Theta

Alpha

Book 13

Jasinda Wilder

THETA Copyright © 2026 by Jasinda Wilder

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

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About the Author

Also by Jasinda Wilder

1

The Deluge

I'm pretty fucking tired of being in the dark. It's disorienting. I don't know what day it is, what time it is.

At least I'm not alone, now.

Of all the people in the world for these jackasses to toss in here with me, it's her? The luck of it is just unbelievable—to the point that I don't think it's luck. It's intentional. But it's also wildly, incredibly stupid. Story Binyamin is fucking terrifying.

Hotter than sin, sweet, caring, compassionate, competent…and Uncle Anselm's greatest achievement. The woman is a force of nature. All of us A1S kids can handle ourselves. We can field strip any firearm and reassemble it with professional speed and efficiency. We're trained in basic wilderness survival—how to find water, make a fire, build a shelter, and forage for food. We're trained in hand-to-hand combat. We go to the range regularly with sidearms and long guns.

Story?

She's on a whole other level.

Her mother, Selah, was IDF in her youth—Israeli Defense Force. She saw combat, and a lot of it. She transitioned to emergency medicine and saw even more violence as a triage nurse first on the battlefield and then in the ER, and that's a job she's done for the last thirty-some years. She's now the charge nurse at a large hospital in Miami, where she and Anselm live—close enough to the family compound down in the Caribbean that Uncle Selm can pop down for briefings and ops but far enough that they have their own lives.

Anselm is…well, Anselm. And he raised Story from the time she was seven. He taught her his craft—bushcraft, spycraft, combat…she's as deadly with any weapon or none as any of the A1S operatives. I've seen her spar with Sasha and Duke, and while they're holding back because it's a sparring session and she's five-five and one-twenty on a tall day, the only way they can truly challenge her skills is by going as hard as possible without trying to do actual damage. I've seen her nail the bullseye from a hundred yards, one-handed, with a pistol, and from three hundred with a rifle; at three hundred yards, she can put a round through the hole left in a paper target by the previous shot. I’ve seen her do it.

But despite all that, she's an ER nurse like Selah. She'd rather fix people than harm them.

And she's fucking gorgeous.

It's been a few months since I've seen her, but I can call up a mental image of her at will. I may or may not have harbored a crush on her for…well…ever. It's a secret I've kept even from Cal.

As I said, she’s short, just barely clearing five-five in her bare feet. She has long blonde hair in dense, tight curls that, left to their natural state, explode out of her head in a sunburst of golden coils. They’re absolutely untamable, her curls. Usually, she has her hair tied back in a ponytail, the curls a poofball at the back of her head. Once, she arrived at the compound for a summer holiday fresh off a shift at work, having not even changed out of her scrubs before boarding the plane to Miami—she had her hair braided into what looked, to my dude’s brain, to be a hellishly complicated series of braids. You could say, accurately, that Story’s eyes are blue, but that would only tell a fraction of the truth; they’re electric blue. If you were to see a photograph of her, you could be mistaken for thinking someone had photoshopped them to look like that arresting shade of electric blue.

And then there’s her body.

I could wax poetic about her figure, but I’m not Wordsworth, unfortunately. She’s a ravishing, hypnotic, mouthwatering combination of savagely fit and naturally curvy, with a fairly significant curve bias toward her lower half. Meaning, her hips, thighs, and ass are…well, get a glimpse of her in a bikini and you’ll understand. The round, firm, plump, jiggly, juicy spread of her ass haunts my dreams at night and my daydreams during the day. The strength in her thighs, the bell curve ratio of her waist to hips to thighs…I’m obsessed. No ivory skin for her, either. Despite living in Minnesota, where the winters are, from what I hear, long and cold and brutal and keep humans indoors for half the year, she’s somehow always golden-skinned. After a month in the Caribbean, where we spend 95% of the daylight hours outside either on the beach or on the water, she’s almost as brown as Brynnie; I’d say almost as brown as me, but I tend to run a bit naturally darker-complected than my sister.

God, Cal. I worry about him. We were snatched at the same time, but separated. Why, I don't know. I guess they assumed, correctly, that we'd be trouble together. The problem is that Cal has zero patience. My worry is that he'll attack first and ask questions later, if he ever gets around to asking them at all. Usually in our escapades, I'm the one to save his metaphorical eyebrows.

Story, though.

I hear her beside me—sitting, breathing, thinking. Waiting.

I'm conflicted about it being her in here with me. If it had been Cal or Rinny, or even Brynnie, it'd have been one thing. I know them well enough to know exactly how they'd react. What they'd do. Bryn, my lunatic sister, would already be on the offensive, tearing through this ship like a hot knife through butter. I still can't believe my dumbass sister ran off like that. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And then she went and vanished, and Mom and Dad and Uncle Val and Aunt Kyrie pulled everyone to look for her. Which left Cal and me with one guard apiece. Both of whom are now dead; I shove that away because I keep seeing Roger, my bodyguard, dead behind the wheel of the car, sightless eyes staring at nothing, blood trickling down his forehead from the small black hole.

"Fuck," I whisper, as the image crops up in my brain again, nauseating me.

A warm something nudges my bare bicep. "Okay, Killy?"

"Yeah," I say, my voice a bit raspy. "Good."

I hear her sigh. "Killy, c'mon. It's me. You don't have to act all tough."

Yeah, it's Story—the girl I've crushed on my whole life. I only get to see her a few times a year, which honestly is what makes the whole thing bearable. She doesn't see me that way, I know. I'm her buddy. Friendzoned, if not quasi brother- or cousin-zoned.

"I'm fine, honest."

She snorts. "Okay. Whatever." I hear the amused irritation in her voice—she doesn’t believe me.

That's worse. She knows I’m full of shit, but she's too damn nice to call me on it.

Fuck.

I'm not as confident or charming as Cal, not as badass as Bryn, and not as driven to succeed as Rin. I'm not as anything as any of my extended family. I'm certainly not as competent in any field as Story is in the medical profession.

I desperately want to impress her. To be cool. To protect her—not need protecting.

To know that she knows I'm freaking out? It sucks.

"It's just…" I thud my head against the container wall with a dull, hollow thunk. "Roger. My bodyguard. I…I keep seeing him dead. Like, Rog has been my guard my whole fucking life. Y'know? I don't…I never joked around with him that much. He didn't want to. Wasn’t his job to be my buddy. But he…he was a constant in my life. And now he’s dead. And for what? I just keep seeing his face. The way he stared at nothing. The hole in his head. Brains everywhere." I shudder and have to hang my head between my knees to keep from upchucking what little food I have inside me.

A small soft hand rests on the inside of my forearm, warm and tiny and gentle. "I'm sorry, Killy. I can't imagine how that must feel." I usually hate being called Killy, even though it’s been my nickname my whole life to anyone who knows me well, but from Story it somehow feels different. More intimate, maybe. Meaningful, somehow.

The touch of her hand on my skin makes my heart thud in my chest. Despite growing up with Story, I've only made physical contact with her very, very rarely. We don’t hug, and we also don’t shake hands—we’re too close for handshaking and not platonically close enough for hugging. The closest we ever get to touching is sitting next to or near each other at a table or in a vehicle, boat, or aircraft, the occasional jostle of an arm against arm or thigh against thigh, and even that little bit of contact usually leaves me tingly and short of breath, like a pathetic fucknut.

Which means this is the first time she's made direct, intentional physical contact with me.

And my heart is slamming in my chest, out of control. Which, I know, is beyond idiotic. It means nothing.

It's stupid to even think that way.

We're hostages. My concern needs to be getting us out of here in one piece, not worrying about being attracted to someone so far out of my league.

However, I leave her hand on my arm. Hesitate, and then I cover her hand with mine. "Thanks, Story. It's…it just sucks. This is all so stupid. Like, why do our parents' enemies keep pulling this shit? You'd think they’d learn at some point."

Story giggles—it sounds involuntary. She's not a giggly girl, for the most part. "Right? It never goes well for anyone. Yet these idiots keep doing it."

Her hand stays on my arm, which is nice.

I rest my hand on hers, and I can't seem to stop myself from brushing my thumb over her knuckles, exploring the back of her hand, sliding the pad of my thumb over the crease between fingers.

"Killy?" Her voice is so quiet I can barely hear her even in the stifling silence of the pitch-black container.

"Yeah?"

“I’m terrified."

"Coulda fooled me."

She giggles again, and now I realize the giggling is a sign of her fear. "I'm usually good at managing my emotions. I have to be, to do the job I do. But this is…in part, I know I've trained for this my whole life. But now that it's here, I'm scared out of my mind."

"I am too," I whisper. "Or, I was, at first. I thought they were gonna, like, cut my fingers off or something. But then it's just been me alone in this fucking black box for…however long it's been. Now I'm just bored and pissed off."

"Well, I'm still in the fear stage." A long pause. "I, um…I really really don't want to for a lot of reasons, but it's at the point now where I don't have a choice."

I cough a little laugh. "Story?"

"Hmm?"

"You don't want to what?"

"I have to pee. Like, really bad."

"Cross the container and then left to the corner. There's a bucket."

A pause. "Killy, I'm a girl."

"Hasn't escaped my notice." My tone is so dry and wry that there's no chance she doesn't catch something in it and give away my hopeless, helpless attraction.

She sighs. "You have a sister, Killy. Do I really need to spell this out?"

I try to fathom what she's talking about and fail. “Um, I guess so, yeah."

"Peeing in a bucket as a girl wearing pants is…tricky."

"Ohhhh," I breathe, understanding dawning. "The whole sitting-down thing."

She chuckles dryly. "Yes, Killy, the whole sitting-down thing. It's hard enough to pee outside in the woods as a girl when I can see what I'm doing. In the dark, in a bucket, in the hold of a ship on open ocean?”

I clear my throat. "Ah. Yes. Right. I…can see how that might be tricky."

"What I'm saying, Killian," her voice is desert-dry now, "is that I'm going to need some help."

"Oh." I try to picture what that would look like and utterly fail. "Um…okay. I…sure. Whatever you need."

She groans a laugh. "This is my worst nightmare, by the way. I'm pee shy as it is. I can hold my pee for…god, for ages. But I can’t anymore. I know it's gonna be gross and awkward, and I'm sorry."

I stand up, pushing my back against the wall for balance—the ship is moving, and I think she’s right that we're on the open ocean, judging by the way the floor tilts this way and that as we drift up one wave and down another…big waves, long slides down and longer climb-ups, and the occasional stomach-twisting pitch from side to side.

Once I'm on my feet, I brace one hand on the wall and hunt the darkness with the other until I make contact with her.

I grope blindly at the first brush—clothing, and then something firm, and then something soft and squishy.

Story's hand grips my wrist and gently but firmly pulls my hand away. "Um, Killy? That's my boob."

My heart leaps into my throat, and I yank my hand away like I’d touched a hot stovetop. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm sorry."

She huffs a laugh. "It's okay. Just…here." She somehow finds my hand in the darkness, and I help her up. "Now where is this damn bucket?"

I try not to think about the fact that I touched her chest. It was the briefest of contact—a single, simple touch, unknowing and accidental. But now that I know?

Fuck.

I push that idiocy out of my head as much as I can, keeping Story's hand in mine as I shuffle along the wall. The pitch and roll of the floor are more pronounced than I’d realized, and I decide it’s a better plan to follow the wall than to cross the empty space.

We reach the corner eventually, shuffling and shuffling as the container dips and rises, bucks and yaws—and then there’s a tickling of fingers on the metal overhead, tapping tapping tapping in a staccato rhythm. And then a hundred fingers, and then a deafening deluge of what sounds like a hail of bullets on the container—followed by a crash of thunder and then the increased pitch of the floor.

A storm.

Story puffs a laugh. “Really right now?” She stumbles as the desk pitches us forward and then rolls us left.

We both topple to the floor in a tangle of limbs hitting unforgiving metal. The air is knocked out of me as Story lands on top of me, an elbow in my gut and her face against mine. I smell coffee on her breath. Her thigh is between mine, her knee jammed uncomfortably if not painfully against my tenders. My head is at an awkward angle against the wall, my neck tilted and turned, and until Story untangles herself from me, I'm stuck.

She puts a hand on my chest for balance and tries to find her knees, but in doing so her knee smashes my balls against the floor.

"Killy?"

I can't breathe. Can't move. The agony is excruciating and I can't do a thing except gag through it.

"Killy, what—what's wrong?"

"Knee," I gasp through gritted teeth.

She pats at my chest, wriggles, shifts, and then stills as her hands explore enough to orient herself to my body—now moving gingerly, she wriggles backward, one hand on my thigh as she finds her balance. "Did I…um…?"

“Yep,” I rasp, my voice tight and hoarse.

"I kneed you?"

"Yeah," I rasp again.

"In the testicles?"

“Yep.” I cackle as breath returns with the slow cessation of the pain. "Not so much kneed as knelt on."

Her hands pat my belly, and then, unexpectedly, my zipper. "Killy, I'm so sorry."

I grab at her hands before she can make contact again. "Story?" I ask, pushing them away from my throbbing privates. "Patting my balls isn't going to help."

"That was…?"

"Yup."

"I thought it was—"

I laugh. "Nope."

Something thunks against metal. "Killian, I'm so, so sorry. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I’m fine. It was an accident."

"Speaking of accidents, I'm about to have one."

I work to my feet and then tap on the wall. "That's my hand. So I don't grope you again."

Another of those uncharacteristic giggles—she's typically restrained, quiet and reserved like her mother and Uncle Selm. When she laughs, it's a quiet, musical thing whereas these giggles seem to burst out of her, noisy and abrupt. "I appreciate that, Killian, thank you."

"I can't tell if you're joking," I say.

"Me either!" A huff of laughter. "I'm sorry. I'm cracking a little bit, I think. It’s just that I’m about to pee myself and I really don't want to do that when we don't have any idea when we'll be able to change clothes again."

Or if, I don’t say.

Her hand finds mine; I help her to her feet, and we make our way along the wall to the next corner. Then I pat my way down the corner until I find the rim of the plastic bucket.

“Okay, so, um…how does this work?" I ask. "How, um…how do I help?"

She thinks for a moment. "I…ugh. This is so mortifying, Killian. And I'm so, so glad you can't see anything because this is going to be so embarrassing." A sigh. "I have to get half undressed, basically, or I risk getting pee all over my pants. So first I think just help me balance."

“Okay, here." I take her hand and guide it to my shoulder. "Lean against the wall and hang on to me."

Thunder booms overhead with such deafening noise that my ears ring, and the ship pitches violently—quite a thing when the ship is a five-hundred-foot-long container ship with all the latest stabilization technology.

"Easier said than done," she mutters.

I lean against the wall as well and hold her shoulders with my hands, keeping her balanced as she tries to remove her pants.

"Dammit," she hisses. "I knotted these stupid things too tight and I have to pee so fucking bad I can’t—dammit!" She’s audibly in a panic, and I can feel her shifting her weight with desperation.

"I…here, let me try." I follow her arm to her shoulder and then find her hip, and then her hands as she frantically tries to unknot the string of what I assume are her scrub bottoms.

I feel the knot, consciously not hurrying even though I know time is of the essence because Dad has drilled into my head that when you rush, you fuck up. Or, as Uncle Dukes likes to preach: “Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.” I find the edges of the knot, the shape of it, and then work one loop loose with my short, blunt fingernails. After that, it's a simple matter of tugging the knot apart the rest of the way. As soon as I have the knot undone, Story is frantically shoving her bottoms down.

"Okay. Okay." She leans back into the corner and takes my hands. "Hold me, please. Just…help me balance. I just have to…"

I hear the hollow scrape of the bucket as she adjusts it, gripping both of my hands in one of hers while trying to balance against the wall in what I imagine is an awkward and difficult crouch, hovering over the bucket.

"Um, why not just sit on it?" I ask.

She cackles, sounding a bit hysterical. "Shush. Don’t—just don't talk. Please don't talk."

Once she has the bucket positioned, judging by the cessation of the scraping, Story grasps at my arms and holds tightly, pushing and pulling to stay balanced as the ship bucks and tosses with the violence of the storm.

"Dammit. I can do this. Just pee, dammit."

"I thought—"

"Shut up!"

My teeth click together at the intensity of her snapped command.

And then I hear a couple of tick-tick-ticks as the first drops hit the bucket. Then a few more tick-tick-ticks, and Story lets out a tight breath. I find myself holding my own breath in commiseration.

And then she finally manages to relax enough to unleash, and the tick-tick-tick of individual droplets of pee becomes a tight hard stream that echoes in the plastic bucket, the noise rising in pitch by degrees as she pees for an eternity.

Literally, she must pee for at least a full minute.

"And nothing to wipe with," she grumbles. "Lovely. UTI, here I come."

"I, um…" I hesitate at the offer that pops up in my idiot head, but it's the only idea I have. "You want my shirt?"

She cackles. "Killy, no. I'm not wiping my vagina with your shirt."

"It's hot as fuck in here anyway," I say, trying desperately not to think about her vagina in any capacity whatsoever. "And I’d rather be shirtless than have you uncomfortable because you couldn't…um…wipe."

"Uncomfortable," she echoes, cackling. "You clearly have never had a UTI. Uncomfortable is not the word for it."

"No, I haven't. Bryn got one a couple years ago. She was impossible to live with until it cleared up."

"Bryn with a UTI?" she cackles again, spluttering. "I shudder to think. She's impossible on her best day."

"Thank you!” I shout. "Sorry, that was loud. But yes. I love my sister to pieces, I really do, but she's a lot."

"Killy, I'm not going to use your shirt. I'll just…make the best of it."

I whip my shirt off, find her hand with mine, and shove it into her grip. "Just use the shirt, Story."

"And then what? You put it back on?"

"Um, no." I consider. "Maybe cover the bucket with it to keep the smell in to some degree. They don't exactly empty the thing very frequently."

"Yeah," she intones, voice drier than bleached bones. "I can tell." A huff. "Fine. And…thank you."

Her hand vanishes with my shirt, and a few seconds later she works upright unsteadily, wobbling as she braces her hand on me and a shoulder against the wall as she bends to pull up her bottoms. I hear the soft thunk as she drapes the shirt over the top of the bucket, and mercifully, the stench of old piss fades a bit.

Of course, that's when the ship lurches, tips forward and topples me into Story and the both of us into the corner, pushing us into the metal as we carve down the face of what must be an absolutely colossal wave. Story's face smashes against mine and we're crushed against each other into the corner.

Her hands scrabble at my shoulders, trying to push me away so I can find my balance and not crush her. And then for a moment we're level again, and I stumble backward, arms windmilling…

And then I'm hurled backward as the ship's prow is hurled skyward by the next wave, and I feel Story slam into me, knocking me further off-balance and sending me to the floor hard enough to knock the air out of me. I slide backward along the floor as gravity pushes at me, and I hear Story gasp and grunt with the effort of keeping her feet…but we hit the crest, level off for the briefest of moments, and then surge and topple forward as we dive down the other side.

I hear Story shriek breathlessly as she's tossed forward, and the breath I just got back is slammed out of me as Story crashes down on top of me.

Another wave smacks the ship from our left, knocking it into a sideways pitch that sends us rolling. I instinctively wrap my arms around Story as we roll, trying to protect her skull from being crushed between the bulk of my body and the unforgiving bare metal floor beneath us. We roll and roll as we dip diagonally downward, rolling and sliding across the floor of the container—mercifully, the jackasses who took us at least had the decency to strap the piss bucket down because it's not sliding all over the place.

Story's body is soft and firm and warm in my arms, a tiny but powerful package. There's nothing I can do but hold her as we’re bucked and tossed across the floor as wave after wave hurls the giant ship this way and that like a toy in a tub.

My head cracks against the floor and white spots dance across the darkness, but I keep hold of Story, bracing my arms so they take the brunt of our rolling rather than her small form.

I don't know how long we're tossed like that, helpless to do anything but be rolled about like a pinball; the pitching, yawing, rolling, and bucking is so violent that at times we’re tossed clear off the floor and are airborne for a breath before crashing down again. Eventually, the storm abates and the tossing subsides to some degree. By this point, after what has to be an hour or two at minimum, if not longer, I'm a mass of aches and bruises like I went eight rounds full-contact with Uncle Duke.

We're up against a wall, and the rain is still falling in a deafening deluge, but the worst violence seems to have passed. I'm on my back and Story is fully on top of me. I wish I could enjoy this moment more, but it’s not voluntary on her part, so I shove those stupid squishy feelings aside.

“You okay?" I murmur. "You hurt?"

Her head twists against my chest. "No, Killy. But you took most of the beating. How are you?"

"Sore, but I’ll live." I pat her head, her shoulders, her back. "Sure you're okay?"

My hand finds warm flesh, soft and silky and smooth, and my heart leaps in my chest and my stomach lurches. What am I touching? Her back?

"Killy?" Her voice is faint and soft.

No, not her back.

Definitely not her back.

I'm no virgin, okay? But also I'm not Cal. My best friend has mad game; I can't tell you how many times I've found myself at loose ends for an hour or three on St. John or St. Thomas or wherever while he hooks up with a tourist. I've had my share of liaisons, is my point. Not as many as Cal, with his golden surfer looks and easy charm and brash confidence, granted. My point…my point here is that I realize—belatedly, at the soft questioning hint in her tone—that what I'm grabbing with both hands like I have every right to is Story's bare ass. Bare because the waves knocked us flying before she could right them.

And…fuck. It's every bit as glorious to have in my hands as I'd fantasized it would be.

Shut up—I already admitted to having a crush, okay?

You try spending every summer for years watching her blossom into stunning beauty, watching her grow confident in her body when you’re a horny but shy kid with a major crush you know is unrequited. You try watching that girl prance around the island in a bikini. You try watching this very ass, barely clad in a bit of fabric, sway with every step, jigging as she jogs to catch a Frisbee or dives into the waves.

You try to endure all that and not have a few wet dreams about her once in a while.

"I'm sorry, again," I bite out, yanking my hands away. I flatten them against the cold metal floor to either side of my hips.

"This is awkward, but I need help. My pants are all tangled and I…" she rests her forehead on my sternum. "I just need help. Please."

She wriggles on me, and it's fucking torture. I feel her breasts against my chest, her hips against mine. Fuck.

I can’t take much more of this—having her on top of me, pants around her ankles, wriggling like a fish out of water as she tries to sort out her clothing…knowing her bare ass is right there…it's torture.

"Just stop moving for a second," I say, sounding more short-tempered than I'd intended. "Just let me stand up."

I get one arm under her knees, the other around her shoulders, and I stand up with her. Set her on her feet, back to the wall.

Her hands grip my shoulders as I kneel down and hunt at her ankles. I quickly discover the issue—one foot came out of the leg and pulled it inside out with the cuff in a tucked-in, knotted-up clump that you really need both hands to loosen. I sort the scrub bottoms out, and then grab her ankle. "Foot up."

I guide her foot into the leg and tug the pants up, tie them in a simple bunny-ears knot.

"Thank you, Killian." Her tone is wry.

"What?" I ask, confused as to the tone.

"Nothing. I’m saying thank you."

"There was a tone."

"I do know how to put on my own pants. I just couldn't in that position." She's amused rather than irritated or offended. "But I am truly and genuinely grateful for your assistance."

“Yeah," I mumble, shuffling out of reach. "Right. Yeah. Sorry. I just—"

Her hand shoots out and smacks against my hip, and then she tugs me back closer by my belt loop. “Hey. For real, thank you. I just found it…endearing, I suppose. That you felt it necessary to do that for me."

"Endearing." I can't keep the monotone sarcasm out of my voice.

"Or…or something." There's an element to her voice now that I can't place. An emotion she's hiding.

"Story, I'm sorry about all the—the groping. It's not on purpose."

"I know. It's okay." A short, sharp pause. "There was some lingering, though."

"Lingering?"

"Just now? Your hands on my butt?"

"That was your butt?" I feign surprise.

"Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Killy."

I pull away. Why did I act dumb? That was dumb. "I…Story, I—"

She tugs me back by my belt loop again. "Just admit it."

I sigh. "Sure, yeah, okay. It was surprising. I was…just…um…"

"Yeah?" Her voice is shaky with restrained laughter. "This oughta be good. Hit me with it. You were what?"

"Confused," I press on, gamely trying to keep up the charade—I totally lingered, once I realized what I was touching. "I was…confused. As to, um…what I was…."

"As to what you were what?"

"Fine, fuck it. Yeah, Story, I lingered. I groped. I'm an asshole, and I’m sorry for taking advantage of the situation."

I yank away from her, cheeks burning and shame bubbling in my gut. Shame and embarrassment. Knowledge that teasing me is as far as this will go. She's several years older than me, after all, closer in age to Bryn than me, and she's actually older than Bryn by a year or two. I've never cared about it till now, but suddenly twenty-seven to my twenty-one seems like an unbridgeable gap.

"Hey, Killy, where'd you go?"

"Well gee, Story, I left. Making my break for it. Can’t you tell?" I laugh bitterly. "Where do you think I'm gonna go?"

Her hand finds my shoulder and then I feel her and smell her and sense her behind me. "Killy, I…" a pause. "I was teasing. I've never been in a situation like this, and I'm using levity to cope."

"I groped you. It was accidental at first, yeah, but—"

"I was teasing. I'm not upset, not at all." There's that thing in her voice again, the sense—without evidence— that she’s hiding something from me, that she's feeling something she doesn't know what to do with.

Revulsion, perhaps?

I'm joking. I doubt it's revulsion. Amusement, maybe.

"Story—"

"This is a fucked-up situation, Killian."

"And I shouldn't make it worse by—"

Her hand claps over my mouth. "Someone's coming."

"Shit,” I mumble, the word muffled behind her hand; she moves it, and I whisper, “Close your eyes."

"What?"

"When they bring food in, they—"

Too late.

There's a grind and squeal of protesting metal, the thunk of a lock unseating, and then the creak of hinges as the door opens. For a split second, I get a glimpse of the real world beyond the lightless interior of this container—dark sky, heavy gray clouds, rain, a sliver of moon through the scudding clouds. And then a blinding light spears the darkness. Used to the unrelenting black, the light is painful, paralyzingly so. I reach out blindly and grab Story, yank her to me, put myself between her and them, my back to her. I hear the sound of a tray hitting the floor and then the hinges squeal and the container is locked once more.

"How frequently do they do that?" Story asks.

"I dunno. Best guess? Every twelve hours."

"And they never come in? Just open the door, shine the light, leave the tray?"

“So far, yeah." I wait until the sound of footsteps has receded before crossing the space carefully, using memory to guide me across the container. I find the trays—a plastic bottle of warm water, a much-too-soft apple, some sort of sliced meat that feels a bit too slippery, and rice. I hope it's rice. It’s not moving, at least.

"The food…?" Story asks, tentatively. “Is it…?"

"I mean, it's pretty fucking awful, but I haven't gotten sick from it."

"Where are you?"

“Here."

"Where?"

"Here."

I hear her tentative steps, and I put my hand out. She bumps into me and her hand finds mine, clutches, and I guide her around the trays. She sits beside me with her back to the wall near the door. She's close—knee and thigh touching mine. I feel her moving, assessing the food.

“Oh, ew. The meat is slimy." I hear a sniff. "Smells okay, though."

"Not like we have much choice," I say. “As I said, I haven’t gotten sick from it yet, and it’s been a few days at least."

"Try nearly two weeks, Killian."

"What?" I feel faint, and I'm glad I'm sitting down. "Two weeks?"

"Yup."

"Holy shit."

"You've been in here the whole time?"

"Almost, yeah. I was taken from Zermatt the day after Bryn disappeared. At first we just thought she was fucking with us. She does that. She'll sneak off to do her own thing. Especially after Zero died. But she's never gone long, and after that thing with the photo that got posted, she's more careful. But then she didn't come back and it was more than twelve hours. So I called Mom and Dad. Cal and I waited around the lodge, but then eventually we figured we had to look for her. So we had our guards drive around Zermatt. Like, maybe she got lost or something, y'know? We checked the hospital, the police, everywhere. We even went to the nearest club, which is where she'd have gone. The bouncer I talked to remembered her, because duh, it's Bryn. She went into the club, but he doesn’t remember her leaving. Roger even got their security guy to show him the footage, and you can see her going in the front door, but she never leaves. Through that door, at least." I swallow hard. "Cal and I had split up. He went to check internet cafes while I tried the train and bus stations. Roger is sort of…intimidating, you know? So I convinced him to stay in the car while I ran into the bus station and looked around and asked the ticket people if they'd seen her. When I…when I got back to the car." My voice gives out and I try again. "When I got back to the car, Roger was dead. Someone had shot him in the forehead. Blew his brains all over the back seat." I push my index finger into the pitifully small pile of rice. “And then I felt a jab in the side of my neck, and then I woke up hogtied in the backseat of a car in a port somewhere. I only saw a quick glimpse of the water and container ships and a river cruise ship, and then they put me under again and I woke up here."

She tells me about going to her car after her shift and being taken, and waking up here.

"And you have no idea where we are?" Story asks, then. "Like, no clue?"

“No. I have no way of knowing how long I was out. Whatever they used to knock us out is powerful shit, if you stayed unconscious all the way from Minnesota. My guess is the Mediterranean or the European coast of the Atlantic somewhere. I also only got a very quick glimpse of the port."

"We have to do something, though, Killy. We can't just let them kidnap us."

"I know, and I agree, and I have every intention of escaping," I tell her. "But we're on a boat. Where are we going to go? Off the side? The draft will drag you under and keelhaul you and then mince you up in the prop. And if you can get away from that, we swim…where? And they're armed. I think they get bored and shoot stuff because I've heard both fully automatic weapons and pistols. Escaping while on this boat is not a tenable plan, Story."

She sighs, although it's more of a hiss. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I just don't like it."

I laugh. "Yeah, I'm not a huge fan of it either. But I'm even less of a fan of being shot or drowned or chopped to pieces by a giant propeller."

I hear her chewing. "Ew. I don't know what this meat is and I don't want to know."

"Right?"

She gags. "If I wasn't already so starved, I probably wouldn’t eat this, but I was at the end of a sixteen-hour shift when I got snatched, and I haven't eaten since before my shift started."

"We'll need our strength for the getaway anyway," I point out. "But yeah, it's pretty nasty."

"Do you think it's rat?" she asks.

I stop chewing. "Wow. I've been trying really fucking hard to not think that. Thanks, Story. Really."

"Sorry. I've got a morbid sense of humor. Comes with the job."

"Got any terrible nursing jokes?"

She sputters. "Oh god, Killy. Do I ever.”

"Hit me with one."

“Okay, but…be warned. Nurse humor is dark. So the other day I was at the bank cashing a check, right, and the pen they had at the teller's station wasn't working. I always have my favorite pen in my purse, so I went to grab it. And guess what? No pen. I always leave the thing in the same place so I can find it when I need it. But this time, instead of a pen, I found a thermometer."

I blink into the darkness, not following the joke, yet. “Um."

"So I look at the teller, and I go, 'oh, great. Some asshole has my favorite pen.’"

It takes a second, and then I burst into laughter. “Oh my god, Story."

"Not that dark, but it's a funny one." She pats my thigh. "And honestly, Killy, a lot of the stuff we nurses joke with each other about would get us a one-way trip to HR if it was overheard. It's funny to us, but…I wouldn't repeat most of it to anyone but another emergency medicine nurse or doctor." Another pause. "I had a patient in cardiac arrest the other day. We kept losing him and kept having to use the paddles to bring him back. Well, our resident, Dr. Henson, came by to check on us, and he asked how the patient's pressure was right after we'd just brought him back. And Jen, who was using the paddles, said, 'Oh, it's shockingly good.'" She pauses again. "The silence after that joke was…electric."

The last part is what really sends me into hysterics, possibly more so than the joke really deserves, but hey, I've been alone in the dark for two weeks, apparently, so forgive me if I'm a little punch-drunk.

Emboldened, Story tries another. "Oh, I’ve got one. Why should you never mess with a peds nurse?" She says it peeds, meaning pediatric, I assume.

"Why?"

"They have very little patients." I'm still cackling at this one when she continues. "Here's an oldie-but-goodie. What's the difference between an oral and rectal thermometer?” Cue the dramatic pause. "The taste."

“Oh god, ew."

"Now, my roommate in college was epileptic, okay, and she told me this one, so just…just keep in mind the source when you hear it.”

"Oh god. Okay?"

"What do they call an epileptic in a garden? Seizure salad. Here’s another from my roommate: What do you do when an epileptic has a seizure in the bathtub? Throw in your laundry."

"What the fuck, Story?" I say, wheezing. "Holy shit, that's dark."

"I told you! Rena always said she had to find the humor in her condition." She pauses again. "The first time she told me a seizure joke, she laughed so hard she was…shaking."

"Story!"

"You asked." A pause. “Oh, here's a good one I heard just last week. How many masochists does it take to put in a lightbulb?" I groan as I wait for the punchline. "Just one, but it takes a full surgical team to get it out again."

“I’m sorry I asked. Good lord. Ya'll are fucked up." I nudge her with my knee. "For real, though. I don't know how you do what you do."

"Me either, some days. But then, I also can't imagine doing anything else. It's all I've ever wanted to do."

"Why?" I ask, after washing down a bite of truly unappetizing "meat".

"Mom." It's her only answer, and I can tell that's the end of the answer, so I say nothing. A few minutes go by. "I expected you to follow up on that."

"Didn't seem like you wanted to."

“What else are we gonna do in here but talk?" Another long pause. "You know the story of how Mom ended up adopting me?"

"Um, sort of?" I answer. "I know your parents were murdered when you were like five, but that's all I know."

A heavy sigh. "Yeah. Well, there's a bit more to it."

2

Talking In The Dark

"I don't talk about it pretty much ever," I tell Killian. "For obvious reasons."

"You don't have to talk about it, Story," he says, his voice gentle.

"I was five. We were at a mall in St. Paul. We'd spent the afternoon shopping. We went to Build-A-Bear and I got a stuffed tiger and a whole outfit for her. I remember being so excited. We were standing around waiting for our table at CPK to be ready. My mom and dad were arguing about something; I don’t remember what. It was one of those quiet but intense fights, you know? Like they didn't want me to know they were fighting? And then I heard this popping sound. I thought it was firecrackers or fireworks at first—it was around the Fourth of July, so you’d hear people shooting off fireworks and stuff for weeks before and after. But it was different, the way it sounded. Sharper, I guess? And then people started screaming and running."

I can still see it happening; with the darkness, I don't even have to close my eyes to see it all play out again. Killian's hand finds my knee, and I take his hand, squeeze hard.

"Dad pushed me to the floor and lay down on top of me, and Mom was beside him. I heard…" my throat closes, hot and tight. "I heard the shooting. It was…it was so loud. Pop-pop-pop. Pop-pop-pop. Always three shots at a time. I remember that very specifically, for some reason."

"Story—"

I shove my tray away and lean into him—he's dense and warm and real. "I heard my father plead, ‘No, no, please. Please don’t!’ My mother was just crying, and she was holding me so tight it hurt. There was so much screaming. Pop-pop-pop. I felt my father jerk. The shots were right over my head. So loud. And my father jerked again. And then pop-pop-pop, and my mother jerked again. I felt their blood on me all hot and wet. I don't know if the shooter didn't know I was under them or didn't care, but he went on. Shot more people. And then I heard a different gun go off, and then it was over, the shooting, I mean. Someone pulled my parents off me eventually, after what felt like a very long time, and I saw this woman trying to help my mother. Her hands were coated in blood up to her elbows. She was so calm. She just looked at me and told me to close my eyes. So I did. I closed my eyes and kept them closed. I…I heard my dad. Choking. Gurgling." I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory. "I heard him die. While she was trying to save my mom, my dad died. Mom too. I…opened my eyes and the woman, Selah, my mom, now—she was helping someone else. I sat and watched as she helped person after person, even after the paramedics showed up. She kept helping. Saving people. And that’s when I knew—I wanted to do that. I wanted to make sure no one would ever lose their loved ones as I had. I wanted to save people like she did. Everyone she touched, everyone she worked on, just her being there comforted them. I saw it. I watched them feel comforted, just by her presence. And I wanted to be exactly like her."

"And now you are," Killian murmurs, his voice soft and quiet. "Just like her."

My eyes burn. "I know I shouldn't compare myself to her. I know, intellectually, that I'm my own person with my own life experiences and skills. I know that what Mom went through made her who she is. It's just hard not to compare myself to her. Every time I start a shift in the ER, I think of Mom in that mall, and somehow, in my own estimation of myself at least, I’ll never measure up." I laugh, and it's wet, tearful. "That’s something else I've never told anyone."

"I'm honored that you're sharing it with me," Killian says, and there's not a hint of sarcasm or disingenuity in his voice.

I sniffle a laugh. "You're really getting the inside scoop on Story Binyamin, huh?"

"I can empathize with feeling like you'll never measure up," Killian says after a few minutes of silence.

"You?" I laugh. "Okay, sure." He doesn't answer immediately, and I have a feeling my sarcastic response landed wrong. "Killy?"

"When I was thirteen, and Brynnie was fifteen…wait, no, she’d just turned sixteen… anyway, Dad let us do one of your dad's wilderness survival camps up in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. We'd both had the same lessons up till then. This was supposed to be a big test, right? Like, to see if we'd really internalized what they'd been teaching us. It wasn't just wilderness survival, as I'm sure you’re aware. We had to reach a specific set of coordinates within a specific timeframe—we had forty-eight hours, I think, to cross something like fifty miles? We were supposed to go together, but Brynnie and I couldn't tolerate each other long enough to make it more than two miles together before we were about to kill each other, so we split up. She even gave me a head start because of course my sister would turn it into a fucking competition. Never mind I’m two and a half years younger than her. She cleared the course a full three hours faster than me. She hit every single target and spotted and disarmed every trap."

"Oh god, Dad and his traps and targets," I mutter. "I'm all too familiar."

Dad likes obstacle courses, but not what you probably think when you hear the phrase. We're not talking boot camp courses where you climb over walls and crawl under barbed wire and boring, stupid nonsense like that. Dad's "obstacle courses" are a proprietary blend of wilderness survival challenges, close-quarters combat tests, marksmanship tests, and room-clearing tests. It's a Point A to Point B journey through rugged terrain—Michigan's UP, the mountains of Colorado, the jungles of Hawaii, the bush of Alaska in the dead of winter. But, just to spice things up, Dad or Sasha or Duke or one of the other high-level A1S guys will show up somewhere along the course and you have to defend yourself against them in hand-to-hand combat. Another section requires you to put rounds through targets—stationary and pop-up—in a challenging sequence. Meaning, it's not just kneel there and shoot. It's a target at twenty yards with your pistol and another at a hundred fifty with your rifle—both at the same time—and then several in quick succession popping up here and there. There's inevitably going to be a cabin, hut, or other structure to take shelter in for the night—assuming you correctly clear it, tagging the cardboard bad guys and saving the cardboard hostages. Fail any of the sections and you go back to the start.

When I was ten, the course was a three-mile stretch in the woods of northern Minnesota where Dad owns a few hundred acres of wilderness, and the challenges were appropriate to my age and skill level. By the time I graduated high school, I was clearing courses of a hundred miles that would challenge a professional operator.

Failure on a course like that is a brutal lesson, but then, I was always determined to succeed because the idea of disappointing Dad in anything is just… no. I'd rather die than let him down.

And oh yeah, scattered throughout the course are any number of traps. Non-lethal, non-injuring versions of the real thing that would maim or kill, using paint where the real thing would use spikes or whatever. And you can't just dodge them—you have to locate and disarm them. Miss one? Fail— start over.

Yeah, my upbringing was not…normal.

Nor was Killian's, though. He did all that, but he also had the added burden of the complicated business aspect of being an heir-apparent of Alpha One Security—which happens to be one of the most famous and successful private security companies in history.

"What set you back?" I ask.

He splutters. "Oh, fucking everything. She's just faster than me. Better reflexes. Better accuracy. She doesn't hesitate where I take a second or two to find my target. And in a course like that, a few seconds here and a few seconds there add up."

I laugh. "Killy." He's prevaricating.

"The fucking traps, okay?" He sighs, disgusted. “It's always the traps. I always miss one or two."

"Me too," I admit. "Although for me it's usually the room clearing. I can knock the wings off a mosquito from almost any distance as long as I'm stationary and can take my time setting up my shots. But the quick-reaction, close-quarters stuff? I'm not…bad…exactly. I'm just never as good at it as I'd like."

He laughs. "I've seen you clear rooms, Story. You're full of shit."

"I have high standards for myself. But then, look at who my dad is, I guess, right?"

"High standards?" he says, laughing again in disbelief. "If you think you're deficient in anything, you're delusional. You're better than all of us."

His praise lights a strange, uncomfortable, and sort of squirmy fire in my gut. "Thank you, Killy."

The rocking lulls us both into a drowse.

"Story?"

"Mmm."

"Is it fucked up, do you think, that we were brought up the way we were? Trained to do things we were? Like, we did a lot of stuff that is definitely not normal for kids to do."

I let out a long breath. "I mean, yeah, objectively, I suppose it is kind of fucked up. But then, how could it not be? What were they supposed to do? History proved that their families were going to be dragged into things at some point. And look—here we are. And guess what? We know what to do: bide our time, choose our moment, and use the skills we’ve worked so hard to develop. Obviously I'm still scared out of my mind because I know all too well that no matter how well trained you are, things can happen. Plain old bad luck is real. Some goon who barely knows how to hold a gun can get off a lucky shot. You can catch a ricochet. But I also know that of anyone in the world, you, me, Bryn, and Cal can take care of ourselves in a situation like this, and our parents know it because they raised us that way." I shrug and shake my head, even though I know he can't see the gestures. "I don't think we have a very good sense of what normal even means, though, Killy. I certainly don't. I was involved in a mass shooting at five and watched my parents get killed, and then I watched my adoptive mother get kidnapped, and then I watched a man I'd just met kill a bad guy with a knife. I… I saw a lot of unpleasant things in that whole experience. There's no normal after that, Killy. How can there be?"

He leans into me, hard shoulder nudging mine. "So it's fucked up, but for a good reason?"

I can't help laughing. "Yeah, basically." I yawn. "God, I'm tired."

"You'd think after being drugged unconscious for however many hours, you wouldn't be," Killian says.

"You'd think, but drug-induced unconsciousness is not the same as natural sleep. You don’t and can't enter the various stages of sleep, so it's not restful. Or not as restful, at least. It's…well, it's kind of complicated, honestly, because there are a lot of different drugs that induce different kinds and levels of unconsciousness in different ways. But as the chief anesthesiologist told me when I was doing my rotation in that department, anyone can administer anesthesia to a patient. It's the whole keeping them alive afterward part that's tricky. The tiniest bit too much and you can stop their heart or shut their brain off. Too little and they wake up mid-surgery, or worse, only partially wake up."

"Wait, what?"

“Oh yeah. It happens to redheads a lot, actually."

Killian is quiet—I can almost hear him blinking his shock. "Redheads?"

"Oh yeah. True redheads have a gene that makes them resistant to drugs. They have naturally higher tolerances. It happens more with twilight anesthesia. I mean, not a lot, but it happens. The patient's brain will wake up enough that they're conscious and feeling everything but not conscious enough to be able to alert the doctors."

"Jesus fucking Christ, what a nightmare that would be."

“Yeah. That's why anesthesiologists are among the highest-paid doctors in the hospital, after the specialists."

"Specialists?"

"Neuro, thoracic, and orthopedic—those docs with all the extra letters after their names. Those guys make the most. But anesthesiologists are paid the most of any non-specialist, non-surgical doctors because of how difficult it is to do the job well and correctly."

"Did any other field interest you, or was it always the E-R?”

I hum, considering. "I thought about surgery, to be honest. I've got the hands for it. I also thought about the ICU. But in the end, it was always emergency medicine. I know how this is going to sound, but it's kind of an adrenaline thing. The pace, the challenge, the variety of cases. Unless you're in medicine, that can sound cold. Like, we're talking about the worst days of people's lives. If you're a patient in a hospital for any reason, you’re having a bad day. So, talking about pace or variety or the challenge or how I need the adrenaline rush? Objectively, it can sound shitty. But it's a job, at the end of the day. There has to be a sense of satisfaction. Not…enjoyment, maybe. That's not the right word. I don't enjoy it, like you enjoy a steak or a movie or a good hard orgasm." I go red-faced, not that he can tell. "I, um. Yeah. Forget I said that last part."

"I can comprehend what you mean,” he says, mercifully ignoring the bit about orgasms. “Sort of like how you can appreciate an excellent, well-made movie about a difficult subject but not necessarily enjoy it."

"Exactly," I say. “Like…Schindler’s List. I’m glad you get it. Not everyone does."

"No? Seems kind of…obvious. I dunno. I mean, I’m clearly not a doctor or nurse like you, but I can comprehend what you mean. You've had people not get that?"

I'm not sure I like the direction of this conversation— it's heading into awkward territory. "I mean, yeah."

"I don't understand how you don't understand."

"I don't either. But then, he turned out to be a world-class jackass, so maybe it was just him."

"Ah."

I turn my face toward him. "Ah? What does that mean, ah?"

"Just…ah. Like, ahhh, that kind of guy."

"What kind of guy would that be, Killian?" I ask, my tone dry and sharp. "I did date him for nearly two years."

“But he didn't understand the whole enjoyment piece?"

"There was more to our relationship than that," I mutter. "He wasn't a bad guy."

"You just said he turned out to be a world-class jackass."

Why do I feel pissed off by this line of conversation? Embarrassment? I've done a lot of work in therapy in my life, dealing with the anger I feel. Anger is a secondary emotion, Dr. Albright tells me. Anger is a byproduct, usually of pain, fear, shame, guilt, or embarrassment, or a combination thereof.

Why am I getting pissy with Killian?

Because he's right.

I dated Jocko for far too long, well after I knew he was, objectively, a tool.

"We don't have to talk about this," Killian says. "I'm sorry if I was out of line."

I'm taken aback by the ease with which he apologized—my dad has apologized to me a few times, usually for a case of mistaken blame. But no other male in my life has ever apologized. I don't mean Cal, or the "uncles"—I only see them for a month or two in the summers, rarely enough for a situation to arise that would require apologies. I mean the people I live and work with daily. Boyfriends, coworkers, bosses.

"You weren't out of line," I answer, after a moment. "Jocko was—"

He snickers, cutting me off. "Wait, wait, wait. You dated a guy named Jocko? Like Willink?"

I snort. "Well, obviously he wasn't Jocko Willink, but yes."

"I'm shocked that a guy named Jocko would turn out to be a jackass. Shocked, I tell you."

"Sounds a bit prejudiced, Killian. A bit judgmental."

"What?" he protests. "It's a douchey name."

"Some might argue Killian is a douchey name."

"Can we start this over?" Killian says, sounding annoyed. "I only meant to convey that I don't understand what there is to not understand about what you said regarding needing the challenging aspect of emergency medicine."

"He was…" I trail off, sigh. "Jocko was complicated, okay? And to be clear, I'm only using past tense because I'm not dating him anymore. He’s still alive and well, last I heard."

A chuckle greets this. "Thanks for clarifying."

“He was sensitive. Which was weird for me, because on the surface he's this big, brawny, confident alpha male sort of guy. But under that, he was sensitive. He wasn't…tough. He didn't—he wasn't a fighter. Blood made him faint. So he just couldn’t mentally or emotionally wrap his brain around how, when I’m in the zone, treating patients, there's an objectivity that's necessary. I don’t always see John or Jane Smith, the person, with a life and feelings and friends. I see that later, when I'm checking in on my patients. But when it's the frenzy of trying to keep someone alive, it's a puzzle. It's…a problem to be solved. That's how my brain works—it solves problems."

"Hmm, interesting way to look at it," Killian says.

"Is that sarcasm?" I ask. "I genuinely can't tell."

"No! Not at all," he answers. "Say more."

"Um, I…well—if I’ve got an MVC victim with an open skull fracture and a GCS of four, an open femur fracture, multiple severe lacerations and contusions, and free fluid in the belly, the problem is which to treat first and then what to do for treatment. If I’ve got a GSW victim, it's a more straightforward question of stopping the bleeding—but straightforward does not mean easy."

"Clearly."

"There's an objectivity that's necessary, initially, at least. Jocko never understood that. Sometimes, the ER is so fast-paced that the patients just come through in a non-stop train, and I can't remember names or faces. It's not John Smith, it's the MVC patient. It’s not Jenny Johnson, it’s the third- and fourth-degree burns from a kitchen fire. Even if I use the patient's name—which I try to, y'know? If they're conscious, that is—I won’t remember the name once I'm home. It just doesn't stay in the brain. But the medicine? I remember that. I remember the dosage of meds, I remember what I did and in what order. Ask me about my GSW from my last shift and I'll tell you it was a single .45 slug that entered the torso at an oblique angle from low on the left side, ricocheted off the rib cage, ricocheted again off the hipbone, tore through the intestines and stomach, and wreaked absolute havoc on the vic's insides. I remember how many bullet fragments were extracted—seven. I remember how many bone fragments were extracted—nineteen. I remember how many clamps we used. I remember which meds I gave him. I know he had dark hair, and I think he was Asian. Young—early twenties. A little overweight. I remember this stuff. But I can't picture his face and I don’t remember his name. Not because I didn't or don’t care: I do—a fucking lot. But he lost too much blood before he got to us. His insides were too wrecked. We couldn’t save him, and he died. I remember his time of death—six-oh-six p.m. But I can't see his face and I don't know his name because about thirty seconds after he passed, another bus showed up with a construction worker who fell fifty feet onto a piece of rebar. The last patient is out of your mind because now this patient needs every last ounce of your focus."

Killian is quiet again. "Didn't follow all the lingo, but I get the picture." Another pause. "And Jocko thought this meant you were…what? Coldhearted? Some sort of emotionless automaton?"

"In short, yes. But in giving him the benefit of the doubt, I think it was more about him not being able to fathom how I can do the job at all, because he absolutely could not. That's not shade at him, though, it's just reality. It's not a job most people can do. And even among those of us who can and do do the job, there's a very high burnout and suicide rate because it's fucking hard and it takes a hell of a toll." I find myself laughing. "But ironically, that's not even why I broke up with him, or why I said he turned out to be a world-class jackass."

There's a brief pause. "Oh."

"He was possessive and insecure."

"Ehhhboy," Killian says in a simpering tone. "There’s the ick."

I cackle. "You could say that, yes. When I say he was possessive and insecure, I mean that he legitimately demanded that I get myself assigned to an all-female department."

A stunned silence. "That…that doesn't exist. Does it?"

