Firestorm

by Anne Malcom

  “Sparky?” Brock’s voice was alert as he switched on a lamp. I squinted at the harsh light, then let out a breath at the concerned and attractive face that I saw.

  His hand cupped my cheek. “Are you okay? Is it your legs? I’ll call Hansen.” He made like he was going to move but I gripped his hand.

  “Are you real?” I asked, my voice small.

  His face softened and his grip on my neck tightened. “Yeah baby, I’m real.”

  “You came to get me,” I said.

  His eyes searched mine in the dim light. “I’ll always come and get you, Sparky. No matter where you are you can count on that.”

  “I missed you,” I whispered, filling the silence that had descended, my eyes never leaving his.

  Brock pressed his forehead to mine. “You have no fuckin’ idea how much I missed you, Sparky.”

  I pressed my lips to his, all of the reasons I had against this disappearing in the moonlight. His response was instantaneous. His grip tightened on my hair as he plundered my mouth; I moaned into him, pouring months of desire into the kiss. His hand moved to my breast and I arched my back, fire burning through me at his touch. My hand gripped his shirt, attempting to yank him down onto the bed on top of me. Abruptly his mouth left mine and I frowned in the dark, restraining myself from letting out a mewl of protest. “Fuck,” he hissed, voice hoarse.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what we should do,” I murmured, trying to pull his mouth back to mine.

  Brock sighed and gripped both of my hands. “You’re hurt,” he said simply. His mouth was still close to mine and his beard tickled my chin.

  “I’m fine,” I argued, deciding to ignore the dull ache in my thighs and focus on the not so dull ache between them. Brock detangled himself from me gently and stood quickly, the sound of the chair scraping echoing in the silent room. I watched his silhouette as he paced by my bed. He came back to stop at my bedside and gently stroked my hair.

  “You’re not fine. Jesus, you’re far from fine. The fact that I have to sit here and make sure you’re going to be okay is the only thing stopping me from going out to that sick fuck’s house and skinning him alive,” he said, voice rough from fury.

  I screwed my nose up at the visual.

  “You don’t know how long I’ve fucking visualized sliding into you again, Sparky.” The hoarseness in his voice changed from fury to desire. “But when I fuck you I want you to be whole and healed. Cause trust me, baby, I’m not gonna want to be gentle.”

  My stomach dipped and I struggled not to squirm at the erotic promise in his words. The uncomfortable bandages on my thighs stopped me from this action anyway. Any residual frustration I felt at him denying me what I wanted faded away due to the tender concern. I felt slightly vulnerable in the darkness; if I couldn’t have the connection I craved, then I just needed him. I needed him to make me feel safe, protected. If only for tonight. Tomorrow I could repair my strong independent woman armor, which had been tattered in captivity.

  “Will you at least lie with me while I go back to sleep?” I asked softly.

  Brock paused, and then I felt him lift me, moving me with such care you would have thought I was made of china. The bed depressed as he settled in beside me, gathering me in his muscled arms. I maneuvered myself carefully and snuggled into him, reveling in his warmth and musky man smell. We settled in silence.

  “This has been all I’ve thought about for almost a year,” I whispered on the edge of sleep. I felt his body tighten as I drifted off.

  A full bladder awoke me the next morning, and I didn’t have time to make the most of lying with an unconscious Brock. My favorite part of waking up with him was perving at him while he slept. He was mind numbingly attractive and looked peaceful while he slept. Plus he hadn’t pissed me off yet that day so I always thought of him fondly in those moments. A very close second was the fact he always ravaged me within moments of awaking. The only thing better than a coffee first thing in the morning was an orgasm.

  I gently disentangled myself from him, fully expecting him to wake up. He was a ninja sleeper, and in the past any attempt I made to leave the bed while he was asleep was hampered by his strong arm. This time was no different. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

  “Oh, you know, I’m off to run ten miles. I’m feeling energetic,” I replied.

  The arm around my middle tightened, which was not good news for my bladder. “I’ve never met someone whose first words in the morning were dripping with sarcasm, Sparky,” he said teasingly.

