by Mia Downing
Only her knife didn’t want to clear the sheath inside her boot. She struggled, the leather stiff. Damn it, the thing had cleared earlier. Cool and calm was shoved aside by growing panic. John argued with the man at the door, his words unclear but louder.
Whatever she did had to happen during this blowjob. Once he chained her up, it was over. She’d die the way he wanted her to die, in pain, bloody, screaming. That wasn’t an option. She’d slice her own throat before she died that way. She closed her eyes and petitioned to Aaron’s God, praying that she die in a way that wouldn’t destroy Aaron. Please. Just let the knife slide free.
The knife refused to budge—one more reason to tell God to fuck off. Breathing ragged, she switched to the other boot, her hands under her skirt, begging whatever entity that wanted to listen to keep John from seeing movement as she went deeper into her boot, where her longer blade resided. She could stab him in the chest with that, kill him instantly. It was just fucking hard to get to in handcuffs. Her hands froze as the door closed. Fuck.
“Ah, where were we, Abbey.” The bed creaked under his weight. She could smell him—sandalwood. God, she remembered it now, mixed with the scent of blood. Her blood.
“Look at me,” he commanded softly. The gun pressed to her temple again.
She swallowed a lump in her throat the size of Scotland and lifted her gaze, calling forward some tears for his benefit. His hazel eyes studied her, and a moment later, a slow, evil smile spread across his thin lips. “Frightened, pumpkin?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You should be. There’s no training in the world that can save you now. Handcuffed, fettered, my gun at your sweet head. I could come right here, from the sight. But I want to come between your sweet lips. Keep in mind, you bite my cock and you’re dead. Your actor will die, too. You don’t want that, do you?” He touched her cheek, then her chin, his thumb running across her lips.
“No, Sir.” Her shoulders shook just a little. She let them.
“My shoes.”
She always removed his shoes at the end of each day, kissing the tops of each foot. It was hard to do, her hands cuffed, the range of motion limited, but she did it. She rose to her knees. “I can’t do more, Sir. My hands are restricted by the chains.”
“Is this a trick?”
She showed him that her hands only reached his mid-calf.
“Then I’ll unlock you. But mind, the gun will be at your head. You will please me.” He undid the chain between her hand and feet, then returned the gun to her temple. “Now finish, pumpkin.”
Charlotte shuddered and reached for his belt, her fingers trembling, numb as they unbuckled, unbuttoned, then removed his slacks. He stood just a little to make her job easier, his underwear sliding down his thin thighs.
How funny that she once begged to suck him. His cock was hard, already bobbing for her attention, nothing remarkable in size or shape. It was just a body part, no longer significant. She started at his feet, knowing that’s what he’d want. She kissed his ankle, his calf, now bent over her hands so she could work at freeing the other knife sheathed in her left boot. When she rose to slide her tongue up his inner thigh, the blade slid free. She almost sobbed with joy.
She paused and quickly inhaled some of Aaron’s scent on his shirt. She wanted him to be the last thing she smelled, not blood and sandalwood. Not gunpowder. She kissed John’s other thigh and for a moment allowed herself to pretend she was at the beach with Aaron, the sand in her toes. She was between his thighs, kissing him. Not John. She wanted to die smelling and kissing Aaron.
“I forgot how good you were at this, pumpkin. Come, my cock is eager, too. I want the last thing you taste to be my cum. Of course, my cum mixed with your blood would be lovely, too.”
Charlotte bowed her head, breathed in Aaron’s shirt, and stowed all emotion. She fingered the knife, the handle warm in her hands, the front bolster wedged against her thumb. She had to slice strong, hard, fierce if she wanted Jake to live. She’d only get one slice. Maybe two, if she was fast. Then the gun would go off.
And Aaron would be so proud of her.
****
“No guards,” Aaron whispered to Chase as he peeked into the glass slider on by the patio. Chase was standing guard, since he was the better shot. “A Goth girl sitting in a chair. No one else.”
“Let’s get in, then.”
