Fracture (13 page)

     “Now the shirt,” he murmurs. More wiggling and squirming, and I’m finally free of the confining fabric, his morning erection a hard lump against my butt. He groans softly. “Feels good.”

     That’s a snort worthy comment if I ever heard one. “I’m short and skinny. You actually enjoy having bones poking you?”

     He skims a hand over my hip. “Slim. Not skinny. Always liked small women.” His warm breath caresses the back of my neck.

     “Weirdo,” I breathe. Teeth close over my nape.

     “Not weird. They’re much stronger than people think.” Kisses form a burning line over my neck to my shoulder, winding around and up to my ear. “Sexy.” He palms a breast, rolling the nipple.

     That shuts me up, and I focus on his touch and how my body reacts, surging toward each new caress. He torments me from behind. Doesn’t move me around so I can touch him. Manipulates me for my pleasure, or his, or both. Hands and mouth bringing me to a fever pitch, so when he snaps the sides of my panties and pulls them off, when he rolls away and I hear the familiar crinkle of a condom wrapper, when he lifts my leg and holds it in place, braced on his hip, all I can do is moan as he thrusts forward.

     “Feels better. Christ, Nora, fantastic.” He moves his hand from my leg long enough to guide my hand to my clit, pressing my fingers in small, fast circles, the slickness of my arousal growing with every plunge of his cock. “
Yes
. Like that.”

     It’s sweaty and sticky and a step above the basest form of fucking, the bed squeaking with the effort. Tiny flutters ripple through me. “Close.” My voice is hoarse with lust.

     His strokes pick up speed, his fingers joining mine in their efforts to send us tumbling into the abyss. I strain toward it, forgoing breathing because I need this orgasm more than I need oxygen. Almost. There. I’m throbbing with it, the keening noises leaving my mouth embarrassing. Almost…

     “Oh,
god,
” I gasp. The climax races outward, squeezing me hard, the force of it setting off Declan. He sinks his teeth into the curve of my neck, and if I wasn’t panting for air I’d have laughed at the vampire trick.

     Soaked in more ways than one, my heart struggles to slow down. I’m not sure I can move any time soon. Declan gently lowers my leg, rubbing my hip. “Perfect start to the morning.”

     “Right.” I snuggle into him, heedless of the sweat clinging to our bodies. “Dammit, I just changed the sheets last night.”

     “I guess we’ll have to make sure they get very dirty, then. Wouldn’t want to waste a load of laundry.” He strips off the condom, tying it off before he maneuvers me until I’m on my back. Huge. He’s huge above me. One hand smoothes along my side, over my hip, down my thigh. He hitches my leg around his waist. “Again,” he growls.

     His kiss brooks no argument. I’m in bed, so is he, and we’ll fuck until we can’t move any longer and the sheets are thoroughly used. His injuries don’t hold him back. It’s a slow, total devastation. I lose myself in the chaos, coming back to myself only to arch toward him, going taut as a bow.

     I’m wrecked.

     Sheets tangled around my legs, Declan’s weight pressing me into the bed, my brain sputters into gear and reminds me I’m capable of coherent thought. The sex temporarily short–circuited it, but now that it’s reset itself, the doubts creep in.

     Those doubts remind me I picked the worst possible person to jump into the intimacy pool with.

     “Hungry?” I think my legs might work. I push at him and sit up, sucking in a breath as the room spins. “It’s past time for breakfast.”

     “Sure,” he yawns. He sits up as well and glances at the walking boot around his lower leg. “This didn’t bother you, did it?” His grin is sheepish and a little heartmelting and I remind myself he may not be around long enough for me to see him lose the cast.

     “Nah.” My legs wobble slightly as I hurry into the shower. Sore at the hips and between my legs, I brace myself against the shower wall for a minute, searching for balance and not finding it. Shit. Mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake, and I’m making it over and over again.

     Somehow I manage to get myself clean and out of the shower, resisting the urge to cover myself. He’s already seen everything. Either the view unobscured by lust will put an end to things, or he was telling the truth earlier and he likes small women.

     The appreciative grin is confirmation enough, though the smacking kiss he gives me solidifies it. Then he grabs the plastic bag sitting beside the bed and hobbles into the bathroom. A few curses later the shower turns on, followed by more cursing. Oops. I must have used up the hot water. I toss on Declan’s sweatshirt and some sweats and hightail it out of the bedroom.