  “Yeah, well, I’m special,” I snapped. “Let me up.”

  I looked over my shoulder impatiently, surprised at the emotion on Brock’s face. I couldn’t place it, and thanks to my bladder I didn’t have time to ponder it.

  “Let me up, I need to pee,” I demanded.

  Brock did not let me go. What he did do was sit up, and in an impressive yet infuriating gesture got off the bed with me in his arms.

  “What are you doing?” I protested. “I assume that’s the bathroom.” I pointed to a door in the corner. “I think I could have made it on my own two feet.”

  Brock walked us to the door. “I disagree. Hansen specifically said to stay off those impressive legs until he said any different.”

  I scoffed as we entered a surprisingly nice bathroom, complete with a decent-sized shower stall and bath in the corner. “I don’t think the five paces it takes to get to the bathroom are going to result in any life-threatening issues,” I said dryly as he put me down.

  “I’m not taking any chances,” Brock declared, standing in front of me, hands lightly on my hips. His blue eyes were intent on mine and I blinked, trying to ignore the intensity in them.

  I waited a beat for him to leave, but he kept staring. “Um okay, we’ve succeeded in carting me in here. You can leave now.”

  His hands released my hips and he crossed his arms, stepping back slightly. “I’m not going anywhere,” he declared ridiculously.

  I widened my eyes and fought against my pressing need. “Yeah, you are. I’m not peeing in front of you.”

  “I’ve fucked you. Multiple times. Multiple ways. I’ve seen every inch of you. Tasted every inch of you. I don’t care.”

  I ignored the desire that pooled at his words, which was easy as my frustration was mounting. “You’re ridiculous. What do you think I’m going to do? Fall in?”

  Brock raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re going to walk out of here if I leave the room, which is exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”

  Okay, this was taking protectiveness to a whole ‘nother level. “Okay, so you obviously lost a lot more blood yesterday than anyone realized and you’ve gone temporarily insane,” I declared, jiggling my foot just a little. Brock didn’t move a muscle and I knew he was serious. “What if I promise I will,” I mentally cringed, “do my business and then won’t move until you come in to carry me back to my bed?” I couldn’t believe I just uttered such a statement.

  Brock eyed me and my jiggling knee for a second before nodding. I expected him to walk out but he was on me in two steps, plastering his mouth to mine. I immediately forgot about my need and pressed into him. He pulled away far too quickly.

  “Mornin’ baby,” he smirked and left the room.

  I stood, mouth agape for a second before I realized the reason I was standing in the bathroom. I did my business and walked to the door, opening it to a pissed-off looking Brock. I would never admit that the short journey had me feeling slightly breathless, my limbs feeling like lead and my legs throbbing.

  “How did I know you’d never do what you’re told?” he growled, gently lifting me into his arms.

  “Maybe because you actually know me?” I replied sweetly.

  He set me onto my bed and frowned down at me, face serious, tortured even. ”Jesus, there’s nothing left of you,” he muttered.

  I glanced down at myself. I wasn’t wearing a hospital gown, thank god, but a plain nightgown that stop
ped mid-thigh. I had to agree with him. My meager and self-imposed near hunger strike at the mansion of horrors had taken its toll.

  “The ‘getting kidnapped and held against your will diet’ is not one I’d recommend but it’s effective,” I joked, trying to dispel the intensity that had settled in the air.

  Brock’s frown hardened. “This isn’t a fuckin’ joke, Ames. Not only did that sick fuck cut you up, he starved you. Jesus,” he shuddered. “He’s dead.”

  “Well, you’re right about the ‘cut me up’ bit. But not so much about the second bit,” I said carefully.

  Brock narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it was more of a protest, really. You know, he tried to make it seem like I was there on some kind of vacation. Making me dress up for every meal, serving all this fancy shit, being polite. It pissed me off.” I paused. “So I refused to eat any time he summoned me to his ridiculous meals. I refused to participate in his sick game.”

