Unhinged

by Natasha Knight

  I shake my head at myself. I can’t be stupid. I know what he wants. I saw his naked back. Saw the graveyard there. He’s here for vengeance. And I have the feeling he’s willing to do anything to get it. Even die. He’s unhinged, unpredictable. Desperate. And I know if I want to survive, I can’t be anywhere near him when the bomb ticking inside him goes off. Especially now.

  His questions about Armen though—if I saw his body—they make me think. I saw photos of the scene. The man who gave me my passport showed me. I just assumed…

  But maybe, just maybe, he is still alive. I assumed Seth and Rafi had been killed after that night, too. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe that’s why I’m here, because why else? Who else would bother saving my life? I’m not worth anything to any of them. Why save me when everything would be a hell of a lot easier if I’d just died that night?

  “My wrists really hurt, Zach.”

  He gets up and fishes a key out of that bag. He moves beside me, and I lean forward as he uncuffs my wrists. He leaves the cuffs attached to the headboard and I swing my legs off the bed, rubbing my sore wrists. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do but when he walks out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, I follow and sit across from him. I pick up my fork and eat the now-cold breakfast he made me while he watches. He’s right. I don’t waste food. I’ve known hunger.

  He doesn’t talk to me most of the day. He spends it on his laptop instead, and I find myself tiptoeing around my own house. I can’t stop thinking about what he said. That maybe Armen isn’t dead. Maybe Seth and Rafi are alive, too.

  I don’t have the privacy I need to search through his things and get my passport. He doesn’t trust me enough to leave me alone just yet, and I can’t try to leave without it. Once I have it, I’ll disappear. If there’s any chance my brothers are alive, I have to go back. I’m not of any value to him anyway. I don’t know anything. Even if I did, I’m not sure I’d give him the information because he’s on a suicide mission, even if he doesn’t know it himself. And for some reason, I want to save him from that.

  “Where do you live?” I ask that evening.

  He’s still absorbed in whatever he’s doing on his computer and it takes him a moment to reply. “Here, for now.”

  “When did you get into the States?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  “How did you get the passport? Michael Beckham’s, I mean?”

  He shrugs. “I know some people. Maybe the same ones who made yours, Eve Adams.”

  “What happened that night? After the explosion?” I ask.

  We’d been in Beirut. It’s where I was born. In comparison to other Middle Eastern countries, Beirut was safe. But still, we had our own militant groups and the man Armen was working for was involved in arms sales to other groups. Terrorist groups.

  Zach is studying me over the top of his laptop. After a long time, he draws in a deep breath, closes the lid and sits back to watch me. “A local doctor saved my life. I was badly burned and I’d been shot. All I remember was the pain. He and his son somehow dragged me from the rubble of the place and had the foresight to hide me.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “I guess I am in comparison to the others.”

  “Does it still hurt? The burns?”

  He shakes his head. “Some numbness, but like you said, I was lucky.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For what happened to you.”

  He only studies me, and it’s unnerving. Like he wants to crawl inside my brain. Learn everything.

  “Can I see?” I ask, the words slipping out before I can think. My heart picks up its pace at the thought of it, of seeing him bared, his scars, his regret.

  I can’t make out what the emotion in his eyes is. He’s so very schooled in hiding what he’s thinking.

  “What do you have to drink?” he asks.

  I guess that’s a no. I get up and open a cabinet and realize this could be my opportunity. “Only a little bit of wine.” I hold out the nearly empty bottle.

  “No whiskey?”

  I shake my head. “There’s a liquor store two blocks away. I can run out—”

  “I bet you can run.” He stands. “Get dressed. We’ll go together.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. I’m not as afraid of him right now. I know he won’t hurt me. “What do you plan to do with me, exactly? I told you what I know. And I don’t think I filled in any of the blanks. You can’t stay here forever. You can’t just walk into my life and—”

  “Get fucking dressed or I’ll gag you and bind you to the bed while I go on my own. You have two minutes.”

