No Broken Beast

by Snow, Nicole

  He’s figured out by now that the caches are a combination of unique and redundant stuff.

  It’s impossible to get the complete picture without everything, however many there might be in this strange wild goose chase of star charts and codes and coordinates.

  He manages to scrape the ground aside enough to get a grip on the sides of the box.

  Only for a sixth sense to hit hard, warning him that someone’s close.

  He thrusts himself to the side.

  Something bright and silvery goes whizzing past him. It clatters off the rock where his head was a second ago in a shower of blinding sparks.

  Holy hell.

  A knife.

  And as he rolls to one knee, poised in a crouch, he finds himself face-to-face with a tall shadow of a man. Nash, moving smooth and cool and confident with his powerful build like a prowling panther, those horrible gunmetal eyes locked on Leo with excitement.

  Greed.

  Hunger.

  He remembers how he used to hurt him. There’s a sick, creepy fondness that forges a screwed-up bond between them.

  Leo bares his teeth.

  Nash stops several yards away, spreads his hands, and smiles. “Lion-boy. You beat me here again, but looks like you lost your lead.”

  Leo narrows his eyes. “Eat shit. I don’t want to think about what you did to her to get these coordinates.”

  “You already know, L-9. She’s gonna run out of that pretty, pretty hair real soon, though. And I don’t know what I’ll start cutting next.” It’s chilling, his calm. “But I need this cache, you see. Can’t let you have it.”

  Leo barks out a harsh laugh. “So you think I’ll hand it over if you just ask nicely?”

  “No, but I had to try. I think you’ll let me have it when you know what I do.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  Nash sinks into a crouch, resting on one knee in Leo’s mirror image, mocking him. “Deanna doesn’t know where everything is.”

  “Bull. It’s not possible.”

  “Wrong. That old bitch she was working with...I guess I killed her too soon.” Nash’s smile is still so terribly, hatefully pleasant even as he talks about murdering an old woman, Marianne, my father’s former secretary.

  “Deanna buried half the caches. Marianne buried the others.” He holds up a finger. “They thought they were being real clever without telling each other. They left coordinates instead. A little game of connect the dots. It was supposed to be their insurance policy, but the dumb bitches didn’t think about one thing.” He leans forward, his eyes too wide, staring at Leo. “It doesn’t keep them alive if the only ones who know about their little insurance policy is them.”

  Leo realizes what he means instantly.

  All Nash needs is one more set of coordinates to not need Deanna anymore.

  And the only leverage we’ll have is the few we’ve already recovered. He might just decide that following the caches to the final end and gathering what he can find will be enough.

  Then Deanna will be useless.

  Then my sister dies.

  Leo positions himself with his body blocking off the half-buried box at his back, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s what you need to say to convince me, Nash.”

  “No?” Nash shrugs and smiles. “How about if I tell you I’ll kill that low-functioning whore if you don’t move your burned up carcass?”

  “Sounds like you’ll kill her anyway, so I might as well do whatever I can to fuck you up.”

  “So the data’s more important to you than the girl? Interesting.”

  It’s not.

  Leo knows it’s not, but he also knows how Nash works.

  He still needs Deanna. She’s still a source of information, when there are countless caches they haven’t found yet, and Deanna knows where at least half of them are.

  Nash can’t risk losing that information if it means getting to them before Leo does.

  So Leo’s just got to keep him away.

  He shifts his weight, ready to lunge, fists clenched in preparation.

  But Nash only stands, smiling slowly as he flicks his fingers at Leo.

  “Bad little mutt,” Nash says calmly.

  Pain hits between Leo’s eyes, blinding him.

  He knows those words.

  That phrase, that tone, it’s carved into his brain, a programmed response he can’t deny.

  Leo lets out a harsh, hurting roar as he drops down to his hands and knees, slamming against the earth.

  Oh, he tries to fight it.

  Tries to tell himself he’s not that creature anymore, that slave, and the words have no power over him. It’s not even Dr. Ross’ voice.

