by Hope Anika
“Why not?”
She shook her head, and the stubble on his jaw stabbed her chin. She shuddered. Too close. Closer than she’d ever allowed anyone.
“Because he’s me,” she whispered. “Been there, done that. Abandoned, alone, totally screwed. That’s why.”
“Altruistic of you.”
She bucked, but he didn’t move. “I repeat: Go fuck yourself.”
He nipped her bottom lip, and she started violently, hating him. Despising the flood of heat pooling in places she’d never paid much attention to. The irrational desire to turn her face just a little more, so that his mouth would press fully against hers.
Probably snap your fool neck trying. And you’d deserve it. Dumbass.
“How did she know you would come for him?”
Cheyenne stilled. Grew cold. And recognized then that she had no choice. The truth. It was all she had. No matter how personal, how private. How fucking painful.
“She knew,” she said, her voice honed to a lethal edge.
The man above her stilled. “How?”
“I can’t have children.”
His arms tightened again, just a little, and Cheyenne realized she’d revealed far more than she’d intended with those words. “She knew that?”
“She made certain of it.”
Chapter Nine
Cheyenne was utterly still beneath him. Finally. But it wasn’t a victory. And it wasn’t surrender.
It was retreat. As if the fire had been encased in ice.
Will’s rage churned, heightening with every round they went. Her words were frozen, but he heard fucking pain. Visceral. Fresh.
What did she do to you?
“Tell me,” he rasped and rubbed his jaw against her scar. Like silk, no matter how ruined. He hadn’t intended to touch her, not like this. But the temptation was too great and…it calmed him. When he teetered on that edge, the feel of her, the smell of her, eased the madness that threatened to unravel him. And it unnerved her. Scared her. He wanted her frightened. That it sent a stroke of pleasure down his own spine…well.
It wouldn’t change anything.
Cheyenne was silent. No wiggling, no growls, no bucking against him. He particularly enjoyed the bucking.
“What happened?” He nuzzled her temple, her cheek, the tempting lobe of her ear. He told himself to stop, but the reawakening he’d feared had seduced him, held him in a vice-like grip…and he didn’t want to be free. Not yet. “Did she hurt you?”
Still, nothing. Shallow breaths, her eyes closed. Shut down entirely. So unlike the fierce, volatile woman who’d fought him, his rage grew.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
“No.” Cutting and sharp. Set in stone.
He kissed her, a hard press of his mouth against the corner of hers, and was rewarded by the faintest tremor. A sharp inhalation. Those deep green eyes flying open to glare at him.
“You will,” he told her, certain of it. He would allow nothing less. But… “I can wait.”
She only stared at him. There was no pretense there, nothing false; those eyes had the ability to strip him bare. Dangerous. In ways he’d never imagined.
“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded.
There was no reason not to tell her. He wasn’t hiding in the shadows; he was barging in, both barrels firing. He wanted whoever had betrayed him to know he was coming. To understand he had nothing left to lose. To realize there was nowhere he would not go—nothing he would not do—to find them. That there was no escape—no matter who that person was revealed to be. If Cheyenne was part of it, there was no better messenger.
The kneejerk reaction in his gut said this woman was too raw, too real to be part of something shrouded in such cowardice and greed. She would not shoot a man in the back—her attack would come from the front. No less lethal, but unhidden.
Screaming like a goddamn banshee.
But Will didn’t trust anyone or anything anymore—least of all his own gut.
“No screaming and no punching,” he repeated, and helpless to resist, nipped her ear again. “Promise?”
She snarled. She was slight and round and delicate beneath him; that she fought with such strength and ruthlessness spoke volumes about where she’d come from. What she’d survived.
Fucking kill you! Strip your flesh, crush your bones, feed you to fucking pigs!
The darkness within him stirred at the memory, and he drowned out the words with her scent, pressing his lips to the silken skin of her throat. He had done that, awoken that terror, exploited it, and he hated who he’d become, a man for whom morality no longer trumped necessity. He feared it made him no different than those he hunted. It had not been intentional, merely another threat in his arsenal. That she’d reacted the way she had…paint the world crimson.
For her, too.
He wished they’d met in another time, another place. That they’d had a chance untainted by blood and darkness and hate.
But it was not meant to be.
“I’m going to kick your ass seven ways to Sunday,” she grated.
His heart only beat harder. He was a man who’d always been attracted to quiet women, those who sat in thoughtful silence, who seduced him with stolen looks and shy smiles. It made no sense that he wanted nothing more than to strip bare the mouthy, angry, violent woman beneath him and fuck her until neither one of them could walk.
“Sweet nothings,” he murmured and licked her cheek.
She shuddered. Her skin was hot, her cheeks flushed, and he knew he wasn’t alone in his physical reaction to their position. She was not immune to this anomalous thing that had risen between them. She was affected, too. He could see it. Hear it. Feel it. Which only fed his rising hunger.
“No screaming and no punching,” she gritted. “Promise.”
