In Control (9 page)

"Picking at a scab? How wonderful."

"Rewiring your brain, for lack of a better term. You've been conditioned to be wary. Let's ease your hyper-vigilance."

She'd heard this before from the dudes with notepads, couches, and clocks. "Oooh, big word," she scorned.

"I've worked with PTSD sufferers while in the hospital. I'm no shrink, true, but this seems a relatively harmless exercise of CBT."

"Cock-and-ball torture?"

He laughed. Not at her, no, but a full-bodied, masculine laugh of vigorous humor. He sparkled, his energy filling the room with a bright, healthy feeling. She felt herself begin to relax. Eventually, he wound down and took a couple of deep breaths.

"Cognitive Behavior Therapy," he clarified. "Now, c'mon, gorgeous. Kneel and let me feed you."

This was the plan, Annabel reminded herself. This was the reason why she'd sweated and fretted for the past forty-eight hours, wanting, wishing, fearing. The request was such a simple thing, ego aside, if one considered it in its fullness. To kneel. But for her, it rasped painfully against everything she'd learned.

A person could run faster and better if she was already on her feet. Kneeling hobbled the ability to escape. To fetter herself...to deliberately reduce her ability to escape... She knelt only when she needed something she couldn't provide for herself, like a roof over her head, and used the act to manipulate and get her way. But what he asked of her... trust, not games.

"I-I can't."

He watched her, his gaze equal parts compassionate and aware. He radiated empathy and admiration. "You're one of the strongest people I've ever met. I can't imagine what you lived with as a child--what I triggered with my jackassery--but what I do know is..." He spaced the words for emphasis. "You...can...do...this."

Annabel made a fist. She glanced at the carpet, only her leg's length away, yet a monstrous gap she wasn't emotionally ready to tackle. But refusing to do so spoke of fear. It spoke of cowardice.

She was not afraid. She was no coward.

"Want some help?" Zach offered quietly.

"No," she snapped.

By "help," she knew he meant forcing her down. No, she wouldn't--couldn't--let this defeat her. She would overcome her history. She would not be held down by the person she used to be.

She would do more than survive. She would thrive.

Slowly, hesitantly, she hitched up her calf-length peasant skirt and bent her knees, easing herself down inch by inch. She bobbed up and down a couple of times. Zach never moved, his calm and stillness offering a strange feeling of trust. A few false starts, sure, but that was to be expected, right? The carpet touched one knee--she started, wary, but he never moved--and she found the courage to ease onto the other knee. There she rested, a wary, wild animal poised for flight at the slightest hint of danger.

Zach smiled, said, "Good girl," and reached for the plate.

He wasn't teasing her, she realized. No games. He leaned forward and brought a bit of food to her mouth. He brushed it against her lips, then tucked it inside when she opened her mouth to accept the offering.

His fingers brushed her tongue and teeth, sending a bolt of sizzling energy into the core of her body. She jumped and reflexively bit down. The slightly salty, creamy taste of the cheese bloomed in her mouth, offsetting the delicious nip of paprika. What a wonderful recipe!

"It's good," she said, somewhat surprised.

"I'm glad you like it." He waited until she was through chewing before saying, "Okay, up you go."

She scrambled up with a huge sigh of relief.

He pulled a grilled mushroom off the wooden skewer and popped it into his mouth.

"Again," he said, munching.

"What?"

"Kneel, girl. This time, a little closer to me."

Within close arm's reach? Not happening. "I don't think so, Jerkwad."

"We're working on building trust here, remember?" He pulled a chunk of chicken free and waved it suggestively in the air. Savory sauce gleamed on his fingertips. "Down you go, beautiful."

She frowned. "You said I wasn't beautiful."

"I never did."

"You said I was too skinny."

"There is that," he said, as he nodded. "You could use some food. It doesn't mean you're not beautiful."

She stared, her mind working on the puzzle. "Too" anything meant a negative, didn't it? Therefore, "too skinny" meant she wasn't attractive, right?

He ate the piece of chicken.

"Hey! That was mine!"

"Then kneel."

