by Tia Fanning
"I'm all right. Really,” I assured him.
He gave me a tip-lipped smile. “Okay. Go do as the doctor ordered and get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."
Nodding, I rose from my seat and left.
As I walked away from the chow hall, something nagged at me, slowing my steps. I looked at everything around me, but saw nothing out of order. If anything, the area was kind of quiet.
I moved out of the way so a Humvee could pass. Instead, it slowed to stop and a couple of soldiers got out, falling in-step behind me. Sandalwood teased my senses. Before I had time to register the scent, someone grabbed me and a cloth sealed tight over my nose and mouth.
Scratching at the hand smothering my breath, I struggled desperately for freedom, but it was of no use. A few moments later, everything went dark.
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Chapter Three
I closed my eyes again and willed the bed to stop spinning.
Where am I?
Suddenly, my stomach roiled and I no longer cared where I was—as long as it had a bathroom.
The desire not to be sick on myself prompted my legs to move. Rising from the bed, I staggered around the dim chamber, holding onto anything that would support my weight. The floor seemed to shift beneath my feet. I headed toward the light shining in the doorway and stumbled out into an illuminated living room.
The world around me tilted back and forth like a ship being pitched in a storm. I pressed my hand over my lips as my stomach tensed and my throat tightened. I swallowed hard. Using the wall to hold myself up, I leaned into it and let it guide me in my search.
Thankfully, the toilet was the first door I came across.
Collapsing to my knees in front of the porcelain bowl, I vomited a little and dry-heaved a lot. Forever passed before my body relaxed. After wiping my mouth with toilet paper, I rested my head on the seat, trying to make sense of it all.
Why do I feel so sick?
Memories of a rag being held over my face flooded my mind.
Fuck me. I'd been visited by the ether bunny.
I glanced down at myself, noting that I was still dressed, the only bare part of me being my feet. I hadn't been sexually assaulted by the group of soldiers, or at least I didn't think so, but why in the hell was I wearing an abaya over my clothing?
Squinting, I searched the clean, tiled bathroom. Seeing the bidet, then looking back down at the black frock-robe thing that covered my body, I realized something very important.
I was no longer on site.
I again replayed my last conscious moments as I had as I left the chow hall. Had I been kidnapped? Off an American compound?
Un-fucking believable.
I tried to stand, but my vision blurred and my legs turned to jelly. Suddenly very cold and weak, I rested against the toilet again.
I do not know how long I sat there before, in the hazy recesses of my mind, I acknowledged a door opening in the other room followed by heavy footsteps approaching my location.
Sandalwood ... him.
The insurgent.
My abductor.
"No, don't,” I groaned when he knelt down beside me and began gathering me into his arms. I tried to resist, but it was a fruitless attempt. Though my mind demanded that I continue to fight, my heart and body lacked the strength.
He pulled me close. “I'm not going to hurt you,” he murmured.
His soothing words calmed me. He smelled so good, his body was warm, and his strong arms held me firm. Closing my heavy eyes, I settled against him, the basic need to feel safe and secure, for the moment, satisfied.
"I'm sick,” I said softly.
He drew me deeper into his embrace. “I know. You'll be all right soon."
Shifting my weight, he lifted me off the bathroom floor. I grew more disoriented, and more nauseated, the more he moved.
I buried my face into his warmth, finding comfort in his scent. “Don't let me go,” I whispered as I felt myself falling into darkness.
"I won't."
* * * *
The chatter of voices and the aroma of cooking spices drew me from my sleep. I rolled over and snuggled deeper into the warm blankets, trying to ignore the noise and tempting lure of food. I was dreaming of something good, of someone good, but it was quickly slipping away.
As my mind fully awoke, I was jarred from my coziness.
I'm not supposed to be here.
Opening my eyes, I sat up, and my heart leapt in my chest.
Shit.
I hadn't been dreaming. I was still here, wherever here was.
Here—My new prison.
The light filtering through the barred window told me it was midday. I looked out. I was on the first floor, maybe of an apartment building or hotel. As for a geographical reference-city, town, or oasis in the middle of the desert-I couldn't tell which. My view was blocked by an eight foot tall sand-colored concrete wall that stood maybe twenty feet away from my window. From what I could gather, the ‘privacy’ wall probably circled the whole building.
I glanced at the bedroom door. It was cracked open, but I saw no movement.
Letting out the breath I'd been holding, I surveyed my surroundings, trying to come to terms with the present situation. The wooden vanity near my bed drew my attention first. Neatly arranged on the top were my personal belongings: brush, makeup bag, perfume, and even some magazines. And strangely, my purse hung off the vanity chair. I stared for while, too stunned with disbelief to do much else.
What the hell? I have to be imagining this...
The air conditioning kicked on, jerking me out of my shock.
Removing the covers, I left the bed on shaky legs, the marble cold beneath my feet. I touched the items on the vanity, finding them as foreign as I did familiar. I looked into the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back. I still wore the abaya from the night before, and dark circles adorned the space under my eyes and above my sunken cheeks. My parched lips were cracked and ready to bleed.
Unzipping my make-up bag, I pulled out lip balm and glossed it over my lips, then instantly regretted it.