Will had no choice but to trust her. They had too much to talk about. And if he stayed on top of her, it wasn’t words they were going to be exchanging. Still, every cell of his being screamed in protest as he slowly, carefully, lifted himself off her, off the bed entirely—because he didn’t fucking trust himself—and moved to sit in one of the broken down chairs next to the cheap table that sat in front of the window, where the curtains hung partially open.
Cheyenne flew off the bed like a shot and faced him across it, her hands fisted, her hair a tangled cloud of fire trailing nearly to her hips. He didn’t remember freeing it. Her breasts heaved, her nipples hard beneath the black, form-fitting t-shirt she wore. He stared at them for a long, motionless moment, his blood roaring in his head like freight train, his fingers twitching against the desire to reach out and—
“Don’t look at me like that,” she growled in a low, throaty voice that only made him want to push her back down onto the bed and take up where they’d left off.
“You taste good,” he said.
“Save it for someone who’s buying,” she snarled.
“I don’t trust you,” he told her harshly. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t love to fuck you.”
He saw the tremor that went through her, the shock that shaped her unique, arresting features. She hid nothing.
“Noted,” she said after a moment. “Now tell me who you are.”
“Sit.”
Her brows arched. She folded her arms over her breasts—and damn it, he almost protested—and stared him down. “Woof.”
“I need you to relax,” he said bluntly. “Your energy affects me.”
She scowled. “You’re the reason for my endorphin high—deal with it.”
“Don’t push,” he said, and she blinked. She’d heard him the first time he’d said it—those infuriating, broken words, and she’d fucking understood. She did no less the second, nodding sharply and moving to sit on the far side of the bed, as far away as she could get against the headboard.
“I want an answer,” she muttered.
Will took a deep breath and wished his heart would calm the hell down. His dick, too. She wasn’t the only one on an a
drenaline ride. “Will Blackheart.”
“Blackheart.” A sharp smile curved her mouth. “Because asshole was taken?”
He bit back a smile, something she’d almost made him do more than once. Something he no longer did. Something he no longer wanted to do. “Former U.S. Navy SEAL.”
Her smile faded. “Former?”
“Recently retired.” The acknowledgment of which made his wounds suddenly ache. “Four tours in Afghanistan, two in Iraq.”
Which, for some unknown reason, sobered her.
“What do you want from me, soldier?”
He didn’t like that. The distance created by her use of his now meaningless classification. Compartmentalizing him. “That’s a loaded question, baby.”
“Cheyenne,” she bit out.
A smile flirted with his mouth. Again. “Tell me about the last time you saw Georgia Humboldt.”
“Tell me why a former U.S. Navy SEAL gives a shit.”
For a long moment, Will only watched her. Her gaze was steady, her wide mouth set in stubborn demand. No fidgeting, no looking away, no nerves other than the color that painted her cheeks a delicate rose.
“She hurt you,” he said. “What did she do?”
“This is about you. Not me.”
“This is about us.”
She scoffed. “There is no us.”
Which threatened to infuriate him. Christ, so fucking lost. “I want to trust you.” Damn him to hell, it was true. “I can’t do that if you don’t tell me.”
“Trust me with what?”
Another long moment of silence. He focused on breathing, in and out, in, out. Struggled to control the churning mix of all she stirred. He was broken, pieces held together by nothing more than hate and sheer force of will. If he shattered, he would hurt her.
“She slaughtered my team and left me to die in the Afghan desert,” he said finally, and the madness that hunted him manifested in his voice, a living, breathing thing he could not pretend was illusion. “What did she do to you?”
Silence. Cheyenne stared at him, color leeching away, her legs curling up in front of her. She swallowed.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “Georgia was capable of many things.”
Which did not answer his question. The desire to throw the table he sat next to through the window gripped him, and he held very still in effort to combat it. He forced himself to remember her terror—those goddamn screams feed you to fucking pigs!—and understood it was something she would not share without trust, not even if he threatened her. Georgia had done something heinous to her. To them both.
Trust. He had no choice. Not even in this.
“We were readying a weapons cache for pick up,” he continued, his voice flat. “It was midnight. A sandstorm overtook us, and we couldn’t see shit. When she flew in, we thought she was our retrieval unit. It wasn’t until they started firing that we realized they weren’t friendly.”
Cheyenne studied him, frowning, and there was something in her eyes he hadn’t expected: compassion. “What kind of weapons?”
“Nuclear.”
“Georgia got her hands on nuclear weapons?”
“Two dozen dirty bombs.”
“Holy shite.” Cheyenne jerked violently, rolled off the bed and began to pace, volatility in motion. “Georgia had nuclear weapons? Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.”
“Yes.”
She swung to a halt and glared at him. “That girl was a sociopath when she was seven goddamn years old— how the hell did she get into the CIA? How—no—never mind. Fucking sociopathic bitch, could have sold sweaters to Satan.”
He watched her begin to pace again. “Calm down, baby.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.
“You’re agitating me,” he growled, which, amazingly, stopped her in place.
She eyed him, her gaze narrow, hands on hips. “PTSD?”
A term Will despised. As if anyone could drown in blood and death and body parts and stay whole. “On good days.”
