Claimed by Cipher (Grabbed Book 5)

by Lolita Lopez

  When she returned to his field of vision, she held the orange in her hand. Bending down, she retrieved a black object from her boot. With the a few graceful flicks of her wrist, she produced the gleaming blade of a knife from the folding handles. He recognized the style of the knife from the Blue Shores community along the ocean. The people there had been islanders back on Earth and had fostered and protected their culture here on Calyx. It wasn't uncommon to see the knives—balisongs—sold in the open air markets in the seaside city.

  Considering the way she wielded the weapon, it was clear she was handy with a blade. Perhaps she wasn't totally helpless. Somewhere along the way she had learned some self-defense techniques. After watching Bruno abuse her, he had a bad feeling she had been hurt and bullied her entire life.

  The strangest pang invaded his chest as he imagined a smaller, younger version of D.D. suffering at the hands of others. Annoyed by the flare of concern, he pushed it aside. She's the enemy. She's one of them. She wants to kill you. Don't be fooled.

  She cut a slit in the top of the orange and then expertly peeled the rind from the juicy flesh. The citrus scent that tickled his nose made Terror's mouth water. It had been so long since he had eaten anything but the watery broth and stale bread they infrequently provided. To watch her peel and eat the fruit in front of him was yet another torment.

  But she didn't take a bite of the plump orange wedge that she plucked from fruit. She held it up to him, eyebrows raised questioningly, and waited for his reaction.

  Terror wavered with indecision. What if the fruit had been injected with poison or a serum that might loosen his lips? What if Bruno's cruelty had been planned? He felt sorry for her, didn't he? Now she was offering him this bit of food with a shy, nervous smile. Was this the way she planned to enthrall and eventually trick him?

  That endearingly sweet expression she wore confounded him. He needed to know if it was real or an act. To do that, he would have to embrace the cold bastard within him—and be exceedingly mean.

  Parting his lips, he leaned forward as far as his chains would allow and lowered his head. She took a timid step toward him and brought the orange segment toward his mouth. This close, he was able to inhale the clean, earthy scent of her and to see the deep flecks of color in her blue irises. The light freckles dusting her nose and cheeks drew his interest.

  D.D. pushed the cool, plump flesh of the fruit between his lips and waited until he had sunk his teeth into it to drop her hand. She pulled back as fast as an inquisitive child touching a stove for the first time. His eyelid drifted closed as he relished the succulent citrus flavor washing across his parched taste buds. It was like tasting fucking sunshine.

  When he had extracted every last bit of the delicious juice from the pulpy meat of the segment, he balled it up with his tongue—and spit the entire soggy mess right back into her face. Startled by the chewed up fruit and saliva splattering her cheek and eye, she yelped and jumped.

  In that moment, Terror understood that she was more complicated than he had ever imagined. In times of shock, it was difficult for any agent, even the best trained, to mask a true response. Provoking a real reaction with such a disgusting deed had been the easiest way to tear away her mask and see what was underneath.

  But there was no irritation or anger in her expression. No, there was only confusion and hurt written on her face. The raw sincerity of it made his gut clench. And there was something else, something haunting in those brilliantly blue eyes of hers that he couldn't quite decipher. Perhaps she wasn't an agent after all. Perhaps she simply was an innocent, naïve young woman who had been pressed into Splinter service.

  With his own face a stony mask of indifference, he watched her carefully. Would she prove herself to be just as nasty as the people she lived with and worked for? Would she lash out or injure him for his ugly stunt?

  She reached up and slowly wiped the soggy mess from her face. Still holding the partially peeled orange, she carried the chewed up fruit to the dented bucket used for refuse and dropped it inside. She retrieved a handkerchief from her bag, wiped the sticky juice from her skin and turned her back toward him.

  Senses on edge, he inhaled measured breaths and listened carefully. She stepped just beyond his line of sight again but he could feel her moving around behind him. Remembering that wicked looking knife she had so masterfully wielded, he started to doubt his estimation of her as an innocent. He had been in captivity long enough that he might be losing his touch.

  Terror stiffened when she poked his back. Wondering what she was playing at, he held his breath and fully expected the sharp bite of that blade at any moment. When her fingertip began to tap against his skin, he frowned. Flummoxed by her odd behavior, it took him a few moments to recognize the taps as the elementary signal code he had memorized his very first year at the academy.

  D.

  E.

  V.

  I.

  O.

  He didn't have to pay attention to the next few taps to figure out that she was spelling Devious. Thinking of the undercover operative, Terror experienced a rush of hope. If Devious had put this strange creature in contact with him surely that meant his rescue was imminent. He just had to hold on a little while longer. He had to keep fighting.

  The pressure of her finger disappeared. He heard her crouch down but couldn't see what she was doing. A few moments later, she was walking away from him and then he heard the scrape and jangle of metal as the chains holding his wrists high overhead were finally lowered. He hissed at the horrendous pins and needles sensation that traveled from his fingertips to his shoulders but figured that he should just be glad he could still feel anything.

