So much for restraint.
“We need intel, not your brand of crazy. No antics, Knight. No vigilante shit. We’ll shut them down but our way. The right way. And I didn’t say anything about beating her. There are other ways to get information. You’re quite adept at coaxing things from women.”
His head started shaking before Tucker quit speaking. Oliver stowed his anger and tried to think. Shit, this was why they needed Tyler. He was the logistics guru.
“Let us bring her in,” Oliver shouted the idea as it formed.
“No.”
“No?”
“Sounds funny, doesn’t it? Don’t defy my orders again or you’ll find yourself breathing through your ears.”
“Why no?”
In the background, Cord barked, “Taylor’s on the line, sir.”
“Put him on line five, speaker,” Tucker ordered.
“Just remember you asked for this, Tucker,” Cord warned.
“Commander Tucker?” A woman’s voice filled the background.
“Who is this? Son of a bitch, I asked to speak to Taylor Strong, not his secretary,” Tucker barked.
“If your male chauvinist ego could step aside for a moment, I’d like to speak with Commander Tucker. The upstanding war hero I’ve heard so much about,” the feminine voice snapped.
Oliver cleared his throat.
“I stand corrected,” Tucker said. “Please give me a minute to get my boot out of my mouth?”
“Certainly. I just hope you didn’t step in dog shit on your way to work. I hear it has an awful aftertaste,” Taylor quipped. Cord laughed.
“Oliver?” Tucker spoke into the phone.
“I’m here.”
“First, don’t mention that to my wife. She’d be liable to lop off an important appendage in the name of women’s rights. Second, you haven’t finished your objectives. Third, she’s a liability I’m not allowing in our house. I suggest you deal with your shit. I’ll deal with Mrs. Taylor Strong.”
“Miss, damnit,” Taylor barked.
“I’ve gotta go.” Tucker hung up, leaving him in the loud silence of phone space.
6
Drool clung to Marina’s cheek. Drool and something fuzzy. Fuzzy was the key in this scenario. She couldn’t remember where she was, but she knew for certain it wasn’t her prison. Bright shafts of light danced in front of skittish pupils. The overhead lights and even the spotlights the Brotherhood had turned on her during the beating were halogen mockeries of the brilliance warming her face now.
Her combusting insides weren’t generating the heat. The light was. She rolled onto her side. Pain catapulted from her thigh, attacking in either direction. It muted the splendor and reminded her exactly where she was and what she was up against. Men more cunning and formidable than the bastards who kept her prisoner had rescued but not released her. They wanted something and knew how to go about attaining it without blood and broken bones. Though, the soldiers probably weren’t opposed to that tact, if things came to it.
Cara didn’t send people places. If she wanted something done, she did it herself. Plus, Marina caught the look Oliver had given his friend when he’d told the lie that Cara had sent them to save her.
Where were they anyway? She couldn’t hear them.
Aftershocks ebbed and Marina’s breathing regulated. Smooth, non-wheezed air shifted in and out of her lungs for the first time in longer than she could remember. High ceilings, ornately carved bookcases and crown molding, expensive baubles, and furniture came into focus. As did a tall glass of water and no men.
Marina lunged for the glass.
A sharp tug stalled her effort.
Adhesive strips fixed a hospital-grade IV to the now graying bruise on the back of her hand. Last time she’d seen the ugly mark, it’d been greenish-blue. She hadn’t been out for long, but the film on her teeth and color evolution told her it had been maybe a day.
Marina eased the silky covers from her body and assessed. The same grimy T-shirt covered her aching ribs and throbbing hip. Around her thigh, a new addition circled. She touched the cotton bandage. Okay. Nothing else looked amiss. But why did she have an IV? They must have drugged her. No way she’d have missed the wound cleaning without it.
The men could appear at any moment. She couldn’t waste the opportunity to escape.
