Fracture

by Amanda K. Byrne

  “True,” she agrees. “Enough war. Tell me about Declan. Mysterious man who does not flirt with my sister? I never thought that would happen. Everyone flirts with Zlata.”

  “Not everyone.” Zlata wanders out of her room and throws herself down on the couch. “She gets tea and I do not?” She pouts. When Zlata pouts, she does it in that annoyingly cute and sexy way that you admire and despise at the same time. “But I know why he does not flirt back. You saw them in the club together? Before the bombs blew everything to hell?”

  The three of us shudder, remembering the horrible night.

  “She is right. I saw you. There is a story there, and you do not leave until you tell it.” Mila waggles her eyebrows at me, and the sisters give me their full attention, expectant grins on their faces.

  I groan. “There isn’t anything to tell. We have chemistry. The marriage is for…what, diplomatic purposes only? He’s doing me a favor because I can’t get transport out of the country. I lost my passport somewhere.” Untrue — breaking into the embassy had proven to be futile. The fighting had been particularly heavy in that area since Declan had relayed the plan of attack. With him unable to run or otherwise be of much use, that left me, and the fighting was too intense for me to be able to get near it without chickening out. Even an accusation from Declan that I was a coward and wanted to be miserable for the rest of my life didn’t work. “We’re friends. Sort of.”

  They give me skeptical looks, and Zlata opens her mouth to say something when someone knocks on the door. Grumbling, she slides off the couch and goes to open it, and Mila takes the opportunity to lean toward me.

  “You are not friends with him.” She shoots a quick glance at the door. “Or he is not friends with you.”

  I follow her gaze. Declan had gone over to Murat and Ismael’s before the three of them trooped over here for a movie night, and he stands near the door, blue eyes fixed on me. It’s intense, his stare, full of things I can’t begin to understand and don’t particularly want to. It’ll make leaving him that much harder to do.

  “Whatever,” I mutter and pick up my tea. Then there’s conversation overlapping conversation, giggles, Zlata insulting Ismael and scowling at his impassive face. I’m surrounded by noise. A low hum of humanity, these people I’ve known for months now and what I actually know about them you could fit on the head of a thumbtack. My stomach sours with the knowledge I don’t have time to rectify my mistake. We leave tomorrow, and I can’t cram months of missed conversations and laughter and advice into a few hours.

  “That man.” Zlata thumps down on the couch next to me, ignoring my curse as the tea slops dangerously close to the rim. “You want someone who does not flirt back? Ismael. He is not even worth the effort. Too—” She waves a hand around.

  “Stubborn? Hard–headed?”

  “No. I am those. He is…oh! Complicated!” Her smile lights up her face.

  I snicker. “Men like to pretend they aren’t complicated. You should have seen the look Ismael was giving you a moment ago.”

  She turns so she’s facing me fully, her back to the rest of the room. “And what look is this?”

  “Like he wants to bend you over a table and spank you, then fuck you senseless.”

  Her mouth drops open, eyes going wide with shock, and just as quickly she recovers, a sly grin tugging at her mouth. “Oh. Yes. I can use this.” She plucks the mug from my hands and sips. “Mila always makes better tea than I do. Anyway. Declan looks at you like that.”

  I roll my eyes. “I told you. Chemistry.”

  She continues like I didn’t even speak. “He also looks at you like he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with you.”

  Well, that doesn’t make me feel any better.

  Handing the tea back, she rises and wanders toward the kitchen, pausing to smile up at Declan and rub herself against him. A classic move. Aim for jealousy. Too bad for her, Ismael isn’t paying attention. He’s focusing the brunt of it on what Mila’s saying and he’s actually smiling. The sight is so surprising I can’t help smiling myself.

  “You must do that more often.” Murat sits beside me on the couch. “Makes the sadness go away.”

  “Haven’t had much to smile about,” I murmur and take a sip of tea. “Are you ready for tomorrow?” Murat and Ismael are our escorts. They’re coming along to help carry our crap and try and keep us from getting shot at.

  “Of course.” He sounds offended.