  It’s Nash.

  Another trained monster like him, a beast warped and broken and reshaped, the chemical switches in his brain programmed to respond to the simplest triggers.

  No!

  Leo won’t give in. He won’t.

  Gritting his teeth, fighting muscles that just want to obey, he shoves himself up.

  He flings himself at Nash with screaming fury, tearing at him with all the rage and frustration and pain it takes to break that simple bit of conditioning.

  They crash together in a storm of fists, but Nash doesn’t fight fair.

  Leo hits him again and again as they roll.

  Then Nash catches a handful of Leo’s hair, dragging his head back, and snarls in his ear.

  “Red-blue-yellow-green switch off,” he hisses.

  And Leo feels paralyzed.

  He locks up, unable to even close his mouth mid-snarl, trapped inside the unmoving shell of his own body.

  Fuck. Fuck, fuck, but he’s only got ten seconds to suffer.

  The off switch—it only ever worked for ten seconds on resistant subjects, fifteen on passive subjects.

  It was usually enough in the Nighthawks to get a sedative in the offender and put them out until they calmed down.

  He doesn’t think Nash has a sedative.

  He does, however, have a knife, one with a wicked curve and a jagged hook on the tip.

  And while Leo lies in the dirt, trapped, motionless, counting five-six-seven-eight-nine, Nash moves.

  Nash slashes the knife down. Rips into his thigh.

  Pain explodes everywhere, but he’s still counting.

  Ten.

  And despite the pain, despite the dizziness, Leo gathers himself into a ball of muscle and slams himself up at Nash just as the man turns away to retrieve the box.

  He doesn’t know how he gets his hands on the knife.

  He only knows he manages to snare it in Nash’s clothing, ripping through his shirt, and the Kevlar underneath. He gets a foothold above his ribs and carves a trench in his flesh.

  Then a fist slams into his face, and he sees stars.

  Nash stumbles, clutching the box to his chest, the cardboard flimsy and popping open as he fights to keep a hold on it while Leo tries to tear it away.

  But one last boot to his skull, and he can’t hold anything at all anymore.

  He’s lost too much blood, too fast.

  And the last thing he sees is Nash swearing, reeling, staggering away before blackness comes crashing down.

  * * *

  Present

  I don’t know what to say when he’s finished.

  Everything inside me just hurts. The pain. The sickness. The horror of being dragged back into that awful place he left by that man messing with his mind.

  “That’s what you were scared of,” I whisper, staring down at the man turning the bathwater muddy pink with his blood. He’s sprawled out there, closing his eyes as he tilts his head against the tub. “You were afraid if Nash caught us out together, looking for clues, he’d use your trigger words to control you. And make you hurt me.”

  His lips crease grimly. “Yeah. It’s as fucked up as it sounds. And even if I can’t control my reaction...it’d still be my fault. Won’t do that to you, Rissa. Never fucking ever.”

  I’m abo
ut to break my no-crying rule. We’ll just pretend I haven’t already.

  My body tenses, trying to hold back, and I force myself to focus on gently dabbing a wet towel around Leo’s thigh to try to get a better look at the wound. I gently wipe away the blood, trying not to hurt him.

  “I...I saw you,” I say. “When I was looking at the data on the drives.” My breath shudders. “There’s a photo of you. Hooked up to something and in so much pain, I...Leo, what did Galentron do to you?”

  “Kidnapped me,” he answers flatly. “Tortured me till I forgot my family. Forgot where I came from. They made me a Nighthawk. Just like Nash.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know what that means. What are Nighthawks supposed to be?”

  “Supersoldiers. Secret agents. Assassins for hire.” It’s harsh, but oddly toneless, like he’s trying to divorce himself from the words. “The ultimate killers. Physically enhanced to do more than ordinary men. Trained to perfection. Brainwashed to obey. You could drop a Nighthawk in a village full of families, turn around, and turn back thirty seconds later to find them all dead without a moment’s hesitation.”

