From that moment forward, Riley’s presents had shown up under the tree as if Santa had placed them there himself. Christmas became a slow, torturous crawl to the big reveal.
But her dad’s silent censure hadn’t curbed her appetite for knowledge, especially the forbidden kind. The kind that involved a naked, screaming gladiator who made her insides tingle all over.
Propping her chin on her stacked arms, she stared down at the sparse campsite from her perch on the cliff above. The two-person tent stood shuttered against any annoying, biting insects, and the small round fire pit sat cold and smoke-free.
A large log lay alongside the pit, acting as a rudimentary chair. Behind the tent stretched a sturdy line between two giant trees. A green T-shirt, boxers, and a pair of camouflage pants hung over the cord like limp noodles.
“That’s a lot of green, Mr. Monty,” Riley whispered. Why would anyone wear that shade of green while on their own time? Not that she was a fashionista like her cousin Evie, but she possessed some sense of what didn’t make the eye bleed.
Riley flicked a large black ant off her wrist.
A vision of the camper’s dark brown hair, stubbled cheeks, and hair-dusted chest clouded her mind’s eye.
Black, she decided, would suit him much better. Closing her eyes, she imagined the color of midnight cradling those powerful, sun-kissed muscles, stretching and contracting to accommodate their every movement. In the shadows of the forest, as the sun set, the shade would make him invisible to his enemies, to his prey, to her.
Except for his eyes.
Those crystal-green rings would penetrate the gloom, cleave through the night, and awaken unspeakable longings.
A stirring low in her stomach made her legs restless. Where did those thoughts come from? At this distance, she hadn’t been able to make out his eye color, so why had she imagined them green? Like a cat’s. A big, dangerous cat.
The sound of a zipper ripping open drew her attention to the campsite below. Mr. Monty emerged shirtless, sweaty, and disheveled. His chest heaved, and something unspeakable haunted the chiseled planes of his face before his hands scrubbed the surface.
When his head dropped between his shoulders and his fingers gripped his skull, Riley knew another nightmare had snapped him from sleep again. After giving what she saw last time more thought, she’d discarded the idea that he’d been pleasuring himself. His “mood” didn’t match the action.
Leaning farther over the bluff’s edge, Riley forced calm into her thundering chest and willed herself to observe without emotion, without judgment, without speculation.
She mentally cataloged details—male, white, upper twenties or lower thirties, close-cropped, military-style hair, no visible tats, knee-length, gray jersey shorts, bare feet. Possible scar along left rib cage and right shoulder. Too far away to be sure—
“Fuuuuck!” The soldier bellowed, his fists extended to the heavens.
The hammering woodpecker stopped.
Any comfort she’d derived from her cataloging observable facts vanished in that one agonized word. Why did he come to this place, alone, to fight whatever memory waged war in his mind?
She’d read enough about post-traumatic stress to recognize the signs. He didn’t need solitude. He needed someone to help him process his memories. What sort of tragic events had he survived?
He ducked back into his tent and came out carrying a towel in one hand and a scrap of soap in the other. When he followed the meandering creek bed, she frowned, wondering why he didn’t freshen up outside his campsite. Then she recalled how the creek grew deeper farther downstream, and about a hundred yards from here, right before a small waterfall, the water pooled into a natural bathtub.
Riley’s pulse reverberated through her body, as a horrible, reckless thought struck.
No. It was a terrible idea.
Her fingers curled into the loose leaf litter covering the ridge.
Worst plan she’d ever devised.
She dragged her flattened feet upright until her heels pointed to the sky and dug the toes of her boots into the forest floor.
Wait.
Oh my God. Was she really going to do this?
The moment his bare shoulders disappeared from view, Riley popped up from her sprawled position and rushed to the least death-inducing slope. Grasping a tree to steady her balance, she angled her right foot until it was parallel with the slope and set it down, allowing it to slide over the leaf litter. Once her momentum slowed, she shifted to her left foot. She alternated gliding steps—right, left, right, left—her heart racing as the speed of her descent increased.
She hit the bottom of the hollow, jarring every bone in her body. Keeping an eye on the spot where Monty disappeared, she sprinted to his tent, dropping to her knees before the closed flaps.
Her fingers grasped the zipper, and she tugged it down an inch—and stopped.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Observing him from afar was one thing, even though her conscience twitched like a half-squished worm. But she remembered the rage shooting from those piercing eyes.
She needed to understand who he was and why he was here. Even if she stayed out of Transect L, who’s to say that he’d stay in it. Knowing more about him would help her gauge his character. What would he do if he came across her, alone in the woods?
Better yet—what caused his night terrors?
Filling her lungs with air, she entered the soldier’s lair.
7
Coen dropped his shorts and towel on the gray rock jutting out over the creek before striding into the center of a small, natural pool. He stopped when the gentle waves lapped at his hips, the chilly water doing nothing to cool the inferno raging beneath his flesh.
Acid raked his throat raw, and a tremor had taken root in the pit of his stomach.