  “You know you don’t actually need to do this, right? We can get there okay.” The southeast border is one I’ve only heard about, never seen, but I’m confident I can find it, even with Declan in a cast.

  “We said we would escort you. We will.”

  I open my mouth to protest some more and think better of it. “Want to tell me why Ismael’s so studiously ignoring Zlata?”

  Murat chuckles. “She drives him crazy. He wants simple. She is not simple. Too wild. She is not good for him.”

  I think of the way she eyed those men at the bar, and I’m inclined to agree. Zlata’s not ready to latch onto one man for an extended length of time. We chat for a while longer, and I tease him about the neighbor woman he’s been avoiding for weeks.

  “You might as well give in, hon. It’s a war zone. I think it gives you license to screw whomever you want.”

  He has the grace to look disgusted. “Why would I want any woman who just lies on her back and spreads her legs? No. She must participate. Ludmila already looks like a dead fish. I do not need to sleep with her to confirm it.”

  Laughter sputters out before I can stop it. “God, Murat, tell me how you really feel.”

  Mila holds up a DVD. “Sit.”

  Everyone finds seats, and Murat moves over to allow Declan to sit next to me.

  Our dynamic shifted on our wedding night. Not forward or backward. More like sideways. He’s quicker to offer comfort when the sounds of war pick up, slower to show affection any other time. Since that night, we haven’t had sex. We talk less. We’re drifting further apart and coming closer together.

  It’s the drifting I hate. It’s the drifting I’m grateful for. The security he offers is easy to mistake for feelings. I thought maybe he cared. Just a little. Now I’m not sure. But I am sure I’m not ready to have feelings for him.

  I wish I were whole again. It would be easier to hold off, to stay away, to not want to give in to the need to curl up against him and have his arms wrap around me, fighting off my demons for me instead of letting me battle them myself.

  As the opening credits roll, the windows rattle with the impact of an explosion nearby. Mila combats the rising sounds of the firefight by turning up the volume on the TV. Zlata inches closer to her sister, the two of them clutching hands. Someone shuts off the lights and Declan looks over at me. It’s a look that says it’s okay to lean on him, to be scared shitless that maybe we won’t make it out in one piece tomorrow. I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around my legs, resting my chin on top of my knees. I’m not leaning on him tonight. Not when I might have to do it to get through tomorrow.

  Maybe he doesn’t know what to do with me. I don’t blame him. I’m not sure what to do with me, either.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’m jostled awake sometime before dawn. Eyes gritty and burning from lack of sleep, I snuggle deeper into the warmth surrounding me.

  “Sorry, lass.” I crack open an eye. My brain wakes up. I’m on the couch. Or a couch. The cushions aren’t quite as lumpy as mine. Declan’s spooning me. If the others can see us, we’re probably giving them the wrong idea, especially after my assertions it’s little more than chemistry and an obligation. Who cares? I’m too damn tired and he’s nice and cuddly.

  Last night swims to the surface. The movie hadn’t ended late, but the fighting had picked up and neither sister wanted anyone to leave. Too dangerous. After much grumbling, Ismael and Murat agreed to stay, sprawling out on the floor. Declan had simply pulled me down on the couch and curled around me, as much
as was possible for a man as tall as he is, and told me to go to sleep. So I did.

  Hard to believe it was only a few weeks ago that I’d badgered him into crawling into an alley with me. Hard to believe that numb and entirely broken woman was me.

  Now he’s trying to unwind himself. “Where you going?” I mumble, clutching at the arm wrapped around my waist.

  He tugs it free and scoots around until he can get his feet on the floor. “I’ll see you at your flat.” My lids drift shut as he rouses Ismael and Murat from their spots on the floor. There’s a vague sense I ought to be more concerned with what they’re doing so early in the morning, but sleep beckons and I’d much rather do that than worry about what mischief they’re up to.

  * * *

  The nightmares are a tumbling mass of images and sounds. Indistinct. Blurry. Yet frightening all the same.

  I jerk myself awake several hours later, lungs primed to scream. I swallow it instead. It’s full morning now, based on the light streaming through the windows.