My laughter is all the answer that's needed, really. "No," I say, eventually. "It's not a thing. He was just wildly insecure about the fact that I worked with a lot of handsome and successful men who made more money than he did. We went to a Christmas party together, and when he saw me joking around with a doctor who happens to be a carbon copy of Brad Pitt from Legends of the Fall, he lost his shit. Ricky happens to be as gay as I am straight, not that that matters. I joke around exactly the same way with Mike, another nurse, who’s just as good-looking in a different way, and straight, and single. But Jocko couldn't handle that. He couldn’t trust me when I said I'm not interested in Mike or Ricky. He wasn't content with the fact that I left the hospital after my shift and went home to him. His insecurity was stronger than his trust, and it made him irrational."

"That sucks."

It's not what I expected him to say. I'm not sure what I did expect, but not that. "Yeah, it did suck. Because he was a good guy, until all that opened up. Sweet, and very kind to me. He just couldn't understand…me, I guess."

"I'm not sure your average, run-of-the-mill civilian can understand people who've grown up like us, Story," he says, his tone slow and thoughtful. "You even more so because of what you've been through."

"You don't consider yourself a civilian?" I ask.

"Uhhh? I dunno. Sort of? Not really? I'm aware I’m not military, so I know I’m a civilian in that sense, but I also know I have more in common with a soldier than a civilian." A thoughtful pause. "I guess I just mean…normies. Y'know? People who grow up…" he trails off, starts over. "People who didn't grow up field-stripping Glocks blindfolded and clearing rooms and surviving in the wilderness with a lighter, a knife, a canteen, and a reel of fishing line."

I can't help butx laugh at this. "Yeah, we definitely didn't grow up anything like normal. So I suppose you have a point in that someone who didn’t grow up like we did or who hasn’t experienced any of the stuff we have just can’t understand us. Not deep down."

“And the people who do get it," Killian says, "are few and far between."

"Sounds like you're talking from experience."

He sighs heavily. “Yeah."

When he doesn't elaborate, I elbow him. "C'mon, Killy. I told you stuff I've never told anyone."

"Cal has this ability to pretend like he's this totally normal dude when he's around people our age, or girls he's interested in. He tells these wild stories and has everyone hanging on every word, but then he's just your buddy. So relatable, so cool, so charming. You wouldn't know how fast he can strip and reassemble an MP5 blindfolded. You wouldn't know he can clear a room, skydive, and all the shit we can do. I mean, you meet some guy who’s in the Army, yeah, okay, cool, you expect that kind of training. Cal is clearly not that guy. But then…he actually is."

"I'm not seeing the—"

"I feel like that shit is written on a sign and stapled to my forehead. It comes up in conversation, even when I try to avoid talking about who my parents are, or that one of history’s richest men is like a second father to me, or how we grew up. And people don’t get that shit. They just don’t get it."

"Who didn't get it, Killy?"

A long, harsh sigh. "Helena McMurtry. Her parents upped sticks when she was sixteen and moved her and her siblings down to St. John. I dated her for almost a year and a half starting when I was eighteen, almost nineteen. I think the only reason our relationship even lasted as long as it did is that we didn’t get to see each other very often. Like, there wasn't a lot of distance between us as the crow flies, but you're talking about island to island, y'know?"

"No, Killian, I do not. I didn't grow up on a private island compound in the Caribbean." I find and pat his knee.

"That's what broke us up, actually," he says, his tone wry. "I was…I'd been pretty vague about my family and where I lived. I always went to see her, because it's not like I could just invite any girl I wanted to my house. There are security protocols in place. Cal breaks them all the time with his girls and our buddies, but then, Cal can sort of get away with it, to a degree."

"Uncle Val has always had a bit of a blind spot where Cal is concerned," I say. "Or maybe soft spot is more accurate."

"Yeah, trust me, I know." I sigh. "Well, Helena eventually got tired of me being vague about things and wanted to see where I lived. So I convinced Dad and Uncle Val to let me bring her over."

"Didn't go well?"

"She freaked."

"At what?" I ask.

He laughs. “Hell, everything. Sasha and Uri in the RHIB coming up on our flank as we approached the island freaked her out. Seeing guards carrying automatic weapons all over the island freaked her out. Meeting Uncle Val and Aunt Kyrie freaked her out."

"Well, to be fair, to the uninitiated, those things are a lot. It's always an adjustment for me, the first few days after I come down, and I'm on the inside of the circle."

"I know, believe me. I tried to warn her to have an open mind and stuff, but how do you prepare someone for the compound?"

I laugh. "You don't."

"When she met Uncle Val, she really freaked. Like, big freak out.” I adopt a high-pitched whining tone. “Your dad is the Nicholas Harris and you didn't fucking tell me? All this time you're worth fucking billions of dollars?’” His voice goes high-pitched and mocking. "Never mind the argument that I'm not worth shit, financially, my parents are, and Mom and Dad aren’t worth actual billions, just close. Dating when you're the kid of someone worth the kind of money Mom and Dad have comes with certain challenges."

“Gold diggers are real, huh?" I ask.

"Fuck yeah, unfortunately. It's hard to know what someone's real motives are. That's why I was never too broken up about the security protocols that make it hard to bring people over—I don't want friends who are only my friends because of the stuff. Y'know?" A pause. "But I suppose you don't."

"No, not really. Mom and Dad are comfortable," I say. "In the sense that people say, oh we're comfortable as a way of minimizing the truth. But there's a vast ocean of difference between that and the kind of wealth that your parents and Cal and Corinna's parents have."

"Helena couldn't get over that," Killian says. “And then, while she was there, Cal and Uncle Puck and Dad and Uncle Val wanted us to go to the range to do some shooting. When she found out I'm fully trained with firearms and all that other shit? Oh fuck, man, the freakout was epic." I draw the last word out into a deep, guttural thing.

"But why?" I ask. "Why is that something to freak out over?"

"She's a pacifist and vehemently against gun ownership as an entire concept."

“Oh. That's…a pretty big gulf to overcome."

He laughs. "Yeah, no shit. And, like, I get it. I really, really do. I'm comfortable with guns, but I don't think everyone needs to have one, and the vast majority of people have no legitimate reason to own any gun, even a hunting rifle, let alone handguns and assault rifles. But one thing that I know was instilled in you as much as me is the responsibility that comes with carrying a firearm. We, more than the average gun owner, understand the weight and cost of taking a life. You especially." He pauses. "She couldn't get over the whole package that is me, I guess, once she saw the full scope of where I come from, who my family is, what my life is like. She thought I was just some other average American rich kid raised in the Bahamas, when nothing could be further from the truth. I think, if she saw a future for us at all, she saw it as being…" he trails off, hunting for the right way to finish the statement.

"A lot smaller than your life is going to be?" I suggest.

"Smaller doesn't feel like the right word," he says. "Her life wasn't small, it was just… drastically different than mine, and the future she saw for herself didn't jibe at all with who I am and how I was raised. Just too big of a fundamental difference."

There's carefully hidden pain in his voice. "You really cared about her, huh?" I ask.

He sighs. "Yeah, I did. She didn't even stay on the compound for four hours. She came, she saw, she bolted. Veni, vidi, vamoos." He chuckles. "That was a terrible joke, and I formally apologize."

"It really was terrible."

"It didn't matter that I tried to show her who I am before I showed her all that stuff. It was just too much."

I stifle a yawn behind my hand, then. "I'm sorry, Killy. I don't mean to yawn while you're baring your soul, I'm just exhausted."

He shifts closer and then scoots down a touch, and suddenly his shoulder is at exactly the right height to rest my head on. "Then rest. I've got a feeling we're gonna be doing a lot of talking before we find our chance to make a move."

3

The Most Beautiful Torture

I wake up in darkness, stiff and sore and discombobulated. The metal of the container floor is painfully hard underneath me, and it's stiflingly hot, and despite the shirt over the bucket, the smell of stale piss is overwhelming.

I blink into the darkness, taking stock of the non-visual cues: the ship is still rolling gently so we're still sailing somewhere. I hear a voice yelling indistinctly above and behind me but it's too muffled and faint to make anything out.

Other than being hot, achy from sleeping on a metal floor, and sick to fuck of the darkness and the unending boredom, there's not much to take stock of.

I can't even express how great it is to have a companion in here, although I know it's shitty of me to be glad someone else has been kidnapped. It's a confusing feeling, let me tell you.

Speaking of confusing feelings: I'm lying down on my back, and there's a warm weight on my belly. Story. Her ear is on my navel and her breath huffs hot on my skin. Her hands are tucked under her face, stuffed between her cheek and my belly.

I clench my jaw and focus on breathing, focus on thinking about anything at all other than how close Story's face and hands are to my crotch and the mindless, ravening beast contained therein. She's asleep. She's not thinking about that, now or ever. She doesn’t feel about me the way I do about her, and there's no point dwelling on my feelings.

Tell that to my dick, though. My brain is aware that the placement of her face and hands is completely meaningless and irrelevant to her feelings regarding me. My dick, however, is insisting otherwise, contrary to all evidence, because as everyone knows, penises are stupid.

I close my eyes and just breathe. Meditate.

Don't think, don't feel.

I am without desire.

I am without thought.

I am a bodiless point of awareness in the darkness.

This works for a while, and I even start to feel a bit drowsy again, because what else is there to do?

But then Story shifts, turns her face into my belly and snuffles sleepily, rubs her mouth and nose against me. Grumbles wordlessly, trying to find a more comfortable position. I hold utterly still as she shifts and tosses, finally settling again.

Now, torturously, her face is even closer to my zipper, and one hand is resting on my zipper.

"Doesn't mean anything," I whisper to myself, willing my dick to cooperate and stay calm.

My dick has other ideas.

My dick takes the placement of her hand as an invitation to grow to full erection in approximately ten seconds.

I grit my jaw and exhale slowly through my nose and picture in my mind the steps to stripping a pistol. I think about the time Cal and I found a dead sea turtle washed up on the beach—that was awful. I think about the swarms of mosquitoes the size of parakeets in the Alaskan interior. I think about moldy bread. Squirming piles of maggots at the bottom of a trash can.

Nope. Still so erect you could use my dick to build a 19th-century circus tent.

"Corpses. Nuns. Dead puppies. Vomit." I whisper this to the shadows all around.

Story whimpers in her sleep, snuffles into my belly again with that fucking adorable little rub of her nose.

Her hand, the one resting on my zipper, tightens.

"Goddammit, Story," I whisper to myself.

I don't dare move. I'm not sure I'm even breathing. I desperately need Story to move her hand, but the tenuous thread of my sanity is currently being held in place by my death-grip on my own thighs.

Story makes another sleepy, waking-up sound.

God, please wake up. Please.

Her hand tightens, loosens, tightens. Fuck, that's torture.

"Mmm?" Her voice is thick and slow and heavy and sleepy. "Killy?"

"Yep,” I whisper, my voice a hoarse, ragged rasp.

"Mmmm." She does the nose-rub thing again, and then stops. Squeezes me, cupping my aching shaft. "Um."

"Yeah. You can, um…let go. Now. Please."

She does not let go.

In fact, she does the opposite. She squeezes me again. "Oh." A tense pause. "Killy, you're, um…"

“Yeah. Sorry."

A breathy giggle. "Sorry? For what?"

"Um…" I'm gripping my thighs so hard my fingers hurt, and force myself to let go. I circle her wrist and tug her hand away. "Nothing." I shift, indicating I want to stand up, and she slides off me; I lurch to my feet and stumble along the wall a few steps, away from Story. "Nothing," I repeat. "Never mind."

"Did I…" a pause. "Is that because I was…"

"You were sleeping," I fill in when she trails off uncertainly. "I just…I need a second."

The ship rolls and rocks over a steep wave, and I brace against the wall until we're settled again. I hear shuffling, and then what might be the sound of Story stretching—one of those tight, taut groans that you do when you're in the middle of a stretch.

"I'm sorry, Killy. I wasn't trying to…" she trails off again, and I hear her voice approaching me from behind.

"I know," I whisper, doing breathing exercises and imagining the most horrible things I can think of, like someone throwing a bag of kittens into a pond.

It’s not working at all, and the mental images only fuck with my emotions and do nothing to make my penis less excited about the absolutely nothing that's going to happen. I abandon the morbid mental image strategy and focus on just breathing.

Which works for the ten seconds it takes Story to slip up behind me, so close I can smell her, feel her, hear her soft breaths.

"Killy, I didn't mean to—"

"I know," I snap, with more heat than I'd intended. It's just that she’s right behind me, and she’s resting her chin on my shoulder, and her breasts are pressing softly into my back, and it's fucking torture. "It's fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"I just need a second."

"Killy," she murmurs. "You're acting weird."

“No, I'm not," I counter, lying through clenched teeth. "I'm fine. Just…I just need a second to get things under control."

Story just huffs, and it's sarcastic. "You're a shitty liar, Killian."

Brutal, destructive honesty firehoses out of my mouth before I can stop it. "Yeah, well, excuse me, Story. I’ve been alone in the fucking dark for what you say is almost two weeks. Solitary confinement in a pitch-black fucking container. It's hot. It smells. They feed me once a day and it's slop I wouldn't feed to pigs. I'm scared. I'm lonely. I'm worried about my sister, and I’m worried about Cal, and I hate that you’re here, but I'm also selfishly glad you are. I'm glad I’m not alone, and it feels shitty because it means you’re a hostage too, and you’ve been through enough; you don't need this shit too. And then I wake up with you on my lap and your hand on my dick, and I’m well aware it’s not like that between us for you, but my dick doesn’t know that, and I’m trying like hell to get control over it, but it's not working."

"That's…a lot, Killy."

“No shit."

"When you say it's not like that between us…for me, what did you mean?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Killian."

"No, it's nothing. I didn't mean anything. Don't worry about it."

"Again, you're a shitty liar. Just tell me the truth."

"No." Yes, dammit, I'm aware how petulant that sounded.

Story laughs. "No?"

I let the lurch of the ship over the crest of a wave shuffle me forward, out of her reach. Of course, she just follows me, sidling up behind me again, and now she's pressed up against my back even more fully, even more torturously, her breasts squished against me, chin on my shoulder, hands on my back near my shoulder blades.

"Killian." Her voice is faint and soft.

"Story, don't."

"Don't what?"

I step forward out of her reach. "Ask questions you either know the answer to or don't really want to know the answer to."

"Which do you think it is?"

"I don't know."

She follows me again, and the ache is unbearable, made worse by her proximity, by the soft warmth of her hand on my back, now sliding gently around to my chest. "Killy."

"What, Story?"

"Why are you mad at me?"

"I'm not."

“You sound mad."

"I'm not mad."

“You've never snapped at me like this before. I just want to know what's going on."

"I told you. I woke up with your hand on my junk. I know it wasn't on purpose, and it's fine. I just need a second."

"But you said it's not like that between us for me."

"I misspoke."

"No, you didn't. Why are you lying and evading?"

"Because this is awkward and I'm confused!" I snap, almost shouting. "And this doesn't seem like the best time to have this conversation, anyway.”

"What conversation? And if not now, when? We literally have nothing else to do."

"I know."

"Because when you say it's not like that between us, you're referencing the fact that my hand was on your junk. And then you say it's not like that between us for me, which implies, more or less directly, that it is like that for you."

I groan, sagging against the wall. "Story, please. Have mercy. Don't make me go there."

"Go where?"

I groan again. "You're relentless."

“About most things, yes, especially when there’s something I don't understand, and I don't understand this whole interaction."

"I was…affected," I say through my clenched molars. "Physically. By your…closeness…to certain portions of my anatomy. All I meant was that I know it wasn't intentional."

"No, it wasn't. I was asleep."

"I know."

"But it seems like there's something else going on."

Her mere proximity—let alone the totally innocent and platonic hand on my sternum—is enough to keep me throbbing like a hammer-smashed thumb and as rigid as a steel beam.

I just can't make myself say the truth. Rejection sucks.

"Talk to me, Killy," she whispers. “We’ve always been honest with each other."

I bark a laugh. "Sure, but we've never really had any big conversations, have we? Not about heavy or important stuff."

"So there is something important going on."

"Shit. No."

"Killy," she says with a laugh. "You're being super freaking weird."

"No I'm not." Her hand starts to slide down my sternum toward my stomach, and I grab her wrist. "Don't."

"Killy…" She does a deft reversal, and suddenly her tiny soft hand is gripping my wrist with shocking power and then she's in front of me—I feel her there, sense her, smell her, hear her. "Just be honest."

Her hand guides mine to her cheek, and I can't help but let out a shaky breath at the warmth and softness of her cheek, her jaw under my hand.

"Why?"

"Maybe you don't know what it's like for me, between us."

"Not like that."

“Like what?"

"Story, c'mon."

"Killy, you c'mon."

"I fucking—" I let out a ragged sigh. "You…affect me. You always have."

"Affect you how?"

"You're really gonna drag it out of me word by word?"

"If you make me."

"Why do you want to know?"

"Why won't you just say what you're thinking or feeling?"

"Because rejection sucks!" I hiss. "After Helena dumped me, I…just…everyone I talked to, everyone I'm interested in…" I trail off, knowing I'm not making any sense. Or at least, not finishing any of my statements. "You're one of my best friends, Story. I care about you. I care about our friendship. And beyond that, this situation is not exactly conducive to…" I stop, laughing. "To anything of that sort," I finish, uncomfortably aware of how lame and dumb I sound.

If I had just a fraction of Cal's confidence…but I don't. Not with Story, at least. I'm always off-balance around her. I'm always hyperaware of where she is in relation to me, how close she is. Any time she's ever touched me, even just to hold onto my shoulder for balance while fixing her shoe, I'm left tingling and stupid.

Tongue-tied. Awkward. Clumsy.

Stupid.

So, so, so stupid.

Both of her hands rest flat on my chest. "Killian?"

"What?"

"What if it is like that for me?"

My heart thumps loudly enough that she has to be able to hear it. "Story, don't play."

"I wouldn't do that, Killian." My full name—it's serious.

I can't breathe, can't swallow, can't move. Her body pins me to the wall, though she's barely touching me. I'm still cupping her jaw. I trace her lips with my thumb, gently, slowly, hesitantly. "Fuck, Story. This shit is life or death. Please don't fuck with my head right now."

"I'm not." She covers my hand with hers. "I'm telling you it is like that."

"Like what?"

"You're gonna make me say it? What if I'm just as scared as you are?"

"This is the most confusing conversation of my life."

She laughs. "Because we're both being stupid." She's closer, suddenly, her breath on my chin, fingers dimpling my pecs.

"I've had a monster crush on you since we were kids," I say, the truth toppling out of me unbidden. "Being near you and not being able to touch you is fucking torture."

Silence greets this.

My heart cracks at the silence, automatically and instantly interpreting it as rejection.

"Killy—" she starts.

"Crush is a stupid, juvenile word," I say, interrupting her.

"Then what's the right word?"

"I don't know," I whisper. "Attracted to?"

"Just attracted?"

"No, not just attracted."

“Then what?"

"I don't know!" I snap. "I don't know. I've never let myself think about it too much."

"Why not?"

"No point."

"Why is there no point?"

"We're friends. We’ve always been just friends. And I mean, how could there be anything else? We live thousands of miles apart and only see each other for a month or so in the summer." I bite my tongue, but it all spills out anyway. "But you're always the best part of my summers. Seeing you. Hanging out with you. Talking to you. Sitting next to you at the bonfire. Swimming. Playing around on the beach."

"Killy," again, her voice is so soft I can barely hear her, even in the relative and oppressive silence of the container. "You're the best part of my summer, too. I always look forward to seeing you the most."

My stomach drops into my toes and then shoots up into my throat. "Story, fuck. You're killing me."

"Isn't…don't you want to…" she trails off, and her forehead bumps against my chest between her hands. "Are we sure we're saying the same thing, here?"

"I think so," I say. "It's just hard to believe. You've never given any indication that you think about me like that."

"Because I didn't think you thought about me like that."

"This isn't just the darkness making us say things that aren't true, right?" I whisper.

“Not for me,” she whispers back. "Although the darkness does make it easier to talk about it, somehow."

My thumb slides over her lips, tracing the shape of them, gliding over the seam. Her lips part and she delicately nips my thumb, stopping its erratic, repetitive journey.

"Story," I rasp. "Just to be clear…"

"Yes?" She nuzzles her lips against the pad of my thumb, and my lungs freeze solid at the tiny, delicate, and enormously significant gesture.

"God help me," I breathe, shaking all over. "I really fucking hope I'm reading this right."

"Killian—"

I lean down, hesitate with the moist heat of her breath on my lips. Cup her jaw, brush her cheekbone with my thumb. She nuzzles her cheek into my palm like a cat rubbing against a shin. For some reason, that little gesture is my undoing. I close the sliver of distance, millimeter by millimeter, still not quite believing that this is real, not a fever dream, not a hallucination from being alone in the dark for too long.

My lips touch hers, ever so softly, ever so hesitantly. When our mouths meet, Story's breath leaves her in a soft, faint puff. I wait for her to pull away, but she doesn't. My heart palpitates in my chest, and my hands shake and my knees are jellied—I'm kissing Story and she…

Story lets out the softest, faintest sound, our lips touching, just barely, and then her hand curls around the back of my neck and she tugs me down and lifts up on her toes, and her other hand is flat on my chest, fingers dimpling the muscle until her nails dig in and bite with the faintest twinge of pain as her grip tightens and tightens.

"Killy," she breathes, lips on lips.

It was barely a kiss, yet my entire being is irrevocably altered.

"Again," she whispers. "Please?"

I can't help myself. To be honest, I don't try to. Not when she's asking for more.

I twist into her, push her back against the wall with my body; she goes willingly, eagerly, her hands circling to my back, clawing at my shoulders, diving into the hair at the back of my head. I frame her face with shaky hands, not quite touching her cheeks, and then she's making a tiny shrill breathless sound in the back of her throat, and her teeth nip my bottom lip, quick and sharp and playful.

My hands cup her face, then, and I lean down and tip her face up and press my lips against hers again. That same sound, soft and faint and delicate, escapes her throat as our mouths meet. "Killy," she whispers. "Kiss me."

"I am."

“No,” she murmurs, and her hands cup the back of my head and pull me down, and her lips touch mine. "Kiss me." It's a ragged demand.

I let out a groaning sigh—this is intense, all of a sudden, no longer just a questing kiss. I slam my mouth over hers and open my lips and trace her lips with my tongue, and she makes that tiny gasping sound again, a breath of disbelief, of need, of desire.

"That sound," I breathe, breaking the kiss. "It's gonna haunt my dreams."

She says nothing in response; instead, she lifts on her tiptoes and takes a kiss, and gives me that mewling sound again, and it rockets through me, setting my blood on fire, melting my bones, liquefying my synapses in a flash flood of molten desire. A battering jolt of arousal shreds through me like a billion lightning strikes all at once, and I surge into her, tilting down to kiss her, tipping her chin up so the kiss is nearly vertical. I press Story into the wall with my body and my hips crush against hers; my hands take on a will of their own, then. One drifts down from her cheek to rest on her clavicle, and then I'm loosely clutching her throat and my tongue soars into her mouth and hers wars and tangles with mine; my other hand drops to her waist, and my thumb finds a sliver of space between scrub top and bottom, a narrow strip of hot soft skin.

Her hands are in my hair, digging through my tight curls, nails scraping my scalp in a way that makes my knees threaten to give out, and then she's clawing her nails into my chest and then she's clutching my biceps, and then she's scraping at my abs with clawed fingers and her tongue darts and retreats, teasing.

The ship rocks, then, hit by a wave, and we cling to each other for balance and I push her harder against the wall, spreading my legs wide to absorb the rocking, rolling pitch of the deck as the tick-tick-tick of rain on the container abruptly detonates into a thunderous deluge of a thousand drumming giant fingers.

She clings to my neck, arms wrapped almost double around me, and my thumb explores the sliver of silky skin at her side. Her tongue takes over, now, and she's demanding and hungry, kissing me like there's no tomorrow—because there may not be, but I don't dwell on that. There's no space for those kinds of thoughts, not when her hips push into mine as I spread my hand up under her scrub top and explore the expanse of her back, from shoulder to shoulder, over the wide bra strap and down to the small of her back and from side to side along the waist of her scrub bottoms.

At my hand's touch, Story lets out another of those tiny whimpers, and my cock pulses behind the zipper of my jeans, throbs to a renewed ache, swelling and hardening more than ever.

Story wraps a leg around the back of mine and drives her hips against mine, rubbing her core against me.

I break the kiss, forehead to forehead, panting. "Story," I breathe. "You're…fuck. You feel…"

She arches into me. "I know. You too." Her mouth moves from mine to my throat, to my shoulder, to my chest. Back to my mouth. "Kissing you is even better than I thought it'd be."

“You thought about kissing me?" I can't help but ask.

"Only every moment we're around each other," she admits.

"Every summer," I whisper, "is fucking…the most beautiful torture. Waiting for you to show up at the compound is worse than waiting for presents on Christmas." I pause. "Wait, your mom is Jewish. Do you celebrate Christmas?"

She laughs softly. "Yes, we do. We celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas—Christmas for Dad more than anything. He didn't grow up with much by way of celebrations, you might say, so Mom and I love going all out for him because he just…he loves it." Her leg slides down to brace both feet on the floor as we rock and pitch with the waves of this new storm. "Why do you call it beautiful torture?"

"Because when it's the five of us, we're together all day every day for an entire month or two, and most of that time we're all in bathing suits and nothing else except maybe a shirt or a coverup for meals," I answer. "Which means you in a bikini. And I'm so fucking attracted to you, Story. Being around you in a fucking two-piece, but I can’t touch you, and I can’t stare at you because I’m not a fucking creeper. It's fucking torture. But…you're so goddamn gorgeous and I feel lucky to just be able to be around you for those few short weeks, and I'd…I'd rather be tortured." I shrug. "I dunno, I guess that’s why it's beautiful torture—you're beautiful, and it's torture."

She lifts up and rakes her mouth over mine again, fingers driving up into my hair behind my ears and pulling me down, and her chest flattens against mine, and I find that sliver of skin and slip my hands up her back, scratch my fingernails down her shoulder blades until they catch at her bra strap. She whimpers into the kiss, arches her back to push harder into me, lifts onto her tiptoes to smash the kiss deeper, opening her mouth to mine and driving her tongue against mine.

I'm afire with an inferno of base urges—my blood boils in my veins and my heart pumps frantically behind the prison of my ribcage. I want to rip her clothes off and explore her curves. I want to find all the ways I can drag those little whimpers and mewls out of her. I just fucking want her, need her.

But this is all so much so fast. I'm still reeling from the revelation that she actually shares my feelings—all this time, all these years we’ve been harboring secret feelings for each other, hiding them so successfully neither of us realized what the other was feeling.

I want more.

I want everything.

I want to kiss her and never stop.

Here in the rocking dark, imprisoned and frightened, all I can think of is the taste of her mouth, the softness of her small, powerful body against mine.

I cup her sides, just beneath her bra strap, and then I roam the shallow hollow of the small of her back, exploring from bra strap to the waistband of her scrub bottoms, and as I kiss her I'm consumed with thoughts of how soft and taut her ass was, earlier, when I accidentally got a double handful of it.

Story pulls away from the kiss, but only an inch or two, and she traces my lower lip with delicate fingertips, and then all of her fingertips tickle over my lips and ghost along my cheekbones and I close my eyes as those cool soft gentle fingertips drift over my eyelids and she traces a long line from temple to jaw on both sides, and then she kisses me again with her fingertips steepled on my cheeks near my mouth—it's a strange, tender, intimate touch that steals my breath from my lungs and makes the iron rod behind my zipper pulse with a painfully hot ache.

"Fucking hell, Story," I breathe.

"What?"

"You. The way you kiss me." I cradle her hands in mine at my face. "This. Can't fucking breathe when you touch me like that. Can’t—can't fucking think. I've…I've never—" I trail off, shaking my head.

She does it again, kisses me softly and tenderly with those fingers on my cheeks just above where our mouths touch. "This?" she asks.

"Yeah," I manage, my voice a ragged gasp. "That."

"You've never what, Killy?"

"When you kiss me like that, Story, I…I feel…I mean I've never felt so—"

"So what? Say it. Please."

"Wanted," I murmur.

"You are." She runs her palms up my back, clutches my shoulders from behind, and then her hands roam down again, to my waist, my sides. She hooks an index finger in each belt loop to either side of my fly. "You are wanted, Killian. More than you know. More than I think I've ever let myself examine."

She touches her forehead to my lips, and I clutch her waist just above her hips, on the verge of diving my hands under the waistband but still hesitant to push things just yet.

"Say what you're thinking," Story says. "No filter. Right now. Crazy honesty."

"How soft your ass is," I blurt, "how bad I want my hands on it again. How bad I want…you. Just you."

“Oh." It's faint, the tone beneath it unreadable.

"Your turn."

She shakes her head, forehead rolling against my breastbone.

“You started this," I point out.

"If I say it, I'll do it."

"Your words, Story—crazy honesty. Right now. No filter."

"I'm thinking about how big you felt." Her voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear her over the hammering of rain on the roof of the container. "And how weird it is to be this turned on in a situation like this."

My mouth opens to reply, but at that moment, the container door wrenches open with a jarring clank-grind-thunk-squeal. A blinding flare of light blazes in the opening, and we both shy away and turn around from the assault on our dark-adjusted pupils.

"It's too soon for more food," I murmur. "I don't know what's happening. This is new."

Story's hand flaps at my knee, my thigh, and then finds mine, and we tangle fingers and grip each other hard with shaking hands.

A footstep rings loud on the container floor, and then two more blinding circles of light join the first, followed by the unmistakable sound of an assault rifle being charged.

"Approach. Slow. Hands on head." The voice is deep, male, and thickly accented—Slavic? Eastern European? Russian? I don't know.

Slowly, hands laced together on our heads, Story and I shuffle toward the lights and the voice.

A cold metal O touches my forehead at the center of my T-Box. "We have problem. And problem for me is problem for you."

Something tells me the problem has something to do with my sister. If shit goes sideways and people are pissed off, Brynnie is usually involved somehow.

4

Into The Storm

The lights—barrel-mounted flashlights, I assume—recede a few feet, outlining a man's silhouette. Beyond, dim gray daylight and blattering rain and spears of lightning in the distance.

"Come, come. Outside." The lights back away further, and now I can make out details of the speaker.

Medium height, pale skin, thick dark stubble. Middle-aged, maybe late thirties at youngest, with a heavy forehead and vicious black glittering holes for eyes. He has a pistol-grip, sawed-off, single-barreled shotgun dangling from one hand; I'd guess he has birdshot in there. It'll kill you at close range like this—if you get the full load. At anything other than close range, it'll cause serious but not necessarily lethal damage. Sawed-off shotguns like that look cool for movies, but they're generally useless in most firefights. The muzzle velocity is ruined by the shortened barrel, the spread is usually so wide as to be like throwing a handful of sand, and the kick, especially if you've modified the stock into a pistol grip like that, makes it nearly impossible to control. But in this limited, specific scenario? It's a damnably effective visual deterrent against attempting escape.

I can feel Killian considering it. "Don't," I breathe.

Killian doesn't verbally respond, but I sense the subtle shift of his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels. He precedes me through the opening and outside—it's hard to tell what time of day it is, but I'd guess early morning. There are two guards arranged behind and to either side of the man with the shotgun in a loose V formation, each one armed with M4 carbines leveled at us. These men are younger than their leader, and I can smell their unwashed bodies from here..

Somehow, being outside in the fresh air makes our stink that much worse.

I glance at Killian—he's pale and pallid, with hollow cheeks and dark circles under his piercing green eyes. The fury and hatred written on his features is impossible to miss, as is the coiled violence of his muscled frame. Even after two weeks of being poorly fed and kept in the pitch black, Killian's body is dense and hard and powerful.

The leader slaps the shotgun barrel into his open palm and gestures at Killian with the gaping black hole of the barrel. "Try. Please." He steps forward, glances at me with his tiny, deep-set dark eyes that brim with leering malevolence. "She has value. You? Not so much. So please, try."

Killian says nothing, does nothing, just stares at the man with his hands laced on top of his head. But the quiet, reserved, go-with-the-flow Killy I thought I knew so well is utterly gone. The Killy who kissed me in the dark with such sweet tenderness is utterly gone.

This, the young man beside me? He’s pissed. He’s trembling beside me, but not with fear. I shuffle sideways and bump my hip into his. "Killy." It's a low murmur, a warning. "No."

"Listen to her, my friend."

I hear Killian growl wordlessly in the back of his throat. Now that he's out of the darkness, his whole demeanor has changed.

It's a deluge out here. The rain is pouring down in buckets, sideways sheets, curtains of windblown rain swirling and gusting. We've been standing just beyond the door of the container for all of thirty seconds and we're both soaked to the bone. The guards and their leader are wearing plastic ponchos over their clothes, but the hoods are thrown back, and their faces and heads are so wet they don't bother to wipe the rain from their eyes.

I can't fathom what the plan might be. While this storm, unlike the earlier one, is fairly tame, it’s still a hell of a thunderstorm, with violent, white-capped waves. A giant ship like this freighter would usually avoid a storm, not sail directly into one. A quick glance around informs me that we are near the stern of a massive, ocean-going container ship, and our former prison is on the bottom of a dizzying stack of containers blotting the rest of the deck from view. The containers gleam dull and wet in the dim light, rust-red, industrial blue, faded green, sickly yellow, and burnt orange. A narrow walkway on either side of the stacks leads forward to the bow, a waist-height railing the only guard between us and the storm-tossed sea.

There's no land in sight, albeit with the cloud cover and the rain, visibility is pretty much nil. We could be just off a coast somewhere and wouldn't know it.

"Go. Forward." The lead guard gestures with his weapon. "Slowly. Don't be stupid or I kill you while girlfriend watches."

One of the assault rifle-wielding goons, looking miserably wet and ready to murder, precedes us, walking backward, carbine trained on Killian. The other follows behind me, and the leader brings up the rear, the shotgun resting upside down on his right shoulder.

Ahead of me, Killian's bare torso glistens with runnelling rain, the muscles shifting under his skin, and I can see him scanning our surroundings as we walk.

There’s not much to see—containers stack a good sixty feet high on our left, the railing on our right, and beyond that the ocean.

I'm still confused as to the plan, here. Container ships like this don't typically have tenders—the small boats used to ferry passengers and crew from large vessels like cruise ships or military vessels at anchor depth to port. And even if this ship had a tender, launching in weather like this is suicide. Same goes for a helicopter. So…why drag us out of the container in the middle of a storm?

We make our way forward, the progress slow—we stumble as the ship tips and tilts, pause to grip the railing as we rock and roll. Rain sluices down my face and plasters my clothing against my skin, and the skirling, rain-sodden wind is sharp and cold, pebbling my nipples and sending gooseflesh rippling across my skin.

Suddenly, the impregnable dark of the container doesn't seem so bad.

We reach a section of deck where the narrow walkway widens into a platform that contains a small crane and an orange lifeboat. Or maybe it's a rescue boat—I don't know for sure. It's open, with hard, inflatable rubber sides and a tiny rectangular white hut-thing. Probably a rescue boat, then. We stop near it, and the leader pulls a two-way radio from a pocket under his poncho, yells into it, puts it to his ear to listen, yells a response, and then stows it back in the pocket. For a second, he tips his face up to the sky, shakes his head, and then scrapes a hand down his face. "On. Get on." He gestures at the boat, which, while not exactly tiny, doesn't seem like a safe place to be in a storm like this.

Killian stares out at the frothing sea. "Fuck you. You're nuts. No fucking way, asshole."

"I like this no more than you, asshole." He jams the barrel of the shotgun into Killian's gut, hard, doubling him over; Killian retches, staggers to the railing, gagging for breath, and the other man presses the barrel to Killian's temple. "Get…on."

Killian straightens. Grins savagely. "This feels like Bryn's handiwork."

"Get on boat." He gestures at the water. "Or swim. Either way, we leave ship now."

Killian just laughs. "Desperate times, huh?"

I lean into him, lips to his ear. "Just get on, Killy! This isn't the time."

Killian sighs heavily, shoulders lifting, pausing, and then falling. "Fine!" he shouts. "But this is suicidal!”

Killian helps me into the craft and then climbs in after me, and the three guards follow him, one after the other, weapons trained on us both at all times.

Clearly, they received a memo that we're dangerous. It feels good, honestly. Knowing these goons are scared of you makes you feel kinda badass.

Above us at the controls of the winch/crane thing is a member of the ship's crew, dressed head-to-toe in reflective bright orange foul-weather gear. Once all of us are on board, the lead goon gives a thumbs up, and the winch groans to life, lifting the craft with us in it off the deck. A nauseating lurch sends us swinging precariously out over the water; a wave rocks the ship just then, and one of the goons, not properly seated in his zeal to keep his weapon trained on us, goes tumbling toward the nose of the rubber boat. His buddy-goon lurches after him and grabs his ankle before he goes overboard.

Killian, seated on the floor with his back to the side, just laughs; it’s not a nice laugh.

Once the goon is seated—and looking pale and shaken, clutching his rifle to his chest like a teddy bear—the boat swings the rest of the way out over the water. We lurch and jounce, jolt and sway and swing at the limit of the painter—the taut rope keeping the boat in place despite the lurch of the boat and the howling crush of the wind. There's a click and grinding rattle, and then we're being lowered, inch by inch, foot by foot, down the side of the ship. With every foot we descend, the freighter seems to grow larger and larger beside us.

The descent halts, and for a second or two we just sway and swing in the gale. And then, without warning, the connection tethering us to the ship is released and we plummet abruptly, smacking violently onto the pitching, rolling surface of the sea.

Rain spatters in my eyes and I blink it away. I hear a low groan beside my left ear, blink hard, glance left—the ship is a towering wall of metal mere feet away. The railing seems a distant wisp of mist overhead, the top row of containers further yet—higher than a ten-story building.

The motor guns to life with a wet burbling snarl—the goon who rescued his friend is inside the tiny cabin at the controls, concentrating hard as he gets the rescue craft in motion, our nose slewing away from the freighter, which surges upward as a wave crests beneath it while we slide backward the opposite way. The man at the controls curses in whatever language he speaks, frantically hauling at the wheel with both hands, yanking at the throttle bar, and then hauling at the wheel again. The sudden acceleration, rather than sending us forward, only serves to keep us in place momentarily as the fifteen-foot wave rolls and rolls, seeming to keep us hovering over nothing, prow tilted skyward.

The crest smashes over our bow and white seawater froths and foams over the deck, forcing us to grab for any handhold we can find to keep from being swept overboard.

"THIS IS INSANE!" Killian shouts. "YOU'RE GONNA KILL US ALL!"

"I COULD SHOOT YOU INSTEAD?" The chief goon has his shotgun under his poncho to keep dry; the carbines will be fine, being designed to tolerate harsh conditions, but a shotgun like that is not.

"I'M GOOD!" Killian yells back. "BUT I HOPE YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING!"

What follows are some of the most harrowing, nauseatingly terrifying minutes of my life—how long, I couldn't say. Each minute, each second seems to stretch out into infinity, but then each time I glance back the massive freighter is smaller and smaller.

Waves crash over the low-slung boat, pulling and washing and tugging as if the sea is a sentient, troublesome deity, hungering for souls to feed her restless, ravening depths. The sky cracks open with blinding flashes of coruscating light, but the roar of the waves and the banshee howl of the wind drown out the peals of thunder.

His arms spread wide to grip the handles on the sides of the boat, Killian is grinning like a madman as we buck and pitch our way over one crest and down the other side, only to scud up the next slope. In the fragmentary moments caught in the troughs between waves, the world around us is all leaden walls a dozen feet high, if not higher.

I've ridden tamer rollercoasters.

Seawater sloshes around the bottom of the rescue boat, receding for a moment before the next wave breaks over our prow; the sea snatches at us with hungry hands, dragging at us and trying to pull us overboard.

The journey is interminable, and as we crest each wave, I peer at the sullen, storm-washed horizon, looking for any sign of land, or another boat, or anything but more leaden, violent sea lit green by forked tongues of searing lightning.

The black, lightless stench of the container seems like a great place to be right now. Especially if it means I get to have Killian's hands on me again, or better yet, his kisses.

I grip the sides of the boat for dear life, close my eyes against the dizzying, stomach-churning ride and pretend I'm back there, in his arms, with his hard hot body against mine and his soft lips wet on mine.

I've known Killian Harris nearly my whole life. I met Anselm, whom I now call Dad, when I was seven; those events have been recorded elsewhere, but in the process, I met the rest of the Alpha One Security family: Duke Silver, Thresh—whose last name, if it exists, I've never heard—Puck Lawson, Lear Winter, and, of course, Nicholas Harris. I met their significant others: Temple, Lola, Colbie, Cuddy, and Layla, respectively. In time, I met their kids. I began spending summers, spring breaks, and long weekends down in the A1S compound in the Caribbean. When I met him, Killian was a little tyke with a floppy mop of black curls and big green eyes. He was a curiously chill child, as I recall, although I was only eight at the time myself. Back then, the age gap seemed like a lifetime. But the years passed, and Killian grew and grew, and the age gap began to seem less and less significant.

And then I went off to med school and getting away for the summer was impossible for a few years, and when I finally managed to score a few weeks off and made it down to the compound, I discovered that the gangly, awkward, shy teenaged Killian had matured into a gorgeous, confident but still quiet and reserved young man with a piercing green gaze and a wickedly enticing body sculpted by a life of swimming, surfing, weight lifting, running, kiteboarding, mountain climbing, and, obviously, all the operator-adjacent training our paranoid parents put us through.

And suddenly, his eighteen to my twenty-three didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. I'm not related to him, nor was I raised with him as a quasi-sibling like he was with Corinna Roth or Bryn Harris or Cal Roth.

That summer was when the hooks were set. Every year after that, I loathed and craved the summers in equal proportion. As I've said, Killian is generally quiet, reserved in his expressions, and hard to read, emotionally. When it's just the five of us, he's looser, louder, and a bit wilder. Especially if Cal's on a tear, which he usually is. Cal is a wild child like no one else I've ever known, and Killian tends to follow his lead. Which is understandable—just about everyone finds themselves following Cal's lead. He’s just got that magnetic, natural-leader personality, and enough charisma to fill a stadium or two. Somehow, Killy managed to never seem, to me at least, like he was hidden by the shadow cast by his best friend/brother/cousin. He was always his own person, and often would butt heads with Cal and could hold his own in the argument. But he also tended to let Cal win the arguments, if only to keep the peace. If Cal had an idea for some kind of hijinks, Killy was down to go along with it, although he also tended to be the voice of reason, at least insofar as keeping them out of jail and/or the hospital.

I've watched Killian become a man, and one I can't seem to keep out of my mind. Or my heart. Or my dreams.

The first few days down there with the whole gang are always an adjustment. As Killy pointed out earlier, we tend to live in bathing suits the whole time, only covering up for formal meals at restaurants or when we're going to a bar. Otherwise, it's board shorts and bikinis for two months—although I rarely get that much time off. Point being, it's weeks of Killian half-naked, usually wet, and often sweaty and panting. With that shredded six-pack, firm pecs, and broad shoulders, it's fucking torture.

He’s never given me so much as a hint that he had a crush on me—and I was looking. If anything, I often felt like he didn't like me. He’d never sit too close to me if he could help it, opting to stay near one of the others. If we ended up beside each other on a boat or at a restaurant, he would keep a few inches between us as much as possible, acting like he didn’t want to make contact with me if we so much as brushed elbows.

But then, we'd end up talking for hours around the fire—never anything deeply personal, just…endless, easy conversation about anything and everything. Or we'd end up in the kitchen together at three in the morning looking for a snack, and suddenly it'd be six, and the adults—the old adults, I mean, since we weren’t really kids anymore at that point—would be getting up, and we'd still be talking.

It was confusing, to say the least. I'm closer to him than Cal by a long shot—Cal is kind of reckless and impulsive, and that worries me, being a healthcare professional. I love the girls to bits—Rin and Bryn and I are a hazard when we're together, especially sans boys. Yet, I always gravitate to Killy. I'd seek him out first as my boat approached the island's shore. My eyes look for him in every crowd. When our elbows brush, I tingle all over. I listen when he speaks.

But I never got anywhere. I never saw even a hint of interest or attraction—he gave every indication that I was just another girl, slotted in with his sister and Rin.

And then I met Jocko, and let myself get swept up in that disaster of a relationship, and it kept my mind off of Killy for a while, at least. And then things soured with Jocko, and that soured me on relationships. At that point, I'd accepted that Killy didn’t like me that way, and figured that was that. End of. The pang of attraction was still there in spades—you don't just fall out of love with someone just because they don't return it.

My eyes fly open wide as that thought ricochets through me like a bullet off of metal—fall out of love?

The cold waves of the ocean, whichever one this is, couldn’t be any more of a shock to the system.

It's not love.

Is it?

No. No way. Right?

Just a crush.

But I'm twenty-seven. I've known him for nearly twenty years. It's been more than four years since I first realized I was attracted to him.

I've been fighting the draw to him for almost five damn years.

That's more than a crush.

Well…shit.

I flick a surreptitious glance at him—he looks like he's almost enjoying this, white-knuckling the handles and grinning crazily as we plummet down the slope of a wave—he’s not the type to whoop and howl, or he'd be making all sorts of ruckus.

I wonder what kind of sounds he'd make when I—

No. Bad girl, Story. We're on a tiny boat in a big ocean, swamped by waves, held at gunpoint by whoever these goons are, for unknown reasons. Revenge, most likely. Nothing to do with Killian or me, most likely.

This is not the correct scenario for ruminations on what kind of noises Killian Harris would make during orgasm.

A monster wave nearly subsumes the boat, and it's long, drowning seconds of choking on seawater and the blatting, curtaining rain before I can catch my breath, and all thoughts of Killian's orgasm noises are swept away as we fight to hang on.

The spare goon—the one not piloting—is positioned in the prow, watching ahead. A futile endeavor, it seems, considering you can't see a thing except waves and sky. But as we rock on the knife-edge of a wave's crest, he points and shouts something. And then all at once there's an outcropping of boulders, each one the size of a small car, and the pilot-goon guns the engine and slews our nose away, frantically spinning the wheel to stop us from smashing on the rocks. We barely skid past them, and then a wave slams into us sidelong, and we're tilting precariously sideways—Killian lurches across the boat to the other side and hangs on, providing ballast to keep us something level; I kick across too, and another wave tries to crash us against the wave-break. The orange rubber side scrapes along the boulder, making a gut-wrenching ripping sound. Yet, when we clear the edge of the wave-break, the boat is intact, just scuffed, although the scrape looks bad enough that I think it was a near thing.

Now that we're around the wave-break, the sea is calmer, although the wind is still a howling gale blowing an ocean's worth of rain in whirling, scudding, blinding sheets.

Killian and I right ourselves; the bottom of the rescue boat is half-filled with seawater, and we slosh and splash as we scrabble back to our butts in the middle of the craft.

Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the skyline ahead—low, squat buildings with tall hills behind. I can't make out much more than that in the quick blast of blue-white light.

"Can you tell where we are?" Killy asks, his voice pitched loud enough to be heard over the wind and rain.

I shake my head. "No. We could be literally anywhere. I have no idea how long I was unconscious. I know you've been out of contact for nearly two weeks, and if you were on the boat for most of that, this could be the Mediterranean, South America, Asia…no way to know."

The ride across the bay is mercifully brief, and we're nudging up to a dock; the lookout goon scrambles onto the dock and ties us off as the pilot goon kills the motor.

"Out," the chief goon orders with a jerk of his chin.

Killian climbs out and leans down to hand me up, one arm hooked around a dock piling. Once I'm on my feet, he keeps hold of my hand, tangling our fingers as we stand waiting for the next instructions. The chief goon gestures at the rescue boat and snaps an order—both of his underlings crack off a trio of shots at the boat’s rubber sides, and within seconds, the craft is bubbling under the waves.

Clearly, these guys aren't taking any chances of being discovered.

Killian and I exchange looks as the boat sinks out of view, and then Chief Goon plants a hand in the center of Killian’s back and gives him a rough shove.

"You could just say 'let's go,' you know," Killian snaps. "We've cooperated so far, yeah?"

Chief Goon jams the barrel of his shotgun into Killian's left side, hard; Killian grimaces silently and twists away from the blow, turning an ugly look of raw fury on our captor that promises repayment in kind, with interest.

"You have no value. You are only alive because I do not yet have orders to kill you." Chief Goon kisses the underside of Killian's chin with the shotgun barrel. "Push me and I will not wait for orders. Yah? You understand?"

Killian straightens, stretching sideways with a hiss. "Yes, I've fuckin' got it, asshole."

"Killy, just play along," I breathe, as the goons march us along the dock toward shore. "The time will come."

He's radiating rage, which is disconcerting; I've never seen Killian angry before. Nervous, anxious, excited, sad, worried, high, drunk, goofy, spazzy…yes. Angry? Never. And in this case, he's gone right past mere anger into the kind of stewing, simmering fury that forebodes bloodshed in the very near future.

"Yes." His voice is heavy and hard and low. "It certainly will." He says this with a venomous glare over his shoulder at Chief Goon, who, foolishly, doesn't seem to realize his danger.

"Save it, Killy," I whisper, crush-gripping his hand.

He inhales deeply, chest and shoulders swelling—holds it…nods a few times, and then lets it out slowly through pursed lips, like a leaking inner tube.

In the intermittent flashes of lightning, I try to glean information as to our whereabouts. The buildings, as we leave the marina, are low and blocky, none more than two or three stories, with the rectangular shapes of window A/C units and small balconies. We cross diagonally over a 3-way intersection and follow a street running away from the marina; small hatchbacks and compact sedans are parked nose to tail on either side of the street—I see Fiat Pandas, Dacias, Fiat 500s, Toyota Yarises, all compact and subcompact cars; the license plates are the long white rectangles with blue borders on either side bearing the 12 stars of the EU. And then we pass by a shop window with a small handmade sign written in crabbed, all-caps Italian, advertising something or other for 25 euros.

I pretend to stumble into Killian. "We're in Italy somewhere," I murmur.

"I don't think we were in transit the whole time," Killian murmurs back. "Been thinking and trying to remember. I think we were anchored for a good part of the time. But somewhere in Italy doesn't really narrow it down all that much."

I snort. "I mean, at least we have a general idea?"

“True."

"Shut up!" Chief Goon snaps. "No talking."

Killian's shoulders tense and his hand involuntarily clenches painfully around mine. I squeeze back. "Breathe, Killy. Not yet. Play along."

Our route through the town is circuitous, winding and switching back this way and that while traveling ever further from the shore. The rain has slackened here, farther inland, mainly due to the buildings blocking the wind, although the occasional gust still swirls through the roadway. It's still torrential, but now it's merely a vertical deluge and not the windblown fury of a storm on the open ocean.