  “You mean you starved yourself?” Brock asked quietly.

  “No, not exactly. Lucy, his maid, served me lunch and snacks. And I ate that. I just couldn’t do it in front of him—it would be like agreeing that what he was doing was okay, you know? It was bad enough he dressed me like a high class hooker.”

  Brock was silent. The silence lasted awhile. I was unsure of what to say to fill it. I wracked my brain for an alternate subject. A safe subject. Unfortunately all subjects between Brock and I were volatile at the moment. In fact, this was the most amount of time we had spent together in months.

  Brock decided to break the silence at that point; he did this by calmly walking over to a cabinet full of important looking medical instruments and shoving it to the ground, its contents smashing and scattering everywhere. “Fuck!” he roared.

  “Well, that was dramatic,” I declared mildly.

  Brock turned to me, his face murderous. “Dramatic? Let’s talk about dramatic. Dramatic is you going on a fucking hunger strike ‘cause you’re too fucking stubborn and hard-headed for your own good.” He stepped forward. “Do you have any fucking idea who Clark Devon is?” he asked on a yell.

  “I’m guessing he isn’t a philanthropist who rescues puppies in his spare time,” I retorted sarcastically.

  Brock’s gaze narrowed. “This isn’t a fucking joke, Abrams. Devon’s one of the most dangerous men in America—motherfucker kills people for sport. What in the hell were you thinking, refusing to eat because you wanted to make some statement?” he yelled at me.

  I sat up, crossing my arms, feeling pissed at our uneven positions. “I was thinking that was the only goddamn thing I had control over in that crazy situation. I was thinking how fucking ridiculous it was that I got kidnapped over some shit my father does when the man hardly gives me a second thought. I was thinking I had to do something instead of be scared out of my wits the entire time!” I yelled back at him, breathing heavily.

  This was a familiar situation, us screaming at each other. Brock wasn’t afraid to tell me when I was being a bitch and I wasn’t shy about informing him when he was being a macho asshole, which was most of the time. What usually followed our screaming matches was some seriously hot makeup sex. I didn’t see that happening this time.

  Brock’s face softened and he swore quietly running his hand through his hair, which had fallen out of its bun. “Jesus, babe, it eats me up inside knowing you were not only kept in that psychopath’s house for a week, but you felt you had to starve yourself.” He locked eyes with me. “When your uncle told me you had been taken and who by—” He shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that afraid in my life. And when he showed me the videos, the one from the first morning you were there,” he chuckled. “I was equally proud as shit and furious with you for the crap that was coming out of your mouth. Didn’t snivel or plead like most bitches would have. Your fire, your spark, it didn’t dim. You are so fuckin’ brave, Amy.” He stepped back toward my bed and grasped my hand. “That last video. When you thought you were about to be violated you didn’t beg. You were strong, you fuckin’ put your wellbeing below some stranger’s. You’re one in a million, Sparky.”

  I blinked. This conversation had down a complete one-eighty. I had emotional whiplash. I didn’t know what to say. Brock and I didn’t do deep and meaningfuls.

  We continued to stare at each other in silence, something passing between us that made me uncomfortable. Not in the squirmy sex way either. This was more like a pivotal shift. Something had changed. The barriers I had built between us the past year were crumbling, and something about Brock’s expression made me think he wouldn’t let me shut him out any more. What scared me was that I didn’t want to.

  I opened my mouth to let it all tumble out. My true feelings, why I had been avoiding him, everything. To lay all of my cards on the table. I had almost died, for christ’s sake. I didn’t want to have any regrets. “Brock, I...”

  “I’m taking from the yelling that we are awake and feeling better?” Hansen asked with a cheeky grin as he entered the room, effectively silencing my imminent declaration.

  I moved my attention away from Brock who looked mildly irritated at the interruption. Okay, considering the tic in his eyebrow he was a lot irritated.

  “I’m feeling better than ever,” I declared, lying through my teeth.