  I glare, but he taps his watch so I turn and walk down the hall and into my bedroom.

  “Door stays open,” he says, just as I’m getting ready to close it.

  Fine. I know I’ll have one chance to do this. If he catches me looking through that bag for my passport, he will cuff me to the bed, I have no doubt. So I get to my closet to choose clothes, which is when I notice the two suits hanging there. His. When the hell did he do that? I touch them, then lean in and smell them. Smell him on them. Abruptly I pull away, annoyed with myself.

  Leaning my head out, I make sure he’s busy in the living room and kneel on the floor to push two stacked shoeboxes out of the way. I open a third one and lift the tissue paper out to find the small pistol I bought when I got here still tucked neatly inside. I’ve never had to use it. I’m not even sure why I bought it, or if I can use it.

  I take it out of the box and feel the weight of it in the palm of my hand.

  “Time’s a tickin’, Eve,” he calls out from the other room.

  I quickly take it over to the bed and slip it between the mattress and box spring on my side, then put on a summer dress and return to the living room.

  He’s waiting for me by the front door. My heart is racing and I’m sweating. If he notices how anxious I suddenly am, he doesn’t let on.

  “Do I need to tell you how to behave?”

  “No, I got it.”

  “Good.”

  Even though the liquor store is within walking distance, we take his truck, and he’s holding my hand tight the whole time we’re inside, like he’s warning me. Afterward, we drive through a fast food place to pick up dinner.

  “Sorry it isn’t more fancy,” he says in a tone that tells me he’s not sorry at all. “What would you like?”

  “I don’t care.”

  He orders two meals, and we drive home. There, he sets the food on the coffee table and gets two glasses. He pours me a drink and sets it beside his.

  “Come here, Eve.”

  “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see tomorrow. Sit down.”

  I do. He hands me my drink and I accept it, take a sip after he touches his glass to mine and drains his. Maybe he’ll get so drunk I can walk out of here, but I doubt that. He’s eating his burger when I hear a buzz and he reaches into his pocket to take out his phone. I can’t read the text message from where I am, but whatever it says has him sitting upright. He types something back before pocketing the phone and glancing at me.

  “You’d better eat while it’s warm. It’s barely palatable when it cools.”

  I unwrap my burger and take a few bites, then abandon it to pick at the fries. He pours me another drink and I can feel his eyes on me.

  “So what do you do besides work?” he asks.

  I glance at him. “We’re making small talk?”

  “I guess we are.”

  “My life isn’t all that interesting.”

  “Boyfriend?” he asks, and from the look on his face, I know he’s messing with me.

  “No. No juicy stories for you to get off on. Sorry.”

  “That why you wanted me to take my shirt off earlier?”

  I see laughter in his eyes. “I’m going to bed,” I say, standing.

  He catches my wrist. “It’s early.”

  “I’m tired.”
>
  The way he’s looking at me is unnerving.

  “You can sleep out here,” I tell him.

  It’s like he’s trying to read me. I wonder if he can see right through me. But a moment later, he lets go of my wrist.

  “Door stays open.” He picks up his laptop and pours himself more of the whiskey. It’s his third glass.

  I nod, and walk back toward the bedroom. It’ll be tricky to do what I want with the door open, but I’m hoping he’ll be distracted and that the whiskey will relax him. At least a little. Enough for me to get my passport. I won’t try to escape tonight, but I need to be ready to go tomorrow.

  6

  Zach

  I don’t trust her. Not for a second. But I’ll give her the opportunity to try something. That way I can show her what I mean when I tell her she’d better do as she’s told. Actions speak louder than words.

  My phone buzzes again, and I take it out of my pocket. I still have a contact in Beirut, a man who can get me answers. That doctor who saved my life? He came looking for me that night. Came looking to clean up after Malik was finished with his work.

