Fracture (16 page)

     A hand clamps on my arm and I swing around, my fist bouncing off a solid bicep. “Jesus. Watch where you plant that fist.” My eyes have finally given up the ghost, and tears stream unchecked down my cheeks, the grit stinging and burning. Declan’s hand is huge and strangely gentle as he wipes the damp from my face. “Can I take you home now?”

     Take me home. Take me far away from this chaos. “Where’s Mila and Zlata?” My throat is raw, smoke and dirt crawling into the tiny crevices each cough tears open. Every word hurts. Every
breath
hurts. I’m rasping like an asthmatic after a sprint. But I won’t leave without knowing the sisters are all right.

     He tugs me farther away, the noise and the swirling, writhing mass of humanity behind us growing bigger as troops begin pulling people out of the building. At first they’re lumps. Bricks? Rubble? I wish I were that lucky. It’s not the wreckage of the club. It’s the bodies, the limp, broken shells I knew were in there and hoped I wouldn’t see.

     I can’t stop watching. More. More and more, soldier after soldier, carrying people out. Too many. It goes on forever. They blur together, and the only thing holding me up is the band at my hips and the wall at my back. Some part of me is aware it’s not a wall and a band but Declan, though why he hasn’t pulled me away from the horror show in front of me I don’t know.

     He does seconds later, our progress awkward because he won’t let me go and his cast hampers his stride. A familiar figure stumbles through the smoke and dust. “Mila!” Declan calls.

     Oh, god. Mila. Mila’s alive. She cradles her left arm like a child, and there’s a gash along the side of her face, blood seeping from the wound. She doesn’t register Declan calling her name, just stares at us blankly.

     “Mila?” I ask. Nothing. Eyes wide and unseeing, she sways on her feet, and Declan shoots out a hand to steady her, keeping his other arm around me. He can let go. I’m okay. Mila’s not. Mila is definitely not. Her lack of response is disturbingly familiar. Shock.

     Careful not to move too quickly, I reach up and cradle her face, turning it toward me. The cut on her face isn’t deep, the blood dripping from it almost congealed. I swallow bile. “Do you know what’s wrong with her arm?” Though he’s right next to me, I have to shout to be heard.

     Declan shakes his head. “Broken? Dislocated shoulder? I can figure that out pretty easy.” He presses his fingers along the socket. Mila starts and moans, jerking away. “Dislocated shoulder. Hold her hand.” I take her right hand in both of mine as he steadies her, grasps her injured arm, and shoves it back into place.

     She jumps, stumbles, and doubles over, retching. When she’s done, she wipes her mouth on the back of her hand and straightens. “Nora?
Nora
.” She lunges forward and catches me in a hug, hissing with pain and dropping her arms almost immediately.

     “Where is Zlata?”

     She blinks and peers into the gloom. “She found Ismael before the explosion. He was bored, as usual. She was scowling. As usual.” She takes a tiny step toward the club, then another.

     Declan stops her. “If she was with Ismael, he probably got her out. Best thing you can do is go home and wait for her.”

     She starts to protest and winces. “Yes. Home.”

     The way is slow and painful, each step a victory as we get farther from the wreckage. Mila’s sunny cheer is buried under worry for her sister and doesn’t put in an appearance. We leave her in her apartment after she insists we leave. She doesn’t have to do much to convince me. I want the relative safety of my stolen flat.

     We cover the remaining blocks, dragging ourselves up the stairs and into the apartment. We collapse on the couch on opposite ends, Declan groaning softly. There was a bomb. In the club. The walls collapsed. There was fire, and smoke, and dead people. So many bodies.

     Nausea surges, and I lurch to my feet, racing for the bathroom, barely making it in time to empty my heaving stomach into the toilet. Hollowed out and weak, it’d be comforting to succumb to unconsciousness right about now, but the stink of smoke reminds me of the charred remains of the club goers. I need a shower first. Then I’ll sleep.

     Stripping aside my ruined clothing, I turn on the tap. Please have water. Please have
hot
water. I’m rewarded with a spurt of hot water, hot enough to peel the flesh from my bones, the pressure better than it’s been in weeks.