Finally, Chief Goon stops at a seemingly random doorway and gives the door three hard pounds with the bottom of his fist. There's a pause, the rattle and click of locks being turned, and then the door is yanked open inward, the opening filled by a large male frame, a bearded face, and the yawning threat of a large-caliber handgun barrel.

Words are exchanged in what sounds like a complicated pidgin of Italian and whichever language these goons speak—it sounds possibly Bulgarian or some kind of non-Russian Slavic language, albeit I’m only guessing based on my very limited knowledge of such things. It doesn’t sound to me like these guys know each other very well, and neither of them speaks the other’s language to any degree of fluency, requiring the mishmash. After the brief exchange, we're admitted through the low, narrow doorway.

Within, the ceilings are low and the walls close. It's a small flat, the door opening into the main living area, which features a microscopic kitchenette, a ratty, threadbare couch, a mismatched pair of decades-old armchairs, a large flatscreen TV from at least twenty years ago, and a scratched, glass-topped coffee table littered with empty wine and beer bottles, an overflowing ashtray, a box of .45 rounds and several magazines, a stack of Italian nude magazines, and a scratched and battered Android smartphone.

The air is close, hot, and smoky. In the kitchen, a kettle spews steam on the two-burner range and begins to let out a shrill whistle. A short hallway at the back of the living space leads to a bathroom on the right and, presumably, the only bedroom at the end.

Chief Goon rips off his poncho and tosses it on the ancient tile floor, shaking and scrubbing the rain off his head; the other two do the same while Killian and I stand just inside the door, dripping and shivering.

Chief Goon confers with our host, who is a huge, burly man of about forty with a thick, bushy back beard and a long, greasy ponytail. With a gesture, the host indicates the room at the back.

"Go. Window is small and has gate on it," Chief Goon says. "Is no escape."

"Can we get a blanket or a towel or some tea, or something?" Killian asks. "Unless you want us to get pneumonia and die."

"Go. I will see."

"Killy, just c'mon," I urge, tugging him toward the darkened room. "It's hot in here. We'll dry off soon."

He lets me guide him to the bedroom; a switch just inside the door turns on a bare lightbulb overhead, illuminating a bedroom as spare and aged as the rest of the flat—the same tile floor, dented and scuffed whitewashed plaster walls, the only attempt at decoration a beer advertisement from the sixties, and a double bed with a brass frame, naked mattress, and a drab green, army-issue wool blanket folded at the foot end.

There's a single, small window with bars on the outside; even if it wasn't barred, it's so small I doubt Killian could get his shoulders through it.

Killian, shirtless and dripping, looks tense and furious, his jaw ticking as he takes in our surroundings. "Step up from the container, I suppose," he mutters. "At least there's no piss bucket."

I pat his pec. "And we have light. I can see you, now. " I cup his cheek. "Hi."

He stares down at me, the fury draining out of his features, his expression softening. "Hey." His eyes scan my face, drop down to scan my body, then flick back to my face. "You're fucking gorgeous, Story."

I snort. "If you're into the whole drowned rat look, sure."

"Happens to be my favorite kink."

I pluck at the neck of the pale blue scrub top, plastered against my skin. "It's the wet scrubs, isn't it? Really gets you going."

"Y'know, it is?" he says, smirking. "You've really got my number."

I look up at him and feel my iron grip on my emotions slipping. "That was really, really scary, Killy."

"Fuckin' A, it was," he answers. "I honestly can't entirely believe those jack-offs pulled it off. I thought for sure we were gonna die."

"At the launch, especially."

He shakes his head. "Something tells me that wasn't part of the original plan. I think they're desperate. Something happened, and I’d wager dollars to donuts my sister is involved somewhere, somehow. No one can piss people off faster than her."

My legs shake, my hands tremble, my lower lip wobbles, and I find myself struggling to breathe properly. "I…need to sit d-d-down."

Killian's brow furrows. "Hey, you're okay. It's okay. We’re safe, relatively speaking."

I shake my head, breathing coming out in tremulous puffs through pursed lips. “I…I’m not—I can't—"

He blinks a few times, as if puzzled. Which, I suppose, is fair enough. You'd think after all I've been through, a scary boat ride wouldn't faze me this much. But you can't control the things that affect you, can you?

Recovering swiftly, he gathers me to his chest and scrapes my wet hair away. "Breathe, Story. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight."

"I kn-know how to s-s-squ—square br-breathe," I stammer.

He sniffs a soft laugh. "Of course you do."

"I just—I can't control my-my-myself."

"You don't have to, Story. Let it out. I’ve got you."

I let my eyes shut and try to breathe, but I keep feeling ground bucking and heaving under us and I'm shivering as my sodden clothes steam in the hot, damp air of the tiny room.

The smell of cigarette smoke is nearly overpowering in here, and the walls and ceiling are yellow with decades of smoke-stain.

Killian shuffles us to the bed, settles on the mattress with my back to his front. He pinches the edge of the folded blanket with his toes and brings it up to where he can grab it with his hand, and then spreads it over us, tucking it under my nose. If nothing else, the scent of the wool blanket cancels the smoke stench, at least.

Damp, shivering, hungry, thirsty, and shaken by the perilous boat ride, I nonetheless find myself dropping into a fitful slumber, the firm warmth of Killian's bare chest behind me and his arms around me.

5

Somewhere, Somehow

Raised voices jerk me out of a restless sleep. The bed is narrow and short and the mattress hard as a board yet lumpier than barely-mashed potatoes, but it's a significant step up from the bare metal I've been sleeping on for so long. Feels downright luxurious. I was starting to forget what my life was like before the dark and the metal and the stench and the roll of the waves.

Story is passed out on me; we started out sitting up, but at some point slid down and now she's on her side, curled up mostly on top of me, her cheek on my chest, one hand curled up in the hollow of my throat like a delicate little baby bird.

The way she falls asleep on me so easily makes my heart crack and swell at the same time. I wrap my arms around her shoulders and nuzzle the top of her head, letting my eyes fall closed again.

If only we were alone.

But we aren't.

The raised voices grow louder—but it doesn't sound like an argument. I listen…they're watching a soccer match, I think. Despite not understanding what they're saying, the sounds of men watching a sport are a universal language. Especially when your team is losing or does something stupid, and judging by the tone of their voices, the match isn't going well.

This continues for a good half an hour more—shouts of encouragement, groans of disappointment, an occasional bicker about rules or a certain call. I've grown up listening to Sasha and the other guards watch soccer, arguing and fighting and all but coming to blows, all of it in a hodgepodge of languages.

The match must end, because the raised voices go quiet. Not long after, the door to this room is kicked open with a loud slam that has Story jerking awake.

The big dude with the bushy beard who met us here has a chipped white ceramic plate in either hand, on which is a messy slop of pasta and red sauce; he sets the plates on the floor, then comes back with a glass bottle of mineral water. "Eat. Drink." His accent is distinctly Italian. "Mangia. Mangia."

Story sits up, peering at him blearily, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. "Oh look, real food."

"I make it.”

"Better than the slop those other fucknuts were giving us," I mutter, eying the plate as I wait for the guard to back away. "Thank you. Grazie."

"I am no mama, but you no hungry here, hey?"

Story eyes me as she swings her legs around to sit at the edge of the bed. "Is he being…nice?"

I shrug. "Maybe it's poisoned?"

"Killy, Jesus. What would be the point of all this, only to poison us now?"

The bearded guard is listening intently, frowning. "No, no poison. Mangia tutto. Is good.”

I glance past him—I can see a bit of the living room, and it appears the other three have left. He doesn't miss this, though, and reaches behind his back and hauls out the .45 he'd greeted us with. "They return soon. But I have a friend, hey?" He wiggles the pistol in my direction. "No funny actions, or you are shooted, sì?”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand." I slip off the bed as he backs up out the doorway. "Hey, wait. Can we get a fork?"

"I do not know this; what is a fork.”

I mime eating. "A fork." I point at the sauce. "Can't eat that with our bare hands."

"Oh, sì, sì. I forget." He returns a moment later with two forks, which he tosses to us from the doorway.

He's no fool, clearly. The forks are plastic, not metal, for one thing. I might be able to fashion a prison-style shiv out of it, but I wouldn't want to rely on that. He's a big boy, and the way he handles that pistol tells me he knows what he's doing. Plus, I don't really want to hurt him. He seems like a decent guy, so far. For someone involved in a kidnapping plot, at least.

He closes the door, and I hear the snick of a lock, and Story and I are alone once more. She grabs the plate and water, and we sit cross-legged, facing each other knees-to-knees, my back to the headboard, hers to the foot end.

After a hesitant, tentative test bite, we discover that the food is, in fact, fucking delicious. Not in comparison to the vile slop they gave us on the ship, just fucking delicious, full stop.

It's gone in a matter of minutes.

"Pasta for breakfast might be my new thing," I mutter, swiping my finger through the sauce left on the plate.

Story laughs. "I think that's hunger talking." She glances at the window. “And I’m not sure this is breakfast, anyway. More like a late lunch. Looks like we slept quite a while."

"Breakfast is whatever meal you eat after a long break. I don't buy the whole ‘you can only eat certain foods at certain times’ bullshit. If I want to eat a bowl of spaghetti for breakfast, I'm fuckin' gonna."

Story's eyes laugh as she sips from the bottle. "Oh, I'm not picky about what I eat when. You can’t be, in my line of work. You eat what you can when you can. The majority of my meals during a shift come out of a vending machine."

I frown at this. "No meal comes out of a vending machine," I tell her. "A snack at best."

She shrugs. "It's all I’ve got time for, usually. More often than not, it takes me an hour to eat a protein bar or a bag of chips because I keep getting interrupted by patients who, y'know, need to have their lives saved."

"Ah, right. Those pesky patients and their silly little booboos keep getting in the way of your Doritos."

She wrinkles her nose. "Doritos? Ew. No. Sun Chips all the way."

I stick a finger in my mouth and fake a gag. "Sun Chips? Fuck no! It's like eating pottery."

"Okay, but Doritos? The poison dust all over your fingers?"

"Pardon me, madam, but the poison dust is the best part."

She rolls her eyes. "We'll have to agree to disagree on the chip front, I suppose."

"Favorite candy bar?" I ask.

She tips her head to one side. "I don't eat sugar for the most part, actually. If I’m gonna eat chocolate, though, I'll take a Lily's sea salt and caramel. Or a coconut Built Bar."

I frown. "No Snickers? No Three Musketeers?"

"Nah. Never had either." She holds up a hand to forestall my protest of disbelief. "Mom never bought into the average American diet, and you know how Dad is. So no. No candy bars, no pastries, no sugary soda. This," and here she pats the outside of her thigh, "is from my obsession with tacos."

God bless tacos, in that case, I think but don’t say out loud. Instead, I let out a soft laugh. "Tacos?"

She nods. "There's a place around the corner from the hospital, Luis's. He makes these pulled pork tacos that are to die for. They're little, like the slider version of tacos, and I don't know how he does it, but the shells are poofy and crispy. I get a box of half a dozen of them, bring them home after a shift, and eat them all by myself. They're freaking incredible and so bad for you, but I'm just obsessed." She lets out a groan, eyes closing, head tipping back. "Good lord, why did I have to start talking about Luis's pulled pork tacos? I'd do any number of dastardly deeds for just one of them right now."

That groan, lord almighty. It was damn near sexual, and it went right to my dick. I wince, shifting on the bed. "Jesus, Story. You can't make sounds like that. Not nice."

She sets the plate on the floor near the foot of the bed, the water bottle in one hand. "No? Why would that be, Killian?" Her gaze glitters with mischief.

I level a hard look at her. "No reason."

She's amused, smirking at me. "No reason, huh?"

"Nope."

She fakes a soft little moan, biting her lower lip. "No?"

It's fake. I know it's fake. I know she's teasing me. Doesn't change the effect on me, though. As we’ve previously established, penises are stupid, and mine is especially so where this woman is concerned. "No."

Her electric blue eyes drill into mine, amused, teasing. As if we weren't locked in a room somewhere in Italy, waiting to find out our fate. "You don't typically say things without a reason, Killy."

"Mouth ran away from my brain. Forget it."

The teasing gleam is replaced by a weird sort of tenderness, and she wiggles toward me, walking closer by shifting her weight from one buttock to the other, and then her thighs wrap around my waist and she's suddenly sitting on my lap.

She touches her lips to my ear. "Does it affect you, Killy?" She fakes a sexual whimper. "When I make noises like that?"

I don't know what to make of this, what to do, what to think. As Robin Williams once said, "See, the problem is God gave men a brain and a penis, and only enough blood to run one at a time." Currently, all of the blood in my body is coursing southward to the stupidest part of my body.

"Yes," I growl. "It fucking does."

Her arms are pythonic around my neck, looped and serpentine, strong and smooth and warm and soft. Her breath on my ear is hot and loud. She nips at my earlobe. "Funny how good it feels to be warm, dry, and fed, huh?"

"Yeah," I answer, confused by the abrupt change in topic.

"A girl could almost forget about being in trouble."

"Is that so?" I ask, my brain going foggy and hazy and slow at the sensual timbre of her whisper.

"Of course, my scrubs are still a little damp."

I rack my brain for a witty repartee. "They feel pretty dry to me." I pair this genius retort with a slide of my hands over her shoulders and down her back.

She grins at me, as if my libido-charged idiocy is endearing. "No, they're still damp in spots. I should probably lay them out to dry."

"Yeah, maybe you should." At least I got that part right.

I definitely like the idea of her scrubs being spread out to dry, because that means they'd be off.

She slides back on my lap and rubs her hands on my thighs. "Your jeans are still pretty wet, too."

This is not a joke—my jeans are still damp and heavy and clingy and uncomfortable. I was just too damn exhausted to care when we were shoved in here.

When Story's hands pluck the button of my fly and tug the zipper down, I panic. Grab her wrists and pull them away. "We're under guard, Story. He said the other three could be back any time." I cradle both of her hands in mine, press them to my lips. "I've craved you for so fucking long I don't remember a time I wasn't obsessed with you. But I…we…" I trail off, shaking my head, kissing her knuckles again. "I want you so goddamned bad, Story. But not here. Not like this. Not when some jackass could come in at any moment. I want you all to myself. I want all the time in the world with you."

"Killy," Story murmurs. "God." Her expression is fraught with emotions I can't entirely figure out.

"What?"

"Just you. You're smarter than I am, clearly. All I can think about is this mouth." She nuzzles her lips on mine, then moves my hands to cup her cheeks. "These hands." A rife, tense, brief pause. "And…points south."

I groan. "Please don’t even reference points south, Story. My control is on a knife's edge, right now. I'm trying like fuck to do right by you."

She leans forward and rests her head on my chest, palms flat on my shoulder blades. "Can I ask you something?"

"Obviously."

"How can I have never once even gotten a hint from you that you have feelings for me? I…I've been fighting these feelings since you were eighteen. I thought it was just me. I only even started dating Jocko seriously because I'd given up on ever having this with you."

"Jocko wasn’t…he wasn’t your—” I start, then stop, wondering if that's something I'm even allowed to ask.

Her smile is soft. "No, Killy. I haven't been with anyone since him, but he was not my first, if that's what you're asking. Nor is he my only partner."

"I don't mean to pry, Story."

She toys with a spiral of my hair. "You're not. You can ask me anything."

"Same."

She tilts her head quizzically. "Then have you…was Helena your first?"

I shake my head. "No. She was my longest relationship by far, but she wasn't my first. Or my last. My most recent…um…" I feel my cheeks heat.

"Partner?" she suggests. Her smile is easy and teasing. "You can just say hookup, also, Killy. It's not like I won't understand. I've had them myself. Jocko was my only truly serious relationship. We can just keep being totally honest with each other, right?"

I nod. "Absolutely," I answer, feeling my cheeks redden further, although with my coloring you'd be hard-pressed to notice. "I…yeah. My most recent, um, hookup was three months ago. Four?" I shrug. "It was…meh, I guess. She was nice and attractive, and we had fun together. It wasn't bad."

"But?"

I shake my head. "I went home afterward feeling…weird about it, I guess. Like, what's the point, y'know? All the bullshit that goes with hooking up? Finding the right spot to hang out, waiting around for a girl you're attracted to to show up, and then hope she's single, and then you have to…" I shrug, laughing. "Have game, I guess. Which I do not."

Story laughs. "I find that hard to believe. With your looks, Killy? I just find it hard to believe it's any more difficult than pointing and crooking your finger."

I splutter a sarcastic laugh. "You overestimate my appeal, clearly. Especially when I'm sharing space with Cal. I love that guy, okay? Like, down to my bones. He's my brother in every way that matters except genetics. I’d kill for him. But my fucking god, he takes up all the oxygen in any room he's in."

"He doesn't mean to," Story says. "Just how he is, I think. But I can see how he might be hard to compete with for attention."

I sigh, nodding. "You have no idea, Story. And I'm not that competitive, y'know? Like, when it comes to games and sports and such, yeah, I like to win. I'll try my best in a real competition with rules and stuff. But I just don't have that thing that makes me need to win at everything all the time. And that's just how Cal is about everything.”

"I can understand how that might feel," she answers.

"I know he can't help it. And I don't really mind, most of the time. I don't mind letting him take the lead. It's important to him. And as an inheritor to Uncle Val's whole corporate empire, he honestly needs that killer, have-to-win instinct. But for me, if I want to stand a chance of finding someone to hook up with, I generally have to go without him, or with one of my other buddies who doesn't take up quite so much space in the universe." I laugh, a quiet snort. "Which I sometimes have a hard time not feeling guilty about."

“I do understand that,” Story says. “But Killy, you never answered my question. How did I never even catch a hint that you have feelings for me?"

I roll a shoulder. "I…I guess I kept it under wraps. You…" I shoot her a look, finding it hard to put all this into words when I'm talking to her about her. "The age difference doesn't really mean all that much to me anymore, but that was a big part of it for a long time. I was a kid. Fourteen, fifteen? And you were an adult… what, nineteen, twenty? I didn't even have to shave regularly, and you could legally drink, or almost. What was I supposed to do? Profess my undying love? It felt like you'd have laughed at me. I know you're not mean like that. You wouldn't have—you'd have been nice about it, I'm sure."

She ducks her head, nodding against my chest. "That part I understand." A pause. "Back then, I…when you were that age, I…" She sits up and covers her face with both hands. "I struggled with it, Killy. I saw you growing into someone attractive and cool and interesting, and I liked you, but…I had to shut it down."

I nod. "You kept your distance. You were never anything but awesome to me. You included me. You were always super cool with me, Story. But I could tell you were keeping your distance. I figured it was a…how do I put it? Keeping an appropriate relationship with a minor kind of thing." I look at her, and it's surreal that after all this time, all the pining, all the dreams and guilty fantasies, she's in my arms, touching me, expressing a desire for me. "I guess I just took that to mean you saw me as a friend, or…or a cousin sort of situation. Friendzoned. And I just…that assumption never changed."

"You hid it well," Story says.

"As did you."

"So we hid our feelings for each other from each other," she says, smirking. "Kind of ironic."

"I've never really understood what exactly the fuck irony really even is, to be totally honest," I admit.

Story laughs. "Y'know, me neither? I'm sure that that's not actually ironic, but I don't know for sure. Feels like my understanding of irony, if nothing else."

"Is the age gap still a thing for you?" I ask after a few moments.

She tilts her head to one side, glances up and away, and then shakes her head with a soft smile. "No, it's not. I mean, we are in different stages of life, I suppose. I have a career in Minneapolis, for one thing. Is it for you?"

"It can get a little weird in my head if I think about it too much, maybe. But when I'm around you? No, it doesn't mean a thing."

Story shifts off my lap and settles on her butt next to me, between me and the wall. "We have to make a plan for getting away from these guys."

"Yeah, we do."

"Best chance is now, before the other three come back. We stand a chance of overpowering one guy. Four? Not so much."

"But how? Without one or both of us getting shot, I mean. And also, I don't love the idea of killing this guy," Story says. “He seems like a decent guy, all things considered. Nicer than the other goons, at least."

"Goon," I say, chuckling.

"What?" Story says, frowning. "It's how I've been thinking about them in my head. Chief goon, boat pilot goon, and spare goon."

“You know goon has…um… another meaning, these days?"

"I'm aware. I'm using the more traditional meaning." Her tone is dry and wry.

I smirk, but it fades. "Have you ever?" I ask. "Um, killed anyone, I mean."

She shakes her head. "No. My career up to now has been about the opposite. Obviously I've lost patients and seen a lot of death. I know that I will, if I have to. I just don’t want to have to, you know?"

I nod. "Yeah. I don't want to either. But I'm not gonna sit around and wait for something to happen. Especially seeing as it seems like they don't know what's going on themselves. Somehow I doubt a boat launch off the side of a container ship in the middle of a storm was part of the original plan."

"No, probably not. And as far as I've ever known, most ships avoid storms if at all possible, and with GPS and radar they can almost always avoid them. Something isn't adding up, to me."

"No, and as I said, when shit goes this sideways, Bryn is usually involved somehow. Whoever took her is in for a hell of a ride, I'll tell you that much for free."

"So what's our plan?" Story says. "Any ideas?"

"Ask for food and attack? Create some sort of distraction? We have no weapons, no phones, no ID or money. Assuming we can get away from this guy, where do we go? How do we get there? We can't exactly just stroll around Europe aimlessly waiting for our families to find us. And I mean hell, we don't even know where we are, except for Italy, somewhere."

Story considers for a moment. "We would do whatever is necessary. Stealing a car would be priority number one. Head to a US Embassy, maybe?"

I frown at this. "Last I heard from Mom and Dad, that guy…what's his name, the evil INTERPOL overlord guy, he's still out there and has eyes in all sorts of governments and agencies, so I don't know if we can safely trust anyone we don't know we can trust."

"Yeah, true. Staying off the grid will be vitally important."

"So I guess the plan so far is to overpower this guy somehow, steal a car from somewhere, somehow, and just get away…somewhere, somehow.”

"Well gee, Killy, when you put it like that, it sounds like a piece of cake." She huffs. "But all joking aside, that's pretty much it, yeah. Dad always says that freedom is the biggest priority in situations like this. Stay calm, bide your time, pick your moment, and when the moment comes, do anything and everything you have to in order to get free."

I nod. "My dad always told me that if there's gonna be a fight and you can't avoid it or get out of it, then it's best to strike first and strike hard."

"Yeah, that sounds pretty familiar. 'If you must be violent, Liebchen,'" Story says in a remarkably accurate impression of Anselm's quiet voice and distinct accent, "'then do what you must to win. Make your violence swift and brutal so you may return to peacefulness that much more swiftly.’”

"Swift and brutal, huh?"

She nods, head tipped slightly to one side. "You have to commit to it. If you hold back, you die."

"Yeah, Sasha drilled that into my head, too."

Story shifts on the bed, scooting to the foot and standing up. "I have to pee, actually. Maybe we can use that."

I nod, thinking. "He's pretty careful, but I think we can make it work. Maybe…" I pause, working through scenarios in my head, trying to find one that won't get us both shot. "It's a risk."

"Better than the alternative."

"True." I shrug. "Okay, so here's what I'm thinking. You go to the bathroom. I'll hide behind the door, and when he brings you back in, I'll make my move. Hit him with the door or something."

Story frowns, then nods. "It'll have to do. I can't come up with anything better." She moves to the door, then pauses, letting out a breath with a look at me. "Ready?"

I nod once, lounging on the bed as if relaxed. "Go for it."

She lets out another breath, squares her shoulders. "Okay. Let's do this."

She raps on the door and steps back, waiting. After a few seconds, the door unlocks and opens, and the guard stands in the doorway. "What you are wanting?"

"I have to use the bathroom," Story says.

The guard eyes me, then Story, and then nods. "Okay. Come, come." He points at me. "You stay."

I hold up both hands, palms out. "Okay."

Story exits the room, and the guard closes and re-locks the door. No dummy, this guy. The plan seems tenuous at best, but it’s all we’ve got.

But what other choice do we have? Holding me on a container ship for two weeks or however long is a pretty clever move—prevents any accidental sightings or whatever. I'd have just vanished without a trace. We're on our own until we can get word to someone, somehow. And to do that, we have to get away.

I hear the bathroom door close, a long pause, and then the faint sounds of a faucet. The door opening again.

That's my cue.

I move to put my back to the wall so the door will open toward me. I run through unarmed combat movements in my head, rehearsing my plan: wait for the door to open, wait till I see Story clear the door, then slam the door into the guard. Disarm and take down. Kill, if I have to.

God, I really don't want to have to.

I'm nauseated and shaky as I ready myself behind the door.

The locks disengage and the hinges creak softly as the door swings open.

"What is this?" I hear the guard murmur. "Dove sì trova? Hey, your boyfriend. Where he is?"

"I…um…" I hear Story say, and I see her feet not quite clearing the door.

Shit. C'mon, clear it.

She shuffles forward and pretends to trip over her own feet, sprawling melodramatically forward into the room.

"Hey, watch it! You are okay? What you tripped on?" The guard's bulky form casts a shadow, and that's when I make my move.

6

So Burn Me

The fake stumble was a last-second decision. If nothing else, my hope was that if the guard behind me decided to start shooting, hopefully his shots would miss.

For a split-second, nothing happens.

"Hey, watch out!” The guard says as I hit the tile. "You are okay? What you tripped on?" He puts the emphasis on the last word—what you tripped ON.

I hear his heavy tread shuffle forward and glance over my shoulder as I pretend to get to my feet, slowly, laboriously, and with evident pain.

Exactly as I risk a glance, Killian shoulder checks the door. It cannons into the guard with a wet crunch; the guard gives a howling gurgle of pain, stumbling backward with his hands pressed to his nose, which is sluicing crimson blood. The guard has remarkable presence of mind, though—he's grabbing for his gun even as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Killian rounds the edge of the door, lunges toward the other man, and catches his gun-wielding hand. With a deft twist, Killian has the gun and shoves the barrel into the man's bearded chin.

"Don’t…fucking…move," Killian says, his tone hard and cold. "I don't want to have to hurt you. You've been okay to us, as far as kidnappers go."

The man's eyes widen, and he shakes his head slowly. "No, no funny business. I have a daughter. This man, this Pugli, he gives me no good choices. Either he pay me a lot of money to do this, and he say no one is killed, if this plan goes rightly. Or…he kill my daughter. Already, my wife is died from a bad sickness. Now my daughter, she has only me. What am I to do, hmm? He kills me, he kills my daughter? Or I am paid enough money to start in your America, with all of the promises for getting rich, sì?"

Killian jerks his head at the bed. "Go sit. Story, can you find something to tie him up with, please?"

"Oh no, no, this is not necessary," the man argues. "I wish you no harm."

"Your friends," Killian says. "What will they do when they find out?"

He shrugs. "I do not know. They are bad men, but they are bad at being bad, you understand this? I am not so afraid of them." A pause, another shrug. "Also, they are no friends of mine."

I go into the main living area and hunt for something—I spot a pair of old work boots, battered and floppy and mud-crusted. I work the laces free, return to the bedroom, and make quick work of tying the guard's hands behind his back, using the knots Dad taught me. The man is remarkably calm through all of this, cooperating almost too easily.

Killian is clearly having similar thoughts, because he sidles up to me after I finish tying up the guard. "Is it me or does this feel too easy?"

"I was just thinking that myself," I answer. "Let's get out of here."

Killian shoves the pistol behind his back and we scrounge the main area for anything usable. We come up with a burner cell phone, a small folding box cutter, a little over a hundred euros in an assortment of small denominations, and the box of shells and the spare magazines. There's a black backpack by the door as well, which contains a spare change of clothes; Killian takes the T-shirt, which is several sizes too big for him, and dumps the rest to make room for our haul.

"Wait, let me see if there's food we can take," I say, before we leave the flat.

I rifle hurriedly through the fridge and cupboards, but all I find is a case of beer, almost empty, a one-third-empty handle of vodka, some fresh tomatoes, cilantro, basil, heavy cream, some raw chicken breasts…fixings for meals, but nothing transportable.

And then, score of all scores, I spot a keyring half-hidden under the pile of porn magazines; there's a key to a Lancia on it, which means there has to be a car nearby.

I snag the keys, and we prepare to exit.

Killian steps in front of me, gun in both hands, pointed down, waiting behind me and to my left in classic room-clearing formation. He nods at me, and I yank the door open, stepping out of the way with it. Killian, pistol held in a Weaver stance, slides to cover the open door.

"Fuck!” BAM-BAM-BAM!

I have no time to react. The curse and the three shots happen almost instantaneously. Before I realize what's happening, it's done—the three goons lie stretched out on the roadway outside the door, each of them with a hole in their foreheads. The rain has settled into one of those steady slogs that doesn't seem too hard at first, but once you're out in it, you realize it's a lot more rain than you were thinking; the rain swirls with the leaking, running blood, rinsing it away as it drains out of the dead men.

There's a sudden silence after the gunshots, and then Killian abruptly shoves the gun into my hands, trots a few steps out into the rain, and vomits into the gutter. "Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck," he rasps. "Jesus. Jesus."

I hurry to him and rub his back as he bends over, hands on his knees, retching, panting, and retching. "Hey, breathe. It's okay. You did good, Killian."

"I killed them." He straightens, hawks, and spits. Sucks in a deep breath, holds it, and exhales with slow, pursed-lips intention. "That happened so fucking fast, holy shit."

"Your reaction time was incredible," I tell him.

"It was honestly instinctive," he says. "It just sort of happened. I moved into the opening and they were just…there. The one guy had his arm up to knock. I don't remember even deciding to shoot. It just…it just happened."

"Hey! You kids! American kids!" The guard is shouting.

"I suppose the goons being dead changes the equation for that guy, huh?" Killian says.

"Does it?" I respond. "We need to get scarce. Especially now. Those shots are going to be reported."

“Yeah, well…I have a feeling about that guy. I think we should let him go."

"And have him report us to Pugli? Or kill us when our backs are turned? Killy, c'mon. We need to go. It's called being on the run, not on the leisurely stroll through sleepy Italian port villages."

"Do you trust me?"

I let out a breath, considering. I know the instinctive answer—of course. But deep down, where it counts, do I trust him with my life?

The answer is the same.

"Yes," I answer. "I do."

He jogs back into the flat and returns a moment later with the now-unbound guard. "Story, this is Enzo; Enzo, this is Story."

Enzo peers down at me—he's a massive man, built like a bear, standing a few inches taller than Killy and nearly as wide as he is tall, with a rounded belly hanging over his belt. Dark eyes, shaggy black hair, thick black beard. But those eyes—they're not killer's eyes; I should know.

"I am please to meet you, Signorina Story. I regret my part in this and I do not want you to be the victim of Signore Pugli. He is a very, very evil man. Only for my daughter would I do such a thing as this."

I still have the gun in my hand—I brandish it at him. "You do not have my trust yet, Signore Enzo."

"Does Pugli have your daughter?" Killian asks.

"We need to go," I snap over his question. "We can interrogate Enzo later. Where's the car that goes to this?" I ask him, showing him the keys I found.

Enzo points down the street away from the marina. "That way, maybe one hundred meters."

"Lead the way," I say.

"Wait, wait. Un momento, per favore." Enzo grabs a man by the cuff of one pant leg, and then the other, and drags them with a soft grunt of effort into the flat.

"Good plan," Killian says, following with the third body. "Shoulda thought of it myself."

"You are a young man," Enzo says, then grunts as he drags the corpses a few more feet. "You cannot know everything to do." Another grunt of effort. "Into the room. Velocemente, the Carabinieri house is not far. Not house—qual è quella cazzo di parola? The—the office for the policemen."

"Station," I hear Killian fill in, grunting in effort. "The police station."

"Sì, sì, grazie."

Their voices fade, and I hear a couple of loud thumps, and then Killian and Enzo return, both panting.

Enzo peers up at the rain. "Rain is good. Wash away this blood, hey? Come-come. My car is not far away."

Killy and I follow Enzo at a distance of a few paces. "This is making me nervous, Killy," I whisper. "The one thing Dad drilled into me a million times is if you're on the run, you can't trust anyone you don't already know and trust."

"He made us pasta, Story."

I laugh sarcastically. "Because no murderer would ever do that."

"I mean…?” Killy shrugs. "Why go through the effort if you're just gonna kill us? That wasn't fuckin' Barilla, either."

Enzo must have sharp hearing because he barks a laugh ahead of us. “Barilla. You insult me, you say this. Barilla—cazzo di merda." He spits on the ground at his feet. "This is Italy. That was my home—well, sort of."

"Did you make the pasta? Like from scratch?" Killian asks.

Enzo chuckles at Killian’s question as he comes to a red Lancia four-door hatchback. "What, you think every Italian makes fresh pasta and sauce every day? We just dance around kitchens like in your movies, singing that pizza pie in your eye song? No, I buy it at the store. But what I can buy at a store here is not at all like what you buy in your store. I have gone to your America, you know. I go to New York with my Papa when I am sedici—six-a-teen? This is the word, sì? Six-a-teen? We go to see the pastas in a store. My Papa, he has a cousin we stay with. The cousin, he laugh when Papa bring home the pasta." Enzo laughs; by now, we're all piled into the car, Enzo behind the wheel, Killian beside him, and me in the back seat. "It was merda. Barilla. Cazzo di merda."

Killian and I exchange looks, and Killian makes a funny "oops" grimace, and we both have to suppress our laughter—clearly, Killian stepped on a nerve with that one.

Enzo pulls away from the curb—well, there isn't actually a curb, just a slight lip where the roadway changes to sidewalk. "Listen to me, you two. I know you do not trust me." He wipes at his nose with his sleeve; his nose is still trickling blood. "You should not. This is smart. But I do not mean you any harm, te lo prometto." He glances at me over his shoulder. "You have the gun. Please do not shoot me, but if it makes you feel better, point it at me." His gaze flicks to my trigger finger, safely outside the guard. "Ah, good. No finger on the—the…grilletto. I am forgetting all my English."

Again, Killian and I exchange looks, and this time we do laugh.

"Hey? What is the joke?" Enzo asks.

"Oh, just that Story and I…we're not exactly strangers to guns."

Enzo nods, his expression grave. "Sì, sì, sì. I see this. You kill those three men so fast—boom-boom-boom! Each one in the head, just here." He touches his third eye. "I cannot do this so good as you."

Killian glances at me over his shoulder, and then sniffs a soft laugh. "Enzo, when it comes to that, it's her you gotta worry about."

"Veramente?" He looks at me in the rearview mirror as he navigates slowly away from the neighborhood where the flat is—I hear sirens in that direction. Not such a fast response, after all. "You are dress like a dottore?"

"I'm a nurse," I answer. "ER nurse."

"ER? What is this?"

"Emergency room."

"Oh, sì, il pronto soccorso." He glances at me again. "You save life. But he say you are more better than him at the shooting?"

I roll a shoulder and shake my head. "I don't know about that. I know my way around guns, yes, but let's just hope we don't have to find out how good I am."

"Let us hope, but I do not hold my breath. Pugli does not give up so easily, and you, he wants."

"How do you know Pugli?" I ask. "And how do you know what he wants?"

He doesn't answer right away; the windshield wipers go squee-thump, squee-thump, squee-thump while he thinks about how to answer.

Eventually, Enzo rakes a hand back through his hair, down through his beard, and then wipes his forehead and eyes with the heel of his palm before scrubbing his hand dry on his jeans. "I make a mistake. Listen, okay? I say to you the truth. I am un criminale, okay? I want to be an actor when I am young, so I move to Rome. The big city. Immediately, all is wrong. No work, nowhere to live, nothing to eat, and no one to care about me. I am proud, hey? I do not go back to my mama and my papa for help. I steal from the wrong man. But instead of killing me, he make me work. I drive a car for him. To this place, to that place. He goes in, he comes out with money, or sometimes with the fist all bloody. And then he has me go to the airport and bring some package to him. It is drugs, sì? It is so obvious, but he pays me very well, and I am a young man who likes the girls and the clubs and the drinking."

He pauses at a four-way intersection, scratching his jaw as he considers the options. "Where to go, where to go, where to go? Hmmm. We are on an island, you know."

"Wait, what?" Killian asks.

"Oh, you do not know this?" He tips his head to one side. "Si, this is Sardinia. We have to get to the mainland, or we will be found by the Carabinieri, or by Pugli's men."

"You didn't explain how you got into bed with Pugli, though," I point out.

"Into bed? No, I am not—"

I cut in over him. "No, I just meant in business with."

"Oh, yes, I see. Well, it is pretty simple. I spend my life doing boring and safe but illegal things. Drive a man to this place, pick up that package. I carry a gun, okay, but I am not shooting anyone. I do not beat up the people. I drive a car and I stand by doorways at meetings and look like a scary man. Only one time am I hurting anyone, and it is how I am here." He makes a decision. "We go this way. I know a place. We can wait for this rain to end and then find a boat to the mainland."

He makes the turn and then settles back behind the wheel, tugging open the glove box, removing a pack of cigarettes, and lighting one. He cracks his window, letting in the occasional spit of rain, smoke sucking out through the gap.

"Pugli, that fucking bastard pezzo di merda. My god, I hate him. My boss, he is a little fish, heh? In the world of…what is the word? Organizzata. Criminalità organizzata. Organized, yes. Organized crime. In this world, my boss is one of the little fishes who only swims in the shallow places."

"Minnows," Killian supplies.

"Si, sì, as you say. The minnows, he is this minnow. He is no one. So when his bosses do work for Pugli, I must do work for Pugli. And mostly, it is all the same as I am doing. Drive and look big. Is easy and I need the money. I have a daughter and her mama, she dies of a sickness. But…" he sighs. "One day, only just one year ago, my boss say to me, Enzo, you go to Croatia, you meet this driver at this place, and you drive back the truck. I am doing this before. A small truck, you say them a lorry, sì? I can drive these. I have done this. I go somewhere and drive it back for my boss."

He opens his window wider, hawks, and spits out, then rolls it back up to an inch-wide crack; the smoke, as he blows it, billows around the window in an acrid gray fog that stinks up the car before being sucked out.

"This time is different. I do not know why, at first. I…" he frowns, shrugging, and then taps his belly. "I feel it here. Si? You know this thing? You feel something is bad, but you cannot see why. I feel this. Something is bad. There are more soldiers. They stand by the door of the lorry and do not let me look in. No, they tell me. No looking. You look, you die."

"You looked," Killian guesses.

"Ah sì, sì, I look. I cannot stop myself, heh? If you see a large red button who say to you, do not push, what you gonna do? You gonna push! These bastardos, they say do not look. Of course I am gonna look. So I drive away, and I stop to pisciare. I look."

"People?" I ask.

He nods heavily. "Sì. Women. No, no—not women. Ragazze. Girls. So young. If you are in the lorry, Signorina Story, you are the old one. Little. Young. Scared. No light, no food, no water, no nothing. All push in together, like the—the arogosta in a cage." He drives with his knee for a second and mimes pincers with his hands. "You know the arogosta? In the fish tank. All together. On top, underneath. Rubber bands to stop the biting hands.” More clicking pincer-hands.

"Lobsters?" Killian guesses.

"Ah, yes. Lobsters." He butchers the word, pronouncing it LOBE-stehrs. “The girls are sick. They are pisciare everywhere." He shakes his head. "I make sick on the ground. I do not agree to this. When I drive the truck, it is drugs, I always think. Or maybe some guns. Is okay. Bad men want to kill each other with guns and sniff the cocaine, okay for me. But I am driving little ragazze to be selled for slaves? No. No!” He smacks the steering wheel with his cigarette hand. "No! It is evil. My Maria, she is my life. All I do, I do for her. She tell me so many times, Papa, you should not do this work no more. But I am doing this for vent'anni. What else am I gonna do, heh? Work at a bank? Go fishing? No, no." A deep breath, a shake of his head. "So I see these ragazze. And what does Enzo do?"

"Enzo doesn't talk in third person anymore," I mutter.

Killian stifles a laugh with a snort. "You let them go, didn't you?"

Enzo looks from Killian to my reflection in the mirror with widened eyes. "Sì, sì, I let them go. I am a foolish man with a so soft heart, you see. All these belle ragazze, I cannot send them to him. I have hear stories of Pugli. The other men I work with, they talk. It is how men do. They sit, and they smoke cigarettes, and they drink, and they talk. I know, these girls go to him, they are…" he shakes his head, trailing off, not finishing the statement. “I cannot allow it. So I let them go."

"That strikes me as unwise,” I say.

He nods vigorously. "Ohhh, sì, it was. Very very."

"Pugli didn't kill you?" Killian asks.

Enzo growls. "I think he is going to. I am bring to him by some men. They find me in bed and they put a bag over my head. I cannot see. They drive and they drive, and then I am in Francia. And I am in front of Pugli. I think, I am sorry, Maria. Now you have no mama and no papa. But he does not kill me. He says, ‘You are a loyal man. You work for vent'anni. Do a good job, always on time, no accident, nothing.’ So, he say to me, ‘I will let you live. But now…you work for me.’"

"Oh. Well, shit," Killian says. "That would do it."

"I have no choice. So then…what do I do?” He laughs. "I drive a truck!" Another bark of laughter. "No girls. Only boxes. And then due settimane fa, he call me direct. Enzo, he tell me. You go to Sardinia. You stay at this house. You wait. Some young people will be bring to you. You do not let them escape. They try, you shoot them. Okay, I say. No problem. But he say then, I know where is Maria. I know she is with her nonna, her mama's mama. You do this, or both Maria and Nonna will be killed."

"Enzo," I murmur. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugs. "There is time. We go to the mainland, and we rescue them. I help you, you help me, sì?"

Killian and I exchange looks; he nods. I answer. "We can do that."

He lets out a slow breath. "Okay, okay. This is good. She is all I have, my Maria. Her nonna?" he laughs. "She no like me, I no like her. Maria's mama, she loved me too much. I am no good, her mama say. Criminale. Bad man. But my Concetta, she love me anyway."

"We're not leaving your mother-in-law behind," I say, my tone hard.

Enzo just laughs all the harder. "Why not? Pugli takes that woman? He is not knowing what he is biting off to chew. I think if we want to get away, we leave her. Let her do the dealing with Pugli. He is not gonna know what is hit him."

"You are not very good at relating the important information," I say. "You said you only hurt someone one time and it led you here."

"Oh, sì sì. When I let the ragazze go free, I drive the truck to the place I am told to go. There is only one soldier to see me, okay? He is to meet me and to bring the truck to another place, so if I am catched by the Carabinieri, I cannot say where they are. This soldier, he look in the truck, he sees it is empty. He look at me so angry, sì? And I know he is going to shoot me. So I shoot him first. And then I go home. I think maybe Pugli will think it is an accident. Maybe he think someone else is doing this to him. But no. He find out it is me, I do not know how he knows. And here we are." He gives Killian a sharp, hard look, and then me in the mirror. "Pugli, I cannot protect you from him. You know this? We are together in the trouble, heh?"

Killian snorts a laugh. "Enzo, buddy, I've got a feeling it's gonna end up being the other way around."

"You gonna protect me?"

Killian shrugs. "You don't know anything about us, do you? Story and me? Why does Pugli want us?"

"The only thing I know is what I am telled. Go here, stop these young people from escape. With the camion pieno di ragazze, I think he want her." He tips his head backward, indicating me. "A bella giovane donna? He want the girl. You are…" another shrug. "A problem, only. To be…ahh…risolto. I do not know this word. Take care of. No more problem. Because you are killed, hmm?"

Killian snorts. "Yeah, I'm following you. But it's a bit more complicated than that, I'm afraid."

"Oh? Why complicated?"

I meet Killian's eyes and shake my head—we can only trust this guy so far. I have the sense that he's being truthful about everything and it's a hell of a stroke of luck that we now have an ally, but I'm not ready to trust him with everything just yet.

Killian gives me a subtle nod in return. "I think that's a story for another day, Enzo."

Enzo nods. Rolls the wheel of his cheap disposable lighter, producing a small flurry of sparks. "I understand. Trust is a very difficult thing, I think. No very easy to find."

"Facts, buddy, facts."

Silence follows this, as Enzo seems to sink into his own thoughts as we drive across the island. I'm honestly not sure how long the drive is—I drowse, dropping in and out of awareness. Killian is as well, and it occurs to me that Enzo could be tricking us, pretending to be sympathetic and letting us think we've escaped, when in reality he's taking us to a new safehouse or something. From then on, I let myself drowse, but keep half an eye on Enzo—mainly, I'm looking for evidence that he's in contact with someone. I have his burner, but we never searched him, so he could have a spare.

I just…I still have a wriggling worm of unease in my gut. Something about all this with Enzo is too easy, his story too easily making him sympathetic to us.

I notice Killian's eyes aren't always closed all the way either; they crack to slits now and again, watching Enzo through his eyelashes. Good to know I'm not the only one staying suspicious.

If I had to guess, I'd say we travel for a little over an hour through a wide, open-sky landscape with the occasional serrated shadow of a mountain ridge in the background. Every time I open my eyes to check my surroundings, things have become slightly more urban, and then there are apartment blocks mixed in with the warehouses, and then trees line the streets, and there are sidewalks and curbs, and then small shops and signs for public parking.

"Mmmm, where're we?" I mumble, sitting up, feigning more sleepiness than I feel.

"Olbia. On the nord-est…ahhh…north-east of Sardinia. Is a ferry to Rome from here. Maybe…six or seven hour, no more than seven and-a-half." He smushes the last three words into a single syllable. "I have a friend who live here, he is on holiday. We stay his place for some hours."

Less than twenty minutes later, we're entering an upper flat near the docks; it's newer, smells of fresh paint, and is sparsely furnished in typical single adult male fashion—a single couch, a TV and gaming console, and an old door laid over some milk cartons for a coffee table, on which is more of what you'd expect, that being alcohol, cigarettes, ashtrays, and plates of molding food scraps.

"Nice table," Killian says, his tone amused. "Very bachelor of him."

Enzo casts a critical eye on the structure. "Ah, sì, Tomas, he would rather spend his money on other enjoyments. He only comes here for sleeping, so why he waste money to make it pretty for nobody?"

"Makes sense to me, honestly," Killian says.

I just roll my eyes. "Men."

"What?" Enzo says, laughter in his tone. "You think to go buy some throw pillow for him? Maybe a…cazzo, what is the word? Dooly? Little lace things all over the tables.”

"Doily?" I suggest.

"Si! A stupid thing, and a stupid word."

Killian's shoulders shake. "Enzo, what the fuck are you talking about, man? Doilies? What the hell is a doily?"

"Never mind. Is just a silly joke. The ferry to Rome leaves at noon and eleven at the nighttime."

Killian frowns. "Y'know, I don't have a clue what day it is, or what time it is."

Enzo casts a glance at the green digital numerals on the range: 4:08. "It is four o'clock in the morning, and it is…ahhh…Thursday? Friday? I do not remember."

"So we have time to kill," I say.

"Looks like it," Killy adds.

Enzo points to the couch. "I am very tired. I am going to sleep." He points toward the rear of the unit. "The bedroom is there. You take it."

Killian and I trade glances, and then I answer for us. "You know, we woke up not that long ago, and you've been driving. Why don't you take the bed and let us have the TV?"

"Is all in Italian." He gestures at the console. "But maybe you like to play the Call of Duty game."

"Works for me," Killian says, grinning as he beelines for the device.

I snort. "Figures."

Enzo yawns. "Okay. We must go to the ferry offices to buy the…cazzo, I am too tired for the English—i biglietti. To get onto the ferry. It departs at twelve of the clock. Si? We cannot miss it or we have to wait until eleven at the nighttime."

"We won't miss it," Killian assures him. "Go sleep, man, you look done in."

"Sì, I am like a dead man."

He shuffles, visibly dragging himself down the hallway. A door closes with a quiet click, and then Killian and I are alone, sort of.

We both wait in silence, although it isn't immediately apparent what we're waiting for.

"You still trust him?" I ask Killy.

He shrugs. "Unclear. Everything he's saying sounds reasonable, and fits with the scenario. That story about the girls being trafficked does reek of what I’ve overheard about Pugli."

"But?" I prompt.

"But…" he shakes his head and rolls a shoulder again. "It's just been too damned easy. I have to assume we're high-value targets, but they leave us alone with a single guard?"

I tip my head to the side. "That's not what has warning bells going off. It's more what you said—the whole thing is too easy."

"Pugli doesn't leave things to chance," Killian says. "I've been in on a few of the briefings about the guy, considering all that's gone on lately. And yeah, too easy."

"So we agree Enzo is sus and we have to keep a close eye on him?" I ask.

"Yeah," he answers, his voice slow and hesitant. "I want to like the guy. I want him to be what he seems. But you're right, something is sus in this whole situation."

Killian has by this time figured out the TV and console and has an offline, single-player game loading. "Sucky thing is, if this was a game I play, I could maybe reach someone I know, but no one I know plays this online anymore."

"We’re better off with the burner."

"Should we try calling someone right now?"

I shake my head. "No. We need to reach the mainland. Unless Enzo is playing some long con on us, none of Pugli's people know what's happened or where we are. That works to our advantage. Uncle Lear always preaches that you have to assume any line of communication is compromised, unless you set up the encryption yourself. We don't know anything about the provenance of that burner. For all we know, it's linked directly to Pugli, and we make a call and next thing we know, a kill squad is at the door."

Killian, now traipsing through a level in the video game, flicks an impressed look at me. "You're clearly way better at this spy shit than I am."

"Yeah, well, I may be an expert marksman, but I doubt I'd have pulled off those three kills as neatly and quickly as you did."

The sound of automatic weapons fire erupts from the TV, and Killian focuses on the level for a few minutes, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth. I watch him play until he gets killed in-game and tosses the controller aside in frustration, only to pick it back up. He doesn’t start again, though, but sits there staring at it, idly twiddling the little thumb stick.

"I'm struggling with that," he mutters. "I keep seeing it. Them. It just happened so goddamn fast. Like, thank god it was them and not some lost little old lady or a kid something."

"That's the training, Killy," I tell him. "That's why you run the room clearing exercises a hundred thousand times. It’s second nature at this point to assess and react almost instantly."

He stares at the controller in his hands. "I don't, like…regret it. I had to do it. But still…I killed three men in less time than it takes to…to fuckin’…I don’t know—unlock a phone."

"You couldn't have done anything else, Killy, and to be honest, you need to come to grips with it fast, because I've got a feeling that's going to be just the start."

He nods. "I know." A pause. "I really, really fucking hope Enzo is a good guy."

"Me too, Killy. He seems like a super nice guy." I sigh. "But the problem is, people can be super nice to your face and then shoot you in the back."

"Wow, Story," Killian deadpans. "That's just so comforting. Thank you for that thought. Let me just go and never trust anyone again.”

I cackle. "Oh, I'm sorry, were you under the impression you could in the first place? It's a dog-eat-dog world out here, kiddo."