For a long moment, she held his gaze, her eyes dark, glinting with something he couldn’t read. Then she nodded, abruptly. “Meditation helps. Hokey, I know. But it works.”
“Firsthand experience?” he asked softly and stilled as he waited for her to answer. She had to give him something.
“On good days,” she replied with a sharp twist of her mouth. “How did you survive?”
“I shouldn’t have.” Which wasn’t what he’d meant to say.
Another long, considering look. “But you did.”
“They didn’t.” Christ. “Look—”
“There’s no time for survivor’s guilt,” she told him, not unkindly. “Where are the weapons now?”
“That’s what I came to ask you.”
“Me?” A harsh laugh escaped her. “I haven’t spoken to Georgia since I was fifteen years old. I don’t have any clue where they are.”
He only stared at her, unable to accept her at face value. He couldn’t. She was all he had.
“Seriously?” she demanded. “You really think I’m stashing a semi-nuclear weapons cache in my barn?”
“Anything is possible.”
“Not that. Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t have them.” She strode over to where her pack and the envelope she’d been carrying lay on the floor and picked up the envelope, ripped it open and emptied its contents onto the bed. “This is what Jones gave me.” She began to rifle through it. “Keys, documents, blah-blah-blah….”
Will watched her, his pulse thrumming in his throat. She was white heat, warm, vibrant, outraged energy and goddamn him, he could see no ruse. No threat.
So fucked.
And then something she’d said came back to him. Part two of that stinking, shitty note—
“What note?” he demanded and stood.
“Note?” She frowned at him. “What note?”
“‘That stinking, shitty note,’” he quoted softly and stepped toward her.
Something in his voice must have set her alarms off, because she hopped over the bed, to the other side, and her hand went to the pocket of her cargo pants.
“Down, boy,” she said in a hard voice. “Don’t make me hurt you.”
Will smiled, but it was nothing pleasant or warm.
She leaned down to pick through the pile on the bed. She found a folded letter and thrust it at him.
“Go to goddamn town,” she told him.
He pulled it from her hand. Scars streaked her fingers and twisted up her arm, a flow almost fluid in design. He hadn’t even noticed them.
“Rude,” she muttered.
He might have been properly chastised if the thoughts that flooded him didn’t involve stripping her so he could inspect all of her scars. He said nothing and opened the letter.
I knew you would come. Soft and stupid and weak. You’ll always be her.
Good luck staying alive.
“Can you hear her cackling?” Cheyenne snorted. “I can hear her cackling.”
Will stared down at the neatly scripted words, and for a moment, rage held him motionless. Then he crushed the letter in his hand and looked up at her.
“The boy,” he said. “The boy must know.”
Cheyenne stared at him. She straightened slowly, squared her shoulders and took a stance he instantly recognized. It was the same one she’d taken that afternoon, before she’d laid him out in front of two-dozen people and three car rental agents. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off, energy radiating from her in electric pulses that speared through him like live current.
“Don’t you even think about it,” she warned in a low voice, her anger vibrating between them. “Not for an instant. You are not going to interrogate a ten-year-old boy for his mother’s crimes.”
“Nuclear weapons,” he grated, tearing the paper he held into pieces. “If he knows—”
“I will find out what he does or does not know.”
“Not good enough.”
“G
et out.”
Will took a step, but she was amazingly fast. Before he could catch her, she was on top of the bed, snapping a steel baton to its full length and holding it before her in a grip that told him she knew exactly how to use it.
“Cheyenne—”
“Out. Now. We’re done.”
“No,” he said instantly. “We aren’t.”
“I will beat the ever-loving fuck out of you if you make me,” she told him, her voice steady, the look in her eye leaving no doubt she meant it. “You surprised me once. It won’t happen again.”
In that moment, all he wanted to do was break that damned baton, pull her beneath him, and ease both their furies.
Not meant to be.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he warned. “I have to talk to him.”
“He’s ten—what can he know?”
“Everyone was her pawn. Even him.”
She said nothing, because she couldn’t. They both knew it was true.
“I won’t hurt him,” Will told her quietly. “I just want to talk to him.”
“Get out,” she said again. “Now.”
He watched her where she stood, armed and dangerous in the middle of the sagging mattress, her boots crushing the ugly blue bedspread, so tempted to go another round that his cock leapt at the thought.
“This isn’t over,” he told her softly, but he turned and strode toward the door. A good soldier knew when to bide his time and when to push on.
Patience. More fucking patience.
He wrenched open the door and shot her a smoldering look over his shoulder, taking one last look at the woman who was as much a warrior as anyone he’d ever met. “Until next time, baby.”
Chapter Ten
The kid on the bunk below him was bawling again.
Rafferty Humboldt flipped over and stared at the ceiling. It was patched and stained, dirty gray in the morning light. He wanted to lean over and tell the kid to shut the hell up, but he didn’t. He knew all too well that sometimes tears were all you had.
They’d brought the kid in late last night. Young, maybe five, bruised and cut up. He cried himself to sleep while Rafe listened, unwilling to share his release. Rafe was done crying.