     “Nora?” Declan opens the door as I’m about to step into the shower. His gaze cuts past me to the stall. “Good idea.” He ducks out and returns with his trusty plastic bag. Making quick work of his clothing, he gives me a crooked grin as he sits on the toilet lid to adjust the bag over his cast. “Might want to get under there and start soaping.”

     Right. Showering. Standing stupefied isn’t on the agenda.

     The shower’s crowded with the two of us. His cast doesn’t make it any better, either. We move slowly, and he nudges me around, substituting soap for shampoo, his strong, deft fingers working it into a lather and soothing my scalp.

     I’m exhausted. A few cursory swipes of the towel and I pronounce myself dry. I don’t even have the energy to pull on my sleep shirt or underwear. Squirming under the covers is the most I can do.

     He slides in beside me and pulls me to him, and his skin rubbing over mine ignites me. I need to erase tonight, with its death and shock and terror. Replace it with life. With sweat and gasps and endorphins. My lips search his out, and I whimper as I tangle my fingers in his hair. Alive. Vibrating with it. So warm. Warm, firm, assured and in control. He’s all these things and exactly what I need.

     It’s not enough. I need to be surrounded. I hook a leg over his hip and roll onto my back, pathetically grateful this man knows his way around the bedroom and takes my hint with ease.

     Then he stops, stares, forearms bracketing my head. “Don’t stop,” I plead. “Why’d you stop?”

     He dips his head and runs his tongue along the curve of my neck, nipping into my ear. “You’re looking for a distraction, lass?”

     Yes yes
yes
please fuck me now. I rock against him, grinding my clit into his hardening cock. He hisses out a breath and shuts his eyes, tendons in his neck standing out in stark relief. I do it again.

     His eyes snap open. “You’ll pay for that.”

     He plunders. There’s no other word for what he does to my mouth, forces it open and strokes inside, drawing my tongue into a duel with his. My hips jerk as he sucks my tongue into his mouth, releasing it to nibble on my lower lip.

     I pull back and flick my tongue along the shell of his ear, planting kisses along the way as I work back toward his mouth. His talented, incredible mouth. Sometimes I think he’ll make me forget my own name just from kissing me. And if there’s any time to find out if he can, it’s now.

     God, I want him to. I want him to wipe away the nightmare of tonight with strong, firm strokes, replace those awful memories with ones of lust and need.

     He works his way along my jaw, down my throat, pausing to nuzzle my breasts, pinching and tugging at my nipples as I squirm under him. The farther down he goes, the less friction I have, and I’m soaked and desperate by the time he deigns to move on over my belly. Soft, soft kisses around my belly button, hands clamped on my hips to hold me in place.

     It’s too hot in here. I buck my hips up. “Declan.
Please
.”

     When he finally runs his tongue over my clit, I want to cry. Cry, beg for more, grab his head and hold him there until the world ends. The heat ratchets up, and everything narrows to his wicked, wicked mouth, teasing and sucking and stroking and oh
fuck
he’s using his fingers and I’m blind and deaf and—

     I bow up, scream dying in my throat, stretched taut and he’s relentless, driving me on, the pleasure so keen it’s a blade, slicing clean through and leaving me bleeding. I don’t care. If it means I’m consumed by this white–hot pleasure–pain, he can drain me.

     And he keeps going.

     And going.

     His fingers twist along with his tongue, and he hurtles me headlong into another orgasm, the sensations racing through like fire on oil, melting my bones, turning my blood to lava. I will die. If he doesn’t stop, I’ll die.

     But he does, and because he does, my clit throbs with anticipation while he fumbles for a condom. He bats my hand aside to roll it on, plunging into me, straight through swollen tissues still shuddering with aftershocks. It bends me in two, my back arching so far off the bed something cracks. 

     “Wait. Wait wait wait. Don’t move,” I whimper. There’s no air. He’s used it all.

     “Like this?” He rocks forward, nudging my oversensitive clit. A high-pitched mewl escapes. “Or this?” A circular movement, tiny bolts of pleasure zipping through me. “Maybe you mean like this?”

     He rears back until he’s almost on his knees, palming my ass and lifting me to meet his deep, lazy thrusts. My hands fist in the sheets, every cell on alert and ready to burst.

     His eyes bring me back as he fucks me at his leisure, the blue glinting in the shadowed room, hooded and inscrutable.