He frowns at me. "Kiddo?" A snort. "Okay, then, grandma.”

I shove him playfully. "Grandma? Kiddo could be a term of endearment, but grandma? Fuck you! I'm twenty-seven!"

He lets me push him again, and then grabs me by the wrist and yanks me toward him. I fall against him, laughing breathlessly, and he goes to his back, letting the console controller topple to the floor as his hands come to rest on my mid-back, just below my bra line.

"You'd better be careful, sir," I whisper. "You're playing with fire."

"Am I?" His eyes search my face, linger on my lips. "So burn me."

7

A Sexual Awakening

"Killy—" Story starts, her blue eyes conflicted.

"I've been at war with myself over you for fucking so goddamn long, Story," I whisper, unable to tear my eyes away from the plump pinkness of her lips. "Now that I know you want me too, how am I supposed to resist you?"

"Want?" she breathes. "That’s not even almost the right word."

"What is?" I ask, daring to let my hands wander down her back to the sliver of skin between scrub top and bottom.

She slips a hand under my borrowed T-shirt, rests it on my bare stomach; the other flutters under my chin, and then her fingertips settle on my lower lip, just the index and middle ones, tracing and rubbing over my lip as if she's trying to read the pattern of the skin like Braille.

"Crave?" she murmurs, her eyes watching her fingers on my lip. "That's a good place to start."

My heart thuds in my chest, pounding against the bars of my ribcage; "crave" really is the best word for what I'm feeling. I crave her. More of her. All of her.

Skin, breath, curves, touch.

I just need her.

But how could I possibly stop, if I started?

Story answers the question for me.

Her eyes flit and dart, searching my face, lingering again on my lips, and then she surges forward on me, and her mouth finds mine.

Her lips are hot and wet and eager, and a moan escapes me unbidden as I return the kiss. At the sound of my moan, Story's tongue stabs into my mouth and she exhales and then her lips press into mine all the harder and her hand under my shirt claws into me, fingernails digging into my skin.

I can't stop myself, then. With a soft growl, I slip my hands up under her shirt and scour her bare back and shoulders, my stomach tumbling as I pass over the wide strap of her sports bra. I send my hands downward to the small of her back, hesitating at the waist of her scrub bottoms. And then I wedge my fingertips under the waistband, which is cinched tight by the drawstrings. Not so tight that I couldn't get my hand underneath, however. If I dared.

And god, do I want to. Need to.

As I hesitate, Story pulls away from the kiss just a few inches, toys with the hair at my temples. "Killy?"

"Mmm?"

"Yes."

I nuzzle her mouth with mine. "Yes, what?"

She pushes her butt upward. "Yes." Her mouth crashes against mine in a brief, hard kiss. "Please. Touch me."

"Thank fuck," I growl, and slip my hand under the cinched waistband, find smooth cotton over firm flesh.

Story's fingers trace my lower lip again, and then she brushes her lips on mine, flicks her tongue against my lips. "Almost."

I plunge my hand under the elastic of her underwear and find skin, fill my palm with her ass, groaning in delight. "Mmmm—there we are."

She whimpers softly, rests her forehead on my chest, nodding her agreement with my sentiment. "Finally," she breathes.

But it's not enough.

"Untie them," I say. "Please."

She smirks up at me, eyes glittering with equal parts humor and arousal and defiance. "No."

"You want to," I say. "I can tell. I can read it on your face plain as day."

"Mmm, well, if you want to be pedantic about it, Killian, then I want them untied. I just don't feel like doing it myself."

"Ah, I see." I slip my hand out from her pants, rotate around and sit up with her on my lap. "In that case…"

I surge to my feet, pivot, stalk across the tiny living room with her ass in both hands—and my good god, what an ass it is. I need it bare, now. All of her, as fast as possible.

As I carry her the few steps to the front door, against which I pin her with my hips, she clutches at my face with both hands and tips my head back and kisses my throat, my jaw, my chin, and then when I have her pinned to the door, she seizes my mouth with hers and gasps breathlessly as I squeeze the plump tautness of her backside.

"Story," I whisper, "my god."

"What? What'd I do?"

"Tortured me with this fucking incredible ass for fucking years," I growl. "That's what."

Her nose nuzzles the side of my neck. "Wasn't trying to torture you."

"I know. You just can't help having the world's most perfect ass."

She cackles, an abrupt burst of sarcastic laughter. "Okay, Killy. You need to get your eyes checked. The thing is—"

"A fucking delight," I cut in, setting her on her feet. "Glorious. Marvelous. Hypnotic. A work of art."

She laughs again, breathlessly this time, and possibly a little choked up. "Okay, Killy."

"You believe me?"

"I believe you believe it, and that's what counts."

"You're self-conscious about it?"

She captures my hands in hers and nuzzles her cheeks into my palms, and then guides my hands downward. “Not important. I just want your hands all over me."

"Funny, because I actually want my hands all over you, too.”

“So then why am I still wearing pants?" she breathes.

"An excellent question." I find the bitter ends of her drawstring and tug free the knot; immediately, the scrub bottoms sag loose and droop low on her hips—her ass is too plump to allow the bottoms to fall all the way off, however, and just hang there at her hips.

I lean into her, forehead to forehead. "Much as I need you naked, this is still not a situation I feel comfortable going there."

"Are you seriously cock-blocking yourself again right now, Killian Harris?" Story whispers.

"Not…entirely." I take her mouth with mine and slide my tongue against hers, and dig my hands under the elastic and cotton to grasp the fullness and firmness and silky hot softness of her ass again, and I groan into her mouth. "Fucking hell, Story."

She whimpers again, and the sound rockets straight to my dick, sending a throbbing rush of blood southward, engorging me instantly.

"Oh," she breathes, rocking her hips against mine. "Oh my. Did I do that?"

"You know you did."

"Who, little ol' me?" Her mouth curves on mine in a sultry smile I feel rather than see. "I would like to remind you, however, that I do, in fact, possess other body parts than a butt."

“You do?"

"I do. I feel like you should see if you can find them."

The playfulness is fucking killing me. Sex has always seemed…serious, somehow. Intense, or hurried, or drunk, or high, or wild. It's never been…silly, playful, and fun like this.

I'm addicted.

I grin, nip at her lower lip, and then pull away a bit so I can look down at her. "What if I'm not done enjoying your butt?"

She shrugs. "Who am I to tell you what to do with my body?"

A cackle bursts out of me. "When you put it like that…" I squeeze once more, groaning at the feel of her ass in my hands, something I've quite literally fantasized about since I first discovered masturbation.

"Can I tell you a secret?" I mutter.

She nuzzles my jaw, nips my earlobe. "Anything."

"It's kind of embarrassing, and I'd only ever tell you."

"Is it a sexy secret?" she whispers, pulling back to look at me with humor and desire and affection and curiosity—an intoxicating admixture of emotions to have leveled at me.

"Something like that." I close my eyes and caress the drum-taut curves of her ass, wishing yet again that we were alone so I could have her nakedness all to myself.

“Tell me, Killy."

"Please don't make fun of me."

"I would never."

"Telling you this is fucking scary as hell."

"Jesus, Killy. What?"

"When I was thirteen, you were eighteen."

"That's how a five-year age gap works, yes."

"You hadn't come down the summer before."

"I spent that summer with Mom and Dad in Israel, visiting the town where Mom grew up."

"I know." I swallow hard. "You came down and I hadn't seen you more than a year. I already had a crush on you, but I'd hit puberty and my hormones were on fucking afterburner. It was like looking at the world through new eyes—suddenly, girls were everywhere, and I was fucking…god, so completely unable to stop myself from staring at every girl I saw at the beach."

She cackles softly. "Oh god, I remember. You were so wide-eyed that summer. It was adorable."

"What I'm gonna tell you may not be so adorable." I laugh again. “So then you showed up. That first night, we just had dinner at Val and Key's. The next day you wanted to hit the beach bright and early. I'm almost always the first up of the four of us, so I was surprised when you were down at the water before me." I close my eyes, and I can see her like it was yesterday. "You were wearing a pink, green, and white floral bikini. The bottoms left most of your ass bare, and the sides were cut high, riding above your hips, so the front piece was this long triangle. And the top. Dear Jesus. Your boobs were all but spilling out over top and out the sides."

She blushes. “I was feeling myself that summer."

“You had every right to feel yourself. You were the most intoxicating sight I'd ever laid eyes on. I stopped at the top of the hill and just stared at you, literally open-mouthed and all but fucking drooling for almost five minutes before I managed to make myself go down and talk to you. I was so fucking nervous, Story."

"Nervous? To talk to me?"

"Yes! I told you, I already had a crush on you by then, but up to that point it was…I dunno how to put it. Emotional? A crush based on wanting to talk to you, hang out with you. Be around you. That summer was the first time I saw you as a girl—a woman. When the crush became physical."

"What's the big admission, Killy? I'm on tenterhooks, here." She shoves her hands up under my shirt again, and then somehow it’s gone, and she's scouring my chest and stomach and shoulders, cupping the small of my back.

"Don't rush the story, Story." I slip my hands up out of her scrub bottoms and up under her shirt, mirroring her exploration of my back. "That day at the beach with you was the first time I knew what real sexual desire was. I could not stop staring at you. Every time you were turned away from me, my eyes were glued to your ass."

"Trust me, I was aware."

"You were?"

She laughs. "Of course! You were respectful about it, though, so I pretended not to notice. You weren't creepy or weird about it. Just obvious."

"So here's the admission. I couldn't fall asleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. That fucking bikini. Your ass swaying every step you took. Those big fucking tits of yours bouncing around as we played frisbee." I close my eyes, rest my forehead on hers, summon the courage to put it all out there. "I was hard as a rock. It hurt. It wouldn't go away. I couldn't stop thinking about you. I kept…shit. I kept having this fantasy of you and me alone on the beach under the stars, and you'd reach back and untie the bikini top and wiggle out of the bottoms in this whole slinky, sensual movement. I'd never seen a totally naked woman at that point, so all I had was imagination, but that's all I needed. I fought it so fucking hard, but I…I couldn't help myself."

I feel her start to follow the plot. "Oh. Killy, you mean…” she snickers, splutters, and then dissolves into laughter. "Are you saying…?"

"You said you wouldn't laugh."

"I said I wouldn't make fun of you, and I'm not." The laughter fades and she cups my jaw in both hands. "I swear to you on the twenty years I've known you, I'm not teasing or making fun or laughing at you."

"I snuck out of my room, went down to the beach, waded out until the water was just below my groin, and I closed my eyes, and I pictured you in that bikini, walking toward me, reaching back to untie it, and I jerked off for the first time."

There's a fraught silence. "Killy, no. You're saying…"

"You were my sexual awakening, the reason for my first orgasm."

She lets out a soft breath that's not quite a whimper. "Holy shit, Killian."

"And every time I've ever jerked off since, it's you I picture. Even when I try to think of something else or someone, I can't. It's always you. It's always been you."

She's silent for a long, tense moment. "All this time?"

I nod. "Always. When I say you've tortured me, I mean it. It's been fucking torture. Watching you turn into this fucking stunning woman, so smart, so successful, so fucking gorgeous…but not mine. Not for me. You're all I've ever wanted."

Story nuzzles my lips with hers. "And now look. I am for you, now."

“It’s hard to believe. Hard to…to let myself believe it. I've loved you from afar for so fucking long. I don't know how to let myself internalize that this is real."

Story leans back and peels her scrub top off, revealing a taut, toned stomach and a tight black Nike sports bra. And even with the tight compression of that garment, her rack is fucking spectacular.

"Does it seem more real, now?" she whispers.

"Starting to," I answer, palming her belly.

"Keep going."

"What about—"

"Listen," she whispers.

I tilt my head, listening, and I hear it—a loud, snorting snore. A low sucking breath, and then another snort and a long snore.

"As long as we can hear him snoring, we're good." She leans into me, pressing her chest against mine, lifts up, nips the tip of my chin, and then her fingers trail over my abs, dance down to trace the waist of my jeans.

My stomach curls in on itself at her touch, and I exhale shakily. "Shit, Story."

"You want to hear my confession?" she breathes, fingers toying with the button of my fly.

"Yes."

"I've touched myself thinking about you, Killian. Ever since the summer you turned eighteen."

"You'd been gone a long time."

“Yeah. Med school. Kind of demanding, y'know?"

"So I've heard."

"You grew up while I was gone. Last time I saw you before that summer, you were still this gangly not-quite kid. And then suddenly you were tall and buff and hot, and I couldn't stop staring at you and thinking about you. It was so weird at first, how intense the attraction was." She fiddles with the button some more, and then kisses my chin just below my lower lip, and then claims my mouth and licks her tongue along the seam of my mouth. "Your story is a lot like mine. I tried not to, but I couldn't help it. I made it three days. But in those three days, I doubt I slept more than a few hours at a time, because I kept having wet dreams about you."

“Are you for real?" I ask.

"God yes. I'd wake up sweating and horny and seconds from exploding, and when I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep, all I saw was you. And unlike you, I did have experience, so I knew exactly what to picture." She tugs open the button, drags the zipper down millimeter by millimeter with a slow zzzhhrrrripping sound. "And picture I did. In detail. I couldn’t help it. I'd lay in that bed, and I'd think about you. About this…" her fingertip trails over the bulge of my cock filling the open V of my fly, and I hiss, twitching at her touch. "And I'd touch myself."

"Jesus, Story."

"Did you jerk off to me that summer?" she asks.

"Only every goddamn day," I admit.

"So you realize we were both coming to thoughts of each other at the same time?"

“Kinda weird to think about."

"It is, isn’t it?"

For a moment, neither of us speaks, nor do we move, our eyes locked. Seeking. Searching. Searing. Needing.

A snore fills the silence, and instead of being funny or annoying, it's reassuring. It means we're still effectively alone.

Story's eyes flick and flit, the bluest of blue, heated with desire, soft with affection. "Killy, I want you so fucking bad. I’ve wanted you for years."

"You don't even know what you're talking about, Story. I've been out of my fucking mind about you since I was twelve."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"Fuck if I know," I mutter.

I kiss her, soft and slow at first and then with increasing intensity, until we're both gasping and groaning as our mouths clash and crush and slip and tilt and taste. My hands claw into her sides, soft skin warm and smooth. But I need more, and her invitation couldn't be any more clear, so I finally give myself permission to take what I want, to give her what we both want.

I push my hands up her flat, firm belly and hesitate in the lee of the undersides of her breasts. Her tongue stabs into my mouth, and she shoves her hands around down into the back of my open jeans, cupping my bare ass. Her touch makes my cock jerk, and my jeans sag, droop, and then slump around my ankles.

The hunger in her kiss is my undoing, the end of my self-control. I strip her sports bra upward, and she stretches her arms up overhead, and I peel it off, toss it at our feet while stepping awkwardly and self-consciously out of my jeans.

She steps back, arms barred over her chest, hugging herself with a sly, sultry smile. "Say please, Killy."

"Please, Story."

"Please what?"

"Let me see you. Drop your arms."

Another brief hesitation, and then she lowers her arms to her sides. And just like that, her breasts are bare for me.

"Dear fucking lord," I whisper. "You're so goddamned perfect."

She really is.

My erection reaches critical mass, pulsing with a hot, unbearable ache. For a few moments, I just stare at her, drink in her beauty. But then my hands remember their greed and I reach for her. She shifts within reach, her blueblueblue eyes unwavering and bold on mine, and her breath puffs out of her in a soft sigh as my hands close around her waist. I drift my hands upward, and her breath catches, as does mine, and now neither of us are breathing and I can't even swallow past the hot breath lodged in my throat—this is happening. She's not just allowing this, but wants it. Needs it as much as I do.

Her breasts are big and round and high on her chest, hanging slightly heavier at the bottom with her plump, pink nipples tilted upward. As she sucks in a shuddering breath at the slow upward slide of my hands, her breasts shiver and shake ever so slightly, trembling with each subtle movement and shift. I watch her nipples peak and harden and tighten into thick prominence as I, again struggling to get oxygen into my lungs, scoop the heavy weight of her breasts into my hands.

And now my cock pounds and pulses as I’ve never felt in my life, even when I used to wake up in the middle of the night out of a wet dream, seconds from making a mess of myself, with images of Story dancing and fading in my mind. And now she's here, real and in front of me, and the breasts I've fantasized about for so long are mine to touch, to see.

"Ohhh, Killy," Story whispers. "The way you touch me…"

"You're even sexier than I imagined," I murmur, rolling my thumb over her nipple. "These tits. So incredible. More than I could have fantasized. And trust me, I've fucking fantasized."

She doesn't answer, her eyes shuttering with a flutter as I gently swipe my thumbs over her nipples again, and then I lift her tits and let them fall just to watch the way they move. She whimpers, and again my cock pulses—this time, so hard I feel a frisson of worry that I'm about to bust a nut in my pants like the thirteen-year-old I was when I first discovered the wonder of the female figure, specifically Story's.

I clench down on the ache in my cock, forcing myself back from the edge, groaning at the effort.

"What's wrong, Killy?" Story asks.

"I…fuck." My cheeks are hot, my stomach flipping. "Barely touched you and I'm…I'm on the fucking edge like a goddamn child.”

Her eyes widen to saucers, and then a sensual smile spreads slowly across her face. "Is that so?" The look on her face is downright predatory, and the flipping of my stomach and the aching of my cock are nearly debilitating.

Another reassuring snort-snore-sigh echoes through the flat.

She lifts on her toes and kisses me, a hot hungry slash of her mouth against mine, tongue slicing and sliding against mine, and I lose all critical faculty, my brain utterly short-circuiting at the onslaught of sensations—her soft warm breasts filling my hands, her belly against mine, her hands on my waist, her lips on mine and her tongue sliding through my lips and seeking out every corner of my mouth with fervent hunger.

And then the world fades, crumbles, dissolves.

Blood roars in my ears, slams in my veins, and my stomach flips and flops and drops out and rises up into my gorge—Story's hands drift inward from my waist, and her fingers hook in the elastic of my underwear, pull them away, tug them down. My hands shake and my lungs freeze solid in my chest. Story pushes my underwear down until they drop, and I'm naked and aching.

“Oh.” Story's voice is small and faint. "Oh my." A soft, breathy giggle. "Killy. My god."

"Hmm?" It's all I can manage to verbalize.

"You've been hiding this from me all this time?" She has her hands on my hipbones, inches to either side of me. "How did you just put it? I couldn’t have fantasized anything even close to this."

I force my eyes open and meet hers—she's grinning like a wild woman, waiting for me to meet her gaze, and then she turns her eyes down to my erection, standing straight upright against my belly, hard as a steel girder, throbbing painfully, and leaking pre-cum.

She reaches for me, fingertips sliding inward across the skin of my hipbones, scritching through the short thatch of pubic hair—which I usually keep shorter than it is at the moment, but you know, I was a prisoner and all.

I grasp her wrist to stop her touch, grimacing at my own stupidity. "I have to smell like a dumpster, Story."

“Nah. The rain and the seawater did a good job washing away the stink." She gazes up at me, breaks my hold on her wrist with a quick twist. "Why do you keep cock-blocking yourself, Killy?" She now captures my wrists and guides my hands to her breasts. "Just let me have fun with you." She lifts on her toes and kisses the corner of my mouth, and then the angle of my jaw near my ear, and then she whispers to me, her voice a breath felt as much as heard, and so sultry and heated with need I pulse and twitch and leak all the more. “I want you, Killy. I want to touch you. I want your cock. I want to know what you look like and sound like when I'm making you come. Don't you want that?"

I try and fail to swallow, and manage a nod. "Yes,” I rasp, my voice barely audible. I try again, louder. "Yes, I fucking do. I want…I want to know that about you, too."

"Know what?" she asks, her tone teasing, leading.

"What you feel like when you're coming. What you sound like.”

"Funny, I'm still wearing my underwear. Hard to come without you touching my pussy."

I groan raggedly—for some reason, hearing Story talk dirty is nearly as intoxicating and arousing as the sight of her body, the feel of her hands. "What if—"

A rough snore is followed by a loud snort—the man needs a CPAP, good lord.

"We're just messing around for right now, Killy," she murmurs over me, placing my hands on her breasts and then letting her fingers trail down my and over my abs, pausing at my navel. "Figuring each other out. Learning."

"I happen to be an excellent student," I say, tracing the circumference of her wide pink areolae with a single fingertip around each one, watching her nipples tighten.

"As do I." She nips my earlobe. "You know what I want you to learn first, Killy?"

"Tell me." I dip at the knees, lift a breast and bend to suckle her nipple into my mouth.

"Oh—oh god." Her hands fly to the back of my head. "Killy!"

"What do you want me to learn, Story?" I ask, sinking to stand tall on my knees in front of her, which puts my face right at breast-level.

Her head tips back, and she moans, a long, low, quiet sound of aroused ecstasy, and she pushes her ribcage forward, thrusting her breasts at me in a silent but powerful plea for more.

"I—I don't know, I forget,” she whispers, toying with my hair, cupping the back of my head, twisting her torso to slide her other nipple across my cheek and into my mouth. "Shut up and suck."

I snarl a greedy, amused laugh at the order. "Yes ma'am."

"Killy, I just—" Her eyes fly open, meet mine. "I meant—"

I saw my teeth with delicate precision around her nipple, and she cuts herself off with a shrill gasp that turns to a moan when I soften my mouth around her nipple and suckle gently, flicking my tongue over the tip. "I know what you meant, Story."

"I didn't mean to sound like I was—"

"Yes you did," I interrupt again. "And I happen to find it a hell of a turn on."

"I can be…ummm…" she trails off, thinking, and then moans again as I lick and kiss one nipple and then the other in turn, back and forth, my hands cupping and lifting the soft warm weight of her tits.

"You can be what?" I prompt, and then return my mouth to her breast, one hand offering it to my mouth and with the other I caress her ass, then hook my fingers in the back of her panties.

"Kind of, um, bossy? In…oh, god, Killy—" she hisses, sucking air in through her teeth as I flatten her nipple between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. "In bed, I mean. Oh god, that feels so good."

"You're so fucking gorgeous, Story," I whisper, dropping to sit on my heels as I inch her panties down her hips.

Her eyes pop open, fiercely blue and wild with need. "I've never felt as beautiful as I do when you look at me like that." She nibbles on the corner of her lower lip. "I don't want to make things weird by being all bossy and demanding."

I stop with her underwear partway down, the elastic drawn across the top of her pussy and across the cleft of her ass; that hint of her sex makes me ache and pulse harder than ever. I imprison her hands in mine—they flutter like birds at her belly, a sign of her nerves, or fear, or worry. Her eyes betray those same feelings.

I stand up, pinning her restless-bird hands between mine to stop their ceaseless, nervous fluttering. "Hey."

She shakes her head. "Sorry. I don't mean to—to be a downer."

I press her against the door and take both of her hands in one of mine and cup her chin and lift her face so she has to look at me. "Story, listen to me."

A hard swallow. "Okay?"

"You trust me?"

She nods immediately. "Of course. Totally. With my life and body both."

"What about your emotions? Your fears? Your needs?"

"That's harder, but yes. Or…or at least, I want to. I'm trying."

"You said we're learning each other. Exploring, right?"

"Yes."

"I've grown up surrounded by some seriously intense, dominating personalities, and I've struggled with the fact that I'm not like that. But I'm not, and I never will be. I'm not this aggressive, demanding alpha male, Story. I do know what I like and what I want, but I'm not…"

She surges against me, silencing me with her mouth. "I know who you are, Killian."

"And I know who you are." I kiss her knuckles. "But this part of ourselves? It's new for both of us. This is what we're learning. And Story, please hear this very clearly—I want you to be exactly and totally who you are, nothing more, nothing less. I don't think the whole alpha, beta, sigma male thing is real; I think it's all bullshit. I'm not submissive or whatever. I'm not into that shit. But I am into you knowing exactly what you want and showing me, or telling me, or teaching me how to give you exactly what you want. I don't want you to ever hide or suppress any part of yourself with me. We started this whole thing on a premise of brutal, intentional honesty about everything, right?"

Her eyes waver with emotion, and she nods, once, slowly. "Yes. Right."

"So that extends to this. To messing around, to sex. To all of it. And the honest truth is, Story, I really did find it seriously hot when you gave me that command. As long as we both are clear that outside of this context, we have respect for each other, for our capabilities and strength and all that? Don’t hold back. Tell me what you want. No filter. No faking anything. Just total transparency in everything."

“You mean it?" she asks. "You don't…you don't feel threatened?"

"No. Why would I?" I open her clenched fists and kiss her palms, nuzzle them. "If I was to give you a command, would you listen?"

Eyes wide and unblinking, she nods. "Yes."

"So if I said to you, Story, take off your panties…'"

A smile spreads slowly across her face, soft and eager. She doesn't reply in words. Instead, she gazes at me, pushes me backward a step with an index finger to my chest, and then dances for me, swaying and rolling her hips, flicking her chest to bounce her tits, and inch by inch, wriggles her panties down further and further, baring her pussy bit by bit until her underwear drops to her feet.

Her pussy is as perfect as the rest of her—pink and sleek, the lips swollen with arousal, clit prominent.

"Fuck me," I breathe, raking my gaze over her body, tip to toe, again and again, memorizing the glory of her nudity, the perfection of her body, the privilege of this moment.

"That's the plan…eventually,” she whispers. "Killy, please touch me. Or let me touch you. Something. Please."

"Is it crazy for us to be doing this, here, now, in this situation, with that guy asleep in the other room?" I ask.

“Yes. But I don’t care. I've waited and wanted and denied myself you for way too long." She steps toward me, leaving her clothes behind, her naked curves on glorious display just for me, and she pushes against me, breasts smashing against my chest, hips against my hips, my hard, aching cock against the silky heat of her sex, and her hands rest on my hips, and her eyes seize mine. "We may not be able to take this as far as we both want right now, but I need something, Killy. Some part of you to tide me over until we can finally be alone together."

We both pause in the silence, listening—snurrrrggghhhh…snort, sigh, snort, snurrrggghhh.

Her lips curl in a greedy smile, and her eyes stay locked on mine, and she brings one soft small warm hand between our bodies…

And grasps my cock in gentle, delicate grip.

8

The Intersection Of Love And Lust

When I grab hold of him, Killy's entire body goes as rigid as his cock, every muscle tensing, jaw clenching and releasing; he's barely breathing, and his eyes are wide and unblinking and fraught.

I want so much—too much, I sometimes think. With Jocko—I savagely shove that line of thinking away. I'm not with him—I'm with Killy. Everything is different; I’m different.

I know there are things he and I need to discuss, but my libido has taken charge. It's been a long, long time since I've been with anyone, and I'm a very, very sexual woman.

I want Killy. I've wanted him for years and years, and now, suddenly, in this crazy, dangerous, scary situation, we've found each other. I know there's a real and intense emotional connection between us, and I’m nearly as eager to explore that as I am our physical one.

Just…not right now.

All I want right now is to touch Killian. To kiss him. To make him feel good. To let him make me feel good—and "let him" is the wrong phrase entirely. "Make him" is more accurate.

Beg.

Plead.

Bargain and barter.

But I know I won’t need to do any of that.

I'll just have to let him.

But first…

I drag my eyes away from his and turn my gaze down to my hand, wrapped around his cock. I can’t help another shocked laugh at the sight that greets me—Killian Harris is hung.

And by that, I mean he's been endowed with the most impressive penis I've ever seen—and I'm a nurse; I see a lot of penises. It's from the point of view of a medical professional, and thus clinical and detached. But you do sort of categorize, okay? Automatically. For me, at least. But as I said, I'm a sexual woman. I've dated and hooked up with a few men in my life, and I can say without question that the organ currently clutched in my hand is the most magnificent specimen I’ve ever encountered.

It's not just about size.

There is such a thing as too big, and don't let anyone say otherwise, it’s just relative. I've been with too big; it hurts. I actually had to—with a lot of profuse apologizing—disengage from the guy and go home because I just couldn't enjoy it through the pain. I did help him out with my hands before I left, because I’m not cruel. And it was a very nice penis, just way too big for me. Some lucky size queen will have a great time with that guy—just not me.

Killian is going to be perfect for me.

I gnaw on my lower lip as I regard it—long and thick and straight, the skin a dark, dusky brown, darker at the base than the head. His pubic hair is black and curly and thick around the base, and it looks like it's grown out from having been either cropped close or shaved. It's slightly thicker at the base than at the tip, and the veins along his shaft stand out prominently, begging for my tongue.

Dear lord, I'm horny.

How long has it been since the last time Jocko and I were together? I was truthful when I told Killy that Jocko was my last. Six months? Eight? Longer? It's hard to remember, mainly because my entire being recoils from trying to think of that man when I'm with this one—the man I've wanted for so long.

I return my eyes to his, and I give him the first full caress, sliding my hand down his hot, hard length, and I whimper quietly at the feel of him in my hand. "Killy, dear lord."

"What?" he asks, his voice pitched low in a soft, shaky growl.

"Your cock." I slide my hand back up to his tip and pulse my fist around the head a few times—Killy's knees dip, and his stomach hardens until his abs pop in high relief. "Freaking gorgeous."

"You don’t curse, do you?"

I laugh, shake my head. "No, not usually. Neither Mom or Dad curse much, so it's something I've just never really found necessary." I stroke his length again, pausing with my grip around the root. "But in this case, I think an F-bomb may be called for."

"Oh?" He's trying like hell to act calm and casual, but he can’t fool me.

I smirk. "Yeah." I lift on my toes and lean in to him, and I kiss him, hard. "I'm gonna be fucking obsessed with this big, beautiful cock of yours, Killy."

He's panting after the kiss, and my words seem to leave him stunned. "Jesus, Story. Gonna give a guy a complex."

"Your cock is perfect, Killian," I tell him, stroking his length again, slowly, from root to tip to root, and then I pulse my grip around his root again. "I've imagined what your cock would look like a million times. I've flicked my bean thinking about this cock almost every night. And yet…” Another slow stroke, and this time I pause with my fingers around his plump, round head, the pre-cum smearing on my fingers. "Nothing I imagined could have prepared me for the reality.”

I watch his face as I let my hand drift gently down his length; he's tensed, his jaw clenched, his brow furrowed. He’s breathing hard, dragging in great, deep, slow breaths as if tightly controlling himself.

"Hey, you need to relax," I whisper. "You're so tense."

He shakes his head. "If I relax, I'm gonna come. And I don't want to. Not yet." He closes his eyes for a second as I twist my hand around his cock-head, rolling my palm over the tip. "I've dreamed of you touching me like this a billion goddamn times, and I want this to last longer than ten fucking seconds." His head tips back and he groans again, his hips punching forward to thrust himself helplessly into my fist. "I want to last for you. I don't want to…fuck!"

I laugh at his helpless, barked curse, rising on my tiptoes and covering his mouth with my smile. "Ssshhhh, Killy," I whisper. "Can I tell you a secret?" I pull back less than an inch from his mouth, gazing up at him as I drop to my heels.

He growls wordlessly, a quiet rumble in his chest as I caress his length slowly. "Anything. Always." His head ducks, chin to his chest, and his eyes squeeze shut, and his jaw goes hard. "Fuck, Story. The way you're touching me. Jesus. It's…fuck. It feels so good. So fucking good. Better than than literally anything I've ever felt in my life. I don't want it to stop, not ever." His eyes fly open, burning with his arousal and now with curiosity as well. "What secret?"

“I don't want you to last, Killy," I whisper. "I want you to come fast and hard."

"It's fuckin' embarrassing," he growls.

My whole being sings at the ravaging arousal written in every line of his body, lacing his voice, and burning in his eyes. "I want it, Killy," I breathe. "If you can't hold back, you know what that says to me?"

"That I'm pathetic?"

I reach up, cup the back of his head, force him to look down at me while I stroke his hot length with slow, twisting caresses; with each one Killian growls in his chest and his hips start to drive and his knees to dip. "It says that I'm doing something right," I say, fluttering soft, shallow pumps around the head of his massive cock, making him lift on his toes and clench his buttocks helplessly. "It means I'm making you feel so good you can't help yourself. And Killy, honey, that is literally the only thing in the whole world I want right now is to give you so much fucking pleasure you forget everything else.”

"Well, that's exactly what you're doing," he murmurs, settling to his heels as I slow my touch, backing him away from the edge for a moment.

"Good," I answer. "So stop holding back and give me everything you've got."

"I…" he shakes his head, jaw muscles ticking and pulsing, brow beetled with concentration. "Fucking hell, Story." His eyes fly open and find mine. "I want to taste you. I want…I need to taste your pussy."

"And Killy-baby, the second you come for me, I’ll be begging you to eat me out like there's no tomorrow."

I twist us so his back is to the door and I press up against him and lift on my toes and I kiss him, deeply and slowly, all tongue and teeth and hot breath, moaning as he responds eagerly and hungrily, his hands lifting to cup my face with delicate tenderness, tilting his head to one side and deepening the kiss until I forget my own name, forget everything but his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, his breath, his hands scraping my hair away and digging his fingertips into my scalp, his thighs hard and bunched against mine—I clutch his hard cock and stroke his thick, smooth length faster and faster as our kiss becomes an entity of itself, takes on a life of its own, endless and wild. I whimper and he groans; I gasp and he growls. He thrusts into my fist and I stroke him faster, cup his balls in my other hand and caress them, scratch his pubic hair with my fingers and slide them down his tender sac and over his taint, cupping and kneading the weight of his balls in my palm, and he groans shakily into our kiss.

"Story," he whispers. "Fuck."

“Yeah?” I answer, my voice barely a whisper. "You like that?"

"I'm gonna…" he trails off, panting, head hanging, hips bucking. "Oh god, oh god, Story—oh fucking god, that feels so fucking good. Please don't stop."

"Never, Killy. Not ever. Not until you've given me every last drop of your cum."

"Fucking hell, the shit you say."

"Told you I can be a little bossy in the bedroom."

"I fucking love it."

“You do?"

'Yeah. Didn't know I would, but I do."

My heart explodes with joy—he couldn’t know how badly I need to hear those exact words. From him, more than anything. To know that what I need is what he wants? I’d say it’s better than sex, but…

"It's like you were made for me," I say, the words emerging unbidden, truth flooding out of me.

He's thrusting raggedly into my hand now, and I meet his upward thrusts with downward strokes, and I claim his mouth again, lose myself in another scorching kiss that has him letting out a long sighing groan.

"Story?" he whispers, sounding almost panicked. "I can't stop it. I have to come."

Faster, faster I caress his cock, bringing him to the point of being unable to even thrust anymore—not standing up, at any rate.

In fact…

"Come sit," I command, using my grip on his cock to rotate him and push him into a backward walk to the couch.

He topples backward to a sprawl on the couch and I land on my knees between his thighs. Our clothes are scattered across the room, but I couldn’t care less—I wouldn’t care if armed men stormed the room right now. Nothing—and I mean nothing is going to stop me from taking Killian over the edge.

He stares at me with his mouth agape and wonder in his eyes and feral need on his face; he gathers my hair—now totally loose from the tight bun I keep it in for work—in his hands and piles it on top of my head, gazing at me down the length of his body with ravaged eyes with my head clutched in shaky, trembling hands, pulling me gently toward his cock.

"Is that how it is?" I ask, grinning at him. "Why yes, Killy, I will suck your cock.”

"I wasn't—" he starts, then stops, tries again. "I wasn't—I was just—"

I pull his cock away from his body and slowly lower my mouth toward him, keeping my eyes on his. "Brutal honesty, Killy. Remember?"

He throws his head back, hisses. "Fuck! Fine. Yes. I want your mouth more than fucking anything." He drops his eyes to mine again. Please, Story. Please. Jesus, I'm so close it hurts."

I open my mouth and taste him on my tongue, and his awed sigh of relieved bliss is a sound I'll remember for the rest of my life. I back away again, whispering. "Hold on tight, Killy. And keep your eyes open. I want you to watch."

God, I feel so good. Letting this side of me out of its prison is…I don't even know the word. Beyond relief or catharsis. I've kept this bossy, aggressive, demanding side of me caged up my whole life, in every relationship I've ever had since the first time I discovered it was part of me—and that was the last time, too. The guy on the receiving end was…not cool with it, and spared no words making it clear how he felt. He was so cruel about it that I was traumatized, and I’ve never dared totally let it loose. A little bit, here and there. A sharper tone, the occasional command.

But not this.

Not just fully letting the sexually aggressive side of me have the reins.

I keep my eyes on his as I swallow his length, and he's so fucking thick in my throat I can barely take him. My lips stutter down his dusky, vein-laced length, and I slither my tongue all over his salty skin as I drive my mouth down his cock. I have his balls in my hands, and I caress them and palm them and knead them, and then I run my hands up his thighs and over his hips and up his belly and claw my fingers in his chest muscles and rake them ungently back down, leaving pale scratch-marks on his brown flesh.

"Story," he breathes, hands exquisitely gentle on my head despite the fact that every other muscle in his body is tensed so hard he may as well be carved out of marble. "Ohmygod, oh my god, oh…my…god. What the fuck are you doing to me?” He thrusts helplessly into my mouth, pushing his length down my throat and I have to back away to give him somewhere to thrust, and as his thrusting reaches its apex, I surge down his length again, until my lips are stretched wide around the fat root and I'm gulping and gasping, only to back away and let him slap against his belly.

"Story," he whispers. "Please."

I grin at him. "Oh, Killy, I’m not stopping. You're just so big I need to give my throat and jaw a quick break."

I pull him away from his abs again, cup my hand around the back of his cock at the root, run my tongue up his length, nuzzle my nose along the side of him, worshipping him with my tongue and my lips without taking him into my mouth just yet, because despite what we've both said, neither of us wants this to end. I'm enjoying this too much, and I think it’s safe to say he is too.

His expression is so fraught that it almost brings tears to my eyes, which is kind of weird, but then, I do understand. It’s just…the way he’s looking at me—the worship, the wonder, the awe… the love?

It's so all-consuming and pure and wild that my heart can’t contain it all, and we've barely begun exploring this thing between us.

I listen—a loud, long snore is all I need to turn back in purely on Killian, and on the privilege at hand: his cock, and the cum I'm about to draw out of him.

By the bucketload, I hope.

I nuzzle the side of his shaft with my cheek and nose and lips again, my eyes on his. "Killy, god, you're gorgeous. You know that?"

He shakes his head. "Not till now."

"You are." I fist his length and caress him slowly. "So damn sexy, sprawled out like that for me. Watching me suck you off."

"You don’t curse, but you talk mad dirty talk, sweetheart."

"It's you," I answer, truthfully. "You make me feel safe enough to…" my eyes burn. "To be myself."

I can’t and won’t go there—not now; later. I can give him all that heavy shit later, when it's an appropriate time to do so.

He clutches the curly mass of my blond curls in one hand and cups my cheek with the other. "I fucking love who you are, Story. I always have."

To hide the red burn of emotion in my eyes until I can get it under control, I take him in my mouth and breathe through my nose and dive down his length, and then I start a rhythm, knowing neither of us can handle drawing this out any longer.

"Come for me," I gasp, lips moving against the tip of his cock. "Now. Please, Killy. Come for me."

I nuzzle his length with my lips and pump his root, mouth his tip and swirl my tongue over his leaking slit, taste his pre-cum and smear it on my lips, my chin, my cheek, and then as he starts to buck into my fist, I wrap my mouth around him and slide my lips down his length until they meet my fist, and then I start to go down on him in earnest, lips and fist touching as I slide down his thick, pulsing shaft.

"Story!" he whispers, sounding ragged and half-broken. "Oh fuck!"

"Mmmm!” I whimper, as he starts to move helplessly. "Mmm-hmmm!"

"I need—"

I let him free with a loud pop. "What? Tell me, Killy." I guide his hands to my head. "Better yet, don’t tell me—show me. Make me."

"Make you?"

"Make me. Take me." I cast my eyes up to his. "No holding back. No filter. Brutal honesty, right? That goes for this, too. Please. Killy, please."

His eyes search my face, and he sees something there that must reassure him, because his grip on my head tightens, and he slowly applies downward pressure. "Make me come, Story," he murmurs.

"Fuck yes," I gasp, and take him in my mouth again, down my throat again, and then pump his root and suckle around his head.

I go faster and faster until he's panting and bucking and writhing, and then he pulls at me to slow me.

“Wait, wait, wait," he murmurs. "Slow."

I go slow, then, my eyes lifted to his as my lips slick down his length, and then….

"Fuck!" he snarls. "I need to…fuck. I need you. I need to fuck your mouth."

"Do it," I whisper. "Show me."

"Don't let me hurt you."

"I won't. Promise.”

And then, with a soft growl, he adjusts his grip on my head, gathering my hair into a ponytail in his fist at the back of my head, and his other hand cups above his fist and pushes me down. I go willingly, and then he thrusts once, and I taste his pre-cum and feel him pulsing, and he growls. And now he doesn’t push; instead, he thrusts. I open my mouth and throat for him and adjust my angle so I can take him like this, and he holds me where he wants me and fucks into my mouth.

"Oh my god, Story," he whispers, his voice raspy and hoarse. "Holy fuck. Holy fuck. I'm gonna come so goddamn hard!"

"Mmmm-hmmmm!" I cry, wordless and shrill and breathless with legitimately eager excitement.

He rocks into me, then, hard and fast, thrusting and driving and grunting, holding my head in place with both hands, and the closer he is to release, the more sounds he makes, the wilder his movements are, and the more turned on I am.

And then he loses the last vestiges of his control, and this is what I crave—his wildness, his aggression, his out-of-control need.

For me.

He grips my hair hard, tight, and fucks up into my mouth while pushing me down, and yet he knows how to make sure he doesn't go too deep.

I feel him nearing the edge—I feel it in the throb of his cock, the tightening of his balls, the stutter and stagger of his thrusts, the way he gasps, the way he groans…

And then he can't even thrust anymore, can only push up off the couch, ass cheeks rock hard, abs harder, chin tucked to his chest, hands helplessly crush-gripping the mass of my hair in one hand and cupping the back of my neck with the other, and now it's up to me to take him over the edge.

I pump my fist around his root as fast as my hand will go, and with the other I massage his taint, pressing my fingers against the delicate secret seam of skin there, and I press my middle fingertip closer and closer to the knot of muscle, and his breath catches in a sharp gasp…

And then he finally, finally comes with a long low snarling sigh. I match his sigh with a shocked whimper as he floods my mouth and throat with his seed, salty and tangy and semi-sweet, and I swallow it all down and pump him for more, and I receive all I could ever wish and so, so much more. My god, so much cum. His hot cock pulses and pounds against my lips, and I massage his taint and caress his length slowly and gently now, lips around his glans as I suckle, pause to gulp and to breathe, then lick his length from base to glans, rolling my mouth over his cock-head just before he spurts more cum. I don’t quite catch it all, and a dribble of it trickles down his shaft—I lick it away, and then lick again, and again, and he's silent and open-mouthed and wide-eyed, brow furrowed with furious wild awe.

Slowly, he subsides and stops coming, and his ass sinks to the couch and he resumes breathing, albeit raggedly.

"Story," he whispers when he has his breath back.

I remain on my knees between his thighs, pumping his length and licking and suckling, and he shudders and thrusts a few times helplessly.

"Fucking…fuck," he snarls. "Jesus, Story."

I meet his eyes, knowing my self-satisfied grin is wide and bold. "Hi."

He brushes a thumb over my lips, looks at the pad of his thumb—it glistens with an errant drop of cum. I lick it away greedily. "Jesus help me, you're fucking incredible. If I wasn’t crazy fucking in love with you already, I would be now."

I stare up at him, sitting on my heels between his legs with my hands on his thighs. "That was so fucking hot, Killian."

He shakes his head. "You're telling me?" He takes my hand and kisses my palm. "Come up here." He draws me to my feet and then settles me on his thighs, straddling him.

I sit there on his lap and gaze down at him, awash with a million emotions, most of them variations on the intersection of love and lust. He gazes at me with his green eyes sparking fire, liquid with heated need—for me, now, rather than his own release. His cock lies slack against his hipbone, slowly receding from full erection, and I already want him again—but now I need him, I need him inside me, I need him to—god, to ruin me.

I'm panting with need, my core aching, my nipples so tight and hard they hurt. “Is…" my voice gives out, and I swallow and try again. "Is it my turn, now?"

We both listen.

Snurrrgghhh-snore….sigh—snurrrgghhh-snore…sigh

"Try and stop me," he growls.

9

Now I Help You

Story lets out a soft, surprised squeal as I rocket to my feet, and her thighs wrap around my hips. She buries her face in the side of my neck and inhales, holds it, lets it out in a long, shuddery sigh. "Killy—" she whimpers. "I need you." She grinds her hot naked core against my bare belly, leaving a wet smear. "Please. Please, Killy. Give me something. Touch me. Fuck me. Eat me. Fucking please."

It's funny how I never really noticed until just now that she doesn't curse almost ever, and never has. But my fucking god, get the girl worked up and she's a fierce, fiery, dirty-talking siren.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Story," I snarl, pivoting and tipping her backward, letting her fall to the couch with a bounce that does deliciously dick-hardening things to her huge, natural tits. "Talk to me like that and I'm liable to forget the circumstances and fuck you until you forget your own name." I plant my fists in the couch-back beside her ears and nip her earlobes.

"Ohhhgodfuck, Killy," she whines. "Don't tease me with what you won't give me."

"When we finally have time and privacy," I murmur, kissing her cheekbones, her closed eyes, her upper lip, "that's exactly what I'm gonna do."

"I won't make it that long," she whispers, cupping my head as I kiss her chin, her throat, her breastbone. "I need you now."

"I think I can maybe find a way to tide you over," I answer, sinking to my knees in the V of her open thighs.

I gaze at her lovely face, and her need-crazed electric blue eyes search me, and she runs her fingers over my hair and then rests them on my shoulders.

"I haven't felt good in so long, Killy," she whispers. "Not with anyone, and not alone, either. I'm so horny it hurts. I need you."

I lean in and flick the tip of my tongue against her nipple, making her flinch and gasp. "I know." I do the same to the other side. "You can relax, Story. I promise, I won't leave you in need."

I rise on my knees and press in to take her mouth—her arms coil around my neck in that sensual, affectionate way she has, and she clings to me, kisses me back until we're both breathless, and then she brings her fingers to my face and trails them down my cheeks and rests the tips against my temples and on my eyelids—and fuck me, the things she does with her hands, the tender affection with which she touches me, it…fuck, I don't even know. It slays me. Destroys me. Makes my heart swell in my chest and crack open, and yet with each new touch, each kiss, each whimper, my heart fills again, expands again, cracks again.

I bring a hand to her knee, and she immediately spreads her thighs wider in a silent plea. God, she’s needy. It's fucking…intoxicating. I want to sate her needs, satisfy her every desire. I want to erase every bad thing she's ever heard about herself, every negative thought she's ever had about herself.

I slide my hand up her thigh, accepting her wordless invitation. As my fingers slip over the delicate bowl of velvety skin in the no-man's-land where thigh meets sex meets hip, she whimpers into the kiss, breaking it, tipping her head back and whimpering, even though I haven't even touched her pussy yet.

I take my time exploring—thigh, hipbone, belly. Trace the curve of her thigh down and in to her buttocks, and then back up along the outer swell of her lip. She huffs breathlessly.

"Killy," she breathes. "Stop fucking teasing me."

"I'm not," I answer. "I'm exploring."

She takes my face in her hands and grips hard, fixing me with a wild, demanding glare. "Killian Harris, I'm going to snap in a second if you don't fucking touch me."

I grin. "Well, when you put it like that."

I trace my fingertip down the seam of her pussy, and she flinches, tucking her tailbone away from my touch and then relaxing. "Oh god," she whimpers. "Please."

"Relax," I murmur. "No begging necessary." I pause. "Although…it is fucking hot as hell when you plead."

“You want me to beg? I'll beg. Anything you want, Killy. Just please, fucking please, I—I'm so horny it hurts. I need to come."

I trace down her seam again, and then again—and the third time, I slip my finger inside her. She's so drenched with need, my finger slicks deep inside her tight hot channel with ease, and I cannot believe this is real, this happening. I'm touching Story Binyamin’s pussy. She's begging me to make her come, begging me to fuck her, to touch her.

"So fucking wet," I whisper.

"For you."

I fill her with a second finger, but she's too tight for a third. "So fucking tight."

"For you," she repeats.

I suckle her nipple into my mouth and flatten it between tongue and roof, eliciting a soft cry, and at the same time, I drive my two fingers deep, until my knuckles catch against her skin. I curl my fingers, and she cries out again, this time loud and shrill—she claps a hand over her own mouth and keens through gritted teeth.

“I’ve just gotten started, Story."

She shakes her head, moaning. "Killy…oh god. More. I need…oh god. I need everything. I need to come. Please help me come."

I thrust my fingers in and out a few times, and her hips buck, and she whines again, hand still tight over her mouth. "God, I wish you could scream."

Her only response is to bite down on the second knuckle of her index fingers and snarl like a trapped wildcat, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut tight; I tear my gaze away, reluctantly, from the sight of her glistening pussy swallowing my fingers. Her eyes snap open and fix on mine, mad and wild and spitting the fury of long-pent need finally given freedom. "Killy—" she breaks off with a gasp as I curl my fingers inside her again, scraping them against the inside of her sweetness. "Do that again."

I do, and she throws her head back, biting her lip to muffle another breathless wail.

Her head jerks forward again, gaze blazing even hotter, and she cups my cheeks, toys with my hair, and then clutches my head, pushes me down. "Killian?"

I let her push me. "Story?"

"Put your mouth on me. Eat my pussy. Now.” She pushes, guides, and now I'm sitting on my heels and wrapping my arms around the outside of her thighs to pull them as far apart as they'll go, and I flick my tongue up her seam. "Ohfuck. God, yes. Yes, Killy. Do you have any fucking clue how many times I’ve masturbated while picturing you, right there on your knees between my thighs, eating my pussy?"

"Tell me," I growl, and then press my lips to her sex and thrust my tongue inside her.

"Everyohhhhhhhmyfuckinggod—every fucking day for years."

"What stopped it?"

She shakes her head. "No more talking." She pulls me against her, thrusts. "Just make me come."

I laugh—not out of mirth but out of pure, unadulterated arousal and joy and wild, primal glee. And no little amount of love. "Anything you want," I answer.

"I can’t have what I want," she snaps. "What I want is your cock inside me. What I want,” and here she sounds almost angry, "is for you to fucking ruin me." She softens, tips my face up to lock eyes with me. "For now, this will do." She accompanies this, spoken in a soft, loving whisper, with a tug of her hand around the back of my head, urging me to her pussy once more.

I go eagerly.

She tastes fucking amazing.

