The Bequest

by Hope Anika

  The gentle rocking of the swing halted abruptly, and Will grew still, as if locked into immobility by the images flipping through his head.

  “When we heard the Apache approach, Hogan knew. He fucking knew. Retrieval was early, and his gut was rotten, and he knew it was going bad. But I didn’t listen, and he didn’t argue. He just did his goddamn job. And he died for it. They all died for it.” A violent shudder moved through Will, and sweat beaded beneath her fingertips, and his heart pounded like a hammer against her, but she only stroked him calmly and listened. “The sand rose, and we couldn’t see shit. I told them to stand down, to get to the ridgeline because I realized Hogan was right, but it was too late. The Apache landed, and a team disembarked, but it wasn’t ours. They opened fire as soon as they hit the ground.” His body jerked in her hands, as if he was reliving the bullets that had torn into him. His voice grew harsh, and the hands that held her to him tightened to bruising strength. “They slaughtered us like animals while she laughed. She fucking laughed. One by one, we fell. And then they were gone. They should’ve never known—not about the cache, not our location, not a single thing about that mission. Hell, the sand storm should have brought the copter down. Everything was against us. Everything. Even the goddamn weather.”

  Will was shaking, but Cheyenne didn’t think he noticed. He stared into the distance, half a world away, trapped in a time and place he hadn’t come to terms with, locked in a loop of memory he couldn’t yet escape. “After they were gone, I had to decide.”

  “Decide?”

  He lifted his head and looked at her, his gaze so desolate it made her heart hurt. “To live or die. I should have gone first. That was my job, my sole responsibility. None of them should have gone before me. But every single one of them had. Every one. I might as well have killed them myself.”

  “No,” she said softly.

  “I wanted to die. It would have been so easy. My lung was collapsed, my arm was shattered, and my leg was hanging from my hip socket. I should have died; the doctors all agreed. But I wanted blood. ‘Blood and flesh and bone,’” he quoted her softly. “A world littered with body parts and gray matter. Death and destruction like no one has ever seen.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Until the rivers run red.”

  Those pale eyes searched hers, but she couldn’t read them, didn’t understand what he was seeking.

  “What?” she asked.

  “You understand.”

  “Of course.”

  He shook his head. “No one understands.”

  “Some do. Like me. But if everyone did…the world would be mad.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Cheyenne cupped his face, her heart beating hard. Tears built in her throat, an overwhelming swell that threatened to burst from her like a geyser. “It is what we make it.”

  “You give me hope,” he said. “And part of me hates you for that.”

  She stared at him. “Because part of you still wants to die.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you lived.”

  “I had to.” Will pulled from her touch and turned away. “I couldn’t let it be for nothing. So I crawled through the desert for hours and hoped like hell I was going in the right direction. I heard the second copter pass over me—the retrieval unit sent by my senior chief—but there was no way to signal them. I just kept going…until one of the dogs from the local village found me.”

  Light dawned. “Is that what happened today…was it because of the dog?”

  “She licked me. Took me right back to that moment. The smell, the sound of her whine…the voices, the pain. I was so cold.”

  Cheyenne slid her arms around him again and held tight. “I’ll keep you warm.”

  He shuddered, and his hands clenched around her. “I woke up in Bethesda two weeks later, my head even more fucked up than my body.”

  The wind chime sounded, and Will began to rock them again, slow and steady. He was rigid against her, his turmoil a palpable force she wanted to ease.

  “One of the bullets they dug out of me came from a 9mm issued by the CIA. But the investigation found ‘no legitimate or proven connection’ to the Agency so they discounted the link. They buried my men, and my senior chief sat on his fucking hands while they closed the investigation and wrote us all off.”

  “They closed the investigation?”

  “Oh, they’re still looking for their bombs. Can’t have those falling into the wrong hands…but my men, they’re negligible. Collateral damage. And when I raised hell, I was told I either accepted the honorable discharge they had lined up, or face a dishonorable discharge for the loss of the cache.”