She observed him closely. No trace of temper colored his tone. His body language was calm and relaxed. Only patience and compassion filled his expression. And stubbornness. He wanted her on her knees.

"Damn you," she nearly snarled.

He winked in the face of her indignation. "You can do it, babe. Come closer. Kneel."

Building trust, she reminded herself. She eased down. He offered the plate this time. She plucked up a handful of the delicious meal before standing. She frowned at him as she chewed, just to let him know she hadn't been tamed. She simply was hungry...and willing to learn how not to be afraid all the time.

Hot chicken! She must have hit the mother lode of paprika.

"You're doing fine," he said. "This is a huge step for you, I know. To offer up your trust to someone you barely know and who has already frightened you is heroic. This is battlefield courage of a sort."

"Mmmm." Her gaze went to her wineglass.

"Only if you kneel."

He must have seen her attention wander. She wanted to hiss at him, but the fire in her mouth changed her mind. She wouldn't surrender without a fight, though.

"I'll drink from the damn toilet if I have to!"

Zach didn't appear angered by her defiance. He merely nodded and said, "You could, yes, but that's not why we're here. C'mon." His smile eased her tension. "Come have some wine. Kneel."

"Damn it," she said, with a tongue busy protesting the paprika.

She knelt and reached for the glass. It wasn't until she'd swallowed two mouthfuls that she realized just how easily she'd gone down. She wrenched her gaze from the wineglass to Zach, searching for the smallest hint of mockery or cruelty. He did nothing but smile and radiate approval.

"Good girl--no, stay down. Come between my knees."

She squinted at him, wary. She was close enough. "Why?"

"My leg isn't happy with me rocking back and forth when I feed you. I can reach your mouth easier if you get closer. Not so painful."

She remembered the limp at the Dungeon Romp and belatedly realized he walked easier these days. He didn't seem to be in so much pain.

"What happened to your leg?" She sipped the wine.

"Base was attacked. I took some damage when artillery shells rained down on us."

She gasped and choked, summoning a fit of coughing. He plucked the wineglass from her hand and returned it to the table. Struggling to breathe, she could only wave her thanks and clutch at her chest.

"So, I'd like to have you closer when I feed you. Your choice, though," he said, when her coughing wound down.

She couldn't find it within her to aggravate the injury and scooted closer. His knees planked beside her shoulders like the arms of a large chair.

"Good girl," he said.

She frowned again, warning him away from thinking he'd won any sort of victory. The act of kneeling wasn't a biggie, since Jeremy had often locked her in a short cage when he'd been butt-hurt over something or other. She'd learned how to deal with that. She could endure many torments. Hell, she'd grown up with them. It was the
choice
to kneel that was so difficult. Zach hadn't won anything.

He interrupted her thoughts by bumping her mouth with another piece of food.

She had made the choice to kneel and be fed. Her. Only her.

Zach fed them both from the plate. As they ate, he spoke of his childhood in Kansas, oftentimes comparing the cornfields and white-tailed deer to Portland's mossy forests and flocks of migratory ducks, geese, and the occasional egret. A corn-fed baby, she realized. That explained his golden hair and smile as wide as the central American sky.

A whimsical if unscientific thought.

He licked his lips, and her stomach fluttered. He swallowed, the muscles of his throat working, and her mouth went dry. Maybe she could use him as a model for an upcoming graphic novel?

They cleaned the plate, and the wineglasses had emptied. Zach set the dishes aside and relaxed back into his chair, looking down at her with a gleam in his eye. She warmed beneath his approval. A flush colored his cheeks and an erection brazenly tented his sweatpants, alerting her about an inner heat boiling in his blood not brought on by spicy food.

She arched a brow and nodded at his erection. "Really?"

His smile filled with a dash of mischief. He winked. "A beautiful slave kneels at my feet and eats from my hand. I'm a dominant man...of course I'm aroused.

Worry flickered through her. "I'm not a slave."

His smile dimmed. He stilled, watching her with an intense stillness that stole her breath. Fear twisted her stomach. Punishment was-- But his smile returned, easing her reflexive fears.

"Not a slave at this moment, no."

