Chapter 13
Thirteen
Coffee pulls me from my sleep, and I roll over and look around. I know I fell asleep on the couch after dinner. The grimy windows above let through a bit of the morning light, but the kitchen lights are on too.
I prod my shoulder and move it around a bit before sitting up and throwing my legs over the side of the bed. York is moving back and forth through the kitchen, so I get up quietly and walk over, pulling out a stool at the edge of the counter as I smooth out my hair.
A steaming cup of coffee is placed wordlessly in front of me, and I lean over it, inhaling the aroma for a second.
“Omelet?” he asks, sounding borderline pleasant.
“Please.”
He eyes me suspiciously before turning back to the cutting board, and I watch his bare back as the muscles tense and shift while he cuts things and pulls out pans.
Everything goes into the pan, and he whisks some eggs and dumps them in too.
A few minutes later, he’s setting a steaming plate down in front of me.
“Thanks.”
“Woman of few words today,” he says flatly as he leans against the counter, holding up his own plate while he picks at it with a fork. “Feeling okay?”
“Fine.” I shrug. “No worse, anyway.”
“Good. I have to meet some colleagues today, and you are coming along.”
“Colleagues?” I say doubtfully. “A flock of pigeons then?”
“Pigeons?” His brow pinches as he sips his coffee.
“Mm.” I sip my own. “If I’m a dove, then you are a pigeon. Scavenger. Dirtied.”
“I thought you said you weren’t a dove.”
“I said you have no clue what I am,” I correct and push my plate back after just a few bites.
He looks at the plate and then pushes it back at me and leans across the counter. “I thought we learned not to be a bitch yesterday.”
Ignoring the silent command to eat, I get up and take my coffee with me to the bedroom. My clothing from yesterday is clean and folded on a chair. Rubbing the back of my neck, I steal a glance toward the kitchen and unfold the jeans and slide back into them.
I don’t like the care and concern he’s showing me. Helping me bathe, cooking for me, carrying me to bed . . . washing my damn clothes? The effort he’s making to earn my trust or get me to drop my guard is suspicious as hell.
I may not like that I’m attracted to someone I can’t trust, but sex is sex. Sex feels good, and therefore I understand it. It’s primitive, not always rooted in logic. But I don’t like the emotional manipulation he’s doing.
The bra proves difficult when my shoulder stops me from reaching behind my back, and I growl in frustration as I slide the straps back down and determine I’ll have to do it backward.
“I’ve got it.” His hands stop the straps from sliding.
I didn’t hear him come out of the kitchen. He hooks his fingers under the straps, and warm breath flutters my hair as he guides them over my shoulders and fastens the band across my back.
“Why are we meeting up with these people?” I ask to distract myself from his closeness.
“They’re giving me a hand with something,” he says, still standing behind me.
“I shouldn’t be there. I shouldn’t see anyone’s face,” I whisper.
What if I already know one of them? Even if I don’t, once I see their faces, hear their voices .
. . they go into the vault, and I get on the hamster wheel.
I don’t want them in the vault. I don’t want to know anyone he knows because if anyone finds out about me, I’ll become an international fucking crisis, and the Agency will be the least of my concerns.
“I don’t trust you, so you don’t leave my sight.” He kisses the bruise on my shoulder.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Why?”
I shake my head. “Never mind.”
“You can talk to me, Theresa. I might be the only one you can talk to.”
My eyes fall to his lips, and I shake my head again faintly. “Where are we going?”
“Camping.”
“Okay.” I carefully pull the shirt on and hide my grimace. “Why?”
“Neutral ground. These aren’t the type of people you want having your home address, but I’ll keep you safe.”
“For now,” I say under my breath.
“Why do you always do that?”
“What? Inject reality into my situation?” I put my hands on my hips. “Or injecting it into yours?”
“This world, this life you’ve chosen is all about domination.” He drives my hips down, planting my ass on the bed as he kneels in front of me. “I’m glad you have a grip on reality, but your reality sounds so very narrow at the moment.”
