by K H Lemoyne
He raised an eyebrow and rolled his shoulders in an attempt to pass off what she said but cracked a smile. She was right.
She patted her hands on her knees. “Let’s deal with this after dinner. Are you hungry?”
He shrugged. “I could eat.”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“Eight.” He glanced toward the pot on the stove and then inhaled the aroma that filled the room. “Okay, nine.”
She laughed. “Let me put some toast on for the chowder, and we’ll eat. We’ll pretend it’s a normal meal, like the old days.”
“Briet, we haven’t had a normal anything in two hundred years.”
“Pretend with me.”
Her smile warmed the mood. He didn’t have the heart to dash her dreams.
CHAPTER 6
Mia squinted against the sun streaming across her face from the slats in the blinds. She flipped over in bed and cracked open an eye at the clock. Eleven in white digital numbers stood out flat against the black background.
How did she sleep so late?
She burrowed under the sheet and rubbed her face in the pillow. The artificial smell of her dryer sheet confirmed she was home in her own bed. Pulling her hand from under the pillow, she twisted it and searched for the scrape on her finger. A pink, puckered scar curved around the knuckle of her index finger, a fresh mark.
Was the prisoner fantasy or reality? She could float in denial, but denial never sat well with her. At least not anymore, she thought wryly, as she noted the clothes, not nightgown, that covered her body. Blood-smudged clothes. An empty water bottle snuggled intimately next to her hip under the sheet.
He’d better not be carrying any diseases. She would have to ask, though she doubted he’d be insulted. Turen seemed too controlled to express annoyance at such a question. He only backed off from the big questions, like who, what, and why. His brief skimming of the facts didn’t explain her nocturnal travels or answer what he was desperate enough to find that he would endure capture and torture.
She might not be able to stop her visits, but if they continued she was going to get some answers.
I would prefer you far from here and safe.
She would, too. Yet the memory of his voice made her skin tingle, and she rolled over to quell the sensation. Far away, safe, and still, wide-awake in broad daylight, her body reacted as if he was beside her. A total stranger, one whose face she’d never seen in full light, had the power to send sexual heat whipping through her with only the recollection of his voice. Mia ground her face into the sheets and contemplated a cold shower.
Thirty minutes later, she walked down the hallway to her office, coffee cup in hand. The sun had shifted. It streamed in her office windows, seeming to follow her around the house. Sunbeams lit whitewashed patches on the worn hardwood floor. The last green of summer leaves on the trees and bushes bordering her property, a good half mile away, laced her view from the tall windows. Cocooned in solitude, with no living soul within shouting distance of the house, she’d always considered herself safe.
Do you have family, friends, coworkers who will miss you if you do not return?
Mia shivered and shook off the disquiet the question caused. She was self-sufficient, worked hard, even if she did live alone. Friends were scattered around the country, a mere touch of the keyboard away. However, none would notice for several days, weeks, maybe, if she was gone.
Would he miss her if she didn’t return?
He’d meant to ground her in fear, convince her to run if she could. The man’s motives were transparent as glass. With the recollection, darkness threatened the morning’s bright lining.
She shifted the paperwork on her desk. Two articles needed final edits and revisions by tomorrow. A proposal for a non-fiction book she’d procrastinated on was late on delivery to her publisher. An unmarked folder needed evaluation for future projects.
She dragged her projects folder to the top and flipped it open. Several sheets ripped from the local paper and printouts from the Internet slid across the manila background. All constituted her brainstorming and research into an exposé on women’s options and realistic expectations from classes in self-defense. She pulled three from the stack to read the instructors’ bios. Her exposé would deal with sword and staff proficiencies. A bit esoteric, but the uniqueness of the weapons appealed to her, and at a high level, the article might interest others.
Mia tapped a finger on top of the folder. She’d put off pursuing the project because she wanted more than interviews and opinions. Both the discipline and the practice had intrigued her. Instead of pursuing her interest, she’d allowed criticism to daunt her.
Not from instructors. Although, honestly, she wasn’t sure they would take her as a pupil.
“You have no martial arts experience, and the field is dominated by men.” She could still hear Alex’s voice. He’d scowled at her idea. “It’s such a violent, non-feminine pursuit.”
However, Alex wasn’t here anymore. Alex hadn’t been here for a long time.
Life was short. Her nighttime terrors proved that. If she didn’t come back one night, she was going to make damn sure she’d done everything she could to achieve her desires.
New motto—no regrets.
Mia flipped open her cell phone and punched out the number of the first instructor.
Worst case, she would get an interview. Best case, maybe one of the instructors would walk her through the techniques after a demonstration and give her an opening to make her request.
Ten minutes later, she snapped the phone shut with a grin. The last instructor had time for an interview in two hours.
She finished off her revisions, prioritized her emails, and grabbed her purse and keys.
Nope, no more regrets.
CHAPTER 7
Turen ground his teeth as he struggled against the four pairs of hands forcing him into a high-backed wooden chair. With his forearms shackled to the sturdy arms, neither his muscles nor his will could power past the metal manacles or the new leather ones.
He let out a grunt when Shank’s fist hit his neck.