  With freedom of movement for his upper body, Terror collapsed to his knees as D.D. scurried to grab her bag and the cleaning supplies she had brought with her. He instantly tested his chains but realized she had given him only enough length to sit, sleep or reach the exposed hole in the corner where he was forced to relieve himself. It wasn’t much but he was grateful for the chance to rest.

  She banged twice on the door and exited without casting a single look his way. It wasn't until the cell door had been locked again and the lights were switched off to plunge him into darkness that he caught the enticing scent of the orange again. Reaching behind him, he patted the cold ground until he felt the soft handkerchief she had used to clean her face after he had spit in it. His fingertips moved to the left and he felt the segments of the orange laid out for him.

  Grabbing the package left for him, he dragged his chains to the wall and leaned back against it. He stretched out his aching, tired legs and placed the handkerchief on his thigh. One by one, he savored the orange pieces. They would probably upset his stomach after eating such thin, bland food for weeks but he didn't care. He was starving and refused to waste the chance to ingest even one extra calorie.

  When the last succulent morsel was gone, he closed his eye and rested his head against the wall. In a moment of weakness, he brought the handkerchief to his nose and inhaled deeply. Behind the citrus notes lingered the smell of leather and grass and that barely floral hint that he had detected on her.

  Hating himself for being so pathetic, he lowered the handkerchief but continued to clutch it in his fist. Refusing to think of those big, beautiful eyes, he turned his thoughts to Devious. The covert operative had been framed for a serious murder and publicly tried as a traitor to gain him sympathy and entrance into the Splinter faction.

  Years and years of building trust and earning his reputation as a loyal member of the terrorist group had taken their toll on Devious. There had been a few times during his captivity in Devious' stronghold where Terror had seriously questioned which side the man was on these days.

  Of all the people Devious might have chosen to serve as his contact, why this girl? As an asset, she was an interesting but fairly useless choice. Assets were supposed to be the invisible eyes and ears of the Shadow Force. Unable to hear, there wasn't much intel this woman c
ould gather.

  Unless…

  A glimmer of an idea began to form, one that intrigued and unsettled him. How far would Devious go to keep tabs on the many strands of his tangled web of terrorists on this planet?

  As Terror began to sift through his memories of Devious' status reports, he made a decision on D.D. He wasn't going to snap her neck, after all.

  Chapter One

  Unfamiliar chirps and croaks filled Cipher’s ears as he crept quietly through the darkness. The forests on Calyx were strange to him, especially this high up in elevation. Most of his life had been spent on warships or on deployments in the worst sort of sandy, hot, miserable places. This lush planet was a mystery that he wanted to explore, but so far, most of his days had been spent on the Valiant, The City or the settlements where nature had been pushed to the far edges.

  Vaguely, he wondered if he would come across any of the predators he had been warned about in his briefing. His hand drifted to the holstered weapon at his hip as his gaze swept the shadows. He hated night vision goggles and avoided them whenever possible. Wondering just what might be surrounding him, he slipped them into place, dragging them down from the top of his head, and blinked until his eyes adjusted.

  His heart rate ticked up a few notches as he noticed all of the beady eyes staring back at him. Everywhere he looked, there were animals watching him. Most of them seemed small and unlikely to bother him, but there was one set of eyes shining out from the low vegetation of a bush that drew his concern. He noticed the strange sound in the background of all the chirping insects and croaking frogs. It was a deep, growling hum.

  A warning.

  Not in the mood to tangle with some wild animal that wanted to rip out his throat, he kept moving. His steps were deliberate and unhurried. He didn’t want to spook the animal or give it a reason to chase him. Gradually, the growling faded into nothing, and he relaxed his shoulders. Keeping the goggles in place, just in case, he continued on the path indicated by the GPS unit on his wrist.

  The mission tonight was a simple one. He was meeting with a Shadow Force asset who had intel needed to plan Terror’s rescue mission. It had been only twenty-seven hours since Torment had received the photos of Terror, alive but in captivity. He was being held in an abandoned mine, deep in the wilderness. The asset, a miner from a long line of miners, had the necessary maps and the explosives skills that were likely to be required.

  He didn’t often take missions like these, but sometimes the Special Response Unit where he served as the chief engineer loaned him out to the Shadow Force. Once, he had considered taking an offered spot on the elite team of covert operatives, but he had seen too much of their handiwork to ever be comfortable in their ranks. He had a moral code, and it wasn’t compatible with their directive.

  The unit on his wrist vibrated to alert him that he was closing in on his destination. The map included with his mission briefing had shown him a small cabin tucked away beside a stream. It was located high up the mountain, higher than any of its neighbors. The next closest cabin was more than two miles away. He likely could have been dropped down right in front of the cabin by his flight crew, but he hadn’t wanted to rouse any sort of suspicion. It was imperative he get the mine maps and secure the help of the asset without alerting the Splinters holding Terror captive.

  When he neared the edge of the tree line, he crept forward carefully and used a wide trunk as cover. He surveyed the area, noting well-worn paths in the dirt leading up to the rickety porch and another leading behind the cabin, probably to the stream nearby. He tapped the side of his goggles to change to the infrared setting and searched the area for heat signatures. There was only one inside the cabin. It moved back and forth. Pacing. Waiting.

