We’ll just see who’s destined for hell, Bash thought, biting back the retort through sheer force of will.Though I can’t deny the bastard part.
Someone yanked the dark, foul-smelling hood off Bash’s head, and he squinted at the sudden glare of light. Unfortunately, his eyes didn’t adapt quickly enough; he stumbled when his foot hit something, and he tumbled to the cold, hard floor. Stone, from the feel and smell of it. He noted the detail even as he gasped for the breath that had been knocked from his body.
A loud clang sounded behind him, and he lifted his head just enough to catch sight of two guards glaring at him from where they stood on opposite sides of a barred door. He was in a cell, and he’d tripped over the metal door frame when they’d shoved him inside. He glanced around as much as he could without moving, taking note of the details of his immediate surroundings before returning his attention to the two big men who’d brought him here. He’d seen them upstairs, when they’d held his arms as a creepy little guy with delicate features and cold eyes had worked him over with his fists. It was all he could do to summon up the strength to sneer at them, and from their nasty chuckles, he got the feeling his effort had been less than impressive.
Whatever. There were appearances to be maintained. That was how the game was played.
The goons walked away, still snickering. He listened to their footsteps ascending the stairs, followed by a resonant clank, the closing of a heavy metal door. Silence fell, and he let himself give in to the pain at last, closing his eyes and releasing a low groan as he finally acknowledged the protests of his abused body.
“I would offer to help, but unfortunately, I don’t believe there is much I can do for you through the bars.”
Adrenaline surged through Bash’s system at the softly spoken words, giving him a burst of energy. He rolled up to his knees and into a defensive crouch, hands fisted in front of him. He focused on the man in the cell next to his, and he realized just how disoriented he was not to have noticed someone no more than twenty feet away from him.Sloppy and stupid, he told himself grimly. It was always the threat you didn’t see that killed you in the end.
It was difficult to make out any details, as the other prisoner, if such he was, sat on a bunk in the shadows of the adjacent cell, back pressed against the stone wall beneath a tiny, barred window. Bash blinked, realizing his vision wasn’t as sharp as usual. On top of everything else, he might have a concussion.
“Who are you?” he snapped, his voice rough and not as steady as he would have liked. Yet he couldn’t show weakness, no matter what it cost him, so he put as much menace into his glare as he could.
The man on the bunk rose slowly and held up both hands with his palms out to show he meant no harm. Bash blinked in surprise as the stranger stepped into the light from the barred window. He was dressed in western clothes: khaki pants and a pale blue shirt that looked clean. He even had on shoes, and Bash felt a fresh sense of outrage at the guards, who had insisted upon stripping him down to his tank top and boxer briefs to humiliate him, and while Bash hadn’t felt even remotely degraded — these people were amateurs compared to others he’d encountered — he was annoyed over losing most of his concealed equipment.
But the thing that caused him to draw in a sharp breath was the man himself. Tall and slender, with olive skin and waving dark hair that fell to his shoulders, he had the square-jawed, classic features any male model would have killed to possess. His cheekbones were high, his nose regal, and a cleft chin not obscured by a two-day growth of stubble. His pale eyes contrasted strikingly with his dark skin, an intense light blue fringed with thick, dark lashes, and he gazed back at Bash with concern.
“My name is Sean.” Even the man’s voice was gorgeous, deep and soft, with a cultured British accent. Still, Bash didn’t think he was English; many wealthy families in the Middle East sent their sons to school in England and America, and there was something in his rich voice that spoke of desert sands and palm trees under a star-filled sky. “And you are?”
Obviously, the blow Bash had taken to his head had scrambled his brains — he simply wasn’t a man given to flights of fancy.
“Getting out of here as soon as I can,” he muttered. If the bars between them were secure enough to keep him in, they were also strong enough to keep this stranger out. He hoped they were, because as the adrenaline rush faded, he felt every bruise and scrape, every cracked rib and aching joint. His captors hadn’t broken any bones or ruptured any organs yet, but so far he’d only encountered the goon squad, not the real sadists he’d heard that the King of Akkadia kept on staff. No doubt he’d be making their acquaintance before long if he couldn’t get himself out of this predicament.
Of course, there was always the chance Fortress would attempt an extraction, but he couldn’t count on it. Fortress was powerful and had tentacles that reached far and deep, and Nick Galanos was fiercely protective of the people under his command, but he was also smart enough to realize that attempting to exfiltrate an asset from the main palace of Akkadia was a suicide mission.
Sean cocked one eyebrow. “And how do you plan to accomplish this feat?”
Bash shrugged as he scrutinized his fellow prisoner with a critical eye. He wouldn’t be surprised if his captors had put a spy in with him to wheedle information out of him or earn his trust. But if this man was a spy, he had a herculean task ahead of him, because Bash wasn’t a man who trusted easily.
“You are a man of few words,” Sean said.
Either Sean was a spy — and a damned good-looking one — or he’d been stuck down here for a while and missed conversation. That was when the state of Sean’s clothes sank in, and Bash glared at him.
“You look awfully clean for a man in a dungeon.”
Sean glanced down at himself and then back at Bash, seeming to notice Bash was wearing nothing but underclothes, and was dirty and bruised on top of it, and a flush stole over his tanned cheeks.
“You might call me a political prisoner,” Sean said. “And you—are you a criminal?” There was a wary fascination in his tone.
The genuine curiosity on Sean’s face made a reluctant smile curve Bash’s lips. Sean’s claim to be a political prisoner made sense; the king was known for taking hostages from among the families of his enemies to ensure their good behavior. Given Sean’s unguarded expression wasn’t faked, Bash believed him. Not that Bash would say or do anything Sean could use against him anyway. He was far too well trained to do something that stupid.
“No, I came for the cotillion,” Bash said. He sank slowly down to sit on the hard floor, wincing at the pain in his right knee where one guard had kicked the joint when he’d tried to break free. “What do you think? Unless they beat up visiting diplomats, it’s a safe bet I did something someone didn’t approve of.”
“Yes, of course.” Sean took a step back, lowering his hands as his expression became closed off, and he turned back toward his bunk.
The reaction annoyed Bash. He wasn’t certain why; the opinion of someone who was likely nothing more than the spoiled, rich son of some oil baron shouldn’t matter to him. Itdidn’tmatter, he told himself firmly.
“I’m not a criminal.”
Sean peered over his shoulder. “No?”
With a sigh, Bash leaned against the narrow bunk. Eventually, when he was certain he could stand without falling over, he’d climb up on it, but at the moment, it was better to stay close to the floor. “No.”
He had put as much finality as he could into his tone, not inviting questions, but Sean either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He faced Bash fully once more. “Then why are you down here, enjoying King Faisal’s hospitality? What did you do to be beaten and imprisoned in the palace itself?”