She scrubbed at the drool, planted both hands on the fuzzy rug, and pushed. Quaking started in her arms and turned inward. Muscles, bones, marrow, nerves, and cells all joined in the tremor. Her elbows gave, and her cheek met the rug. Copper accented the stagnation of her mouth. She tongued the re-opened split on the inside of her lower lip. Fresh blood coated the tip.
Wonderful. She was too weak to stand, much less carry out an escape.
Across the room, her pillow sat atop a fancy table that boasted a fancy lamp, bringing the whole ensemble down several notches. A plan formed. Not a great one, but the only one she had.
Get the pillow. Get the phone operational. Get help.
That required movement. Crawling, maybe.
Dry, cracked ridges of abused skin on her lips scratched against her equally parched tongue. Her gaze lingered on the water, all clear and cool in the tall bubbled glass. She swallowed nothingness, wishing it were a full gulp. Her arm extended toward the cup. And if it was drugged…
It didn’t matter. If she didn’t drink, she wouldn’t survive.
Marina’s grip wavered. She doubled down, dragged the glass across the floor, and pressed it to her lips. Fresh, clean water filled her mouth and soothed her throat. She drank long greedy pulls until there was nothing left.
The waft of dry roasted coffee beans alerted Marina. She set the glass on the floor and scanned the room.
Oliver stood on the threshold with a travel mug stalled halfway to his camouflaged lips. If only he’d let down the knot of hair on his head and hide his intense eyes. Over the years, men had approached Marina with anticipation of a good time, indifference, and ill intent. None of their lusty, hollow, or rage-filled gazes registered. Detachment saved her sanity. From the moment this man opened the door to her personal pit of despair, his gaze elicited a response. Elevated heartbeat. Goose bumps. Accelerated breathing. Fight or flight never felt quite like this.
Even wide in surprise, his gaze bore into her, seeking too much and seeing it all.
They hung in the moment for a minute. The minute stretched into a lifetime where everything had a happy ending. Marina ordered her gaze away and the moment passed.
“You’re awake.” His voice rumbled over her skin, warming it a degree.
“Give you a minute with my IV and I won’t be.”
His lips—beautiful, full lips—pursed as he grudgingly nodded. “I deserved that.”
He set his coffee on the table next to her pillow and crossed the room. Marina reached for the blanket. She didn’t possess the strength to scuffle with nor escape him. The least she could do was hide, but the thing remained stubbornly out of reach.
“Here.” His massive hand and corded arm stretched over her.
Her natural recoil didn’t kick into effect. A dangerous sign.
Oliver guided the plush cover up her legs, over her hip, and settled it around her middle. He crouched too close with his knowing gaze. At this distance, in this light, she noticed a spray of light freckles played across the bridge of his nose. They spilled onto his cheeks and dispersed into the blond hair, covering his sturdy jaw. Not for the first time, Marina wondered what he’d look like without the beard.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been drugged,” she snapped.
“How about we say sedated?” His head shook, and he sighed. “Drugged has such a negative connotation.”
“Shouldn’t have done it, if you can’t deal with the connotation, Mr. Big Guns, Big Brain.”
A twinkle flecked in his blue eyes, and one corner of his mouth quirked. Marina’s heart stuttered. Why had she inadvertently complimented him?
“I also have a big—”
“Don’t you dare say penis,” she warned.
His mouth gaped. “I would never.” A hand clutched the rippled edges where his pectorals met. “Heart. Heart. I have a big heart.” He scoffed. “I have a huge penis.”
Marina replayed his words again in her head just to be sure she wasn’t hallucinating, and then her seams busted.
A laugh started in her throat and gathered strength. Oliver’s hairy face spread into a smile. His belly-chuckle warmed the space between them.
Her sides ached but not enough to stop the eruption. Somehow, laughing eased the weight bearing down. It washed away the days spent waiting for the next man or the next beating. Their hands seemed a distant memory as the possibilities of life outside the Brotherhood toyed with her mind.