I slick my tongue up her seam a few times, and then drill it into her clit, and she bucks, wailing between gritted teeth into her bicep. God, so incredibly responsive. It makes me crazy for her, makes me want to see what noises I can drag out of her, how hard I can make her thrash, how loud I can make her scream.

I slide the warm weight of her thick, heavy thighs around my neck, resting them on my shoulders, and she greedily curls them in, pulling me closer. I carve my hands up her stomach and find her tits, groaning into her skin as I fill my hands with the silky heat of them, the soft weight of them, the incredible fullness of them.

I squeeze and caress her breasts as I set about learning what makes her scream. It doesn't take long—I quickly discover that she responds best to quick, light strokes of my tongue against her clit, and so I give her that until she starts to whimper and thrust, and then I change it up, find the next thing that makes her wild: suckling her clit.

I get her to the edge again, make her buck and whimper and thrust, and then I find something else to drive her wild with. I pierce her clenching pussy with a finger, and then a second, and now she's so wet and hot and slick that I can fit a third finger inside her, wedged deep in a delta shape, and I thrust them in and curl, scrape her G-spot while flicking her clit with my tongue in light, soft, slow, rhythmic upward strokes. I repeat that action without hurry, no matter how hard she thrusts and mewls, no matter how tightly she wraps those hot velvet thighs around my skull with punishing, crushing, beautiful power. While I'm doing this, I'm pistoning my fingers inside her, slowly at first and with gradually increasing speed.

She meets me eagerly, thrusting against my mouth and fingers, using her thighs to keep me where she wants me and clutching my head with her hands and humming and whimpering and keening through clenched molars.

I hear a snort from the other room, and the snort becomes a groan—the sound of rousing.

Shit. Not yet, Enzo.

The snores resume their rhythm, and I can breathe again. If he'd woken up and I'd had to stop, I don't like to think about what Story's response would be.

Kind of scaroused just thinking about it, honestly.

I look up and meet Story's eyes—and I see mirth. She's shaking with laughter, and when my eyes meet hers, she snorts, and then dissolves into giggles. "Hurry," she whispers. "I'm close."

The distraction means I get to start all over again…and within seconds, Story's hips are pumping furiously as my fingers drive into her and my tongue flicks and flies and circles with the light, quick touch she responds to so beautifully.

I pinch her nipples with my free hand, one and then the other in alternation, pulsing pinches in time with the rhythm of my tongue against her clit, and then the rhythmic tilt of her hips stutters, hesitates, and her whimpers and wails go silent for a moment…two…three, her hips lifted high, mouth open wide, eyes on mine wide with shock at the power of the orgasm barreling through her.

Her breath escapes in a squeak at first, and then a gasp, and then a few quick pants, and then she's throwing her head back and clutching my face against her with one hand and biting down on the knuckles of the other to muffle her screams.

"KILLY!" she wails, and then claps a hand over her mouth, but another wave of climax smashes through her, and she seizes my head in both hands and crushes me against her and grinds herself against my mouth, and now I thrash her clit hard and fast and relentlessly with my tongue in a renewed assault.

My reward is the sounds she makes as she comes all over my face, the soft cries and shrill whimpers, the gasps and the wails into her knuckles, screaming as quietly as she can.

"Killy, oh my fucking god, Killy. Oh god, oh god, oh god." She stares down at me, panting raggedly, breasts heaving, stomach curling in and hardening outward, sweat dotting her upper lip and forehead and the slope of her breasts. "Thank you, ohmygod, thank you," she whispers.

I press a soft, small kiss to the delicate silk of the upper inside of her thigh. "You didn't think I was done with you, did you?"

"What?" she breathes, puzzled. "Killy, I just came so—“

I start all over again, sliding a single finger inside her and swirling soft quick light licks to her clit, and she whimpers, and her hips tilt toward me, and she slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle the scream that tries to escape as climax builds and detonates almost in the same instant.

She goes from whimpering to screaming in an eye-blink, and her thighs clamp down around my ears, and she does a crunch, curling forward toward me, one hand over her mouth and the other clutching the top of my head, half holding me in place and half pushing me away, as if she can't decide which she wants.

Two fingers become three, and I suckle around her clit while pumping my fingers through the clenching heat of her pussy, harder and faster, and she's thrashing and writhing, and it's all I can do to hold on to her slippery hot sweatslick skin and keep my mouth fused to her flesh and my fingers inside her.

"Killy, I—oh! Oh fuck…oh fuck, I feel like I'm—"

All at once, she twists away from me and curls in on herself on her side, twitching and whimpering, half-sobbing. Concern and panic sear through me, and I lurch up off the floor and scoop her in my arms and cradle her on my lap, head on my chest.

"What did I do?” I ask in a whisper. "Are you okay?"

She nods, spasming, and her fingers dig into my pecs, and then she seizes my trapezius muscle in her teeth and growls through another wrenching spasm. "I felt like I was gonna—" she stops, shakes her head. "Holy shit, Killy. Holy shit."

Suspicion simmers, and I let the concern and panic subside, let a wolfish grin spread across my face. "You're okay, sweetheart."

Story pulls back, looking almost angrily at me. "Are you laughing at me?"

“No," I say, my voice shaking.

"Don't piss on my head and tell me it's raining, Killian Harris. You're laughing."

“Yes, but not at you, not in a mocking sense. I'm not even teasing."

"Then why the fuck are you laughing?"

"Why don't you tell me why you stopped me?" I counter.

"I—" a quick, sharp sigh. "Shut up."

"Brutal honesty, Story."

"I couldn't handle it anymore, okay? I didn't think it was possible, but I just couldn't come anymore. It was too intense." She buries her face in my chest, her words muffled. "It felt like I was gonna—"

"Gonna what?"

"Like something was going to—break." She rolls a shoulder in a tiny, vague approximation of an embarrassed shrug. "It felt like something inside me was gonna snap. It was—I had to stop."

I gather her closer. "Next time, don't stop me. Trust me."

"It was kind of a scary feeling, Killy. Like I was gonna pee. This isn't a hotel, this is someone's home. And we're not alone. I do trust you. I just—that was—"

"You do understand you almost squirted, right?"

She nods. “Yeah, obviously. But I need time and privacy to be able to let myself go like that. It's not that I don't trust you, but I can’t…I can't let my guard down that far in circumstances like this."

There's a long silence as she catches her breath.

"Killy?" Her voice is small, once again.

I kiss her temple. "Yeah?"

"That was incredible. No one has ever made me feel like that before in my life." She reaches up, turns my face down to hers and kisses me softly and deeply and slowly. "I can't thank you enough for giving that to me."

Breaking the kiss, I give a quiet bark of laughter. "I was just trying to make you feel as good as you made me feel. Because same."

"To be clear," she says, grinning up at me, "I've never thanked anyone for orgasms before."

"Me neither." I groan, then. "We should get dressed."

She gives a little shake of her head. "No," she whines. "I don't wanna."

"Me either," I answer. "I just want to stay naked with you forever. But I don't want to be caught, literally, with my pants down if someone were to have followed us here somehow."

She giggles. "You can't literally be caught with your pants down, Killy," she says, cupping my cock and balls in one hand. "You're not wearing any."

I move her hand away. "If you get me hard again, I won't be able to stop myself."

"Oh no?" She breathes the question, fighting my grip to get another touch. "Then—what would you do?"

"Bend you over this couch," I answer immediately. "Put my cock inside your tight, hot, wet little pussy and fuck you until you forget my name, your name, and everything else that's not my cock inside you."

She groans, bites my pec, clutches my cock. "I'd kill to be able to have that right now," she whispers. "I fucking need you inside me in the worst way.”

I stagger to my feet with her in my arms, carry her to the door where our clothes are, and set her on her feet. She whimpers, her shaky legs not able to take her weight for a second; she braces herself with a hand on my shoulder. I snag her panties, orient them correctly, and then grasp her ankle and lift her foot, help her step into one leg-hole and then the other, and then I tug them up, standing as I go. Next, I tug her sports bra over her head; she smiles softly at me and lets me guide her arms through, and then I let her do the adjustment of her breasts inside the garment. I help her into her scrub bottoms and then the top.

Dressed, Story gives me a tender smile so soft and affectionate that my heart flips, cracks yet again, and seems to swell inside my ribcage, as if my poor heart can’t contain the totality of what she's directing at me. "Now I help you." She kneels at my feet and guides my foot into my underwear; she doesn't tug them all the way up, though, her eyes locked on my semi-erect member. "Do you even know how tempted I am to suck you off again?" Her gaze flicks to mine as she asks the question.

I scrub my face with both hands, swallowing hard. "We've tempted fate enough as it is," I murmur.

She makes a disappointed sound as she finishes covering me. A minute later, we're both dressed, and we sit down on the couch.

"I'm wired and tired at the same time," Story says, eventually. "And we still have”… she checks the Apple Watch on the inside of her wrist, which is on low-power mode, only showing the time—5:03—in red numerals. "At least another four or five hours to kill."

I sniff a laugh, shaking my head. "We've only been here an hour?"

We're side by side on the couch, legs extended, half-reclining. She rolls her head to one side and gazes at me. "Right? Feels like a lot longer."

"I guess your life can change in an instant, huh?"

She snorts. "Quit exaggerating, goofball."

"I'm not!" I protest. "After that, I'll never be the same."

"Neither will I," she answers in a quiet voice.

Another long silence.

"Story," I start, and then pause, trying to find the right words for my question. "Maybe I’m imagining things or seeing stuff that wasn't there, so correct me if I'm wrong, but it seemed like there was some stuff that you…” I trail off again, with a huff of self-effacing laughter. "I can't figure out what I'm trying to ask."

"Bluntly, Killy. You won't hurt me or make me mad, I promise. I know that whatever you're curious about, it's not coming from a place of cruel intent."

"Jesus, of course not."

She shakes her head. "It's not always as obvious as you'd like to think, babe."

"Someone was cruel to you."

She nods, looking away, blinking. "Yeah."

"Care to share?"

She lets out a long, slow breath. "Do I want to talk about it? No, not really. But I will answer any question you ask me. You deserve the truth." She shrugs, shakes her head. "There are no giant bombs in my past, Killy—not that you don’t already know about, I mean. Just the sad reality that a lot of men are assholes." Another sigh, this one thoughtful. "I mentioned Jocko. His insecurity. Right? Possessiveness. Jealousy. All that. Jocko was just the one that sort of broke my will to date, I guess you could say."

"Oh geez, I don't like the sound of that," I say.

"If you want my entire dating history, I'll give it to you, my number included, if you want." She looks at me. "I'm not trying to have any secrets from you. And it's not a secret. I just haven't had the best of luck with guys."

"You don't owe me anything, Story, but I want to know everything there is to know about you. I just don't want to pry into things that are too hard or painful or just personal." I consider for a moment. "How about you tell me what you feel comfortable telling me? As little or as much as you want. Ball's in your court."

She rotates and scoots to lay lengthwise on the couch, her head on my lap and her legs curled, heels tucked against her butt; she takes one of my hands and toys with it with both of hers, idly and affectionately. "Just tell me what you want to know. Tell me what you think you saw that concerns you."

"You seemed…I dunno. Insecure, maybe. About your hips."

"You mean my giant ass."

"You mean your big, beautiful, perfect ass?"

"Keyword being big."

"Keyword being perfect."

She sighs. "I don't know too many women that aren't at least a little insecure about the size of their butt, Killy, be it too big or too flat. It can be a debilitating insecurity. Mine’s always been a little bigger than I'd like, and no matter what I do, it's always just been a little disproportionately too big for the rest of my frame. As you may have noticed, I'm kind of on the shorter side. I'm not overweight, and I know I'm fit and strong, I just—" she sighs, covers her face. “The fact is, one dude said one stupid, thoughtless thing about the size of my ass, and it just got stuck in my head. And it was years ago!" she shakes her head, laughing. "I shouldn't let it bother me, but it does."

"What'd he say?"

"Well, that's the thing. He claims, and I believe him, that he meant it as a compliment."

I wince. "Oh, shit. That's the worst."

"He said I have a fat ass. The context—" she blinks at the ceiling. "We were, um—somewhere between third base and home, if you know what I mean. And he—he smacked my butt. Told me to get my fat ass over there."

I grimace, huffing. "Ooh. Yeah, not a good move."

"I mean, I suppose if the girl is, like, super confident about her ass, maybe. But I can't see any woman I know taking it as a compliment if a guy says, during sex, that you have a fat ass." She flicks her gaze to mine. "Thoughts?"

"Well, as a guy who tends to be attracted to, um…bigger backsides, I get where he was probably coming from. He probably really did mean it as a compliment, and a significant one, at that. I'm not defending his word choice, and I'd certainly never use that particular word in reference to any part of a woman's body in any context."

"Because you're not an idiot."

"Welllllll?" I ask, drawing it out in a squeaky timbre, for humor value. "I also may have learned that the hard way. Not like that poor dumb doofus did, but I learned."

"Killy, c'mon."

"Here's my take, okay? I think you're the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen. On TV or in real life, naked or clothed. Your body is—" I shake my head. "You have the body of a goddess. And the fact that your butt is not a cute, tiny little thing is, in my personal opinion, a damned good thing. There's nothing wrong with tiny butts, just like there's nothing wrong with big ones. It's all a matter of perspective, right? And my perspective is that you have a perfect ass."

"Killy, you're mincing words."

"I'm being tactful. The guy hurt your feelings, left you with an insecurity that still bothers you years later. The last thing I want to do is make it worse."

She reaches up and cups my jaw. "Killy, that's sweet. But you won’t. For one thing, that guy didn’t…care about me. Not the way you do."

"The word is love, but yes."

"That's a different conversation. And a big one."

"I know."

"So what I hear you saying is that I do have a big ass, but it's a good thing, and the guy was just so caught up in the moment that he used the wrong word?"

"I mean, yeah? Basically? I don't know, Story. Obviously I wasn't there and I don't know him. Maybe he was just an idiot and an asshole."

"An idiot, yes. An asshole?" She sighs. “No, he wasn't. He didn't mean to hurt my feelings. I’m honestly as much, if not more, upset that I still have his voice in my head saying, 'get that fat ass over here,' whenever someone sees me naked for the first time than I am about what he said. I hate that I worry whoever it is will think I have a fat ass."

"But is it the word ‘fat’ that sticks, or the idea that your ass isn't—I dunno—smaller?"

"Both?" she says, uncertainly. "He used the word fat. It bothered me. It stuck. And I've done all the usual things to make it smaller, or at least tighter, and seem to get nowhere."

"I've been obsessed with your ass since I was thirteen, Story. I love it exactly how it is. I love the size of it. I love the shape of it. And I love those things all the more now that I've had the privilege of seeing it naked and getting to touch it."

"Privilege? Killy, you're a nutcase."

"It is a privilege, Story!” I protest. "To be with you at all is a privilege. To know you. To be your friend, let alone to be with you in a romantic or sexual context. You amaze me, you inspire me, you challenge me. And yeah, you turn me on. You're so fucking sexy it makes me crazy."

She turns her face into my belly. "You're killin’ me, Killy.” She covers her face with both hands, holds a lungful of air for a four-count, and then lets it out slowly through her palms.

“Can I ask you about something else?” I say.

She nods. “You can ask.”

"The bossy in the bedroom thing."

She leaves her hands on her face for a while, and I let her take her time thinking. "That's a bit of a bigger issue."

"More idiot men and their thoughtless and cruel assholery?"

"I wish it was that simple."

"You don't have to explain anything, Story." I slide the pad of my thumb over her lips, and she nips playfully at my thumb. "All that really matters to me is that I really fucking liked it."

To my horror and confusion, my words, instead of reassuring her, cause tears to spring to her eyes and trickle in gravity-curved trails down her cheeks. "Oh, my sweet Killy."

10

The Hard Shit

"That felt a little condescending, to be honest," Killian says.

"It wasn't. I promise you it wasn't. It just…it does matter. The reason I have issues about…that—it matters to me, and it should matter to you, because it affects you."

"I just don't want to cause you pain by making you talk about it."

"I am noticing that tendency, Killy," I tell him. "But sometimes, you just have to dig into the hard stuff even if it sucks. Been down the road where we didn't, and it didn't go well. If Jocko and I had talked about our stuff at the outset, we would have known that it wasn't gonna work between us."

"Can I ask a question?"

"Of course."

He glances at the ceiling, then at me. "Did you go into things with him thinking it was gonna be a relationship? Or was it more casual to start and sort of became a relationship?"

"Mmmm?" I hum, thinking. "Bit of both, really. I met him at the gym. Some six-foot-a-billion jerk-waffle had left three plates on the bar in the power rack, set so high I couldn't get them off on my own, and it was the only rack not in use. Jocko stopped his set to help me."

"People who don't re-rack their weights at the gym oughta be strung up by their thumbs," he says.

I smirk up at him, an eyebrow quirked. "Lot of experience with public gyms, huh?"

He narrows his eyes at me. "One of the security guys got transferred off compound duty because he kept leaving his weights lying around. Sasha got so mad he cursed the guy out in like four languages. He wanted to fire him, but Dad just transferred him to LA for Starlet Duty."

I snicker. "For what now?"

"Starlet Duty. Bodyguarding celebrities. It's the entry-level position at A1S."

"You'd think that would be the position everyone wants, " I say. "Hanging around stars all day?"

"You'd think," he answers. "But it's boring as fuck, apparently. If you want to do that job, you don't apply to A1S. You come to us because you're a top-tier operator and you want to work for the best security firm on the planet. Bodyguarding actors and their brats is not the job an operator wants. Not a lot of shooting, for one thing."

"In an ideal world, no," I say.

Killian snorts. "And now that I've totally derailed the conversation."

I trace the hint of a cleft in his chin with the tip of my index finger. "No, not at all. Where was I? Oh, Jocko. Right, yeah. You asked if it started out as a relationship. And now that I've thought about it, no, it didn't. I'd just gotten home from spring break down at the compound. You were…distant. Barely looked at me. Cal was dating some local girl on some island or other, and you spent most of the week I was down there with Cal, hanging at his girlfriend's family's place. Which I thought was weird."

"Oh, god." He rolls his eyes, shakes his head. "That was so embarrassing. I was under the impression that Lucia's best friend liked me—Cal told me Lucia had said as much. But apparently he misunderstood what Lucia had said—she thought I was cute but too quiet. He only heard the cute part." Loo-CHEE-uh.

I cover my mouth. "Oh boy."

He looks away, visibly cringing. "Yeah. So she didn't like me at all, and I spent most of that week either third-wheeling Cal and Lucia or off on my own so I wouldn't third-wheel them." He swallows hard. "I was one hundred percent avoiding you, though. You showed up looking fuckin'…" a shake of his head. "Fine as hell. You'd just chopped your hair off, and that bob or whatever was hot as hell. And that first day you were down, we all had dinner. You wore this white sundress."

I grin up at him. “I know the dress." I bite my lower lip, hesitating over the truth. "I wore it for you."

"You looked so fucking goddamned fine, Story," he whispers, his voice tortured. "That fucking sundress. The way your ass looked? It was so short I kept thinking I'd get a better look at your ass, but I never did. And your tits. Dear Jesus. I wanted you so goddamned bad." He looks down at me. "You clocked that I didn't leave the table once, even after the dinner was over? You left before I did."

I nod, frowning. “Now that you mention it, yeah. Why?"

"Because the sight of you in that goddamn dress kept causing problems for me. You'd bend over to talk to someone, and I’d get a clear look straight down your blouse. Or you'd get up and go around the table to talk to someone else and I'd have to try like hell to not stare at your ass in the dress."

I cover my smirk. "All intentional, I assure you."

He frowns. "Wait, for real?"

I nod. "Absolutely. I was trying to get your attention. See if you liked me. If you were attracted to me." My smile fades. "You barely looked at me. I was crushed, honestly. And then you spent the next three and a half days on the other side of the Caribbean. When you came back, I never got more than five minutes with you."

"All intentional, I assure you," he says, smirking as he echoes my statement. "I didn't realize what you were doing, obviously. I just felt tortured by what I wanted but didn't think I could have."

I laugh at this. "Oh, the irony. And that is irony, I'm, like, 99 percent sure."

"I think so, too." He frowns, thinking, and then glances down at me, a question in his eyes. "Crushed?"

I nod. "Totally crushed. The haircut, the dress, the bending over near you, the extra swish of my hips whenever I thought you were watching? Yeah. That was an all-out campaign to get your attention."

"Why did you not just…talk to me?"

"Why didn't you?" I counter.

"I was scared," he answers instantly.

“Well, so was I."

"Oh."

"I've always valued our friendship, Killy. So, so much. More than just about any other relationship in my life except Mom and Dad, I value you, and our friendship. That's what's made it so painful to be so attracted to you for so long. Having to suppress it because it would have been inappropriate at best, if not illegal or immoral, was…that wasn’t difficult. But as you grew into maturity and the age difference stopped mattering so much, it got harder and harder and more and more painful to want you so much. But I didn't think you liked me back, and I was so scared of losing your friendship as well as of being rejected that I just…I was never courageous enough to make a big move. I guess I hoped that if I…" I hesitate, tip my head side to side, "did a little flirty temptation in front of you to get your attention, you'd see that I liked you and you'd make the move so I didn't have to."

"And I just thought that was you being you."

I laugh. "I don't know how I feel about you thinking that my version of going all out to get your attention is just me being me."

"That I was an oblivious shithead."

I cackle out loud at this, and clap a hand over my mouth. "Noted."

He frowns, reaching down to pinch the outside of my buttock. "Hey, now. You were supposed to say, 'No, Killy, you're not a shithead.'"

I move my hand to his cheek. "You aren't. You were pretty remarkably oblivious, though."

"Here's a pro-tip, sweetheart: subtlety doesn't usually work on men."

"No shit." I let out a sigh, then. "Well, anyway. I went home terribly sad and depressed and crushed and feeling rejected and unattractive. Which sucked." I cover his mouth. "Not your fault, so don't even try to apologize. Point is, Jocko liked me right off the bat. I could just tell he was into me. And he was an attractive guy, had a good job, drove a nice car, had a nice place, he was nice to me, he liked me, he spent money on me, made me feel…" I shrug, not wanting to get emotional but knowing it's gonna happen anyway. “He made me feel attractive when I needed to feel that. So at first, for me, it wasn't supposed to be serious. But we kept going out on dates, and I realized I genuinely liked him, and that made me realize that you weren't ever going to see me like that, so I should just give it up. Move on. Up until then, I'd only really dated on a more casual basis." I bite my lip and look away, knowing he's gonna clock what I'm not saying.

"Story."

“I know, I know. Radical honesty. I only had one other relationship that I thought was going to be something like serious, and that was in med school. But that's the next part of me answering your question. Back to Jocko. I had stuff by then. Hangups and whatever. About you, about everything that happened with Everett, the guy from med school I’m gonna tell you about in a minute. And I didn't talk to Jocko about any of it. I wasn't open with him, or he with me. We just hung out and had fun, mostly. And yeah, by that I mean regular going out to concerts and stuff, as well as horizontal fun. It just sort of slowly morphed into a real relationship, and by the time I realized that he had some major issues that reacted negatively with my own, it was too late. He was possessive, and I need to feel safe and free. I don't see the point in going into everything that went wrong with Jocko because it’s all coming from the same place: he and I not discussing our issues when we realized things were getting serious."

"And it was serious?" he asks.

I nod. "Oh yeah. We talked about moving in together, but didn't, thank god. I really cared about him. I wasn't totally fair earlier—he's not really an asshole. He just has his own stuff that made him super insecure, and I’m not the type of person that can reassure him the way he needs."

"The jealousy as you described it did enter asshole territory, Story."

"Sure. But…" I wave my hands. "Not the point. Whether Jocko was an asshole or not is irrelevant. What's relevant is what I learned—don't let the past hamstring your future."

"Makes sense to me."

“So, Everett." I blink hard. "This is hard to talk about. But…so…god—where to start? Everett wasn't my first. But he was the first significant relationship I ever had. My previous boyfriends in high school and early college, before med school, they were all…casual. We both knew it wasn't serious." I look at Killian. "My first time I was seventeen. Bryan Hansen-Mackenzie. He was twenty."

"Story!"

"I know, I know. I was less than two months from my eighteenth birthday, and it didn't seem to matter. Still doesn’t, honestly. I was no different in April than July. The actual birthday was arbitrary. Not the point. I'm just sharing."

"Abby Wilshire for me. I was sixteen, she was seventeen. She was a tourist spending the summer in the BVI."

"Killy, so young!"

He rolls his eyes. "I know. Mom and Dad never found out until, like, a few months ago. They were pissed. Mainly because I lied about where I was and who I was with."

"Oof. Such a deviant," I tease. "Everett and I had several classes together. He was a bad boy. Came from a rough background, got in a lot of fights, smoked, drank, acted like he didn't like anyone. Except me. He liked me. He was sweet with me…as long as I went along nicely."

"Um—"

"Shush." I touch his lips. "I know. Just listen. He was…mesmerizing, okay? Like, well…it's hard to explain. But he had this way of…hypnotizing you, almost. He had this low, smooth, quiet voice. This stillness that drew you in. And I didn’t really see the warning signs for what they were. I was young. I was dumb. I was lonely. And, to be totally honest, horny as hell but sick of casual flings with immature frat boys. Everett and I just clicked, at first. I liked riding around campus in his Wrangler with the top off. I liked how he'd walk around campus with his arm slung over my shoulder as if I belonged to him. But the jealousy was an issue almost right away. He wanted to know everything about everyone I spoke to, girl or boy. Wanted to know where I was all the time. Expected me to answer his texts instantly. It felt easy enough to go along with all that. I mean, I had nothing to hide, right? He'd been cheated on and treated like crap himself, so I told myself it was…normal. Part of Everett being Everett."

"But then…?" Killian prompts.

"This is where it might get uncomfortable for you, Killy…for both of us. Because what broke us up wasn't that—it was sex."

He looks away, at nothing, thinking, and then back at me. "We've all got pasts, Story. I want to know you, I want to understand you. All of you."

"I wouldn't be telling you any of this if I didn't believe that and want the same," I say, and take a few breaths to steady my nerves. "I've never talked about this before. I don't exactly have a lot of friends, and no one I'm close enough with to talk about this stuff with."

"Not Rinny or Brynnie?" he asks.

I shrug, shake my head. "No, not really. We have fun together, but we don't talk about the tough stuff. Boys, yes. The hurtful stuff boys have done? Not so much."

"Huh. I guess I didn't realize that. I thought you were closer with them."

"Only you, Killy, and obviously I wasn't gonna talk about this with you." A pause. "Then, at least."

"Did he hurt you?" Killian asks.

I shake my head. "Not like you're probably imagining." I cover my face. "I'm dragging this out because I don't know how to get into the really hard stuff." I cover his mouth. "I know, I don't have to. But I do. You deserve to know." I let out a breath. "Casual sex is fun, you and I both know that, I think, right? It's fun to have a quick thing with a stranger. It means nothing, so you can be totally yourself. No judgment, or if there is judgment, you can shrug it off because you’re never gonna see that jackass again, so screw it. His opinion is irrelevant because he means nothing. Or she.”

Killian nods. "With you so far."

"I've always been a decisive person. Dad taught me to approach any problem or decision rationally. He even has an acronym—PACE, P-A-C-E. Pause, assess, consider, engage. From day one, that was the lesson. Don't just react, PACE yourself. Pause before reacting, assess the situation, consider your options, and choose either the best one or the least bad one, and then do it."

Kilian nods again. "PACE is an official part of A1S training."

"Well, the decisiveness is a part of me, at this point. It's part of what makes me an excellent triage nurse. I'm good at making split-second decisions. But it extends to every part of my life." I look up at him. "Including my romantic life and…and my sex life."

"Naturally."

"Not so naturally to everyone, Killy," I whisper. "Everett claimed to like that about me, but whenever I made a decision without consulting him, he flipped. And I mean stupid things, like I stopped for food on the way home from work and didn't ask him what he wanted. But to me, I knew what he wanted. Why waste time asking when I know if I'm going to BK, he's gonna want a chicken sandwich meal and a Dr. Pepper because his order is always the same?"

"Follows for me."

"Sure. But not to him. He wanted me to consult him. That's the little shit. Whatever. It takes thirty seconds to shoot him a text and ask his order because it avoids the issue. Fine. No problem. But I made decisions for my own life—which classes to take, whether to take out loans or accept more handouts from Mom and Dad and Uncle Val. Everything." I pause. "But me knowing what I want never caused as much of a problem for Everett as in the sex department."

Killian winces. "Shit. This is gonna be bad, huh?"

I nod. "Yup."

He takes my hand and tangles our fingers. "Carry on."

"I've always tended to take charge, to some degree." I sit up and move off him, sit beside him, bent over with my elbows on my knees, Killian's hand clutched in both of mine. "Please don't look at me and don't interrupt so I can just get it all out."

I look at him, but he just nods, squeezes my hand, smiles at me.

"Taking the ‘don’t talk’ injunction seriously, I see," I joke.

"I do try to listen."

“Teasing," I say, then look away and dial in. "Until Everett, I thought…I guess I didn't feel so weird. Most guys I hooked up with tended to at least act like they either liked or didn't mind me being…um…bossier. I'm not a dominatrix, okay? I'm not into anything like that, so don’t… don't think that's what I mean. I just…I know what I want and I've…well, until then, I never had an issue telling my partner what I wanted. Or not just telling but…um, showing."

"I understand what you mean."

I squeeze his hand to acknowledge his statement. "I thought I was being a clear communicator. Making it obvious what I wanted, what I expected, what I didn't like. So I went into things with Everett thinking nothing of that part of myself. But the first time Ev and I slept together, which was almost four months after we met and a month after we started dating—I made him wait because I liked him and I wanted to see if it could be a thing and not just a hookup. Where was I? Oh. The first time we slept together, I did something he didn't like: I told him what to do."

"Oh, the horror," Killian quips, deadpan, robotic, sarcastic.

"Well, to him, yeah. I legit don't remember what I said. Some order. Lay down, or something relatively tame like that. And he…he just looked at me weird, and then ignored me. It was in the middle of things so I just went along, but it stuck in my craw, y'know? I don't like being ignored."

"Who does?" Killy asks. "Sorry. Shutting up."

I give him a smile and a trailing of my fingertip across his lower lip—he has such wonderful lips, full and plump and soft and expressive and so kissable and touchable, and I find myself touching his mouth quite often because I simply can't get enough.

"I don't need you to shut up, Killy. Just keep the interruptions and questions to a minimum until I'm done with the hard part." I lean my head sideways onto his shoulder. "That was the first red flag I ignored. Well, if you don't include the needing to know where I’m going and who I’m talking to as a red flag."

Killian snorts. "Um, yeah, that's a red flag, babe. A big one."

"Shut up. I may be smart, but I never claimed to be wise." I just breathe for a moment or two and then continue. "Every time Everett and I slept together, there was something like that. And I think he genuinely was trying to let it go because he cared about me."

"Why do I feel like you're trying to see the best in him even now?"

"Because I am," I answer. "I guess that's just part of my nature."

"Admirable."

"Maybe. Gets me into trouble, though. Case in point—every time I got too assertive, in everyday life and especially in the bedroom department, he got more and more irritated by it. I noticed it and made up excuses. Tried to bite my tongue more instead of saying that stuff. Tried to defer to him more."

Killian's brow furrows. "I don't like that. You're a badass, Story. Badasses defer to no one."

I smile, sniff a not-quite laugh. "Oh, Killy, sweet, sweet Killy." I turn my face into the side of his neck. "You can't possibly know how badly I need to hear so many of the things you're saying. I’ve needed to hear them for so long." My eyes burn. "You can't know how it feels to hear them. From you, especially. Your opinion of me matters more than anyone else's. Even my parents. I know they love me. I know they're insanely proud of me. And that matters to me so fucking much. But you…they're my parents. You're…"

"Just some guy."

I shake my head. "No. Not even close. Not just some guy." I cup his face and gaze into his eyes up close. "The guy. My guy. I hope."

"If there's anything in this life that I want to be more than anything else, it's yours."

I blink hard. "Then you are. You're mine."

He wipes a thumb under my eyes. "And that's all I need."

I lean in and kiss him, and for a few minutes, we just get lost in each other. This is not a kiss meant to lead to sex. It's a kiss meant to conjoin our souls, mate our hearts.

He pulls away first. "God, I love you."

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as I consider saying it back. "I have to get all this out, Killy."

His gaze is calm and understanding. "I know."

"I don't want you to think that I don't feel—"

He touches my lips with a finger, silencing me. "Shush, Story. I say it because I feel it. I'm confident in what I feel for you. It’ll be true whether you return it or not. I think you do, and yeah, it'll mean the whole fucking world to me to hear you say it." His green eyes are serious and deep and piercing. "When you're ready. Whenever that is."

I blink a few more times, and then descend back into the sordid tale of how I came to be ashamed of my sexuality. "Everett and I dated for most of med school, and it was a toxic relationship for most of that time. I was trying to be someone I wasn't, and he was pretending that who I am at my core didn't piss him off."

"That can't have felt good."

"It's hard to explain to someone who hasn't been through it how you can get stuck in a relationship you know is shitty. And just to be clear, it went both ways. He was pretending, and so was I. I acted like his possessiveness and jealousy weren't a big-ass problem. I acted like it didn't cut me to the core when he shut me down because I forgot myself and got too assertive. I made excuses for his behavior, and I know he made them for mine. But we were stuck. We did like each other—or parts of each other. And sometimes, a shitty relationship seems like a better option than loneliness and the depression that can come with being alone."

"I can see that," Killy says.

"It came to a head during finals. We were both stressed the heck out to the max. He was working to become a research PhD, by the way. Molecular biology. He was brilliant—is brilliant. Anyway. When I get super stressed out, one of the kind of fucked-up ways I cope is sex. It's an outlet, I guess." I can see that this bugs him a little, but he says nothing, and I watch him work through it—his emotions, to me at least, are easily readable. "I'm sorry, Killy, I know—"

He shakes his head and interrupts me. "No. No apologizing for who you are, not fucking ever. Is it a little uncomfortable to think about you having sex with other people? Sure, obviously. You're your own woman, Story. And I want to know what makes you tick. I want to know everything about you, good, bad, ugly, beautiful, weird, amazing."

“You really mean that,” I say, staring at him.

“Yeah, I really do. Down to my bones. I'm not gonna sit here and pretend it's not kind of hard to listen to you talk about sex with other people, but it's a reality of life, and it’s something I understand and something I can handle. It's not like you're sitting there telling me how great your exes are."

I snort. "God, no." I nibble on his earlobe. "Please trust me when I tell you that you, Killian Harris, outshine everyone I've ever dated or slept with, in every department,” I whisper, then, directly into his ear. "No one has ever made me feel as good as you just did. And that is the god's honest truth."

"Story," he murmurs. “You don't have to—"

I cup his cheek and move my mouth to his other ear, nibble the shell, his earlobe. "You have the best cock by far." I cup him over his zipper.

He covers my hand, moves it. "Fucking hell, Story."

"I just need you to know I'm being totally honest." I kiss him, quickly, gently. "I'm not feeding you lines or anything, Killian. I spent years wanting and dreaming and fantasizing about you and years more trying to forget you and how I felt about you. And the reality of you is so much more, so much better than anything I ever came up with in my head.”

He hangs his head, shrugs one shoulder. "I dunno how to respond to that."

I pull his face against my chest and kiss the top of his head. "You don't need to. As long as you believe me."

"I do."

I let him sit upright and swallow hard. "You ready for what Everett said?"

"No."

"Me neither." I rub my face with both hands. "I was stressed about finals. I wanted—I needed to not think about A-and-P and chemical interactions and titration schedules and all that. I wanted my boyfriend to comfort me. To take my mind off things. And I knew he was just as stressed, and I figured it would be good for him, too. So I got rid of my roommate and did a little spaghetti dinner, complete with a stupid candle and everything. I wore some sexy lingerie. I texted him and told him I needed his help studying, and can you please come over.”

"Lucky fucking bastard," Killian murmurs. "You in lingerie?"

I grin at him. "I have some pieces I could wear for you."

"Please Jesus, yes."

I laugh at the intense sincerity in his voice. "I know white briefs and a sports bra isn't exactly the height of sensuality. But I wasn't expecting this, y'know?"

"If I was to get to see you in some sexy lingerie, Story, I legit may not survive. The rush of blood to my cock very well might just stop my heart."

"I hope not,” I laugh. “I need your cock hard and your heart beating."

He pinches my chin, tugs my lower lip down, leans in and kisses me. "Finish the story, Story."

"I was so stressed out, so…needy, I guess. Out of control? I dunno. I was out of my mind a little. Not thinking. Any filter I may have had was gone. I went a little crazy. As soon as he walked in, I jumped his bones. He was like hell yeah, at first."

"At first," Killy says under his breath, with vicious derision. "Fucking loser."

I giggle softly, and then sober as I finish the story. "I…" Memory is brutally fresh and painfully vivid. "Fuck." It hurts before I've even said anything.

"Story—"

I squeeze his hand, press his palm to my face. Whisper the rest. "I just have to tell it, and I’m sorry in advance."

"No apology necessary. I get it, and I can deal. I'm here. I'm listening."

"He walked in, saw the stupid card table and the bed sheet I used for a tablecloth, and the candles. It meant a lot to him, I could tell. I doubt anyone had ever done anything like that for him."

"Guys don't tend to get big gestures like that very often."

"Everett in particular. He came from a very broken and violent home, and I don’t think too many girls ever even tried to see the real him. Which, honestly, is probably a big part of what led him to being the way he is, and how he reacted. That's an explanation, not an excuse. Anyway. I grabbed him and kissed him, and…yeah. You know how it goes. What food, right?"

"I can imagine, yes," he says, carefully.

"I…" I squeeze my eyes shut. "Shit, this is hard. I pushed him backward toward my bed. When we were a couple of feet away, I shoved him, hard. Not, like, violently, just…aggressively. Big, big, big mistake. I don't know if it triggered something from his childhood as an abuse victim or what, but he snapped. He stood up and grabbed my wrists. And yeah, in that moment, I was afraid of him. He was a violent guy, but only with other guys. Never with me and never with any female. I watched him break a guy’s face at a bar because the guy got physical with his girlfriend in a way Ev didn't like. But in that moment, I admit I was a little scared. He didn't hurt me. Just grabbed my wrists and walked me backward out of his space. Turned around and just stood there for a minute like he was trying to control himself."

“That had to have been confusing.”

“Oh yeah. He turned around and looked at me, and I could tell how angry he was. Disgusted, almost. And he said—" I sigh, try again. "This is almost verbatim. Somewhere between a pretty direct quote and a bit of paraphrasing. 'No self-respecting man would ever want a girl who acts like you do, you know that, Story? I don't give a fuck about politically correct, and the truth is, men want their women to be submissive.'"

The look on Killian's face is so shocked and disgusted it would be funny, in other circumstances. "No. He didn't say that."

"He did."

"Jesus."

"I wish that was the worst of it.” I clear my throat, keep going. " 'It's such a disgusting fucking turn off when you try to be all tough and shit. It's fucking sick, Story. I’ve tried so hard to tolerate it, but I can't anymore. You're hot, you're smart, you're a lot of good things, but when you try to act like you're in charge? Instant boner killer. To be totally honest, right now, Story? I'm trying not to fucking barf. If I wanted someone to push me around, I'd be into dudes.'"

"Holy shit," Killy mutters. "That's vile."

“On so many levels, yes." I cover my face. "He went on like that, and I was so shocked at first I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I couldn’t believe that he really thought that way, felt that way. Like, how could I have so badly misjudged him? All this time, more than two years I spent with the man, and the whole time, every time I did something too aggressive, he had to fight not to vomit? Like, what the fuck? How did I miss that?"

“He really meant that?"

"About puking?" I ask; Killy nods. "Yes. He repeated that a few times in his rant. He said that when I tried to take charge, it made him want to puke. I have a feeling the reason for the visceral response went a lot deeper for him than he ever told me, and he told me stuff I know he never told anyone else. But I think there was more. I think he went through something really heinous as a kid. I just wish I'd known. I wish I’d seen. I wish he'd not hidden how it made him feel. I wish a lot of things.”

"Jesus, Story."

"That was…to be totally honest, that was one of the worst moments of my life. And I've had some pretty bad moments, let me tell you." I sniffle a sad laugh. "The cruelty of things he said, Killy. It was calculated to hurt me. And he succeeded. He cut me to ribbons. Destroyed any sense of security I had in myself. He told me I'd be a lot sexier if I could shrink my ass a few sizes. He told me I gave terrible head. And I know that was a lie, but it still hurt. Weird, maybe, but I…I guess I do take a little pride in being good at that. Maybe it's slutty. I don't know, but I try to be good at everything I do. I want to be excellent. I want to win. I want to excel. I want to be the best at everything I do, and that includes sex." I sigh, blink tears away. "He told me he hated my hair. He said I had a blown-out pussy. He said he hated my fat thighs. He hated my chub rub. He hated my laugh. He hated everything about me."

"Which is why he was with you for two years," Killian says.

"Right? Objectively, I knew he was full of shit. I knew he was lying and saying stuff just to hurt me. But the thing is, he succeeded. He hit on every single one of my insecurities and vulnerabilities. Even though I knew it was all bullshit said out of spite or fear or whatever, his words still hit their target."

"All because you were trying to do something nice for him."

"I mean, it was for me, too, but yeah. Exactly. That makes it worse, honestly. I was standing there in the lingerie I had, for a second, felt so sexy and confident in, and he just cut me to fucking pieces because I pushed him onto the bed so I could ride him."

"Jesus,” Killian breathes. "If I didn't know you as well as I do, I'd think you were at least exaggerating, if not making it up."

"I really wish I was."

Killian kisses the back of my hand. "You want to hear my theory?"

"Yes."

"He liked it, but it scared him. I think you're right—I think he was abused in some way beyond being hit, and it made him hypersensitive about needing to be in control. I have empathy for that, I really do. But…my god."

"I agree, and I’ve come to the same conclusion. He wanted to like it, but it hit some trigger for him and he just…snapped. I think it wasn't just me, in that moment. I think it was a lot of stuff he'd been harboring for a long time that just all came out, and I was the only target. It's just one of those things where two opposite things can be true at the same time, y'know? Like, I know intellectually that a lot of his wrath wasn’t really my fault; I was just the target in that moment. But knowing that doesn't mean his words didn't take root in my psyche and stay there. Trauma is an insidious thing, Killian. It fucks you up in ways you don't even realize, sometimes until years later." I sigh. "I was able to sort of shrug off a lot of the nasty stuff he said about my body, but his whole thing about how no real man would ever want me if I kept trying to be in charge sexually? That hit and stuck. Every time I want to—or try to—” I plow onward, despite the wet shake of my voice. “I hear his voice. Just like I hear that other guy's voice telling me to get my fat ass over there. I hear Everett's voice, too. And now, I hear them both in a fucked-up combo package." I drop my voice into an approximation of a rough male growl. "'No one wants your fat ass thinking you're in charge, Story. Men don't like butch bitches. Especially not arrogant bitches with fat asses.'"

I can't look at him. Can't breathe.

Killian is quiet for a very long time—I steal a glance at him after a full minute of silence, and I see the distance in his gaze, I see the wheels turning, I see him processing everything I've told him and figuring out what he thinks, how he feels, and what to say.

I know Killy well enough to know that whatever he has to say, it'll be worth waiting for.

11

All Hell Breaks Loose

The pain in her voice cuts me to the bone and fills me with unreasoning rage. But my anger on her behalf won't do her any good. I could hunt down those men who left such awful psychological scars on such a beautiful soul, and I could kill them or beat them bloody or what the fuck ever, but it wouldn't undo the damage.

I swallow hard and take her hand, choosing my words very carefully. "Story, I…I wish there was something I could say to erase all that. I can sit here and tell you that I absolutely fucking love your body until I’m blue in the face, and you'll still hear that fuck-hole's voice. I can tell you until I’m blue in the face that I like it when you get aggressive, and it won't erase what Everett said to you. There's nothing I can say to mitigate or erase that shit."

I sniffle a little laugh. "I dunno, Killy. It does help. A little, at least."

I look at her. "Does it?"

She nods. "Absolutely. I mean, you're right, there's nothing you can say or do that's gonna magically fix me overnight. But…" she pauses, licking her lips nervously, not looking at me. "When you say nice things about my body or when you tell me it's hot when I do something you like, it really does help. I need to hear it. I…" her eyes water. "In fact, I think you're the only person whose words could make a difference. Mainly because I care more about your opinion than anyone else's."

"I suppose what I'm saying is that trying to consistently show you and tell you how I feel and what I think is the only thing that will really make a long-term difference."

"That is true."

"Those guys didn't deserve you, Story." I sit upright and turn sideways on the couch to face her, holding her hands in mine. "They didn't deserve any part of you. I'm not saying I do, only that they didn't."

She sniffles. "God, Killy. You do. Of course you do."

"They couldn't be any more wrong. About any of it. But Everett especially." I pull my leg up onto the couch so one is cocked in and the other stretched out along the length of the couch, my back to the armrest. "That was his insecurity talking. And he doesn't speak for all men. He wasn't even speaking for himself. Not truthfully, and I'll take that opinion to my grave. But I can only speak for myself. And I hope you know, truly know that I'll never ever lie to you, and I'll never, ever feed you bullshit."

"I know," she whispers.

"The honest truth for me is that I actually do feel a little self-conscious about this."

"About what?” she asks, her eyes flicking up to mine in surprise.

"The fact that I liked it as much as I did when you pushed me around and told me what to do."

Her eyes drop. "Oh."

"I guess I…I’ve always felt self-conscious about the fact that I’m not…well, like Cal, I suppose, if I'm being really honest. I don't have this big, brash, in-your-face personality. I'm not a…" I trail off, struggling for the right words.

"You want to say alpha male, don't you?" Story says, smirking slightly.

I nod. "Yeah."

"Even though you know that's rank bullshit."

"Right. It's hard not to buy into it. I know who I am. I know what I’m capable of. I just…I dunno. Maybe it's growing up in the shadow of Cal's social dominance. Dad is…he's always managed to defer to Uncle Val's authority in certain contexts without sacrificing his own sense of self or authority. I've always striven to be more like that. I don't need or even want to be in charge all the time. I'm perfectly content to let Cal decide what we're gonna do—saves me the effort of figuring it out. And I always have fun, even if some of his ideas are a little nutty or dangerous."

"Cal listens to you, Killy," she points out. "When he wanted to dive off that cliff into the tiny little pool, remember? The rest of us were telling him it was stupid, but he wasn't gonna listen. Until you told him he was being an idiot and he'd only get himself paralyzed, if not killed."

I laugh, remembering. "Yeah, I remember."

Story just looks at me for a long moment. "I can see you thinking."

I nod, a thousand thoughts and feelings racking through me like a swarm of yellow jackets trapped in a mason jar. "Yeah."

"Share. Please."

"I guess I've always felt like I'm supposed to be more assertive. Or…or dominant. Sexually, I mean. But I'm not like that." Story's lack of an immediate answer draws my gaze to her. "What?" I ask.

"I don't know that I agree that you're not, Killy. You were pretty direct about what you wanted, just now.”

"Hmm." It’s a non-response, because he doesn’t agree but won’t say so in as many words.

"Someone said something," I surmise.

I nod. "I dated a girl after Helena. I thought we were good, I thought we were having fun. Not serious, and we both were up front about it. But then after like, six weeks or maybe two months, she dumped me. Told me that I was sweet and cute and everything, but she preferred guys who knew how to take charge in bed."

"Oof," Story says. "Ouch."

“Yeah. I tried after that, but it's not me."

"And it doesn't have to be, Killy." She thinks a moment, then touches my jawline with three fingertips. "Listen to me, 'kay?"

I nod. "I'm listening."

"I think I speak for most women, here, when I say that feeling safe is huge. Like, it's the biggest thing, Killy. For most women—for every woman I've ever spoken to about this, at least—feeling safe is the make-or-break thing when it comes to our sexuality. What that looks like and feels like obviously differs from person to person, but the basic fact remains: if I don't feel safe, I won't be able to open up. I shut down by degrees, Killian. It started with Parker and the fat ass comment—I shut down a little, felt less confident in my body. It was harder for me to trust a guy enough to let him see me naked because of that comment. And then Everett, and I no longer felt safe being myself in bed. I stopped being myself. I still wanted, needed, and enjoyed sex, but I sort of cut myself off from a whole aspect of what I want—or, really, need. Because I didn't feel safe. I just…I kept it vanilla because that's all I felt safe with. And then I met Jocko, and he actually helped with the body insecurity issues, somewhat. And the sexual aggression, too. He drew some of that out of me. Jocko really, really wasn't a bad guy. He’d just…he had shitty taste in women. Every woman he'd ever dated cheated on him, so he sort of expected it. Doesn't matter that I didn't and wouldn't, and he ended up hurting me pretty badly anyway, just in a different way. His jealousy and insecurity just eroded whatever we may have had, and my own stuff made it worse because I didn't trust him either. I was always questioning if he was being sincere. It was a toxic, mutual distrust, but the point I’m trying to make is that I shut down even more after him. I haven't had the courage to be with anyone since Jocko, because I don't feel safe. I haven't been able to open up to anyone. Not even for casual sex. I guess I'm at the point where that actually feels more scary. Letting a perfect stranger see me, see my body that I'm not sure I feel good about, trying to trust that total stranger with my sexual assertiveness? I want to. But I just can’t. I work out. I eat right, mostly. I take care of myself because I want to feel good about my body. But in the end, I don't trust anyone enough anymore to be that vulnerable.” She keeps my face turned to hers, and her blue eyes are so intense it's hard to hold her gaze for long. "You changed all that for me, Killy. I feel safe with you. I've seen that even when Bryn is being kind of a dick to you, you don't lash out. Even when you'd be within your rights. I've seen that you follow Cal, but only so far. You won't do anything too stupid or too illegal, and you won't let him. And he listens. I've seen you work with your dad. I've seen you train. You take things seriously. You don't half-ass anything."

I open my mouth, but she's not done.

"And since I woke up in the dark in that container, you've been a rock. You don't panic. You don't hesitate. You've kept me safe, Killy. Physically safe, I mean, in a scenario where that's very fucking far from guaranteed." My heart pounds and my hands are clammy—emotions jangle and jostle inside me by the trillion, it feels like, and I don't know what I'm feeling, hearing her say all this. "You respect me. You've never assumed anything. You've been so, so careful to make sure I'm comfortable with what's happening between us, even at the expense of your own comfort. That's taking care of me, Killy. That's making me feel safe. And guess what? When I feel safe, it's easy to be myself and to be vulnerable with you, emotionally and physically. I know without a doubt that you'd never judge me for my past. I know without a doubt that you'd never belittle me or make me feel bad about my body."