  Certain it was safe to move forward, he tapped his goggles, turning them off, and slipped them up to the top of his head. He let the moonlight above guide him forward, his boots crunching on twigs and dried grass. There was one window on the cabin, the glass illuminated by the flicker of a lamp or candle. The closer he got, the more he worried about the rundown shack. It had been sturdy once, but now, after years of neglect and the abuse of the environment, it was sagging and decrepit.

  His focus was so intent on the cabin that he didn’t even notice the thin, clear string until his boot had already hit it. Something rattled off to his left, and the light in the cabin window was instantly doused. He crouched down, hand on his weapon, ready to defend himself is necessary.

  The hinges on the door squeaked, breaking the stillness of the night. He held his breath and listened, ready to draw his weapon if he heard the unmistakable click of the practically ancient firearms used by many of the settlers on the planet. Instead, he heard something he hadn’t been expecting at all.

  “Redwood?”

  It was a woman’s voice. Small. Nervous. Startled that the asset wasn’t a man, he stood quickly. His gaze moved to the open doorway where he could only see the vague outline of a person. “Driftwood,” he called out, his voice steady and strong and hoping to put her at ease.

  “Careful,” she urged. “You’ve hit the security lines.” A flashlight switched on and illuminated the zigzag of clear fishing lines with silver cans dangling from them. “This way.” She used the flashlight to show the path he needed to take.

  He followed the guiding beam of dim light until he reached the porch where there were more lines stretched along the stairs. He hesitated at the base of them. In his culture, a man didn’t walk into another man’s home when his wife or daughters were there alone. Different settlements on the planet had different rules about these kinds of things. Some were much more conservative and patriarchal. Others were more progressive and relaxed. Not wanting to start off on the wrong foot, he asked, “Is your father home?”

  “Right over there.” The flashlight beam bounced to an area off to the left. There were two simple headstones visible. “Right next to my mother.”

  He was glad for the darkness and the way it lessened the awkwardness. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she assured him. “It was an honest question. And,” she added hurriedly, “before you ask, there’s no brother or uncle or cousin or husband. It’s just me.”

  He grimaced. Too many horrible things could happen to a vulnerable woman alone in the woods. Considering how young her voice sounded and the Shadow Force’s reputation for breaking the rules when it came to their assets, he couldn’t ignore the very real possibility she was just a kid. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to die saving your friend, apparently.”

  “I’ve seen kids die in war. There isn’t a minimum age for dying.”

  “Nineteen,” she said. “Is that old enough for you?”

  He swallowed hard, wondering if that was meant to be flirtatious or serious. Erring on the side of caution, he chose not to follow up with the remark that burned the tip of his tongue. “Yes.”

  She waved her flashlight to beckon him inside. Skipping the questionable steps altogether, he used his superior size and strength to hop straight to the very top. He heard her sharp intake of breath, and he worried he had scared her. The porch whined under his weight, and he wondered if he was about to crash through weathered wood.

  “Come inside, sir.”

  His gut clenched. She was being polite, but his brain went straight to sex. Like so many of his kind, he had a dominant streak that yearned to be set free with a mate, but he refused to capture a woman in the Grabs. Occasionally, he would visit a poppy, but it was rare and only when he felt so on edge, he couldn’t handle it on his own.

  So, hearing this woman with her sweet, gentle voice call him sir heated his blood. He mentally chastised himself. She didn’t ask for him to come here to seduce her. She was cooperating to help save one of his own.

  “Watch your head,” she urged, aiming the flashlight at the door frame. “You’re a lot bigger than I expected.”

  He stifled a groan at the sinful image her words conjured. St
op. Thinking. With. Your. Dick.

  Ducking to clear the door frame, he stepped into her cabin and shut the door behind him. This close, he caught the earthy, woodsy scent of her. She moved quietly, her footsteps silent on the floorboards. Anticipation built as he heard her strike a match. What did she look like?

  A lamp flared to life. She had her back to him, but he could see the dark braid trailing down her back. She was absolutely tiny. Smaller than any of the other women who had been Grabbed by his friends. As she lit another lamp, more details were revealed to him. She wore ill-fitting men’s clothing that had been patched and mended too many times. It hid her slim body from his interested gaze, and he tamped down the irritation at being denied.

  When she turned toward him, he sucked in a surprised breath. She was beautiful. Her smile was shy but warm, and her eyes were bright and curious. She walked toward him, her bare feet making no noise on the old wooden floorboards and threadbare rugs, and held out her hand. “I’m Brook.”

  He cleared his throat and hesitated before taking her small hand. “Cipher.”

  “Cipher.” She tried out his name and grinned mischievously. “I wonder if I can solve you?”

  He couldn’t help it. He smiled like an idiot at her little joke. Had he ever met anyone so adorable? She was sweet and innocent and pretty and—fuck. Fuck. Of all the ways to meet the only woman who had ever turned his head, it had to be like this. She was an asset. She was off-limits.

  “You can make yourself at home,” she said, gesturing to his headgear and the backpack he carried. “Do you want something to drink? Was it a long walk?”

  “Not that long,” he replied, taking off his gear and placing it on the table that seemed to serve as the place she ate and worked. “Water, if you have it.”