Tears distorted Oliver’s bright face. Before she recognized what was happening, her giggles had turned into sobs. No. She couldn’t cry, not in front of him. Never show the enemy weakness. Two years in captivity and none of those pieces of shit had seen her cry. Sure, she’d cried, especially when they’d broken the phone she’d snuck into her prison, but they hadn’t known it.
No amount of pep talking stopped the release.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that to you. I wasn’t implying…” Oliver muffled a string of curses.
Perfect. After years of hardening herself to everything, her edges cracked, threatening to spill her into a useless puddle, and he thought it was because he’d said the word penis in front of her.
Marina tried to form words, to tell him he wasn’t the one to blame, but they poured off her lips as hitched wails.
“I wouldn’t put the moves on you.”
No kidding. He was a fallen son of Zeus, and she was a self-starved commodity no one enjoyed. That had been the goal. It had been her only source of control in the whole cycle. Vain though it was, since she’d seen her reflection in the car window, it seemed a steep price. Once upon a time, she was pretty. And look what it had gotten her.
She sank into her palms. Her concave belly quivered with each shuddered cry.
“Come on, Bonnie. Shhhhh.” His warm fingers sank into the hair at her temple and smoothed it back. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m a crazy clown, and I’m sorry.”
Her tears continued to pool in her hands. It didn’t seem to matter what he said or what she told herself because her body chose that moment to come unglued.
“I’m sorry we didn’t come sooner. Years sooner.”
Oliver smoothed his hand over her hair, again and again, ordering each strand. He whispered tales of all the horrible things he’d like to do to her captors. He shushed her and called her by the pet name she shouldn’t like but did. His other hand held her head while he stroked easy caresses over the blanket down her back.
Slowly, her breakdown abated, leaving her eyes as puffy as they’d been after her beatings. She wiped away the moisture but remained hidden, too ashamed to show her face.
“Bon, I’m an idiot, but I’d never hurt you. I’m not like those bastards.”
At that, she turned. His whiskers grazed her cheek, and she gasped. His eyes were even more intense in close proximity. A ring of sapphire contained explosions of cobalt and shards of sky blue around a black pupil. Long blond lashes softened them enough to allow the words Marina so desperately needed to say.
“I know you’re not like Brödraskapet.”
“Good.” Thick lips pressed together. “Then why the tears? You’re not a crier.”
“You don’t know me.”
“No.” He eased back an arm’s length, but it wasn’t far enough to regulate her heartbeat. “But I can usually read people.”
“And what do you read about me?”
“You’ve been forced to make tough decisions in your day, and you did the best you could.”
Cara.
Smooth, really. Comfort her, get her on his side, and then casually bring up the topic. Why beat her when he could woo her with those magic eyes and hard, protective body?
Marina twisted to reposition and put distance between them. A stabbing in her torso stole the air from her lungs along with her words.
“Your ribs.” His practiced hands braced her under the arm and laid her straight back.
Lovely. The pain fled, but the oxygen level in her body remained the same, held captive by his closeness.
“I need to examine them. The more you move around, the greater the risk of them shifting and puncturing something I don’t have the tools to deal with.” His gaze flitted over her hair and the dirty shirt. “You’ll probably want a bath first.”
Cold sweats rolled over Marina’s skin. Yes, she wanted to be clean. More than a week without the sponge and bucket they normally allowed her, she wanted it as much as she wanted a räkmacka all to herself. The thought of bread and boiled shrimp had saliva pooling in her mouth. Just like the thought of a good and proper shower made her want to dance.
She couldn’t crawl, much less dance or bathe herself. As vulnerable as she felt huddled under a blanket next to this man, she didn’t want to be naked in front of him.
“Where’s Hunter?” She didn’t necessarily want to be naked in front of him either, but of the two, he was safer.
“Out.”
“Out as in asleep or not here?”
He studied her and remained silent. Right, she’d told him not to trust her. Here he saw obeying, and it chapped her ass. A pout formed without her permission.
“You’re cute when you’re mad.”