He sank into the water, submerging until the current flowed over his cheeks, eyelids, lips. Tilting his head back, he opened his eyes and focused on the blurry patch of light pushing through the canopy high above his watery grave.
God, he was so tired. Tired of reliving his last mission, tired of not living a full life. He needed to move on but feared what that said about him as a human being.
His body bucked from air deprivation, and a bubble escaped his mouth.
Just a little longer.
When the echo of Kendra’s screams finally gave way to his fight for air, he exploded above the surface, heaving in several hard breaths.
All he wanted to do was return to his unit. But the thought of being responsible for another’s life made the tremor worsen.
Who was he kidding? He had no team. No one to lead or protect.
He swept a hand over his face, wishing he could wipe away those three days as easily as he brushed away droplets of water.
The sound of a motorcycle revving up its engine rang through the clearing. Coen waded over to the rock and pulled his phone from a front pocket of his shorts.
Colonel Walsh.
His grip tightened, and he came close, so close, to chucking the device into the water. But years of training and answering the call, no matter where he was or what he was doing, had him hitting Answer.
“Good morning, Colonel.”
“How’s the mountain treating you?”
“I’ve had my fill of fresh air and cold baths. I’m ready to return anytime.”
“How are your… headaches?”
He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his knuckle against the center of his forehead. He should be grateful that his commanding officer knew of his night terrors and, as of yet, hadn’t stripped him of his security clearance and reassigned him.
But his pride hated that his weakness was laid bare before a man he respected. A man who had seen far more action and suffered many more losses than he had. To Coen’s knowledge, the colonel had never needed a leave to “get his head on straight.”
Opening his eyes, Coen’s attention wandered upward to the hole in the canopy and the spray of sunshine divin
g through. “The head’s good.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
Fuck no.
His throat closed, barring the kill-your-career response. “Not yet.”
Silence radiated on the other end of the line for several uncomfortable seconds before the colonel spoke again. “When? It’s imperative that the two of you talk.”
“Soon.”
A heavy sigh blew into the receiver. “You have twelve days, Sergeant First Class. Twelve days left of R and R and twelve days to make contact. Take care of this. That’s an order.”
Or don’t bother coming back.
He flinched, knowing before he even began that he would fail at this mission.
Who was he, if not a soldier?
8
Just a quick peek, then beat feet.
Riley toggled the button on her watch to start the timer. She’d give her scientist’s mind seven minutes to assess the reclusive soldier’s character. A lot could be learned about a person’s proclivities by spending a few minutes in their personal space.
On all fours, Riley inched inside the small tent, bracing herself against any unsavory male smells that might waft her way. The camper had been out here for at least a week, though she suspected longer, given the amount of trash she’d seen him bear-proof up in a tree.
But body-odor-ridden shirts and multiday-worn underwear didn’t assault her nose. The scent of pine needles and polyester and musty paper swirled around the small space.
His sleeping area wouldn’t meet military standards, but it was tidy enough to make any mama proud. A bedroll rested against one side of the tent, and neat piles of clothes lay on the opposite side. Books upon books lined the head of the tent. How many trips had it taken him to tote all those out here?
An e-reader might have been a better choice. She glanced around for a power source. Then again, maybe not.
Careful not to disrupt anything, she crawled toward his little library, curious about his reading tastes. She guessed that she’d find an overabundance of political or military mysteries and thrillers with a few nonfictions about cars or motorcycles or boats thrown into the mix.
What she found was a surprising variety of genres—sci-fi and fantasy, historical mysteries, postapocalyptic young adult, and even one lone paranormal romance. Not a single true crime, political thriller, or otherwise modern-day novel to be found. All his reads involved other worlds and realms and eras and beings.
A small, battered tin with the initials CJM engraved in the center sat atop one stack of books. When she popped the top open, the sweet scent of ginger wafted to her nose. Smiling, she reached for one of the candied treats but stopped her curiosity in its tracks. She would not steal, no matter the enticement. She was there only to observe. Ignoring her watering mouth, she returned the tin.
A zippered black pouch shoved behind the books caught her attention next. Her heart released a hard thud, the reverberation rattling her eardrums.
With careful fingers, she drew the nylon pouch from its hiding place, half waiting for the snap of a triggered booby trap. But nothing lurched out of the shadows to chop off her fingers, so she opened the pouch and scanned its meager contents. A picture of three men and one woman, resting shoulder to shoulder against a dusty Humvee and holding a long gun across their laps, sat on top. The quartet wore fatigues and satisfied but tired-looking grins. They leaned into each other with a camaraderie that made her eyes sting.
The sight made her think of the evenings when she and Maggie, Kris and Emmy McKay, and Evie Steele would huddle around a bottle of wine and board game well into the wee hours of the morning. She couldn’t remember the last time their schedules allowed for a girls’ night out.
The soldier sitting in the middle, next to the woman, looked a lot like her mysterious camper. He wore a stocking cap, and dirt smudged his face. His penetrating eyes were the same yet… different.
They carried a casual softness, a roguish joy for life. None of the hardness and anguish he’d displayed minutes ago.
