12
L
ara didn’t have the nerve to ask him to hold her again. She stared out the window. She should be happy, excited, but she felt no elation. Just fear, and disbelief.
The rat hole had deformed and stunted her. She had no idea how she was going to navigate the world, if she had to face it feeling like this.
Then again, Miles himself would do nicely as a coping mechanism. Her Lord of the Citadel, made flesh and blood. If she gave in to another crying jag, he might cuddle her again. One little nudge, and she’d be a puddle of hysterical sobbing again. So easy.
Maybe it would be worth it. Just to be touched again.
But she didn’t want to be that helpless, damaged, crying girl that had to be coddled and fussed over. There was no future in that.
He got all uptight and defensive when his friends gave him hell about his superpowers, but that was exactly how it was, in her eyes. Sweeping in and carrying her away like that.
He slumped next to her on the back seat, coat hanging open over his naked torso. Pretending to sleep, but no way was he sleeping. She felt the energy buzzing off him. But his closed eyes made it easier to stare, so she did, greedily, memorizing every detail to obsess about later, when his sharp eyes were open again and she had to whip her gaze away. From the long, tangled, dark hair, full of leaves and dirt, down to that hawk nose, the lines carved into the sun-bronzed skin crinkling from his eyes. And his body. She was no innocent. She’d seen naked men in her drawing classes, and in her brief and ill-fated love affairs. She’d admired the bodies of male athletes, models. But she’d never felt the heat of lust rise in her body, or been transfixed by the perfect organization of sinewey muscle and long, graceful bones. He had no puffy gym bulk, just lean, practical, raw power. And he towered over her. He’d carried her as if she were a child.
Her face heated, thinking of those breathless moments perched on his body on the floor of the car. The immense heat of him. The powerful, wiry muscles and ridges of bone. It had almost seemed like he was going to kiss her.
God, she wished he had. Every time he touched her, the spot he had touched came alive. Blood rushing into a part of her that had been cramped, squeezed, starved. As sharply painful as it was excellent.
The younger blond guy up front, the one Miles had called Sean, glanced back. She caught his grin as he looked discreetly away.
He’d seen her mooning, and was amused. Her face went hot.
Not that she could be blamed for crushing out. She just had to keep her crush to herself and not bug him with it. And stop staring at his nipples, the way his muscular thighs filled out those ripped, muddy jeans. The fabric of the shirt he had given her rasped against her breasts.
She clenched her teeth. Closed her eyes, turned her attention to that inner space, where part of her still hid. In fact, she could hardly imagine having the nerve to get out from behind his shield ever again. She typed into the analogous mental computer monitor.
u dont fool me ur not asleep
His lips twitched. not fair he replied, on the mind computer.
His eyes opened. She caught her breath when his smile became an amazing white, flashing grin, with grooves in his cheek carved deep.
“My friends found a place for us to crash,” he said aloud. “In the hills, not far from here. We’ll stop there and figure out what to do next. You can rest, stoke up with some decent food. We’ll keep you safe.”
The idea of someone offering her rest, food, protection, made her speechless. Then it made her eyes water and swim.
“Lara.” His grin faded. “About your dad.”
She flung her hand up to ward off whatever he might say. “I know,” she said. “They taunted me with it. The torture, and . . . and everything. You don’t have to tell me about it.”
“Okay,” he said. “Fucking scumbags.”
He reached out and pulled her onto his lap again.
She melted down instantly. Hid her face against his chest, dabbing eyes and nose with the hem of the filthy sweatshirt he had given her. Shuddering with sobs.
Time passed. The car kept moving. She fell into an uneasy doze. His chest vibrated beneath her ear when he spoke to the men in front. His arms held her close. His chest was so hot and solid.
Her sleep was fitful, full of violent shifting images. The race through the forest, Hu, whimpering on the floor of the cell. Anabel, in her puddle of blood. Greaves holding electric paddles, his eyes gleeful.
Finally, the car slowed, bumping over a rough driveway, and drew to a stop. Miles slid her gently down on the seat next to him.
