Looking out the corner of her eye, River’s brows drew together. “I can have more than half of the rabbit I caught?”
“Yes.”
She laughed, really laughed, before she bumped his arm. “You’re so generous. Lucky for you, I couldn’t eat that much if I wanted to. Help yourself.”
Stephen’s large fingers pulled chunks— not bits, not morsels— huge hunks off the bone and placed them in a stack. Pretending not to notice the abnormal obsession he had with lining up his food, careful to keep her eyes where she was picking the best part of the rabbit to chew, River shifted to give him more room. Just like the last meal, all those lumps, in systematic order, were shoved into his mouth.
Stephen’s cheeks filled up like a chipmunk’s, and he chewed in time to his strange system, working down that hunk of food. The ritual was repeated until the two of them had picked the bones bare.
Sucking her fingers clean, River sat back on her heels, and glanced to her unlikely companion. “Thank you.”
The twitch in his brow, the way they slightly drew together... the stranger did not know what to make of the statement. His mouth was still full, River’s timing intentional, and all Stephen could do was stare.
Unsmiling, not at all playful, she said it again, “Thank you.”
He nodded once, earning himself a less hostile expression. Stephen’s attention went to the darker smear below her eye, the bruise he’d caused. He’d have to have been weak when she’d nursed him for the mark to be so small, for the socket to be intact. The slope of her nose wasn’t broken, it still sat straight, aquiline.
The girl could have killed him.
The way the stranger looked to her face, it wasn’t in a judgmental search for beauty, or to make her uncomfortable. River saw it in him, ignorant curiosity, as if the huge man were allowing himself to do something prohibited while they shared a moment of neutrality.
It was almost childlike, and not the first time she’d sensed something confused and utterly unknowing in him. So she held still and allowed it.
“Women must look different where you’re from.”
Stephen hardly knew where he was from. The only women he’d regularly conversed with were those he trained with. The rest he’d seen were on missions—some he’d been sent to kill. And no, they did not look like the almond-eyed native with her matching braids—like Tiger Lily in a book he remembered from when he was still small. But if he were to say that, the hissing female would grow angry again. He was certain.
He had to ask, “The men in this region, do they find you beautiful?”
There was no guile in the question, still it stung. “You’d have to ask them.”
“You seem to align with the western concept of exotic.” River’s lip curled and his attention went to her mouth. Stephen answered her sneer, reminding, “You found fault in my face.”
The man really had no grasp of sarcasm. “I find fault in your attitude. Great fault. Massive fault.”
Dry, Stephen responded, “Platitudes are pointless. Do you really think insincere gratitude will alter the situation? Change what’s going to happen to you?”
He had such a knack for making her blood run cold. River’s voice went lower, hard, and serious. “I’ll tell you what I know. The storm will pass. You’re going to leave and it will be as if you were never here.”
Stephen seemed to consider her words, his arm growing warm from crouching too near the fire for too long. “I could come back.”
No, she was certain. “You won’t.”
A blast of wind screamed past the cabin, the shudders shook, and the storm hit with a vengeance. River dismissed him, settling in her chair after taking a book from the shelves, leaving Stephen to burn the bones of dinner and tend the fire while she began a story, reading aloud before he got more ideas of speaking.
It was abnormal, at first, the woman’s rendition of a great man’s work, more so her skill for voices. Positioning himself on the couch, where the most distance was between them, Stephen rested his ankle, watched the flames, and just listened.
When the clock showed morning, the girl was sound asleep, her nose tucked into a sloppy braid. Stephen hadn’t slept one minute. He’d managed little more than staring straight ahead at the flames, hating his hostess for drifting off and abandoning the slight distraction her story had offered.
Then hating her more for choosing a book so engaging he desired to know what happened next. More than once he’d considered reaching out, taking her shoulders, and shaking her awake to continue... or shaking her so hard her neck snapped... or wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing until her eyes bulged and that damn throat could not make another sound... or scooting nearer to look at her the way he tried not to when her sticky tar eyes met his and puzzled him... because she did not shrink back.
He’d seen so few young women.
If they were anything like the specimen trapped with him in a cabin the size of a coffin, the idea of encountering more was less than appealing.
The hours wore on. Whatever sleep deprivation she’d suffered was covered, more than adequately, River almost comatose when Stephen eased closer, staring.
Shuttered windows blocked what little sunlight might have broken through the storm, yet he watched by the firelight. Watched the line of illumination creep over the monstrosity huddled in sleep.
The tips of her dark hair had been sun-bleached into a lighter shade.
Thumbing the end of the nearest rope, Stephen found the texture smooth. It might have even been appealing, unlike her eyes. Black eyes behind greasy lids were common. The female was common.
Quintessential.
And she lacked the archetype necessary for female survival. She had no male.
There were no man’s things visible in her ramshackle cabin, leading her to have an overabundance of masculine qualities to cover for her lack of success in drawing a protector. She’d grown crass. She was foul, unkempt. River was unacceptable to society. That had to be why she lived like a hermit.
No one in their right mind would want the woman who’d dragged him out of the water.
