I’m getting more and more frustrated with each dead end that arises. I know I should remember something, anything about this woman, but as I’m reading about her, I feel nothing. No emotion. If I had a relationship with her, surely I should care for her?
Some of the things she’s had done to her are horrendous and explains why she’s on a murderous rampage. How did she get out though, and why am I not with her? What happened? There’s one final file left. It’s titled with a set of numbers, 102993. My security code. I open it quickly, and there in front of me is a picture of a sixteen-year-old Samara Eldrige. Her hair is cherry-red, and her eyes are as blue as the ocean. The number is her birthdate; it’s written below the image. My head thunders with an urgent need to think, to feel. I rub my temple, but it doesn’t dissipate.
“Archer, we have to leave.” Mara wraps her arms around my torso, being careful of my caned back, and pins herself to my chest for comfort.
“I know.” It’s all I can answer. I don’t know how we can ever escape this place.
“I can’t watch you go through that again,” she sobs.
“I’ll find a way. I promise you. I love you.”
I gasp out of the vision with a cry of agony. My brain hurts. I need to calm myself. I don't know why. I just know that if I continue down this path, I will forget again. I shut my eyes and breathe deeply. Visions of murder, death, and destruction flood my mind this time, and I relax. The pain subsides, and I can breathe easier. Samara Eldrige is the key to finding out what is going on here. I shut the laptop down. I can’t risk looking at her picture again even though I wish I could study it for hours and learn the reasons why I loved her.
A knock at the door breaks my thoughts.
“Who is it?” If it’s the butler, I’m not letting him in.
“It’s Liam, sir. I have something you will want to see.” It’s one of the foot soldiers that I have an unexplained fondness for.
“Come in,” I order.
He steps in with a picture in his hand.
“It seems that they weren’t as well trained as they thought they were. We got a visual on the man.” Liam smiles triumphantly.
“Give it here.” I hold my hand out, and he places the piece of paper onto it. I stare down, but even though I was supposedly fighting this man a few hours ago, I have no recollection of him. He was wiped from my memory at the same time as this Samara was. I turn back to my computer and pop the picture into a scanner. I open up a facial-recognition program and start a trace. Liam stands there waiting for further orders.
“You can go.” I don’t even turn around to dismiss him. I’m watching the little bar count up the percent traced. I have several programs; this is the quickest one and should take about ten minutes if he’s on there. The other one will take hours, and I’m not sure I can wait that long.
The door closes as Liam leaves, and the room goes silent apart from the tapping of my fingers on the desk. This is agonizingly slow.
“Come on!”
I jump up and shout out of my door for a coffee to the butler. It arrives, and the marker shows eighty percent. Nearly done. I dismiss the butler with a wave of my hand and go back to staring at my screen.
Ninety percent.
Ninety-five.
Ninety-eight.
Ninety-nine.
One hundred.
The computer dings; a match is found. Thank fuck!
I open the information.
“Hunter Shaw?”
I put the name into my other database, and it brings up nothing again but a set of numbers. Fuck. Another ghost. The numbers are not a birthdate. I stare at them blankly until it hits me. An old spy technique to allow contact undercover. I learned it from the Russians when I was stationed there for a while. They are coordinates. I open Google maps and enter them. It brings up a cemetery nearby and a grave centering right on the name “Diana”. I’ll research Diana later, but for now, I have my way of contacting them.
I grab a pen and paper and write out a note ready to deliver to the grave. I’ll find out what’s going on one way or another. Nobody kills anyone under my charge, even if it seems they deserve it. Plus, nobody gets to mess with my brain anymore. I’m going to end this control of me, and Samara Eldrige seems to be the one who holds the key.
“Samara. I need explanations. If you are as skilled as you seem, find me when I’m alone. Don’t bring Hunter.”
Chapter 15
Samara
“I’m going out,” I tell Hunter as I pass him in the living room.