The touch of fear snapped her from where she'd found comfort and the ability to relax. She jerked her shoulders square and straightened her spine, ready to correct his asinine statement. He stood, interrupting her tirade before it began.

He ran a hand across the crown of her head.

She flinched.

"I like that color," he said.

She glowered, annoyed she'd reacted fearfully. She'd better play it off. "The color's fading. I'll be coloring it again soon." But he'd tugged at her crown, not the colored ends. "Wait, are you talking about the roots?"

He fitted his hands to his hips and braced himself on widened legs. "No more color, not while you're with me. And yes, I'm talking about your real hair color."

The statement penetrated her momentary confusion. She was abruptly furious. "You've no right to--"

He tugged her up off her knees and helped her stand on numbed legs. It didn't give her a good feeling to realize she'd been kneeling between his legs even after they'd finished eating. The pins-and-needles pain of the returning blood flow was deserved, she told herself.
Dumbass
.

"You can't wait another week?" he asked.

Since her royalty check wouldn't arrive for another month, she could in theory hold off for--
Damn it! I'll color my hair if and when I want to
. Her cheeks felt hot. Embarrassment or rage? She gave him a hard glower so he wouldn't think her weak.

He held out his hand and stepped around her. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"We're gonna play a game."

"I didn't come here to be tormented again!"

"Not that kind of game. Come and see."

Reluctantly, she followed, wineglass in hand. She'd throw it at him if she needed to. Zach, though, did nothing but lead her to the second bedroom. Memories stormed her. She took a step backward as he pushed open the door.

A Twister mat lay on the floor inside.

Annabel balked. She wasn't going in that room again. "No way."

Zach laughed. "C'mon. It's just a game of Twister. When's the last time you played?"

He coaxed her across the threshold with a hand on the small of her back. His question brought back memories of her childhood whispering through her mind, the years before Dickhead Sicko came to live with her mom.

Laughter. Happiness. The absence of fear. "Early grade school, I think."

"Tragic. What's next? Confessing you've never seen a
Star Wars
movie?"

She blinked, confused, and pondered his words, even as he propelled her across the carpet. The reasoning behind his comment escaped her. "Where did that comparison come from?"

"A sergeant at my recent deployment told us he'd never seen one."

"What? You're kidding. That's un-American. Um...was he an American?"

"Yep." He stopped her, again removing the wineglass from her hand and setting it on the table. "He said he was too busy playing baseball to go to the movies."

"Baseball? Really? More important than
Star Wars?
"

"I know, right? But to be fair, he could throw a grenade over a block-and-a-half with pinpoint accuracy." He retrieved the spin controller from the nearby box and dropped it onto the floor. "Tall guy. Lanky. We called him Jar-Jar Binks behind his back."

She groaned. "That's horrible."

"A jarhead called Jar-Jar?" He planted his fists onto his hips and raised his eyebrows. "We're Marines, not comedians."

She realized she'd relaxed enough to laugh with him. It felt good. More than good.

Their first game was a given due to her problem allowing people inside her personal space. She flinched whenever the game brought him close, which was often. Inevitably, one flinch disrupted her precarious balance enough she toppled over onto her back, which was probably his diabolical objective.

"Oomph!"

Smiling, he relaxed on the mat and stretched out. "Game."

He looked supremely satisfied with himself, which annoyed her. She bristled.

"I fell over."

"That's the point."

She jackknifed into a seated position. Crossing her legs Indian-style, she sent a frosty glare his way. "I want another game. You cheated. Somehow."

"You're a poor loser."

True, but irrelevant. "Coward."

"What?" Now he bristled. "I'm a war veteran. A combat Marine. I'm not a fucking coward."

She rearranged herself on the mat and held up the cardboard with the spinning arrow. "So...another game?"

"You're on. Spin it."

This time, she won. This time, Zach demanded the rematch.

"Two out of three."

"And you thought
I
was a poor loser."

He scowled. "Let's go. My spin."

The grudge match came to an abrupt stop when his leg unexpectedly collapsed beneath him. He slammed into her as he crumpled. She, propped atop two blue spots and one yellow, had no chance to hold her position. They collapsed in a heap, amid her yelps and laughter.