  “Nora?” Zlata’s standing wide-eyed in the entrance to the kitchen, a mug cupped in her hands. “You are okay?”

  “Are you okay,” I correct, “and yeah, I’m fine.” Good thing she’s not close enough to hear my heart slamming against my ribs, doing its best to break free of its cage. I point at the mug. “What’s that, and is there more?”

  “Greedy.” Mila pokes her head out of the kitchen. “It is for you. Zlata was coming to wake you. It is almost time to go, yes?”

  Unexpected tears prick my eyes, my throat tightening. “Yeah. I think so.” I’m going to miss them. I’ll miss what I could have had if I’d only tried. But grief does funny things to people. It took two years of my life, and regretting it now won’t do any good. All I can do is get out and hope they survive, so we can meet again.

  Somewhere else. Because I there is no way in hell I'll return to this city.

  Zlata crosses the room and hands me the mug, a sad sort of knowing in her eyes. “You will be fine. We will be fine. Everyone will be fine.” Then her familiar sly smile blooms. “Next time we meet, Declan will not resist me. He gets a…what do you call it? A free pass.”

  I snort and bobble the mug. “So how many free passes has Ismael gotten then?”

  She scowls. “I have a new plan where he is concerned. Ignore him. He will come around.”

  “Good luck with that.” I’ve ignored Ismael on more than one occasion. It never bothers him. In fact, I swear he prefers it. I gulp down a mouthful of tea. “Ow. Fuck.” Setting the mug on the floor, I push to my feet. “Thanks for the tea, Mila, but if it’s as late as you say it is, I need to get going. I have a few things left to pack.” The small portion of Ryan’s ashes. The photo I rescued from our old flat. A couple of books.

  She pulls me into a hug, the embrace tight and strong and fierce. “We will see you soon. Email when you reach Ireland. Tell us about Declan’s home. And Declan.” She gives me a wicked grin.

  Zlata looks worried. “This is not smart. Letting you leave alone. We should go with you, yes?”

  “No, it’s fine. The fighting’s died down, hear?” There’s nothing but the normal noises coming from the street. No shouts, no guns. “It’s not far.” Neither sister looks convinced. They let me go after a few more goodbyes, and I check the street before I exit the building.

  I’ve gone three blocks when I run into Cristian.

  “Nora.” His charm is gone. It’s been replaced by a coolness. Some rifle–looking thing is strapped to his back, and he’s wearing black combat boots laced over heavy black cargos. “You should not be on the streets. Especially if you do not wish to pick a side.”

  “I don’t.” In a fit of inspiration, I grab his hand. “I can’t choose. I just need to get inside. Will you take me home?” A soldier with a gun will keep the errant bullets away, right?

  His gaze travels down, then up, then over my shoulder. “Come. But keep up.” He takes off at a brisk jog, boots beating a heavy tattoo on the pavement. I scramble to catch up.

  We jog at a fast clip past the shops and flats that have been my home for the last two years, the grey and brown stones unwelcoming, yet comforting. There’s been little destruction so far in this part. You’d think it was almost normal.

  Almost. The soldier running next to me is not part of the normal.

  I point out my flat on the opposite side of the street and he gives a stiff nod, checking the street as we cross. Panting a little, I pull open the door to the building. “Thank you.”

  His expression is solemn, the cold soldier’s mask gone. “I would keep you safe. You are too…” He lifts a hand, trailing his fingers along my jaw. “…fragile. Too breakable to be in this war. You are deceptive, and that is why I knew people would tell you anything you wanted to know. You would be a good spy, Nora.”

  He’s right about the fragile and breakable part. One flick and I’ll fracture; another flick will widen the cracks and send me shattered to the ground.

  He kisses my forehead. That’s Declan’s spot. So what if he hasn’t marked it in a while. I suppress a shudder as I ease away, backing into the building and pulling the door shut.

  “Declan?” The living room is empty when I come in. He’d better be here. I don’t think his team will take me and not him, regardless of our marital status.

  Crap. Where did I put our marriage certificate?