He’s lounged on the sofa, waiting for me to talk to him, but I can’t. I need time to think. To work through the emotions that seem to be gripping me in their vicious claws.
“Buttercup,” he calls to me, causing my steps to falter. When I glance over my shoulder, I meet hazel green eyes that penetrate me. “I’ll always be here.”
“I know, Hunt.” I nod. “But this time, I just need to figure shit out on my own. I need . . .” My words filter into nothing, because I don’t know what I need.
“You need time.” Once again, he knows. This man has studied me like I was his favorite subject. I nod in agreement. Time. Such a volatile thing.
“I’ll be back later,” I tell him and walk out of the cabin before he can respond. The alert I set up on my laptop informed me that someone has been near Diana’s grave. When I pulled up the visuals, I noticed someone walking up to the tombstone, a man in black. He set something in the ground beside the grave before walking away. I wasn’t sure what it was at first, but when I zoomed in on the still image, I recognized the small folded page partly hidden under the vase. I knew immediately, Archer was the one leaving it for me. I didn’t want to tell Hunter because he would’ve forced his way into the car to accompany me.
I slip into the driver’s seat and pull out onto the quiet street. This place is like something from a horror movie. The fog, darkness, and grey skies remind me of impending doom that’s surely headed our way.
Early morning quiet in this town is the worst. I recall being outside the orphanage on days where rain would trickle from the clouds, wondering how Archer could’ve left me. Now I know there’s more to it than just him leaving me. My mind wanders back to what happened with him. I know I broke through, but whatever they’ve done to him seems to be stronger than our connection. I cast a quick glance in the rearview mirror, noticing I’m alone on the empty road.
There’s only one place I want to be right now. One person I know who may not be able to offer advice, but she can listen. At least, that’s what I think.
Pulling up to the cemetery, I find a parking spot and exit the car. The grass beneath my boots is wet, making my footfalls silent as I make my way toward the tombstone. The large concrete slab has her name engraved on the front along with her date of birth and the day she was violently murdered.
Diana.
She never wanted her full name on there. For years, she would remind us if anything ever happened to her, we were never to reveal her full name as Diana Ward. I still don’t know why. Perhaps there were people after her, but we obeyed her wishes. My eyes fill with tears as I stare at the inscription.
Here lies a woman who fought the injustice against us. We love you always, The Cursed Angels.
That’s what she referred to us as. We were angels until we’d had everything stripped from us. Even though I believed I was broken, that I was less of a woman, she made me see I had traits that made me who I was. Strength, determination, and a will to live.
Each day, she would drill into my mind that I wasn’t broken. That I was a survivor.
“I knew you’d come.” A deep rumble of words comes from behind me, but I don’t startle. I knew he was there before he spoke. He’d been watching me from behind the tree. I’ve been trained in scoping out my surroundings, knowing if I’m alone or not.
“Of course, I would.” I turn as I respond, meeting those dark eyes that I’ve fallen asleep picturing for far too long.
“I
need answers,” he grunts, frustration evident in his tone, in his expression. He’s gotten older, matured. Handsome, sexy, everything about him is manly. There’s no longer a young boy there.
“What are your questions?” I respond, watching him for any movement that could suggest he’s here to hurt me, but I don’t see it. He’s not angry at me.
“Why do I know you? Why can’t I remember you?” This time, his words are pained. He meets my gaze, as if boring his stare into me will burrow out the answers.
“You’ve been trained. Your mind is broken, Archer. They’re good at what they do. Manufacturing soldiers from kids.”
He watches me a moment longer before responding. “Who are you, Samara?”
My name on his lips grips my heart painfully. I recall how he would murmur it in my ear, telling me he loved me, how he would save me. “You really don’t remember?”
He shakes his head. Tentatively, I take a step closer, holding my hands in the air to placate him. He’s as wary of me as I am of him, but I don’t feel fear, or threatened.
