Saved

by Angel Payne

  But he didn’t leave.

  As he’d promised, he stayed.

  He lifted his hand to engulf hers, surrounding her fingers plus the ring inside a grip that bordered on crushing. The sight of him consumed her senses with equal effect. She was swept away anew by his rugged beauty, suffocated in the fire of his powerful, unmerciful focus.

  “You’re mine.”

  The words rumbled from the depths of his chest. She was left with no doubt about their intent. They were vows, not just syllables.

  “You’re mine, Sage. Call in any deity or god or spirit you want. I’ll swear by their names and all their fucking saints and angels, too. As far as I’m concerned, it took them all working together to bring you back to me anyway.”

  She parted her lips, wanting to say something, but choked back. She longed to kiss and wring his neck at once. He didn’t make things easier by sliding to the floor next to her, continuing to grip her hand. “You’re not a gift I’m going to waste. I swear by this ring and everything it still means to me, you will be safe. I’ll protect you from any animal, asshole, criminal, or deviant who thinks they can lay so much as a fingernail of harm against you. And yeah”—he finally let her go and crossed back to the window—“that includes protecting you from me too.”

  Sage didn’t shift. At last, she let out a hard sigh. The hard hunch of his shoulders told her he was ready to keep sparring with her, but what good was it going to do? The maddening bear had made up his mind and taken his position. If the poles of the whole damn earth flipped and told him that position wasn’t right anymore, he’d fight to the death for it. Fate had stripped him of getting to do it for over a year, and now the man wasn’t just making up for lost time but doubling his efforts. To him, the stance made sense—because to him, her number-one enemy was only a breath away. His own.

  Fine. If that was the way he wanted to look at things, that was what she’d work with.

  All she had to do now was give him bigger enemies to fight.

  You want to keep me safe, Sergeant Hawkins? That’s peachy by me, baby. Let’s rumble.

  Chapter Seven

  The embassy made the decision to send Sage and Rayna home on a commercial flight instead of a military transport. The news came down early the next morning, and Garrett was packed and ready to head to Suvarnabhumi Airport by three that afternoon.

  On one hand, he was glad they’d be enjoying the marathon-length journey in civilian comfort. On the much larger other hand, he already sensed Sage wasn’t going to let him relax during the next twenty-four hours. She boarded the van with a serene smile and a graceful glide that didn’t match the fuming woman who’d turned her back on him in bed last night, unwilling to hear his explanation about what had happened—or, more accurately, what hadn’t happened—at the Half-Moon. Thinking back on all that now only reconfirmed his suspicion. Sometime between giving him that cold shoulder and this afternoon’s warm smile, she’d hatched a plan of some kind—and something told him he wasn’t going to be happy he couldn’t pound a few irritated fists into the fuselage of a 747.

  The departure from protocol was explained as necessary due to the media frenzy that had developed stateside for the girls’ story. Every major news station wanted their shot of the “‘miracle girls’ return to the living,” and the army, knowing a prize PR op when they had one, had jumped on supplying it. The circus began even at Suvarnabhumi, with CNN, Fox News, BBC, and a few of the other major networks on hand, cameras and microphones recording every step they took to the plane. Garrett, Zeke, and six other guys from the squad were there, dutifully surrounding Sage and Rayna in a sea of US Army dress blue, as they’d been instructed.

  Orders or not, Garrett didn’t leave Sage’s side, not even when she stopped to buy flowers from local children or when she veered off their path to take up CNN’s offer for a wave to her mom on their live feed. When she paused again and said she needed to use the bathroom, he didn’t break stride, forcing her along by the crook of her elbow.

  “We’re twenty yards from the plane,” he gritted into her ear. “You’ll get your chance there.”

  With a deft wrench and eyes flashing like a pissed cat’s, she broke free. Her saucy head tilt did nothing for his tension. He knew that look. It always made him yearn to slam her into a wall and fuck the breath out of her.

  “I have to pee now, Sergeant Hawkins. If you’re worried about ‘protecting’ me in the ladies’ toilet, you’re welcome to join me.”