     Eggs. I should ration them out, but I can’t. Delicious, delicious eggs. Unsure how he likes them, I scramble five and pour them into a skillet. He clomps out as I’m divvying up the spoils, pleased that the toast turned out unburnt, despite having to use the broiler.

     “Thanks for — are those eggs?”

     “Yup. Came in on the latest supply truck.” I hand him a plate and carry my own to the couch.

     “How did you get these? From what I’ve heard, most people haven’t seen an egg in months.” Most of the meat and other protein — the good stuff, anyway — is snatched up by the government and the rebels. The rest of us get what’s left over.

     “Magic.” I shovel a forkful of egg into my mouth, burning my tongue in the process.

     He eats in silence for a few minutes, watching me the entire time. It’s disconcerting. Gone is the domineering, coaxing lover. He’s been replaced by the detached, aloof version of Declan. He’s nicer than douchebag Declan, but still not my favorite. The way he shuts down after any physical display irks me. Is that what he does with his other women? Shut them out so they’ll catch the drift and walk away without being told?

     “How’d you get the eggs, Nora?” he asks quietly, setting his plate aside.

     Before I can answer, a sharp
ratatattat
cracks the air. It’s followed by shouts and more gunfire, and I drop my plate on the floor, my hands shaking so hard the strength’s left them. Declan sets his plate on the coffee table and scoots over on the couch. I shake my head. He ignores me, yanking me across the remaining distance, and the instant I’m plastered against his chest my hands still. I hate this. I hate how utterly
weak
I am. I hate that I can’t get over it.

     We wait, long, drawn out minutes, to see if there’s more. There isn’t.

     “Give me another few weeks. Most of the shots didn’t turn out. Then I’ll contact the extraction team. They can handle both of us.” The circles he rubs over my back are anything but soothing.

     I push at his chest, breaking free of his hold. “No,” I croak. “No, don’t bother. I’ll be all right.”

     One brow rises. “You’ll be all right? What’s going to happen when I leave? You’ll go back to hiding under the bed?”

     I jerk up my chin. “I said I’ll be fine. I
will
be fine. Stop worrying.”

     Hands on my shoulders, he holds me in place. “I doubt it. You’ve looked shell–shocked after every firefight so far.”

     I don’t tell him he’s right, that it’s gotten worse as the fights have gotten closer. “Leave it, okay?”

     “I’m getting you out of here,” he says grimly. “Fight it as much as you want, you won’t win.”

     I get to my feet. “There’s no point, okay? I’m stuck here. Even if I could get out, I have nowhere to go.” I throw out a hand and point to the bookshelf. “All those? Those, this country, Ryan’s thesis — they all landed me on a terrorist watch list. I can’t get into the US. I don’t have a passport any more. I haven’t the faintest idea how to go about clearing my name, and I don’t know where I could go that I wouldn’t be immediately deported to Guantanamo.” Snatching up my plate, I stalk out of the living room.

     It’s out. One more secret is out, and I can’t take it back. It’s a relief, in a way, not having to dodge any longer. He’ll leave, and I’ll stay here, and ne’er the twain shall meet. Meet again, anyway. Unwilling to dump the eggs that stayed on the plate when I dropped it, I stick it in the fridge and start tidying up the kitchen.

     “I’m still getting you out.” Declan, standing in the doorway, a scowl drawing his brows down, darkening his face. “You’ll break before much longer, Nora, and giving into madness in a place like this will only end in death.”

     “Really? Then yippee, bring it on,” I say sourly.

     The plate clatters on the counter. “Shut up. Just bloody well shut up. I’ll find a way to get you out of here. Don’t argue,” he adds when I open my mouth to protest. He limps to the sink and slaps on the tap. “Give me a few days.”

     He can take all the time in the world. It won’t work.

     Doesn’t he realize he can’t make promises like these? Ones that he has no hope of keeping? Hope is the worst four letter word in the English language. Hope is a dangerous thing to have in this slice of hell.