“I’m not armed,” I inform him. As I near the man I love, I inhale his scent. The spicy cinnamon that used to calm me down all those years ago. I reach out, placing my one hand on his. The connection jolts through me.
He rears back. “What was that?”
“What?” I question.
This time, he grabs my hand, spinning around, and pressing me against the tree. My back arches in pain as the wood juts into my body. When he notices my wince, he steps back.
“I’m sorry, I’m not . . . I don’t . . .”
“Look at me, Archer,” I coo, hoping he’ll stop fighting whatever this is. Our connection.
He lifts his gaze, meeting mine for the first time without flinching. Lifting his hand, he gently strokes my cheek. My body trembles under the gesture, my nipples hardening for the man who brought me pleasure so many times before I even knew what it was.
He leans in, and I think he’s about to kiss me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he trails his nose up my neck, slow and calculated. When he reaches my ear, he pulls the lobe into his hot mouth. His teeth bite down on it, causing me to whimper.
His one hand grips my hip as he continues to suckle on my flesh. He presses his body against mine. His hard length against my thigh is evidence he’s as needy as I am.
“Archer, please,” I beg, wanting him to do it, to take me right here amongst the dead. He drops his hand to my core, his fingers pressing against the ripped jeans I’m wearing, applying pressure to my pussy. “Oh, please, please.” My whimpers are the only sounds around us.
He steps back, his fingers moving swiftly over the button and zipper of my jeans. Then his hand snakes its way into my panties, finding my slick entrance. I reach for his cock through the black combat pants he’s wearing and palm him. He growls like an animal ready to attack.
“Fuck, yes,” he grunts, bucking into my hand. My fingers fumble with the belt and zipper, but I manage to get my hand into his boxer briefs, finding him hard and hot.
“Do you remember when we used to do this on the roof?” I question as we bring each other pleasure.
“Tell me, vixen. Tell me our secrets.” His words alight my need to make him remember. He meets my eyes, dipping three thick fingers inside me as I jerk him off.
“You were the first and only boy to make me come on your fingers. You told me I looked beautiful with pleasure on my face. You tasted me on my sixteenth birthday. You spread my legs and licked me.”
As I recall the memory, something inside him seems to click. I can’t explain what, but he looks at me then as if he knows. As if he remembers.
“Dollface,” he murmurs the nickname he gave me. I nod. “Turn around. Bend over. I need to be inside you,” he orders. I obey. He slides my jeans along with my panties down my thighs. I’m about to say something when he suddenly slams into me, seating himself within my body where he was always meant to be.
His hips draw back, and he once again knocks the breath from my lungs.
“Fuck, what have they done to me?” he growls as his cock fills me almost painfully. His hand fists my hair, tugging it back, his mouth at my ear. “Don’t leave me, Mara. I’m fucked up. I need help,” he grunts. His tongue laving at my neck, his teeth bear down on the sensitive skin. “I’m going to fucking mark you. You’re mine,” he promises as he continues to suckle on my flesh.
My body pulses around him. His other hand grips my neck, and he squeezes. Fear overrides my pleasure, and my body tenses.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he vows as he plunges into me again and again. His hands, mouth, and cock own me. They fucking claim me, and as he chokes me, I come hard around his cock. My eyes roll back, and sparks shoot through every inch of me.
His body locks behind me, and I feel it. Jet after jet of hot release fills me. And tears sting my eyes as I wish to all that’s holy that he was filling my womb with his seed.
I blink as the tears stream down my face when Archer pulls out. He rights my underwear and jeans then stuffs himself into his boxers. When he lifts his eyes to mine, he sees the tears.
“Did I hurt you?” The concern in his voice is evident.
“No. You just left me in Hell.”
