Restrain (Siren Book 3) (8 page)

The pants come off, and I dig my wallet out of the pocket for a condom. She laughs nastily, staring at it. “Beyond Seven? Really? Is your ego that—”

I take my time putting it on, knowing that her jibes about the silliness of the brand aside, there's not even a grain of truth to the idea that I'm insufficient.

I slide against her slit, watching the fight go out of her as her body begs for my touch. Whatever game this is, I'm past keeping it up, wanting only to feel her flesh without the mental warfare. Still, I watch her for any sign she doesn't want it, or is going along with it out of fear. There's nothing, so I take my control, sliding into her abruptly, startling the both of us with the sensation of her warm cunt tightening around me.

She cries out as I stretch her, and I go slow, to let her adjust.

Her ankles hold my hips snug against her, digging into me when I pull out too far, and it's the softest moment in this whole encounter, one that makes me fight to thrust harder, pump myself deeper. I'll take everything I can get.

I push her knees further apart, aroused and flummoxed by how easily they rotate, how far she can expose her beautiful cunt to me. Her breasts bouncing as I thrust, her hips in my hands as I pull her to me, her beautiful pussy, slick with need, and her clit, just begging for my touch... She's a feast for the eyes, not just the senses.

I cry for her, a low, guttural moan, “Rachael.”

I know I'm getting close, but I want the power of knowing I've gotten her there, too. Her pussy grips me, tight little flutters, ones that make me think she might be on the edge. To give her something to help her over, I pull her into me harder with one hand, and tease her clit with the other, fast, firm strokes that bump my fingertip against the base of my cock with each thrust.

Still, she doesn't come.  “C'mon,” I beg her in a halting rasp, and strain just a little harder. I'm coming, and she's not gonna follow. And that kills me. I fight to hold off my orgasm for even a
few
more seconds, but I know I can't.

As I orgasm, as the spots dance in my vision and my grip weakens, she cries out. “Red.” It takes me a moment to remember the word, and I pull back as soon as the meaning hits me. Not quite early enough to avoid her pleading again,“Red.”

And even as I pull back from her, she's tightening around me, her body squeezing me for dear life as she shares a goddamn earthshaking orgasm with me. It brings tears to her eyes, and a desperate moan, one that makes my dick plead for round two. As my caveman-brain spurts through my dick and the logical part of me returns with each heartbeat softening my cock, the anxiety prickles; why the tears? Why did fucking me affect her like that?

Between the knife and the revelation that she's been lying to me about
something
, I can't take any comfort in her touch. Maybe the simple thing to do would be to talk to her about it, to ask. Is it embarrassment because she cried?

One thing's for sure. I can't discount it as simple coincidence. If she's not hiding it to cause me harm, if she's uncomfortable with me knowing where her tastes run, or if it was long enough before our abductions that she thought I had made my intent plain by not calling, why would she let me kiss her afterward, without bringing it up?

Maybe whoever was targeting me saw me with her that night, and abducted her, too, thinking more to our relationship than there ever was. But that doesn't explain why she wouldn't have mentioned it. And why would she have worn a wig and used a fake name?

There's just no reasonable explanation for any of it. Maybe I'll never know enough of the full story to guess it. The best I can do is to assume that she didn't want me to try that force-play again, with things already so uncertain in captivity. Maybe she was relieved I was blackout drunk and forgot. Maybe she preyed on the subconscious liking I had, with that memory floating around, to get me to protect her from Allen. She
still
seems to watch him too closely, like she thinks he'd hurt her the moment my back is turned. It's not
healthy
.

I can't make myself believe that she's on the devil's side. But it's the simplest explanation, and I know her well enough to know that she's gonna fight tooth and nail to avoid telling me the truth. She's always had stubbornness in great supply.

I think I know her a lot better than she ever intended to let me.

I need time and space to think this through, and both are in short supply.