She rubbed her eyes. So much light, even with the cloud cover. The whiteness of the sky made her eyes sting. They were in a little valley, in a tangle of brown scrub oak trees, fallow orchards, and fields of brownish grass. Wooded hills rose up on all sides. They were parked in the driveway of a large house made of dark, stained logs. There were big picture windows on the first and second floors.
“We’re here,” Miles said gently. “Let’s go in.”
She stepped out into a brisk, snapping wind. So many wonderful fall smells. Herbs and loam and rain. Birds wheeled and squawked. She looked around for the other vehicle. “Where are the other two guys?”
“Aaro and Davy stopped back in town to pick up food and clothes. Let’s get you out of this wind.” He shrugged his jacket off and put it on her.
She followed him into the house. It was furnished with standard high-end vacation home stuff. Nice and bland and neutral. A big fireplace, hardwood floors, a thick rug in front of a quadrant of big, soft, beige couches. Picture windows opening onto deep patios. A large open-design kitchen and dining area off to the side.
“Sorry we don’t have any food yet,” he said. “Soon, though.”
“I don’t think I could eat yet, anyhow,” she said. “Could I have some water?”
“God, yes.” He took her hand, and led her into the kitchen as if she were a tiny child who wouldn’t find her way unguided, and ran her a glass from the tap. He got one for himself. They refilled twice.
They looked at each other. Her eyes skittered to his collarbone, his chest. That interesting hollow over his solar plexus, the graceful pattern of his chest hair, the jut of his ribcage. The lean, defined musculature over it. Gawking. She just couldn’t stop.
“You’ll, ah, want to take a shower, lie down,” he said. “Let’s find you a room upstairs.“
“Give her the master bedroom.” It was Sean, coming in the front door. “The one with the bathroom is for the lady.”
“We should get her a doctor.” The one called Connor followed his brother in, scowling. He had a faint limp. His eyes were heavily ringed with exhaustion, and there was still blood on his face from the nosebleed.
“For you, too,” she said. “All of you.”
An impatient shrug met that suggestion. “There should be towels and sheets up there,” Connor said. “Tam said it was all covered.”
He heaved a bag up onto the kitchen counter, opened it. It proved to have several handguns packed into molded foam. Lara stared as he casually pulled out a magazine, smoothly fitted it into his pistol grip before holstering the weapon in the waistband of his jeans.
She’d always been indifferent about guns, but her eyes followed the weapon longingly. She wanted to snatch it away.
Give me that.
“No doctors,” she said. “He would find me, if I went to an emergency room. It’s just scratches and bruises and mud, that’s all.”
“Lara,” Miles said. “Come on. You’ve been locked in a dungeon for six months. They’ve been using you as a lab rat. Who knows what shape you’re in? You should get checked out.”
“Not now,” she said. “Just let me chill, okay? I just need to not be pushed around for a while.”
Miles looked stung. “I never meant to push—”
“You didn’t,” she hastened to say. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that at all. Not toward you. And, ah, by the way. Thank you. All of you.”
The three men looked uncomfortable. “I’ll just go set up guard, outside.” Connor fled, out the door.
“I’ll get the portable surveillance kit,” Sean said, following him.
Miles looked nervous, too, but he didn’t run away from her.
“And you, most of all,” she said quietly. “Thank you, Miles.”
It was the first time she’d spoken his name aloud. It felt good in her mouth.
He winced. “I’m just sorry it took me so long.” He gestured toward the staircase that spiraled up from the kitchen. “Come on upstairs.”
With you, anywhere.
She just thought the words. She did not say them or even type them on his mental computer, but she could tell from the way he froze to immobility for a split second that he’d felt her thought. It vibrated in the air between them. Her face went hot.
She launched herself, unsteadily, toward the stairs. Miles lay a hand on the small of her back, as if she might topple backward.
Her knees felt weak. Her joints were soft, squishy. The polite pressure of his hand burned through the sweatshirt like a brand, but not a painful one. The heat felt shivery sweet. Glowing.
Miles opened doors upstairs, peering into the rooms. He found one he liked, and flung the door wide, gesturing her in.
