Variations (Base Branch Series Book 9)

by Megan Mitcham

  “Marina, I’m—” Her gasp cut him off.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Later. Any movement is going to aggravate your injuries, but I’m going to try my best not to hurt you.”

  She mumbled something in Swedish. He rewound and pressed play again. Conjugated the Finnish verb. Guessed on the second word.

  You’d be the first. She’d said, “You’d be the first.”

  His heart parachuted out of his chest.

  Oliver slid an arm behind her back and under the hook of her knees, careful not to touch any of the large bruises or open wounds. The gauge of his temper pinged red, and he wanted nothing more than to rip the building from its foundation and toss it into the ocean with every member of the Brotherhood inside. He wanted to hear their scream and pleas, their chokes and gurgles.

  Marina grabbed the thin pillow from the bed and clutched it to her chest like a talisman. His heart’s parachute gathered holes and plopped his flailing organ to the cold, hard ground. Oliver moved his hand from her legs and used his thumb and forefinger to pull her gaze to his.

  “I won’t be the last. No one will hurt you again. Trust me, Marina. No one.”

  Her wide eyes stared back, unreadable. He could always read people. Until today. He repositioned his arm under her legs.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “My name is Oliver.” He usually ended with a smart hook or innuendo but couldn’t with her. Didn’t want to.

  “Oliver.” His name sounded so sweet on her lips.

  He pulled her to his chest. Every place she touched him burned, searing him to the soul. As fairy tale fucking stupid as it sounded, he knew he’d never be the same. Already wasn’t.

  A flurry of shouts erupted from the front of the bar.

  Dread crept up Oliver’s nape for the first time. His skin crawled, and he hated the awareness, the realization that these war games weren’t goddamned games at all. It took a hundred pound, sopping wet woman to knock home the lesson his buddies had been trying to teach him for years.

  Oliver moved to the door and placed his back against the wall. He leaned close to Marina’s ear. It wasn’t the first time he’d used the tactic, but it was the first time he felt like a dickhead about it, though.

  “This is going to sound rude, but I have to shift you. I need you to wrap your legs around me and hang on. Need a free hand to shoot.”

  “Give me a gun,” she ordered in a faulty voice. “I can shoot.”

  “Not a chance, Beauty. When I shoot, I don't miss.”

  Beauty? Where’d that come from?

  “I don’t miss either.” Her narrow chin jutted.

  “I’m afraid of that too.”

  A shiver stole her pride and left her dancing in his embrace.

  “I’ve got you.” Oliver pulled her even with his chest and draped her arms over his shoulders. He thanked God for the pillow between them. Without it, he’d have been chest to chest with the pointy little nipples that tented the fabric of her wet shirt. He hugged her waist, keeping her sores off his small tactical belt, and tried to think of the embrace as an anchor, not a hug. It didn’t work. She fit too perfectly.

  “Here we go.”

  He eased to the doorway and checked the corridor. Clear. They moved out toward the back door.

  “Sluta var du är.” The words didn’t translate, but the oh-no-you-don’t tone did. At least a bullet hadn’t said it for him.

  Fingernails dug into his traps, and Marina whimpered. The man had signed his own death certificate, but he just didn’t know it yet. No one would scare her ever again.

  Oliver pulled up feet shy of the rear exit. No sign of Hunter. Out front, the mob continued to brawl. If Oliver shot, they’d hear it and come running. Marina’s leg clamped over his blade. No way could he go hand-to-hand with the piece of shit with her plastered to him.

  The dead man barked another string of orders he didn’t understand. Oliver turned slowly to the left. The man wasn’t armed, unless you counted his arms, which were about as big around as Oliver’s thighs.

  A crack-pipe plan—as Cord liked to call them—took shape. Hey, it worked in the movies. And they were always so accurate. Right. A foursome was not all they made it out to be. Too many body parts to count and way too confusing to enjoy.

  “What was that? Sorry, I don’t speak Wookie. Wish I did, but what are you gonna do, spend eight hours a day studying a language only five people in the world speak? And those five people are pretty fuckin’ crazy to devote that much time—”

  The man snarled a string of curses—most of which computed—and headed toward them. His big arms gestured for Oliver to release Marina.