Chapter
Fourteen

Milla

I work myself to the bone caring for Calder. From holding his food and drink for him, to helping him to the corner cistern we've designated as our bathroom, and keeping his wounds clean. If I'm honest, it doesn't bother me. I have a strong stomach, all told, and it's nice having a sense of purpose, even if it's one that's at odds with the goal I should be fixating on.

He's quiet, uncomfortably so. Maybe it's just that he regrets speaking so openly with me, the night we got drunk together. Maybe it's that the injuries have taken a toll on his self-esteem, and he feels too helpless to be extroverted. He's not the type to take a perceived weakness well.

I didn't get this far by ignoring signs this obvious. From the set of his lips when our eyes meet, to the way he looks at me when he thinks I can't see it. Last night I feigned sleep, and he spent the whole night sitting up, staring at me.

If he's suspicious, or if his trauma is turning to obsession, either one ends the same way: with violence.

I make an unpleasant discovery while I'm repairing Calder's pants: my knife is gone. It's awkward cutting the floss at each seam using the metal piece attached to the container, but it's the only option. It's probably just as well the knife got lost, since it might have drawn attention to me if someone came to talk to me while I was using it.

Logic says that we're all active, and there's any number of places it could have fallen, without anyone noticing.

But it bothers me, since it seems careless for it to
not
.

So I watch Calder closely, and no one blinks at it, with him still largely out of commission, healing. I have the excuse to stick close, and keep my eyes open. It just makes the whole thing exponentially more exhausting.

His little touches have dried up; most nights, he sleeps with his back to me, sharing warmth and closeness, but not connection or intimacy. It's an abrupt reversal. But every time I ask, he shakes his head and turns away.

I'm losing him, and
fast
. If it's that same goddamned depression, then I'm just gonna throw up my hands and retreat to a safe distance, accept that he's fought as much as he can, and it's fruitless to force him to fight harder.

But if it's just that he's temporarily wounded, then it falls to
me
to be the loyal girlfriend, and lure him back to the pleasantries of the real world.

*              *              *

“Hey, um, hey Allen?”

It still makes me uncomfortable talking to him, especially alone.

He looks up, and nods in welcome, elbow-deep in a narrow pipe. “Yeah?”

“Has Calder seemed okay to you?”

“He seems fine. Why?”

“No reason. Call it woman's intuition, I guess.”

“Oh.” He shrugs. “Looks like everything's healing nicely. You take the stitches out soon, right?”

“Yeah. I, uh, I was hoping you might help me with that a little later. I'm kinda paranoid about dropping the flashlight from my mouth while I work, and hurting him worse. And I've had stitches out before, there shouldn't be much blood to upset you—”

“Don't worry about it, Millie. I'll help.” He grins, wearily, and it's predatory, though I think he intended it as reassuring.

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

I back away, and seize the hand rail to guide my steps. I don't want to turn my back on him.

“I heard you guys talking the other night,” he says, knowing I'm still in earshot, even though he's not looking at me anymore.

“Oh?”

“Yep. Whatever you two are going through, whatever you think is hurting him right now, you two'll be fine.” He flashes me a sad grin. “You're both fighters. And you're both fighting for the same future.”

And that's the problem.

I try to smile, pretend that the message has been taken as a comforting one. “I don't know. Sometimes it just—it seems...” I sigh, and shrug. “I just can't explain it. I don't think he's still enjoying what he originally wanted. Maybe the reality of me isn't
enough—
you know how some guys just like you more as an idea than as a person?”

Allen shakes his head. “Don't worry about it. Trust me. When someone's losing interest in you, you
know
it. No guessing. No subtle hints.” His lips clamp together; he's obviously not gonna expand.

He's gotta be referencing an ex-wife or something. I don't honestly remember seeing one in my research about him, but I probably missed it.

“And if I know it?” I ask, letting my insecurity come through in my voice.

“If you knew it, you wouldn't be asking me. You'd have already stopped sleeping next to
him
.”

I duck away, not wanting to antagonize him any further.

*              *              *

That night, when we settle in for Calder's rest, before it's time for my run upstairs to refill the cooler and hide it, I go for broke. I climb into bed naked, the first time since the night of his injury.