Next she came across a small, fat, unopened envelope. By the feel of it, several folded sheets of paper were trapped inside. The sender’s name—Maria Delarosa; recipient—Coen J. Monroe.
Coen.
Strong. Beautiful. Unique.
Coen.
Riley pushed up her glasses and read the date stamp—July 2. Two weeks ago. Why hadn’t he opened her letter?
Flipping the picture back over, she studied the female soldier. Could she be Maria? Or was the letter from an old flame gone wrong?
A quick peek at her watch showed she had little time left. But she couldn’t stop her finger from brushing over his name as if she could find her answers buried deep within those four sturdy letters.
Beep, beep, beep.
She hit the dial on the side of her watch. Time to go.
After rearranging his belongings back into the order she’d found them, she slid the pouch into its precise, former location. She scanned his spartan quarters, taking in every detail and making sure she’d left none of her presence behind.
Relief followed her out of his tent, thankful she’d found nothing weird or incriminating among his belongings. Yet the mystery surrounding him hadn’t diminished. It had intensified.
With feline slowness, she pivoted toward the stream, followed its winding path to the bend where Monty—Coen—had disappeared. A relieved breath whooshed from her lungs when she found no broad-shouldered man striding her way.
Fingers shaking, she closed the tent’s zipper and stood, mapping the layout of his campsite in one thorough sweep.
Tick tock, tick tock, her inner clock screamed.
Giving herself a good shake, she surged into a half run—and that’s when he appeared.
Ice poured into her muscles, locking them into place. Air ceased to move in and out of her body, as if it too feared the slightest movement would mean discovery. Shame blanketed her like a vat of molten tar.
Then self-preservation kicked in, and she evaluated the best route to the ridge. Her heart free-fell into her stomach at the scarce amount of vegetation. He would see her before she could make cover.
Her attention darted back to Coen, and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him storming toward her.
Fury tightened the cords of his neck and burned the whites of his eyes. His bare chest rose and eddied like a violent tidal wave smashing against a rock-stacked shore. The skin over his face, neck, shoulders, and stomach stretched tight over sinew and bone as if a beast writhed beneath, warring for control. Scars did indeed mark his body.
But none of those things were what set her boots into motion.
It was the jagged, eight-inch knife jutting from his fist that made her choose flight over explanation. But she knew, just knew, before she took a single step that she wouldn’t outrun him.
And no one would hear her screams.
9
“Did you take anything?” Coen demanded, unable to calm the fury flowing through his veins. Had he been wrong about her? Had something besides curiosity brought her to his campsite? Had she been scoping the place out?
“W-what?”
“From my tent. Did you take anything?”
All color bleached from her face. “I would never—”
“Then I have to assume you were waiting for me.” He shifted closer.
“No! I was just”—guilt flushed her cheeks—“curious.”
“Curious,” he repeated. “About what?”
She swallowed hard, though her back straightened. “You.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m conducting plant surveys in the area.”
He closed the distance. “Try again.”
“It’s true,” she all but screamed, stumbling away from him. “I’m a botanist. Well, ethnobotanist, to be exact. I study plants and their impact on human culture. No one has ever heard of an ethnobotanist, so I keep it simple by using the term botanist.”
He blinked at the onslaught of
information. With a flick of his wrist, he embedded the knife in his log chair. “Did you run out of plants to botanize?”
Her striking gray-blue eyes grew wide as they peeled away from his knife. “Pardon?”
“Why are you snooping around my campsite?” He pointed behind him. “In my tent? I could’ve mistaken you for—” He bit off his comment.
“Who?” she asked.
His jaw tightened, and he bent to pick up his empty canteen sitting on the log chair. If he hadn’t forgotten to take it with him, he would have missed her. “I’m not one of your shamans or whatever. Just a man who wants to be left alone.”
Rather than apologize and beat a hasty retreat, the damn woman took a step closer and assessed him like a fucking petri dish. “Why?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Where did you learn to turn Asarum canadense into candy?”
“Asarum?”
“Wild ginger.” She flopped a hand toward his tent. “The tin of sugared treats.”
Annoyance made his tone sharp, his words crude. “Did you rifle through my sex toys too?”
“No, I didn’t see any of… those.” She stared up at him, waiting. For an answer. Did she have no fear? No common sense?
Without conscious thought, he slid into a decades-old habit. Evasion.
“It’s not smart for you to be alone in the woods with a strange man.”
“I don’t have anything to fear from you.”
He ran through the number of ways he could kill her—all before she had a chance to scream. “Then you’re a fool.”
“If you were a murderer or rapist, you would have done the deed by now. When your anger was high and your bloodlust engaged. You wouldn’t have stood here, wasting your time on uninspired intimidation tactics.”
God, she was naive. The world harbored monsters who enjoyed nothing more than to toy with their victims. For days. Weeks. Years, even.
But the government created men like him so women like her wouldn’t be subjected to such evil. The image of a long blade searing through smooth, feminine flesh and tendon and bone pulsed behind his eyes. His palms began to sweat, and a familiar tremor started at the base of his spine and began a slow crawl upward.
Searing Need Page 3