Cute? Earlier he’d called her beauty. It had to be no more than a pet name, like Bonnie, because nothing was beautiful about a bag of bones. And a dirty one at that.
“I’m hungry.”
Oliver’s eyes lit. He eased back and rubbed his palms together. The sandpaper on sandpaper chaffed. “I don’t know who Tucker had to blo…” He huffed and dragged his hand down his beard. “Sorry. I don't know how the director got this place, but it had a stocked freezer. I’m heating pancakes, but they don’t look like regular pancakes. I also put in a pan of sausage and dill potatoes, and I’m thawing a tray of poached salmon and one of Skagen. I didn’t know what it was or what we’d like.”
“It all sounds wonderful.”
Skagen sounded like harps strumming and angels singing. All of it did, really. Plus, the move stalled the bath talk and got him out of her make-me-stupid zone.
7
When Marina forked the same dill-covered diced potato for the third time, it crumbled from the silver utensil halfway to her mouth and confirmed his suspicion. The two halves of the white vegetable landed on either side of her plate. Her split lip parted on another pout. God, he hated the split but loved the pucker. What a fucking lecher. He’d better get used to pop and sizzle because it was SOP for where he was spending the afterlife.
Oliver’s gut burned when he thought about how the woman had been used in so many awful ways, but here he was, covering his crotch with a napkin and praying she didn’t notice his burgeoning hard-on.
No freaking wonder she’d barraged him with questions about Hunter and when he’d return.
“You’re stalling.” He grabbed his long empty plate, her half-eaten one, and headed for the kitchen.
“Am not. I just can’t fit as much in my belly as I’d like to.” A balled silk napkin hit the back of his head and plopped to the floor. “Bring that back.”
“I’ll give you a shirt to wear in the tub.” He rounded into the kitchen but called back through the doorway. “Not a white one.” After storing the leftovers, scraps, and dishes, he returned to the dining room. “And I swear I’ll try my best not to look.”
“I don’t think you’ll look.” Marina’s gaze hit the dirty shirt knotted between her fingers and her upper lip curled. “There’s nothing to see.” Her small hand gestured up and down her body.
The hell there wasn’t.
Sure, she was dirty, beaten, and skinny, but an inner strength permeated thro
ugh, outshining everything else. Oliver could see all she was and all she would be, given time and attention.
“You’re just…” Her pointed jaw shook.
“What?” What was he? A pervert. Scum of the earth. A total and undeniable dirtbag. Yes. Yes. And hell yes. Because it was going to be a struggle for him to keep his shit in check.
“Never mind.” She released the hold on her shirt. Her spine stiffened, and her tiny hand reached for him. When he hesitated, she added, “I need the filth off, and I know you won’t hurt me.”
“How do you know?” He cornered the table and crouched.
“You told me so.” Marina drew a shallow breath and slid her arm behind his neck.
“Is that the total basis of your decision?” Oliver eased her off the chair and against his chest. She grimaced, and his breath caught. He shifted his grip toward the crook of her knees and headed down the long hallway.
“Of course, not.” She zeroed in on his face for a long moment but shielded her beautiful blue eyes with long, pale lashes.
“What then?” Curiosity shifted to something else. He walked past Hunter’s room and headed straight for his. Dirtbag. She needed a shirt, though. If she were wearing any man’s shirt, it’d be his.
“When you grow up like I did, you learn early how to read people.” Her eyes flitted around the large room and zeroed in on the large four-poster bed and its gauzy halo.
Oliver ignored the bed, heading straight for the bathroom. Two large skylights filtered in the day and illuminated the clawfoot tub in the center of the room. His pulse jumped.
“How’d you grow up?” He lowered her uninjured butt cheek onto the toilet seat and steadied her. “Got it? I’ll go get the shirt, and I have some plastic wrap that’ll keep the bandages from getting wet as long as we don’t submerge it.”
“Again with the subtle tactics?”
“What do you mean?” Shit, he honestly tried his best not to objectify her.
Variations (Base Branch Series Book 9) Page 5