  “God Bless America,” Cheyenne muttered.

  “Bad apples. Rotten to the core. My whole life—my whole goddamn career—gone. My men unavenged—abandoned by the country they died for—and the treasonous bastards who killed them are being protected by the system I spent most of my life upholding. Makes me sick to my soul.”

  Cheyenne, too. “I’m sorry.”

  “When Red called me, I jumped at the chance to hunt them down.”

  “Red?”

  “My fox.” Will paused. He looked up at her and lifted a hand to tuck a strand of her unruly hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering to stroke her scar. A slight shudder moved through her; she still wasn’t used to him touching it. To anyone touching it. “The twin of one of my men. A hacker who found the connection to Georgia and who’s checking on Malik, but I haven’t heard back.”

  Cheyenne sat up a little straighter. “And last night?”

  Against her, Will stilled. “What about last night?”

  “Where did you go?”

  He only watched her, his gaze lidded.

  “No more secrets,” she told him, her voice hard. “We’re in this, we’re in it together—or not at all.”

  For long moments they stared at each other, and Cheyenne was suddenly aware of the fact that she wore only a pair of thin cotton Snoopy pajama bottoms and a red t-shirt she was braless beneath. Will seemed huge in comparison and as warm as a furnace. Hard and broad and tall; too strong to fight and win.

  “Together,” he repeated, and something in his tone made the hair at her nape prickle.

  “Or not at all. I mean it, Will. No more half measures. If you can’t do that—just go.”

  He stared at her, his eyes glinting with something she couldn’t name, but which alarmed her, and she moved to scramble from his lap, but his arms became iron bands, and he trapped her easily, with hardly any effort.

  “Knock it off,” she demanded. Heat crawled into her cheeks. She was sprawled in his lap; somehow she hadn’t realized how intimate a position it really was. His thighs were solid beneath her, and she could feel his—

  “All or nothing,” he said and leaned in to flick his tongue against the hollow of her pulse.

  She inhaled sharply and dug her nails into his shoulders. “Yes.” But he made it sound—

  “Everything,” he said, and she wanted to agree—in theory—but the way he said it—

  “No secrets,” she told him as he rubbed his bristled chin against her neck and pulled her closer, until her breasts flattened against the hard wall of his chest. He made a deep sound in his throat at the connection, and that vibration made her nipples hard, and when he rubbed her against him, her breath locked in her throat. A shudder of pleasure made her grip him tighter.

  “Oh,” she said, surprised.

  “You like that?” he murmured and did it again. The drag of her nipples against his hard chest made white heat arrow from her breasts to the flesh at her core.

  She inhaled sharply. “Oh.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Sharp teeth nipped at her throat, and his hands glided from her hips up beneath her t-shirt. The rasp of his hot, hard hands on her bare skin made her go still.

  “Easy,” he whispered. “I just want to feel you.”

  Rough, callused, huge; those hands should have frightened her. Instead, s
he remembered how they had felt stroking up her belly, and she wondered how they would feel—

  “Oh,” she whispered when his thumbs traced the underside of her breasts, his palms cupping her ribs, his tongue flickering against her earlobe.

  “More?” he asked softly.

  She made a low, humming sound in the back of her throat. Some part of her brain knew this was stupid—they’d been having an important conversation—but the newly awoken awareness of her own sexuality and the flood of hormones this man produced managed to drown out every sound but that of her own heartbeat.

  Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

  “Yes,” she told him. “Please.”

  A rasping laugh touched her ear, and that pleased her, and then he swept his thumbs higher, brushing her nipples with a tantalizing touch that made her breath catch sharply. But it wasn’t enough. Her back arched and she shifted in his lap, aching and damp and impatient.

  “More,” she said, pressing her thigh into the hard line of his cock behind the zipper of his jeans, and when he shuddered, she pressed harder, because she liked that reaction, liked it that she could affect him, and he was giving her pleasure.