“Wait.” Aaron looked up—the balcony. “Boost me up there. I’ll try to get in from the top floor, you work your way in from the bottom.”
“Hell, no. You boost me.”
Aaron rolled his eyes. God forbid anyone give Satan directions. “I have no training. I can stand on a balcony and not attract attention. You know how to work a room and fight your way out.” Aaron didn’t want to say he wanted in, now, before she was dead. He had to get in.
“Fine.” Chase shifted closer and cradled his hands, fingers laced together, at knee height. Aaron stepped in and launched himself upward, his hands slipping on the freezing boards buried in snow. His grip held, and he pulled himself up, kicking his boots against the wood support, grateful she’d made him do all those push-ups. He landed in a heap in the snow, the fucking stuff sliding down the front of his shirt.
“I’m up,” Aaron whispered, crouching, his back to the house. “No footprints.”
“I’m going in.” Chase knocked below. A moment later, the door slid open, and he said in an English-accented voice, “Hello, love. Room for one more?”
Aaron didn’t hear her answer, but Chase must have stepped in because the door shut behind him. He rose, dusted the snow off, and inched along the short balcony to the end of the house where it turned.
He listened first. Footsteps, coming his way. Fuck. Back against the house he waited, heart pounding, gun in hand. He’d coldcock the fucker. The footsteps paused, right at the corner, then turned and retreated. Aaron crept around the corner and sprung, smacking the tall, muscular dude on the back of the neck with the barrel of the gun.
“What the fuck?” the guy snarled, whirling.
Shit. They went down easier on a movie set. Aaron hit him again with the gun, upside the head, and the guy groaned and started to go down. Aaron shoved him against the railing then over the side. The guy fell, landing on his back in the snow, out cold.
“Jesus,” he whispered, stunned. Maybe a little proud, because he just knocked out some dude bigger than him, with scant spy training. He could do this.
Now, for Charlotte. Back to the wall, he crept along, sliding to the next door. He peeked in—nothing. He dashed to the next bit of wood and flattened his back again, heart pounding harder. She had to be here, somewhere.
He decided then, if God would listen, then he should pray. Hard.
Please God, let her be here, alive.
****
“Abbey, I won’t ask you again. Suck it.”
Charlotte trembled under John’s command, unable to slide forward that last inch and give him what he wanted. Humiliation tinged her cheeks hot and sweat beaded along her brow. To suck this evil man in front of Jake…
She shuddered, grateful it was Jake.
She summoned her last bit of balls from deep inside her, took the knife into her hand, and inched forward. Rising to her knees, she closed her eyes and let her mouth fall to his groin, kissing the crease where his thigh joined. That’s where she’d slice, right there. She ran her tongue from groin to hip, then back down again, raining kisses through his pubic hair.
John sighed and buried his free hand in her hair, the barrel of the gun cold against her temple.
A blast of cold air hit her, robbing her of precious breath. John tensed under her, the gun pressing harder into her skull. From the corner of her eye there was muzzle flash and a shot, the shadow behind the gun familiar. A rapid second shot, a third, and John’s body jerked away from her. John’s gun lifted from her head and he fired back, the shadow lurching.
Aaron.
“No,” she screamed as Aaron went down in the d
oorway to the balcony, hand over his chest, hitting the floor hard. John started to rise, and she thrust the knife, stabbing home deep, slicing along his groin.
“Fuck!” John fired again. This bullet grazed her temple, and she wheeled away, the pain blinding. She sank to her knees, her head on the floor, blinded by a stream of blood.
“Fucking bitch!” John shot again, the bullet flying elsewhere in the room. Jake moaned into his gag, and Charlotte knew he’d been hit. John fell to the floor, pulling the sheet from the bed, fumbling to stop the flow of blood. “Fucking bitch,” he moaned, terrified.
She was blinded by the blood. Hers, John’s. So much blood, the smell cloying, mixing with the scent of sandalwood. Footsteps hammered down the hallway, more gunfire, and the door cracked, slamming back.