I see the pain and guilt in his eyes. “Don’t give up . . . on me,” he utters before clutching his head and screaming in agonizing pain. He groans, and I don’t know how to help him. His gaze locks on mine, and it’s as if I can see a switch flicking behind those dark orbs, back and forth between now and then. Something’s wrong, so terribly wrong. “Fuck this,” Archer hisses. “You have to—” He cuts himself off as his eyes close for a long while, and I wonder if I should touch him. I want to.
My whole body aches to hold him, but I have to admit to myself that I’m scared of what he could do. His fingers dig into his skull, practically tearing his hair out, and I can’t take it anymore. I reach for him, a gentle touch to his shoulder, and that’s when his hand grips my wrist painfully, twisting it unnaturally.
“Don’t think you can make me feel shit for you,” he bites out. And just like that, but before I can respond, his face grows cold. “Come near my doctors again and I’ll fucking break you more than they did,” he sneers, his fist making contact with my lower abdomen right where my scar is. The pain is excruciating, causing me to double over. My breath stolen from me, but before he walks away, Archer delivers the final blow to me. “You can’t give me anything I want.”
Chapter 16
Archer
I’ve been standing naked in front of the mirror for an hour now. I should shower and get my shit together, but I can’t. I can still feel this Samara on my skin; her scent lingers around me and stifles my nostrils with confusion. Our combined essences, though now dry, coat my dick. How the fuck can I have sex with someone and not remember it? How can I completely forget her when I so obviously have feelings for her? All I have inside me, for the woman named Samara, is a murderous rage for the murder of our doctors. I’ve been at The Factory all my life because my parents died when I was a baby. I know nothing different, and I’ve trusted the decisions they’ve made for me implicitly, but right now, I’m questioning everything. These people have trained me to be the astute killer that I am. They’ve clothed, fed, and watered me. Anything I’ve needed, they’ve sorted, so why do I feel like a puppet on a string, dangling to another’s whim?
Damn it. I need to man the fuck up. I’m being a total wimp here and allowing a bit of pussy to cloud my judgement. I’m a made man. I don’t have to worry about a thing again, and this woman, no matter who she was to me in the past, is not going to get in my way.
I stare forward, my eyes glued to the reflection.
“I’m a soldier. I fight for what is right. I’m a soldier. I deliver justice where it's needed. I’m a soldier, and you can’t beat me.”
I deliver the ingrained motto and step into the shower and wash the last remnants of the forgotten encounter off me. I warned that woman to stay awa
y from my doctors, but I have a feeling she won’t, so it’s about time I turned the tables on her.
When the water starts to run cold, I step out of the shower, dry, and dress in a plain khaki T-shirt with black combat trousers. I pull on heavy boots designed to cause maximum damage when used for inflicting pain. A gun is secured to my torso, not that I’ll use it unless I have to, and a knife is tucked into my boot. I grab a jacket and head toward the front door of my apartment, ready to do some digging into Samara and Hunter. I don’t get far though as Rebekah stands there with a raised eyebrow.
“I hear you’ve been out?” she questions.
“I have,” I reply with disinterest. I want to go back to the graveyard and see what else I can find out about this Diana woman.
“And?”
“And what?”
“For fuck's sake, Archer, stop playing games. Did you find the cunts killing my doctors?” Rebekah has her fists clenched tightly. She looks ready to explode. It really is bothering her that the doctors are dying.
“Why are you so concerned? Surely you have enough money to throw at another one to do the same thing.”
“Are you serious?” she screeches.
“Tell me you don’t have replacements lined up for Dr. Monroe and Dr. Hickson?”
“That is not the point,” she hisses. “I’m running a successful business here, and someone is trying to take it down. I’ve charged you with stopping them. If you can’t do your job, then you can be replaced.”
I click my tongue on the side of my jaw. “You’ll upgrade another soldier to your bed?”
She slaps me hard across the face, but I don’t even flinch.
“I won’t warn you again. I want their heads.”
I step up to her and use my imposing size to back her down. “And you’ll get them, but I want something in return,” I utter, lowering my voice, allowing a threat to hang in the words.
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