  Oliver placed the barrel of his Sig against the pillow.

  “No,” Marina shrieked, but the breathless word came out as no more than a faint cry.

  “Trust me,” he whispered. No way would he release her or shoot her.

  He pulled the trigger. The bullet zipped through the pillow and into the man’s oversized neck. He’d been aiming for the head, but it’d work. A boom echoed in the small corridor, but only a fraction of what it normally touted.

  “Sweet.” How about that? No thunder of boots headed their way. No one else screamed for him to release Marina.

  Strike that. A pair of boots ghosted down the staircase that let out at the back door. Oliver positioned to pillow fire once more, hating that they were exposed in the hallway and that his back was now to the bar front.

  The second the boots crested the landing, he lowered the gun and pushed a shoulder to the back door. Hunter joined them, gun at the ready, gaze surveying the pillow hole and the dead guy on the floor.

  “Let’s get her out of here.” Oliver stepped out into the fading sunlight, clutching Marina to his chest, and his friend followed.

  4

  Even though he’d repositioned her to cradle against his body, with every step the man took, pain blossomed anew. It grew rapidly expanding vines and rooted deep into Marina’s marrow. After a year of slow starvation, there shouldn’t be much from which it could feed. All that remained was her hope—bright and brilliant in the darkest of moments. The pain latched to it, sucked and gulped, banding around it and threatening to blot out her optimism.

  Her cheek rested against the unyielding expanse of Oliver’s chest, the first comforting warmth she’d experienced since Cara. A tear slipped down her cheek, camouflaged by perspiration. Sure, there had been hot breaths and sweaty thighs on her cheeks that first year, but they hadn’t been comforting or welcomed. They’d been hard fought, hard won battles for each man to whom the Brotherhood offered her.

  Even now, the warmth hadn’t been exactly welcomed. Had Stronghold sailed to her rescue, things would be different, but these guys weren’t Stronghold Securities. Marina didn’t know who they were or what they wanted with her or Tor. From the looks they offered when speaking of the man, they wanted him spit roasted for their supper. But why? Had they negotiated a deal with him gone wrong? Was she to be their bargaining chip?

  She didn’t want to leave one captor for another.

  “Here.” Oliver lifted her toward his partner, a bull of a black man who surprisingly scared her a lot less than his counterpart. They slowed their steps in front of a white Audi A6 with boldly contrasting windows.

  In the car’s onyx reflection, Marina caught the first head-to-toe glimpse of herself in 390 days. Every cell in her body cringed at the sight. No wonder he’d tried to pawn her off. She looked like a double-drowned rat, and he didn’t look like the type of guy who liked rats.

  “No.” His friend shook his head, pulled a set of keys from Oliver’s pocket, and rounded the car. “I’ll drive. You hold her. It’ll hurt her less than changing arms or putting her in a seat.”

  Oliver’s long huff skated over her neck and plunged between her breasts. It was so different from the men’s grunted puffs, and somehow, it hurt worse. Marina huddled into her tattered pillow, hoping not for the first time th
at his bullet hadn’t hit any of the vital things she’d squirreled away in there.

  The black man opened the door from the inside and Oliver shrank them into the backseat. He eased his arm from her legs, pulled the door closed, and pressed the locks.

  “You’re freezing and burning up.” His big hands gingerly positioned her on his lap. “How long have you had a fever?”

  “Why do you care?” Marina couldn’t tamp the sarcasm in her voice.

  “If it’s been too long, you’ll need a doctor.” Calluses pressed to her forehead. She’d be surprised he could feel anything through those rough fingers. “It’s almost high enough to warrant a doc.”

  “No doctors,” she croaked.

  “If you—”

  “Doctors will report abuse. Then there will be police. No police.”

  “Okay, Bonnie. No police.”

  She eyed him.

  “Bonnie and Clyde?” Oliver’s brows ratcheted toward the car’s roof. He pried the pillow from her fingers, laid it on the seat, and rested her calves and feet atop it.

  Marina just stared.

  “Never mind. Not important. Hunter, hand me your jacket.”

  Hunter. Now, she knew both their names. Hell of a lot of good that did her.