     He shuts off the water and turns around, dragging me to him. Hands in my hair, he sucks the breath right out of me as his mouth covers mine. My arms wind around his neck, hanging on for dear life. I want to soak this up, store it away for when he’s gone. His tongue teases and flicks, drawing a moan from me, and he eases away. “A few days,” he repeats. “I’ll figure something out.”

     A few days. A few days until I learn how this man plans to save me.

     “You know, when you asked me to come with you, I didn’t agree to be your sherpa.” A heavy camera bag bangs against each hip with every step.

     
Click
.

     I’d thought tagging along with Declan while he shot some photos might be interesting. A tenuous peace seems to have fallen over the city, pierced here and there by a gunshot or two, or a scrabbling, scrapping fight, but nothing major. Nothing on the scale of blowing up the hospital or an actual battle on the street outside your flat.

     Color. He wants color. The combat photos he lusts after are too far out of reach, something he can’t get as long as his leg is in a cast, so he's making do with what he’s already shot. And grumbling about it. The man is growing ever more displeased with his injuries.

     He spins around, a move surprisingly fast for someone in a fat, heavy boot, and snaps a picture of me before I realize what he’s doing. “I’ll make it up to you.” That charming grin, the one that transforms his face and does funny things to my stomach. I know exactly what he means. The last couple of days have been spent in a sweaty, twisted heap.

     He never lets me touch him for long. Turns the tables and makes me so weak and dizzy with want it doesn’t occur to me until later that I’m allowed nothing but the most cursory of touches.

     It’s taken me a few times to recognize it for what it is: a ploy to avoid true intimacy. I shouldn’t be upset about it. After all, I don’t have much to give anyone. Nothing but a dead lump of tissue and a cracked and battered soul that requires repairs on the most fundamental level. I’d be better off torching the whole thing than trying to rehabilitate it.

     I’ve started avoiding snuggling after sex. I wonder if he’s noticed.

     He raises the camera again.
Click
.
Click. Click.
“Would you stop that?” I flap a hand at him, irritated.

     “No.”
Click
. “New series. How women survive war. Could be a big seller.” I flip him the bird.
Click
. He laughs. “Play nice.”

     “I’m sorry, I don’t know the meaning of the word. What is this ‘nice’ you speak of?’ I smile prettily at him, lips spreading wider as he laughs again. I love that sound. Rough, almost harsh, a strange combination of darkness and light.

     
Click
. He lowers the offending device finally and fits the lens cap back on. “Let’s go.”

     Wandering through the streets of my neighborhood, I’m shocked to see how little has been destroyed. Pockets throughout the city are full of buildings reduced to dust, the bricks and stones being carted off bit by bit to shore up other structures. But here the buildings still stand, more or less untouched. Lights flicker in storefronts, the displays aiming for cheerful and falling short of the mark.

     We pass a small grocery, one I’d gone to on occasion in the beginning, when I still had money to spend. I cringe at the sight of Mrs. Vucik, pasting on a smile and returning her wave of hello. I haven’t been able to tell her I blew up her car. Part of me is sure she won’t mind, not once she knows the story, but that means working up the balls to
tell
her I blew it up in the first place. She loved that car. Her enthusiastic gestures, combined with Murat’s murmured translations of how she enjoyed having the independence to get out to the country to see her son, make guilt a heavy mantle on my shoulders.

     “Need anything?” Declan jerks his head toward the shop.

     I do. Feeding two people means I’m running low on most things, and my stock has never been huge to begin with. I’m fine with stealing from the supply trucks. I’m not fine with stealing what’s left on store shelves. I imagine if the war goes on much longer I won’t have to worry about it. The last convoy of goods bound for the various stores around the city was over six months ago. Fresh food, unless it’s been smuggled in somehow, isn’t found in those stores any longer. People line up at the makeshift warehouses for most of their supplies these days, paying exorbitant prices. Sometimes I join them. Most of the time I’ve already snuck in and stolen what I needed.

     “I’m good.” We’ve got enough to get through another day, two possibly. Enough time for me to poke around in places I shouldn’t be and see what I can find out.

     Apparently he doesn’t agree. He grabs my hand and drags me into the store, shoving a basket into my hands. He stalks through the aisles, ignoring my whispers as he tosses cans and packages into the basket. I trail after him as he walks up to the cash register, prying the basket from my hands.