Chapter 8 #2
Xabat grunted in response, a sound of pure satisfaction rumbling from deep in his chest, then proceeded to demolish six bags of chips in rapid succession. He ate as if he'd never tasted potato chips before. Like each salty, spicy bite was a revelation, his eyes half-closed in blissful appreciation.
We ate in companionable silence, the only sounds being the rhythmic percussion of rain hammering against the roof, the wind that rattled the boarded windows, and the steady drip of water droplets hitting the plastic buckets scattered across the floor.
The store sat solid and unyielding against the storm, with thick concrete walls and a flat roof, which, while leaking in places, seemed far less likely to blow away.
Sitting high on a hillside, elevated above the churning storm surge that was surely devouring the lower-lying areas, the building had an air of permanence about it.
I had to guess it had been here as long, if not longer, than my beach house.
Another survivor of countless hurricanes, another testament to builders who understood the ocean's wrath.
After finishing his chips, Xabat reached for a bag of chocolate chip cookies, the cellophane crinkling loudly as he tore it open, and added a granola bar to round out his breakfast. After washing it down with a bottle of water, he stood with a grunt, his hand brushing crumbs from his shirt with broad, efficient strokes.
"I'll scout around," he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the wind. He moved around the perimeter of the building, approaching each boarded-up window, pressing his face close and squinting through the narrow cracks to glimpse the chaos outside—a swirling maelstrom of water and debris.
"I've never been in a hurricane before," he said, his tone carrying a note of wonder mixed with wariness.
"Neither have I, at least not like this," I confessed, wrapping my arms around myself.
After buying the beach house, the storms that had brushed the coastline had been mild—tropical storms that brought heavy rain and gusty winds, but nothing like this.
The Weather Channel had projected that Beatrice would intensify to a Category Four by the time it made landfall, with sustained winds up to 130 miles per hour.
With the sounds from outside—the demonic shrieking of wind, the explosive crashes of debris slamming into buildings, the roar that sounded like a freight train bearing down on us—I didn't doubt the prediction for a second.
"You don't think those guys are still out there looking for me, do you?
" I wondered aloud, my voice small and uncertain.
If they were, if they'd been foolish or desperate enough to stay out in this tempest, then in my opinion they deserved whatever punishment the storm dished out—and nature could be far more brutal than any human justice.
Xabat turned to look at me, his gaze steady and direct. "They might have the resources to ride this out somewhere nearby," he said, his voice grave. "Men like that do not give up easily."
"I wish I knew why they were after me." I'd racked my brain for a reason, turning over every possibility, examining every interaction from the past weeks and months, but I'd come up empty-handed.
Maybe Becky Jessup's parents were behind this.
With me out of the way, they could bring in a teacher who would declare their daughter the genius they claimed her to be. Ridiculous, but it was all I had.
Xabat sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of memories and returned to his inflatable float.
He lowered himself down cross-legged, settling so close to me I could feel the heat radiating off his body like a furnace, warming the damp air between us and making my skin prickle with awareness.
"Some abduct others simply because they can," he muttered, his voice dripping with disgust. "Many who are stronger are not honorable and eager to hurt the weak, to exploit them instead of protecting them as they should."
"My husband, Seth, used to say that," I said softly, remembering times he'd come home from work frustrated and angry.
He'd pace our kitchen, running his hands through his hair, voice tight with helpless rage as he talked about predators taking advantage of the vulnerable who couldn't defend themselves.
"He used to wonder how people could be so evil to each other, how they could look at someone suffering and choose to cause more pain instead of offering help. "
Xabat's purple gaze settled on my face, studying me in a way that made me feel exposed, seen in a way that was both uncomfortable and strangely comforting.
"Evil happens more than we know," he said, his voice low and rough.
"But many are good, like your husband, and willing to put themselves in danger to help those who cannot help themselves.
" He drew a deep breath, his massive chest expanding, and his expression turned pensive, distant, as if he were looking at something far beyond the concrete walls.
"After my brother and I got abducted, for a long time, I was a slave.
Never weak," he snorted in bitter amusement, "but without choice.
Without freedom. Those with honor helped me escape, and now I work with them to protect those who cannot protect themselves.
" His voice softened, taking on an almost reverent quality.
"Rescuing and helping victims is more important than punishment, more important than revenge.
Saving one life matters more than destroying another. "
I stared at him, my breath catching as the full weight of his words settled over me.
He wasn't just strong and confident—he was honorable, deeply and fundamentally good in a way that seemed almost rare in this world.
Maybe not military like I'd originally thought, but something more profound, more personal.
A protector forged through his own suffering.
Perhaps he worked with some kind of international rescue organization like the A21 Campaign or the International Justice Mission, one of the groups that operated in the shadows, pulling victims from the clutches of traffickers and slavers.
"Is that why you agreed to come help me?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, almost afraid of the answer. "Because it's your job?"
Xabat's gaze met mine and held, his expression layered with emotions I couldn't quite decipher, which made my pulse quicken.
"No," he said softly, the single word carrying unexpected weight.
"Not my job. Xytol believed you were in danger of being abducted.
" He glanced away, his jaw tightening as his eyes fixed on the boarded window.
On a storm-ravaged landscape he couldn't actually see through the wooden slats.
"There was a picture of you. An image taken at your school.
" His gaze swung back to mine with such sudden intensity that I gasped, my lungs forgetting how to draw air. "When I saw your image, I had to come."