What if they had done something to it?
Throwing it down, I opened the vanity drawers, only to discover all my toiletries. Deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, lotions...
On the other side of the bedroom were a dresser, a small cabinet, and two large wardrobes.
Approaching warily, I opened the first wardrobe. Inside hung more abayas and other forms of hijab attire, and matching head coverings. However, next to this exotic assortment hung my civilian clothes—jeans, shirts, sweats, jacket....
Horrified, I closed the door and moved to the next wardrobe. My uniforms were in there. At the bottom were my military bags, filled with all my field equipment. Even my Chem bag was there. But no weapon.
I went to the dresser and searched the contents. My undergarments, pajamas, socks ... Then moving on to the small cabinet, which was actually a shoe rack, I found it filled with sandals, slippers, and contained my shower shoes and boots.
"Are you feeling better?"
Startled, I gasped. My feet slowly moved me backwards until the back of my knees hit the mattress and propelled me to sit.
My kidnapper leaned against the door casually, his expression showing patience as if he waited for me to say something.
I didn't.
He rubbed the dark stubble on his face. “Look, the food will be ready in a couple of hours. Why don't you take a quick shower and relax.” He came further into the bedroom, approaching a closed door and opening it. “You have your own bathroom. Hamper is in the corner, towels are on the shelf. Your soap and shampoo are already in the tub."
My shampoo and soap? How did my stuff even get here?
I stared at him, then at the vanity, then back at him.
He looked thoughtful for a moment before his eyes brightened, as if he suddenly understood the silent question. “We retrieved your belongings when we picked you up."
&nb
sp; Oh, fucking nice. Picked you up. He said it so easily, like I had needed a ride somewhere.
I studied my enemy. Jeans, fitted white t-shirt, a perfectly sculpted body to go along with his perfect English. If he wasn't an American, he could easily be mistaken for one. It probably had been easy for him to get on post. All he would have needed was the right documentation.
"I have to get back to the kitchen,” he said, breaking the tense silence. “After your shower, you can go out to the living room and watch TV if you want. We have satellite."
I glanced over at the doorway, still hearing voices I could not understand. I shook my head. No. There was no way I was going to hang out with insurgents.
He must have read my thoughts. “It's a news station. There is no one here but you and me."
My eyes followed him as he headed toward the doorway, his familiar scent lingering in his wake. Just as he was about to walk out, he stopped.
Letting out a heavy breath, he turned to me. “I know what I'm about to say will fall on deaf ears, but you are safe. No harm will come to you. You are safer here with us than you were before. Try to be open-minded and consider your stay as a temporary reassignment."
On that, he left, closing the bedroom door behind him.
Open-minded? A temporary reassignment?
He had to be kidding. Though he seemed sincere when he said that no harm would come to me, and secretly, deep inside, I was relieved by his words, I still had to face the truth of the matter: This place, as nice as it was, was my cell.
He was my captor.
And I was his prisoner.
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Chapter Four
I would guess that two hours had passed when a soft knock sounded at my door. And I, acting as if my ass was glued to the mattress, hadn't moved since my last discussion with my captor.
He knocked again.
I said nothing.
The door slowly opened, but I didn't bother to look up. I simply stared at the floor.
I could feel his eyes boring into me. I imagined the thoughts going through his head. Why hadn't she showered? Had she sat there like that the whole time?
"Are you hungry?” he asked.
When I didn't answer, he came into the bedroom. He moved the vanity chair over, positioned it in front of me, and sat down.
I stared at his boots as the scent of sandalwood, cloves, and mint danced around us.
So close. Why is he so close?
Resting his elbows on his thighs and folding his hands in front of him, he leaned in. “Talk to me."
I looked away.
Gentle fingers captured my chin and gently pulled me to face him. “Brenna. I want you to talk to me. What's wrong?"
A thousand and one different responses came to my mind ... You're my enemy. You have captured me. Kidnapped me. You're holding me against my will. I'm your prisoner. What do you want from me? What could I have that you possibly want? Why are you being so nice? Why do you act like you really care? Why did you hold me when I was sick? Why do you have to smell so good?
Instead, I choose this ... “Brenna Marie Mathews. Sergeant. September 21st, 1976. 592-30-9754."
He bit his bottom lip, but it didn't do anything to hide his smile.
Resisting the urge to smack the fucking smirk off his handsome face, I jerked out of his grasp.
Clearing his throat, he sat back. “I'm sorry. I know you're only doing what you were trained to do. But I assure you, you're not a prisoner of war. Like I said earlier, I want you to consider your stay here like you would a reassignment. Except that you'll be working out of your quarters."
When I didn't acknowledge him, he let out a frustrated breath and rose to his feet. “I think I've been more than amicable.” He moved the chair back in front of the vanity. “I'd appreciate it if you at least attempted to return the gesture."
My anger surged and all good sense flew right out the barred window. “I guess I'm not good at making friends with the enemy,” I muttered.
He stared down at me with hard eyes. “I'm not your enemy."
"Oh, my mistake,” I offered apologetically. “You just look so much like the insurgent who shot at me five days ago."
