Chapter 7
G host bunched his hand into a fist as he stormed across the walkway toward his cabin. He upended the mug of coffee. The hot liquid ate through the pristine snow like acid.
He hated himself for giving her the coffee in the first place.
What the hell was the matter with him? He was wasting time. Wrapping her in a blanket, for fuck’s sake? Feeding her coffee? All right, so her pulse had concerned him. But it shouldn’t have.
He wanted to believe he was concerned because he needed to know everything she was hiding, but he wouldn’t lie to himself. Tearing into the house, he dropped the mug in the sink with a clatter then went to his room and yanked off his clothes.
After stepping into workout shorts, he made his way back downstairs to the sunroom turned gym. He’d been planning to convert the shop into a huge workout space, but now that idea was fucking tanked.
From here on out, all that shop would remind him of was big blue eyes, high cheekbones, and the curve of her ass. Killing her in there would only taint the space even more.
“Goddammit!” he bellowed, driving his fist into the dangling punching bag.
It bounced on its chains and swung toward the mirrored wall behind it. He huffed through his nose, letting out a growl and bunching his fists. Normally he’d put on his sparring gloves.
Right now, he wanted the pain.
His hands in front of his face, he beat into the bag. The rattling of chains filled his head, washing out the memory of her haunting, raspy voice. He ducked and dodged, working himself into a sweat.
Finally, swiping his forearm over his face, he fished his phone from his pocket and brought up the footage. Anna sat up with the blanket wrapped around her.
Indecision fired up his blood once again. After propping his phone on the nearby shelf, he went back to his workout. This time, he drove kicks into the bag.
Twenty minutes later, he hit the weights then jumped on the treadmill, which was near the window. Thankfully the sunroom faced the east side of the property, so he had a view of rolling snow and pine trees instead of the shop.
He did an hour of cardio, took a hot shower, and changed into clean jeans and a long-sleeved gray shirt before making himself toast and sausage. At some point he’d have to drive into Missoula to grab more groceries, but he needed to get his head straight before he left the cabin.
His cell phone rang as he was finishing his meal. He swiped to answer Taschen’s call. “’Sup?”
Taschen was one of the guys he worked alongside at Backcountry. He was a good guy, but annoying as hell sometimes. “Hey, I heard what happened.”
Ghost grunted. “Did Rami tell all you fuckers?”
“’Course,” Taschen said with a laugh. “I mean, damn. A woman came after you? None of us saw that coming.”
“Neither did I,” he said wryly.
“She talk yet?”
Ghost pushed his plate away. “Nope. Won’t say a fucking word.” Other than calling him an asshole, but he kept that shit to himself.
Taschen cursed. “Maybe she doesn’t know anything.”
He circled the tip of his thumb over the edge of the table. Leave it to Taschen to echo the thought circling his mind. “It’s a possibility.”
“How, uh, persuasive have you been?”
Ghost scoffed. “The fuck are you asking me?”
“I’m asking if you’re as fucked in the head as we all suspect you are,” Taschen countered, nonplussed. “Seriously, we’ve got a bet going.”
Amusement chased away the annoyance. “That so? Let’s hear it.”
“Rami seems to think the highest of you. Said he doesn’t think you’ll go full interrogation beast.”
Ghost smirked. “What about the rest?”
“Shockingly,” he said with sarcasm, “Zain and August think you’ve already worked off her fingernails.”
Ghost’s stomach curdled and anger bubbled beneath his skin.
“Brick said if you hurt her, he’s coming after you.”
That made him roll his eyes. “He’s gotten soft.”
“Well, look what he’s been through with Bray and Natalie. ’Course he’s soft. Anyway, don’t worry, I’ve got your back. I know beneath all that asshole and people-loathing you’ve got a heart of gold. I bet she’ll have you eating her pie like—”
“All right, shove it up your ass, you idiot,” Ghost said, a warning in his tone. “The woman’s in my shop with a head wound—not caused by me—possibly had some hypothermia, and all her fingernails are intact. I want more intel from Rami before I decide what to do with her.”
“That’s reasonable,” Taschen said evenly. “If anyone can find out who she is, it’s Backcountry. But you know she ain’t no innocent civilian. Unless she’s somehow a victim in all this, I don’t see how that changes much.”
