Chapter Nine Larissa #2
Open—the sun, which peeks through endless branches, blinds me from a clear view of Tyler, who sits behind the wheel of an open-cabin vehicle.
Furiously fighting to keep consciousness, I attempt to sit in the seat cradling me.
Sensing my movement, he turns and peers down at me before gently pressing a palm to my chest to keep me idle.
Trees continually blur just past his head and shoulders, his inches-long hair being whipped by freezing wind.
Shivering, my side screaming at the movement, I cover Tyler’s palm.
Squeezing it to try to manage the pain, my fingers slick across the vinyl of the restraint I’m strapped in beneath our clasped hands.
When I’m jostled over unpaved terrain, I’m unable to help my cry.
One I still can’t hear, but loud enough to rattle my throat.
Tyler moves his lips rapidly as my pain-filled tears blur the sight of him.
Blinking them free, I get a glimpse of concern in his expression before the pain again takes me out.
* * *
I wake to the gentle sweep of a warm cloth on my face.
Opening my eyes, I stare into the firelit profile of a man I faintly recognize.
The version of the man I met days ago just inside his front door.
No trace of the metal in his eyes, which is now replaced with something else …
remorse? His lips move slowly, and this time, I can make out what he’s saying. “I’m sorry.”
Nausea overcomes me, and I lift from where I lay on his lap and turn my head in time to vomit on the ground. As I retch, Tyler pulls my braids back, brushing a soothing thumb along my exposed skin as my retching turns to dry heaves.
“I can’t hear anything—I—” I retch again. “I can’t hear anything,” I panic, unsure of my volume, as I take a few steadying breaths to try and calm myself. Once I do, it strikes me. The boom, the smoke, the gunfire.
Turning quickly to face Tyler, I have to battle to keep myself upright, and I drop my focus to his lips again as he mouths “easy.”
“Ciro, was it Ciro?” I ask, pulling back to see an erected tent behind his shoulder.
Gripping the sides of the blanket he must have wrapped me in, vision fuzzy, it’s as if I’m viewing through a dream-like lens as I take in our surroundings.
Just to the right of the tent sits a table full of plastic tubs.
Feet ahead sits a parked off-road utility vehicle that resembles a toy truck.
Surrounded by a blackened forest, I turn back to his flame-licked profile. “Was it Ciro?”
Tyler stares back at me, his expression unreadable.
“I need a pen and paper,” I snap in quick demand.
Patting his chest sarcastically, he lifts a brow as if the request is laughable.
“Something, Tyler. Find me something. A cell phone, so we can text each other.”
He slowly shakes his head and mouths “safe.”
Racking my brain, a notion strikes me. “Are we in hiding? Off-grid or something?” I ask, which would be the only thing that makes sense. Long seconds later, I’m given a sharp dip of his chin.
“How long has it been?”
He lifts four fingers into my view.
“Four hours? And you don’t know who?”
Face blank, he stares back at me as if I didn’t speak a word.
“How can you, with as much as you have access to, with all the agencies along with your club at your fingertips, know so fucking little?” I grumble.
Jaw set, he keeps it closed, refusing me anything.
“When will my hearing come back?”
He lifts one finger, then two.
“One to two hours or days?”
He shrugs.
“Perfect,” I grumble as another nauseating bout of warmth rushes through me. Inhaling slowly to keep it at bay, I blink repeatedly in an effort to clear my hazy vision. “What is this feeling? Why am I hot and queasy?”
He palms his face in irritation as I demand a conversation we can’t have while my world blurs. It’s as that warmth returns in a rush that a notion strikes me. “Did you fucking drug me?”
He tilts his head side to side as if it’s questionable.
“You don’t kind of drug someone,” I grit out, and he winces and holds a finger over his mouth to shush me. I’m yelling. I should be yelling.
“For pain,” he mouths. But it’s not the pain taking precedence now as my mind races with scenarios.
“If it was Ciro, it’s all over, and you need to take me back so I have a fucking chance!”
His eyes narrow slightly before he firmly shakes his head. He knows something, more than something, and he’s withholding it from me.
“There is no safe from Ciro, and you can’t keep me here!”
Though I can’t hear it, I can see the aggravated sigh he lets out before he lifts his hands in surrender. Lowering them, he begins to gently probe my side, and I flinch when he reaches my ribs.
“Safe,” I scoff again. “I thought your building was safe,” I hiss through the pain, the hearing loss—along with the drug—making me feel every bit like I’m underwater.
“Don’t give me anything else,” I snap. “Without my fucking consent,” I reiterate as he presses gently into the point of my discomfort, and I cry out.
Eyes lowered, he mouths another “sorry,” and I don’t bother trying to decipher what his apology is for, because I’m overdue on all accounts.
Determined to get more information, when I shift to sit, it’s so painful that I immediately lie back on my side.
