Chapter Fourteen
None of this makes sense, which is what I tell Ryan when he returns to the bedroom after seeing Dr. Fields out.
“Doesn’t it?” His tone is harsh. As sharp as a blade. He’s terrified for me and angry at himself. And all of that is coming right back out. “If I’m right and she was a spy aligned with the dissidents who killed Mikal, then she knows how the system works.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean that she understands that I can get my hands on the resources to help her. To get whatever she needs to help her disappear again. But she has to know that’s not something I’m terribly motivated to do after being double-crossed all those years ago. Maybe she thinks I need an incentive. Maybe she knows that I would do anything to keep you safe. Any. Fucking. Thing. And maybe she’d be right.”
I swallow, because of course I know that’s true. And knowing it makes me feel safe despite all of this.
“So my friend Gabby used to be Felicia.” I don’t like saying it, but considering the phone thing, I guess it’s true. “But why study history? Why work as a professor now?”
“Academia’s a good place to hide. And if she’s still active in intelligence, it’s a good cover job. And in the States? That’s a lot of space to hide if you need to, no passport required.”
I hug my knees to my chest. Every one of his arguments makes sense, but all I can do is shake my head. “I don’t want to believe it.”
He sighs. “I know, Kitten.” He goes to the bedroom’s coffee station and brews me a cup. He brings it over, then sits on the edge of the bed facing me as I sip it slowly. I don’t taste it at all, but I appreciate the way it seems to chase off the cold that still flows through me.
Dr. Fields says that’s a remnant of the sedative, but I know he’s wrong. It’s fear, and it’s running through my veins like water. Someone got into our room. Someone got into my body.
Another violent tremble rips through me and I slosh coffee onto the crisp, white hotel sheets, then snap out a curse. Because that’s how it is now. One second, I’m calm—or angry. The next, I’m wracked with fear.
“It’s okay.” His voice is warm and soothing as he gently takes the cup. He sets it aside, then eases up next to me, his arm around my shoulder.
“It’s not okay,” I argue. “Nothing’s okay right now.”
He puts a finger under my chin, then moves my head until I’m looking him in the eyes. “We are,” he says, and the certainty in his voice takes my breath away.
I nod, because yes. Yes. Despite everything, we’re fine. And together we’ll get through this.
I’m just not sure how.
“Let’s go to the living room,” Ryan says now. “I’ll call housekeeping to bring fresh sheets.”
“It’s okay. It’s just a splash.”
He shifts on the bed, then cups my face, looking hard into my eyes. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it? Christ, Jamie, I don’t know.”
“What do you mean? Because you casually said you weren’t in the hotel room? That doesn’t make what happened your fault.”
“I’m not sure about that,” he says. “But it wasn’t what I was thinking about.”
“Then what?”
He shakes his head, his hands in front of him as if he’s trying to capture the bubble of an idea but can’t quite make it happen.
He sighs as he slips off the bed, then drags his fingers through his short, dark hair. He stands at the foot of the bed, his expression more miserable than I’ve ever seen it.
“Hunter? You’re scaring me. And considering I was already scared, that’s saying a lot.”
His lips twitch, and he nods. “I should never have let you stay. I knew—goddammit, I knew—that this situation with Felicia could go south fast. But I saw you standing in that damn bar, your voice in my ear and sex on your mind, and—well, Kitten, you know damn well it wasn’t reason on my mind then. It was you. Only you.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“I know.” He sighs. “The problem is, neither do I. But when a woman pops back into your life after more than a decade demanding your help—”
I try to think about his words—to forget about the Gabby I know and think about what he’s saying. “You think she’s unstable? That you should have expected she’d hurt me because I’ve taken her place, and that doesn’t fit the fiction in her mind?”
“No. Not, not exactly.” He takes a breath, and I think he’s going to continue. Instead, he says, “I need a drink. And I don’t even know if I can offer you one because—”
He cuts himself off with a disgusted expression.
“Hunter…” I move to the foot of the bed and reach for him. I’m naked, and I watch as his eyes skim over me, his expression an odd mix of sadness and arousal.
“You’re mine, dammit. Aren’t you mine?”
“Yes. Always. You know that.”
His fingers trail up my body—from my hip, following the curve of my waist, then up higher to cup my breast.
I draw in a shaky breath, growing passion quelling my lingering fear as my body comes alive with need. He brushes his thumb over my nipple, then bends over and presses the softest, sweetest kiss against my lips.
“Mine,” he repeats. “And I take care of what’s mine.”
I close my eyes as understanding washes over me. As I see deep into the heart of what he fears. “I’m fine.” I take his hand from my breast and lift it, then kiss his palm. “I’m right here, and I’m safe. All she did was make me sleep.”
He lifts his head until his eyes meet mine, firm and hard. “But it could have been a hell of a lot worse.”
“You couldn’t know that.”
“Dammit, Jamie, that’s my point.” He closes his eyes, presses his fingers to his temple, then turns and marches into the living room. He pours a shot of whiskey, then slams it back. I hurry into the hotel robe and follow him, reaching his side right as he’s poured another.
“Me, too?”
“Sure, why not? Then I can fail you on that count, too, when Dr. Fields calls and tells me he’s checked the labs, and I need to keep you away from alcohol for a while.”
I look at him, and the misery on his face breaks my heart. “Oh, Hunter.” I ease up behind him and slide my arms around his waist. “You didn’t fail me. I know you love me. I know you’ll always protect me.”
“I would die for you,” he whispers, and I feel tears well in my eyes.
“I know that, too,” I say, a lump rising in my throat. “But don’t you dare.”
He spins in my arms to face me, and one hand holds me around my neck as the other tugs open my robe. I draw in breath, my body warm with anticipation. He pushes the sides of the robe open, intentionally grazing the swell of my breasts with each motion. Then he slowly—so wonderfully, horribly slowly—eases a fingertip lower and lower, tracing a lazy path until he reaches my waxed mons.