Ghost propped his elbow on the table. “You’re not helping.”
“Didn’t know I was supposed to. Look, if it were me, I’d let her stew. Don’t decide anything yet.”
“How can I not kill her? She came at me with a needle for Christ’s sake.”
“Yeah, but she didn’t kill you.”
“Because I stopped her,” he shot back.
“Exactly. And why do you think that is? Because you’re probably at least double her size. I don’t think you need to kill her. Just make sure she’s too scared to come back for your ass.” With that, Taschen hung up.
And damn if he wasn’t more pissed than when he answered.
***
Mila shivered beneath the quilt, curled in a ball on her side. Her mouth was so dry that every swallow felt like a hundred knives stabbing her throat.
He’d been gone a long time. Hours.
She hated being alone. Solitude brought back the voices and memories. Recollections she couldn’t handle—that she had to push away, otherwise she’d break. She wanted his hostile presence back. When she was pissing him off, she wasn’t alone with her thoughts.
While in and out of sleep, she’d thought she’d heard footsteps or seen his shadow. Then she’d open her eyes only to find herself alone. She was so weak and dehydrated that just regaining consciousness was painful.
At least he hadn’t turned the fans back on.
Her temples pounded, and the headache was so intense she never wanted to open her eyes again. If she died right here and now, she wouldn’t even care.
I love you, Mila, my tiny dancer.
Her mother’s voice filled Mila’s head and tears rushed to her eyes. She shook as a sob broke through her lips.
Mama, it’s been so long since I’ve heard your voice. Since I’ve even remembered it...
Thick, heavy grief weighed on her chest. She struggled to inhale but the breath stopped at her nose, the tension so tight she couldn’t get air in.
She thought of her mom’s soft, pretty hair. Her smell... like sunshine and love. She dissolved into choked gasps. “M-M-M...” Her mouth worked to say the word, to call for her mother, but it’d been decades since she had. Since she was even allowed to utter the word mama.
“Anna,” the man barked. Rough hands grabbed her shoulders, turning her onto her back.
She blinked, confused and startled. What would it sound like if he called her Mila?
His gaze raked over her face and his mouth tensed. “You’re crying.” He sounded accusatory and... shocked?
She sniffled and shook her head, trying to wiggle from his grasp, but she didn’t have the strength.
He pulled her upright, his grip firm on her biceps.
His arms were also tensed, revealing every hard mound of muscle.
Three buttons at his collar were open, revealing ink that snaked over his chest below his neck.
Her gaze followed his possessive grip and landed on his hands.
Even those were tattooed, but only one piece of art jumped out at her: a paw print.
“Are you hurt?”
She swung her attention to his face. Instinct made her coil away from his ensnaring glare.
Her hands were free now. She could fight.
Even with the shackle she could do damage—strangle him with it.
But she wanted to sink into his arms. To feel safe and protected, like she had for those blissful moments when he carried her.
Stupid.
He was going to kill her. Hated her. And he should.
She stared at him through heavy lids. Nausea rolled around in her stomach. If she’d eaten anything recently, she probably would’ve thrown up.
His hand went to the side of her face and she flinched.
“Easy.” The simple word, one he’d said before, came out low and soft, belying the monster in front of her.
He was so big. Had she really guessed he was only six foot two? He had to be larger. His palm touched her cheekbone as he inspected the wound on her head.
“Headache?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. She couldn’t nod. The searing pain was too great.
“Nausea?”
She blinked in confirmation.
His mouth flattened into a firm line. Her body braced for anger. For him to fling her back to the cement like a rag doll and leave her again.
He did none of that.
His hold stayed firm, and something in his eyes suggested he was at war with himself. She’d make the decision easy for him. Using what little strength she had, she pushed off his hands and crumpled back to the cement, closing her eyes.
For the first time in a long time, she wanted the voices back.
She didn’t know if she’d fallen asleep or if he’d left, but once again he was close. A warm, steady palm on the nape of her neck angled her head back slightly.
“Drink.” The word fluttered through the fog around her.
The incessant pounding in her head wanted only the void.
“I said, drink,” he ground out, clearly pissed. He was either angry at himself for helping her or taking her slow movements as defiance.
