, tumbling off the bed so quickly she almost fell. Gasping, she retreated back to her chair and clambered into it to curl up safe in the corner, hugging her knees to her chest. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her. His arm rested lazily against his good leg, raked with fierce lines of red, a few of them scraped deep enough for tiny dots of blood to well against dark skin.

  And he was smiling, his eyes crinkling around the corners, icy silver softened by a lazy, thoughtful warmth.

  “So you do have some pride,” he murmured.

  “Don’t you even start with me.” She trembled, pulling the shirt over her legs until it shrouded her calves down to her ankles, her legs tucked up inside. “Is that what you want? You want me to be fucking ashamed of the way I live? You want me to be ashamed of the things I like?”

  “No.” He shook his head, smile fading, yet warmth lingered in his eyes. He had to stop looking at her like that—God, it was fucking worse than the icy disdain. �
�Do you think I’m disgusted by your sexuality, Leigh?”

  “You act like you are. You treat me like you are.”

  “No,” he repeated. His gaze fell to her lips. Something wild darkened in his eyes, roughened the edges of his voice. “You make me want to hurt you,” he breathed. “Until you beg for more.”

  The words cut her, slicing down to the core of her need and the part of her that couldn’t live without rough bruising hands to make herself feel real, craving thick fire splitting her open and filling her until she thought she would break to pieces. In so few words he’d whispered the reason she went out night after night, searching for the next sore ache in her thighs and the next hard body to crush the breath from her and force her to take more than she could handle.

  Like hell she wanted that from him. Not now. Not after the way he’d treated her. Not when she didn’t understand why he’d thrust her away over and over, when he was just like the others and wanted her just as much, for all the same reasons.

  “Then why?” she demanded. “Why do you…?”

  “Because I don’t want you to slink away in the morning.” He looked down at his clawed-up arm, turning it over, studying the reddened lines with methodical interest. “You have pride. But if anyone makes you ashamed of yourself…it’s you.”

  “Thank you, Lord Gabriel Hart. I will embrace my inner slut and become the goddess of whores with absolute pride, just because you say so.”

  One corner of his mouth quirked. “If that’s what you want to do, little mouse.” He lifted his head, studying her. “Is that what you want, then?”

  “Why do you keep asking me that?”

  “Because I want to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe…” He curled his fingers, flexing and relaxing them, staring down at the palm of his hand. “Maybe I wonder what you want because I’m curious if it’s something I can give you.”

  No. Not you. Anyone but you.

  I didn’t even want to know your name.

  She looked away, pressing her cheek into her upraised knees and glaring at the washing machine, watching the dark tumble of her clothing spin by on the last cycle. Always spinning, just like her. She didn’t know what to say. So she said nothing, letting the silence stretch long, hoping he would just…let it go.

  But when she heard the sound of skin and denim on the sheets, she glanced up to find him shifting to kick his jeans off, his jaw clamped stubborn and tight as he peeled them down his legs while holding the bad one rigidly still. She dug her fingers harder into her calves, fighting the urge to get up and help him. He didn’t deserve it—and she couldn’t trust him within arm’s reach.

  “Stop it,” she bit off. “You’re just going to hurt yourself more.”

  “I’m fine.” He managed to kick the jeans off and to the floor. “And you are avoiding.”

  “I’m not avoiding. Maybe I’m trying to think about someone else over myself, for once.” Those words still stung, Gary’s voice harsh in the back of her mind. “Just…lie down, Hart.”

  “Gabriel,” he corrected softly, lifting those silver eyes to hers.

  “No.” Just the sound of his name made panic choke in the back of her throat. She swallowed it down. “Maybe we’ll get on a first-name basis when you’re less of a raging dick. Lie down.”

  He tilted his head against the headboard and closed his eyes. “I’ll lie down if you stay.”

  “I’m already staying.”

  “In the bed, Leigh.”

  She stilled, staring at him. What? What was he playing at? Why would he want her to…? She shook her head, eyeing him, instinctively pressing herself back against the chair. Her heart took a wild leap and just fell, without hitting bottom.

  His lips quirked again; his eyes remained closed. “…I can feel that look.”

  “I don’t understand. Why do you want me to stay?”

  He said nothing. Yet in the silence she became aware of a faint sound, barely audible under the tumble of the washing machine: the low rattle of the headboard, shuddering against the wall.

  Hart was trembling, and even as she watched, his throat worked in a deep, heavy swallow, his next breath coming hard before it smoothed again.

  “Oh,” she whispered. Her gut tightened, sick and heavy. “It hurts that much?”

  “Would it please you to hear me admit it?”

  No. No…I don’t think it would.

