He jerks my hair again, and I am lifted off the ground. His knee gouges into my spine, and I am left breathless. His pistol butt jabs into my side, my kidney, and now I cannot even stay upright for the blinding agony, cannot even breathe to cry.
He forces me down to all fours, his hand still fisted in my hair. His knees shove my legs apart, and now I feel his manhood at the crease of my backside. Panic flares through me, spurring me to writhe and flop against his grip, shrieking, screaming. I kick backward, and my bare foot meets soft flesh. He roars and his grip on my hair loosens, but not enough to let me get free. He jabs his fist into my kidney again, and the pain stills me against my will. Something hard and hot pokes at my backside, but does not penetrate, stuttering and stabbing, nearly ripping the delicate flesh there. I am screaming as best I can despite the pain stealing my breath, fighting. Fighting.
I wish, fleetingly, that Hunter could save me, but he cannot.
Then Abdul is gone, and he is yelling, roaring. I flop to my back, and through the haze of tears see Abdul backing away, clutching his hand. I scramble backward away from Abdul, see something wet and red sluicing between his fingers. Sticky hot blood drenches my back and my hair. There are pink things on the ground at his feet. Fingers, dismembered. Abdul is screaming. His pants are around his ankles, and he is struggling to get free of them so he can move to fight.
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Hunter stands lit by the dim candle flames. His face is a mask of rage, blood-spattered. His knife is held in one fist, low near his waist. Blood drips from the blade onto the tile floor with a slow pit-pit-pit sound. Except for that, silence reigns, now that Abdul has stopped screaming.
The men face off. It is almost comical, Abdul being naked from the waist down, but it is not. The gun lies on the floor, out of reach. I cannot move, frozen by the violence. There is no warning. Hunter is standing, and then he impacts with Abdul, swifter than a striking snake. I hear the crunch of bodies colliding, and Abdul stumbles backward, bleeding from the stomach.
I want to be sick, but even that reflex is frozen.
Hunter is not trying to make this quick. Abdul is upright, clutching his stomach with his fingerless right hand. He bleeds, bleeds. He is mortally wounded, I think, but Hunter is not done. He has not said a word.
Hunter lunges again, and I see the telltale wince flash across his face that tells me he is still feeling the pain, but he is refusing to let it stop him or slow him. The knife flashes across Abdul’s chest, and the general stumbles backward farther yet. Hunter’s lip curls in disgust and contempt.
He crosses the intervening space and knocks Abdul to the ground with a brutally hard blow. Hunter stands over him, staring down with a grin of victory, but then he sways, blanching, pale and dizzy, hobbles backward to retain his balance. He does not see Abdul’s hand stretching, reaching, grasping the pistol. I scream a warning, but it is too late. The pistol cracks with a flash of fire, and Hunter grunts, spins aside, and falls.
Someone is screaming…me, I think. Abdul rolls away, grabs his pants and stumbles away, dripping blood.
He will not die, but he is very badly hurt and will not be back soon, I think. It is not an end to my troubles with Abdul, but it is a reprieve, for now. I let him go and scramble to Hunter’s side. The bullet hit him in the side, and I know enough to realize this is more serious than all his other wounds. An organ may have been hit, or something. I do not know. I only know it is a serious wound.
I am crying, pressing my hand to the crimson-seeping hole. Hunter reaches with his hand and tugs weakly at my shirt, which lies near his hand, tries to press it to his wound, but then faints. I am bawling, crushing the shirt to his side.
I do not know what to do.
I shake him, shake him. He wakes up.
“What do I do, Hunter?” I beg him.
“Need…a doctor. Surgeon. Someone. ” I understand his English, thank Allah.
There I go again, calling on Allah, in whom I have not believed since I was girl.
I pull on my skirt, dart next door for a shirt to cover myself, then run for the clinic where I get my birth control and disease checkups. It is several blocks away, but I make it in record time. I have blood on my hands.
The doctor whom I know best, a man named Hussein, is on duty. “Sabah! What happened to you? Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. “No, not me. A—a friend. Please, come with me. He needs help. ”
Hussein eyes me warily. “What are you involving me in?”
“Doctor, please. You know me. I have been coming to you for years. Please help my friend. Please. ”
Hussein’s expression changes, and I know this will not be free. I usually pay Hussein with money, but I know by the lecherous gleam in his eye that he will claim more than dinar, this time. He will claim me.