  “Declan?” I poke my head into the bedroom. A dirty metal box sits in the middle of the bed, equally grubby clothing piled around it. What the hell is it, and why is it on my bed? Grumbling, I scoop up the filthy clothes and dump them on the floor, then reach for the box.

  “Careful with that.” He chuckles as I spin around. Black hair damp, water dripping onto his shoulders, he hobbles the short distance to the bed, one hand on the towel at his waist. “Didn’t think you’d want to leave without it.”

  Want to leave without—

  I suck in a breath. “What did you do?” My gaze drifts back to the metal box. It’s similar to the one holding Ryan’s ashes, only larger.

  Larger.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to start screaming about desecrating a grave,” he mutters. He hands me the towel he’s wearing. “Here. Wrap it in that and pack it. We don’t have much time.”

  Ryan’s ashes. He dug up Ryan’s ashes. I don’t know whether to yell or cry.

  So I kiss him.

  He stiffens, probably from surprise, before he takes over the kiss, tongue darting out and demanding entry. Sinful, filthy, and all kinds of wrong, not the soft thank you I was going for. I no longer care. I want to climb all over him. Lick the drops of water from his shoulders, his chest, work my way down…

  Shit. He’s naked.

  He groans into my mouth and angles my head, deepening the kiss. A nip, a slide of his tongue, and I forget we’re supposed to be getting ready to leave and press closer. His hands slip under my sweater and inch it up up up.

  The pounding on the door halts his progress.

  Panting and half-dazed with desire, it takes a few moments for my brain to restart. Once it does, though, it doesn’t take nearly as long for me to jerk away and smooth my sweater into place. I hurry from the room, closing the door behind me and yank open the door to the flat just as Murat’s about to beat on it again.

  “Ready?”

  “Almost.” I head to the kitchen and pull the photo from the drawer, stuff it in the bag sitting on the couch, and slip into the bedroom to change my clothes. I don’t have time for a shower, which sucks.

  Declan’s wrapped the box and left it on the bed, and he’s stuffing clothes into his duffle. “They’re here?”

  “Murat is. Don’t know where Ismael is.” Stripping off my clothes, I dash into the bathroom and throw some water on my face, scrubbing down with a washcloth as best I can. Dammit, I wish Zlata had woken me earlier.

  I turn to go back to the bed and run into Declan. “Nora.” He tips my chin up. “We’re not done.”

&nb
sp; That kiss. Too much heat to let it just…go. Images of the two of us twined around each other dance through my mind. No, we’re not done.

  Having any sort of conversation about the state of our sexual relationship while I’m naked, he’s clothed, and we’re about to run through a city under siege shouldn’t be anywhere near my thoughts. The human brain prioritizes as it wants, though, and it’s decided that this conversation needs to happen. It’ll just have to wait.

  I push at his shoulders. “I need to get dressed.” He lets me by, but only barely, my body rubbing against his, his hands roaming over my naked flesh in an insanely proprietary manner. I pretend my skin doesn’t tingle all over and pull on my clothes, folding the ones I’d worn yesterday to toss in my bag. Gathering up the clothes and the towel-wrapped box, I march out into the living room and stuff everything inside, zipping the bag shut.

  Declan limps out with his duffle, and I sling one of his camera bags over my shoulder before picking up my own bag. The three of us troop down the stairs and out onto the street.

  A dark blue two–door stands at the curb.

  I’d been wondering how we were going to get to the pick-up spot. People still drive their cars, Mrs. Vucik’s aside. It's just more and more of them are ending up like hers — a heap of smoking, twisted metal.

  Ruminating over the car and where it came from involves time we don’t have. Murat takes our bags and starts fitting them into the miniscule trunk, and Declan stares at the car, then at his cast. Three tall men, one short woman, and a car not built for people over midget size. Grumbling, Declan climbs into the backseat and stretches his injured leg out as much as he can. The boot knocks up against the back of the passenger seat. “Nora, can you shove that forward?”

  I slide the seat forward and tip the back into place. With Declan’s leg, there’s room for three.

  “Not enough room.” Murat appears at my elbow and offers me a grin. “Ismael will drive you as close as he can get.”