  For a second, he thought of calling her bluff—but then he glanced at the news crews. The last thing he needed was some cameraman revved on a dozen energy drinks catching a secret shot of him in a pissing match with their darling of the moment.

  He bit out the F-word beneath his breath, let her go, and leaned against the wall. She smiled and sashayed into the bathroom.

  She had him by the balls. They both knew it.

  Three hours later, the scheming little minx didn’t seem inclined to loosen that grip anytime soon. Shockingly, Garrett hadn’t punched any holes into the 747 yet—though that outcome was still subject to change.

  The temptation pressed harder as her husky laugh broke the air again, a response to another joke cracked by Ethan Archer. He’d always liked Ethan—one of their hardest-working squad members despite being male-model pretty—until about an hour ago. The young corporal was pulling out all the stops on his I’m-so-modest-and-you’re-so-cute act, and Sage was doing very little to slow him down. It had worsened over the last ten minutes, when a pocket of turbulence caused some of Sage’s bottled water to dump on Archer’s thigh. The sight of her wiping off the spill in a fretful frenzy had Garrett clutching for his seat belt release.

  That was it. Her stranglehold on his family jewels stopped now. She’d spend the rest of the flight next to him, where he could keep an eye on her conniving little backside until Mount Rainier circled into view.

  As he rose, Archer did too. When the corporal turned, looking for the nearest head, at least three women lifted their heads in open appreciation. Garrett chuffed. Come to papa, Dolce and Gabbana.

  Archer easily observed that the nearest toilet was two rows behind Garrett’s location. The corporal scowled. He knew a showdown with Garrett was inevitable in this direction, but if he beelined for the head at the front of the plane, it was a blatant pussy move.

  Archer turned toward the rear toilet. Garrett made his way to the little service galley past its door.

  “Hawk.” Archer gave him a tight smile. The guy was pretty but not stupid. He had to know what was coming.

  “Hey, Runway.” Garrett deliberately used the guy’s call sign, bestowed by the squad due to Ethan’s centerfold-ready looks. Though Ethan earned it in a more legitimate sense by taking down a drug lord’s helo with a ground rocket six months ago, it was clear at which context Garrett aimed with the label right now. Archer’s wince confirmed he knew it too.

  “Is something up?” the corporal asked.

  Garrett leaned against the bathroom door, deliberately ignoring the question. “You and Captain Weston seem to be having fun.”

  To his credit, Archer planted his stance and squared his shoulders. “Seems like she’s needing a little fun.”

  “Yeah, well…playtime’s over.”

  “She told me you two are taking a break. She also told me it was your choice.”

  Garrett grunted. Two days ago, he’d been gasping against a hundred daggers of grief in his chest. Archer’s words dumped acid onto the leftover scabs. The shit overflowed and stung his retort. “Yeah, that’s probably what she said. That doesn’t mean she’s ready for a goddamn romp on the mattress, man.”

  Archer ticked a brow. “Who says I want to ‘romp’?”

  Acid, say hello to Mr. Matchstick. “I know what you want to do, asshole.” Garrett grabbed the corporal by the V of his shirt. “I know you’re deeper into that kinky shit than Zeke, and you’re already thinking of strapping her down in some deviant dungeon and—”

 
; “The proper term is BDSM, Sergeant.” For some reason, the guy’s composed comeback was more censuring than a cussing rant. “And, when power is properly exchanged by a willing submissive and a loving Dominant, the results can transform people. It even heals them from things, such as being on the run and fearing for their life for a year.”

  “Thanks for the gung-ho on that, Corporal.” He didn’t relent on his hold. “Now keep it the hell away from Sage.”

  Archer returned a careful nod. “Respectfully speaking, it seems Sage is capable of making that decision for herself.”

  “As you brilliantly mentioned two seconds ago, she just spent a year running in the wilds of Africa and then the jungles of Thailand, not sure who to trust or where to go. I don’t think the woman knows what she wants for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  “Ah, but you do. And now that you’re ‘taking a break’ from each other, you know that even better.” The guy tilted his head with that unnerving Zen-like concentration. “Respectfully speaking, of course.”