  I know the man Eve’s brother worked for. Malik the Butcher. No one’s ever seen his face. He has contact with very few, and those few usually turn up dead within a few months. Armen El-Amin was an exception to that.

  The US military has been gathering intelligence on Malik for years, but they could never get close enough. I know he was there that last night. I felt it in my gut. I know he likes to watch the destruction as it happens. Likes to see the blood drain from a body, likes to watch the life seeping out of it. He’s a sick bastard.

  But the piece about her other brothers, about Armen working for Malik in exchange for Malik’s help to find and free them, is that true? It sheds a new light on Armen. Still, he fucked me and my men that last night. He needs to pay for that. Eve’s betrayal, if she truly did it for her brothers, I’d understand, but I’m not sure. My gut says she’s innocent. Although when it comes to her, my gut’s fucked up.

  I read the text message from my contact: Paper isn’t a match. Different maker.

  Crap. I was hoping this would be easy, but nothing ever is. I was hoping the jerk who made my passport—Michael Beckham’s passport, I mean—had made Eve’s, because it’s a fake. And that’s another thing right there. Who the hell saved her life? And why pose as an American agent? Assuming he was posing.

  Back to the drawing board.

  I reply with my thanks and ask about news on Malik. Thing is, there hasn’t been anything in two years. Not since that night. But I can’t believe he died in that room. I’ve learned not to believe anything unless I see it with my own two eyes.

  A creak from the darkened bedroom gets my attention. I know what she’s up to. She has to know I expect her to search for her passport. She won’t find it, but I’ll have some fun.

  I give her a few minutes and even get up and go into the kitchen, turn on the water in the sink to make some sound. The hallway lights are out and I walk quietly toward the bedroom. I’m not really trying to be sneaky, but I know how to be invisible. And she’s not a trained soldier.

  When I get to the bedroom door, I see the shadow of her hunched over my duffel. She can’t see much, it’s pretty dark in there, but she’s feeling around.

  “Looking for something?”

  She gasps, and jumps back.

  I flip the light switch and she lunges toward the bed, reaching her hand between the mattress and the box spring and fuck if I’m not surprised to see her straighten with a gun in her hands. A gun aimed at me.

  My training kicks in, years of it, and given her inexperience, it takes me all of two seconds to cover her hands with my own, and draw her into my chest as I maneuver the hand holding the gun downward. I don’t want that thing going off by accident, and I’m not sure if she’s even loaded it or has the safety on. I’m not taking any chances though.

  “That was stupid, Eve.”

  But she’s not done yet because she uses the fact I’m holding her close to ram her knee up into my balls. I’m not ready for that and with a groan, I drop us both down on the bed. I still have both her wrists and I don’t let go as I crush her beneath my weight.

  “You want to fight dirty?” I ask through clenched teeth when the worst wave of nausea passes. I’m squeezing her wrist until she releases the gun and I hear it clatter to the hardwood floor.

  “I can’t—”

  She can’t breathe, is what she’s trying to say.

  I lift myself a little, but it’s not to help her out with breathing, it’s to haul her higher on the bed. I drag her arms over her head and the whole time she’s fighting me with all she’s got. I’m keeping my thighs glued shut this time. The cuffs I’d used earlier are still at the top of the bed, and I when I release one wrist to bind the other, she’s clawing at my face, my shoulder, my arm, anything she can get at.

  “Let go of me!”

  “I can fight dirty too, Eve,” I say, binding her other arm so they’re both over her head. When that’s done, I get up on my elbows, but keep my face close to hers. “In fact, I like fighting dirty.”

  I draw back and look down at her. She’s still wearing that summer dress she had on earlier. That’s a mistake because it’s ridden up to her belly during our struggle and I can see black silk panties beneath.

  She begins her struggle anew when my eyes linger too long, this time twisting and turning and trying to kick her legs this way and that. She’s still yelling for me to let her go.

  “You want the gag?”

  I pick it up to show her and she zips her lips the instant I do, shaking her head.