Shaking his head, he made his way toward the bedroom door. He stopped, looking back at me from over his shoulder. “If I was an insurgent,” he said, his tone taking on a serious edge, “you'd already be dead."
Then he was gone.
Alone again, I tried to figure out what scared me the most. The fact that I just picked a fight with my captor—and really was as careless as Sergeant Jackson accused, or that I was starting to believe the things my captor was telling me.
* * * *
A short time later, he came back in with a porcelain bowl, silverware wrapped in a napkin, and a bottle of water.
"You haven't moved much,” he said, holding out a rice dish to me.
The food smelled delicious and I was tempted to take it, but pride was a powerful thing.
"I made it just for you,” he pressed softly.
Well, that explained the hint of clove and mint that had lingered on him earlier.
No, I couldn't accept it. Though my stomach protested my decision, it was a matter of principle. I refused to take favors from the enemy.
"Are you being stubborn? Or do you not like Chicken Biryani?
Why did he have to endear himself to me and prepare a real meal himself? Why couldn't he just be a normal captor and give me bread and water?
When I still didn't take it, he placed everything on the vanity. “I see,” he whispered.
He sounded almost hurt by the rejection, and it made me want the food even more, if not for my hunger, just to make him happy.
Oh God, I was so fucked up. Day one of captivity and I was already empathizing with my captor. I wish he would do something to make me hate him. If only he would yell at me, hit me—something other than trying to make me feel bad.
Truth be told, I didn't bear guilt well.
"I appreciate the gesture,” I offered, hoping that it not only soothed his feelings, but my own conscience as well. “But I'm not ready to eat yet."
He exhaled slowly, sitting on the lone chair in the room. “I have to leave for a couple of days."
My heart dropped. My breath caught in my throat. The turmoil of my situation finally caught up with me. Though I was ashamed to admit it, I didn't want him to go. Who would he leave me with? What if my next captor was a malicious asshole?
"I will return,” he assured me. “You are safe. I need you to trust me on that."
Yeah. Trust the enemy.
I glanced down at my lap and my fidgeting fingers. I chose my reply carefully, remembering how bad things went the last time I used the ‘e’ word.
"How do you trust someone you've just met?"
"I promise. No harm will come to you by any of us here."
Who was ‘us'? My captor and his merry band of armed insurgents? The day of the firefight danced in my head.
"How can you be so sure of that?” I asked, my voice weak even to my own ears.
In my peripheral vision, I saw him rub his square jaw before leaning back in the chair and folding his arms across his broad chest. “I'm not going to say that I expected you to take me on my word, but I'm curious to know what's prompting this question."
"Didn't he tell you to shoot me?” I whispered. “The man you were with?"
My captor gave no response, but he didn't have to. The little vein on the side of his temple twitched and I knew the answer.
Shaking my head, a sad smile touched my lips. “I don't understand Arabic, but it was very clear what he wanted. I expected to die, and I was okay with that. But I have to know ... Why didn't you kill me?"
"I would never hurt you,” he said softly.
"And had he not left when he did? Had he stayed to see the deed done?"
"Then I would have killed him."
My eyes misted at the shocking answer and darkness that lace
d his reply. God help me, I was falling for this bullshit.
Before I could ask him why he would choose my life over ‘the cause', he leaned forward and covered my restless fingers with his rough hand. His thumb caressed the inside of my wrist. The intimate gesture was probably meant to be comforting, but it unnerved me.
I looked up and met his gaze. What exactly did he want ... really want?
"I don't have much time. I want to show you around the flat before I go.” He gently squeezed my hand. “Please."
Nodding, I allowed him to help me off the bed. He held on to my elbow as we went into the living room. It looked like any other house in America, warm and comfortable, with cushy couches, high-tech stereo system, big screen TV, and a bookshelf filled with reading material, CDs, DVDs—even a small plant. Tasteful artwork hung on the walls, thick curtains lined the barred windows, throw pillows dotted the furniture, and an area rug lay on the marble floor beneath the coffee table.
"All the remotes can be found on top of the DVD player. There are board games in the bottom cabinet, as well as video games, books, and magazines. Just to let you know, sometimes the electric goes out. But don't worry, that's just us switching over the generators.” He pointed to a door. “And I'm sure you remember the guest bathroom."
He guided me to the adjoining room with a wood table and six matching chairs. “Dining room,” he said, then led me past that to a swinging door. “Kitchen."
The kitchen was nice. Granite countertops, microwave, dishwasher, full-size refrigerator. Ah ... coffeemaker.
He opened and closed the cabinets as he listed their contents. “Dishes, glasses, spices, soups, and snacks. Pots and pans are in the bottom cabinets, and everything else is in the drawers.” The refrigerator came next. “Besides leftover Biryani, there is also bottled water, soda, milk, eggs, vegetables, and meat in here."
"So you're not only a dark and mysterious kidnapper, but a gourmet chef?” I asked.
Refusing to take the bait, he fixed a stern gaze on me and continued, “Once a week, someone will stop by and replenish the perishables, and anything else you might need.” He moved and opened a door off the kitchen. “Laundry room."