“You will get what you want, Doctor Hussein. But please, come. ”
He nods, once. “Very well, Sabah. Let me get my bag. ”
I lead him to the mosque, but stop him before we go in. “Doctor, before you see my friend, I must ask…please, just keep this between you and me. It is important. ”
Hussein’s eyes narrow. “Something tells me I will not like this. But I am here, and I took the Hippocratic oath. ”
“The what?”
He shook his head. “An oath to help those who need help. But I will not endanger myself or my family, Sabah. ” I nod and lead Hussein into the mosque. He halts in his tracks when he sees Hunter. “An American? Are you mad, Sabah?”
I cannot answer, except for a whispered, “Please. ”
Hussein searches my face. “Allah help me, Sabah. You are mad. You love him. ”
I shake my head, but I am not sure if I am denying what he is saying, or refusing to answer. Hussein only blows a gentle sigh between thick, fleshy lips, scratches his thick beard, and then kneels next to Hunter. He pushes Hunter’s shirt up past the wound, examining it before doing anything. He probes the wound with his finger, then pulls Hunter up to look at his back.
“Well, it went straight through, so there is no bullet to extract. Without any equipment, I cannot say if the bullet hit anything important, but judging by the placement, I would say your…friend, should be okay, eventually. Of course, he has lost a lot of blood already, and he has a number of other wounds. ” He glances at me. “Your American is very resilient. ”
He examines Hunter’s other wounds, cleans and re-bandages them as well as the new one, then digs in his bag. “These wounds on his leg are growing infected. He will need antibiotics. ”
“Do you have them?” I ask.
Hussein glances at me, a smirk touching his lips. “Yes, but they are expensive. ”
I sigh. “I understand. ”
Hunter, whom I thought was unconscious, grabs Hussein’s wrist. Hussein pales and tries to pull away, but I know well the power in Hunter’s grip, even weakened.
“No,” Hunter says in Arabic. “Not that. Leave me to be sick, but do not ask that of her. ”
“Hunter, please,” I say in English, “you will die without the medication. ”
Hunter glares at me. “No. No more. Not because of me. ”
Hussein stands up and gestures for me to follow him outside. “This is madness, Sabah,” he says. “If that infection is not stopped now, he could die. Or lose the leg. ”
“I know,” I say. “He…does not like what I do. ”
“What are you going to do?”
“Your price has not changed?”
Hussein shakes his head. “You know it has not. ”
“Fine. I will not just let him die. Come. ” I gesture at the door to my house.
Hunter will be angry with me, I know this. My stomach turns at what I am about to do, but it must be done.
Hussein demands much of me before he considers the debt paid.
He helps me carry Hunter back next door to my home.
Hunter pretends to
be unconscious until Hussein leaves, and then he levels a glare at me that makes me shrink in fear.
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“You did it anyway. ” It is not question.
“Yes,” I answer. “I did it for you. ”
Hunter is quiet for a long time, staring at me. I hand him the bottle of pills Hussein gave me before he left.
“Take them,” I say. “It is done. Not taking them would be stupid. ”
He takes one with a swallow of water. I look down at my hands, still covered in blood.
“Hunter, I…thank you. For saving me from Abdul. ”
“I had to stop it. I heard him hit you. I heard you scream. I had to…” he shakes his head and trails off, rage contorting his face. “Are you okay? Did he—did he hurt you?”
He is worried about me? After getting shot, he is concerned for me? I shake my head. “No. A few slaps. I am fine. ”
Hunter reaches out to wipe away something from the side of my face. “You’re bleeding. ”
I wipe the blood away. “Nothing. It is nothing. Stop worrying about me. ”
He does not look at me when he speaks next. “I can’t stop worrying about you. ”
I have no answer for that.
I turn away and take a long, frigid shower, scrub my body and my hair furiously until my skin stings from the soap, until every inch of me is cleansed, purified. I am shivering from the icy water when I am done.
Night falls. I lie down in my bed, turn on my side. Hunter’s eyes meet mine, his face silver in the dim starlight. We do not speak. I remember the warm comfort of lying in Hunter’s arms and wish I could feel it again. I am so cold. So afraid.
I should not tempt myself.
I watch Hunter sleep for too long, trying keep myself in my own bed by force of will.
It is not working.
