Handcuffed by Her Hero

by Angel Payne

  “Right,” she finally mumbled. “Rayna. Of course.”

  “Truth sucks ass sometimes.” He ran his thumb over her chafed wrist. “But you don’t deserve less, little flower.”

  Irritation flared fast, a rankling reminder of the anger she was trying to ignore. “Don’t call me that,” she spat.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not a goddamn flower, that’s why.”

  This was the point where he’d finally let her go. Some lovely slam involving the words cold and bitch would spill off his poster-perfect lips before he got up and decided to enjoy his evening with one of the little hotties in mall-bought kink wear who’d been eyeing him from the corner. Something she’d never be. Something she never was. A mold fitter. A submissive who couldn’t please anyone.

  She gritted her teeth against the aching heat that pressed in her chest. Shit. Go away; go away. But like a case of violent food poisoning that was coming up the way it went down, she felt the dams of indifference crumbling inside.

  “L-listen,” she stammered, “I appreciate you hanging out with me, Weasley, but I need to—” She swung her feet out, planted them then stood. The blanket chafed her back, making her head swim with dizzy pain. She weaved and prepared herself to hit the floor. She was going to lose it. Damn, she was going to—

  She didn’t fall. Tait and his really significant chest made sure she didn’t. He wasn’t as broad as Z, but what he lacked in width, he made up in boulder-like density.

  “Luna! What the hell?”

  Before she could think of a smart-ass answer to deter him, the persistent dork gathered her, blanket and all, into his arms. She wanted to struggle but the pressure was building faster now, and his body offered all the strength she no longer had. With pathetic desperation, she wrapped a hand around his neck and squashed her face into his shoulder.

  “Get me out of here,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “Hang on, flower.” His voice filled her ear with a matching murmur. His long, forceful strides assured that the buzz of the common room fast faded, followed by the creak of a door, two more of his steps, and the blessed click that sealed them into the privacy of one of the vacated play rooms. A place where she could finally let the dam break and the tears come.

  Through every one of them, Tait gave her exactly what she needed in return. Silence.

  Chapter Nine

  Silence. It wasn’t such a golden thing, especially with Rayna and especially now. The air in the car was thick with all the shit they needed to clear, but Zeke let the muck get worse as he pretended the increasing twists in the road required his complete attention.

  The excuse was weak as piss considering the work of art in his control. The five hundred and fifty ponies under the hood worked with powerful precision, making the Jag stick to the turns like silk on damp skin. Thank God for Max and his generosity. The sooner he got Rayna to the cabin, the better. Mua had come too damn close to taking her tonight, a horror that hadn’t happened because of pure dumb luck. He wasn’t going to let the fuckwad have that chance again. Ever.

  Mua. There was a name he’d thought permanently deleted off his “Assholes I Need to Worry About” list. Now every other thought was scourged again by the slimebag, his smirk a brazen taunt, his voice a cock punch, his eyes a glaring reminder of the number one item on his To-Do list. To recapture Rayna.

  That formed the shit-perfect segue into the crap filling the rest of his thoughts. Irony’s nice little dig. The words Rayna had mumbled before she left the patio, that got him chasing her so he eventually saved her, were still a relentless refrain in his mind. But his efforts at successfully figuring them out were useless, love taps at a door that needed a goddamn boot slam.

  Because your boots aren’t the ones for the job, asshat.

  He grunted. It was fucking frustrating to have an instinct that was always right.

  He slowed the Jag to make the sharp left that would continue them on the Cascades Highway. To their right, the river was immersed in the night’s blackness. To the left, the rain didn’t make the view much better. The few lights that were on at the Buffalo Run Inn and the Marblemount Diner soon faded in the rearview mirror.

  He took a heavy breath. Maybe it was time to end the silence.

  Rayna beat him to the job by ten seconds. “Damn it.”