  She wanted him to feel pleasure, too.

  “Like this?” The rough pads of his thumbs dragged across her nipples and she shuddered.

  “More,” she whispered. A strong steady pulse beat at the notch of her thighs, and she wanted to turn so she could straddle him—

  He pinched her, a searing streak to her groin; prickling pleasure and a slight bite of pain. She moaned helplessly.

  “Look at me.” His voice was harsh, and Cheyenne looked down at him, and the sight of his face—that beautiful, finely carved face—taut with lust made her shiver.

  “Kiss me,” he said.

  But she hesitated. She’d never kissed anyone. And then he said, “Kiss me and I’ll put my mouth on you,” and she thought about that and decided it was worth looking like a novice if he would use those sharp teeth and that rough tongue on her. So she leaned down, shuddering when he pinched her again, lightly, and pressed her lips to his.

  Will made a low, rough sound, and his tongue slid along hers, deep into the cavern of her mouth, a carnal sensation that stroked between her legs and made her moan again. He nibbled and suckled and rubbed the roof of her mouth with the tip of his tongue and thoroughly seduced her. She mimicked what he did, and he groaned and slid a hand up to her jaw, tilting her head, adjusting her so he could plunder at will. He twisted her nipples and tugged, and she rose against him, her fingers spearing into his hair, and—

  Without warning, he pulled away. Slid his hands to her waist and stopped her from following, smoothing her hair and hushing her when she protested.

  He pressed a hard kiss to her lips. “Rafe.”

  “Rafe?” she repeated stupidly, and then the door was opening, and over Will’s shoulder Rafe’s small face appeared, wreathed in moonlight and lined with worry.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked apprehensively.

  Cheyenne slid sideways, but Will stopped her and held her tight for one brief, breathless moment. His gaze burned into hers.

  “All or nothing,” he said.

  She pushed against him.

  “Together,” he stressed, and she stared at him. Alarm prickled through her, but before she could respond, he set her down beside him gently and turned to look at Rafe. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Rafe walked onto the porch, and Cheyenne scrambled to straighten her clothing, to fold her arms over her braless breasts. To cool her blood and not look like a horny sixteen year old.

  Together.

  Christ. She didn’t even want to think about that. Couldn’t a girl indulge in a little hanky panky with no strings attached?

  “I’m okay,” Rafe told him. “Are you?”

  “Yes.” Will smiled at her, dimples and all. “Cheyenne made me feel much better.”

  Her cheeks burned. “Jackass.”

  But he only laughed, and Rafe blinked at him in wonder. Cheyenne stared too, because she’d never seen him laugh. He could have graced the pages of a fashion magazine. Or been sculpted from stone.

  He was that beautiful.

  “Oh, stuff a sock in it,” she snarled.

  But he only laughed harder.

  One kiss.

  Her first and only.

  And she’d created a monster.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “It’s a ledger.”

  Will looked up from the map he was studying and found Cheyenne standing in the kitchen doorway. She wore a pair of worn blue jeans and a Samcro t-shirt, and her hair was wet, a wave of dark fire against her creamy skin.

  His fingers twitched, and his gut tightened, and the memory of her filling his hands threatened to render him immobile. And that kiss…. Christ. “What?”

  “The book. It’s a ledger. A compilation of favors owed. Almost seven years’ worth.” Cheyenne walked toward him. Her feet were bare. “Senators, diplomats, NSA, FBI, military officers. Each of whom owed Georgia a favor. Why they owed her is vague, but the scale of value is pretty clear. One, two, or three. One being something small—paperwork, a phone call, a meeting—two being something a little more intricate—like operational involvement in whatever scheme she was schilling—and three, three was an active risk. Three was life and limb and professional suicide—if she so chose.”