TWELVE
HUNTER
Something soft gently nestles against my uninjured side, rousing me from a light sleep. I breathe in, smell clean hair, soap, woman scent. Rania. My arm curls around her. God, she’s in my bed. She’s tempting me so badly, but she doesn’t realize it, I don’t think.
The last thing I care about right now is the pain shooting through me. All I want is to roll over and pin Rania to the floor and kiss her until she can’t breathe, explore her luscious body with my fingers and my mouth.
I can’t. Not after what she just went through. I try to content myself with just holding her. She’s warm and soft. She makes a sound in her sleep, a low contented sound in the back of her throat, and then moves closer to me, burrowing in as if she can’t get close enough. My eyes open and I’m watching her sleep, watching the moonlight shed a silver glow across her skin.
Her shirt is bunched up just beneath her br**sts, and her habitual miniskirt is rucked up by her hips. So much skin on display. I draw as deep a breath as my healing ribs will allow, summoning my self-control.
Fuck.
My hand betrays me, steals from her shoulder down her back to skim across the exposed flesh above her skirt. It’s a fairly innocent stolen touch, just her back, but it has me hard, needing more. Needing flesh, warmth, touch.
She moves again, one long leg sliding up and over to cover one of mine. Goddammit. Now her skirt is so bunched out of place that her ass is fully exposed. I squeeze my eyes shut, working at self-control. Self-control. Hands to yourself, ass**le.
I’m weak. I just can’t help myself. She’s so f**king gorgeous and—despite her profession—oddly innocent. It’s clear she’s never known love, never known affection. She’s never had a lover, never had a boyfriend. I doubt she’s ever had an orgasm.
Why the f**k am I thinking about Rania orgasming? Not helping. Not helping. Dammit. Now that image is stuck in my head: Rania above me, hair like a golden halo, brown eyes bright, gleaming with pleasure, sweat beading between her glorious br**sts, hands braced on her thighs as she rides me, head thrown back now and moaning, true helpless moans of pure pleasure.
I squeeze my eyes shut and open them, fix them on her hair to banish the image.
My hand is cupping her thigh just above the knee, on the back of her leg. Upward, now. Her skin is like satin, pure warmth, pure softness. She moans sweetly and wiggles into me as I touch her leg, move farther up her leg to the crease just beneath the swelling bubble of her ass.
Oh, lord. Oh, god. Why am I torturing myself like this? I’m such an ass**le, fondling this girl in her sleep.
I close my eyes, hunting for the will to act the gentleman rather than the lecherous bastard.
I’m suddenly aware of her breathing. It’s not the soft soughing in and out, rhythmic and deep. I glance down warily, and sure enough, her eyes are open, bright in the moonlight.
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t move away or shrink from my touch. She’s frozen, staring up at me, barely breathing. Like any second she might bolt.
I’m reminded of nothing so much as being in the woods on a cold, still January morning just after dawn, a fresh blanket of snow silencing everything, a huge doe stepping gracefully into the clearing and looking right at me, wide eyes assessing, watching. Rania’s gaze on me is that moment, when the deer’s nostrils twitch and her ears flick, and then she’s gone, bounding off into the forest.
My hand is still on her thigh, just beneath her ass. I can see the gears turning in her head. I don’t know what to do. Should I move my hand? Is she mad at me? Does she like it? Should I kiss her?
Time stalls, and moments pass in taffy-slow stretching spans, her chest swelling against my side as she sucks in a shuddering breath, her eyes locked on mine, her skin hot under my hand. She seems to come to some decision, for the fright in her eyes, the wariness, evaporates. Changes. Now her fear is different. She’s not afraid of me. I know that much. She’s afraid of what’s happening. Perhaps, what’s about to happen.
Am I afraid of this, too?
Hell, yes.
I know there’s no going back now. This moment, our locked gazes and her soft, delicate, strong body cradled in my arms…this moment is printed indelibly on my heart. If nothing else happens, I’ll always remember this.
Rania slips her hand up from between our bodies to touch my cheek. I slide my palm down her thigh, stop at her knee, and then begin the hesitant drift back up. As my hand nears her ass, her eyes widen and her breathing grows shallow. I stop where I had before, just beneath the curve. She lifts her chin, never taking her eyes off me; it’s a dare, a defiant, permitting gesture. Go ahead, the chin lift says, touch me. I dare you.