  He glanced at her. Though she’d only muttered the words, the glow from the smart pad in her lap highlighted every facet of her pained grimace. Max kept the devices around like most people kept sunglasses or breath mints, so it didn’t surprise him when Rayna had pulled that one out from under the passenger seat. She’d turned it on a few minutes ago and had been tapping at the screen ever since.

  “You okay, bird? Are the meds wearing off?”

  Fortunately, it looked like Mua’s goon had meant to induce fear more than lasting damage when he hit her. That didn’t stop the sonofabitch from booking his ticket to the end of Z’s fist if they were ever in the same room again. Tempting as the fantasy was, he looked forward to calling Garrett in an hour and hearing that the FBI had not only thanked his friend for the tip, but had a plan in place to bring down Mua and his network for good. Not being in the thick of that action, even now, made him feel like a fish out of water, but he’d gladly flop around for a few days for the reward of looking into the forests of Rayna’s eyes again and telling her the monster was gone for good.

  For now, just one more glance gave him the answer to his question. She wasn’t okay, but it didn’t seem related to her bruises. She attacked the smart pad with another angry swipe. “If I ever see that dickwad again, I’ll drill him with more lead than I did his brother.”

  He felt his eyebrows jump. Yes, she’d shot King. But since then, he’d seen the woman’s commitment to compassion on shitloads of occasions. Once, he’d tried to whack a field mouse in her garage, only to be pummeled and ordered to set it free in the backyard.

  “Okay.” He cautiously strung out the syllables. “Should I ask for elaboration?”

  She stabbed the screen again. “The bastard only started at KOMO. Every news outlet in the city has the story now.”

  Zeke shrugged. “We expected that.”

  “But they’re all wrong!”

  “We expected that, too.”

  “No!” she protested. “Not like this.”

  He shot a concerned stare at her. There was a sob in her voice and now it scrunched across her face.

  Without hesitation, he pulled the Jag over.

  Once he’d stopped, Rayna curled her knees to her chest, her head on top of them. “I want to kill him, Zeke,” she whispered. “I swear to God, he’s not going to do this to you. Not because of me!”

  A strange calm took over him. He recognized the feeling well. His mind had gone there a handful of times already in his life, on missions when his death was pretty much a given outcome. The soul-deep acceptance had actually been the stabilization that saved his ass all those times.

  From the depth of that calm, he said, “Let me see it, Rayna.”

  She didn’t move. He reached and pulled at the pad. At first she fought him but finally gave way, seeming to comprehend she would never win a tug-o-war like this.

  The screen lit up with the home page for the Tribune. He winced with embarrassment at the first photo they showed, his military ID photo from about four years ago. He looked like he had a pole up his ass. He’d felt that way, too. Further down in the article, there was another picture that didn’t make him feel much better. It was a grainy screen shot from the video footage taken by that pop-up camera man, undoubtedly one of Mua’s wolves in a media fleece. It showed him standing over both of the bastard’s henchmen, the chain still in his hands, violence branded across his face.

  The words between the two photos were an even bigger bog of bullshit.

  Soldier Goes Insane, Instigates Brutal Downtown Beatings

  Two men are in intensive care tonight at Harborview Medical Center after an altercation with a US Army
officer just returned from a stressful overseas mission.

  Sergeant Ezekiel Gabriel Hayes, stationed at Joint Base Lewis-McChord, engaged two men taking a cigarette break outside a downtown nightclub earlier this evening. The men gained consciousness long enough to state that Hayes appeared agitated and angry. They speculated he might have been under the influence of cocaine or methamphetamines. The men’s names are being withheld from the media until their families can be notified.

  He snorted. “Don’t hold your breaths, guys. I hear it takes a while to find ‘family’ in hell.”

  “Not funny,” Rayna snapped.

  He continued reading.

  A friendly conversation apparently became heated when a woman, Sergeant Rayna Chestain, a member of A medical corps unit at JBLM, emerged from the club as well. When Hayes began lascivious advances on Chestain, the two men tried to assist and were assaulted by Hayes. He retrieved a heavy chain from his car, as well as brass knuckles and a tire iron, to continue his attack.

