8. Eight
I’m still in. I’m still in. I’m still in.
Again, and again, and again, those words sprint through my mind. No matter what else I try to think, that phrase shoves its way back to the frontlines. I’m still here in the facility, inside of some elaborately fabricated Tank. One clearly designed to convince me I’ve made it to freedom before the next surprise they throw at me.
Two men are standing just inside the doorway, both panting, both with different frenzied expressions on their faces. One looks furious. I’ve never seen him before, I would remember the hard set of his jaw, his deep brown eyes, the way his dark blonde hair is starting to grey at the temples, despite him seeming to be too young for it. Maybe he was in charge of this portion of the Tank, maybe he’ll be fired for the oversight of the gun.
And then there’s Mark, fucking Mark, standing there with the gall to look concerned.
The nerve tingling in my extremities has finally faded away, and I know that if I could get away from Mark, the scowling man, and whoever this asshole is on top of me, I might be able to make a break for it.
I’m still in.
God, hope is such a fucked-up thing. I only had a sliver of a chance in the first place, and I’m still thinking in terms of escape.
I know better. There is no escape. There will never be an out for me.
The same seems to be true for the position that I’ve found myself in. This man, this stranger, is holding me so firmly that I can’t move an inch, but he isn’t hurting me, not in the slightest. His thighs are straddled around me, and I can feel how strong he is without him even having to try. If he wanted to, he could have killed me over and over and over again, likely without breaking a sweat. Between his speed, his strength, and the brutal looking knife he had strapped on his thigh, I wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight.
Well… apart from spitting in his face, which, I’m realizing now, may not have been the best strategic option. The hand that’s holding both of my wrists tightens as he gathers the bottom of his t-shirt with the other and wipes the offending substance from his cheek.
He’s still all over me, his body crowding into my personal space in a way I’ve never experienced before. The clean, masculine scent of him is hitting me full force and the warmth of his body against mine is sending flutters through my stomach. When his shirt reaches as high as it’s going to go, I can’t tear my eyes away from his body. The lean expanse of his tanned and taught skin, the grooves of his muscle separation, all working to hold me in place.
Focus, Madeline.
This guy is a part of the Tank and he’s just as likely to kill me as anything else I’ve come across.
Despite the reminder, that fluttering sensation intensifies when he slowly leans down. Folding himself closer against me, I can feel the weight of his body on my torso, the scratch of his stubble against my jaw.
“I’ll give you that one.” His breath tickles in my ear, and my cheeks heat. “But try it again, and I can’t promise you’ll like the outcome.”
My body is coiled tightly, and it feels like my skin is on fire in a completely new way. I know my breathing hasn’t returned to my baseline, but I don’t know how to get it there. The man above me doesn’t move away, having made his point, but leans closer as if daring me to wriggle more. I have no idea why, but I find myself desperate for him to stay where he is, to get somehow closer to me.
I want to look into his eyes more, catalog the rich caramel brown of them or feel how soft his dark, almost black hair is.
Coughing. No, throat clearing shatters whatever standoff this strange man and I found ourselves in. My attention snaps back to the reality of the situation, and I am again aware of our position and the two other men standing in the room.
The stranger pinning me doesn’t seem to mind the intrusion in the slightest. Rather than bolt upright like he was caught, he huffs a quiet laugh and slowly sits up. The spell has been broken for me. I’m not staring deeply into his eyes or taking note of his strong jawline. Instead, I’m glaring at him, silently demanding that he release me, without forcing my words out through my shaky breath.
He just keeps looking down at me, unhurried by the men behind him. There’s a smirk plastered onto his face and a noticeable glimmer of delight in his eyes. He’s clearly pleased about something, but I have no idea what it is.
He’s still leaning forward above me and his body is shielding my view of the others in the room. I’m starting to feel trapped, my heart hammering in my chest with the understanding that I can’t see the potential threats staring me down.
“Alright, Princess, you ready to meet the team?” He doesn’t break eye contact with me but tilts his head and studies me with an expression I can’t really place.
He releases my wrists and rises to his feet. The loss of his warmth is shocking, and I find myself wanting to curl back into him to savor every bit of heat I can pull away from his body. That desire nearly distracts me from the shock of him actually releasing his hold on me. My wordless glare couldn’t have been that persuasive, so why is he not making sure that I’m still restrained?
Rather than draping himself back over me, he bends and grabs my wrists from where they’re still frozen above my head. He doesn’t strain or show any effort as he hauls me upward to stand in front of him, but he stays close. Hovering his hands around me for a moment, his eyes searching for something that he can’t seem to find. When he’s satisfied with my ability to keep myself from collapsing onto the floor, he takes a step back and joins the others in the doorway.
I’m greeted by a full view of my physical evaluator and the other man standing just inside the room. Mark has, fortunately, dropped the concerned look from his face. Instead, he looks like he’s caught between flustered and vaguely uncomfortable.
The other man still just looks furious. His stony and sharply angled features set into a scowl that I instinctively want to shrink away from.
“Check him.” The harshness of his voice matches his face perfectly.
An order for Mark to inspect the man who’s now shrugging off his bloodied flannel to reveal the wound I gave him. A flurry of relief mixed with guilt hits me when I realize that I did shoot this man, but I only seem to have grazed his arm. My thoughts catch on the way my body loosens, the way my breath seems to calm. I’m struck by this strange relief, and doubly confused by my guilt. I’m glad I didn’t severely harm him, but why?
He’s a part of this, why don’t I want to hurt him?
My aim is another reminder that if he had wanted to, he would have absolutely been able to kill me, albeit momentarily, while I could barely manage to injure him fully armed.
“He’s good. I’ll have to disinfect it, but she only grazed him.” Mark’s voice cuts through the silence of the room and when he looks back to me, I feel that anger start to bubble back to life.