  It was official. Garrett now wanted to put his fist into Archer’s perfect face more than the plane’s wall. He could practically feel Shrink Sally popping up on his shoulder, pen tapping her chin, ready to “process” crap like misplaced aggression and sideways control issues.

  He gave the doc a mental shove. And firmly refocused on Runway. “You want to bring respect into this?” he snarled. “Good. Go ahead. Respect her—from as far the fuck away from her as you can get.” He unfurled his hand from the guy’s shirt. With less decorum, he jerked open the bathroom’s door. “After you’re done fixing your makeup, plant your ass in my old seat. I’ll watch over Captain Weston from here on in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He ignored the little lip twitch Archer added, knowing it would take his ire to places it shouldn’t be. Not that it wasn’t there already. Not that, deep inside, he didn’t admit that every note of the guy’s subtext hit the nail on its damn head. Not that he didn’t know he was using protectiveness as an excuse for every emotion he had and every asshole move he made—a pair of lists that seemed to be swelling by the hour.

  Sage’s perturbed sigh broadcasted that fact as he claimed the seat next to her. But when he twined his hand into hers, she didn’t resist. He waited a minute. Tightened his hold. She shifted a little but didn’t pull away.

  He turned and narrowed his gaze, not hiding his curiosity. She kept her eyes fixed on the in-flight movie, her brows quirking at the action on the screen. “I had no idea Stallone could still run that fast.”

  He snorted. “Some things haven’t changed.”

  She leaned her head back. “I guess not.”

  He looked down. “Hands,” he murmured. “Not elbows.”

  The corners of her mouth quirked. He was talking about their hold on each other. Usually they twisted themselves together all the way to their elbows. It was a tiny detail she probably thought he’d forgotten.

  “I remember,” he whispered into her ear. “I remember everything, Sage.” He drew back a little before going on, “I also remember this usually meant I was deep in the doghouse.”

  Her lips lifted a little higher. “You have a good memory, mister.”

  Garrett glowered. “Fine. I was an ass to Archer. I’ll apologize.”

  “I’ll give you that.” Her gaze didn’t waver from the small village getting blown up on the overhead screens. Garrett watched the orange and yellow colors reflected in her eyes, though he seriously wondered how many of those fireballs were due to the movie. “But that’s not why you’re in the doghouse, and you know it.”

  He forced a deep breath in. And back out. “Zeke talked to you about what really happened at the Half-Moon, right? You at least listened to him, yes? Didn’t he explain—”

  “I got the whole Zeke Hayes special, okay? You drank. You drank some more. You drank even more. You passed out. You moaned my name.”

  “A lot.”

  “Fine. You moaned a lot.”

  His gut twisted. “And you believe that as much as Stallone doing all his own stunts up there.”

  Her face contorted. Garrett leaned in, taking it as progress. “I believe him, Garrett, okay? I do. It’s just…oh, God!”

  “Ssshhh.” Though his voice was comforting, his intestines still felt like goddamn knots. “It’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right.”

  “Okay, so…what is it?”

  “What is it?” Finally, she jerked her glare at him. As shitty as the look felt on his gut, part of him rejoiced. At least this was her honesty. “What isn’t it, Garrett? You left me in that room at the embassy, wondering what the hell was going on, while you went to that shithole and drank yourself into a stupor…” She trailed off, looking ready to punch him. Clearly, the fact that he’d dreamed of her in that stupor didn’t make a damn bit of difference—and to be fair, why should it?

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Damn right you are.”

  “It was a crappy thing to do.”

  “Damn right it was.”

  A long moment passed. Another. Finally, he sucked up his shit, lifting his free hand to her face. He swiped out his thumb, wiping several salty drops from her cheeks. “I am sorry.”

  She sniffed. “I know.”