     With a sudden fury he flips us over and slams my hips down as he thrusts up, setting off more tremors.
This
. A thousand times this. This room, this bed, this moment, this single breath of air, tension mounting and ready to break, taking us to pieces on a night that could have crushed us both.

     “Touch yourself,” he growls.

     Of course. We’re not done yet. He’ll wring every last drop from me. I asked; he’s delivering. In spades. Rolling my hips, my hand snakes down to where our bodies join, stroking gently.

     “Harder.” He sits up, trapping my hand between us, threading his fingers through my hair and yanking my head to the side to ravage my neck. The closeness presses in, presses my hand into me, harder, faster, sweat making us sticky.

     I have nothing left. He’s already taken it all. I can’t give up. The horizon opens up, and it’s there, bright and vicious, stars bursting as I shake from the impact of release, dimly aware Declan’s grinding into me, his shouts ringing in my ears.

     I’m a void. I’m ready to be filled. Strait–jacketed in Declan’s arms, he lowers us to the bed and shifts us to our sides, my face flush with the crook of his neck, legs twined together.

     He doesn’t let go.

     
Click
.

     “Would you put that damn thing away?” Declan’s pointing his camera at me. Again. He’s done that a lot lately.

     “Can’t. New series, remember?”
Click
.

     “Women in war or something, right? Don’t you need more than one subject?” I turn away from the window and glare at him. His grin only makes me scowl harder.

     Gunfire erupts, and from the sounds of it, it’s farther away than yesterday. Small comfort. Since the bombing at the club almost a week ago, I haven’t had the courage to step outside the flat. We have enough food and water to last another day or so, but running this close to the bottom has me on edge. Well, more than I was already.

     “Hold that.”
Click
. He lowers the camera. “Jesus. Bloody good shot there.” Thumbs jumping all over the place, he mutters to himself, then starts rooting around in the camera bag at his feet. He holds up a cable on a triumphant shout and plugs the smaller end into the camera.

     He’s done this a few times, gotten lost in his pictures, talking to himself and fiddling with his laptop. I’ve learned not to interrupt him; he gets snarly. The firefight picks up again. The crack of bullets echoes along the streets. I press my nose to the glass and crane my neck as much as possible — right, then left — trying to determine where the fighting is. The closest drop point for supplies is about five blocks away. If the guns are in the opposite direction, I can run over. Getting out of the flat will do me good, though if I think too long about venturing out when guns are actively blazing, I talk myself out of it. Dying of starvation is more appealing than dying of a gunshot wound.

     “Nora?” He gestures to the cushion beside him. “I want to show you something.”

     Probably one of the many, many pictures he’s taken over the last few days. I wander over to the couch and flop down, squeaking in surprise when he wraps an arm around me and hauls me to his side. A shudder rolls through me as something rumbles in the distance, and his hold tightens. It sort of amazes me how quickly I’ve gotten used to having someone hold me when the battles pick up.

     On the screen is a picture of me. There are slight shadows along my cheeks, and my eyes are huge. And sad and scared. It doesn’t take an art genius to see the emotions on the screen.

     “This is what I want,” he murmurs. “You’re perfect. Your face shows every facet of this war.” He flips through the pictures, and I’m there — smiling, scowling, staring at some unseen thing. “Everything people associate with violence, you’ve got written on your face. I don’t need any other subjects. Just you.”

     I have no words. What am I supposed to say, anyway, to a statement like that? I don’t want to be wanted for what I’ve gone through. Those scars will never go away, and he wants to make them public. For people to fuss over and offer sympathy when they have no business doing so. 

     “You need my permission, don’t you?” I hate that my voice is shaking. “To sell them, to display them?”

     “Technically, yes.” He strokes his hand up and down my arm.
Relax
, he says, maneuvering me closer to his warmth. “Vulnerability isn’t a sin.” He scrolls until he comes to another picture. Just how many does he have of me? If he were anyone else, I might think it’s sweet. This is Declan, though, and the next time he goes to Murat and Ismael’s, I’m going to go through and delete every single one of them. “Not when its opposite is determination.” Fierce. Fierce and weary, faint lines between my brows, mouth thinned. I’m standing as tall as I can. I remember this shot. I’d managed to talk myself into leaving the flat two days ago. I’d gotten as far as lacing up my sneakers and exchanging my sweater for a more serviceable sweatshirt.