Fracture (11 page)

     Collateral damage. I am collateral damage.

     “I’m sorry it upset you.” Is he? His sincerity meter appears to be running low. “I know you want this to end so you may leave, but if you help us, it would be over much faster. You are small and quick. You like to play in the shadows. We will train you to. Help us win, and I will get you home.”

     
Home
. His promise is familiar, but for the first time, it’s completely hollow. That tiny flare of hope has drowned in its own wax, left to flicker too long without someone to tend it. “My answer hasn’t changed,” I murmur, unable to give him an outright no. It’s a false hope now, but better than none. “I just want to stay out of the way. This has to be over soon, right?”

     He sighs. “I wish I could tell you that. We are getting close, but war doesn’t stick to a schedule.” He tips my chin up, and my skin shrieks in protest at the touch. “I’ll win you over.” His grin isn’t anywhere near as charming as Declan’s. “I couldn’t get any more nectarines. This will have to do.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box.

     Prying open the lid, I squint at the contents. “Chocolates?”

     “Of course. Sweets are hard to come by.”

     I hold them out. “Cristian, I can’t keep taking food from you.”

     “What is the expression…Humor me? Humor me, Nora. Life is hard right now. Let me make it a little easier.” He kisses my cheek again, squeezing my hand for good measure before ducking out onto the sidewalk again. I give him thirty seconds, stuffing the box into my coat pocket, then begin following him.

     He doesn’t disappoint, the stupid man, confident as he is that no one would think to follow him. He leads me to one of the few bars still open for business. The back door is propped open, and I sneak inside, careful to stay out of view. Murat, bless him, gave me a minirecorder several months ago when I started relaying some of the more relevant information I got from Cristian. Murat never questioned where I got it, and he’s translated more than one conversation from the recorder. He wants to know as badly as me how much longer we’ll be out of the line of fire.

     I managed to snag some batteries on a recent supply run, replenishing our depleted stock. There’s plenty of life in the device to find out what the plans are for our neighborhood.

     The stench of cigarettes and stale beer waft around me. Gag. Ugh. It’s a dirty, filthy smell. I don’t know how anyone can stand it.

     Sometimes when I track Cristian, I get lucky and he’s in a place I can keep an eye on him, get close enough to record the conversation. Other times I have to be patient and wait for him to leave, so I can follow his compatriots. Again, useful information. I have a stockpile of it. If I had a rebel contact, I could sell it for a hefty sum.

     All I need to know is when and where the next supply drop will be, but when I peek into the main room of the bar, Cristian is sitting in the far corner. There’s no convenient spot for me to sidle into. I could wait. It might be hours, and I need to get the food back to my flat, but I could wait. Avoid the man ensconced on my couch, dinking around on a laptop.

     Frustrated, I creep out through the back and wind my way through the streets to a small cemetery. The orderly rows of headstones, dotted here and there with grand monuments, carry a false sense of calm. I know better. I know many of the new headstones, the even newer unmarked graves, are soaked in fury and violence.

     
Ryan Terrance Standford
. Such an upstanding, proper name. The pale grey stone was the best I could do, once I was forced to put him in the ground here. Old anger and grief murmur soothing, mindless words.

     The scent of fresh dirt drifts under my nose and the damp ground soaks through my jeans as I kneel in front of his headstone, tracing his name and blinking back tears. It will never stop hurting. Never. This rip inside me will continue to bleed.

     “It’s getting worse,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t recognize the city anymore. It’s broken and crumbling.” Like us. “I’m trying to get on with it, you know. Not be the grieving widow who can’t let go. But it’s pointless. I can’t go home. I can’t stay here. Every time I try to think of a solution, I remember you’re here and I can’t do anything.”

     It hurts, Ryan’s ashes in the ground below me, a tiny piece of him in a box in the bottom of the closet. Knowing that if I leave I’ll be giving up more than just what’s left of him. I’ll be acknowledging that my stasis is over.

     It’s already over. It was over when Declan grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let go.

     “I miss you so much, baby. I love you.” Bringing my fingertips to my mouth, I press the kiss into the stone. More fraud. I need something real. Solid. Ungiving.

     Some
one
.

