“Just this morning,” I say, my hold on things starting to unravel even more. “I do know that I could trust you to keep it to yourself before that, but this wasn’t just about my welfare. If there was the smallest chance that keeping the story from you would keep him—Asadi— alive, then I was willing to do that.”
Nick’s face is scrunched, like maybe he’s trying to stave off tears. I see a room full of troubled people, and I bow my head. I stay focused on Nick, just to keep my thoughts straight. “Look,primo, very little happened to me physically, save for when they bashed me in the head. I was placed under enormous mental strain, and had to confront making the kinds of decisions one never wants to make in a time of war. So, when I say that I am fine, I want you to imagine that I am fine becausesomeone elseis not fine. And that I carry that burden with me every day.”
I’ve only seen my cousin cry a handful of times, at funerals and when we found Elijah in that homeless encampment. But he’s always composed, even in tears. Nick… is not composed. He’s practically sobbing as he pulls me into a bear hug, and I’m suddenly very ashamed about my pity party in the shower. Of course people care about me. Of course they love me. I’m lucky to be surrounded by these concerned faces. So fucking lucky.
Evie sidles up next to me, rubbing my back as she side-whispers into my ear. “I know you think that this is all just luck. And yeah, you’re lucky, but you’re also deserving of all of this love, and you deserve whatever forgiveness you’ve been running away from.” I face her, my own tears falling now, and she leans in, touching her forehead to mine. “I love you, Roly. I love you so damned much. And you need to stop.”
I make a strangled hitching sound, once again nailed by Evie’s unwavering ability to seeme. I don’t want to be seen, not in this way, but maybe… maybe it’s what I need. Suddenly I’m surrounded by too many arms to count, and I draw the warmth of my family around me like a cloak.
It’s time to tell the truth.
Chapter Nineteen
Roly
Even though I’m surrounded by the warmth of my family, even though it’s late spring in Austin, Texas, I’m suddenly very, very cold. I can feel the shiver deep in my marrow, and clear as day I can see him in profile. Head down, chin to chest, and naked to the waist. The blood and drool drips from the corners of his mouth down his belly, and the men who captured us are laughing about that. My head has been throbbing for three days, and all I can do is watch the blood and the drool drip from his belly to the floor, and I hope that just this once he’d look at me so that he’d know that if I could stop his pain, I would.
But I can’t make his pain go away, not without giving away my team’s position, and that I will never do. Even in times like this. Especially in times like this.
I start to think that maybe they’ve actually broken him.
I’m certainly starting to feel broken.
But no, Asadi is not broken. He takes a deep, rumbling breath and repeats what he’s been saying for three days. “I am the son of Soban, and you must let me go. This will not end well for you if you continue down this path.”
I’d mocked this man at his own party, in his own house. This beautiful mountain of a man who has been taking beatings that were meant for me. Honestly, I can’t see how I’m any better than my captors because I am the one who helped them make their choice.
I’d immediately recognized them from the diplomat’s party; when I saw Asadi in that dank, horrible room, I knew it was because they saw me making fun of him and decided to make him part of their little game. They made me watch as they tortured him, repeating my own crass words so that he’d know who put him in that chair, asking me questions they knew I couldn’t answer to justify whatever horror they had planned next. And at some point they were going to finally kill him, and I’d know what was coming because I’d watched an innocent man endure hours and hours of it.
The man who’d been torturing Asadi draws back, preparing to hit him with his tool of choice, a wet sock filled with coins. He’s interrupted by the Head Asshole, who opens the door so quickly it bangs against the wall. He has a look like fear in his eyes; I can smell it on him. They speak rather excitedly in Arabic, and I pick up most of it.
It seems that this big bear of a man was telling the truth, and that his father was the one who’d bankrolled the ambush to begin with. He’s also an important diplomat with ugly ties to men who’d make this little sock party of theirs look like a picnic. The men immediately give Asadi back his shirt and a clean washcloth to wipe the drool and spit and tears from himself. They lay down sorrow after sorrow and apology after apology, begging for their lives.
He responds, as best I can tell, “Your life is not up to me anymore. You should have listened to me. Your life is now in my father’s hands, and I fear that will not go well for you. You should run. But know that if he catches you, he will make you pay for the running.”
The Head Asshole asks, “Do you think that if we bring him the American, he would have mercy on us?”
It was a bold ask, but his face is set in resignation. “Nothing would help you now. And that American?He’s mine.Say goodbye to the little bird.”
I am shaking so hard, I can feel it in my guts, and I know that death is close. Close and… almost certainly ugly. With that, our captors roughly cut away the leather strips that had kept me bound to the chair in my own filth.
Ignoring the men responsible for the most hellish three days of my life, I use the chair to prop myself up, struggling against gravity to pull myself into some semblance of upright. I wince as the blood starts to flow back to my extremities. As much as I can muster, I stand resolutely, square my shoulders, and look him right in the eye, using my Arabic for the first time. “Guess it’s my turn now.”
Asadi smiles with affection in his eyes, which sends a shudder down my spine. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
He demands a clean cloth and clothing for me, since mine had basically putrefied around my body. Ignoring the men in the room, he strips me down and wipes down my face, my neck, my armpits, my groin, and my ass, the way you would a baby. I remember thinking at the party that he might not be straight, and another kind of cold shiver runs down my back. Like maybe he’s cleaning me for his use.
I have a momentary thought about throwing myself at his feet and begging for mercy, but I’m a fucking Navy SEAL, and even when we’re barely standing, we don’t beg for mercy.
“You might want to make another pass at my ass, honey, especially if you’re gonna eat me out.”
He snorts. “I don’t do the eating out.” With that, he puts his arm around my shoulder, nuzzling my ear, leering in disdain at the men as we make our way to the door. We stop in front of the Head Asshole, and Asadi holds out his hand. “Keys.”
The guy looks like he’s going to throw up, but he digs into his pockets and comes up with the keys, and I recognize the Dodge logo. Pausing at the threshold, he warns, “This man? Was never here. If I hear about him from my father, then Allah help your families. Because whatever I do to him? I’ll do to them, too.”
I shiver at the bass in his voice and know that he does not give that threat idly. I know these men will never speak of me, for however long they have left to live. I shudder with the realization that if the only people who know where I am are being threatened with their lives, the trail to find me is going to go cold, and then all I’ll be is a phone call to my mother. No body, no answers, just an MIA flag in my family’s front yard.
I let him walk me out of the space. I have to; I certainly can’t do it on my own. This place where they kept us felt like a fortress, an inescapable prison, but as we leave, I realize that it is just a house, nestled in with other houses, with children playing outside down the dusty street.