She’s daring herself, not me.
I take a deep breath, gathering my courage, and skim my palm oh so slowly up the taut swell of her ass, cupping the cheek. I can feel her heart pounding furiously in her chest. She’s terrified.
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“Rania, I—”
She cuts me off by pressing her fingers to my lips. Her fingers trail down my chin, my throat, my chest, my stomach, halting at the fly of my BDU pants. I realize once again she’s trying to go about this how she thinks I expect it. It can’t go that way. This should be about her. I take her fingers in mine and move them away, place her palm on my cheek. Her brow wrinkles in confusion.
I want her to feel pleasure. To experience a moment of happiness that she hasn’t paid for through sacrifice. She opens her mouth to speak, and I cover her lips with mine, a quick, innocent kiss to quiet her. She whimpers in her throat when our lips meet. She moves to kiss me again and I lean away with a grin, shaking my head. Now her expression is openly baffled. I laugh, a silent shaking of my shoulders, and then move back in to kiss her. She moans softly and writhes closer to me.
I deepen the kiss, taste her tongue with mine, and feel the tightly closed bloom that is my hurt and broken heart open a little at the eagerness with which she returns my kiss. She’s discovering this for the first time, the upwelling joy of a kiss, the way your
heart expands and swells at the touch of lips to lips, the strange tang of tongues tangling.
I begin to slowly explore her skin now. She’s lost in the kiss. She makes a noise in the back of her throat when my palm skims across her ass, cupping one firm globe and then arcing across to the other. Her hips press her ass back into my hand, a subtle, almost imperceptible motion, but enough of an encouragement. She likes my touch. I slip my hand up her back, underneath the shirt, circling her back, her shoulders, tracing her spine, and then back down to her ass. Her body is tensed, taut with nerves. We kiss languorously, and I make a circuit of her body, soothing and exciting her all at once. She grows used to my touch and her tension ebbs.
I break the kiss, cup her face with my hand, brushing her cheekbone with my thumb. I kiss her again, but this time I put all my nascent emotions into it, all my fear, my desire, my need, my…how much I care about her. That’s as far as I’ll let myself go, even in my own thoughts.
She felt it all in the kiss. When I pull away, her eyes are wet, her chin quivering.
“What are you doing to me, Hunter?” Her voice cracks, whispered Arabic that I barely hear, have to work to understand.
I only smile at her. My heart is beating furiously, anticipating what I’m about to do.
“Trust me?” I ask in Arabic.
She hesitates, searches my eyes with hers, then nods.
I push her gently so she’s lying on her back, and then I lift up on an elbow. It’s painful, but it doesn’t matter. I can take it. This is about her.
I kiss her, and when she relaxes and leans up to deepen the kiss, I rest my hand on her knee, hesitate, and then slide slowly upward along the impossibly silky skin of her thigh, inching nearer and nearer to her core.
She pulls away from the kiss, eyes probing me. Fear is rampant in her gaze. I’ve stopped, waiting for her to decide what she wants.
RANIA
This is a new kind of terror. It is fused with excitement, anticipation. His hand on my flesh is frightening, but glorious. He touches me so gently, so carefully. He waits until I am sure I want him to continue, and then, when he touches me in a new way, he opens my eyes to a new world of sensation.
I did not know my body or my soul could feel these things. My heart is at once afraid and ready. I feel it opening, like an unused muscle stretching.
Why will he not allow me to touch him? I thought that is what men like. That is what he expects, yes? Now I do not know. Every time I think he is going to have sex with me, he stops it. He does not let me touch him. We kiss, and I can sense he wants me. He looks at me. He likes the way my body looks. But he has not touched me sexually until now.
I have never, ever been touched this way. My clients…they grope me. They pay me to let them touch me. They do not ask permission. They are not gentle. They touch to possess my body.
Hunter, he is touching to make me feel something. He does nothing unless he is sure I allow him to.
I could not help myself from getting in bed with him. I was nearly asleep, but unable to fall over the edge. His arm was flung out to the side, as if inviting me to nestle into the hollow. I crawled across the square of silver moonlight and curled into his arm. Instinctively, his arm tightened around me, pulled me closer. For those brief, blessed moments, I felt safe. I knew he would protect me. He suffered pain and injury to protect me. He took a bullet for me. In his arms, I knew I was safe.
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