"I'm in love with you," I whisper. "Nothing could be more important to me than you feeling safe with me and trusting me."

"I do."

"And that alone makes me feel ten feet tall," I say.

"We're just getting started figuring this out," Story says. "But I trust you with my heart, and I trust you with my body. That's a big freaking deal for me, Killian. The fact that I trust you with my safety in a situation like this is even bigger of a deal."

A thoughtful pause.

"I guess what I really want to say is this." She looks away, thinking, then back to me, and her gaze locks mine in place; I can no more look away now than I could breathe underwater. "You're sweet. You're kind. You're thoughtful and understanding. You're also strong and sexy. You're fierce when you need to be. I mean, god, Killy, you shot three men without blinking."

"I puked after," I point out.

"Be weirder if you hadn't," she says, breezily, as if it doesn't even matter either way. "You kiss me like there might not be a tomorrow. You look at me like I'm the only woman in the world." Her voice shakes a little. "And you touch me like you can't get enough. You're obsessed with my ass, the part of me that I'm most insecure about. You just gave me the best orgasms of my life. And you…I felt so secure and safe with you that I…I couldn't help but be myself. And you…" She blinks hard, tears trickling. "You didn't hesitate, didn't have to think about it. You accepted it." She talks over me before I can speak. "Killian, if you can be sweet and sensitive and yet be confident enough in yourself to let me be myself, then I don't know what else I could ever ask for. You aren't threatened by my assertiveness. But you also aren't some fainting daisy. You're tough."

"You make me sound like the complete package," I say, laughing.

She doesn't laugh. "I mean, you kind of are." She leans back against me at an angle, her back to my chest. I sling my arm over her shoulder and down her chest, between her breasts.

"The fact that you're strong enough to trust me after the way guys have treated you, Story…I hope you know I don't take that for granted."

"I'm hopeful, Killy," She murmurs, sounding drowsy. "I grew up watching Mom and Dad and how they love each other. Mom is tough and fierce and kind of a wild woman, although since she's quiet, it's easy to miss. Dad has always loved her for exactly who she is. He gives her space to be herself. He's not threatened by her strength. He's…he loves her for it. And Dad isn't your typical super macho manly man, Killy. You know him well enough to know that. I saw their love. And I've…I've always wanted that for myself. I see a lot of Dad in you, actually, in the best possible way." She yawns into her hand.

"There isn't much higher of a compliment you could give me than to say I'm anything like Anselm See."

"You're the best parts of your mother and father, Killian."

"Except that. That’s the highest compliment." I nuzzle her temple, kiss her hair.

I let my eyes close, let them grow heavy. Her weight against my chest is warm and comforting, and the soft sigh of her breathing as she dozes off is the sweetest music—that she trusts me enough to fall asleep in my arms at all, let alone here, now…it's everything.

I doze off, too, then.

A blaring, digital din jolts me out of sleep, a 16-bit version of a jaunty tune: a decades-old ringtone on a decades-old burner phone. I wrench my eyes open—daylight streams through the window, and for a second, I panic that we've missed the ferry, but a glance at the range clock reading 9:47 reassures me that we still have time.

The ringtone starts up again—the burner phone of Enzo's that we confiscated is on the coffee table, a long string of numbers flashing on the screen.

I reach for it, but the slam of the bedroom door swinging open and crashing violently into the wall stops me. Enzo comes tripping and stumbling out of the bedroom, dancing into his jeans and cursing in Italian.

"Do not answer that!" he shouts. I toss him the phone, and he catches it, glances at the screen, and winces at what he sees. "Merda, merda, merda. Okay, okay."

"Who is it?" I ask.

"Who do you think?" he snaps, and then flips it open and stabs the answer button; he answers in rapid Italian, listens, gives a series of unh-huhs and unh-unhs. Listens again. "No, is not necessary. I know. They get away, but—how am I to know who shooted them? No, I know. But—alright, okay. Yes. Today? Is not possible!" He listens again, and the blood drains out of his face. "I understand. No, that is really not required. I will find them. I will! No, please. I will do as you say. Do not send—" he pulls the phone away and looks at the screen for a moment, and then very carefully closes the clamshell device, as if to restrain himself from hurling it across the room or crushing it in his hand. “Cazzo di merda.”

Story is awake and sitting up, braiding her hair behind her head while eying Enzo. "What? Who was that?"

"It was Pugli's man. Salvatore. His numero due. He knows you escaped, and he knows the boating men are dead. He also knows I am here. How, I do not know. Probably this phone is having a…cazzo…tracciatore GPS."

"A GPS tracker?" I guess.

He nods, points at me. "Sì, this thing. To know where am I. I should know better. Pugli, he does not take chances."

"But he thinks we got away?" Story asks. "He doesn't suspect the truth?"

"That I am helping you? No, no. I think no. Or already my daughter would be killed."

"So…" I prompt. "What now? The ferry to Rome doesn't leave for three hours yet."

"We must go. Salvatore says he is sending some backup for me." He frowns. "What he means is to make certain I am not lying to him. Which, of course, I am." He listens, frowning, and goes to the window, peering out of it from the side, and then curses again in Italian. "We are fucked."

"Why?" I ask, going to the other side and looking out. "Oh." Story just waits, and I look at her. "Two SUVs, four men each. I don't see long guns."

The one firearm between the three of us is on the coffee table where I set it when we arrived. Story takes it now and ejects the magazine, checks the loads, taps it home, and racks the slide. "Are there any other guns in this place, Enzo?" she asks.

Enzo frowns. "No, no. My friend Tomas, he is not that kind of a friend."

"So three of us, eight of them, and one Colt between us with four rounds left."

I grab the backpack off the floor and paw through it, coming up with the box of shells and the spare mags. "Bullets we have, at least."

Enzo is still watching out the window. "They are speaking together. One of them speaks on the mobile. Whatever we do, we must do quickly."

Story and I make swift work of thumbing shells into two magazines, and then she hands me the weapon and the mags, fishing the box cutter out of the backpack. “You have any ideas?" She asks me.

I shrug, shake my head. "Kill 'em all or die trying?"

"Killy," Story says, her tone droll. "This isn't the time for levity."

"It's not. What else is there? No time to rig explosives, even if we had any, and I doubt there are the right kind of cleaning products in this bachelor pad to improvise them. Maybe a Molotov or two, but we don't want to set the whole building on fire. So…yeah. I dunno what plan there is but try to kill ‘em and hope for the best.”

"They are coming, now," Enzo says.

"Wait," I say, snapping my fingers. "I actually do have an idea."

I grab a chair from the two-person table in between the kitchen and living room and plop it in the middle of the room. I point at it. "Story, sit. Enzo, grab one of those knives from the kitchen."

Story, already picking up on my plan, sits and puts her hands behind her back, clutching the box cutter in both hands to hide it while pretending to be bound.

"Distract them until they're all inside," I say. "When I pop out and start shooting, it's fuckin' on. Enzo, I hope you're good in a fight."

Enzo shrugs. "I will do my best." He flashes the big carving knife. "The pointy end pokes the bad guys, okay? I know this much." The flash of mirth in his eyes isn't entirely jocular, and I wonder how much he's hedging his real capabilities.

Guess we'll find out.

I trot toward the bedroom and close the door to a crack big enough to peer through—from this angle I have a clean line of sight at the front door; Story and the chair are in the kitchen, just out of the line of fire.

My nerves jangle, but my hands are steady.

I have a fresh mag in the pistol and two more in my pockets. It's not much of a plan, but it's better than sitting around and waiting to be kidnapped again; the thought of being trapped in another container is enough to make my blood boil and my stomach pitch violently.

"They are coming," Enzo says, his voice pitched low. "Be ready."

"Killy?” Story says, her voice quiet and small.

“Yeah."

"Don't fucking miss."

Yes—the plan is to use Story as bait. It's all I can come up with on such short notice. There's a lot that can go wrong.

I peek through the gap and watch, not daring to breathe.

Silence.

Voices approaching.

And then the door crashes open with a startling slam, the frame splintering under the force of the kick.

Story thumbs the box cutter’s razor blade out, keeping her wrists behind the chair-back to make it look like she's bound—Enzo stands behind her, knife in hand, looking big and stoic and kind of irritated.

"What is this, hey?” he demands. "This is not my place, and you are breaking it all to pieces, you stupid idiots." He gestures at Story with the knife. "See? I find the girl. The boy is gone missing, but I have her, so now you go, hmm?"

The first man through scans the flat, peeking into the kitchen. "Check the bedroom and bathroom." His accent is American English, although his swarthy features, greasy black hair, and scruffy black beard could place him from just about anywhere.

The second man in line barks a reply in what sounds like Russian or Ukrainian or something like that, and then barks more orders at the men behind him. Three of them peel off and swarm down the hallway—the last four cluster in the doorway as the leader assesses Enzo, glances at Story, and then back at Enzo.

"Boss wants her intact, if you know what I mean. You didn't do nothin’ to her, did you?"

"What do I do? Nothing. I want to go home to my daughter. I go now, sì? I do my part. You have the girl for your sick boss."

The three men are now about to kick open the door.

Adrenaline turns my blood into jet fuel, and my senses hyperfocus.

I step out of the path of the door as the first operator lifts his hand to shove it open.

He steps through, the other two hard on his heels.

Training kicks in then, and all hell breaks loose.

12

Under Duress

I keep waiting for the bark of the pistol from the back room, but it doesn't come. I want to turn and look over my shoulder, but obviously I can't.

The leader is staring down at me, his dark eyes hard and cold—utterly unfeeling. This man would shoot his own mother and not think twice.

I clutch the box cutter in my left hand—I'm not truly ambidextrous, but some things I can do equally well with either hand. Wielding a knife in hand-to-hand combat is one of them. The man’s eyes rake over me, lingering on my chest. "You didn't even cop a feel? Who would know?" Confident in his numerical superiority, he lets his pistol droop to hang at his side, reaching for me with his other hand.

I grit my teeth against the incoming grope, let him see the hate in my eyes.

"Still got some spark there, huh?" He grabs my left breast in rough, clawed-finger grip, squeezing viciously hard. "Pugli'll break that spirit fast enough. Then it's our turn."

Nausea bubbles up in my throat.

I hear hinges creak as the bedroom door squeals open; I tense, my gaze focused on the sweaty pig's throat, picturing the red line that my blade is going to make in…3…2…1…

BAM-BAM-BAM! The shots ring out in lightning-fast succession. The gropey pig’s eyes flick up, and his pistol lifts. He doesn't seem concerned, though. "Raffa, Elbers, go see."

Two more men make for the hallway

Enzo glances down at me, and I give a tiny shake of my head.

The pig sees the exchange, and his brows beetle. "Hold the fuck up. Raffa, Elbers, wait—"

Too late.

BAM-BAM!

I strike upward with my foot with as much force as I can muster while seated, driving my foot up into his junk. He squeaks and folds forward, and I surge to my feet, slashing my blade in a short, hard horizontal arc across his throat. He gurgles, eyes wide in shock, and hits his knees; his gun thuds to the floor as he scrabbles, terrified, at his throat, blood pouring between his fingers.

In the instant after my initial kick, Enzo sends a giant fist into the nose of the man behind Pig, crumpling his face like a tin can.

BAM!

"Cazzo di merda," I hear Enzo murmur in a strange, tight voice.

I can't spare a thought beyond noticing—the third man has his weapon lifted, smoke curling up from the barrel. The man Enzo punched is writhing on the floor, making wet sounds as he clutches his face, and Pig is glassy-eyed in a spreading pool of blood.

The shooter turns to me—time slows, as it tends to do in situations like this. I see his finger tightening. Instinct is a merciless goddess; my right foot snaps upward like a striking viper, and my bare toes smack into the shooter's wrist. The gun barks as my kick connects, and the deafening report makes my ears ring and something hot slices through the skin a millimeter above where my ear connects to my skull near my temple. I lunge forward and hit one knee, slicing on an upward diagonal across the upper inside of his right thigh. Another report rings out and I hear the round crack into the wall somewhere above and behind me.

His gun thumps to the floor, and I rock back and straighten as the shooter drops to one knee, staring down at the veritable ocean of blood gushing like a geyser out of his severed femoral artery.

"Ay…aiutami," he whispers, fear in his fast-fading eyes.

He slumps to his butt, gripping his wound—the blood sieves through his fingers.

"I could." I crouch in front of him. "I am a nurse, you know."

"Aiutami!”

I close the blade and hold his eyes. "You were going to hand me over to Pugli."

"No, no. Per favore…aiutami."

"I've heard that Pugli is the devil himself." I stand up, staring down at the dying man. "Let the devil save you. You made the deal with him, after all."

Even now, it's a hard thing to not leap to his aid—the caregiving urge is so deeply ingrained at this point that I feel physically ill at what I just did.

I remember Killian immediately puking after killing those three men. And I feel it myself, now, the rise of acid in my throat. I look anywhere and everywhere, swallowing hard, but the hot, thick sour knot rises and rises and pushes against the back of my teeth, and there's the first man dead in the sea of gore, still spreading on the kitchen floor, and his eyes are sightless and vacant and seem to stare at me, accusing. And there's the other one, slumped sideways but not quite fallen over, not quite dead, leaking his lifeblood from his thigh in slowing spurts. The man Enzo punched is trying to get to his knees, spitting blood and teeth, reaching for his pistol with hate in his eyes.

BAM!

His head snaps sideways and a chunky pink cloud sprays the floor, and then he thumps to his belly.

"Story?" Killian is beside me, but the blood is a roaring cacophony in my ears, pulsing hard behind my eyeballs, and the vomit is a hot surge against my teeth.

I've seen blood. I’ve seen death.

So much; too much.

But this is different.

So very different.

I caused this blood; I caused this death.

"First, do no harm." I'm not a doctor, so I haven't taken the Hippocratic Oath, and the Nightingale Pledge isn't quite the same. But still, everything in my life, every ounce of professional training, has gone toward learning how to save lives, not take them. I always hoped, and foolishly assumed, that all the self-defense training would never be necessary. I thought Mom and Dad's and the rest of A1S's enemies were all dead. I made a lot of erroneous assumptions.

"Story?" His hand rests on my back. "Take a breath. It's okay."

I shake my head, stagger away from him, but there's nowhere to go—the bathroom is too far. The sink—I sprint a few steps across the kitchen and empty my stomach into the sink, panting, and then heave again and again, until my stomach is empty and nothing comes out but stringy saliva.

"Hey?" It's Enzo, in pain. "I am shooted."

Killian and I turn in unison to see Enzo slumped backward against the kitchen counter near the range, blood a spreading red splotch low on his belly's left side.

"Fuck!" I lurch toward him, and Killian and I catch him as his strength gives out and he starts to slide to the floor.

"Mia figlia," he mutters. "Dille che l’amo."

"I don't speak Italian, buddy," I say, using the box cutter to slice his shirt open at the chest, automatically going into triage mode. "But it sounds like you're being melodramatic. You're gonna be fine." Killian helps me lean him forward; there's a much larger exit wound. "It went right through. I can patch this up, but you need a surgeon. There's nothing I can do if the bullet hit an organ."

"Mia figlia."

"Your daughter says to hold on, Enzo," I tell him, ripping a chunk of shirt off and folding it into a bandage, and then using the rest of the shirt to tie it in place around his midsection. "I know it hurts, but you're gonna be okay."

Killian touches my wrist. "You good here for a second?" I nod, and he stands. "Be right back. Just hold on, Enzo."

I pay no attention to what Killian is doing—I trust him to do what's necessary while I handle this. He's already bled through the tiny scrap of shirt, which means I need a hell of a lot more bandage material. "Be right back. I need to find something more to staunch the bleeding."

Enzo blinks at me. "Toilet. Ha una ragazza."

I frown. "I'm sorry, but what?"

"Il gabinetto. The toilet." His words are labored. "He has a girlfriend. She stay here some of the time."

Oh, right. I scramble to the bathroom, which is a typical male space—a bar of soap and a twenty-in-one bottle of shampoo-conditioner-bodywash-gun cleaning solution-WD-40 in the shower, a pump bottle of antibacterial hand soap on the counter, a toothbrush in a rocks glass with a rolled-up tube of toothpaste, and a hair-scuzzed comb. I rifle through the drawers and only find more soap and 3-in-1, and a container of ear swabs. I check the under-sink cabinet, and hit the jackpot: a box of tampons and a box of pads.

I take both boxes and hurry back to Enzo.

I notice, absently, that Killian has carefully removed the bullet-resistant vests from two of the corpses and has gathered a pile of weapons, cell phones, cash, and magazines, and is shoveling everything but the vests into our backpack—Enzo's backpack.

Enzo gives me a wobbly smile as he sees the boxes of feminine products and reaches for the pads. I gently tap the back of his hand. "Which of us is the medical professional here, Enzo?"

I unwrap a tampon, prepare the applicator, and untie the makeshift bandage. "This is gonna hurt like hell, okay?"

Enzo grimaces, nods. "Okay. Cazzo. I am ready."

I spread open the exit wound with my fingers, slide the applicator into the ragged opening, deposit the tampon into the hole, and withdraw the applicator. The absorbent material instantly balloons inside him as it struggles to absorb the flow of blood—exactly as it was designed to do.

Killian is watching. “Huh. Wouldn't have thought of that."

I roll my eyes. "You're not a woman. The modern tampon was invented in 1931 and popularized in World War II, both by medics using them like this and more so by the women working in manufacturing who needed a better menstrual product than what was available at the time because they were suddenly working on their feet all day with all the men gone to war.” I adhere a pad over the exit wound, and then repeat the process for the entry wound, and then triple the protection with another makeshift shirt bandage; the verbal patter is an automatic thing, a response of my brain working on multiple levels while my hands do their thing. "Internal absorption has been used for thousands of years, though. The big invention in 1931 was the cotton core and the insertion applicator."

"You just…know this?"

I shrug. "I'm curious. And I've studied the history of battlefield medicine extensively. I've actually considered a P-H-D in it. It'd be pretty cool to have a P-H-D."

"And the tampon is part of that?"

I shrug. "To a degree." I assess Enzo—weak, sluggish, pale. "We need to get him to a doctor, ASAP. I think he's bleeding internally."

"Mia figlia," Enzo grumbles, eyes rolling around, confused and scared and in pain.

"Fuck." Killian shrugs into a vest, straps it down, and shoulders the backpack. "C'mon. We'll take their car." He crouches in front of Enzo. "Hey, bud. Can you stand?"

Enzo nods floppily. "I will try."

“Okay. C'mon. Let's get you up." He grabs Enzo's hands, stands on his feet, and then heaves backward and upright, levering Enzo's huge bulk to his feet before shrugging under the larger, older man's shoulder and staggering under his weight. "Jesus, Enzo. You're a big boy."

"Too…much…ahhh cazzo cazzo cazzo—merda, it hurts. Too much of the good food, hey?”

"No kidding," Killian jokes. "Maybe try a salad or two, huh?"

"You are calling me fat?" Enzo grumbles, pretending to be insulted. "Now we are enemies. You insult my shape, you stupid, loud American boy."

"Oh, is that right? Well maybe I'll just toss you down the stairs, huh? Save myself the effort of dragging your tubby butt down three flights of steps."

"Tubby? What is this tubby?"

Killian slaps a hand against his own belly. "Tubby."

Enzo looks down at his belly, pale and hairy and red-smeared and, yes, a little bulgy. "Oh. Sì. I am this tubby."

Killian growls in irritation as he helps Enzo to the door and pauses at the top of the steps. "You're supposed to get mad, you big agreeable oaf."

Enzo just laughs, and then groans. "I know what you are trying to do."

I take the backpack from Killian and hike it onto my own shoulders, over the vest I donned while Killian was getting Enzo to his feet and across the flat; I threw the feminine products into the bag as well, because I doubt that's the last time I'll need them. I squeeze under and past Killian and down a couple steps, walking backward to provide extra support for Enzo as he and Killian shuffle laboriously and slowly down the steps, Enzo grimacing and gasping.

We reach the idling SUV—a typical European compact—and we help Enzo to lie down in the back seat.

He grabs Killian's hand. "Wait. Wait."

Killian braces in the opening. "What's up? You're bleeding out, man. We gotta get you to a hospital."

"The hospital will be watched. Those—" he juts a chin at the block of flats, "are just the first. Always there are more." He winces, shifts on the bench. "She follows in the other car. You leave me at the door and go to her. Capisci?"

Killian frowns, but nods. "Yeah, we got it."

The older man reaches for Killian. "Mobile. Per favore."

Killian hands him the burner, and Enzo slowly uses one thumb on the T9 keyboard to type out a long string of something; he hands it to Killian, and I look over his shoulder.

An address and a phone number.

"Mia suocera, her home and her phone number. Find…please find mia figlia. Make her to be safe. Please. Per favore."

"We’ve got you, buddy," Killian answers. "Just stay awake, yeah? Now. How the fuck do I get to the hospital?"

Enzo snarls as he levers himself higher on the rear bench of the Dacia SUV, so he can see out the window, one hand pressed to his belly. "I will guide you."

"I'll follow you," I say. "The second you park it at the ER doors, I’ll be waiting."

"Got it. Stay on my ass."

I wink at him. "Don't gotta ask me twice."

Enzo snorts. "You save that for later, hey? I am dying here."

"You're not dying," I tell him, pointing at him. "You've got a daughter to live for." I close the door and head for the other vehicle, and seconds later we're squealing out of the parking lot and hauling ass across town.

Killian drives like an asshole, swerving around slow-moving morning traffic, leaning on his horn as he follows Enzo's directions. The hospital pops up as we round a corner, a white-and-tan structure that's all right angles, except for a round section with a covered portico. I follow their progress along a narrow, car-clogged lane around the hospital to the emergency room. Killian cuts off a slow-moving ambulance trundling lazily toward the ER entrance and squeals to a stop parallel with the doors. I jerk around his back end and brake next to him, kicking my foot hard into the brake pedal as I lean across the console to shove open the passenger door; Killian's door flies open and he leaps from the seat of his car to the passenger seat of mine while barely touching the ground in between. No sooner has his ass contacted the seat than I'm gunning the accelerator and peeling away.

"Shit!" Killian snaps, lunging out and slamming the door closed an instant before the door would've hit an idling ambulance.

I cackle as he grabs the oh-shit bar with one hand and yanks his seatbelt across his frame with the other. "You good?"

"You know no one is currently, actively chasing us, right?"

"Oh no?" I ask, glancing in the rearview.

A hospital security vehicle is behind us, lights flashing. "Apparently the dump-and-dash is no less illegal here than the US. Although I'd argue Enzo was mentally competent enough to make his own healthcare decisions."

"Story?"

"Hold please." I wrench the wheel around and nail the accelerator; the car leans heavily as we carve around a ramp to a wide highway.

The hospital security vehicle declines to follow us onto the highway, although I'd wager our license plate number is currently being relayed across Sardinian police radio waves.

"Okay, we’re good for the moment," I say.

"It's illegal to leave someone at a hospital?" Killian asks.

"Under certain circumstances, yes. If the person you're dropping off is a legal adult, mentally competent, awake and aware, and able to speak for themselves, it's fine. But minors and the elderly, or someone too incapacitated to communicate for themselves, it's illegal."

"Oh. I didn't realize that."

"So what we just did…" Killian prompts.

"Eh, if it was my ER, no one would blink twice. It happens more than you'd think. Enzo was conscious and able to speak, so I'd have tagged him as competent. But most hospitals just don't like it when you do what we just did. I don't know the laws here, obviously." I check our back trail, but see nothing amiss. "We need to ditch this car and find the port. Being trapped on an island with Pugli's men looking for us is somewhat less than ideal."

“No shit." He taps at the infotainment screen, but of course, everything is in Italian. “Just when we really need a fucking translator. Um. Where do ferries dock? Ports?"

"Try, ahh…porto?"

He types the word into the search bar and reads the top result. "Porto di Isola Bianca?"

I shrug. "No clue, Killy. Let's go with it. We can always play stupid tourist and ask for directions."

"The bulletproof vests are sort of a giveaway," he points out. "And, um…how are we going to get through any kind of terminal security with our weapons, and without ID?"

I glance at the backpack now on the floor of the footwell between Killy's feet. “That there is a bag full of guns, huh?"

He snorts. "Yeah. Exactly."

"Shit."

"I think Enzo said the ferry ride was several hours long, too, so I don't think it's the kind of trip we can make by just stealing a little outboard punt or whatever."

"Any public transport is going to present the same issue, and so will trying to get across in a car ferry. We’ll still run the risk of the bag and car being searched, and oh yeah, we did technically steal this car, and oh yeah, we stole it from the eight dead men in Tomas's apartment. And there's the matter of the three men at the other flat."

"You think the local authorities have connected us to any of that?"

I can only shrug. "Doubtful? We weren't exactly guests of Sardinian law enforcement, after all."

"And we can't let that happen, either," Killian says. "Pugli has sources everywhere, in all sorts of official channels, apparently, seeing as he's Interpol.”

"Let’s get closer to the port and ditch the car first," I answer, after thinking. "Once we're on foot and sure we're not being followed, we can figure out how to get off this island."

The car's native sat-nav guides us, in Italian, through the bustle—relatively speaking—of downtown Olbia. Fortunately, I can follow the highlighted route on the screen easily enough even if I don't understand the verbal directions.

We slip easily into Olbian traffic and find the port, but instead of trying to find the ferry office, I cruise past it and reroute back into the narrow, bright, old-world streets of downtown Olbia.

"So now what?" Killy asks. "Dump the car somewhere?"

I nod. "That's my thinking. Park it somewhere with the keys in it and head out on foot."

"And then…what? Stow away?"

I roll my eyes. "For sure. Hide in the luggage compartment."

"What would our parents do in this situation?" Killy asks.

I sigh. "They'd call in. Or steal something. I don’t know.” I’m panting, suddenly, finding it hard to breathe past the steel bands around my chest. “I don't know!"

Killian rests a hand on mine. "Hey, breathe. We'll figure it out."

His instruction to breathe is my first indicator that I'm not, and I suck in a deep, slow, shaky breath, hold it, let it out through pursed lips. "If this was the wilderness, I'd know exactly what to do. I can lose tails. I can hot wire a car. I can hit a moving target at a hundred yards. But how to cross hundreds of kilometers of ocean without an ID or passport, with a burner I suspect has a tracker in it, being hunted by this overblown GI Joe villain? No clue, Killy. Dad's many, many hours of training didn't cover this precise scenario." I swallow hard. "Also, I killed two men. I'm kinda struggling with that, to be honest."

He squeezes my knee. “You did what you had to do, Story.” A pause. “We need to lose the phone, first thing."

"Obviously," I respond. "We'll leave it in the car. See if you can find something to write down the address and phone number with."

He rifles through the glove box and console, and comes up with an expired registration and one of those tiny pencils used for Keno or whatever. He scribbles the information down, folds the paper several times, and shoves it into his hip pocket, and then powers off the phone and ejects the battery. He tosses the battery out the window, and it clatters and bounces and vanishes down a storm drain; the phone itself follows suit, and is crushed under a tire and then several more.

"That works, I suppose," I say. "I had intended the phone to be a decoy."

He shrugs. "To what end? If that device was being tracked, then whoever's on the other end knows we're in Olbia near the docks. This being an island, there's obviously only so many ways off—boat or plane. Once the phone stops moving, they'll know we got rid of it. Having it in the car won’t buy us much extra time, if any."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Yeah, true. Sorry, Killy, I…I'm not thinking clearly."

He squeezes my thigh. "We’re a team, Story. We cover for each other." He points, abruptly barking, "There!"

I slam the brakes and make the turn hard and sharp—it's a dead-end alley, just barely wide enough for a single car. Except, as I turn down the short, narrow lane, it turns out to be an actual length of road running past a hostel, judging by the gaggle of wealthy white twenty-somethings clustered outside one of the buildings, with luggage and cell phones in hand.

Cars are parked nose-to-tail along the right side, facing both toward the dead-end and away from it. I reach the end—to the left is a private garage, straight ahead a section of wall ten feet high, and to the right, the side of another building. I make a multi-point turn-around and try to wedge the Dacia SUV behind the last car in line—it's not quite big enough, so the larger SUV doesn’t fit. I leave it at an angle, not entirely in the space between bumper and wall. It goes against the grain to leave the car parked like an asshole, but needs must, I suppose.

Killian stops me after I cut the motor—the key fob is in the cupholder. "Hey, hold up."

I frown. "We need to put distance between us and this car, Killy."

"I know. We will." He removes the vest and then his shirt, shrugs the vest back on over his bare torso, and then puts the shirt back on.

I eye him critically—despite the baggy shirt, he’s clearly wearing something under it. "That's…pretty obvious. And it's gonna chafe like hell."

He rolls a shoulder. "Sure to both, but what are you gonna do? I'd rather be obvious and chafey and have some level of protection against getting shot."

I sigh. "Not sure that's gonna fit under my scrub top."

The vests are full-size tactical ones, not the slimmer ones designed to be worn under law enforcement uniforms. I try anyway, wriggling out of my top and strapping the vest on over my sports bra, and then stuffing myself back into my scrub top.

I laugh at the result. "I look stupid, and it feels freaking terrible.”

"Yeah. But like I said, better to look and feel stupid and be able to take a bullet,” he says with a shrug. "This is a tourist town. I'm sure we can get you something else to wear. Those cats back there had quite a bit of cash between them."

"Oh?" I ask. "How much do we have?"

He digs handfuls of euros out of the bag, grinning at me sheepishly. "I just kinda shoved it all in there."

We work together to count and sort the brightly colored cotton-fiber banknotes.

"Eighteen hundred bucks," Killy says, tapping the stack square. "It's not nothing, but probably not enough to bribe anyone."

I blink. "Huh. You know, I've got no idea how much you'd use to bribe a customs official to let us through."

"Yeah, I don't know that I'd like to try that. Once you're at the point of being in front of a customs official, your options for escape are pretty slim if they don’t take the bribe.”

"True."

Killy's eyes are on the group of tourists. They've got ferry tickets, it looks like. I wonder if we can do some sort of get-lost-in-the-chaos move. Join their group, create some kind of scene, and slip on."

"That solves the ticketing and ID issue, but what about the bag of supplies? There's no way we're getting all of that through security. I don't like the idea of gallivanting around Italy unarmed with Pugli's goons after us. I’d rather find a different way to the mainland that lets us keep our guns."

He nods, but doesn't otherwise answer. "Maybe we get a room?" He glances at me, and then back at the group of young people, who seem to be getting ready to depart; one of them does a head count, and then sets off at the head of the pack, the rest following like goslings. "We can get some new clothes and something to eat, and take our time figuring out a plan."

I smirk at him. "Don't play, Killy. I know why you want a room."

He doesn't return my grin. "Abso-fucking-lutely true." He frowns, winces, tips his head to one side. "I just…I guess I wish we could explore this when we're not under duress."

"It's A1S tradition at this point, Killy. Everyone we love got together under duress." I cup his cheek. "And I'd venture a guess that wherever your sister is and whatever she's doing, there's a hunky fella involved somewhere."

Killian snickers. "A hunky fella? Okay, Ethel.”

I blink in confusion at his joke, and then the penny drops. "Is that another old joke, Killian Harris?"

“You said hunky fella, Story. Yes, it was. You're twenty-seven, not eighty-seven."

I pinch his cheek and adopt a creaky approximation of an old woman's voice. "Well, sonny boy, in my day, you showed respect to your elders."

He bats my hand away. "C'mon. Let's get a room."

I glance down at myself again. "I'm sorry. I just can't. This is ridiculous."

The vest under the scrub top is a joke. It's like the Chris Farley "fat guy in a little coat” skit from SNL, the scrub top stretched to its limit around the bulk of the tactical vest. I fight my way out of the top, remove the vest, and put the top back on, and then cram the vest into the backpack. "I'll take my chances. I go in there looking like that, and they'll know something weird is going on, but no one will think twice about your shirt sitting weird." I huff. "Men have it so freaking easy, I swear to god. You could walk in covered in blood and carrying a gun openly, and it would cause less of a ruckus than if I went in wearing tactical body armor under a scrub top."

He frowns. "You're probably not wrong."

“No, I'm not."

He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it. "C'mon, fiancé. Let's go get a room."

13

A Brief Interlude

Story's hand fits in mine like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I've got our bag on my shoulders and a pistol tucked in the back of my waistband—which, let me tell you, is a lot more uncomfortable than they make it seem on TV. We leave the car with the key fob clearly visible in the cupholder and the doors unlocked, windows down—hopefully a very clear invitation to steal it.

The group of recently departed young people was only a portion of the full group, and they're all speaking the same language—something from the middle of Europe, maybe, I don't know. It's not English, Spanish, French, German, or Russian, but my knowledge of languages is pretty damned dismal. There's another group of ten or fifteen twenty-somethings milling in the tiny foyer, chattering, laughing, and trying to check out while the harried proprietor looks ready to pull his hair out. Which would be unfortunate, since he doesn't have much to begin with.

I tuck Story against my side and push through the crowd to the counter, my arm hooked around her waist. The proprietor, an older man with thin, graying hair and a wispy goatee, is trying gamely to manage the chaos of something like two dozen checkouts. He sees us, but the cluster of people trying to hand him their keys so they can, I assume, make the ferry to the mainland prevents him from getting to us.

I peel a pair of one hundred euro bills from the stack now in my hip pocket and flash them at him with a raised index finger.

He nods, gestures to the pair of young men in front of him and snags a key from a hook behind him. He snatches the bills from me and shoves a clipboard into my hands. "Fill it out and bring it back, per favore. Room two-one-six." Two-ah-one-ah-six.

"Grazie," I say, and then look around for the stairs; it seems simple, but the tiny room and too many people make it harder than it should be, and the microscopic foyer is already cluttered with stands containing things-to-do-in-Olbia flyers, cartoon maps of the town, takeaway menus for nearby restaurants, and things like that.

Story, however, has already solved that problem while I was talking to the proprietor, and drags me through the chaos to a narrow doorway marked by a placard indicating a stairwell. Once we round the first flight, the din reduces dramatically.

"Jesus, what a clusterfuck," I mutter.

"Yeah, but it works in our favor," Story answers. "He won't think twice about us. Even if Pugli's goons do track us this far, he won’t be able to give us a description of us."

"True, true."

We ascend to the second floor and find our room—microscopic, with a sagging twin bed and decades-old oak two-drawer nightstand, a pitted, tarnished mirror, and a single high-backed chair from a dining set that likely dated back to the Truman administration. But then, this building probably predates the United States by a century or two at least, so by those standards, a seventy-year-old chair is an upstart young whippersnapper.

There's no A/C, but the window is open, and a steady breeze flutters the gauzy white curtains and cools the air and reduces what would otherwise be a stultifying stuffiness.

"Well, Fred, here we are," Story says to me, lowering herself gingerly to the bed; the frame legit squeaks, as in actual rusty springs protesting. "Oh. Oh wow." She bounces up and down—squeaksqueaksqueak. "Wanna keep up the whole neighborhood?"

I stand with my back to the door, eying her. "Fred?"

"Fred and Ethel?" she looks at me expectantly. "Fred and Ethel Mertz?"

I shrug. "What are you talking about?"

She rolls her eyes. "Kids these days. Fred and Ethel Mertz are characters from I Love Lucy. They're famous for bickering all the time like the quintessential old married couple."

I snicker. "Oh. Because I called you Ethel."

"Hunky fella is a perfectly normal thing to say."

"No."

She sputters. "No? Just no?"

"No."

She shakes her head, laughing. "Give me that clipboard, Fred. I'll give us fake names."

I give it to her. "Good, because my handwriting is chicken scratch."

She snorts again, thinks for a second, and then starts scratching away at the intake form. "I work with doctors. You don't know chicken scratch, sweetie."

“Okay, but real talk, here. How do you read that shit? The scribbles on a prescription form, I mean."

She frowns at me, but she's thinking, not seeing, and then fills in a few more lines. "Uh? It's all part of the training. A lot of the gibberish is actually medical abbreviations derived from Latin, and then you have the dosage and such, and it’s all pretty standard, so even if I can’t read one part, I can usually decipher the rest using context clues. If I can’t figure it out on my own, I ask the doctor to translate. And you'd be surprised how often even they have to stare at it for a minute to read their own writing."

"You'd think there'd be a better system."

"There are redundancies and checks built in to prevent mistakes, obviously. But yeah, the script pad thing is a holdover."

She checks the back of the page, but it's blank, and she hands me the clipboard. "We're good."

"Fred Rogers and Ethel Mertz," I read. I give her a droll stare. "Fred Rogers? Really?"

She gives me a cutesy grin and a demure shrug. “You in a cardigan? Yum."

I snort. "You're sleep-deprived or something."

"Or something." She glances away. "Still trying to get over the fact that I murdered two dudes."

"Self-defense, not murder," I say, sitting beside her on the bed. "But I get it. I keep seeing those first three every time I close my eyes. I opened the door, and they were there. The one guy's eyes went wide, and I saw him reaching for his gun, and I just…" I shudder. “His head jerked back. And the smell. God."

She leans against me, shivering. "There was so much blood, Kills."

"Kills?" I echo. "That's a new one."

She rests her chin on the cap of my shoulder. “Really?"

I nod. "It's been either Killy or Killian, my whole life." I turn my face to hers, nuzzle the tip of my nose against hers. "I hereby decree that henceforth only you may refer to me as Kills."

She grins. “Yay, that makes me happy."

I quirk an eyebrow. "It does?"

"Well, yeah. It's not every day you get a private nickname for someone." She wrinkles her nose. "Sorry, there aren't a lot of nicknames you can make out of my name."

"Not really, no." I nudge her nose with mine again. "Sweetheart works for me."

She melts at this. "Aww, Kills. You're too damn sweet, I swear." She searches my face. "So now what?"

"I do have an idea. It's a long shot, but possible. I'm gonna take this downstairs and step out for a few minutes."

She just looks at me. “You want me to stay here?" She sounds skeptical and unhappy.

"For appearances, yes. In case anyone is watching. I'm the fiancé running out to get us some stuff. You're staying here to rest after our long journey."

"Care to share your plan?" she asks.

I wince. "It's loose and vague and probably stupid. And it's based on a game Cal and I used to play."

She cackles. “Ohhh boy. You're on your own with that one."

I eye her. "I plan on bringing you some clothes back, but I’ve never bought clothes for a girl before."

She just laughs. "If you manage to come back with clothes that actually fit me, I’ll be seriously impressed.” Another laugh. "This oughta be good."

I frown. "I mean clothes, woman. Not lingerie."

She laughs harder. "I know! I'm not making fun of you. It's just that we women have a hard enough time finding clothes that fit us right, and it's our clothing." She pats my chest and kisses me softly, quickly, chastely. "Just do your best. I'd tell you my sizes, but I only know what I am in the US. I couldn’t begin to tell you what I am in European sizes."

I head down and give the clerk the clipboard; the chaotic herd of twenty-somethings has gone, but a pack of older middle-aged British tourists is bickering in the foyer now, so it’s not that much less chaotic.

First, I take a circuit of the immediate block, so I know how to get back to this spot, and then I start wandering further and further afield, my eyes peeled for a few specific things.

I pass a touristy-looking shop and pop in, but it's too touristy—the products are all cheap and gimmicky, and the clothes are all either way too big or way too small. I also have limited funds, so I can’t exactly walk into a fancy place and buy expensive shit off the rack.

I waste way too much time, but eventually I do find a clothing store that seems to be what I'm looking for—decent quality, not tourist crap, and not super expensive. I get a plain black tee, a zip-up hoodie, and a pair of jeans for me—with a lot of help from the grandmotherly woman behind the counter when it comes to fit. Shopping for Story, however, is a whole different ballgame. Not only have I never even tried to buy clothes for a woman before, but I’m also doing it in a different country where I don’t speak the language and the sizes are all different, as Story pointed out—so even if I knew what size Story wore, it would require, at minimum, conversions.

All I can do is hold up an article of clothing, eyeball it, and hope for the best. Good fucking luck to me. I should have just brought her with me, but I'm worried my idea is stupid, and if it goes like I’m worried it’s going to, I don’t want her around to witness my embarrassment.

I go through several pairs of jeans before I find a pair that seems, to my eyes, to be pretty close. The tee and hoodie are easier to guess at, but I don't have a lot of hope that the jeans are gonna fit.

Clothing sorted out, I head out again in search of the next phase of my plan. This is a pretty small place so there's no guarantee it's going to work. In fact, I’m relatively certain it won't.

But it's worth a shot.

It involves trolling alleys and rougher sections, and a lot of people watching near the water. I find a cafe with a good view of a busy, crowded street clogged with tourists doing their shopping and sightseeing before the overnight ferry to the mainland leaves. I sip sparkling water and watch the crowds for a good hour before I spot what I'm looking for, and even then, it feels too good to be true.

So I watch some more, until I'm certain of what I'm seeing.

Here we go.

I peel a few twenties off the stack and keep them cupped in my palm, leave the cafe, and follow the individual I’ve been watching. He's a younger guy, tall and thin with a long black ponytail and a struggling beard. He's leaning casually on the trunk of a low-slung two-door sports sedan with tinted windows, custom exhaust, a big spoiler, and shiny chrome rims. The advertisement, clearly, is the same the world over.

He's smoking a cigarette and browsing his phone as I approach; he sees me and flicks the butt away in a scattering of orange sparks. "Ehi, ti serve qualcosa?" he mutters at me.

"English?" I respond.

He gives a very Italian shrug. "Eh. A little." He gives a look around. “You are looking for…something?" The pause is intentional and significant—indicating that I’m on the right track, at least.

This is stupid. So very stupid. But here I go, idiot that I am.

"Uh, yeah. But not, um…drugs."

He laughs. "Then why you come to me?"

"Because if you can find drugs, you can find other stuff."

This has his attention. He digs in his hip pocket and shows me a glimpse of a little baggie of cannabis. "You want this? Okay. What else you want? Maybe not, okay?"

"I need to get to Rome. Fast."

He snorts again, fishes a soft pack of cigarettes from a back pocket, and lights a smoke with a click of a Zippo. “Is a ferry, okay?" He points. “Just there. It goes at…" he checks an expensive watch. "Undici." He flashes five fingers at me, then five again, and then one. "Bad English, sorry."

"Better than my Italian,” I say. “Look, I know there's a ferry. But I don’t have a passport. And I sort of need to avoid attention, if you know what I mean."

"No passaporto?"

“No."

"No Carabinieri?"

"Definitely not. Claro que no. Shit, that's Spanish."

"Abbastanza vicini. I understand."

He scratches his chin with the cigarette-holding hand. "No ferry, no passaporto. Only you?"

"No, me and my…um, girlfriend."

"Hai una ragazza, hey?" He grins. "And you need a ship to Roma on the secret?"

“On the secret, yeah."

“Okay."

"You can do it?"

"No me. My uncle. But you pay, okay?"

“How much?"

Another of those shrugs. "I don' know. Maybe…" he scratches his jaw with the same thumb again, smoke curling in his eyes. "Cinquecento."

"Five hundred?" I say, guessing at the translation—I know a bit of Spanish, enough to make a decent guess.

"Sì.”

That's a lot of money, and almost half of what we have. But to get to Rome on the down low…

"Three hundred."

His eyes light up. "You bargain? Buono, buono! Americans, you always just pay. I say a big number. Okay!" He chuckles like this is hysterical. "Four-fifty. No questions. No carabinieri. And a very long boat ride."

"Three-fifty."

"Four hundred. No less." He lifts his chin at me, grinning. "You need. I do not. I only agree because I like you. Hai due palle così!” He makes big cups with both hands near his groin in another very Italian gesture.

"Fine, okay." I fish out a pair of hundreds without showing the whole wad. "Half now, half when we get to Rome." He nods, reaching for the cash, but I pull it back. "Where and when?"

"Where you are staying, grande palle?" I tell him the name of the place, and he nods. "Ah, okay. I know this place. Stasera, mezzanotte. I come to you. Okay?"

I frown. "Mezza…midnight?"

He shrugs, inclines his watch toward me and taps the 12. "Stasera, mezzanotte."

"Tonight at midnight."

"Okay, yes, tonight at midnight. I come to your lodging, show you to my tio's boat." His gaze goes sharp and hard, then. "No Carabinieri. You and your ragazza. No other person."

"Same to you. You and your uncle."

Something occurs to him, then. "Sei nei guai?"

"What?"

"No Carabinieri? No passoporto? You are…merda. Trouble? You have troubles?"

"Oh. Honestly, yes. But not the police."

His eyes scan me, and he frowns. Before I can stop him, he tugs up the hem of my shirt, revealing the tactical vest. Which, as Story predicted, is hot as hell and chafey as fuck.

He just laughs. "Sì, sei nei guai." He taps the vest over my chest with a knuckle. "But no police, hey? I don't know what problems you are having, but me and my tio, we don' want any of it."

I don't dare mention Pugli's name. Either it won’t mean shit to him or it will; either way, it stands to reason he’d just take my money and leave us stranded here. Or worse.

"Nah," I lie. “Nothing like that. We lost our luggage, and we're running from her parents."

He just laughs, clearly not believing me. "Okay, American."

"Hey, it's almost the truth, and you really don't want to know the actual story."

He holds up his hands, palms out. "No, no. No say to me. I don' want to know. Ho già abbastanza per conto mio." His eyes flick away from me, and he juts his chin at me. "Stasera. Mezzanotte. Your lodging. Now you go. I have business to do."

I take the hint and saunter off as casually as I can; I pass the pharmacy on the way back—or whatever they call it here. Drug store? Chemist? I pop in and let my feet carry me to the, um, family planning aisle, wondering if I'm getting ahead of myself here. Best to be safe, right? I grab a box and a few other needful, easily transportable items, cash out, and then make one more stop before I return to the hostel: dinner. While we were in the lobby waiting, I read part of one of the takeaway menus, which advertised "American-style cheeseburgers," and the restaurant in question happens to be on my route back.

I carry the bags upstairs and tap on the door; there's a rustling, and then a very, very faint click. "Who is it?"

"Fred Rogers," I answer. "Let me in, Ethel."

The door swings open inward and then closes behind me, revealing Story clad in her panties and bra and nothing else, looking sleepy.

"Hey, you," she says, leaning to kiss me like we've been a pair for years. "You were gone a long time. I got sleepy."

I cast a hungry gaze over her semi-nude form. "I see that. And hot."

"It's nice when the breeze is going, but otherwise, it's stuffy as heck in here." She sniffs, nose wriggling. "Cheeseburgers?"

I hand her the takeaway bag. "Yes ma'am. And fries, and ketchup. No ranch, though. I asked and they didn’t know what I was talking about."

"Oh, no. That's not a thing outside the states. The USVI are American enough that it's easily available down there. Or…over there, I suppose, from here."

She's already got a plastic clamshell open and pops a fry into her mouth, groaning. "Aw, heck, baby. You win. This is the best. French fries in my mouth, thank you sweet baby Jesus.”

I can't help but laugh. "You really like fries, huh?"

"You have no idea. If anything except genetics has kept my ass this big, it's the tacos I mentioned, and French fries. I just can't help myself."

The "baby" is getting me. "Now I know the way to your heart, huh? Tacos and French fries?"

She widens her eyes. "Not even a joke." She eyes the other bags. "What else did you get?"

I save the pharmacy bag for last, and hand her the stack of clothes I got for her. “Best I could do. I saved the receipt, and the shop isn't too far. But if you do want to exchange, we'd have to go soon, before they close, because we won't be here tomorrow."

“You found us a ride?"

"I did."

She pops another fry into her mouth as she shakes open the pale blue shirt, holds it up to her torso, and nods. "Good. Can’t go wrong with a plain old solid color tee. And it's a V-neck. I like the color. Good job." The hoodie is next, a baggy forest green pullover hoodie made from thin, athleisure material rather than thick cotton. "Big enough that it'll hide the vest, and I like the color and fabric. Two for two." She kisses me, and then eats another fry. "You're really batting a thousand so far, babe."

“Now for the real test," I say. "I had to sort of visualize you and hope."

"Good thing you've got a lot of practice visualizing me, huh?"

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Good thing."

She laughs as she steps into the jeans and does that wiggle-into-tight-jeans dance that I’ve always found so unbearably fucking erotic for reasons I couldn't explain. When she does it? Jesus, I’m sprung.

And she notices. "I'm putting on clothes, Kills," she says, her eyes on my tightening zipper.

I shrug. "Can't help that you turn me on doing totally normal things."

Her expression is equal parts melty and sweet. "You're killin' me, Killy." She sucks in her belly and fastens the button fly, tugs up the zipper, and then relaxes, twists to look at her backside over her shoulder, stuffs her hands in the hip pockets and then the back ones, uses the belt loops at her hips to tug them a bit higher with another shimmy. "Well hot damn, Killian." Clad in the jeans and bra, she stares up at me with an extraordinarily complicated expression. "How did you manage to find a pair of jeans that fit me this freaking well?"

I shrug. "No clue." I stare at her ass as she twists and turns, does knee raises to test the extent of the stretch. "But they look great on you."

She unbuttons the jeans and wriggles out of them, folds them, and sets the folded stack of new clothing on the old-ass chair in the corner. "You know what'd look even better on me?"

"Nothing?" I say, grinning.

She leans into me and hooks a finger in each belt loop on either side of my fly. "I like that answer too, but I was gonna say you."

I clear my throat and snag the pharmacy bag. "On that particular note." I hand it to her. "I got a few things."

She takes the bag and peers down into it without moving away from me, and then reaches in, naming the items as she pulls them out and tosses them on the bed. "Toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, gauze, tape, hand sanitizer, antiseptic spray…" she pauses at the last item in the bag, looking up at me. "And condoms."

I swallow hard, shrug. "I, um. I hope I'm not…getting ahead of myself, there."

Her gaze is heavy-lidded with arousal. "We have a bed and we have privacy. You're a smart man, and it turns me on when you think ahead." She uses her fingerhold on my belt loops to yank me up against her. "You could say I'm a pretty sure thing, babe."

"I must have spent five minutes trying to decide if I should get them or not. I know what we'd talked about earlier, but that was in the heat of the moment. I wasn't sure if—" I shrug, trail off. "I dunno. I was hesitant to assume."

"But you went with the assumption."

"More with hope than an assumption."

She gives me the melty-sweet look again. "You don't have to hope anymore, Killian. Nothing short of an all-out gunfight is going to stop me from making love with you in that bed right there—and soon.” She pats me on the chest with both flat palms and steps back. "But first, the ride. Explain, if you please."

I scrub a hand over my head. "Well?" I laugh. "I still can't believe it worked, honestly, and even now I'm gonna be wary until we're boots dry on the mainland."

Story peels my shirt up and tosses it aside. "Don't mind me. Carry on."

