Silence. Blessed silence. I hold my breath long enough to make sure Wren isn’t about to push through the door. She’s determined enough to try to “make” me talk. Of course, she has no idea how uselessthatendeavor would be.
I didn’t break during fifteen months of Hell. A little wisp of a woman half my size isn’t going to do what half a dozen Taliban couldn’t.
My laptop screen flickers on, and I stride over to the desk. Despite our strained relationship, Dax tasked his people with finding out everything they can about the Nevsky Bratva.
Wren’s facial recognition software just pinged with a hit. The girl is Elena Smolyskia. No proof of life, but no record of death either. If she’s alive, she’s buried deep. Ford will be there at 0700 to take you to the airfield. You need anything else?
Yeah. Someone to tie Wren up and stop her from coming with me. But since Dax actually thinks it’s a good idea for her to go to Russia, I know better than to ask. But there is one request I have to make.
Only one thing. If I don’t come back, my letters will be in with Wren’s civvies. Three of them. Inara Ruzgani. West Sampson. And you. But if you read yours and I’m still alive, I will tell your entire company how you couldn’t hold your liquor that night in Mobile and paraded around the barracks naked for an hour.
I close the lid on my laptop two seconds after I send the message. I don’t want to read his response. If he even sends one.
Unable to face the possibility Wren might be waiting in the main room for me, I rewind every moment from the time we returned to the suite in my head. Open the door. Let Wren go first. She takes the dog. I turn, lock the door, set the deadbolt, wedge the chair under the knob. Okay. I can risk sleeping in here. Or…trying to anyway.
Stretching out on the bed, fully clothed except for my boots, I stare at the ceiling, praying the sweet release of sleep finds me quickly—and that the nightmares don’t follow.
* * *
“Ryker? Ry?”Two quiet knocks rouse me what feels like minutes after I drift off.
“What’s wrong?” Instantly awake, I’m up and have the door open before I finish speaking. Oh fuck.
Wren hugs herself tightly, wearing only a skimpy tank top and short shorts. The gesture emphasizes her breasts and the creamy skin at her throat. Thank God I’m still wearing my jeans. I’m half-hard already, and if I don’t put some distance between us, the strongest denim in the world isn’t going to hide my arousal.
“You’re…not sleeping by the door. I worried…”
Fuck.Think. Reassure her, you asshole.“We’re safe here, sweetheart. I just—” Scrambling for words, I take a step back to try to drive her scent from my nose. “I needed some space.”
“Oh.”
Kicking myself, I reach for her arm as she turns away. The hurt flickers over her delicate features for a brief second, but that’s enough. I have to fix this. “Wait.”
“Get some sleep, Ryker,” she says as she ducks out from under my grasp and heads across the main room. “I need you at your best tomorrow.”
“No.” I rush forward to plant myself in front of her, and she drops her arms. Utterly defenseless—emotionally and physically. The raw need swimming in her eyes matches the emotions flooding me. “Wren, about earlier…I shouldn’t have kissed you.”
Except I had to. And I’d do it again.
“I’m right here. I’ve been right here for two days.”
Shit. Did I say that out loud?
Wren steps forward and cups my cheek. “You don’t realize it, Ryker…but you’re easy to read. At least…for me. Why won’t you talk to me?”
I don’t have an answer. Not one I’m willing to share with her. But as her fingers trail over the scar that bisects my left eyelid, she levers up on her toes to kiss my jaw—the only part of my face she can reach. “What happened here?”
“Knife.” The word scrapes over my dry throat, and the memories threaten to pull me under, but Wren’s touch grounds me.
“And here?”
I barely feel her light touch over the angled lines on my left cheek—nerve damage left me with reduced sensation. “Razor blade.”
“And this?” Down to my neck, where the burns start. Now, I don’t feel her fingers at all. Yet, I’m hyper aware of her touch.
“Lighter. Cigarettes.”
Her eyes glisten, and she trails her hand down my arm. “Keep going.”