  But she only shrugged, curling her fingers tight against her calves, bunching up handfuls of the shirt. “You’re very good at hiding it.”

  “Call it a habit.”

  Leigh closed her eyes. She shouldn’t be even considering this. Something wrenched inside her, to think of spending the night curled up next to him—this man who turned her every which way but up, who mocked her for what she needed and yet claimed to care what she wanted, claimed to want her to have pride in herself. To sleep next to him for no reason other than to give comfort, not just a sweaty tangle of bodies…the idea felt like it belonged to someone else, a stranger who might wear her skin but was more capable of compassion than she’d ever been.

  But it was her fault he was trapped in the bed. Her fault he even needed the pills he couldn’t have. And it was his fault she felt like shit about it—but if all she had to do to make him feel better was sleep in the bed with him, fine.

  She swore under her breath, then slid off the chair, smoothing the shirt down around her thighs. She waited for her tottering legs to steady before stalking over to the bed and flopping down on her side, curling up with her back to him and perched close to the edge. “I don’t want to hear one word.”

  “Of course.”

  Skin on sheets, hissing low. Then his arm draped over her, heavy and sinewy and nearly burning her, like forge-hot metal wrapped around her in iron bands. His body pressed hard against her back, dwarfing her, enveloping her in his oppressive fire, curling around her until she felt small and sheltered and trapped and smothered and so very, very thoroughly caged. His breaths washed molten against her hair, against the back of her neck. She trembled, closing her eyes. She couldn’t stand this. This…warmth. Being held like this for no reason other than…than…

  Than the fact that he needed her, when she could feel his tremors rolling through her in tiny little waves.

  She fought back the sour taste of panic in the back of her throat and searched for something else to focus on. Anything but this quiet feeling of closeness, of intimacy.

  “Hart?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

  A low rumble vibrated through her; his voice grated dark against her ear. “Yes?”

  “Who’s taking care of your cat?”

  His hold firmed around her as he once more let out that brief bark of sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “She takes care of herself. I left her enough food for a few days. Most of the time she refuses to admit she’s even mine.” The rough stubble of his jaw caught on her hair, scratching with a shivering thrill as he nuzzled into her, each word he spoke a dark and heavy promise against her ear. “Makes me think of someone I know.”

  But I’ll never be yours, she thought as she closed her eyes and counted the seconds until morning, until she would be able to break free and fly away and never look back.

  I’ll never belong to anyone but myself.

  “I don’t understand you,” she whispered.

  But there was no answer save for the sound of his breaths, and the slow steady tightening of his arm around her waist while she told herself she wouldn’t fall asleep in his arms.

  CHAPTER NINE

  NO ONE EXCEPT LEIGH KNEW Sister Mary Anne was a lesbian.

  She knew because every day in class, Sister Mary Anne looked at her the same way he did. With a kind of desperate wanting, with just a little more denial and Christian shame for flavor. Leigh had never really paid much attention before, but as she sat in the back row of the classroom and watched the nun scrawl sentence diagrams on the board, she felt every hot glance as if it had slicked
between her thighs where she was still torn and aching and swollen from the things he’d done to her every night for the past two weeks.

  Just thinking about it made her throb, a lovely pain clenching up inside, drenched against her panties. She spread her thighs just a little, just to feel the soreness slinking along them, just to feel that rubbing pull of fabric rubbing against her bruised and tender folds. God, she wanted to be home right now with her legs spread wide and two fingers plunging deep while she tugged and twisted her nipple and kneaded her breast into her palm. She could never seem to get enough. Not since he’d woken up this thing inside her, until every day was a dripping wet agony of waiting for Mama to go to bed and counting the minutes until he appeared in her doorway with vodka on his breath and his belt already undone and his cock straining hard, so hard, just for her.

  She loved the rough smell of his hand when it clamped over her mouth, loved the taste of his skin on her tongue, and she was learning to cover the bruises his fingers left on her jaw with just the right amount of concealer so no one would ask too many questions. Those bruises were hers, and she wore them like badges of honor and marks of possession.

  Sister Mary Anne was watching her again. Quick furtive glances as she turned pages in the textbook, her fingers slipping on the paper. She was young, for a nun at Our Lady of Holy Saints. Late thirties, tall and ramrod-straight with thin, square fingers and a freckled, handsome face. Leigh had seen her once without her veil, and her hair was a rich, glossy black brushed to a lustrous shine that Leigh thought might just be a sin of vanity. Sister Mary Anne’s pale blue eyes darted to Leigh, then down—and underneath her freckles, red spread like spilled paint as her gaze lingered below the desk, on opened thighs, before she looked away with a choked sound and snapped at the class to take notes.