by S. M. Butler
She didn’t understand why she knew these things about him. She could count the number of times she’d seen him in her life on one hand, but somehow, deep inside her, she understood what made him tick, felt the pulse of life that stirred inside him. It was weak and lonely, but it was there.
He took her through the garage and into a small hallway on the other side. Their feet echoed through it until they reached the back door. He keyed in a six digit code and they walked through the door.
On the other side, an older apartment building stood, two stories tall. Four brown doors, two on each floor stood out proudly from the faded blue and gray paints. Even those paints chipped away, revealing the oranges and browns of a different time.
“What is this place?”
He brought her to one of the bottom floor doors and paused. “I live here.”
“It’s charming, but what exactly were you hoping dinner would bring?” Abigail asked slowly, a smile spreading across her face. God help her, his face turned pink.
“I didn’t—” he frowned. “I figured you would be more comfortable here than in a bed in the infirmary downstairs.” He almost looked offended. “That’s all.”
She giggled.
He shot her a wounded look. He unlocked the door and pushed it open.
The curiosity got the better of her. She slid her hand along the door, pushing it open further as she entered. The door opened immediately into the living area. It was more spartan than she’d expected, and noticeably more upkept than the outside of the building.
Light chestnut flooring stretched out beneath her feet, her footsteps loud in her ears as she walked into the room. There was a light blue couch against the back wall, across from a small television. No fireplace, but there were two twin towers of bookshelves that stretched up to the ceiling between windows. No curtains. No area rug. No pictures. Nothing to create a personal touch.
She glanced back at him, realizing he was waiting for her reaction. Why would he care what she thought of his place? Before she’d landed on the side of the road, yesterday, she was nowhere in his life.
“I like it,” she whispered. “It’s you.” She inhaled deeply as she turned to face him. “It even has your scent.”
“Is that a good thing?” he asked.
She nodded, wanting so much to run her hands over his hard chest. There wasn’t one ounce of fat on the man. He was all bone and rock hard muscle. No soft edges. No unnecessary flesh. Like where he lived. But what really got her was the way his lips split into a wide grin, like he was actually happy that she liked it.
He led her through the living room, down the small hallway to another door. He hesitated at the doorknob, then turned it lightly and stepped back. She glanced at him, curiously, as she stepped forward.
The spicy scent of him was stronger in this room. A large bed with no headboard or footboard centered the room. An old thin quilt covered the mattress, smoothed so well not even a wrinkle broke the surface of the bed. There was a laundry hamper in the corner, nearly empty, and a dresser completely bare of anything on its surface except a hairbrush.
On the nightstand by the bed, a small tablet lay plugged into a cable that wrapped around to the back of the nightstand. Next to it, a desk lamp, aimed at the bed, and a picture frame faced the pillows.
This was where he lived. He spent time in the living area, sure, but this was where he really spent his time. This was his sanctuary. She stepped into the room, almost afraid to touch anything in the perfection of the room.
“You’re very quiet,” he said.
She stopped by the bed, her eyes focused on the picture frame as she picked it up. The Chris Hardy she remembered from five years ago stared back at her, a wide smile she’d never seen on him before as the picture Chris slung his arm around another man with dark hair and icy blue eyes. His other arm hugged a petite blonde woman with identical eyes to his, but instead of the oceanic storm that she saw in his eyes, mischievous flames danced within them. A sister, maybe? Who was the man?
“That’s my sister and my best friend… I guess he’s her fiancé now.”
Had she asked that out loud?
She set the picture down carefully and sunk onto the bed. It wasn’t soft or fluffy, but it wasn’t hard and unforgiving either. Yet another thing that matched Chris so perfectly. “And you can’t see them either?”
He shook his head. “It’s for their own protection.”
“You haven’t explained that,” she said. “I mean, not really.”
He walked over to her, but he didn’t sit next to her. She tried to hide the disappointment inside her chest. “My team and I are called the Reapers. We’re an intelligence strike force. We don’t exist.”
She reached over and pinched his arm. “You seem like you exist to me.”
“My entire team is dead to the world. They all faked their deaths to protect their family and their friends, anyone that could be held as a liability to us.” His throat worked hard, up and down.
“You mentioned something like that. But you’re not dead to the rest of the world.”
“No.” He sighed and sunk onto the bed, his big shoulder bumping hers. “I guess I will be soon.” He cleared his throat, and something fled his expression, leaving a stoic mask behind. “I’m glad I met you before that happened.”
Warmth filled her heart, pumping it out with each beat, and calming the fear that she’d lived with since she’d escaped her father, and it only beat faster as his hand came up to her cheek, pulling her close to him.
She ran her fingers over his chest, her attention on where her fingers traveled. But it didn’t stop her fingers from shaking. He covered her hand with his, trapping it against his chest. Her eyes traveled back up to his, the storm raging inside them. “You’re playing with fire, Abigail.”
“I know,” she whispered, her eyes never leaving his. She wanted to feel the warmth he created inside her all the time. She never wanted him to let go of her hand. Beneath her palm, she felt the thud of his heart against his chest, the way it changed its pace with the rise and fall of his breath. “I feel your heartbeat. Right here. You can’t be dead.”