"Ahhh…okay." She rips open the velcro straps of the vest and slides it off me; I cover my face with both hands, breathe, and force myself to focus despite the distraction of Story Binyamin undressing me like I'm a present to herself. "So, Cal and I used to play this game that we called Spot The Dealer."

She pauses with the vest in her hands. "Oh. I think I see where this is going. Very clever." She tosses the vest on top of the backpack and reaches for my fly. "Continue."

"Um. Where was I? Oh. Right. So I sat in an outdoor cafe and watched people for a while. Which is how the game works—Cal and I both love people watching. The game was just Cal's way of turning it into a competition."

"Because as we've established, Cal Roth has to win at everything." She very, very slowly unbuttons my fly, and then even more slowly lowers my zipper. "So I take it you found a dealer."

"I did. His uncle owns a boat, and for four hundred euros, they'll take us to the mainland, no questions asked. He'll be here at midnight to take us to his uncle's boat."

She gnaws on her lower lip, gazing up at me. "So you seriously just wandered around Olbia until you saw someone you thought was a drug dealer and asked if he could get us a no-questions-asked ride to Rome?"

I grin. "Yep."

"And it worked?”

"Yep." I laugh. "I almost bought some pot off him, too. I would've, if I didn't think we'd need all of our wits about us."

"It's illegal here, isn't it?" Story asks.

I shrug. "I think so? I'd assume so. It's only federally legal in a handful of countries, as far as I know." My jeans hit the floor, and I step out of them, toe them aside.

Story slides her hands under the waist of my underwear to cup my bare ass. "I'm seriously impressed, Kills. For real. I wouldn't have thought of that."

"Because you're a law-abiding citizen. You're an essential worker who’s dedicated her life to helping others. I'm the unemployed nepo-baby hooligan who's only stayed out of jail because my daddy's got a lot of money."

"You're a hell of a lot more than that, Killian," she murmurs.

"Glad you think so."

"I know so." She nips the tip of my chin, withdraws her hand from my underwear. "Time to eat, Fred."

"Time to eat Fred, or time to eat…Fred?" I tease.

We sit side by side on the edge of the bed, eating in easy silence; the meal Enzo made for us seems like a different lifetime.

"You think Enzo's gonna be okay?" I ask.

She nods. "I do. We got him to the hospital pretty quickly, and we stopped, or at least drastically slowed the bleeding."

"We have to see to his daughter and mother-in-law."

She nods without looking at me. "Playing the other side here for a second, but if Pugli is after us, it seems stupid to lead him to her."

"He knows where she is already. And we promised Enzo."

"But as far as anyone except Enzo knows, we shot him while escaping. If we stay clear, it's very likely Pugli won't know he was ever compromised. Just that he wasn't that great of a guard."

I glance at her. "True, but how does Pugli deal with failure?"

Her eyes shift to mine, and she winces. "Damn. You've got me there."

"I don't like it either," I say. "All I want is to find some safe way of getting ahold of our parents. It's one thing to train for stuff like this, but it's a whole other thing to go through it, y'know? The stories our parents tell, the media versions…none of that can adequately convey the fear and uncertainty."

Her eyes lock onto mine. “You're scared?"

I nod. "God yes. Not all the time. I'm not scared right now, for example. But that fuckin' boat launch was the scariest thing I've ever experienced, the ride to shore second. Even the actual getting snatched was more shocking and disorienting than scary. And the being trapped in the dark container, that wasn't fun. But…" I shrug. “You can't really sustain abject terror for that long. Once I realized that they weren't going to drag me out and start chopping off fingers to send to my parents, I was more just bored and disoriented. It's not natural to be in the dark for that long." Finished with my food, I set the empty clamshell aside and lean my elbows onto my knees, face in my hands. "I haven't really had time to process any of this, though."

"It gets delayed," Story says. "Our subconscious knows we can’t afford to have the emotional reactions yet. Once you really know you're safe, it'll all come out, one way or another."

"Do you…do you remember everything from when you met Anselm?"

She slowly finishes the last few fries, dragging them through ketchup until the red sauce kisses her fingertips, and then tilting her head back to drop the whole thing into her mouth. “Yeah."

The restaurant where I got the food didn't have a soda fountain, only warm cans and bottles. Story cracks the can of Coke Zero and takes a noisy, slurping sip. "Good lord, that's nice. It'd be better if it was nice and cold and crispy out of a fountain, but even a warm soda is a fantastic thing."

Another long pause.

"I was supposed to be asleep. Mom worked late that day. Whenever that happened, she'd have our neighbor check on me. Usually, I'd go to her house for a few hours and watch old Disney tapes, and then when it was time for bed, she'd bring me over to our house and get me in bed and asleep, and then she'd keep watch from her place until Mom got home. Not a perfect setup, obviously, but she was an old lady not exactly equipped to handle a seven-year-old with extreme PTSD.” She sips again, then rotates the can in her hands, fingers gently dimpling the tin with a metallic crinkling noise, her gaze on the floor, unseeing. "I couldn't sleep. I kept…" she clears her throat. "I kept having nightmares every time I closed my eyes, so I was reading books under my bed."

“Under the bed?"

She nods. "I had a flashlight. Baby blue with Cinderella on it. I'd drape my blankets over the sides of the bed so it was like a cave under there, and I'd look at books until I could sleep. It was the only way I could feel safe. Even now, when I'm afraid, my instinct is to hide in a small space. I don't, obviously, but I still feel the urge, twenty-two-years later."

"Does the sound of gunfire—" I cut off. "That's a shitty thing to ask. I'm sorry."

She leans against my side. "No, it's not shitty at all. Yeah, honestly, there will always be some part of me, however small, that will be that five-year-old whenever I hear gunfire. I do know that Dad intentionally exposed me to gunfire when he and Mom were both with me, as exposure therapy, of a sort, I suppose. And it worked. I don't…I don't have the PTSD reaction anymore. But I…I feel it, yeah."

“God, Story."

She rolls a shoulder. "I was so, so lucky. No one else on earth could have gotten through to me the way Mom did. She understood my trauma. She knew exactly how to love me. How to support me. She knew when I needed to be alone to figure it out and when I needed her. If I'd gone into the foster system?" She shudders. "God, I'd be a fucking disaster." Another silence. "Eight people died in that shooting. Six men, two women. There were another six injured, including a ten-year-old girl and a six-year-old boy." She swallows audibly. "There were hundreds of people in the mall that day. And you wanna know the worst statistic of all, Killy? In the twenty-two years since the shooting, four people who were there that day have committed suicide. Four. One of them was the six-year-old boy. His parents were both killed, just like me. But unlike me, a round went through his mother's head and into his chest. He survived, but he never recovered. He hung himself three years ago. Jimmy Trainor, his name was."

"Fucking hell."

A shuddery sigh. "The day I met Anselm? The nightmare I kept having was seeing Jimmy. After the shooting was over, and my parents' bodies were pulled off of me, it took a while for emergency services to sort through the chaos, y'know? So for I don't know how long, I was alone, sitting there with my parents' bodies, their heads covered by random hoodies. And Jimmy and his parents, they were…oh, fifty feet away from me. Right by the escalator. His mom tried to hide him behind a big potted fern. The shooter fired at a downward angle, and the bullet went through her forehead, out the back of her neck, and into Jimmy. I thought he was dead. I was staring at him. His eyes were open. He wasn't blinking. I thought he was dead…and then he blinked. Gasped. Mom—Selah—saw my reaction and went to help him. Everyone thought he was dead." She frowns, shakes her head. “That’s why I was under the bed. And then I heard something—I wasn't sure what. A sound that I knew wasn't normal. So I shut off my flashlight and lay under the bed, listening. I heard Mom come home. I heard her talking. I couldn’t figure out who she could be talking to, since our neighbor would have been asleep by then. Then she stopped talking. I remember she popped her head in." Story swallows hard. "I pretended to be asleep when she peeked under my bed. I don't know why. Maybe if I'd let her know I was awake…?" she shrugs. "I think about that a lot. How things could've been different. I almost fell asleep for real. But then I heard a different noise. Men’s voices. A scuffle. Fighting. Mom screamed. But she was angry, not hurt. I wanted to go help her, but I didn't. I couldn't. I…I stayed hidden under the bed. They took her, and I never left my hiding place. Not until a lot later. I heard more steps. They came closer and closer, and I was so scared it was whoever had taken Mom. But then he pulled up the blanket and I saw his face, and his eyes. It was his eyes that got me to come out."

A long pause.

"Some of it is hazy. A lot, actually. It was a lot of walking and driving and waiting. What I remember the most vividly is walking through a cold dark forest with Anselm. And then there was this warehouse—or an industrial area, since there were several warehouses, and Anselm somehow knew which one Mom was in—Lear, obviously. He gave me a gun—or was it a knife? I was so scared and cold and tired and confused that I don’t remember. You'd think I would, but I don't. It was just this cold, hard thing he put in my hands. What I remember is he had me hide in this little cubby where a stack of old pallets were leaning against the metal outside wall of a warehouse. There was smelly trash and stuff nearby, but where I was hiding was pretty clean. And being a small space, it was fairly warm. He pulled something in front of the opening to hide me. But there was this gap. I could see the other warehouse. The door. The guard standing outside of it. I saw Anselm go over there, and to this day, my starkest memory is of how he was a ghost in the darkness. He wasn't even a shadow. He was part of the darkness. I watched him kill the guard with a knife. It was far enough away and dark, so it wasn’t, like, graphic, but I could see enough to know what was happening."

"Jesus. Hell of a thing for a seven-year-old to witness."

"What choice was there? Mom had been kidnapped because he used her house to patch up a wound. Was he supposed to leave me alone in that empty house? Leave me alone in a cold car in the middle of a forest, miles away from where he was, while he rescued Mom? The only thing he could do was bring me with him." She shrugs, shakes her head. "He did the only thing he could do, and he did everything he could to protect me and minimize my exposure."

"You know I’m not faulting Anselm, Story."

"No, I know. But I get defensive about that. About him." She looks at me, then. "My need to feel safe is a big deal, Killy. It's not easy for me to feel safe. I have a heightened awareness of danger. I've known death and danger as a near constant my whole life. I mean, the only peace I've ever had are the years after Mom met Dad and we became a family up until I finished med school."

"I thought nursing was a separate career path from being a doctor.”

She smiles. "It is. I started out wanting to be an MD, and actually went a good ways toward it. But I had a long conversation with one of my teachers, who later became my mentor. She was a nurse practitioner. And that's a whole different thing. You know there are levels of nurses, right?" I nod, and she continues. "It's basically the apex of the nursing path, which is focused on patient care. Nurses are the boots on the ground. Doctors are focused on diagnosis, surgery, and discerning the correct method of care—the generals and other officers, to continue the military metaphor. I realized that I didn’t want to diagnose and all that, and I really didn’t want to waste time with rotations through all the departments when I knew what I wanted to do—take care of patients." She smiles. "So when I say med school, I'm using it as a general term because I did go through med school, I just only completed the pre-clinical phase as an actual MD student. That's when I switched…although switched is a nicer term for how it actually worked out." She laughs. "What I'm saying is, my path was dumb. I went in thinking I wanted to be a doc. The white coat in the ER, ruling my domain and saving lives like a boss. The credits don’t transfer neatly, but I got there. I got my nursing license and started in the ER, and I've been taking classes on the side to get my DNP—Doctor of Nursing Practice.”

Story puts one clamshell inside the other, closes the pair, and then spins in place, looking for somewhere out of the way to put them, and settles on shoving them under the lone chair. That done, she squirts hand sanitizer on her hands and rubs it in, tosses the bottle to me so I can do the same.

"I'm done talking about all that for now," she says to me, swaying toward me with a sultry shift of her hips, peeling out of her sports bra and shimmying out of her panties. "And you, Killian Harris, are wearing far too many clothes."

14

Time Flies When You’re Having Fun?

Killian gazes up at me with an expression of such reverence that it's hard to breathe. For the first moment or so, his eyes stay fixed on mine, seeking and searching. And then his gaze flicks over my face and explores the column of my throat and the swell of my breasts, then the flatland of my belly and the bell of my hips, and then the shadowed V of my pussy, where it lingers.

"So fucking…perfect," he murmurs, the pause brief but telling, as if he hunted for a better word and came up short. He reaches for me. "Tell me you're mine," he whispers.

He's still in his jeans, socks, and shoes, shirtless, his zipper open. His cock bulges in the opening, pressing against his underwear, the head outlined against the thin fabric.

I kneel at his feet and untie his shoes, slip them off, tug away his socks. Hold his eyes, unblinking and silent. Tug at his pantlegs. He lifts his ass off the bed, and I slide his jeans down, toss them aside. Now he’s in just his underwear, and my need for him is growing exponentially as I bare more and more of his body.

I curl my fingers in the elastic of his underwear and slip them down, intentionally allowing the waistband to catch at the tip of his cock, stretching it away from his body. I nibble on my lower lip in anticipation, and then let his cock go free to slap against his belly. His abs tighten as I pull his underwear off, and now he's finally naked with me, bared for me.

I slide my hands up his thighs, my eyes greedily raking over his body, taking in the hard, sharp-carved blocks of his rippling abs, the thick power of his arms, the heavy slabs of his chest. As I reach my feet, standing between his wide-spread thighs, Killian wraps his hands around my waist, above my hips and beneath my ribs, and pulls me toward him.

I catch up against him, and with me standing and him sitting on the edge of the bed, we're almost perfectly lined up, the hot length of his shaft pressed against the seam of my pussy, the tip of his cock gently waving at my navel with his slow, deep, controlled breaths. "Hi," I whisper. “You’re mine.”

“Not what I said, but I’ll take it.” His eyes are rife with need, void of levity or humor or softness. "I fucking need you, Story."

I pull him to me, and he buries his face between my breasts, and then rests the rough stubble of his chin on my breastbone and stares up at me; I gaze down at him, my hands around the back of his head. "So take me."

He surges to his feet, taking me upward as he stands; I cling to his shoulders with my arms and lock my legs around his waist, biting his lower lip hard enough to elicit a soft grunt of surprised pain from him. Two short steps take us across the room, and now my back is pinned to the door, his hands cupped under my ass. His mouth slashes across mine, and he snarls wordlessly, a sound of raw, ragged, erotic arousal. His mouth tilts, and his tongue stabs between my lips, demanding I open for him. I do, eagerly, and suck his tongue into my mouth and slither mine over his, cup the back of his head with one hand and reach between our bodies with the other, clutching his thick hard cock.

I ache, my pussy pulsing with need, dripping with arousal. Killy tips his hips toward me, sliding his length through my slit.

"So fucking wet for me," he whispers.

"Yes," I answer, meeting the pivot of his hips with one of my own. "You make me wet, Killy. Fucking take me. Please, Killy."

He growls, a low rattling of his chest, and sets me on my feet, drops to his knees. “Not yet." Before I can so much as take a breath, his mouth is fused to my pussy and his tongue is battering at my clit with quick, light, fast flicks that take me from wet and hot and pulsing with need to trembling on the cusp of orgasm within a few very literal seconds. "Come for me first."

I cry out through gritted teeth, hyperaware that the window is open and there are people within earshot. "Killy!" I keen, panting, rocking into his mouth. "Ohmyfuckinggod—Killy. Oh god. Oh god."

I struggle to keep my voice down as he assaults me with his tongue, speeding me toward the cliff and then slowing, again and again, for long minutes of agonizing ecstasy, until I'm helplessly wild with the spasming inferno of a long-denied climax, the madness of need totally subsuming my mind. "Killy, fucking god. Please. I need you." I pull him up by his ears until he stands, caging me against the door with his hard body. His cock is a ramrod between us, bobbing with his breathing, and I wrap my fingers around him, plunge them down his length, grinning savagely as he hisses his pleasure at my touch.

"Maybe I'm not done making you come," he says, trailing a single finger up my seam.

My control, what little of it remains, snaps, then. I shove him backward, hard—he staggers backward and hits the edge of the bed, sitting down hard with a squeal of protesting springs. I feel a bolt of unreasoning fear and self-consciousness ripple through me initially, nearly killing the need inside me—a knee-jerk reaction to my natural assertiveness escaping. Which, as I've explained to Killian, has not, historically, gone well for me.

But this is Killian.

My Killy.

And he just grins, a feral, heated curve of his lips, and stays on his back on the bed, feet on the floor. He tucks his hands under his head, fingers laced, waiting.

My heart hammers in my chest as I stare at him—his long, hard body naked for me, chest rising and falling steadily, stomach tensed, cock hard and thick and leaking precum, thighs bunched and powerful.

"You're fucking gorgeous," I whisper, sauntering toward him, trailing my fingers up his thighs as I move to stand between his legs. "You know that?"

He has no answer; his eyes are fixed on my pussy, and then flick up to linger on my breasts. I can see his hands unlace and clench into fists as he resists the urge to reach for me.

That restraint on his part is my undoing.

Sounds filter in from the open window—a peal of cackling, female laughter, an answering male chuckle; a florid string of curses in Italian mostly consisting of "cazzo,” which I'm starting to think means "Fuck"; the roar of an engine and the squeal of brakes.

Car doors slam closed.

A woman screams, and others follow suit.

I see Killian's brows furrow as understanding hits him at the same instant; he springs into motion an eye-blink faster than me, rolling off the bed and past me. He apparates into his jeans, yanking on his tee and strapping on the vest; he's dressed in seconds. I'm only a few heartbeats behind him, clad in the new outfit.

He rummages in the backpack, finds a spare pistol, tosses it to me, and then some magazines. Neither of us is wearing shoes.

There's a distant, muffled shout, and the BANG! of a single shot from an assault rifle. I don't need to be down there to know the innocent proprietor is now dead.

I peek out the window—we're on the second floor, so it's a pretty far drop to the cobblestone street, but both Killy and I have plenty of practice at drops like this. I take a moment to hurry into my shoes, and Killy does the same. I hear distant crashes—doors being kicked open, and shouts of anger that morph to fear.

Killy sees me at the window, peers out, and then meets my gaze. "Better part of valor, I guess, right?" He goes to a knee in the middle of the room, back to the window. "Go, I’ll cover you."

"Killy," I say, but the protest dies on my lips at the look on his face.

"Out the fucking window, Story. Now! I'll cover you." When I hesitate still, he growls. "I'll be right behind you, I promise."

I shrug into the backpack, tighten the vest, tighten the backpack straps. Stick one leg out the window, then duck my torso out, straddling the windowsill, and glance back at Killian.

"Go, goddammit!" he snaps. "I'll be fine."

The door flies open inward, the frame splintering at the latch. A body wearing armor and an olive drab tee fills the doorway; I have a split-second impression of a beard and dark eyes, and then Killian's pistol barks once, and the face rocks backward.

I swing my other leg out and drop in a single, fluid motion, my stomach rising into my throat for a split second. Air rushes past my ear in a loud roar, through which I hear a second bark from Killy's pistol; the ground flies up to meet me and I launch myself into tuck-and-roll to absorb the momentum. The contents of the backpack smash into my back as I roll—it'll be a wonder if something within isn't smashed.

I hear a third bark of gunfire hard on the heels of the second; a matter of seconds has elapsed since I leaped out of the window. A barrage of automatic weapons fire erupts from above, and a window shatters in a tinkling of glass and the plaster on the outside of the wall flakes away in a fluttering shower. My heart surges into my throat again, this time in fear for Killy.

The spray of rounds from what sounded like an MP-5 is punctuated by a single shot, and there’s a deep, snarling, masculine shout of pained rage, and another reckless chainsaw rattle of rounds peppers the window and wall to either side, and then I hear a breathless grunt.

"Hope you can fuckin' fly, bitch," I hear Killian say, and then there's a yell of shocked fear and a body thuds into the cobblestones in front of me. When he hits the ground, it sounds like a watermelon hitting the driveway mixed with someone snapping a handful of dry spaghetti.

The man's eyes flicker and flutter, and then go still as blood spreads in a widening ruby pool.

Silence, then.

A few moments later, Killian swaggers out of the front door of the hostel, pistol in his hand at his thigh, a pair of MP-5s slung over his left shoulder; his face is a mask of blood.

"KILLIAN!" I shout, rushing for him.

For that split-second, all of my training and experience at staying calm in emergencies flies out the window as I see Killian, the man I love, covered in blood. I can't breathe.

The world goes fuzzy and my head pounds.

"Hey, whoa. I'm fine. Take a deep breath for me, sweetheart. I'm absolutely fine. It's not even mine." He wipes a hand over his face. "Well, most of it. Some of it."

I shut my eyes and force myself to breathe in and out slowly three times, counting to four with each breath in, each breath out. I open them again, shrug one arm out of the backpack strap, and find the first aid supplies he just bought. The plastic cap of the deodorant stick is smashed to pieces, but that seems to be the only casualty of my tuck-and-roll. I use a gauze pad to dab the blood off his face, and discover that he's not totally incorrect—at least half of the blood painting his face is not his. But the other half is, and it's coming from a pair of deep cuts at the corner of his left eye and the bridge of his nose.

"This one nearly had your number," I mutter.

He stoically allows me to dab and press at the cuts in a mostly vain effort to slow the bleeding. Killian touches a sore spot near my right ear. "This one almost had yours."

I touch the spot, and I have a faint memory of something stinging me there during the fight at the flat. "Oh. I forgot about that."

He bats my hands away. "I'm fine. Faces bleed a lot."

I grab his wrist, hard. "Killian? Let me."

His eyebrows fly up at the sharp command in my voice, and he holds up both hands, palms out. "Yes ma'am."

I smirk. "Good boy." I fix my attention on his face, dabbing and pressing, folding the gauze, dabbing and pressing until the flow slows to a seep. "You should have a stitch here," I mutter, eying the long, deep cut near his temple more to myself than him. "But it'll heal. You'll have a heck of a scar."

"Hopefully you can live with my newly scarred face," he murmurs.

"Live with, huh?"

"You know what I mean."

I spray antiseptic onto a clean piece of gauze and dab the cuts, and then repeat this several times. "We need some superglue."

He frowns at me. "Superglue?"

I nod. "Yeah. Great for minor cuts like this. Obviously, medical-grade is best because it's formulated for application to open wounds, but regular old superglue works in a pinch. I use it at home for little cuts. It stops the bleeding, flakes away on its own, and forms a water-tight barrier that also keeps out bacteria and whatever else." I eye his face. "It's gonna keep trickling for a while."

He grabs a piece of gauze and clutches it. "Thanks for patching me up, Nurse Binyamin."

"I could have helped, Killy," I say.

He shakes his head slowly. “The room was too small for both of us to be able to fight effectively. I also happen to know that you're way better at pratfalls than I am. I'd have snapped an ankle pulling that shit." He glances up at the window ten feet overhead.

My stomach flips and my heart pounds; he's telling the truth, just not all of it. "You're trying to protect me, Killy. Don't think I don’t see what you're doing."

His eyes are soft. "Hell, yes I am, Story. I'm absolutely trying to protect you. You've been through enough. If I can take some of the burden from you by doing the bulk of the wetwork, then I'll gladly do so."

"I can handle it, Killian," I say, my voice dangerously quiet.

I feel him go still and tense at the tone of my voice. "Hey. I know. That's not why. I know what you're capable of. I do not doubt you in the fucking slightest. But there’s gonna be plenty of killing to go around before this is over, honey." He shoves the pistol into the back of his jeans and cups my face. "You're a healer, Story. It's who you are. Yes, you're a scarily effective killer when you need to be. I just don't want you to have to be that. You don't like it."

“And you do?" I ask. “Because that's not concerning at all."

"No, of course I don't like it." He looks away, hands dropping. "You were trained for your own protection. Self-defense. So you can take care of yourself if shit were to ever hit the fan. And you can. There's no one I'd rather have at my side in this than you." He brings his eyes back to mine. "But it’s different for me—I’ve always known that I'd follow in Dad's footsteps. I know Bryn is better at all this shit than I am, but this is my family legacy, too. It's who my dad is, it's who my mom is, it's who Bryn is, and it's who I am."

“You’re always comparing yourself to Bryn and Cal," I point out.

"They both cast pretty big shadows."

"You're not in anyone's shadow," I whisper. "You shine every bit as brightly as they do."

He shrugs. "That you think so is all I care about.

"You don’t wish it was Cal here instead?” I ask.

He frowns at my question. "Fuck no. He'd never listen to me, for one, and I'd have to spend the whole time keeping his big fat stupid head down so he didn't get it blown off."

I snicker. "You're not giving him enough credit."

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "I know. He's every bit as competent as the rest of us. He's just got that reckless impulsiveness." His face clears, brightens. "Plus, if it had been Cal, we wouldn't have discovered that we're in love with each other."

"True."

His smile becomes a smirk. "He also doesn't possess the world's finest backside."

"How do you know? You're straight. Maybe he does."

"Does he?"

I grin, lean into him and clap my hands onto his ass. "Nope. But you do."

Sirens go wee-wah wee-wah wee-wah, distant but approaching. Killian's eyes flick from my face to over my shoulder. "We should go while the getting is good," I say. "I don't think being interrogated by the Sardinian police would help us a whole lot."

"Considering there are…" he looks up, counting, "fifteen? Fifteen bodies in a morgue somewhere that point back to us? I'm inclined to agree."

I blink at him. "Fifteen?"

He hauls me toward the low-slung, blacked-out Audi four-door sedan parked diagonally across the narrow lane. "I hope the keys are in this thing." he leans in the open driver's door. "Aha! They are." He swings in. "C'mon. Il Carabinieri are gonna be here any second."

I jog to the car, slam closed the two rear doors as I round the trunk, and slide in next to Killian. The second my ass touches the seat, he guns the engine, and we scoot toward the dead-end with a bark of tires; the abrupt jerk forward swings my door closed, and then he jams the car into reverse and backs down the narrow lane. As soon as we reach the intersection, he pulls a squeaky-clean J-turn, twists the rotary shifter dial to D, and guns the accelerator, bolting us forward with a squeal of rubber.

I cover his hand. "Hey, easy. Drive it like you stole it, and they'll think you did."

He doesn’t reply but backs off the speed. We make a left away from the hostel just as three Sardinian cop cars zip past, lights flashing blue.

I'm still stuck on the number fifteen, mentally. "The original three goons," I mutter, ticking off three fingers. "Eight at the flat, that's eleven." I scrub my face with a palm. "Eight. We took out eight back there?”

"Time flies when you're having fun?" Killy quips; I glance around but have no clue where we are, and neither does Killian, I don't think.

I ignore his joke. "Plus those four—that makes fifteen. Jesus."

He rolls his eyes at me, pulling to a stop at an intersection to allow a gaggle of clucking and cackling mid-thirties American women to cross. "I can do basic math, you know. Such as adding three plus eight plus four."

I rest my hand on his forearm. "I know. It just seems like a lot."

"It is." He frowns, shakes his head. "I'm trying not to think about it, to be honest. It's easier mentally to just sort of pretend they're paper targets back at the compound. Things get dicey up here," he taps his temple, "if I think about them as people."

"How did they get to us so fast, Killy?"

A shrug. "I don't know. How many kill squads does this Pugli asshole have just…waiting around in various European cities?" He pauses, gripping the steering wheel in both hands as we wait at another intersection. "Do you think it's the cars?"

"The cars?" I echo, thinking. "I mean, maybe?"

"From what I've heard, he's paranoid as hell. So it'd follow that he tracks his people."

I frown harder, my mind racing. "How long was it from leaving the flat in their car to that squad showing up?"

Killian's brow furrows; he's definitely just turning at random, now, winding us aimlessly across Olbia. "Ummm…? A few hours at most? I was gone for, what? Three hours, max?"

I shrug, nod. "About that."

"So from putting Enzo into the car to this last round of jackholes showing up? Four hours, at most, although I admit I wasn’t exactly watching the clock.”

"So let's think this through," I say. "Let's assume Pugli has someone monitoring a GPS tracker or something. But…" I frown. "Wait. How did he know we were at that flat?"

"The phone," Killian answers. "Enzo's so-called burner."

"Oh, right. Yeah. He mentioned he thought it was probably being tracked. Okay, so…" I consider the problem. "The phone stops. Pugli’s computer guy goes, ‘Hey boss, they've stopped.’ Pugli sends two squads to clean up—take out you and Enzo and bring me to Pugli to be…broken."

"Do not go there," Killian warns.

I shake both hands beside my head. "Nope. Go where?" I clear my throat. "So when computer boy sees the tracker heading to not-the-right-place, he tells his boss and the boss says to watch where they go. When they stop, send more goons."

Killian laughs. "I doubt Pugli calls them his goons, babe."

"It's more fun to think of him yelling, 'send more goons!'" I say, snickering. "So we stop, and they send more goons. If it was under four hours from the time our tracker stopped outside the hostel, that's more than enough time to get a squad here, or activate one that's already here."

"My guess is they're already here. If they knew they planned to bring us here for whatever reason, I can see Pugli lining up a bunch of guys to hang around in case shit goes sideways, and Pugli is definitely the kind to assume something is going to go wrong. They've all shown up in pretty nice cars, and if the ferry ride here is like six hours, so they have to have already been on Sardinia with their cars."

"So then the question becomes, 'how many more kill squads are there on Sardinia?’" I say.

He nods, points at me. "That's the better question." He halts at yet another intersection to allow an old man riding a bicycle to pass; the old man gives us a friendly, jaunty wave, which Killian returns. "It's nice here," Killian says. "I'd like to visit again when people aren't trying to kill me and make you a sex slave."

"I dunno," I mutter. “I’d probably see kill squads around every corner."

"You may have a point there." He pulls away from the intersection. "So what's our plan now, d'you think?"

"Well, our hostel hideout is blown. You never finished telling me what the plan for the ferry was, but I'm assuming that's blown too, now." I sigh, and it's more of an irritated growl than a sigh. "We can't just drive aimlessly around Sardinia, though, that's for sure. I'll get car sick."

He glances at me sidelong. "You get car sick?"

I nod. "Yeah. Short rides around town are no problem. It's long road trips that get me. Any time I'm in a car for longer than an hour, I get nauseous."

"But the giant boat in the fucking hurricane wasn’t a problem? The tiny boat in a fucking hurricane wasn't a problem?"

I shrug. "Weird, I know. It's not motion sickness. I love rollercoasters. I don't get seasick. Airplanes are no problem either, and I’ve been in everything from Cessnas to your dad's fighter planes.”

"Have you been in the Phantom?" he asks.

I grin. "Ride of my life. When he does that Immelman at full throttle? It feels like your skull is gonna get sucked down into your toes."

Some rich guys collect cars, others collect houses, and others collect supermodel girlfriends. Nicholas Harris collects fighter planes. Last time I saw his collection, it included a Spitfire, a P-51 Mustang, a BF-109, a Japanese Zero, a handful of different kinds of Russian MiGs from Korea and Vietnam, an F-4 Phantom, an F-14 Tomcat, and an F-16, to name only the ones I knew on sight. One of the main reasons the Harrises chose the island they did for their compound was the presence of a clearing large enough and flat enough to let him build his own private airfield.

How you get your hands on a fully functioning—let alone a fully armed F-14 Tomcat, I can't even begin to guess. I suppose when your best friend is one of the top 3 richest humans ever, and you yourself are almost a billionaire, the scope of what money can buy opens up a good bit.

Killian glances at me after a few minutes of silence. "So…crazy idea."

"Yeah?" I ask, eyeing him with wary suspicion.

"Draw them out."

“You're talking about ambushing the kill squad?"

He nods. "We know, or at least suspect, that they're tracking us. But we don't know how many more goons there are out there or where they are. We do know that wherever they are, their response time is at least a couple hours."

"So we find another place to lie low as if we think we've gotten away. Goons show up and we cap some bitches."

Killian snickers. "It makes me horny when you talk like a gangster."

I grit my teeth. "Killian, don't talk about being horny."

He arches an eyebrow at me. "Hey, you got to come. Those assholes showed up at literally the worst possible moment for me. I was seconds from being inside you.”

I glance at his zipper, and then out the window. "Too bad it's still daylight and there's people everywhere. I'd fix that right here right now, but unfortunately for you, I’m not an exhibitionist.”

We stop again—this time for a flat-nosed cube van to unload crates of fresh produce; there's no way to go around and cars piled up behind us, and the unloading process looks to take a while, so Killian puts the Audi into park and leans back in his seat, stretching with a jaw-cracking yawn.

"Story…" he takes my hand and kisses the back of it. "How do I say this?"

I frown at him. "Not sure I like the start of this."

He frowns thoughtfully. "I don't know how to say what I'm trying to say."

"Please pull into the nearest dead-end alley and suck my brains out through my dick?" I suggest, teasing a finger over the brass teeth of his zipper.

"That's just it—yes, I want that. I mean, shit, of course I want you to do that."

I nip his earlobe. "Now you're being shy?"

"Shy? Who's shy?" he shakes his head. "I'm not shy."

"Then say what you mean."

"Fine. Yes, Story. I always want you to suck my cock. There'll never not be a time when I don't."

It's my turn to arch an eyebrow at him. "But?"

"But I want more than that," he says, his voice dropping to a murmur. "You sucking me off feels fucking incredible, obviously. And I'm pretty sure it does something for you. But it's not what I really want. It's not what I dream about."

I willingly take the bait. "What do you dream about, then, Killy?"

He takes my hand and kisses the back of it again, his eyes on mine, green fire piercing to the core of my soul. "Hearing you scream my name while I'm inside you," he growls.

15

Too Late To Run

My stomach does several very athletic flips at his statement. He's driving with his left hand on the wheel, his right resting on his thigh. I take his hand in mine and crush-grip it as a bolt of unadulterated need rampages through me. I thunk my head back against the headrest and shove his hand between my thighs, squeezing as hard as I can. "Dammit, Kills," I hiss. "I need that. I need you."

"I almost wish I could raise those fuckers from the dead just so I can kill them again for cock-blocking me," Killian mutters. "Fucking assholes. They couldn't have waited a few minutes?"

I bite my lower lip, leveling a scorching, aroused stare at him. "Only a few minutes?" I ask. "You really think all you're gonna give me is a few minutes?" I reach for his zipper. "Killy, honey. I'm gonna need a few hours. At least."

His returned stare comes with a cocky smirk. "I was exaggerating for dramatic effect." He grabs my wrist and stops me before I can make contact with the promised land. "Don't. We have to focus. If you touch me, all bets are off."

"Fine, whatever. Be all right and stuff."

He laughs. "Sorry that I want to live long enough to be able to fuck you until your legs don't work."

I groan out loud, clamping my thighs around his hand all the tighter. "Killian Harris, you are not a nice man. You shouldn't tease me like that."

"Not a tease—a promise."

I force my thighs to unclench, focusing on letting my arousal ebb away through slow, controlled breaths. Slowly, I manage to pull my attention away from my sexual and emotional desperation to make love with Killian and dial in on our situation. "You said your drug dealer buddy was gonna be meeting us at the hostel at midnight."

Killian threads his fingers through mine and rests them together on my lap. "That's what we agreed, yes. But the hostel is blown."

"So we ambush the next squad, find somewhere to hole up until midnight, and then intercept your friend outside the hostel. Take the ferry to Rome. Do something about Enzo's kid. Get a clean burner and contact our family. Wrap up this bullshit." I lift our hands and kiss his knuckles. "And then you take me somewhere and spend at least a week ruining me in all the best ways."

"Only a week?" Killian murmurs. "Gonna need a lot longer than that."

"A month?"

"Try a lifetime."

My stomach lurches at this. "Killy," I breathe.

“Too much too soon?"

"Stop the car."

"Story—"

"Just stop the car for a second, Killian."

He yanks his hand free from mine and scans our surroundings for somewhere to stop; he makes a sharp, abrupt left into a narrow space between buildings—I'm uncertain whether it's a road, an alley, or just a liminal space created by an accident of the urban topography.

He brakes to a halt and puts it into park, twists in the seat to face me. "So what's—"

I knot my fingers in his shirtfront and yank him toward me, crash my mouth onto his with a soft breathy grunt.

He's shocked into momentary motionlessness at the suddenness and intensity of the kiss, and then his hands slide over my cheeks and ears and frame my face, and he's kissing me back with equal ferocity. It's a war for supremacy, then, each of us leaning into the other, pushing and pulling, deepening the kiss and softening, teasing and demanding.

I pull away first, just enough to meet his eyes, my fingertips perched on his cheekbones. "A lifetime sounds perfect."

"Is it nuts?" he whispers. "To think I know that that's what I want? That I want it with you? That I know I'll never want it with anyone else?"

"Maybe," I whisper. "But we can be nuts together. Because same."

"Story, I—" he searches my face from a distance of inches. "God, I've loved you for so long."

I quest my lips against his again, my hands trailing down his cheeks and then curling into the hair at the base of his skull, and then I'm clasping the back of his head and cupping him closer, daring my tongue against his and leaning into him. "I'm about to climb over this damn console."

He glances into the rearview mirror and frowns. "We can't get a single fucking moment alone, it feels like."

A policeman patrolling on foot is standing in the alley-mouth, watching us.

"It'll be worth the wait," I tell him, giving him one last quick soft kiss before sinking back to my seat. "C'mon. Let's find a good place to ambush these goons. I'm getting irritated."

Killian snickers. "That sounds hazardous to their health."

"Very much so," I mutter.

He puts the car in reverse, and the patrolman continues on his way as we back out of the space that's barely wide enough for the car. By now, we've been aimlessly perusing the streets of Olbia for almost an hour, and we spend nearly that long again making our way to the outskirts, and then he cuts through the center directly again to the docks; I know Olbia almost as well as Minneapolis, by now. He finds a parking spot near the docks, and we stroll the waterfront area, ending up at the Olbia archeological museum, a large concrete structure on a mini-island nestled between a longer and a shorter section of pier. We spend some time there, browsing the artifacts, and then we find a restaurant within walking distance and take a long, leisurely meal. We talk about nothing in particular and spend a lot of time simply sitting together in companionable silence. We spend more time strolling hand in hand as if we're merely tourists. We don't have much of a plan, to be honest—we've parked the car in an obvious, open place, away from other cars and with no obvious cover right nearby—it's just a big, open parking lot.

As two hours turn to three, I can tell Killian is starting to question the plan, such as it is, to lure in and ambush the goons. By the time four hours have passed since the last batch of killers appeared at the hostel, the late afternoon has turned to evening, and we’ve had dinner, espresso, and cannolis, and have walked what feels like several miles at a slow, seemingly aimless strolling pace.

Killian turns my wrist so he can check the time. "We should get into position where we can see the car."

We've discussed the plan ad nauseam while walking, and the best course of action so far as we can discern is to get them as they swarm the car itself. The pier—or dock, I don't really know the difference, if I'm being honest—is nearly a mile long, a widening rectangular wedge of concrete with rows and rows of semi-trailers parked in serried ranks; it's a large enough area with enough industrial traffic to warrant a traffic circle, of sorts. The port authority office is a rectangular stack of concrete blocks and windows, and clustered directly nearby is the maritime station—a series of circular structures. Above all of this rise the superstructures of two cruise ships.

Even from the distance of nearly a mile, the cruise ships are so massive as to defy my brain's ability to accept the scale.

"You don't realize how big those things are until you see them in person," I remark, as we approach the car so we can collect our things from it—we couldn't exactly carry a backpack full of guns and two compact assault rifles around Olbia.

Killian snorts. "Story, the freighter we were on was bigger. Well, longer, at least."

“Yeah, but I didn’t really see the damn thing, did I?” I say. “I sat in the dark, and then I was frog-marched the length of it and shoved into a rubber dingy in the middle of a freaking hurricane. I only have a vague impression of falling a long way, hitting the water, and then feeling like I was on a very wet rollercoaster."

Killian blinks. "Oh. I mean, when you put it like that, yeah, I guess you're right—I'm only going based on what I already know about freighters. Having lived in the Caribbean my whole life and growing up within paddleboard distance of a major shipping lane, I've been around freighters and cruise ships since I could swim. Let me tell you, you can get some serious air jumping a jet ski over a freighter's wake."

"Isn't that…dangerous?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I mean, you don't want to zip around right behind them, no. But even a thousand feet behind one of those monsters, the wakes will still legit fuckin' send you."

"Was that Cal's idea?" I ask, smirking.

He rolls his eyes. "Believe it or not, I have had some bad ideas of my own."

We reach the car and remove the backpack, body armor, and long guns—we decided, for the sake of appearances, to forgo the armor while killing time. It was a gamble that the next set of bloodthirsty mercenaries wouldn't show up early, but Sardinia in the summer is hot; we passed a bank with a digital sign flashing the time, the date in European—and far more logical—day-month-year order, and the local temperature. Which, when we passed it around four this afternoon, was reading 34 degrees Celsius; for the Americans out there, that’s almost ninety-five Fahrenheit. Wandering around in body armor is a good way to get heat stroke, in temps like that.

We carry our gear away from the car, heading for the nearby lot full of tractor-trailers. A subcompact cruises past us, an older model Peugeot with a yellow flashing light on top—port security. Panic creeps in at the edges of my mind, making my pulse race and my pace increase.

"Easy," Killian murmurs, surreptitiously holding me back. "What did you tell me earlier? Drive it as if you stole it, and they'll think you did. Same goes here. Act like you're supposed to be here. Don't look, don’t react, just keep on walking like you know exactly where you're going."

I give a short, tight nod and do as he says, trying to focus on walking with controlled purpose toward the ranks of trailers. The security vehicle slows as it draws even behind us.

"Ehi!" A male voice calls. "Dove vuoi arrivare con tutto questo?"

Killian adjusts his armload of things and taps his wrist, pointing vaguely in the direction of the nearest cruise ship. "Tardi!"

“You speak Italian, now?” I ask in a hissed whisper.

"No," he whispers back. "A smidge of Spanish. I'm just hoping that the Spanish for late is close enough to the Italian that it’ll sound the same." He breaks into a jog, checking the imaginary watch on his wrist again. "C'mon. Act like you're in a rush."

“You just told me not to!" I protest.

We cross the end of the nearest row of trailers and cut out of view of the security guard. Panting more out of nerves than exertion, Killy and I stop and wait to see if we're caught. When nothing happens for several seconds, Killian peeks out cautiously and then straightens. "Alright, we're good. He bought it."

"A lightless container was bad enough," I say. "I really don't want to end up in an Italian prison. I've seen the Amanda Knox show on Hulu. That doesn't look like fun."

Killian snorts at this. "I think in comparison to what Pugli has planned for you, an Italian prison would be Club Med. Of course, the problem is that Pugli can get his slimy paws on you even more easily in prison. He has access, and you'd have nowhere to go."

I frown at him. "Wow, Killy. That's so reassuring. Thank you very much for that."

He winks back at me. "No problem, babe."

"You're so helpful, babe."

"I know, babe."

We burst into suppressed snickering at our idiotic exchange, but the levity is short-lived. It's not fully dark yet, but the shadows are lengthening, and the heat is dissipating to merely brutal, although when I glance at Killian, he seems perfectly at ease, not even a dot of sweat on his upper lip; at some point, Killian has donned his vest, while I, too hot, have not.

I pull my shirt away from my chest, where it's sticking with sweat. "You don’t seem fazed by the heat."

He shrugs. "Not all that different than back home." He smirks at me. "You're a northern girl. Not used to real heat, huh?"

"Shut up," I mutter. "So let's go over the plan again."

Killy rolls a shoulder again, the very picture of studied indifference. "Wait for the goons to swarm the car, start cappin' some bitches."

"And then what?"

He blinks. "Then what, what? Then we win."

I gesture broadly around us. "Killian, this is a fairly large port. With its own security. We'll have the police on us within minutes if we just open fire."

"Oh. Hmm." he glances out at the car, scanning the road. "I mean, I don't see much of a choice. What we don't do is take another of their cars." He hums thoughtfully. "Mmmm? Okay, I've got it. We break these down," he lifts his MP-5 in gesture, "and stuff the pieces in the backpack. Keep the armor on and tough it out, and make a run for it. Do like we said and see if we can meet my new friend."

"Did you get a name for your drug-dealing buddy?" I ask.

He frowns. “You've clearly never bought pot off a sketchy dude in a back alley."

I snort. "Clearly."

"You don't ask names, honey. That's, like, rule number one."

"I thought rule number one was not shouting, 'may I buy some drugs, please?' "

Killian sputters. “Yeah, that's a good rule. Sort of an unspoken one."

"Aren't all the rules about illicit drug deals unspoken? Like, is there a how-to-buy-drugs guidebook for dummies?"

He frowns at me. "You're just full of jokes, huh?"

I grin, shrug. “See also our conversation about dark humor. It's how I cope in high-stress situations."

He frowns again. "This isn't high-stress. We’re just waiting."

"That's the stressful part!" I don't-quite yell. "All the sitting around doing nothing, knowing people are about to try to kill you and you're about to try to kill them. The scary part of a rollercoaster isn't the actual drops and loops, it's slowly click-click-clicking up to the first drop."

Killian ejects the magazine and inspects it, does another visual sweep, and then sets about stripping the MP-5. I don’t know why, though, as we don’t have a cleaning kit. Something to do with his hands, I suppose. "You make a good point."

"You're not scared right now?"

He shakes his head. "Lot of anticipation, sure, but fear?" He frowns even harder, brow furrowing, nose wrinkling. "I suppose the last couple firefights all happened so fast I didn't have a chance to be scared.” He barks a laugh. "Well now I am, thanks."

"It just feels different, Killy," I whisper. "Shooting back at someone who's shot at you first is one thing. Lying in wait, literally, and shooting someone who doesn't know you're there? It just feels a whole lot different."

He inspects the pieces as he reassembles the weapon, and when he's done, he taps the magazine home and levels a look at me. "I guess it is different. This isn't reactionary, this is an offensive maneuver. And I do get where you're coming from. But you can't think of it like that. These guys that are gonna show up? They're career killers, Story. You don't end up doing wetwork for a man like Pugli if you're a nice guy with clear morals."

"I know, but—"

"Just think of it like this—these guys have one mission: kill me and bring you to Pugli. And you haven't sat in on the briefings about Pugli that I have, Story."

I let a breath puff out between my lips. "No, I guess I haven't. So?"

"So, I feel like maybe you're not fully informed as to what kind of a person Roberto Pugli really is. The kind of shit he does to his…merchandise."

"Killy—" I start.

"He's not just a human trafficker, that's number one. He's not just the businessman, the money behind the operation. He hand-selects the people he sells. See, people who buy from him are…they're high-end customers. You go to Pugli for your sex-slave needs because he supplies a particular kind of product. Apparently, he guarantees that his merchandise will be fully house-broken; I think that’s the term I heard. Meaning, just so we're clear, girls who aren't going to fight, argue, complain, or try to escape. They pay a premium for girls procured by Pugli because he breaks them himself."

My skin crawls. "I thought that guy was just trying to scare me."

"He was." Killy pauses for effect. "With the truth."

"Oh," I murmur.

"Pugli does sell in…um…untrained bulk, but those girls are generally the kind of people he feels won't be missed—orphans, prostitutes, and drug addicts, people like that. He also sends snatch squads to rural villages all across Europe and they take girls right out of their homes, but again, those are places that generally see little to no oversight from government." He lifts a chin at me. "You he wants because you'd be missed. You're an American. An extremely attractive English-speaking white girl with blonde hair and blue eyes and a lot of spirit. You're the kind of girl he likes to take his time breaking himself, and then once he's done that, he gives them to his men for further 'breaking,’ and then he finally sells them to the highest bidder."

"Wouldn’t…?” I struggle with how to phrase my question. "You'd think a buyer would want someone…unbroken. Un…um…used."

He shrugs. "I guess not. I suppose if you just want to get down to the business of making money, having to expend time and effort making sure your new girls don't try to run away isn’t worth it. Better to pay more for someone who's already had the fight beaten and raped out of her."

I feel sick. "Jesus."

"Exactly." He stabs a finger in the direction of the car. "That's who the fuckers we're waiting to ambush are, Story: sex-slavers. Men who are eager to get you to Pugli so they can have their turn with you and before Pugli sells you off to the highest bidder. And then they go snatch some other poor innocent girl and do it all over again." He stands up, brushes off the seat of his jeans, and takes my hands in his, the now-reassembled MP-5 hanging from his shoulder by the strap. "This isn't…they're not soldiers just following orders to take some hill or whatever. These dudes are professionals who know exactly what their objective is and are eager to accomplish it."

"Okay," I whisper. "I understand."

"I'm not trying to scare you," he says. "Just make it easier to be objective. You're not killing innocent, unsuspecting people. You're killing evil bastards who I fucking guarantee you have spent most of their adult lives murdering and raping and doing pretty much every other kind of nefarious bullshit you can imagine."

"I'm trying not to imagine said nefarious activities," I mutter, my voice faint. "But that does help put it in perspective. I'm still scared, I just won't feel guilty about it when I pull the trigger."

"It's what I'm telling myself," he says, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "I keep…I keep seeing those first three. I have to…I have to tell myself they were bad dudes who wanted to do bad things to you. Who have done a lot of bad shit to a lot of people. Even if you're not, like, the one snatching the girls—even if all you do is transport, if you know what you're moving, you're complicit."

While we wait and talk, the dim purple-gray of evening's descent has become the dense, inky black heat of night. We lapse into silence again, each of us lost in our own thoughts—mine wander to why they took me. Why then? Why take me and stuff me in a container on a freighter in the middle of the Mediterranean with someone I know? If Pugli wanted to make me a sex-slave, why not just bring me right to him? It doesn't make a lot of sense; but then, I suppose I don’t know much about the logistics of human trafficking.

I wonder again at the timing. I know Bryn went missing—Dad called me to let me know. I offered my help, but he said that people were on it and that I should just focus on work and staying safe. I never imagined that just a few days later, I'd end up on the business end of a kidnapping. I'm a predictable person. I live a boring life. I go to work, I go to the gym, I go to the store, I go home. Occasionally I'll have drinks with work friends. When I was dating, I'd go out with my boyfriend. My patterns aren't hard to discern. They could have taken me at any point. Why then? I don't know that I'll ever know—the mind of a human trafficker is a mystery to me.

"Here we go,” I hear Killian murmur, and his boots crunch on gravel as he adjusts his position.

I tune in—white LED headlights sweep down the road between the parking lots that line the outer edges of the massive pier. There's not just one SUV approaching, but three.

“Well fuck me. Guess they got the memo that we're not gonna go down easily," Killian says.

"I do," I say, nerves making my mouth run. "On you, at least."

Killian sputters a laugh. "Focus, babe." He glances at me, reaches out and squeezes my hand. "If we get separated for any reason, you go back to the hostel and meet up with the guy. He’s tall, he has long hair, and a kinda scraggly beard. He drives some souped-up European sports car. Tell him you're my ragazza."

"Killy—"

"Just in case."

I glare at him. "That's not an option. But fine. It's not gonna happen, but fine—noted."