The rim of a plastic water bottle was at her mouth. Cool water touched her lips. She opened them and the liquid slid over her tongue and down her throat. Her eyes popped open.
The man held her head on his lap, his hand beneath her neck as he held the drink steady for her. Water dribbled down her face and neck, but he cradled her while she drank the whole bottle.
She gasped from the exertion it had taken to drink so much at once. His sleeve came across her lips. She wanted to lunge away from him, to scramble back to her spot on the cement so she could close her eyes.
“I’ve got some ibuprofen. Tell me your real name and I’ll give it to you.”
She fought a smirk. The guy was nothing if not persistent. God, what did it matter anymore? She was going to die here anyway.
The idea of hearing him say her name made her heart beat faster. Which was ridiculous. She must have hit her head pretty damn hard.
“Come on,” he urged, his fingers flexing on her scalp and sending a shiver of delight through her. His scent invaded her. His hands so close to her neck should have terrified her. She had no doubt he could snap her spinal cord with sickening ease—at least right now.
“M-Mila,” she whispered.
His dark eyebrows met over his nose, and then the hard planes of his face softened.
Either he was shocked she’d complied or he didn’t think the name suited her.
If the latter, he was right. The name Mila was right for the sweet nine-year-old dancing in her living room and skating on the rink in her backyard outside Moscow.
Not for the woman she’d become.
“Mila?” The name slid from his lips, sounding smooth in the timbre of his voice.
She closed her eyes in response, wanting to hear him say it again.
“Good. We’re getting somewhere.” His gruff tone held a note of appreciation.
“Ibuprofen?”
He grunted, but there was a hint of amusement in the sound. Or maybe she was imagining that.
“Sit up and you can have it.”
Resistance pulled at her muscles. Gently, he eased her upright again. The room spun like a merry-go-round. Sweat broke out on her skin. Nausea swelled at the inside of her throat and she pressed her fingers to her lips.
“Shit.” He pulled back her hair and moved the quilt out of the way.
Cold air hit her skin, but it felt good on her now-hot cheeks.
“Go ahead. Puke if you need to.”
She pressed her hands to the cement and kept her head down as she sucked in one breath after another. He waited, still and silent, her hair drawn back in his hands.
Minutes passed and the water stayed down. She opened her eyes and the room stopped swaying a little, but the edges of her vision were blurry.
He dropped her strands. The rattling of a pill bottle followed by the crack of a water bottle opening reached her ears. He held out his palm. Two pills sat in the large landscape of his hand. With shaky fingers, she accepted them, knowing they might kill her.
She’d take any relief right now. She tossed the pills into her mouth and washed them down with a small sip of water. As she tilted back her head, her eyes wandered to the window. The sun appeared to be on its descent. How long had she slept?
“Here’s the thing, Mila.” Crouched in front of her, he rested his forearm on his knee. He hadn’t shaved the scruff on his jaw. The unsettling urge to stroke his bristly hairs made her curl her fingers into her palm.
“Believe it or not, I don’t want to hurt you. Whether you live or die doesn’t matter to me after I know who hired you.”
She snorted. “You really expect me to believe that?”
His jaw clenched. “No. But you’re not new to this line of work. What do you think every other asshole would’ve done if they’d caught you? Think you’d still be alive?”
She narrowed her eyes. The fact he was trying to make himself out to be the good guy in this scenario was wild. “There’re many ways to torture someone. Hypothermia and a head injury are a good start.”
His cheeks reddened. Instinctively she shrunk down an inch, waiting for him to lash out. But he kept his hands in front of him and didn’t touch her.
“Look,” she continued, “I don’t even know your name. I was given your picture and address. That’s all I know about you. Whoever hired me wanted me to have as little information as possible.”
“Prove it.”
She scoffed. “I would, but my car was parked a block from your house. My phone’s in there.”
He straightened. “Give me the make, model, and plate number. I’ll have someone pick up your things.”
She compressed her lips. She didn’t think there was anything in her phone that could tie Neo to her. Still, she didn’t want to take the risk.
At her hesitation, his eyes grew small. He sighed and shook his head. “I can see we’re not getting anywhere.” He stood and switched on the fans.
Her heart plummeted. Words formed on her tongue, but twenty years of training evaporated them.
“See you tomorrow, sugar.” He walked out of the shop, leaving the door wide open.