Gripping me for attention, he positions me back before gently, so gently, continuing to examine me, poking and prodding until I’m squirming beneath him.
“Broken?” I ask as he puts pressure on my left side, around my ribs, until he seems somewhat satisfied.
He shakes his head, mouthing a clear “no.”
Bruised ribs. The force of whatever kind of explosive was used must have thrown me against something unforgiving.
The details of those moments are fuzzy. All I can recall is the deafening boom, the flashes of gunfire, the smoke, and Tyler.
He saved me from whoever attacked us. For that, I should be grateful.
It’s the unknown—too much unknown—that has me questioning him.
“Tell me what you do know.”
His mouth moves, and I jerk my chin in irritation when I can’t retain a single word.
Frustration increasing, we remain in a silent standoff until he reaches for a waiting bowl just next to a low-lit fire before lifting it in offering.
I move to sit and cry out again, shaking my head and lying back on my side to keep the pressure off.
My head propped in my hand, he situates himself in front of me and lifts a stew-laden spoon.
“Well, this is perfect, just fucking perfect,” I utter, ignoring his spoon to close my eyes, dreading what’s to come.
Tyler brushes a loose strand of sweat-coated hair from my lips in beckoning.
Opening my eyes, expecting the same warmth, instead, I’m met with the harsh ‘means business’ stare I’ve come to recognize before he starts to spoon-feed me.
Feeling utterly ridiculous, I take each of his offerings to weaken whatever drug is running through me.
His eyes try to catch mine more than once, but I’m too irritated with the hearing loss and the throb in my side—but mostly because of the unknown.
“If it’s not Ciro, then someone else knows it’s you and your Ravens,” I state pointlessly in an attempt to work it out for myself with his refusal to answer. “Which is not good timing.”
Understatement. The timing couldn’t be fucking worse.
The Ravens—though unknown by many of their targets—have made a lot of enemies recently.
President Monroe himself has antagonized half of those he has evicted from both his cabinet and Capitol Hill during his time in office.
His personal bodyguard is now, and often, captured on-screen just next to him.
A well-televised target standing constantly at Monroe’s side and now at mine, spoon-feeding me.
Any enemy paying attention who dug into Tyler’s history would know they’d have to rid themselves of the highly trained, highly decorated Marine in charge of security if they want any chance of successfully gaining access to our current president.
Which makes me a bigger fool for enlisting the help of one of Monroe’s most publicly displayed assets.
Refusing the last few bites of the tomato-based soup, Tyler nods and discards the contents into the fire before rinsing the bowl with bottled water. I don’t miss his mouthing of “bears” as he completes this task.
“Great, add that to the list of shit to deal with,” I mumble, glancing around at the thick, ominous woods before glaring back at his profile. I swear his lips turn up as my fear of the unknown heightens due to the hearing loss.
A ‘where are we?’ on the tip of my tongue, I hold my question because, in truth, it doesn’t matter.
Virginia most likely, but I have no way to gauge how much of the four-hour time span we spent traveling.
Staying close to DC could be a fatal mistake.
Thankfully, Ciro resides faithfully in his darkened mansion in Asheville and only grows more of a recluse as he ages.
For now, I have no choice but to be completely reliant on a man who despises me.
A man whom I’m quickly starting to reciprocate the feeling for.
It’s that truth that has me questioning my own safety in his company.
Kiss or none, I don’t feel safe with Tyler and haven’t since his expression changed before the close of that elevator door.
Fuck a feeling, that’s the first thing that can get you killed.
Instinct is all that truly matters in situations such as these.
It’s instinct now that has me scrutinizing him, even in my drug-induced haze.
“Where are your fucking birds?” I ask. “It can’t be just us.”
“Safe,” he mouths, giving me nothing more.
“Right,” I drawl, hoping the tone I use is sarcastic enough. It’s then that I notice a cut beneath his ear and a purpling bruise on his chin, along with the discoloration dotted on his shirt and throat in the firelight. A stain I’m all too familiar with—blood splatter.
“Where am I sleeping?”
He gestures behind me, and I turn, wincing in discomfort when I’m able to make a tent out a few yards away.
“Where are you sleeping?” I ask, and he nods toward the same tent before hoisting me up and offering me support.
If I weren’t drugged and in so much pain, I would worry about his plans for me.
But with the help he’s giving and the small amount of concern, I don’t see the point of mulling over it—at least for tonight.
For now, I have intel he can’t get on his own, which keeps me safe.
I try not to dwell on the fact of how much it bothers me that if I didn’t have something he needed, one of the bullets he used today might have been used on me.
More so, I hate the fact that I’m dependent on him due to the smarting injury, which is only reinforced with each painful step.
Defenseless and momentarily defeated, I don’t put up a fight and am pulled right back into the dark as soon as my body sinks onto soft ground.