“Fuck, Charlotte.” Chase crouched at her side, wiping at her forehead.
“Aaron. Jake,” she whispered, curling into a ball, in so much pain, needing to know they lived. “Help them.” A flurry of motion surrounded her as Chase rose and someone else crouched at her side.
“Charlotte. Baby,” Aaron crooned, hands on her shoulder. “I faked getting hit. I’m fine.”
“Save Jake,” she said on a sob, relief mixing with her fear. He couldn’t die without knowing she loved him, too. Just as much as Chase.
“Chase is with him.” Aaron pulled her onto his lap. He used something to wipe her eyes, touching her temple, pressing at her wound. “Jesus, he shot you.”
“I’ll live.” With growing horror, she realized she would live. If she lived, Chase would send Aaron away. She’d be alone again.
“No,” she whispered, terror building, ripping through her gut like a separate bullet, the one she wanted. “Please, help me die. I’m supposed to die.”
“You’re going to live, and it’s going to be fine,” Aaron whispered, rocking her back and forth, holding her head against his chest as he pressed cloth of some sort to her injury. “You have to live, for Jake.”
“They won’t let me keep you.” The world spun, hard and heavy, unconsciousness a breath away. She fought it. If she closed her eyes, Aaron would be gone to her. Forever. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’m so proud of you,” Aaron said against her ear. “I love you so much, Charlotte.”
The darkness swirled harder. He was proud. He loved her. She closed her eyes and relaxed in his arms, letting the darkness come to claim her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Charlotte, wake up. Please? I said please.”
Bloody hell. The beeping annoyed Charlotte. It pissed her off so much she refused to follow Chase’s annoying command that wasn’t any more polite than the racket, despite saying please. Always with the fucking beeping, keeping perfect time with the pounding in her head.
“Charlotte.” He lightly slapped her cheek. “I know you’re awake. You just muttered, ‘Bloody hell.’”
She’d said that aloud? What else had she shared? She cracked open an eye and slammed it shut immediately, groaning again. “Too much light.”
Click. “Try again.”
Through the forced slit in her eye, she could make out Chase’s weary face looming over her. She licked her dry lips, her mouth tasting metallic and not at all pleasant. “Where am I?” She glanced around the dim, stark room and realized she was in a hospital bed, an IV in her arm. Again. How many times had she landed herself here in the past five years? Too many. “Never mind.”
Chase frowned and touched a cool hand to her forehead. “Do you remember anything?”
She slammed her eyes shut, squeezing. Something resembling fear churned up, warning her the past was not a place she wanted to journey. Not one bit. Which scared her even more because she was cold, hard, and mean. What would there be to fear? She licked her lips again and was very sure she’d vomit if Chase didn’t leave her room. Now. “Sure. I remember everything. Go get me a drink.”
“Char. I’m serious. Do you remember?”
“Drink, Chase. Please?”
He sighed and his clothes rustled as he turned. A Clydesdale would make less noise in her room. Chase’s boots clomped across the tile. The door clanked open, and his deep voice called down the hallway. The door clicked shut. His citrusy scent lingered and mixed with other, disturbing smells that made her stomach churn harder.
The door opened, and Chase’s boots tromped back across the tile, squeaking this time. Charlotte winced.
“The nurse is bringing you ice chips.” His hand smoothed her cheek, and she wanted to flinch. Why? That wasn’t like her. Chase was her favorite. She usually lived for his touch and approval.
“Good,” she croaked, her eyes closed again.
“Jake’s going to be okay. The bullet hit the ropes around his chest, slowing the speed and changing the course of the shot. He had to have surgery, but he’s going to be fine. No lasting damage.”
Jake had been shot? A part of her knew this, though, probably the same part that wanted Chase out of her room. Damn it, where was the nurse? “That’s wonderful.”
Something squeaked, and his clothes rustled again as he must have sat in a chair close to her head. His cool hand found hers, and he held it, his thumb smoothing over knuckles. “Char, John’s dead. Do you remember that?”