Stephen pulled the overabundance of her braid nearer, disturbed it was so long. The thickness of River’s hair did feel nice. But why grow it so excessively? River’s over-long hair was a disadvantage, could be grabbed and used against her.
The female moved in her chair, a stifled disgruntled noise coming from her puckered mouth. Looking down, Stephen found he’d coiled River’s hair around his fist, that he was tugging it, and dropped the braid like a hot coal.
River didn’t much like the way he grunted at her food. Two mornings in the dark she’d graciously used powdered eggs. That shit was precious out in the boonies. She’d even thrown in some dehydrated cheese and folded the mess to sorta resemble an omelet.
He’d narrowed his eyes.
She’d used salt! Everyone and their mother loved salt. So what the fuck? So what if his rabbit on a stick had tasted good? What the fuck else had he done but stack wood? Too much wood, she might add. The bonehead had piled two stacks up to the ceiling, creating an accident waiting to happen should any supporting logs decide they no longer wanted their jobs.
Idiot.
“This is adequate.”
River held her fork, the poor utensil squeezed in her fist, and fantasized about stabbing him with it. “It’s eggs.”
The underlying agitation in her voice made no sense to him. “I know what eggs are.”
She grit her teeth. “I used cheese.”
“The sour additive was unnecessary.”
Wondering what the jackass would do if she threw her plate against the wall, River shoveled in the last of her meal, using the distraction to resist attacking the moron. When her plate was done, she didn’t throw it at the wheezing idiot’s head. Instead she tossed the plastic dish toward the sink and let the ricochet off the wall suffice.
River left the table, unaware of the startled expression of her guest. She wanted space
, but the howling outside, the fact that twice she’d already dug out the door to no avail, reminded her there would be no space.
What she really wanted was a drink.
“Next time you cook, Mr. I’m so fucking perfect at food things!”
“Your arguments are tired and growing far more irrational.”
Two days prior she’d worried he was going to kill her. Now all River wondered was how long it would be before she killed him. Spinning on her heels, she hissed, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get eggs here?”
“No.”
“Hard, dickhead. They clump, they sour, they just don’t keep.”
“I said the meal was adequate.”
The small house could not hold such a big voice. “You know what would be a really good idea? Stop saying things!”
“Read another story.”
River’s furious tapping of her foot stopped. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked. Well, ordered was a more accurate description. She knew he knew that it would shut her mouth—that she would take a book and all would settle.
Rubbing her lips together, she frowned. The space between her brows relaxed and she reached for a hardcover.
Taking a seat in her chair, the looming man shuffling toward the far end of the couch, River opened the book and began. Three pages in, she snapped the book shut and glared. “That was the best I could do. I shared my best supplies.”
“Best is subjective to opinion,” Stephen said. “But I have had much worse.”
Elbow to the armrest, River rubbed her face. Statements like that were making her crazy. “Princess, you need to learn some manners.”
“Your need to name call is asinine, as is your attempt to degrade me by comparing me to a woman. You are a woman. Your argument only makes you seem even further below me.”
It started as a cough. The noise caught in River’s throat, her face grimaced as she tried to keep it down. But she couldn’t. Gut busting laughs took over. “You should be so lucky to be a girl! I call you princess because you are so damn snotty with your straight back and holier-than-thou comments. You’re a walking cliché.”
Stephen watched her flush, saw her anger had been redirected, but not the way he was engineering. Growling, he leaned closer, “Explain.”
“No.”
“Explain.”
River simpered, looking at the agitated man and shaking her head no.
“I told you the food was adequate!” Stephen roared, raising from the couch.
Less than one-hundred hours she’d been with the man, witnessing reactions and gauging intent. He was as hotheaded as she was, no matter how he tried to hide it under his drying cement personality.
River threw him a bone, far more amused now that he was the angry one. “Learn how to lie.”
“If I told you your cooking was good... a lie of that magnitude would serve no purpose. Furthermore, you would know I was lying.”
Tugging her braids, River sneered. “It’s polite to acknowledge effort.”
“What effort?” Stephen demanded.” You melted snow and added powder until it curdled. I have done more with less.”
Rapping her fingers on the armrest, River challenged, “Then, Prince Charming, from now on you cook.”
He had been so close to winning—so close to shoving her down. But the woman had just stood up after her mandate and went to the door. Worse yet, she’d opened it, flooding the room in wind and snow. When it was closed, her jacket was gone, the elk rifle too.
Two hours of dark and River came back, chilled to the bone and empty handed. Stephen had made stew. They ate without speaking, the silence only broken by River picking up the next chapter of the story she’d chosen to read.
The room was dark when he awoke. River was still in her chair, reading aloud, having ignored the fire.
The way she read poetry, the oration, she knew each word by heart even though her eyes traced where they marked the page. “That is glorious.” She sighed, lowering the book to her lap. Head tipped back in the chair, she spoke to the air. “I am a dismal poet. I can’t see the world the way Robert Frost could.”
“Your statement is ridiculous.” Stephen sneered, highly annoyed there were only coals that he must tend. “That poem sums up things you already know.”