  “You sure?” I ask.

  She opens her mouth to say something, and I make like I’m about to shove that ball in there so she shuts it again.

  I put it down and lean over the edge of the bed to pick up the pistol. It’s smaller than anything I’ve used before, but it’s loaded and just as deadly. I empty it of bullets and set it on the nightstand before turning my attention back to her.

  “What, were you going to shoot me?”

  “I just want my passport back.”

  “So you’d shoot me over a fake passport?”

  Her forehead creases, and her big caramel eyes study me. I search her face, I can feel her heart beating against my chest. Watch the little pulse work on her neck. I’m hard again. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman, and Eve lying beneath me, half exposed, all warm, soft skin, her chest rising and falling as she labors to breathe, well, yeah, my dick’s hard. And this time, I want to play.

  Her mouth is open and I can feel her breath on my face. I don’t remember the last time I kissed a woman. Even when I fuck, I don’t kiss them. I never want to. Her though, I don’t know what the fuck it is with her, but she makes me want to.

  She makes me want. Period.

  And I decide to take, just this one little thing.

  I close my mouth over hers. Our eyes are open and I kiss her, just her lips at first, soft and slow. I swallow her gasp of surprise and take it deeper, touch my tongue to hers. I’m testing, seeing if she’s going to let me or if she’ll bite. I hope for her sake she won’t, and she doesn’t. She’s lying still beneath me, her struggles having ceased, and staring at me with those eyes like the fucking desert, vast, and golden and forever.

  I moan, tasting her mouth. My hands find hers, close over them, and I think I’m going to disappear in this kiss.

  I draw back and look down at her. Her lips are swollen and she’s breathing hard.

  The night of the auction—I bought her. I still catch myself trying to figure out what I was thinking. What I thought would happen. I knew the instant I called out the number, the one that had everyone stop and turn, I knew I’d fucked up. That I’d fucked it up for my men. I remember knowing in that instant it was a trap. That I’d been played. That was when the first explosion had blown out the wall behind me.

  “Zach?”

  I shake my
head, open my eyes. I guess I’d closed them. I know it’s PTSD. I don’t have the nightmares anymore, but that’s only because I don’t sleep. Instead, I have these moments, these flashes of memory flooding back, and every time, I relive that night. The whole of that night, or as much as I can remember. And every time I get a little piece back when I do. Like suffering through it again and again is the price I have to pay to get new bits of memory back. Like my brain doesn’t think I can handle it all at once. And maybe I can’t.

  Or maybe I’m a coward because part of me doesn’t want to remember.

  “Zach?” she repeats my name.

  I blink. She sees what just happened, but she doesn’t know what it is. She can’t. I look her over, slide my hands back down over her arms as I sit up, straddling her. I can’t stop looking at her, at her eyes, her mouth, all that skin. Soft and pretty and mine.

  Mine for now, at least.

  My gaze slides to the flesh of her belly.

  She squirms, but she isn’t going anywhere.

  I touch her softly with the back of one hand and make her gasp as I draw my knuckles over the point of her pelvic bone and down the hollow of her stomach. Her panties are soft, dark silk and I swallow as I draw them down.

  She makes a sound, but I don’t look at her face. I can’t drag my eyes from her belly. From the skin I’m exposing. It’s lighter here, there’s a slight tan line. I see a corner of neatly trimmed dark hair and my chest tightens. Her panties are caught beneath her hips and I have to tug once to get them off.

  She’s breathing hard now, and she’s got her legs sealed tight.

  I meet her stare for one instant, then, like a fucking magnet, return it to her pussy. I get up off the bed and slide the panties down her legs and off her feet, tuck them into my pocket before sitting down again.

  “Please. You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she manages in a small, trembling voice.

  But I need to see. I just need to see.

  She lets out a small scream when I touch the hair between her legs, splay my fingers through the mound.

  I look up at her. “I won’t hurt you,” I say.