  After incapacitating the men, Hayes forced the woman into another car, tagged by eyewitnesses as a dark blue Sierra truck with upgraded hubcaps and license plate TR01ACY. Though the police have set up checkpoints on all major highways, Hayes’ location is unknown.

  A manhunt has begun, jointly operated by the Seattle Police Department and the Army. Hayes is to be considered armed, well-trained, and extremely dangerous. If identified, do not approach this dangerous suspect. Dial 9-1-1 or—

  He flipped the smart pad’s cover shut.

  Okay, he’d had more comfortable moments in his life. But his anxiety wasn’t due to this cartload of lies. His job, often his very life, depended on using deception and custom-created personas. He just wasn’t used to being public about it. Really public. And dragging someone he cared about into this goddamn spotlight with him.

  “Well, fuck,” he finally muttered. With a sigh, he turned to stash the tablet behind her seat. He was pulled up short on the way back, her stare burning into him.

  “Well, fuck? That’s it?”

  He frowned. “For now.”

  Rayna dug her fingers into his forearm. “How can you be so calm about this?” With her other hand, she tilted his head in order to peer back at his bandage. “This has got to be bleeding again and taking all the fluid from your brain, too.”

  As wonderful as her touch felt, he pried her hands away. “I’m fine. You can check it out in full soon, Flo Nightingale. Just not now.” Though reason dictated that the night was their friend more than foe, he couldn’t get over the feeling that they were exposed as a water truck in the Sahara right now.

  She twisted her fingers into his. “Damn it! This is totally unfair.”

  Zeke looked down at their joined hands. Her tapered nails were painted pink. It was a few shades lighter than her jacket and reminded him of little girl birthday party streamers. “You’re right,” he replied.

  “Damn straight I’m—”

  “It’s totally unfair to you.”

  “No. Wait. I meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” He lifted his head, bringing his gaze inches from hers. She smelled like pink, too. Her cardamom spice had a spun sugar softness wound with it tonight, a sweet contrast to the treated leather of the car. “And I know what I meant.” He untwined one hand to tenderly frame one side of her face. “You should’ve gone to a hospital and been checked out for all this. By now, you should be home in bed, helped to sleep by painkillers, warm in your sheets and dreaming of what Halloween parties you’re gonna go to next week.”

  She huffed. “I don’t know whether to belt you or kiss you, Hayes.” Despite her threatening words, her throat gave up only a rough whisper. “Over half of Seattle is going to think you’ve downed the jungle juice for good and you’re worried about me?”

  He didn’t say anything. Rain began to cascade over the car…and heat sluiced through his blood. It poured from the spigot of her touch and her words. Damn it, when she talked to him like that, husky and low, like sharing a secret just for the two of them…he yearned to make it just that. A moment only for the two of them.

  Not the right way to think right now, man. Not the right thing for you; especially not the right thing for her. You’re stronger than this. You have to be.

  “I think there’s been enough of that belting shit tonight, honey.”

  So much for the dutiful self-talk. And so much for the little parting of her lips, only by a half-inch at best, as if wondering that she interpreted him right.

  Her half-inch was his damn mile.

  In two seconds, he had her mouth buried under his.

  Fuck…yes. She even tasted like pink. Her mouth was a buffet of cherry cream and cotton candy, of spun sugar and whipped meringue, of summer and sweetness in the dark, shitty winter of this night. Of his whole goddamn life. She was more perfect, more delicious than he remembered. More pliant, more responsive, more incredibly open with the passion she gave him in return, spearing its way through his body and straight into his cock.

  His mind flooded with a fantasy. He’d shove the sweats to her knees. Pop back her seat. Order her to turn around and grip it while he slid into her from behind. With his fingers on her clit and his hard slaps on her ass, she’d pulse all over his cock while filling the car with her orgasmic screams…

  That was all fine and good until they broke apart for air. Her face, lighted by the dim glow from the dashboard, was filled with longing, desire, need—

  For all the things he still couldn’t give her.