  Another full breath later, he plunged on. “But I’m not sorry for what I said when I came back. I meant what I said yesterday, Sage. I’m going to protect you, even if I have to protect you from me.”

  She shook her head. Her face told him she didn’t understand, but he knew what filled the gaze he gave her in return. Knew it in every corner of his soul, every beat of his heart. He’d only have a few more moments to convey it to her, courtesy of the dress blues rules they were already shattering on top of the general “fraternization gray area” bullshit, but if he got ten violations slammed at him, it’d be worth it. For a year, he’d dreamed of this. For every dream orgasm he’d had with her, there were ten fantasies of this. Of having her near, holding her safe, flooding her with a stare full of his love…

  He’d walk through a thousand more slimy jungles for this. He’d throw down his life for this.

  If he lost her again, he’d want to be dead anyway.

  * * *

  In true Pacific Northwest style, the Seattle-Tacoma weather gods broke out one of their best downpours in honor of the girls’ homecoming. It was another lucky twist of fate, because when Heidi was finally reunited with her daughter and the TV cameras zoomed in for their close-ups of the mother and daughter sobbing on each other, nobody paid attention to one Sergeant Hawkins behind them discreetly wiping “rain” off his own face. Rayna had a similar reunion with her brothers, who could easily fill out most of an epic movie cast—even with two of their seven out on deployments. Zeke kept careful watch nearby until something outside the terminal window caused a thunderhead to cross his face, making the clouds outside look like cartoons.

  After making sure a Sea-Tac security officer was instructed not to take his eyes off Sage, Garrett snuck behind the camera crews and stepped next to his friend. “Dude, you look like you saw the spawn of hell himself.”

  Zeke’s lip curled, exposing pure rancor. “I did.”

  “What’re you—”

  His friend cut him short with a rough grunt and a curt nod. Garrett followed the trajectory of that move, looking outside. Their plane had taxied to a gate at the end of the terminal, adjacent to what looked like the airport’s main security operations. Considering who they’d just shuttled home, the move wasn’t surprising. His scrutiny took in a one-story building with a mess of communication equipment on its roof and a swarm of people in dark-blue uniforms both inside and out. There were four standard-issue police cars present, flanking a black van that looked anything but standard.

  Because it wasn’t.

  Standing in the rain outside that van, his wrists and legs chained and his elbows bracketed by two FBI suits, was the man he’d last seen kneeling in jungle grass, busted in the act of
trying to broker women into slavery.

  King.

  If blood could really scream, Garrett was certain his did. As if beckoned merely by the strength of that silent chaos, the asshole below raised his head—and instantly zeroed in on the spot where Garrett and Zeke stood. Like a slow-motion demon, King turned up a knowing grin in greasy increments before licking his lips as if finishing off a juicy steak.

  “Evil” was too good a term for the bastard. So was “worm in the sewer of humanity.”

  Garrett barely controlled the craving to pound the window. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” Zeke rumbled. “But I’m gonna damn well find out.”

  “Good.” It was agonizing to take in a breath. “Good.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “You sure as hell will.”

  “In return, I need a favor.”

  “Make a list of options for killing the guy?”

  Z grunted. “Well, that too. But for right now, Rayna and Sage don’t get told about this, okay?”

  Garrett whooshed out a long breath. “Dude. I’m only out of the doghouse by half a step.”

  “And I need you with me on this right now, G. Please.” His friend tensed, making his body seem like a mountain atop an earthquake. “For fuck’s sake. They both just got back into the States, where they don’t have to jump at every movement in the shadows, or guard their food like they’re prison inmates, or be afraid of breathing for fear of what that asshole has in store for them next.”

  He pivoted, taking in the solid brick his friend’s jaw had become. “Okay,” he uttered. “Valid points. But…that’s not all, is it?”

  Zeke looked ready to take his own turn at smashing the window. “No,” he confessed quietly. “Rayna’s already battling some fucked-up nightmares. Lots of them.”

  Garrett felt his brows jerk. “And you have firsthand knowledge of this already?”

  “It’s not like that, asshat.”