It was the master bedroom. Huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows, and sliding doors that led out onto a big deck. Her eyes were still watering from the light. A bathroom door stood open. A king-sized bed had a pile of towels, a fluffy, folded-up white comforter.
She stared around. Vaulted space. Real air, freshly laundered sheets. Too much. She squinted through her fingers.
He saw the gesture, and moved to the window. “I can close the hanging blinds if it’s too much light. You’ll want to rest.”
“I don’t want it completely dark.” Her voice shook.
“Of course not,” he said.
The pulled cord made the hanging vertical blinds slide to close, but he left them at a slight angle, so that narrow stripes of light slanted through the slats across his muscular torso, the floor, the wall. She longed to capture the image, sculpt him that way, painted with light.
It was the first moment in months that she had longed for her art. She’d been wondering if that instinct had been crushed by darkness.
The room felt smaller. She felt stupidly shy. Empty-headed. Staring, speechless, starstruck.
“I could open them more,” he ventured, his voice uncertain, “if it’s too dark.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “Leave it. The light’s too much for my eyes.”
“Yeah. I’ll, uh, just get out of your way, then.”
Don’t.
She screamed the words, inwardly, but would not let them come out of her mouth. He seemed to hear them anyway. He stood by the door like a statue. Their eyes were locked. A breathless pressure built up. She trembled. Air was trapped in her chest. Frozen, there.
All those heated encounters with him in the Citadel swirled through her mind. She wondered if he had experienced them, too. But she would die of embarrassment before she could ask him.
He turned away. “I’m getting a shower. Later.”
She sagged onto the bed when the door clicked shut, face on her knees. Oh, man, she did not need this. Why crush out now? She’d never been so vulnerable, so fucked up. God. Please. Have mercy.
She managed to peel off the blood, dirt and sweat-stiffened clothing, and get herself into the shower. The image in the mirror jarred her. Being so thin and pale and bruised hadn’t been as incongruous, reflected in the distorted stainless steel soap dispenser and shower fixture in the rat hole. But here, in a luxury bathroom with gleaming gold-toned fixtures and expanses of black marble, she looked insubstantial, wispy. Hardly there at all.
The huge shower was big enough for two, and there was a full-length mirror situated right outside the transparent glass door. A bathroom for honeymooners. The shower was planned with sex in mind.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the images that unleashed. Hot water pounded down her face. So odd, to feel light press against her eyelids as she showered. To not be in that contorted position. Soap stung in all her cuts and scrapes. Dirt sluiced off, swirling around her feet. The shampoo was thick and foamy, and it smelled of honeysuckle. The utilitarian stuff in the rat hole soap dispenser had stunk like disinfectant hospital surgical foam. It took three sudsing passes before her hair rinsed clean of grit.
She toweled off, stepping in distaste over the limp, filthy rags snarled on the bathroom floor. She did not want to put them next to her skin again, particularly not the rat hole pants. She could reconcile herself to Miles’ sweatshirt, maybe. But she wasn’t giving it back to him. Not ever. She was bronzing the thing. Personally.
She combed out her hair, and wrapped herself in a towel. When she stepped into the bedroom, she found the king-sized bed all made up, the comforter smoothed over it, the covers neatly turned down to show snowy white sheets, fluffy big pillows.
A folded man’s T-shirt lay on the bed. Not new, but clean. She walked to the bed on unsteady legs. Her face felt liquid.
Blubbering, just because someone had done her the courtesy of making up a bed for her, and found something clean for her to put on.
She put on the shirt. It smelled like a laundry detergent that her mother had used. Tears streamed down her face.
A knock sounded on the door. That was the final blow. A polite knock, that taken-for-granted human courtesy she’d completely missed ever since they had abducted her. After months of having the door fly open, and rough hands seize her to drag her out into blinding light, to blows, pain, humiliation, insults. Restraints. The sting of the needle. She tried to make some coherent sound come out of her throat.
The knock sounded again.
Tap-tap-tap.
“Come in,” she forced out.
Miles poked in his head. “Are you—oh, God. I’ll come back later.”