  Oh, God. I can’t stand picturing it.

  I can’t stand thinking that’s what they tried turning this sweet, brave, gorgeous man into.

  What they might’ve succeeded at, if not for the gentle heart inside his giant bones.

  “I’m sorry, Leo. I’m so sorry.” I want to hug him, hold him, soothe him, but I have to do something about that wound. Still, I reach up with my clean hand and gently touch his cheek.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “It’s okay that you couldn’t stop him. He still needs Deanna, so he won’t kill her...and you could’ve gotten yourself killed. You don’t have to be superhuman for me, Leo. Just be you.”

  Those violet eyes darken and he curls one damp hand against my wrist, turning his head to kiss my palm. “Check the left pocket of my coat.”

  I frown, confusion ringing through me. But I drape the towel against the edge of the tub and fish through the pile of clothes I’d stripped off him and tossed on the floor. I dig in the pocket until I feel the dry crinkle of paper.

  I pull it out.

  Stationery.

  Deanna’s handwriting.

  Another mix of coordinates again, that strange code that’s a little bit me and a little bit her and a little bit something else.

  I stare down at it. “What?”

  “The box popped open,” Leo says with a touch of dark, vicious satisfaction. “Bastard got the data, but he didn’t even notice me stealing the coordinates. So he has no idea where to go next.”

  “Meaning we still have a chance to catch him while he looks,” I whisper, heavy realization dawning on me.

  “I know what he’ll do next.” Leo sinks back against the edge of the tub again with a tired groan. I’d be lingering on the beautiful contrast his huge, naked, and glistening body makes if everything weren’t so serious. “He might take Deanna out in the open. Use her to hunt down a scent. Force her to show him so she won’t send him on a wild goose chase. If he brings her out, we might be able to steal her first.”

  Hope flares inside me. “You really think so?”

  “Maybe. But if I’m wrong...still might have an ace up my sleeve, if we get to that point. I’ll need to leave town for a few days if it comes to that, though.”

  I frown. “Leave town? For what?”

  “Dr. Ross.”

  The name comes out like a curse. “You mean, what, he’s still alive?”

  “Retired in Missoula, of all places. I looked the fucker up.” Leo’s eyes close. “Nash was his pride and joy. His pet attack dog. The rest of us were just shadows when Nash took so well to his training. And Ross might know a way to stop him.”

  My lungs won’t work. I don’t know why I feel such a dread chill at the words that come next.

  Maybe it’s the guarantee that something could go very wrong, very fast, and I won’t want to see the horror that’ll come.

  “Ross is the only one who knows Nash’s trigger words,” Leo growls.

  Hello, worst fears. Confirmed.

  Yeah, I think to myself, but my tongue goes dry, this tangled knot in my mouth. But he also knows yours.

  * * *

  There’s not much else to say.

  Not when Leo’s dog-tired, close to passing out, even if he’s too stubborn to admit it.

  I put my Girl Scout merit badges to good use, sealing up his wound while he guides me. I’m a whirlwind, trying to quietly sterilize a needle and thread in boiling water without making enough noise to wake Zach.

  It takes all my willpower and a bit of bullheaded arguing to bully Leo off to bed. He bites down on a rolled-up towel and rips up handfuls of the sheets while I swab antiseptic salve and iodine into his wound, then finish stitching it together.

  I faintly remember how from first aid. Never sew up a wound like you’re sewing a shirt. One popped stitch will unravel the entire thing.

  And knowing Leo, he’ll have popped something by morning.

  He watches me calmly as I tie off the last bit, completely unfazed by the sight of a needle piercing his flesh. I’m clammy and shaky after having to do it again and again and again.

  “You’re good at that,” he says, rumbling amusement in his voice. “You spend a lot of time stitching guys up, or what?”

  “First time,” I say, my voice trembling a little, though I manage a smile as I wipe my hands off on a wet towel. “Last time was years ago on a rubber dummy. Real flesh pierces a lot easier than rubber.”

