Soft hands move gently over my arm, my side, noting when I stiffen. She curls herself into the side of my chest like a cat seeking warmth. Or offering warmth. Her head rests on my shoulder. With shock I realize this is how it would have been—if I had fucked her eight years ago, if I had held her afterward. This many years later, we’re having that moment of intimacy I’d been too afraid to take. And why? Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed her away. What would have happened if I’d told her everything about the Louvre and the diamond?
It makes me want to test the waters here, in a place that couldn’t possibly end in a happy way. A church that has seen its share of death and pain already.
“I watched him kill my mother. He assumed I was too young to understand. Or remember.”
“Oh my God,” she says, burying her head deeper into my shoulder. It hurts, but I don’t tell her to stop. It also feels good. That pretty much defines my feelings for her.
Being near her is heaven and hell.
“You don’t have to tell me,” she says, her voice mournful.
I’ve never had anyone mourn me before. “She sang to me. I remember that. Only when he wasn’t around. But he came home early one day, or something happened. They were fighting. He pushed her. She hit her head. He dragged her body out of the house by her feet.”
“Did the police question you?”
“I was three.”
“Oh God. Elijah.” And then more softly. “Is that your real name?”
“Yes. I used my real name on my first mission only.” I would tell her anything in this moment. My full name. My social security number. My rank. My mission. She doesn’t know the power she holds over me. I would jeopardize an entire military operation because she smells so sweet. That’s the terrible part of being a man who cares about a woman. It makes him weak.
“And you remember?”
“Oh, I remembered. I remembered the way he packed her luggage and buried that, too. My brothers always thought she ran away. That she got fed up with the beatings and left, but she never would have left us behind.”
“I’m so sorry. What a terrible burden for you to carry.”
“I told him before I killed him. I told him what I knew. It didn’t have anything to do with all the times he backhanded me or all the nights I went hungry. It was for her.”
“Elijah, no matter what you think—he didn’t break you.”
How does she know? How does she know my secret fear?
Except she’s wrong, of course. I broke when I was three years old and saw my mother’s lifeless eyes staring at me. After that I became only a being with one purpose.
Every breath, every step had one goal.
To become strong enough to get revenge.
I kiss the crown of her head because I don’t want to ruin the ferocity of hope in her voice. It’s enough to let her believe there’s kindness inside me a little while longer.
We fall asleep to the sound of a distant drip, the sun moving over us, unseen and unfelt, taking warmth only from each other.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Elijah
The next evening Adam comes downstairs holding a lamp and what looks like a picnic basket. It’s made of wicker and appears heavy by the way he’s holding it. More valuable than gold, if there’s cheese and bread inside. My empty stomach claws itself from the inside.
He sets down the basket and sits on top of the flat surface it creates, crossing his legs in the way only elegant European men can do. “We had a good time yesterday, non?”
I lunge at him through the bars. Even knowing I’m going to be caught by iron against my throat, it doesn’t hold me back. I throw myself into the attack, growling, snarling, becoming feral in my desire to kick his ass. The torture isn’t cigar burns and whips.
The torture is becoming close to this woman.
Adam makes a tsk sound. “That’s no way to treat a woman. You made her come, yes, but you were cold. Not tender. She felt embarrassed, didn’t she?”
I don’t have to look behind me to know she’s blushing. “Of course she’s fucking embarrassed. You forced me to touch her.”
“Forced? Such language. I didn’t force you to do anything.”
“Then hand over that fucking basket.”
“In a moment,” he says, humming to himself in a way that’s both psychotic and happy. “First I would like to see you make her come, more soft this time. More loving.”
“I don’t love her.”
A sharp look from Adam. “She can hear you.”
“I will rip your fucking throat out.”
It’s to his credit that he looks uneasy, as if he knows how seriously I mean that threat. Then he brightens. “I brought you some gifts. There is no better dessert than French patisserie. The tarte tatin, the mille-feuille, and the eclairs.”
I have a sudden memory of eating eclairs with a young Holly.
She comes to stand beside me, her chin high. “We don’t want it, Paul Hollywood.”
I’m forced to face how thin her arms look, how slender her frame. She needs this food, no matter how I feel about it. No matter how much I resent being forced to violate her. Which is worse—touching her without consent or letting her starve? It’s a devil’s choice.
Adam pulls out a pistol. “Then we’ll see how much you enjoy fucking a corpse.”
In a flash I’m standing in front of Holly, blocking her from his bullet. It won’t do any good, this protection of her, because I have no weapon. A bullet could rip through my skin and slam into hers. She would be injured. Maybe killed. The idea makes me sick.
“I’ll play your game,” I bite out.
He smiles. “I thought you might change your mind.”
I wait until he puts the pistol back into his jacket pocket before turning to face Holly. Standing this way, her face is in shadow. I’m sure mine is, too. Neither of us can clearly see the other, but we’re intimate. Close.
My whisper can only be heard by her. “Are you ready?”
She whispers, “No.”
I don’t know why I asked. There isn’t any time. There isn’t any choice. I take a step toward her, and she doesn’t back away. I’m tempted to throw her to the stone floor and fuck her. It’s the wrong impulse at a time like this. I should be reluctant.
Not an eager participant.
My hard cock proves that I’m twisted inside.
Her face is in shadow, but the rest of her is finally visible after so long in the darkness. After so long in my memory. She’s wearing blue leggings and a slightly darker blue tunic that feel like grown-up versions of the blue dress she wore to the museum. They’re both smudged with dirt and grime, the shirt torn in a way that makes my stomach clench.
She was attacked when she tried to escape. Hurt.
And I’m here to do it again.
“Be gentle with her,” Adam says in a taunting voice.
And the worst part is, he’s right. I do need to be gentle with her. I do need to be loving. I make my touch an apology as I stroke her temple with the backs of my fingers. She leans into my hand, and I coax her again and again until she’s pressing her cheek to my palm like a cat.
Last time he only had a match to light the space, and the minimal light from the open door at the top of the stairs. This time, with a lantern, I can see her breasts clearly as I lift the tunic. I can watch as her skin turns tight with goose bumps, as her nipples turn to hard pebbles. I bend down to taste one. Even in this hellhole she tastes sweet. Beneath the dirt and the sweat, I taste the elemental essence of woman. I taste Holly. My mind remembers her as clearly as it does the dark chocolate in the eclair. Forbidden temptation. Indulgence. Regret.