  I felt slightly like I had been hit by a truck, exhausted and drained emotionally and physically. My legs throbbed like a bitch and I had a headache to rival the ones I got courtesy of Pinot Noir. I wasn’t going to tell them that though. I wanted to get out of here.

  “Bullshit,” Brock bit out, glaring at me. “You’re still as white as a fuckin’ ghost and you weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet.” He turned to Hansen. “She needs to go to a hospital.” He looked around the room. “A proper hospital. She needs tests and bloodwork and all that shit to make sure she’s going to be okay.”

  My eyes bulged. Brock was taking the overprotective thing way too seriously. “I do not need to go to the hospital for tests, I’m fine!” I protested, feeling pissed at the fact I was lying in a hospital bed sans designer footwear. I needed height to compensate for my lack of tattoos and macho personality.

  Brock gave me a sideways glance with a hard jaw. “She also needs a MRI if she thinks she’s fine.”

  Hansen gave him a steady look before strolling over to me. In the light of day, without a room full of concerned hot bikers, I got to fully appreciate his hotness. I felt guilty checking out my pseudo doctor while my whatever Brock was in the room. I was pretty sure I had enough on my plate.

  Hansen eyed me, not in the way that I liked either. It was cold and clinical.

  “She does look a little pale, but that’s to be expected.” He came to my bedside to pick up my wrist. There was silence for a second. “Pulse is remarkably good for someone recovering from serious blood loss.” He gave me a soft look, something a little more human. “Do you mind if I look at your stitches?” he asked quietly, gesturing to the blanket covering me.

  “Be my guest. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” I said casually, though I wasn’t feeling as blasé as I sounded. The grim reality of what had happened to me was starting to set in, and I wasn’t at all happy about the label of victim that seemed to be the only one that fit me at the moment. It was how everyone was treating me.

  Brock stood slightly to the side of my bed, with his arms crossed and standing like your standard staunch alpha male. His breath hissed when Hansen pulled back my bandages to reveal my little collection of cuts.

  “How much pain are you in?” Hansen asked, not looking up from his inspection of my legs.

  I bit my lip, aware of the tension rolling off Brock. I wish Hansen had told him to leave before we started this. But I could have predicted that would have ended in him still standing here with Hansen potentially sporting a black eye.

  “Um, not much. Maybe like just having a constant bikini wax every time I move,” I joked. I wasn’t technically lying,
but considering two bikers probably wouldn’t have the experience of the excruciating pain of having hair ripped from the roots, they wouldn’t gather the extent of the discomfort. The silence in the room told me otherwise.

  Hansen pressed around the area gently and I couldn’t help my wince.

  “I wouldn’t be doing that again if I were you, brother.” Brock’s angry voice was suddenly closer and I glanced up to see him standing right at Hansen’s shoulder, glowering.

  To his credit Hansen didn’t return the aggression. “Easy. I just needed to see if the pain was localized and if all of the nerves are working as they should. These are deep lacerations.” Hansen glanced at me. “Although I don’t think you need to go to the hospital for any health related problems, I do think you’re going to want to see a plastic surgeon.” He gestured carefully and covered up my cuts. “These will scar unfortunately.” Needless to say his clinical tone was long gone and an undercurrent of fury rippled through his last statement.

  He gave me another once over. “I also want you to go for a checkup in about a week, get your iron levels checked and make sure your body is healing how it’s supposed to.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” Brock interrupted, “Let’s get to a hospital so a surgeon can look at this shit now.”

  Hansen pulled off the gloves he was wearing. “She can’t actually have the scars looked at until the cuts have healed. Then we’ll know the extent of the scarring and what, if anything can be done to reduce them.”

  Brock stilled. “You mean she could go through all this pain, almost die and still have to live with the reminder of what happened to her?” he asked quietly.

  Hansen put a hand of Brock’s shoulder. I was impressed with his bravery; Brock looked like he was going to go all Hulk on him. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more, brother. This isn’t exactly my specialty. But we’re just going to have to wait and see.” His voice was grim and he seemed frustrated.