Something shifted in the air between us, a palpable change in the atmosphere that made the hair on my arms stand on end.
An electricity that seemed to pull us together like opposing magnets drawn by an irresistible force.
My nerve endings felt like they were on fire, every cell in my body suddenly hyperaware of his proximity, of the heat radiating from his massive frame.
I was a compass with no choice but to point in his direction.
I leaned forward, my hand trembling slightly as I let it rest on his thigh, feeling the immediate jump and flex of powerful muscles under my touch, the heat of his skin burning through the fabric of his pants.
Those deep, mysterious purple eyes bored into me with an intensity that stole my breath, searching my face, asking a question that had no words, no language—only feeling.
I leaned closer still, raising myself up on my knees, my heart thundering so loudly I was certain he could hear it. Closer, until I could feel his breath ghosting across my lips, until I could see the flecks of darker violet in his irises, until the space between us had shrunk to almost nothing.
Outside, the storm raged, but its violence seemed weak, almost insignificant compared to the tempest inside me. A hurricane of want and need and something deeper that I didn't dare name.
"Harper," he murmured, my name falling from his lips. Not a question or a statement, just the sound of my name spoken in his deep, rough voice, like he couldn't help but say it.
I closed the final distance between us and pressed my lips to his.
Soft at first, tentative, my mouth barely brushing against his in a question that needed no words.
His lips were full and warm, surprisingly soft despite the hardness of everything else about him and tasted faintly of salt and chocolate and something uniquely Xabat that made my head spin.
For a suspended heartbeat, he went completely still.
Frozen like a statue carved from stone, like he didn't understand what was happening, like perhaps he'd never been kissed before.
His lips remained warm but unmoving beneath mine, neither yielding nor responding.
A flicker of doubt started to creep in, making me wonder if I'd misread everything, if I'd made a terrible mistake.
Then something ignited deep within him. I felt the shift, the breaking of whatever invisible barrier that had been holding him back.
A low, primal sound rumbled from deep in his chest, almost a growl that vibrated through both our bodies, and suddenly his mouth came alive against mine with a raw, desperate hunger that made my toes curl and my stomach flip.
His hand slid up my spine with deliberate slowness before reaching the nape of my neck, his large fingers tangling possessively in my hair, gripping firmly as he angled my head so he could kiss me deeper, harder, more thoroughly.
The gentleness evaporated like rain on sun-scorched pavement, replaced by something fierce and consuming.
I gasped against his mouth, and he took immediate advantage, his tongue sweeping boldly against mine in a way that sent liquid fire racing through my veins, pooling low in my belly and spreading outward until every nerve ending felt electrified.
My hands fisted desperately in his shirt, the fabric bunching and twisting in my grip as I pulled him closer, needing him closer with an urgency that bordered on madness, even though there was barely any space left between us.
The kiss turned wild, desperate, almost violent in its intensity.
His other hand gripped my hip, his large palm nearly spanning my entire side, his thumb pressing insistently into the sensitive hollow there.
I felt a tremor run through his massive frame—a shudder of barely restrained need, like he was holding himself back by the thinnest of threads, like he wanted to devour me whole and was fighting against every instinct screaming at him to do exactly that.
"Thank you," I breathed against his lips when we finally broke apart for air. Our mouths were separated by mere millimeters, breath mingling in the narrow space between us, the words tumbling out without conscious thought, raw and honest. "Thank you for coming for me."
And then I was kissing him again, unable to stop myself, unable to think about anything except the intoxicating taste of him—spicy and male and addictive—and the way his powerful body felt pressed against mine, all hard muscle and restrained strength.
The storm both outside the concrete walls and inside my own body threatened to tear me apart from the inside out.
But then he went rigid beneath my touch.
His hands stilled on my body, fingers freezing mid-caress, and he pulled back so abruptly I nearly lost my balance.
My hands grasped at empty air where his solid warmth had been just a moment before.
He was on his feet in one fluid motion, putting deliberate distance between us like I'd burned him, and he needed to escape before the damage became permanent.
"I—" He turned away sharply, presenting me with the broad expanse of his back, one hand dragging roughly through his dark hair. "I apologize. That was... I should not have..."
The words came out rough and fractured, broken pieces of sentences that didn't quite fit together, his voice deeper and more gravelly than usual.
I could see the tension radiating through his shoulders, the rigid set of his spine, and the way his chest rose and fell with each carefully controlled breath, as if he were fighting to regain the composure that had shattered so completely just moments ago.
"Xabat...." I started, my voice uncertain, reaching one hand toward him even though he was too far away to touch.
"I need to check the perimeter again." He moved toward the boarded windows without looking back at me, his movements stiff and deliberate, almost mechanical. Like remaining in my presence for even another moment would shatter whatever control he'd managed to reassemble.
I sat there on the cold floor, my lips still tingling with the ghost of his kiss, watching him retreat into the familiar role of protector. The role that was safe, a role that had clear boundaries and expectations, that didn't involve tangled limbs and desperate kisses.
I felt stunned. Not by his retreat, but by how much I wanted to pull him back.
That kiss had been... God, it had been everything.
Electric. Consuming. Nothing like the gentle, familiar kisses I'd shared with my husband.
Seth and I had been good together, our intimacy warm and comforting, like slipping into a favorite sweater or coming home after a long day.
This was different. This was fire and lightning and something untamed that called to a part of me I didn't even know existed. Something reckless and hungry that made me want to chase after him, to demand he finish what we'd started.
I wanted more.