“You were supposed to be asleep with all the wheezing and snores.” She rolled her head a little to the side to look at his profile. “I wasn’t talking to you. I don’t want to talk to you. Go back to bed.”
“If the fire dies, you risk freezing to death.”
River looked to the hearth and frowned. Waking up from whatever had made her voice dreamlike, she cursed. Stephen watched her scuttle, stacking a large pile straight and crossways so it might burn hottest and longest. There was no flaw, no correction he could offer to make the embers more effective. Striking a match to ignite the top, River’s face came more into view.
She looked sad.
“I don’t like that face you’re making.” Stephen did not even know why he said it, he just did not want to see her frown, or deal with the screeching that would follow. “It’s pointless to waste time on dissatisfaction... with your inability to see the world like Robert Frost.”
She gave him a dazzling smile, Stephen immediately on alert from the rancor under the sweet curve of feminine lips. “Pointless is it?”
He could smell the anger on her. “Yes.”
“How would you know? Talking to you is like talking to a child. How could you understand what matters in my life? It isn’t pointless!”
The animal growl of, “I am not a child,” should have withered the woman he snarled at. It didn’t. River was too far in her temper. “You are the one throwing a tantrum.”
“You’re right.” The statement was shrill and followed with the woman throwing the book of poetry on the building flames... only to suck in a breath and dive in for it when it caught. River beat the cover, almost weeping as she smoothed the charred edges. She said it again in a tone of despair, looking at the book as if she’d wounded her lover. “You’re right.”
“Give it to me.”
River handed it over as if she didn’t deserve to touch the pages any longer. Watching large hands tug it from her, she pulled her knees to her chin. Her eyes did not leave the cover, ruined as it was, while Stephen turned the warm object right-way up, thumbed to a random page and began to read aloud so she might keep her feelings quiet and not further poison the air.
He read her to sleep, River sprawled on the floor and too near the flames. He watched to make certain no flying ember sparked her, annoyed, yet grasping the opportunity to see such a thing so near the light—the shade of River’s skin, dark; the shape of her arms, gentle. She’d chewed her nails to stubs, yet still there was grit under them.
He could smell River’s sweat as he’d smelled the men he trained with, but at the same time, it was absolutely different. It seemed almost a natural highlight, that odor—like it belonged to her and her glossy braids. Before the storm made it impossible, every heated shower had been for him, and for the first time, Stephen wondered if she’d missed her bathing ritual. He could not be sorry for it though, not when it gave him the chance to smell and analyze the female.
River had claimed she’d seen other men naked, Stephen had not forgotten. She’d fornicated; claimed to prefer weather-beaten males. Trained from childhood to serve as Mikhailov’s elite soldier, Stephen had taken a vow of chastity, the only female body he’d ever seen naked was one he’d been ordered to dispose of.
“I am scarred. My flesh is worn. I am not pretty.”
River only groaned in sleep, turning so her back might feel the heat of the flames.
Whatever had possessed him to argue his aptitude as a male under her qualifications was silenced. Stephen felt foolish, unsure why he had spoken.
But then why shouldn’t he? He had been cast off, his vows no longer mattered.
The sleeping shrew became more interesting. After all, why should he
not partake? Why should he limit himself by vows made to a master who’d betrayed him? From that moment forward, there were no rules but those he chose to make.
He would do as he pleased.
For the first time in many years, he felt a twinge and looked down at his crotch as if such a thing were astounding. More blood pumped to quell the anger and hurt of rejection, but not enough. Half hard, Stephen looked back at the sleeping monster and hated her for knowing things he did not.
After sleeping on the chair, then the floor, River was sore and stiff. She wanted her couch back, but the wail of wind slapping against the logs of her house made it clear the storm was a long way from letting up.
The loud breathing thing that stole half her air had soured on her.
He was always in the way.
If the fucker bumped her one more time, she was going to poison his food.
“Why do you have no husband?”
It was questions like that that were making homicide far more appealing. “I’m a lesbian.”
“You previously claimed to like men.”
Rubbing her temples, River sighed. “I don’t need a husband. If anyone in this room needs a husband, it’s you. Maybe he could even dislodge that stick crammed up your ass.”
“I do not care for sexual interactions with men.”
That... that very way he spoke so honestly in reaction to her mockery always made her snicker. She just couldn’t help it.
“What is funny?”
River flat out giggled. Seeing she had to answer or he would continue with his poking questions, she offered, “But you cook so well... You know, melting snow and adding powder to it until it is far superior to all other melted snow and powder. You, stranger, are an exemplary housewife.”
The man snarled, “I am the male. A great soldier! I provide and others follow.”
A playful punch hit his arm, the man looking down to where she’d struck him as if he could not comprehend the swat.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, lighten up. I provided all the food. The meat I killed, the wood I chopped, everything you are sheltered in came from me.” River rolled her eyes and walked away muttering, “Guess that makes me the male in your chauvinistic classification of things.”
Hero Undercover: 25 Breathtaking Bad Boys Page 141