  You are a selfish, depraved bastard.

  “I’m sorry,” he gritted. “Hell, Rayna. That shouldn’t have—”

  She grabbed his hand before he could yank it away. “It’s okay. It’s more than okay. Zeke, listen. I have something I need to—”

  “It shouldn’t have happened.” He gave the words as if they were a command, issuing it as much to himself as her. While he restarted the engine and gunned the Jag back onto the highway, he set his jaw and concluded, “And I promise you that it won’t again.”

  Chapter Ten

  The weather got worse as they drove another hour north. It was a perfect companion for Rayna’s mood. Her chest was a thunderhead of frustration, her mind on fire with a thousand stabs of angry lightning.

  With a strange jolt, she remembered pizza dough. An uncooked slab of it sat at home in her refrigerator. She was going to make a giant, gooey, pineapple and pepperoni pie as a self-pity snack as soon as she got off the phone with Sally. That had only been six hours ago. She’d almost disconnected the call before Sal picked up, because she began to think the pizza would be enough to help her deal with the weirdness of her feelings surrounding Zeke.

  Shit. “Weird” didn’t begin to describe how she felt now. Conflicted? Probably. Torn between appreciation and exasperation? That one was good. Completely baffled about what she was going to do in the middle of the Cascades Forest with him? Ding, ding, ding. Someone give Sergeant Chestain a prize.

  Just when it didn’t seem the highway could get darker, Z swung the Jag onto a murkier side road. The pavement gave way to gravel and dirt, which had now turned to rain-soaked muck. Mud spattered the car’s windows and front windshield.

  “Is Max going to speak to you again after this?” she cracked with grim humor.

  “He knew where I was going,” Z muttered.

  “The middle of the Haunted Forest?”

  When they rounded the next corner, she winced through an attack of spoke-too-soon.

  Zeke directed the car up onto a paved surface again: a driveway formed of interconnected flagstones. It swept around in a wide horseshoe shape that had a spacious three-floor cabin at the apex. There was nothing remotely “haunted” about it. The deep A-framed building had a glass wall that took up its first two floors with an intricate stained glass pane fitted into the triangle shape of the top floor. The front porch was bracketed by natural stone pillars and contained a spacious swing that was currently protected by a rain cover. H
anging baskets across that area were still surprisingly abloom, brimming over with verbena that seemed impervious to the downpour.

  She felt an instant, welcoming presence from the place. A firm strength, as well.

  Zeke threw the car into park but didn’t cut the engine. He gazed over as if trying to assess her reaction to what she saw. She didn’t try to hide her smile. His uncertainty was a bit different. And a lot endearing.

  “Wow. I get to enter the inner sanctum of the Zeke Hayes private lair.”

  His eyes narrowed by a fraction. “How do you know it’s mine?”

  “Oh, it’s yours.”

  He shot her a nonplussed glance. “Stay here while I get some lights turned on. The entry will be slick in this piss party, and I don’t want you falling into the stream.”

  “Falling into the—huh?”

  He’d already left the car and was sprinting through the rain.

  After a few seconds, lights from the cabin spilled into the torrent. Rayna watched Z moving through the rooms on the ground and second floors, scooting around the furniture with wide and easy steps. He clearly had a comfort level here. She wondered how often he came up to enjoy the hideaway.

  She also wondered who came with him.

  The twinge in her stomach didn’t get time to fester. He was at the car door less than a minute later, bearing a jacket he’d gotten from inside, holding it over her as she got out and started bolting for the house. The flagstones gave way to a wood plank bridge. Sure enough, the din of the rain got joined by the clamor of a rushing stream that she judged to be about fifteen feet below. Also as he’d predicted, the boards were slick. Even in her tennis shoes, Rayna slid and nearly went down. Only Zeke’s hold, solid as a steel pole around her elbow, kept her balanced enough to make it inside on her feet.