As if a flood gate opened, the truth flooded her mind, the memories surging in a quick and brutal assault. The party, John, gunshots, and her knife sinking into his flesh. And Aaron…her sweet punk firing two bullets and then pretending to be shot, all so he could hold her at the end.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, fear and panic overriding any sense of calm and order. The pain that part of her had been shielding her from hit her full force. She forced her eyes open to search Chase’s gaze. “Aaron?”
“He’s fine, and you’ll be proud. His two bullets killed John. He succeeded in spy camp, after all.”
Oh no. Any part of her that would be proud shriveled up and died. Her gentle punk had killed a man with training she’d given him. He’d truly become what she had feared all along—her. She struggled to sit up, her stomach rolling with bile. “Where is he?”
Chase eased her back into the bed. “He’s fine. He’s with Jake.”
Raw, bitter agony shredded the armored layers of her soul, flaying the cold, hard, and mean with memories of her sweet punk. How much would he have to pray to his God to live with what she’d made him become? “I need to see him.”
“I’m sorry, you can’t. You know it’s for the better, Charlotte.”
“No. I need him.” She struggled to yank her hand away from his stronger one, everything brave and fierce in her withering up, too.
“He’s going home tomorrow. I have a security detail for him just in case, and he will be eligible for therapy if needed. I have it all arranged. You just need to heal and everything will be okay.” He bent and kissed the back of her hand, his cologne cloying. “You did it. John is dead. You killed the motherfuckers and lived. I’m so proud of you.”
Funny how Chase’s pride was the last thing she now wanted or needed. Her breathing accelerated, coming in short, anxious pants, and the sheet crumpled in her tight fists. “Please? I need him.”
“It’s over. You have to heal. You need to see the therapist again. We’ll find you a new path and purpose, one you can live for and be proud about. Understood?”
“No.” All paths would lead her away from Aaron.
“Charlotte,” Chase warned, his tone stern and sharp. “This is for the best and you know that. Find the dragon inside you and embrace it. He’s Texas oil, you’re European mineral water. The two just don’t mix.”
Was it for the best? The pain in her head throbbed with the ache in her heart. There was no way Aaron could truly love her now, not when he’d finally seen what she was, what she’d do for her job. She felt the cold, hard, and mean sink instead of rise, leaving her with an empty shell that reminded her way too much of Abigail. Unable to fight the sensation and Chase, she did what Charlotte would never dream of doing. She
surrendered.
“Yes, sir,” she whispered, suddenly feeling small and defenseless.
“Good girl. I’m so proud of you,” Chase murmured.
“I think I’m going to be sick.” And in true, weak, Abigail fashion, she fumbled for the basin on her table and hauled it up to her chin. Charlotte was never ill, not from anything, yet here she was, barfing her brains out.
Chase held her hair, whispering, “It will be okay. You’ll see. Everything will be okay.”
No way could anything be okay. Not now.
****
Three weeks later…
The front door of Charlotte’s apartment opened, and the keys hit the kitchen counter a breath later, just like old times. Jake was still recovering from the gunshot wound he’d received during their battle with John and wasn’t cleared to drive yet. Charlotte curled up in her bed, tensing as she waited for Chase to come in and start hounding her to get out of bed so she could get her ass back in gear.
She curled tighter on the bed and squeezed her eyes shut, going back to the dream she’d been living since Chase had brought her home from the hospital. Her on the beach, with Aaron.
Chase had proclaimed she was depressed. Maybe she was. It was a hell of a letdown to prepare oneself for death for five years only to live. She had welcomed the return of the depression and sadness that had once been her friend. With the sadness came the silence, the refusal to talk. Even fuck you was by far too much energy.
She’d become Abigail again, small and lost, with not a single shred of Charlotte in sight. No dragon, no fire, no cold, hard, or mean.
How could she live that way?
Unlike the Abigail of the past, suicide wasn’t an option. That news would get back to Aaron, and it would hurt him. Never mind what it would do to Jake. Chase…she didn’t care about him.