     Bad idea. A truly terrible idea. I’m tired, emotional, and irritated. I can entertain bad ideas, but executing them? No. Once I do, I can never unexecute them.

     It starts to rain as I jog through the streets, circling and detouring to pick up my bag of food. Rivulets snake under my coat collar, my hair plastering itself to my head. My jeans get in on the action as well, sticking to my legs. I drip all over the floor as I climb the stairs to my flat. Hopefully the bread stayed dry. Well, dry–ish.

     Declan hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch, his eyes glued to the monitor of his laptop. He grunts in response to my hello, and I leave the food in the kitchen. I squish past him to the bedroom, wincing at the trail of wet behind me.

     Peeling off my clothes is a lot of fun, the fabrics heavy and adhering to my skin in places. I drop them on the bathroom floor and retrieve a towel. My teeth are starting to chatter as I pull on a clean pair of panties. “Hey, Declan? Could you put on the tea kettle?”

     His answer is unintelligible. I toss the towel through the open bathroom door and dig through the clothes I piled into the closet in an attempt to straighten up the tiny room. I have a pair of fleece pants. I swear I do.

     
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
I shut the door, didn’t I? Dammit, where are those pants?

     “What did you say? I didn’t hear—” I whirl around, sweatshirt clutched to my chest. “Oops. Sorry.” The wide, sly smile doesn’t make him look the least bit sorry.

     “Out. I asked you to put the kettle on. I’m freezing, and I want tea. Out.” Turning my back, I tug the sweatshirt over my head and resume hunting for the pants. A strangled noise behind me must be my imagination. As is the flash of heat in Declan’s eyes when I glance over my shoulder. “What?”

     No one should be able to move that fast with a walking boot on. I’m braced against the wall with my legs wrapped around his waist before I can blink, desire shadowing his face. “Want me to warm you up?” he murmurs.

     “No.” Dammit, I was going for strong. Not breathy with need.

     “Too bad.” He takes my mouth and a searing heat zips through me like a wildfire.
Yes
. I need this. Need him, need his hands clamped on my hips, need his lips and tongue and oh god his
tongue
. When he drags his mouth away, I moan and tip my head back to give him better access to my neck, biting my lip when his tongue completes a particularly wicked maneuver at the fragile spot under my ear.

     Lacing my fingers through his hair, I plunder his mouth as he does mine, wanting him to be as crazy with this need as I am. It swirls between us, a whirlpool threatening to drag us down, and his hand slips under my sweatshirt and finds my breast.

     I want to know what his skin feels like against my mouth. I want to taste every inch of him, and then go back and do it again. I want him under me, over me, inside me, making me forget, making me
live
.

     The heat of his hand and his mouth is gone as quickly as it came on. I stare at him, confused, dazed with lust. He stopped. Why did he stop? Especially when I can tell how ready he is?

     He slides his hands down my thighs and unwinds me from his waist, dropping me on my feet. “Warm enough now?”

     And he limps out of the room, cast thunking with every step.

     That’s it. Twice now he’s kissed me, wound me up, then dropped me like I’m diseased. He’s not getting away with it this time. I storm into the living room. He’s lowering himself to the couch, booted foot hovering in the air over the coffee table. “Where the fuck do you get off? You think you can be that callous and expect me to just…let you do it whenever you want?” I fist my hands on my hips and glare at him.

     “You know, your mouth says one thing, but your legs…” He stares pointedly at my bare legs.

     My ragged emotions coalesce and settle on one singular feeling: anger. Red edges my vision. The world narrows to the space around his head, lighting it up with bright gold fury. “You. You
fucking
bastard. Is that how you treat women? Like tissues? Use once and toss them away?” Even as anger catches the embers of desire he’d stirred, I realize I’ve got a choice: I can follow through on my thoughts from the cemetery, or I can back off.

     My body overrules my brain and says
go
, propelling me forward. I stalk over to the couch and straddle him, determined to leave him wanting this time.
I'll
do the touching.
I'll
rule this kiss, these fleeting caresses. Fisting my hands in his sweatshirt, my eyes meet his and my heart sputters to a halt. The intensity on his face is frightening, air sticking in my lungs. He pushes his face close to mine. “
Yes
, that’s how I treat them. Most of the time, because I’m not around and that’s the only way I can get it through their fluffy heads. But you — Do you have any have any idea how badly I want you? You’re not ready. I’ll break you. Tiny little pieces of Nora.”