  His partner handed back a thick jacket that looked a little like the clouds of heaven or maybe hell. The thing was black leather, after all. Oliver draped it over her legs, tugged it over her shoulder, reclined in the seat, and settled her against his torso. Oliver didn’t treat her like a captive.

  Hunter pulled away from the curb and rolled through the maze of streets.

  Full contact with corded brawn should have sent her scrambling. Instead, her frail muscles melted against his radiant heat. She didn’t want to nestle into him because she didn’t know him. She didn’t like how her body reacted, sinking into him like he was a down comforter. Only there was nothing soft about him. Even apart from the physical, the stalwart man stood behind a medieval fortress of mental defenses. Then there was the whole he-killed-a-guy-without-blinking thing.

  Despite it all—maybe because of it all—Oliver felt good, all hard protective man.

  But he was a man.

  Marina’s eyelids threatened to close as the quiet purr of the engine rumbled. Too soon for her comfort, they slowed on a street with outrageously priced townhouses. They were practically famous in the city because three of the units in the ornately appointed buildings had garages, which was unheard of in a place where the waitlist for an apartment was upward of ten years.

  Hunter pulled into a garage of a regal townhouse. She tensed. Her eyes roved, looking for an escape. Had they brought her to their boss? Who was he? Better yet, who was she kidding? Maybe two years ago, fresh off Momma Cara’s boot camp, she could have kicked some butt and managed a daring escape, but now, against two men built to battle, she had no chance.

  “Hey?” The rough pads of Oliver’s fingers pulled her gaze to his once more. His touch was tender and sweet, but his eyes were terrifying. Beautiful blue like the Baltic Sea and as raw and untamed too. “I promised; we won’t hurt you. No one will again.”

  “Promises are made to be broken,” she breathed.

  “Not mine. Not his.” His raging eyes flitted to his friend, who rounded the car, and then returned. “Trust me?”

  He’d asked for her trust before, but she couldn’t give something she didn’t have. It’d been shattered long ago.

  “Trust me.” A hint of pleading seeped into his voice.

  Her heart sank, which was the first reaction anyone had gotten from it in quite a while. With no platitudes to offer, she gave the truth.

  “I can’t trust anyone and no one can trust me.”

  5

  At least, she was honest.

  Oliver glanced at Hunter, who’d opened the car door in time to hear the declaration. Tension thickened the air. What was the saying? When people show you who they are…believe them. What should you do when they tell you? According to Tucker, she’d shown her true self by turning on Cara.

  They needed details to the story and fast. But first, if they were going to keep her alive, they needed to get her pumped with antibiotics and tend to her wounds. Tyler was their go-to battlefield patchwork man. Too bad he was busy getting himself patched up after enduring a similar fate as Marina at the hands of the Brotherhood.

  Oliver stood.

  “My pillow,” Marina squeaked.

  “Forget it. We’ll get you a better one,” Oliver said.

  “Or twenty. This place has more than you could want.” Hunter shooed at the dingy thing in question and moved to close the door.

  “Please, it’s all I have.” Marina’s plea sliced Oliver wide open. Hell, she could have anything she wanted asking in that pitiful voice.

  He exchanged a look with his friend.

  “I’ve got it.” Hunter rolled his eyes, snatched the pillow off the seat, and shut the car door.

  Oliver maneuvered him and Marina toward the house. A grimace pulled his features as if he was the one in pain. Damn, he was. Every time he moved, her jaw clenched and shoulders hunched.

  “Ollie, you break a rib?” Hunter demanded.

  “Jesus.” His grimace vanished, replaced with a scowl. “I’m not holding her that tight. Doing my best not to hurt her.” Oliver threw his shoulder into the door that led into a large mudroom.

  Hunter locked the door behind them and set the alarm, but Oliver didn’t wait. He hurried them through a chef’s dream kitchen and into the neatly appointed living room.

  “No, jackass.” His friend caught him there. “You. Did you break a rib? Though, now, it’s a moot point.”

  “How is it moot? What if I broke a rib and I’m bleeding internally?” Oliver shot back.