  “You’re telling me.” He shifts, drawing his good leg up to push himself against the headboard. “Don’t think I can make it out to my camp right now, but I’ll be out of your hair by morning. Sorry for stealing your bed.”

  “You’re staying in this bed until you’re better,” I bite off. “You’ll just end up bleeding and passed out somewhere if I let you go.”

  He scowls at me. “I’ve got to start tracking Nash. Trying to anticipate his next move.”

  “Warren and Blake can help with that. They volunteered, remember? But you keep trying to do everything yourself, Hercules.” I fold my arms over my chest, mock-glaring at him when I’m just ready to pass out. “I can look. I need to do something for my sister again and you just need to—”

  “No,” he snarls. “Not resting. You stay here. Stay here out of Nash’s sight, because the next person he’s chasing down is you—and I can’t guard you if you’re running through the hills.”

  “You can’t guard me if your leg rots off, either,” I fling back. “I’m not a doctor, Leo. I don’t know if I helped or made things worse. Until you actually start to heal, you’re staying in this bed, and the least you’ll do is get that thing looked at by your buddy, Doc.”

  He opens his mouth, eyes flashing, ready to argue.

  So I do the only thing I know to make him stop.

  I push myself across the bed, mold myself against his body, and kiss him.

  He goes stiff—and I wonder if he’ll continue arguing, but I know him too well.

  I know exactly how to get him going.

  I know how to distract him, even if we can’t be quite as wild as we usually are.

  I won’t let him.

  I won’t let him hurt himself, even if I have to use my own body against him to do it.

  His mouth comes hot against mine, questioning, searching, and I shudder with a sweet, sighing need as his hands fall to my hips. He holds me tenderly, like I’m fragile, as I slide carefully across his lap—hips to hips, still holding myself away from his injured thigh.

  I realize something then.

  In all our years together, we’ve never made slow, sweet love.

  We’ve always been violent, two forces of nature coming together.

  It’s wild animal rutting, mating, and while there’s always been passion to fit the raging need...

  We’ve never gone slow and gentle.

  Never taken the time to
savor each other’s bodies until we’re melting together and sighing in slow, perfect tandem.

  But there’s no other way to be right now. He’s lost so much blood. I can’t stand to hurt him even more.

  For the first time, I’m the one who leads.

  I’d never known anything could be totally new between us, when everything so far feels like reigniting old memories into a fresh flame.

  But this?

  This is different enough to make me hesitate as I pull back from the slick lock of our lips and look down at him.

  His eyes are smoldering, but he’s quiet. Watching me.

  Waiting to see what I’ll do.

  It’s heady, realizing this beast-man is at my mercy, in my hands.

  All that raw power caged by little old me.

  And it makes me feel mischievous as I bend to kiss his neck, tracing my lips over his pulse, his scars.

  Even inked, even marked, he still tastes the same.

  Salty manliness and that perfect, weathered skin that’s so freaking Leo.

  I tease him with my teeth. He groans.

  Then I make my way down his body, pulling the last of his clothing away, leaving him free to my exploring hands, my mouth.

  I know him, but I don’t.

  Now I want to know every change, every new sensation of his flesh under my hands, my lips.

  And, of course, I want more of his soft, growling surrender as he thumps his head back against the headboard and lets me have my way. “Take it, baby. Take every fucking inch,” he whispers.

  Oh, sir, yessir.

  I taste him all over.

  Every beautiful sculpted ridge of scars.

  Every hard slab of muscle underneath.

  Every thud of his heart through his skin.

  Everything I can stand until I’m drunk on him.

  Then it hits in force. I’m tearing my shirt off, rubbing my nipples against his body.

  The texture of the scars on his chest, oh God, I’ve never felt anything like it against my skin. His tiniest indents make me sensitive and needy all over, gasping and desperate.

  I’m trying to be slow, to be careful, to make love like in the movies but...

  Like I could even try to stay away from his cock.