All the guards under Xavier’s command were dangerous, some unpredictably violent, but most were motivated by paychecks before emotions.
Shank mimicked Rasheer in twisted moral fiber and mental instability, driven by a primal need to cause pain. Swift retaliation and refusal to submit were the only ways to deal with the sorry excuse for overblown testosterone in a giant’s body. Turen clenched his jaw and lurched, bringing the whole chair up in his lunge toward the man.
“Shit.” Curses erupted from one of the two guards, but they forced the chair back in place. A third bent on one knee to lock metal strips around the chair’s bottom rail to the floor.
Shank raised his fist for another strike.
The guard securing the clamps caught Shank’s fist in a solid hold. “Cut it the fuck out. We have orders that he be unmarked and conscious. Back off.”
Shank’s eyes narrowed. His glare flicked between his restrained fist and Turen. Calculation rolled across the man’s features, clearly deliberating before he locked down the hate twisting his features, and stepped back in a feigned sign of obedience. The door behind them slammed open, and Shank dropped his gaze to the floor. Turen bit back a smile of victory.
Everyone else froze.
Boots rang out on the stone floor as Xavier rounded the chair. Six feet eight and two hundred and eighty pounds of muscle encased in black leather pants and vest made an impression on everyone. Always had, thought Turen.
Xavier didn’t spare a glance at him or acknowledge Shank’s behavior, but his expression harbored a dark scowl while the guards departed.
He placed a wooden case before him on the table. Once the door closed, he extracted several vials, syringes, and a length of rubber tubing.
Turen pressed his shoulders against the back of the chair and waited.
His comrade hadn’t changed much. Multiple thick black braids hung in r
opes from his head. They barely moved as he flipped the covers from the vials and set them on the table. Almost every feature, from the rigid width of his jaw to the iron muscles of his shoulders, matched the image of the Spanish warrior who’d saved Turen as a boy, trained him as a youth, fought beside him, and led their people.
Xavier turned and his eyebrow arched, almost urging Turen to speak.
He didn’t. Turen could only stare at the glaring sign of annihilation in his former leader’s eyes, solid black except for the silver striations that permeated the iris and sclera. Gone was the golden honey hue that had matched Xavier’s sister, Sagari. This dense, deep blackness, the color of the abyss, had infected the man after the death of his mate and unborn child. The darkness, a mix of madness and rage so thick it could suck the life out of anyone foolish enough to look too close.
There was no point in looking. No point in speaking, because Turen’s closest friend was nowhere in those black depths. Those eyes held no hope of turning back time, no hope of forgiveness, and even less hope for redemption.
Turen had expected nothing less. It wouldn’t stop him, but the weight of the challenge pressed on him in a heavy, unyielding yoke.
“You rub Shank raw.” Xavier tied the tubing above Turen’s elbow and swabbed a section of the skin below. “If you want me to scratch the death-wish itch you’ve developed, I can throw you in a room with him and Rasheer. Probably won’t kill you, but you’d acquire some healthy respect.”
“Take the manacles off and we’ll see who acquires more respect.”
His former commander stilled without meeting his gaze. “Is that what you want for Isa’s blood, a chance at me?”
Turen looked away and ignored the painful twist in his gut at the reminder. He didn’t flinch when Xavier jabbed the syringe in his arm and attached vials, one by one, to fill with his blood. “Why bury yourself in this makeshift hell to feed the addiction of human waste?”
Xavier filled four vials, capped each one, and slid them into a pocket in his vest. “You chose to come here and meet with me in this hell. Not happy now? Makes you the hypocrite, not me.”
“You’ve shut off any other rational line of contact.”
“Because I don’t want to waste time with any of you.” Xavier spit out every syllable, each one louder than the last. “I’m not accountable to you or any of the others. I don’t have to explain myself or justify my actions or be fucking redeemed.”
Turen’s jaw grew rigid with the effort to resist Xavier’s pissing match. A classic avoidance technique, yet even knowing it, he couldn’t help himself. “You’re so far above the rest of us?”
“You have no idea,” Xavier snapped. “I’m leagues ahead of the rest of you.”
“And how’s that working for you? Find much validation here with your drug profits? Are you satisfied to watch your people fade to nothing? If you have proof, bring it forward. Do you think we’d reject you?”
“I no longer care.”
“And the samples of my blood?” Turen nodded to the pocket with the vials as a suspicion turned his skin to ice. “You can’t truly think I plotted to kill Maitea.”
Xavier froze and then leaned in slowly, inches from his face. “Had it been you, I’d have killed you already. If you want a shot at me, then you’re welcome to try. Just rip off the manacles and come for me.” He snickered. “Yet, if I let you go, you’ll miss your chance at an enlightening educational experience. You came all this way to find me. I’m happy to oblige. Keeping you here will expand your horizons.”
With a snap, the tubing released. “Maybe I’ll use your blood to figure out a lethal toxin for our people. Then they can choose an easy way out instead of living alone, forever.”
Turen couldn’t stand to look at him. He didn’t believe Xavier’s words, but none of this exchange was typical of the man he’d known. Then again, he’d never been Xavier’s enemy before.