He pulls open a drawer located under the bed and unfolds a pair of thin socks. He slides them onto my feet and then pulls out a second, thicker pair and slides them over top the first. He closes the drawer and looks up at me. “When are you going to realize you hold a position of power?”
“When it becomes true.”
Shaking his head, he stands and opens and closes drawers in the dresser, pulling garments out and tossing them on the bed beside me.
Without warning, he drops his linen pants and strokes his semi-erect cock absently before walking over and grabbing the pair of utility pants off the bed next to me.
He slides them on without anything underneath.
Jesus. My mouth goes dry, so I drop my head and squeeze my eyes shut for a second.
Once I hear him move away, I open them again.
A panel on the wall pops open when he presses on it, like a hidden closet, and from it he pulls out a crumpled black bag that he drops in the middle of the floor, as well as a pair of boots and two raincoats.
From the next panel, he pulls out a couple of sweaters and whistles before tossing a gun. I catch it and check it, setting it next to me, as he starts stuffing things into the bag. Finally, he puts on a shirt, then a knitted sweater before sitting to put on socks and hiking boots.
“Get your shoes on and take this.” He hands me a raincoat.
Without speaking, I take the coat and the gun and go back to the door where I left my shoes yesterday.
I keep finding myself having these strange dazes in his presence, where it feels like I’m moving in a fog.
Me in a position of power? Clearly, we’re looking at my situation from very different angles .
. . me from the angle where people are trying to kill me, and him from the angle of profiting off me in one way or another.
Life isn’t about domination; it’s about fucking perspective.
Striding past me with the bag over his shoulder, he heads out the door. I gather my things and close the door behind me as I hurry down the hall after him.
***
“I can drive if . . .” The way his eyes meet mine over the lip of the open trunk makes me fumble as I walk across the floor. “If you need to rest.”
His eyes disappear entirely, and then the trunk slams down. He hands me a pair of boots that I look at dumbly for a second.
“I’m fine. Get in.” He opens my door for me, and I slide in before he gets annoyed, but he doesn’t slam it closed this time. I toe my shoes off and wedge my feet into the boots that came out of nowhere in my size. I’d ask . . . but I don’t want to.
An hour later, some light rain begins, and the car pulls off onto a side road, a few miles from the border of the state park.
“Won’t there be rangers out here?”
“Maybe.” He pulls the car into a natural alcove in the tree line of the woods that run along the road. “Why? Are you planning to break some laws?”
“Are you?” I ask quietly, concerned for my own safety again. I’m not sure if the inkling is directed at him or his mysterious companions.
“No, but I can make anyone disappear out here if I have to . . . even a park ranger.”
The engine shudders to a halt, and I swallow a lump in my throat as he swings his door open and climbs out. Fuck, I really hope we don’t run into any cops out here. Again, he appears at my door and pulls it open, watching me closely as I climb out.
“Coat.” He nods at my seat.
Reaching back in, I put it on and tug the hood up, watching him as I close the door, and he moves to the back of the car. The trunk pops open, and he hefts the large black bag out, threading his arms through the straps like a backpack.
He produces a compass from his pocket and tosses it to me. “Northwest.”
Nodding, I hold it up and start walking. It rains off and on the entire way, and after the first hour, I’m checking over my shoulder at him, doubtful that I’m going the right way, but he says nothing. After the second hour, I smell smoke.
“Just ahead,” he says.
The rain lets up again, and I see the smoke through the trees in the distance. York breaks through into a small clearing and drops the bag. The little fire has a few tin mugs resting on rocks beside it, and York picks one up, sniffing it and then tasting it.
Arms come out of nowhere and lock me in place. My heart leaps, and I drop to the ground, my slick coat allowing me to slip from their grip before twisting and hitting them between the legs with a fist.
“Son of a—”
The stranger wheezes and drops to my level.
Shit, Tripoli. What the fuck were you thinking?
I apologize profusely as York turns slowly and regards the man on the ground. Two others materialize from the trees around the small site. York didn’t see me do it, but everyone else did.
“Hello, August,” York breathes out as he takes another sip from the cup.
“Eat it, you prick,” August groans and drops his forehead to the ground.