Still, he puts his back to me, and doesn't so much as look at the flesh on display.

So I roll toward him, and kiss his shoulders, burying my face in his shirt, feeling the muscles beneath it against my skin. Finally, he reacts, rolling back toward me. “Do you mind, Mil? I'm still sore from you guys taking the stitches out.”

Well
that's
final.

I purse my lips and roll away. “Sure. Sorry.” I put my clothes on again, both for the cold, and for the finality in his voice. He can't fall asleep fast enough.

Chapter
Fifteen

Calder

As much as it pains me to
not
celebrate the stitches' removal by feeling her soft flesh under my palms, her calves tangled with mine, it's the right thing to do, until I know who she is.

An idea's slowly been forming in my head during my time on bedrest. I'll talk to her, ask her to come clean, yes, but if she won't, I know I can make her.

Milla's a good liar. She's slippery. And I'm fast questioning how much of our partnership is rooted in manipulation. I think I've gotten a handle on reading her, and after today, I'll know.

The soles of my feet are still tender, but the cuts there weren't as bad, and they've healed faster. I can walk around on my own again without too much pain. I celebrate that by moving around as much as possible, looking at every corner Allen probed or explored, while Milla was with me.

“How's Milla?” Allen asks, nonchalantly, as we peer in the top of a cistern to see if there's any large openings that go through the wall behind it.

“You've seen her, too. Why do you have to ask?”

He shrugs. “She's just been on edge lately. But you know she doesn't talk to me about that stuff. At risk of joining the gossip chorus, I'd bet daddy issues.”

I snort, unsure what to make of that answer.

“I mean, she's
never
been the type to lose focus, and lately, her focus has been on you. I don't think yours mirrors hers.”

I can't tell if there's any judgment there. “Things just—things've changed. I'm not who I was when I asked her to get this close. I'm not really the happily-ever-after type.”

“Well, you may want to tell
her
that before somewhat gets hurt. We need to all be pulling together.”

“I don't—I don't want to. Not until I know that it's permanent. That there's no way back.”

“Is that fair to her? Are you sure you aren't using your arrangement as a crutch, keeping her on the hook for your own self-esteem?” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “I did that once. Lost both of them. And the one, no real loss there. But the other, well, she was my future.”

“It's not like that.”

“Okay. Just be careful with her. We've all seen enough hurt.”

The cistern has a vent large enough to crawl through, and the catwalk above it can be easily grabbed from inside it. “You want to check that out?”

I don't relish the thought of crawling in there, with my calves still fairly tender. But it's nice to be useful again. “Sure. Give me a sec.”

Beyond the crawl is an open room, but obviously one that wasn't intended for people to come through. There's no other way in or out. But the isolation... it's perfect for what I have in mind for Milla.

I grab Allen's arm when we've finished wandering around in it. “Maybe you're right. I'll talk to Milla tomorrow, try to figure out what we want for the future. The privacy would be nice. Do you mind staying away from this room 'til we're back?”

“Sure. Of course. Good luck.” He nods and retreats, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I look around the bare walls, painted with some kind of sealant.
Please
, let Milla just
talk
to me. Let her have answers.

This might be the last night I ever sleep next to her, if she takes it badly, or if the worst is true and she was hiding her involvement. I don't know that I can kill her, but there's no way in hell I can let her report to our captor, or let her continue to manipulate us, if she's leading us along his plan. She's wily, and I don't doubt that if I tried to gag her, or tie her up with our clothes, Allen wouldn't back me up.

I don't like being this person. I don't like my distrust and paranoia toward a woman I care for deeply warring with my need to protect others, including myself. I don't like being as ruthless as my father and brother were.

I don't know if I can ever come back from killing Milla.

Please
, don't let it come to that.

When we settle down to sleep, she doesn't say a word as I wrap my arms around her, both a soft apology for last night, and an apology for what I'm going to do.

But I need to know, no matter what the truth costs.