The wooden case stood open, several empty vials nestled beside two full ones. If his blood vials were in Xavier’s pocket, what were those?
Xavier wrapped and pocketed the syringe and left the room. Only the door’s click confirmed his departure.
Two of the guards returned for Turen’s escort back to solitude. They released him from the leather restraints and jerked him upright. An exaggerated stagger landed him against the table and over the wooden case, allowing him to palm a full vial and slide it into his pants pocket. The guards had already searched him before he entered the room. They wouldn’t expect him to smuggle out anything.
The return followed familiar stone hallways. The guard who’d stopped Shank’s assault walked at his back. The uneven pattern of his gait registered in Turen’s ears, an indication of damage and stiffness to the man’s right leg, enough to signal a weakness. Detecting those weaknesses gave Turen a twinge of guilt, but weaknesses were all there were to exploit here—a lesson soundly beaten into him by Rasheer and Shank.
Right, then stairs, then two more turns and his cell. Reverse memory was another game he used to hone his mind and keep him sane. Bit by bit, he’d memorized the prison layout, despite the guards’ best efforts to confuse him. He hadn’t survived the last two centuries without skills. Skills sharpened by Xavier himself.
One more turn and—damn it. The scent was too strong, too close, and directly in the hall in front of them.
He waited until the guard had unlocked his cell door and threw himself against the guard behind him, planting his foot directly into the man’s injured leg. The man crumpled and Turen vaulted several more feet back down the hall before the second guard Tasered him in the back.
“Get him back into the cell,” the man he’d attacked shouted, struggling to his feet.
The second guard grasped his chains, dragged him the few feet to his cell, and tossed him in unceremoniously. The door just cleared his feet before it slammed shut and locked.
He had been lucky neither guard had pursued vengeance for the assault. Something he’d counted on. Had it been Shank, the maneuver would have cost him a body part.
Cool hands stroked back the hair from his face. Moments ticked by. He listened to his own short breaths and finally worked saliva into his mouth to speak.
“You’ve got to learn to control this, Mia, or you’re going to get us killed.”
***
Mia swallowed hard and sat back on her heels, gripping her backpack with shaky hands as the adrenaline spike vanished. She choked back the urge to puke.
Damn. She’d prepared this time but not for showing up in front of the guards. She’d expected to appear inside Turen’s cell.
Instead, the bright cold exposure of a hallway, the footsteps, and the voices barely gave her enough notice to beat a hasty retreat around the nearest corner. When the guard opened the cell, instinct had overridden fear and she’d slipped behind their backs during Turen’s scuffle. In a split second to decide between exposure with Turen or without him, she’d wasted no time in debate.
Arms wrapped around her knees, she waited for him to regain the use of his limbs.
“You okay?” His voice sounded strained, but the familiar low gravel eased her concern and she sucked in a breath.
“You’re asking me that after what they did to you?” She’d witnessed the jolt of his body with the Taser strike, followed by kicks to his ribs during her quick move. She forced another slow breath and considered the alternative. It could have been worse. The Taser could have been a gun, and he wouldn’t be here now. Logic didn’t help. Unprepared didn’t begin to cover her level of readiness.
With a groan, he rolled to his side. “I’ve felt better. Trust me. It beats what Rasheer can do.” His hand slipped over her boot and squeezed. “You did well.”
She forced a quiet laugh. “Yeah, a few more times and we can take our act on the road.”
“God, I hope not.” He pushed to his knees and shook his head. “Just give yourself a few minutes. The nausea after the adrenaline will pass.”
He was b
etter prepared. Then again, he had a lot more experience in life and death scenarios than she had. “Is Rasheer the one who—”
He didn’t answer but hauled himself onto the slab to sit and turned to face her. More lying than sitting, actually. At least he appeared to be okay. Mia focused on his solid outline to distract from the thundering beat of her heart. Turen’s voice, his image shadowed against the wall, was familiar, comforting in a surreal way. The threat outside the cell door she ignored.
“Mia?” His casual use of her name caught her off-guard, almost an endearment in the quiet of the room. It rolled off his lips and she stifled a selfish wish he’d continue, avoiding any reference to the dangers around them and the temporary nature of their relationship.
“You sound better.”
“Rasheer likes to work in…intervals. Today wasn’t his turn.”
Recollection flooded back to her at his words. The abuse to his body during her last trips hadn’t escaped her notice. “What does he want from you anyway?”
“My time with him is just a sham for extracting information. He relishes a false sense of control. Nothing you should be concerned about.”
“Then where did they take you today?”
Turen tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. She didn’t think he had blocked her out as much as he was trying to forget he was here. “Xavier had some purpose for me.”
“It sounds like you got confirmation that Xavier controls your captivity.”
“He’s in charge today.”
The monotone in Turen’s voice signaled a reluctance to give more details. Time to change the subject to safer, more mundane topics. “Do they feed you?”
He gestured toward the metal tray by the door. One she’d neglected to notice. It had obviously been there for a while, the irregular hardened lumps unrecognizable. Her throat filled with an acrid backwash and she turned her head, pursing her lips. “Looks sort of like oatmeal.”
She hoped he wouldn’t tell her if it was something much worse. Honesty only needed to go so far.