He closed his eyes, never moving his hand from hers. His heartbeat continued to thud against her palm, but it began to speed, with each breath it got faster and faster. She watched him, feeling the soft pound of his heart against her hand, and the warmth his touch pumped through her body.
Nothing in her life had ever felt like this. Nothing had ever made her want to press her body against his, to feel his arms closing around her.
She was acting like an idiot. She’d barely talked to the man, and she wanted to do things she’d only ever read about to him. And by the way he responded to her, the way his body tensed, he felt it too.
“Chris…” she whispered.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered back.
“What?”
“Say my name like that,” he replied, the hoarse whisper barely breaking the silence of the room. “I’m trying so hard. You deserve my respect and my protection. Nothing less.”
“What if I’m just curious?”
He shook his head, his eyes still shut. His fingers closed around her hand. She could still feel his warmth, but her contact with his heart stopped. “It’s dangerous.”
She pulled her hand out of his, shivering as the cooler air bit into her fingers and she lost the warmth of him. He opened his eyes, that ocean storming into a hurricane. “Maybe you’re right.”
That storm bled desire through his gaze, but she couldn’t take any more of it. The intensity of it, the sheer potency with which he regarded her sent trembles through her.
“There’s t-shirts in the top drawer of the dresser over there. Boxers if you want. Might be more comfortable to sleep in.” He stood up and made his way to the door.
“You’re leaving?”
“I’ll be in the living room. Don’t worry. I’m not leaving.”
Somehow that didn’t seem so reassuring.
Chapter Twelve
Chris was a coward.
How many times had he run from her? The word stuck in his head as he shut the door behind him. He growled as he unlaced his boots and tossed them away. He tore off his socks and threw them in the same direction. He plopped on the couch and used the heels of his palms to rub his eyes.
Nathan wanted her cooperation, her trust. He hadn’t really said how to do it. He could argue, feasibly, that this was the only way to do it. But Chris would know that wasn’t why he was doing it. He was only fooling himself, and not very well. Seducing Abigail Lewis had zilch to do with Nathan and everything to do with his own selfish needs. She woke something in him, something that had been dormant for two years, maybe longer. He wanted her, in every way possible.
The door opened, revealing Abigail clad in his t-shirt and boxers. The shirt hung to mid-thigh, and small, erect nipples pressed out against the fabric. She’d taken off her bra. His cock stirred to life, sending a shudder through his body.
She approached him carefully, like how a mouse might approach a trap. Her pink tongue nervously darted over her pretty, full lips, and his cock answered the call her body made. Her bottom lip rolled between her teeth.
“It’s still a little early to go to sleep,” she said.
His eyes swept to the clock on his Blu-Ray player. He hadn’t even realized the time. It was barely eight.
“Could I sit with you?” She asked.
No. Bad idea. He was fucking dying to touch her.
“Yes,” he said. It seemed like someone else said it for him.
Gracefully, she slid onto the couch, pulling one foot close to her body so she faced him at an angle. She’d sat close, faced him, and still managed to keep distance between them. Maybe she was smarter than he gave her credit for because if she got any closer, he was going to do something he didn’t need to do.
“I need to leave the States,” she said.
“What?” Of all the things he’d expected her to say, that wasn’t it.
“You have the resources to do it. I need like, a fake passport or something and I’ll be all set.”
“Hold on…” He leaned back, putting his index finger up. “What?”
“My father has a long reach here, but in the States. But if I could leave… He might not find me. I might find somewhere safe if I could get far enough away. I might have someone who could help me. In France. Maybe.”
“There’s a whole lot of ‘if’ and ‘might’ in those words, Abigail,” he said. What kind of weird scheme was she cooking up?
“I know, but I think it could work.” Her eyes searched over his, and for a moment he wondered what she saw when she looked at him. For a moment, he desperately cared what she thought of him. Beyond it being a monumentally bad idea for Abigail to go traipsing around Europe by herself, Nathan’s orders were to keep her here. He had to follow orders.
“No way,” he breathed. “That’s insane.”
“What’s my alternative? Sit here and wait for my father to catch up to me?” She shook her head. “For all I know, that car was a setup, to get me into some little town with no witnesses, so my dad can finally make me disappear.”
“Disappear?” Anger collected inside his chest, pooling like hot lava at the thought of anyone or anything threatening the sweet woman beside him.
“That’s what he told me last time. If I didn’t do what he wanted, I’d disappear.” She sighed and leaned back against the couch. “Ugh. This sucks. I never asked for any of this.”
“What did he want?” Chris asked quietly. He was having trouble breathing with the anger slowly suffocating him. He didn’t have room for his lungs to expand.
“Everything always boils down to his career,” she said, spitting out that last word like it was a disease. Her eyes watered to the brim, but she fought back letting them fall. “I’ve held this secret in for a year. I let him manipulate me, move me like a chess piece.” Her voice broke on the last few words, a couple large drops falling from her eyes. “I loved that man. I loved him so much. He was my father. The only one I’ve ever known.” She shook her head as more tears fell, quickly wiping them away as they fell. “I envy your family, Chris.”