  Hunter paled a shade. “Stuff it. You’re not injured. But maybe you hit your head somewhere along the way.”

  “What are you talking about? I broke a few ribs. None of them were mine or Marina’s.”

  “Sympathy pains,” Hunter said.

  “What?” Oliver eyed his friend. “You hit your head. You’re not making sense.”

  “You’re not making sense.” Bright white teeth flashed from behind Hunter’s thick lips. “It’s quite the show.”

  Oliver did not have sympathy pain for the sweet, vulnerable, broken woman in his arms. He assessed his knitted brow and labored breaths, and then it clicked. Sympathy pain. What the hell?

  Oliver strode through the white on white on white box.

  “Yep, I feel right at home in these hoity digs. Blend right in.” Hunter snarled at the white floor-to-ceiling curtains bracketing the far wall of windows.

  “Lay that blanket on the rug, would ya?” Oliver nodded to something the homeowner—whoever the hell Branch had leased this place from—would balk at and say something like, “Pardon me, but it’s a throw.”

  Hunter threw the white thing atop the fuzzy white rug that Oliver expected used to have four legs and roam glaciers hunting seals.

  “Don’t put me on that. I’ll get it dirty.” Marina’s bruised arms snaked around his neck and clung.

  “I don’t give a shit about the blanket, Bonnie.” Oliver knelt onto the hardwood and laid Marina on the plush fabric as if she was a charge set to blow. He backed slowly away in a crouch and turned to his friend. “Hunter, stay with her. I’m going to get the kit.”

  Yep, he pawned her off again. Only this time, his retreating form left Hunter no argument. He had nothing against the woman. Quite the opposite, actually. She made him acutely aware of his every move, and he needed breathing room.

  “Kit?” Marina choked on the word, and his steps stalled.

  Her sleepy blue eyes bloated and searched left and right. Jagged fingernails dug into the fabric beneath her. Long, thin muscles in her arms constricted.

  “First-aid kit, Marina.” Hunter crouched, making himself seem smaller, less imposing. A first. He offered his palms like Oliver had. “We didn’t rescue you to hurt you.
We’re here to help.”

  “If you really want to help, let me go.” The bold woman pushed onto a hip. “Release me.”

  “You’re not our captive.” Hunter stole the words out of Oliver’s mouth. His knowing gaze shoved Oliver out of the room down the hall.

  He scored a ruck from the pantry they’d turned into a small armory. Never before had he seen such behavior from someone they’d rescued. Yeah, the bad guys tried to run, but the innocents said thank you so much he started to second-guess the spelling of the words. Well, she wasn’t innocent. That much had been determined. Now, if he could figure out why she’d crawled under his skin.

  “You said no doctors and no police, Marina.” Oliver rounded the corner, carrying a rucksack and an uncharacteristic scowl. It puffed the hair on his upper lip, making him look like a hedgehog. It worked as well as anything to get her attention. “What do you think walking the streets, looking like you do will get you? Attention. Just the thing you’re looking to avoid.”

  “I know how to hide.” Marina’s frail chin jutted.

  “So you’ll hang to the edges of civilization. You can hardly walk. If we let you go now, you’ll be dead in an alley by daybreak. Call it captivity if you want but you’re not going to kill yourself on my watch. How about yours, bro?”

  Hunter arched his brows, and Oliver knew the WTF look. Hunter had never seen him take anything but a playful tone with a woman. He normally handled women with hot stares and slightly inappropriate jokes—until today, apparently.

  “Nope.” Hunter eyed him up and down.

  Oliver did a great job of ignoring him.

  A shiver pulled Marina back to the pallet. The poor woman. Oliver yanked another throw off a tall wing-backed chair and draped it over her. She practically snarled at him.

  He ignored her, set the bag out of her reach, and crouched next to it. The zipper groaned open in the stifled room. Wrappers rustled. A glass bottle hit the hardwood. Hunter stayed crouched by Marina, but Oliver felt his partner’s gaze on his back while he handled the tiny syringe and vial. When he turned around, the color drained from his friend's face. It made shit for sense. Hunter could shank a guy, no prob. Get his hand slick with his enemy’s blood, easy. The moment it came to healing, count him out.