  Will leaned back against the counter and stared at the bruises he could see peeking out from beneath the collar of Cheyenne’s t-shirt. The sight of them sickened him. Shamed him. And he wanted to sink to his knees before her and beg forgiveness.

  Forgiveness he didn’t deserve. Because no matter what he told himself—or her—there was no guarantee he wouldn’t lose himself and do it again. Even if—in his waking moments—he would put a bullet in himself first, he could make no promises about those moments he spent disoriented and adrift, susceptible to every violent, fucked up thing he felt.

  That she understood—and accepted—the danger both exhilarated and infuriated him. Because she saw what no one else did…and that made him feel accepted, human, almost normal…but only because she knew hell as intimately as he, only because she had crawled through the darkness and blood and terror and survived.

  He wanted to kill the piece of shit who’d raped her, who’d butchered her and left her to die in the street. Snap his neck like a fucking twig. Skin him like an animal and hang him from his entrails. Break every bone, one at a time, and fill his lungs with holes, so he drowns slowly, suffocating in his own blood.

  And worse.

  It was profoundly unfair that Georgia Humboldt was already dead. She deserved the most colorful—painful, torturous, excruciating—of deaths.

  But it was too late.

  Will knew, because he’d seen the photos of her body, courtesy of the Agency file Red had hacked. She’d been dead for no more than thirty six hours when they found her, and whoever had killed her had made it personal. Her bones had been broken, her beautiful face carved into mush, and she’d been nude, as if whoever had taken her life wanted her left humiliated and stripped bare of her machinations. The Agency had assumed it was the Chechen rebels, but Will wasn’t so certain.

  She’d been too damaged. Whoever killed her had hated her enough to leave her defiled and almost unrecognizable. That was more than just a deal gone bad.

  “Hello?” Cheyenne said, her brows arched. “Are you hearing me?”

  Will’s gaze traveled over her again, and every muscle that lined his frame pulled exquisitely taut.

  Stupid selfish bastard. He should have left. To stay only put her—and Rafe—in danger from himself. No matter what she knew or understood; no matter how hard she hit.

  But he was not the only danger. The worst danger. And goddamn it, he wanted to keep her.

  “I heard you,” he said and forced himself to look away, back at the map. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I have an eidetic memory. The code
is one we used at Haven. She knew I would be able to read it. Doesn’t that make you nervous?”

  “It’s a clue,” he said, his chest tightening. “Are you finished?”

  “Not yet. Halfway. You think whoever tipped her is in it?”

  “Possibly.” He stared at the map without seeing it.

  Keep her.

  Fucking stupid. Ludicrous. Impossible.

  “Earth to Will,” Cheyenne said. “A lead has landed. What’s your problem?”

  Keeping her…he didn’t deserve to even consider it. He’d done nothing to earn her. He’d failed his men, his country, and last night he’d failed her. Spectacularly. So what the fuck was he thinking? And who said she would get on board with that kind of craziness? She might like his hands on her, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be tied to him. That didn’t mean she thought he was good enough.

  Because he wasn’t. Damaged and angry; the frog, not the Prince.

  “Hey, Blackheart, where’s your Glock?”

  His hand went to his holster automatically and landed on the smooth butt of his gun.

  “Yeah,” Cheyenne said. “That’s what I thought.”

  He looked up at her, and in that single space of breath, let himself imagine it.

  Together.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she demanded. Color bloomed in her cheeks, and the temptation to touch her made his hands curl into impotent fists. Impatience snapped within him, fed by the prowling, restless hunger she’d awoken, and he understood then that only part of him was still fighting.

  The rest had surrendered. Had staked its claim. Had only two goals left: to woo her, because she deserved to be wooed, and to take her.

  Because he was going to lose his fucking mind if he didn’t.

  And that part of him didn’t give a shit about his mission, or the weapons, or the men whose hands were steeped in blood. About the bitch who’d slaughtered his team, or the traitor who’d betrayed him, or the bastard who might very well try to kill his own kid to protect himself.