Her words sliced right through him. Here she was, wanting a real family, and he had the real family, but he couldn’t see them. What a fucking pair they made.
He held out his hands toward her. She glanced down at them but didn’t move. More tears fell from her eyes, dripping down her forearms. A fiercely protective urge swept over him. They’d barely reconnected hours before, and he could see the hesitation in her. She didn’t fully trust him, and for that, he was proud of her.
Nathan wanted him to seduce or coerce her, but Chris couldn’t do that. He was already putty in her hands. All he wanted was to keep her close.
“Come here,” he whispered. “Please.”
Abigail struggled with it. Her brain was telling her not to trust him, that she barely knew him. But that scared little girl she’d been before, the one he had found in a cage in a South American nightmare, that girl trusted the man who saved her once before. The man that would always save her no matter what. That man had been sleeping for years, somewhere deep inside Chris. She’d woken him up when she arrived in his town.
Slowly, she reached out with one slender hand, slipping it into his. Gently, he pulled her to him, so she sat on his thighs. He slid his arm around her body, so he held her in an embrace while he covered her hands with his. He stared deep into her eyes and sealed his fate. “It’s okay. I’ll help you. I promise.”
She let out a shuddering breath, releasing the built-up tension within her body. Her shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Trust me?”
Her eyes met his, still watery and slightly reddened and puffy. She nodded. “Yes.”
It was another few hours of sitting there together, talking before exhaustion finally hit her. Chris ushered her to his bed, tucked her in, and slept on the couch for the night.
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, Chris took her back to the underground infirmary, where he checked her wound. He fussed about replacing the bandage she’d torn off the previous day, but she refused it and didn’t budge. He recognized it pretty quickly, and let it go.
After that, they came to a room she hadn’t been in yet. A rather large meeting room. Three huge screens lined one wall, with a block of controls along the side, and then a smaller screen below it that looked like it was a laptop. A dark-haired man sat at the laptop, typing away. His dark, soulless eyes briefly left the screen as she and Chris walked in, his gaze hesitating on her for just the briefest of seconds before he was back at work.
An Asian woman relaxed in the chair nearby him, cleaning her nails with a small, double-edged knife. She also looked up as they entered. Her eyes were like twin orbs of black diamonds, and if she looked into them for too long, she felt like she’d be lost forever.
The one man she did know, Jordan, came in right after they did, clapping Chris on the back as he passed by. He grinned. “Hey, glad to see you’re not in a deep, dark hole, mate.”
His voice was almost magical, the Irish pronunciation lyrical and melodic.
“Yeah, me too.” Chris pressed his lips tightly together.
Deep, dark hole? Was Chris really in that much trouble? Who was this person he worked for?
Jordan smiled as he took Abigail’s free hand and lifted it to his lips. “Welcome, beautiful Abigail. Hope you’re feeling better.”
She smiled back, but her face felt tight. “Yes, thank you.”
“No hard feelings, I hope?” He might have meant it as a question, but it came out flat. She really thought that maybe even if she had hard feelings, he wouldn’t really care that much.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Chris grumbled, slapping Jordan’s hands away from hers. “Abigail, you know Jordan. That’s Bea back there, and Scott next to her. And,” he cleared his throat as an older man leaned back in his chair, look
ing very pleased with himself. “That’s Jack.”
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, sending a shiver down her spine. His arms were covered in tattoos, and she couldn’t see where they ended, just where his sleeves covered them. His dark hair fell over his equally dark eyes when his head moved, and the muscles in his arm flexed when he brushed the hair away.
“Everyone, this is Abigail Lewis. She’s under our protection for the moment.”
No one seemed surprised at the news. Did they already know that? She had to admit, being this close to a bunch of people that were such bad people in life that they had to fake their deaths made her somewhat queasy.
“What’s the update?” Chris asked as he pulled out a chair for Abigail. Instead of taking the seat next to her, he crossed his arms and stood behind her.
“Nathan’s calling in soon. He said he was in the middle of something he couldn’t pull away from.”
“Maybe he’s getting laid,” Jordan said, chuckling.
“God knows he needs it,” Scott agreed.
Chris rolled his eyes. “Let’s get started. He probably knows it all anyway.”
“What doesn’t he know?” Bea asked.
“You’d be surprised, Miss Li,” a voice said over the speakers. Abigail looked up sharply. She knew that voice. She could only see from his shoulders up, but it was enough. Only a light smattering of hair was over his head, obviously shaved regularly. Out-of-place black-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. Behind the lenses, his eyes were cold and calculating as they swept each of his team. “Mr. Allen, please begin your report.”
Was that a flannel shirt and a white t-shirt beneath it? Who dressed like that? Outside of the 1990s.
“I’ve been doing a little research,” Jack started.
“Wait,” Scott chuckled. “You can read?”
“Fuck off, dickhead,” Jack growled. “I figured we should know more about our new guest here and Nathan agreed.”