     His hissed words hammer at the fog cloaking my brain. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

     “Don’t play stupid now.” Cupping a hand around the nape of my neck, he kisses me. Hot. Possessive. There’s a claiming in this kiss that wasn’t there before. I am
his
, his toy, his to use, his to discard, for as long as he’ll have me. He’ll smash my defenses so there’s no use putting them up again. His tongue finds every tiny crevice in my mouth. Stroking, enticing, cajoling my response from me.

     The first tremor works its way up my spine. Another harsh kiss, taking me deeper. Another tremor. He breaks the kiss, his forehead propped against mine. “Tell me you were ready for that. Make me believe you, and I’ll take you to bed right now.” He strokes a hand down the back of my neck and eases away, his gaze searching and sober. “What do you want, lass?”

     The potent, liquid darkness of his mouth…soon. Maybe. I’m afraid if I wait I’ll talk myself out of it. I’m afraid this is the wrong choice, that my heart and my brain and my body won’t accept him.

     Only one way to find out.

     I scrape my teeth over his lower lip and thrust my tongue into his mouth, hoping he won’t notice how badly I’m trembling, that he’ll think I’m shaky with unquenched wants. I have to know the difference, the way his skin feels under my hands, how his broad shoulders and long, tall body fit with mine. “Let me touch you,” I beg.

     He groans. “Christ.” He jerks me forward, hands streaking under the hem of my sweatshirt as his mouth covers mine in a bruising punishment of a kiss. The fierce possession I’d felt earlier is magnified a hundred thousand times, and the doubts slip away like water down the drain. Hands roaming along my waist and up to span my ribs, he palms my breasts and I gasp into his mouth, his touch searing through me.

     “Take it
off
.” Pulling at his sweatshirt, unable to get it over his head, I wish my hands were strong enough to rip it apart. He lets go of me long enough to drag it off, and I’m rewarded with the sight of his lean, muscled chest, the bruises faint splotches on his skin. Warm, almost hot to the touch.

     My brain shuts down. Just completely stops processing higher thought, and all I can think is
want
. I am laden in it, drowning dying gasping with
want
. And what I want more than anything right now is to feel his skin against mine.

     Whipping off my sweatshirt, I press myself to him, clad only in my underwear. I’m no longer cold. The shakes are still there, growing more and more violent. Control’s slipping beyond my grasp and instead of making one last desperate lunge for it, I fling it away and attack his mouth, his jaw, his neck, fingernails scoring a trail over his abdomen.

     I am tiny in his arms and strong as titanium, ready for the next assault. He launches it, two–pronged with little finesse. An arm around my waist, bowing me up, presenting my nipples for his eager mouth. His free hand shoves into my panties and finds my clit, rubbing in steady, smooth circles.

     “That’s it,” he mumbles against my breast. He bites down on the sensitive tip and tugs, drawing a sharp cry from me. “Responsive, aren’t we? Let’s try this.” Without warning, he plunges a finger into me, and I arch back, lost to him, my hips mindlessly jerking before following the slow pump of his hand. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

     The words are a bare whisper, hard to hear over the roaring in my head. He strokes his fingers in and out, in and out, faster, dragging me closer, higher, that bright, shiny orgasm within reach.
Don't stop don't stop oh please oh please dear god don't stop don't stop don'tdon'tdon't.

      He stops.

     He doesn’t stop for long. Cursing, shaking, he yanks me up with one hand as he pushes at his sweats with the other, freeing his cock. Oh.
Mine
.
That
is mine. I scoot back on his lap and grip him at the base, stroking upward. The head is slick, and I spread the moisture around, leaning forward to kiss him.

     Fabric rips as he shoves his hand back into my panties. His hips twitch and lift, and I match my rhythm to his, the edge of release right in front of me and still beyond my reach. I give him a final stroke and let him go, hitching my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear and pushing them down. They get caught around my knees. I get them to my ankles. Good enough. Crazed with need, body straining for release, I glide my hand along his length, squeeze once, and shift my hips over him.