He shoots me a glance. "You're not gonna, are you? If anything were to happen to me, I mean."

"If anything happens to you, it happens to me."

He shuffles closer to me, taps his forehead to mine. "No, sweetheart. Listen to me, yeah? You do not get taken by these motherfuckers. No matter what. Swear it. Promise me. Swear on your mother's life that no matter what happens, you do not let these fuckers get you."

"I—I promise." I'm taken aback by his intensity. "I swear on Mom's life I won't let them get me." I cling to him. "But Kills, nothing can happen to you. I just got you."

"I don't plan on anything happening," he says, "but I wasn't factoring in three carloads of goons."

"So maybe we reevaluate the plan," I suggest. "They don't know we're here. Let's just walk away."

There's a short concussive rattle, and something clangs loudly off the side of the trailer.

"Too late," Killian says. "They saw us."

16

There Was A Firefight!

The trailers provide excellent cover, it turns out. They’re parked at an angle, so we can hunker in the shelter of the huge double wheels, and the tires provide a nice stable surface to rest the muzzle of the assault rifles on.

The problem is, we're wildly outnumbered.

They have us pinned down, and with their numerical superiority, they can keep us pinned down.

"This may have been a mistake," Killian shouts over the din of gunfire.

"No shit!" I yell back.

"We can't just sit here trading volleys," he says, after popping up and sending a burst in the general direction of the bad guys. "It's a losing game for us."

"So what, then?"

I feel panic squeezing around my chest—this was my idea. Ambush heavily-armed and well-trained professional mercenaries, I said. It'll be easy, I said Just run off into the sunset, I said.

Dumbass.

I'm frozen. I can't breathe. Can’t move from my spot next to Killian, who is the only one of us doing any shooting. I never thought I'd be the one to panic and freeze in a gunfight, but here I am, eyes squeezed shut, lungs frozen solid inside my ribcage, weapon clutched in both shaking hands, trying not to do the dumbest thing possible and just get up and run away.

Beside me, Killian trades a spent mag for a fresh one, takes a deep breath, holds it, and then forces it out in a sharp, bracing exhale before swinging around the side of the tire and squeezing off a burst, a second, and a third before duck out of the way, just in time for a flurry of rounds to clink-clink-clink off the side of the trailer.

Sirens howl—a fucking lot of them.

"I wonder what happens when law enforcement gets here," Killian says. He frowns at me as if just now realizing my mental status. "Hey, you good?"

I bark a panicked laugh. "No!" The laugh turns into a half-sob. "I'm—I'm f-f-fr…." I can't even finish the thought.

"Shit," Killian mutters; then he leans into me, forehead to forehead, cupping my nape and squeezing hard. "Hey. You're good. It's okay."

This statement, meant to be reassuring, seems so idiotically, patently untrue that it's what actually breaks me out of my frozen state. "Oh? It is? Which fucking part?"

I hear something worrisome over the staggered volleys coming from the parking lot—voices from a different direction: our flank.

I spin away from Killy and drop forward to one knee, peering under the bottoms of the line of trailers behind us—and I see boots shuffling our way. "They're behind us!" I shout.

"Fuck! Motherfucking fucking fuck!” He glances my way, and then pops up and fires two quick three-round bursts toward the parking lot.

I wait, watching four sets of boots creep our way, counting the seconds until they round the end of the trailer and can pull bead on us.

I shoot a quick look at Killian, who in turn is watching me. "I'm good, now."

"Sure?"

"I'm good," I repeat, pretending I'm not lying to both of us.

The barrel of an assault rifle pokes around the corner of the trailer, and I put the sights a few inches above that, waiting, breath trapped in my chest.

A beat.

I hear Killy fire.

Rounds tinkle and clank off the trailer. They chew up the concrete and stitch their way past him, whizzing and buzzing and humming like a murderous swarm of those giant killer hornets you hear about.

A bearded face appears, but I wait. A second face, this one brown-skinned and smooth-shaven, appears next to the first, and they fire in unison—their rounds spit concrete shards into my face and zip overhead, but none comes particularly close.

And now it's my turn.

I picture the trailer I'm using for cover as being packed full of terrified teenage and pre-teen girls, and the rage that boils through me blooms hot, and then incandescent, and then it goes icy cold.

The world narrows, my perspective foreshortening to dial in on the faces less than fifty feet away; I see the wavering heat distortion from their muzzles, a black gap in the bearded white man's teeth, a fly or some other flying insect buzzing around the roof of the trailer beside mine. The sounds of the battle fade to a muffled barrage of distant sounds, only faintly and fuzzily noticed. My panicked, hot, gasping breath slows and steadies.

My finger tightens and my weapon bucks into my shoulder in bizarrely-taffied slow-motion: one…two…three, one…two…three—ONETWOTHREE suddenly loud and violent in my ears, ringing and warbling and humming in and out of focus. The black gap of a missing tooth explodes crimson as my first and second rounds crater the majority of his face by way of his mouth. The second burst misses. The third trio of bullets severs a finger off the second mercenary's stock-gripping hand, eliciting a pained roar.

Time snaps back to normal flow and the cacophony of the firefight returns in a deafening roar.

Rounds ricochet in searing whines, snap overhead and buzz past my ears. Something hot and sharp creases the tip of my left breast and I jerk, cupping myself. "That was my tit, you fucker!" A quick glance assures me that my girl is intact, although it was a near thing—my shirt and bra are sliced open a few millimeters beneath my nipple, and a red line scores the skin there—any higher and I’d be missing a nipple.

Which is my reminder that I never put my vest back on; I shrug into it in record time and then fire back, more to keep their heads down than to hit anyone—I'm too pissed off to be rational. "Shoot me in the boob? I don't fucking think so, assholes."

I swap magazines, noting that I only have one more full spare for the MP-5. As I'm doing so, the mercenary whose finger I shot off swivels out from behind the trailer-end and snaps off a quick burst, drops to his knee and fires again. Only by virtue of a niggle in my gut am I saved—of the many lessons Anselm See has taught me, there are a few he repeats to the point of being a litany. One of them applies now: always trust your instincts. If you're in a life-or-death situation and your gut tells you to hit the dirt, don't ask questions; just hit the dirt. Our senses detect a vast amount of information on a second-by-second basis, and we're only really cognizant of an infinitesimal fraction of it. Your instincts or your gut impressions are merely your subconscious feeding you information you aren't aware you know.

Such as now. My gut, as I'm in the process of swapping mags, suddenly screams at me to lay down—NOW.

I do so without hesitation, and that's what saves my life—the second set of shots crack and snap through the air where I'd been an instant before. I hear a short, strangled cry of pain behind me but can't spare a thought for it. I return fire, and I don't miss. My rounds go through the mercenary's chest.

But it's too little, too late.

Two more men appear, and then two more, and I'm pouring fire at them, but I'm lying down flat on my back, firing down the length of my torso, and the angles are all wrong. My shots go high and wide, and behind me, Killian's firing has stopped.

"Killy?"

"Fuck." His voice is tight and pained.

"Killy!"

"Ah fuck. I'm hit." I hear him grunt.

The four at the other end are pouring suppressive fire at us, two on the left and two on the right popping out in alternation, and it’s only the fact that they seem to want me, at least, alive that keeps either of us breathing.

"How bad?"

"Dunno. Hurts."

"Where?" No answer. "KILLIAN!" I spray a long burst and then roll to my stomach.

Killian has one hand clamped to his left side, blood welling red between his fingers. "I'm fine, I’m fine. It's not bad."

What do I do? I can't fight back and triage him at the same time.

No one is coming to save us.

This was my idea.

Killian is hit.

There are too many.

Killian fires, and the report is right beside my right ear, leaving my ears ringing and the ghost of the sound banging off the inside of my skull in a brain-scrambling crush of sonic pain.

I twist to my back and scrabble my heels against the ground, pushing myself backward toward Killian as I fire and fire and fire, anger and terror and nausea hot and thick in my throat.

Killian fires past me again as I rummage in the backpack for a maxi pad. I find one and peel Killian's shirt up, leaning half-reclined to keep my head down as Killian tries valiantly to keep the enemies at bay. The wound is deep but not problematic—it chewed through the edge of his vest at an oblique downward angle and spiked through his side just above his hip. Definitely not just a through-and-through flesh wound, but it didn't hit anything major. I stick the pad to his skin as an emergency measure because it's all I can manage under the circumstances.

I pick up my rifle again and fire just as a merc pops out and takes aim—I hit him in the belly, more through luck than skill. "We have to get out of here, Killy," I say.

He winces and hisses, shifting his position as he tries to get a read on how many bad guys there are left. "Too fucking many. Goddammit."

I'm choking on my panic and guilt. "This is my fault."

"Fuck that. Not gonna help." He twists and fires, and then slumps back with an agonized groan. "Ah fuck me, that hurts like a motherfucker." He digs in the bag for a spare mag and comes up with one. "Last one. You?"

I fire, but my target ducks out of sight just in time. "I'm on my last one."

"And then it's handguns all the way." He growls. "Fuck this. Fuck them." He thuds his head against the tire. "Okay. Fuck. Okay."

I glance at him—he sounds like he's psyching himself up for something stupid. "Kills, what are you—"

He snatches my MP-5 from my hands, slaps a pistol in its place, and then slaps a fistful of spare magazines in my other unresisting hand. I clutch them, confused.

"You're gonna army crawl under the trailers that way," he points perpendicular to the long axis of the row, indicating that I'm supposed to head across the width of the pier. I'll draw their fire."

"Killian, fuck that. I'm not—"

Fury suffuses his features, and he grabs the back of my neck and squeezes, shakes. "You're gonna fucking go, Story. I'm not asking. I don't plan on dying, but I sure as fuck will not let them have you. I'll die first."

"Killy, I’m not leaving you."

"If you love me at all, you will." He leaves no more room for discussion, turning and firing. He has my rifle across his back and a pistol in each back pocket, pistol magazines bulging his hip pockets and stuffed into his vest.

A hot snap past my ear brings my attention back to the bad guys, and I fire back, missing but keeping their heads down. I turn back to Killian, but he's kneeling and driving burst after burst at the cluster of SUVs.

"FUCKING GO!" He screams, glancing at me over his shoulder. "You promised!"

"NOT THIS!" I yell back, cracking off several quick shots to keep the flanking squad behind cover. "I NEVER SAID I'D LEAVE YOU!"

Rounds stitch the concrete in a line of shard-spewing craters, walking toward him as he fires, fires, fires, and he doesn't so much as flinch even when the last round of the burst spits concrete at him from less than a foot from his toes. He fires back, and then tosses that rifle aside and swings mine around.

He glances at me over his shoulder, and the ragged desperation on his face is what sells me on obeying his plea. "Story. Please. I'm begging you. I will fight to my last breath to live and, if necessary, escape again to get back to you. But you have to get the fuck out of here before they rush us." He pops off a burst while I send a few rounds in the other direction, and then he cups the back of my head, shoves the backpack at me. Kisses me, quick and hard. "Please go."

I choke. "Killy. No. I love you. I'm not—"

"You fucking are," he snaps. "Me, worst case, they do some mean shit to me and then kill me. I'll fight like a fuckin' savage, I swear. I'll do my goddamndest to get to you. But you gotta go. They get their hands on you, it's a fate worse than death. I'll shoot you my fuckin' self before I let them have you."

I can't breathe.

"Killy, I…" I squeeze my eyes shut. "This goes against everything I am."

He nips my lower lip. "I know. But it's how it has to be." He turns away, fires. Turns back. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to me, okay? These fuckin' goons don't stand a chance. You know why?" His gaze sears mine. "Because I refuse to die until I've made love with you at least once."

"God, Killy."

"Now for the last fucking time, woman. Go!" The last word is a sharp, intense, growled half-shout.

I shrug the backpack on and tighten the straps, grip my pistol, pause. Kiss him, quick and soft, just a hint of tongue. "I love you."

"I know." He winks at me, cocky and suave, as if we're at a club instead of in the middle of a gunfight we don't stand a chance at winning.

For once, being vertically challenged comes in clutch—I'm short enough that I can run at a decent pace underneath the trailers, albeit hunched double. Anyone taller would have to damn near crawl. I refuse to look back. I hear Killy firing with renewed intensity, his bursts long and the pauses between them short.

Don't look back.

Don't look back.

Don't look back.

Just keep going.

Just keep going.

The line of trailers seems endless; Killy told me to cross the width of the pier away from the cluster of SUVs, but I opt to put some distance between us first, moving, perhaps stupidly, toward the pier's seaward end. But when I finally reach the end of the row and straighten—to the relief of my back—I've come a lot further than I thought. The sound of gunfire is now at least a quarter mile behind me, and the muzzle flashes are small bright spots in the distance. Even as I watch from the front corner of the trailer, one of the muzzle flashes swings upward before abruptly going dark—another one falling to Killy's marksmanship.

I should go back.

Circle around the other side and hit them from behind.

I could, I realize.

There's another lot full of parked cars on the other side of the pier. I could cross here, make my way back down the other way, find a likely spot, and start picking them off from behind.

The more I consider this, the better it seems.

Fuck running away.

Feeling a bit better about myself with this decision made, I wait until the mercenaries are focused on shooting at Killian to stroll, as brazenly as you please, across the pier, hoping the distance and the looming darkness of onrushing night will hide my passage.

I reach the first line of parked cars without incident, crouch next to a dust-caked green Lancia sedan, and slow my breathing. I only let myself pause for a handful of seconds and then push myself back into a crouched jog down the aisle between rows of cars. The chatter and rattle and crackle of automatic weapons fire grows louder and louder once more; Killy is out of ammunition for the MP-5, I assume, since the return fire comes in semiautomatic rhythm, single shots fired in fast succession, single shots and the occasional pair or trio.

I pause and peek up over the trunk of a battered blue compact pickup with a tangle of fishing netting in the bed; I'm a couple hundred yards away from the mercenaries' position; I need to get closer. I jog forward, pausing every so many steps to assess my surroundings. Panting and shaking with nerves, I take another peek—I’m even with them now. Less than a hundred yards of open concrete separates me from the mercenaries. Easy pickings.

I check the load on the pistol in my hand—it's a battered old Glock, one that looks like it's been thrown out of a car, maybe sat at the bottom of a pond for a few years next to The One Ring, and then got run over by a bulldozer. Knowing a Glock, it'll probably fire, but I feel like since I have options…

I rummage in the bag and find a nearly new Colt M1911. Not my personal favorite handgun, but better than that thug special. It takes another paw-through to find the spare mags that go with it, since there's both 9mm and .45cal in there.

As long as I hear Killian's steady, rhythmic crack…crack…crack…crack of his pistol, I know he's okay. I crouch with my back against the front passenger-side tire of the pickup and take three slow breaths to steady my nerves. Don't rush—I hear Dad's voice in my head almost as if he’s crouched beside me, a hand on my shoulder as I lay on a hill, scope targeting an elk: "Never rush your shot, liebchen. Nerves make misses. Control your breathing. Steady your hand. Remember, slow is smooth and smooth is fast. I have learned this from your American soldiers, many years ago. Now. Breathe, aim, squeeze."

I pivot around to a knee, brace the elbow of my supporting hand on my upraised knee, take aim at the human-shaped blob of shadows that is a body at this distance in this light; I wait until my target is faintly illuminated by the staccato flashes of muzzleburst. Inhale. Curl my finger around the trigger, gently take up the slack.

CRACK!

My pistol bucks; the blob drops. I move away from the truck in a low crouch, jogging up the line of cars and taking up a position against the front quarter panel of a rusted red hatchback; the windows are cracked open to let out the heat, and the scent of stale cigarette smoke wafts out, turning my already-queasy stomach. I wait a few beats and then drop to my belly and take aim from under the front bumper.

A muzzle flashes yellow in the darkness, and I aim just above it. Inhale, take up slack, exhale…CRACK!

I roll to my back and curl upright to my feet, doing the crouched shuffle-run back the other way, down the row to a new position a good ten yards further down than my first.

I hear Killian firing, firing—a pause to reload. During that reload pause, I settle on a knee and take up my firing stance, waiting until Killian has reloaded and starts shooting again—the idea is that they won’t realize too quickly that there’s another shooter if I synch my shots with Killy’s and keep changing my position. Eventually, they'll cotton on, I assume, but I hope to reduce the odds a bit until then.

The brief silence as everyone reloads at the same time is one of those weird idiosyncrasies of a firefight. I see the flash of Killian's muzzle—contrary to Hollywood convention, the muzzle flash of a 9mm handgun is not a big fireball in the darkness but rather a brief, bright spark. The unsuppressed barrels of the assault rifles being fired by the mercs, on the other hand, are a much brighter and much larger flare of orange-yellow starburst light. Killian's muzzle flash is just bright enough to give away his position, but he's smart and savvy enough to crack off a shot or two and duck back behind cover as fast as possible.

All at once, the mercenaries open fire in a sustained barrage. At first, I'm confused by the change in tactics—until now, they've seemed content to try and keep him pinned down. In the hopes that he'll run out of ammo before they do, I would assume. Which, to be honest, is a solid strategy. They just haven’t factored in my little gambit.

I see the plan, now though—in the quick flashes of illumination, I see a patch of shadows peel away from the group and slink around to try and flank him again.

The sound of sirens has ceased, I realized. And yet, no cops.

I think someone made a phone call and now the local law enforcement has seen fit to let this play out. Pugli's influence, I would assume. Although, if I'm honest, it suits Killian and me, too. Having a small army of cops muddling up things would just complicate matters. I have no quarrel with them and no desire to harm them—as a first responder and ER nurse, I work closely with law enforcement and have a lot of respect for anyone who chooses that job, as long as they're doing the job to serve their community and not just for the excuse to use the tiny bit of authority for self-aggrandizing purposes.

I have to handle that flanking party.

Breaking into a flat-out run, the heavy backpack slamming painfully into the small of my back, I race down the row of cars until I'm well past the mercs' position and then risk crossing the open space at a sprint—I’m hoping I’ll go unnoticed, now that it's fully dark.

I almost make it.

The impact comes first, the sound of the report second, and the pain third.

The brutal hand of an angry god punches me square in the middle of my back; the breath is slammed out of me, and white stars flash across my vision, and then I hear the CRACK! of the report—the two occur barely a heartbeat apart. I'm sent crashing to the hard, unforgiving concrete in a helpless tumble. My head cracks off the ground, and more stars burst behind my eyes, and a jumble of pains hit me all at once—my back and ribs, my head, my elbows, wrists, and knees.

For a beat, and then two, the world spins around me, dizziness from the lack of oxygen. My mouth flaps open and closed as I try to suck in a breath, and my entire body pulses with agony.

A flash of light winks in my peripheral vision, and I roll toward it—a hornet buzzes around my nose; someone snaps their fingers a centimeter from my ear. I realize I still have my pistol in a deathgrip, and I level it one-handed where I'd seen the flash. CRACK! I fire a shot, but have no way of knowing if I hit anything. For good measure, I pop off a second and third shots in that general direction and then, still rasping and gagging and seeing winking white spots, I scramble backward across the concrete toward the rows of trailers, trying to blink away the breathless dizziness. The muzzle flash of an assault rifle illuminates the form of a shooter approaching my position; he doesn't see me, though, judging by the fact that his shots stitch the ground several feet away from not just where I was but even further from where I am. Makes me wonder whether he or whoever shot me just saw a moving shadow and took a potshot, or someone just got lucky.

I freeze in place, gripping my pistol in a classic isosceles hold, both arms fully extended down the length of my body, one hand cupped around the other.

The merc is a patch of moving black in the darkness, heading my way in a slow, silent creep. From this angle, he's skylined against the star-spackled backdrop of the night sky. I wait until he's looming over me, barrel scanning in a side-to-side sweep.

I can't help myself. I should, but I can’t:

"Hey, ugly,” I say. "Down here."

CRACK!

I see him rock backward and topple to the ground in a heavy heap. Dropping my handgun, I snatch up his rifle, patting it in the darkness to see if I can discern what it is by feel—a carbine, I think. An M4, maybe. I search the man's body and find four spare magazines. I shove my handgun into the back of my jeans as I find my feet, finally breathing somewhat normally again.

It feels like an eternity has elapsed since that shot sent me to the ground, but in reality, it's been less than thirty seconds.

I think I got seriously lucky, though—I test my range of movement and find that while my ribs are painful and probably bruised, they're definitely not broken, which means the round must have hit at an oblique angle, because at these distances, rounds fired from a carbine should have enough kinetic energy to break ribs, assuming a direct hit to the vest.

Stifling a groan of pain as I force myself to move, I notice a distinct pause in the shooting. The silence is sudden and total. Kneeling at the front of a trailer, I listen, scan visually. There—a scuff of a foot.

I hear a distant hiss and a soft curse—Killian. I can't let myself spare a thought for his pain. He’s tough; he can deal. He has no choice.

I creep to the end of the trailer, peek out left and then right—four blobby dark shapes drift across the skyline. I doubt Killian has noticed.

The shapes stop. I hear the faint click of a charge handle. A whisper too faint to make out.

I swallow my nerves and ignore the hammering of my heart and the jangle of nerves and the twinge of pain in my ribs and elsewhere. Tighten the butt against my shoulder, place the red dot of the targeting reticle over the left-most patch of darker shadows. Inhale. Hold. Exhale…

Squeeze the trigger in a three-round burst, and then again in a short, precise, raking strafe to the right, and a third back the other way, all in rapid succession.

I hear grunts and coughs of pain, telling me I’ve hit at least one of them.

Time distorts again, and I see a shape moving in slow-motion, see a muzzle flaring bright yellow, hear a snap-snap-snap of rounds whickering past my ear. I see what I assume must be Killian's pistol firing—spark, spark, spark. The muzzle flare rakes skyward. I fire again at the space a foot to the right, hear a thud as a body hits concrete.

And again, my world detonates in a barrage of noise and pain. I see the muzzle flash in a starburst that leaves afterimages in my eyes. I fire, but it's too late. Fists crash into my chest and stomach—onetwothreefour. The force of the impacts sends me flying backward, and darkness rolls over me as the sudden and crushing lack of oxygen squeezes my consciousness to a dwindling pinpoint. My finger does its own thing, and the rifle bucks, flies out of my hands. My pistol digs into my back; I fight weakness, fight the onrushing nothingness, grasp the hard, skin-warm handle. One-handed, I fire, half-blinded and desperate, hear a curse—or what I assume is a curse in another language, judging by the tone.

CRACK!

Once again, the report comes after the impact, and then there’s a moment of numb nothing.

Fuck.

Something hot and wet spreads over my stomach, low, down near my hip. I don't feel pain, exactly—it's just heat and a weird kind of pressure…

I scream through gritted teeth as a sudden wave of excruciating agony washes over me all at once—it's a mass of pain, not pinpoints, although the worst of it is centered on that point of spreading hot wetness low on my left side.

I hear a crack.

Another, closer.

And then…the weird, ringing silence of tinnitus as the gunfire ceases all at once.

Darkness rises in me, but I fight it. "Killy?” It's a ragged whisper.

"Hey, hey." His voice is tense and tight and harsh with pain, and right above me. "Story?"

"Kill…"

Something hits my foot, and the jostling sends a sharp bolt of agony through what I know, even in my nearly-unconscious state, are multiple broken ribs. My scream is loud and involuntary, and causes yet more pain.

"Fuck, sorry." A hand pats my shin, my knee, my thigh…the wet spot just below the bottom of my vest. "Fuck, fuck! You're hit!”

"You?" I ask. "Hit?"

“Took another one, but it's just a crease through my bicep. I'll be fine." I hear him grunt as he lowers himself next to me. "You hit anywhere else?"

"Vest," I manage. “Bad.”

"Let's get this off," he says, fumbling in the now-silent dark to find the closures of the body armor.

"W-we—we w-won?" I ask, shock hitting me now, making me stammer as my teeth start to chatter.

"Yeah, honey. We did." He finds the Velcro and rips it open, and then gently shifts the vest off—which rips another guttural scream from me. "Fuck, babe. You're in rough shape."

His hands gingerly probe my torso. "Just the one bleeder. Ribs?"

“Fucked.”

“Goddammit.” A pause as he works the backpack out from under me, finds the gauze by feel, and presses a wad of it to my wound. "You were supposed to fucking go, Story, goddammit. Go, as in escape this shit.”

Panting through a wave of agony, I grab his hand and squeeze through the pain, pressing the bandage to myself with the other. "You…you really think I'd…I'd leave you? In the-the middle of a gunfight? Bleeding?"

"You said you would."

"I tried. C-couldn't."

"And now look."

"Both…alive." I cough, and it fucking hurts. "Time?"

He turns my wrist—my watch is down to its last 1% of battery, the numerals glowing a dull red, the battery ring down to a tiny sliver. "Eleven-fifty."

"Ferry," I hiss. "Go."

"Not without you, dumbass."

I groan in irritation. "Go get him, dumbass."

"And leave you here?"

"Yes."

"Fuck no."

"Won't…won't make it in time. With me."

"Story—"

"Be for nothing. If—if you don't go meet your—your dealer buddy." Another wave of pain washes over me, and I scream again, or try to, at least, through the sharp slice of shattered ribs. "Go. Now."

With a long series of curses consisting of a good half-dozen variations of "fuck," Killian pushes to his feet. I hear the sound of a magazine being swapped, and then he puts a pistol in my hands. "Here."

I gesture with it. "Pull me over there. By the tire."

It's a slow process since he's hurt, too, but he gets me over to a trailer, propped up with my back to the massive dual wheel. The chrome center of the wheel is still warm from the day's blazing heat.

"Story, I—"

"I love you too. Now fucking go," I snap. "Gotta get off this island."

"Stay awake."

“Yeah."

"You're a badass, y'know that?"

His praise means more to me than I can handle at the moment, and I can't find an answer. "Go," I repeat. "Hurry."

I hear him lope off in a shambling, limping, shuffling run, and his shadow dissipates into the darkness.

I'm alone.

The silence is thick and profound.

Staying awake proves nearly impossible, which is a serious goddamned problem. I fight the black of unconsciousness for as long as I can, reciting titration tables, listing every medication I know and their possible side effects. I picture Killian with his mouth between my thighs.

I imagine us alone on a beach somewhere, naked and gasping together.

But in the end, the darkness wins.

17

Roma Will Have To Wait

It's the most excruciating run of my life.

Now, I'm not a runner, to be clear. I'll do a few miles once in a while, but I prefer to get my conditioning in other ways. That said, I have had my share of brutal runs—be it from the distance, heat, humidity, elevation, or incline. I've run through charley horses and cramps in the side and a twisted ankle, once. But the run— although that’s a generous term for it— that takes me from the pier to the hostel is the longest, hardest, most painful ten minutes of my entire life.

When I told Story the other wound was a creased bicep, I was being…conservative. It's actually a round straight through the meat of my bicep and tricep and another that bounced off my shoulder bone and for sure broke something. Plus the wound to my side. Plus the blood loss. Worry for Story. Fear that I won’t make it. I'll miss him, and we’ll be stuck here, and in our states, we won’t be able to fight off the next wave, assuming we don’t bleed out by then.

I need a phone. I need to call Mom and Dad. I'm running out of…everything. Strength. Courage. Resolve. I just want to go home.

But then I hear Story’s scream of pain, and I realize that she rarely shows physical pain. One summer, she got stung by a jellyfish. She was thirteen, I was eight or so, and I remember vividly seeing her face tight with pain as Selah tended to her, but Story never made a peep. When she broke her ankle playing beach volleyball, again, she never made a sound—didn’t cry, nothing. Not so much as a single F-bomb. Which tells me how much pain she must be in, and that spurs me onward, wakes me up, forces me to gut through my own discomfort.

I long to stop and catch my breath, but I dare not. I round a corner and shuffle to a halt—the hostel is just there, roped off with caution tape, although the cops and ambulances are all long gone by now. I have no phone, no watch, no way to tell the time, but it feels like it's been less than ten minutes.

I have to have made it.

Have to.

I slump against the corner, panting, scanning. There—down at the end of the dead-end street, a lump of darkness pulls away from the wall and saunters this way.

"American?" A voice, pitched low, familiar. "That is you?"

"Yeah," I mutter. "My name is Killian." I realize belatedly that I probably should have given him a fake name, but I’m woozy, exhausted, in pain, scared, and worried—not thinking straight.

"I am Dante." He's still just an outline in the darkness. "Come-come. Where is your girlfriend?" Girl-FREN.

"Pier. Hurt."

"Ohhhh, merda. All of that shooting? That was you?"

“Yeah."

“You win?"

"Alive, so yeah."

A white spot of light flares to life—a cell phone flashlight; he waves it over me, scanning me. "Cazzo! Mio Dio, you are not so good, huh?"

"Been better. She’s worse.”

He shoves his shoulder under my armpit. “Okay, okay. Mio tio, he will help you. He is parking his boat not far from where you are shooting."

We make our way back toward the pier, and still the local law enforcement is suspiciously absent from a full-blown, extended firefight. I remember hearing sirens in the distance, and then…nothing.

"Is it normal for the cops to not respond?" I ask as we reach the pier, where all is still dead silent.

Poor choice of words, I suppose.

Dante just laughs. "I should think no. Olbia is not having many crimes like this." He grunts in surprise as we shuffle to a halt at the cluster of SUVs and the dead bodies scattered around them—and it's a lot of dead bodies. "Whoever you are, they wanted you very dead."

"Sucks for them."

He barks a laugh. "Sì sì, very big suck for them."

"That's not—" I halt, laughter turning into a cough of pain. "Never mind. This way. She’s over here."

Dante helps me over to where I left Story, and I find her slumped against the tire, head lolling to one side, hand flopped to her lap.

"STORY!" I cry, falling away from Dante's support, dropping to my knees and reaching for her. "Story?"

I press two fingers to her throat, and I have to hunt around a little bit until I find a faint but steady pulse, and I let out a sob of relief. "Thank god, she's alive. Just unconscious. You help her, I'll follow."

"You barely can walk, mio amico.”

"I'll be fine." I reach up. "Can you shine your light on her?"

The white light flares, and I check her wound—it's bled through the gauze. I slide a hand under her, which must cause pain since she moans even unconscious—no exit wound. Shit.

I do for her what she did for Enzo and the only thing I can do—shove a tampon in there and hope for the best. I stick a pad over it and then shoulder the bag. "Okay, let's get her up." I take her hands. "Story? We gotta move, babe."

"Mmm."

"Story?"

“Mmm."

I cup her cheek. "Hey. C'mon. Need your help, sweetheart."

"Killy?" It's a muzzy whisper, tight with pain, slow, confused.

"I'm here."

“Hurts."

"I know. We're gonna get you help."

"How…you?"

I sniffle a laugh. "Jesus, babe. I'm fine. No big deal."

Headlights sweep this way. "Ehi…I think maybe we go some faster, hey? Someone, they come, and it is no good for us to be here no more."

"We gotta get up, babe. Gotta move."

"Kay. I'll try."

We work together to get Story to her feet; Dante takes the brunt of her weight while I provide support on her other side.

She's delirious. "Hey, you must be the drug dealer buddy."

“His name is Dante," I say.

"Dante. Dante. Dante. Daaaaaan…tayyy!"

I clap a hand over her mouth. "We don't need to sing right now, babe. We're trying to get away from the dozen or so dead dudes without attention."

"A dozen?"

"Or so. I think. I don't know. I didn't stop to count."

"That's more than five."

I snort. “Yep, true."

"Duzzat make twenty…four?"

"Ish, yeah."

"Big numbers. Lotta dead dudes. Big, big numbers." She nuzzles me with her nose. "You've got a big number."

Dante cackles at this. "Oh man, she is a funny one."

"She's delirious."

“Sì. We are nearly there. Not so much further." He grunts as he helps Story regain her balance when she trips. "You are gonna owe me more money, American."

"Get us medical help and to the mainland, and I'll set you up for life."

"Oh, so easy, hey?"

I snort. "You've got no fuckin' idea, Dante."

"What does this mean?"

"Don't worry about it. Just know that my word is good. You will be recompensed beyond your wildest dreams.”

"But…what is it, to be set up for life?"

"Enough money that you can stop slinging dope, how about that?"

"And then what do I do?"

"Up to you. Keep slinging dope, if you want. Or buy a boat and sail off into the sunset. Your call."

“You are a very rich man?"

"Sort of."

He guides us down a length of dock to a fairly large private fishing boat—thirty feet, maybe. Old, with a high, curved prow and a low, squat, open-backed cockpit. The engine is idling with a low snarling burble—despite the scuffed, scratched hull and peeling paint and mess of nets on the deck, that engine sounds nasty. Powerful, souped-up. Something tells me this uncle-nephew pair does more than sell dime bags of pot to tourists.

"Tio!" Dante calls. "Aiutami!"

A tall, broad-shouldered man with hunched posture hurries out of the cockpit, jabbering at Dante in Italian far too fast for me to follow even a word. He's on the far side of middle-aged, Dante's uncle, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard and wavy salt-and-pepper hair swept to one side and dangling in front of one eye. His hands are huge and weathered as he reaches to help us with Story. He swats at Dante's hands and simply scoops Story up in his arms and carries her down below deck.

The ceiling is low enough that we have to stoop. Wood-paneled walls, a diner-style booth with the Formica-topped table bolted to the floor, and cracked red vinyl cushions. A kitchenette with a dorm-sized fridge, a few cabinets, a long bench that doubles as a bed, and a narrow doorway to a bedroom just big enough for the bed itself.

Dante’s uncle kneels on the bed and gently sets Story down, and then does a quick, knowledgeable scan of her injuries, probing with gentle fingers, carefully peeling her shirt up to take a look at my quick done-in-the-dark triage.

He spits rapid-fire Italian at me, and Dante translates. "He say she is in bad shape. Need un medico, presto. No make it to Roma." More rapid, angry-sounding Italian. "This was to be a ride to Roma. Now all is change. There is the shooting. Un elicottero come. It fly low, fast. Now you come here with a girl who is shooted.” A pause to listen and mentally translate. “Is big trouble. He say he make it to this old age from caution and think good about…ehhh…i rischi." He trades Italian with his uncle, with a few English words sprinkled in. “The risk, sì. The risk. The danger. Sì? You bring danger."

I'm swaying on my feet, my head is throbbing, my wound throbs. I'm exhausted. Scared for Story. "I'll pay whatever you want. Just please, help us."

The uncle listens to Dante, tsking in irritation, and then gently pushes me toward Story. "Lay, lay. Is okay. I help."

"We do bring danger," I murmur, grunting as I let myself collapse to the bed, sitting for a moment. "I wish I didn't have to involve you."

"Who is danger?" Dante asks.

I shake my head. "The less you know, the better for you."

Dante translates this for his uncle, who just nods a few times and then rattles off something to Dante. An exchange ensues, and then Dante addresses me. "We make for Golfo Aranci. Not so far, and my uncle, he knows un medico."

"How long?"

"Maybe one hour, or one hour and one half."

The uncle juts a chin at me. "You…" he does a finger gun with a quiet vocal mimic of a gunshot. It’s a question, asking me if I’m shot as well.

I lift my shirt and show him the wound—he chuckles at the pad stuck to my skin as he peels it back to examine the wound. He tips his head to one side, humming noncommittally. He speaks and Dante translates. "Is no so bad as your girlfriend. You? Bullet go pew, right through. Her? Still in her middle. Maybe will be…mmmm? Infetta. Make sick, sì? Or some blood go free on the inside, you know?”

"I know," I grumble, swaying dizzily on the bed. "She needs that medico, presto. Per favore."

My shitty, mumbled, American-accented Italian makes both Dante and his uncle snicker in bemusement. Then the uncle cuffs Dante's face with rough affection, muttering something private to him, and heads up topside. A moment later, the engine snarls louder as it throttles up, and then there's a gentle sensation of movement as we rock and bob away from the dock. A swaying, bobbing pause, a slow gentle tilt as we come around, and then the boat settles backward as the uncle throttles up again; minutes pass at a steady pace, and then I feel us tilt into a left turn—northward—and then he opens the throttle as we hit open water, I assume.

Dante is watching me as I sit on the edge of the bed, trying to stay awake and worrying about Story. "Riposa, mio amico americano. We are going to the medico. La tua ragazza starà bene." He scratches his temple with a thumb. "I am having a very long day, too. My English is asleep."

I sniff a laugh at his turn of phrase. “Your English is asleep." I scrub my face with both hands, and then glance at Dante. "No one can know about Story and me, okay? No one. It's vitally important. I really don't want anything to happen to you and your uncle."

“You have my promise—no one knows, okay? Okay. Riposa ora."

I let myself collapse backward, one hand pressed to my hip wound. It feels like the height of luxury to just be able to lie down, close my eyes, and just…rest.

Beside me, Story moans, shakes her head.

I really hope this is a fast boat, that Golfo Aranci is close, and that the doctor will be able to treat her.

And most of all, I hope that Dante and his uncle aren't on Pugli's payroll. I just don't know what other choice I have but to trust them.

"Stay with me, Story," I whisper. "We're gonna get you help."

“Mmm." She moans softly. "Kill?"

"Here. Right here." I roll to my right side, facing her. "I'm here."

Her eyes crack open. "Sorry."

"You just shut the fuck up, woman." I touch her lips with my fingertips. “None of that. You saved my ass."

"Stubborn."

"I know."

"Me. Not you." A soft moan that might be an attempt at a laugh. "You too."

"You were supposed to run."

"Did. Just not…away."

"You're an idiot."

"Idiot in love. You’d…ow, ow, fuck.” She hisses, arches and twists through the wave of pain, then settles once more. “You’d have done the same."

"Yeah, true."

"Where're we?"

"Dante's boat."

"Dante is your buddy?"

"Yeah." I grab her hand and squeeze gently. "You're in pretty bad shape, sweetheart. Rome is gonna have to wait. We're heading to somewhere called Golfo Aranci, sixty to ninety minutes from here."

She blinks owlishly at me, gaze scanning me, lingering on my arm; she sees the gauze wrapped around my arm, red with blood. "That's not a creased bicep." Her glance flicks to my shoulder, and then the way I'm holding my arm against my torso. "Killian?"

I grin at her, wink. "I may have underreported the severity of the injury. I took one through the meat of my arm and another bounced off the shoulder bone and broke something in there." I wince. "Doesn't feel great, but it's fine."

It's Story's turn to wince and hiss, rolling away from the site of her wound. "It fucking hurts, Killy." She sounds near tears. "I hate being a sissy about it, but it fucking hurts."

"You're hit hard, baby," I tell her. "If you were the nurse and not the patient, what would you say to yourself?"

"It's okay to admit it hurts. Being a hard-ass never healed anyone any faster." She sounds almost petulant.

"So you're not a sissy. You're in serious pain. You’re dealing with serious injuries without painkillers. I know exactly how tough you are."

She looks up at me, her gaze haunted. "I froze, Killy."

"And then you unfroze and you fuckin’ wrecked shit like a boss."

Her eyes go hazy and wet with unshed tears. "I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to kill anyone else. I'm a nurse—a healer, not a killer."

"I know, sweetheart."

"My head hurts. Everything hurts."

“Your head?"

She nods woozily, weakly. "I hit it pretty hard when I went down."

"Are you concussed?"

"Yeah. Definitely. Not…not badly, I don’t think. I don’t know for sure. Everything hurts, so it’s hard to dissect all the symptoms. It's fine for me to sleep, I think.”

"You seem lucid enough."

"I just feel…wobbly. Woozy. So tired."

"Rest. I'll take care of you, Story. I've got you."

"Who's gonna take care of you?"

“You, once you're healed."

"Well, speaking as a medical professional, that’s gonna be a while."

"I can be patient."

She sniffs a laugh. "That week alone, naked, on a beach is gonna have to take a raincheck. I'm not gonna be riding anything except a hospital bed for a few weeks at minimum."

I cradle her hand in both of mine and kiss her knuckles. "Sweetheart, all that matters is you getting better."

She writhes, arched and groaning. "Fuck, it hurts!"

"There's gotta be something we can do to take the edge off the pain."

"Does…" She breaks off, whimpering as the wave of pain takes over. "Does Dante…have anything?"

"He is a drug dealer, isn't he?" I say. "Good point."

"That's me, always thinking."

"Be right back."

I limp and shuffle and wince my way topside to find Dante and his uncle arguing. Obviously, I have no idea what they're saying, but judging by the way the uncle is gesturing, he's pissed at Dante for this whole situation.

"Dante, I'm sorry to have dragged you and your uncle into this," I say, grimacing as a wave of pain washes through me, now that I’ve finished ascending the ladder-like stairs.

"Is okay. My uncle, he no like most people. He wants nobody on his boat. He does not like anyone to know what we do."

"You're drug runners, I assume."

A shrug. "Eh. Some of this, some of that. We catch fish. Sometimes, the fish is not a fish."

"I don't want or need to know. What I came up to ask is if you have anything I can give to Story for the pain."

He rolls one shoulder. "I only sell erba."

"Erba?"

"Cannabis. Marijuana." Canna-BIS; mary-WAHN-ah. Despite the similarities of Spanish and Italian, the lilt of a Spanish word in an Italian accent just sounds funny to me. But I might be a little delirious, too.

“Oh."

The cockpit is small and cluttered with instruments and screens and controls, as well as flat stacks of paper charts and more rolled-up charts in scroll-like piles. There's a thick glass ashtray affixed permanently to a flat section of the dashboard running at the base of the cockpit windshield, bent and crushed cigarette butts piled high. Beside the ashtray is a wooden box with a hinged lid and a cheap brassy-gold flip clasp. It's about the size of the black velvet box rich dudes in movies use to give expensive diamond necklaces to their wives as an apology for being a cheating ass-clown—rectangular, maybe an inch or two thick, five or six inches wide, and six to eight inches long. Dante flips it open, revealing loose, pre-ground cannabis flower and a small glass pipe. He packs the pipe and hands it to me, and then digs his Zippo out of his hip pocket. "This may help, a little. Better than nothing, until we arrive."

"Thanks."

I bring it down to Story—she eyes it skeptically. "I don't like smoking. Tastes nasty. And I'm gonna cough, which—fuck. It's gonna hurt."

"It's all we've got, for now."

She shakes her head, groaning. “No, but thank you. I'm worried—ahhhh god. I'm worried the coughing would just make things worse." She's sweating from the pain. "I'll just have to deal."

I set the unused pipe aside and then lie beside her. “Then let's just try to rest."

"You have to get cared for too," she mumbles.

"I will. Promise."

"Don't leave me." It's a faint whisper. Scared, hurting.

I snuggle closer to her, as close as I can get without jostling her, and trace the curve of her cheek. "I won't. Not ever. I'm here."

"Mom."

"I know."

"Need Mom."

"I know."

"Killy?"

“Yeah."

"I love you."

"I know."

"Arrogant."

"I love you too."

18

Rotto Molto Gravemente

Heat. Pain. Dizziness. Confusion. Thirst. So hot.

Then cold.

Darkness.

Nothingness.

Lights—white and artificial.

Movement. Faces, voices. Words I don’t recognize.

Killian.

I wake up briefly. I'm conscious and lucid but weak and drugged—pain is a dull, distant throb, tolerable but annoying.

I peer through hazy, heavy-lidded eyes—a small, dark room. Not a hospital—it looks like a clinic or urgent care exam room, except I'm on a bed instead of an exam table. By bed, I mean a regular bed, like from someone's house, not a complicated and expensive hospital bed, although I see an IV machine on a rolling pole with two clear bags of fluids, a portable oxygen machine, and a heart monitor beep-beep-beeping steadily.

I hear, behind the beeping of the heart monitor, the gentle susurrus of waves breaking on a shore. I hear a horn going BWAAAANNNNHHHHHH in the distance. Seagulls cree-creeing.

Feet on gravel, nearby.

"Tio, eccoti qui."

"Nipote."

Dante and his uncle.

"Dove eravate?"

"Non preoccuparti, Dante."

"Dove eravate?" More insistent, now.

"Dante—"

"Tio. You didn't." This being in English feels…significant, somehow.

"Dovevo. Non avevo scelta."

"I give him my promise, tio."

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Context clues are giving me big-time worry. My window of wakefulness is closing, fast, however.

"I have no choice!" The uncle isn't shouting but hissing. "How he knew, I don' know." The uncle speaks much better English than he let on, back on the boat. "I have no choice." This time it's muttered, as if to reassure himself of the truth of it.

"Quando?"

"Domani. Presto."

"Tio…" Dante sounds tired and pissed. "Cazzo. You make me a liar. Un traditore."

"Salvatore, il numero due, he tell me your tia, your cugina Maria, they are killed. Or I am pay enough money to retire. Andare a pesca per divertimento."

"How do you know sta dicendo la verità?”

"Come faccio a sapere che non lo è?”

Silence.

"Cazzo, tio. Cazzo di merda. Mi hai fottuto."

"No, nipote. I fuck them over. You are family, they are not."

"Tio—"

"Dante," he snaps. "Enough. It is done. Ti mando a casa."

Dante responds in Italian, but I'm falling asleep—passing out, more accurately. I fight it desperately, but it's a losing battle. My fingers are clumsy and thick as I fumble at the IV, and the twinge of pain as I pull at it rouses me a little, and the beeping of the heart monitor increases.

I need Killy. He has to know.

He has to know.

"Hey, hey, hey. Easy." Killian's voice, close, low, quiet. "I'm here. You're okay." To someone else, then. "She's in pain. Can you increase her meds?"

No, no, no. I struggle, but warmth floods me, a blissful nothing that makes the panic subside.

No…

They're coming.

But I can't make myself care anymore—the all-consuming dark is warm and peaceful and quiet and so, so easy to slip into.

I wake again, this time to darkness and the trill of frogs and crickets. A small lamp casts a dim sepia glow, and I hear the beeping of the monitor. I look around—this is a bedroom converted to a makeshift recovery room. I take an exploratory breath—mistake. Big, big, big mistake—the lance of pain is swift and brutal. If I’m lying flat, holding still, and breathing shallowly, I’m relatively okay. But breathe too deeply or move too quickly, the pain is immediate and incredible—and that's with drugs.

Once I've recovered from my stupid experiment, memory of the overheard conversation smashes through me like a detonating frag grenade.

I need Killian.

But my god, I simply cannot fathom trying to get up. Even reaching for the side of the bed in an initial foray into getting up leaves me panting and groaning and sweating and about to vomit from the agony.

Yeah, that's not happening. Dammit.

I have to spend another few minutes recovering from simply trying to reach for the bedside. Where is Killian?

I need him.

He has to know.

I hold my breath until my lungs burn and my temples throb and the heart monitor starts protesting rapidly as the lack of oxygen makes my heart race. Even the rapid slam of my heart against my ribcage hurts.

An elderly woman with steel-gray hair in a low bun bustles in, a tablet computer in her hand, real-deal half-moon spectacles perched on her nose.

"Hey, hey, hey," she croons, her English lilting with her accent. “Is okay, is okay. You are safe, now."

Yeah, right.

"Killy."

"Your boyfriend?"

I nod.

“He is sleeping. He is hurt more badly than he says to you."

"I need him. Please."

"He should rest."

"I—need—him. Now. Please. It's life or death."

"Alright, okay. Just…" she gestures, both hands pressing palms down. "Riposa, per favore. You are very, very lucky, you know." She points at my gunshot wound. "One millimeter any other direction, up or down or this way or that way, you are taking many, many months to recover, if you live at all. Only by a hair does the bullet miss your colon. If it hits you there…"

I grimace. "Yeah, I'm an ER nurse."

"Oh, so the…woman time package…" she makes an irritated face, I assume as she tries and fails to find the right English word. "For the monthly blood. In your wound.” She pats her side where my injury is. “That was your idea?"

I nod carefully. "Yes."

“Is smart but risky. I would not recommend to do it unless you are having no other possibles."

"Possibilities," I mutter. "Sorry."

“No, no, grazie. I study to be a doctor in the States. The, what is it called? In your state of Minning-soto? Ah, no…Minnesota. The Mayo, this is it. But that was when I was a very young girl, many years ago.” She pats her bun. "Now, I am old. I forget the English I once spoke so well."

"You studied at the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota?” I ask.

She nods. "Yes, yes. A long, long time ago."

"I'm from Minnesota. Minneapolis."

"For so a world so big, it is sometimes very small, sì?” She stands, looks down at me. "I will go fetch your young man."

"Doctor?" I call.

She pauses. "Hm?"

"Dante's uncle. How do you know him?"

"Giuseppe?" A tittering laugh. "He is my brother's…ehh…merda. He is the brother of my brother's wife. Whatever you call this."

I frown. “Um. I’m not sure we have a word for that.” I shrug. “Just my sister-in-law’s brother.”

"As you say." She eyes me cautiously. "Giuseppe and me, not always do we look upon things in the same way. He is…well, he is un criminale. But he is family, and he says to me, Lia, I need your help. A young American girl is badly hurt. Of course I will help. But I do not like to know what is happened. There are sometimes questions that have no very good answers, and so it is better not to ask."

"I…I don't trust him," I whisper; it's as much of the truth as I can risk sharing with her.

Lia looks sad. "This, I understand."

"I need Killy."

"Okay. One moment."

She leaves, and a few minutes later, a sleepy, dazed, and in-pain Killian shuffles in, limping and pressing a hand to his side. Hissing, he lowers himself to the edge of the bed, then glances back at Dr. Lia, who nods and closes the door.

I watch the crack at the bottom of the door; a shadow lingers, and I press a finger to my lips. "Hey, babe,” I say in a normal voice. “Sorry to wake you up."

"All good. I was told it was important. Life-or-death."

The shadow fades.

I gesture for him to come closer; he bends over me, wincing. "I overheard Dante talking to Giuseppe," I hiss, my voice a low, breathy whisper.

"That's his name?" Killian asks. "Hadn't heard it."

"He's Dr. Lia's relative.”

"Oh." A pause. "So what's the life-and-death situation?"

"Pugli got to Giuseppe. He sold us out."

Killian accepts this news in silence, and then his head lolls. "Goddammit."

"Dante was pissed."

"He wasn't in on it?"

"No. For sure not. He said he made a promise. Giuseppe said he didn't have a choice. They threatened Giuseppe's wife and daughter. It was that or make enough money to retire."

Killian nods heavily. “Sounds about right. Talk about an offer you can't refuse, huh? Either we kill your family, or we make you rich."

"What do we do?" I ask. "I'm useless. I can't…I can't even sit up. I can barely move, and you’re not much better.”

Killian's eyes are hard and furious. "I'll handle it." A pause. "Did you hear anything about a time?"

"They were going back and forth between English and Italian. I heard…uh…quan-something. Quando?"

“That's ‘when.' "

I rack my brain. "Ahh. Domain? Dome-ahn? Dome-something."

"Domani?"

"Yeah, that."

"It means tomorrow. There's an English-Italian dictionary in the room I'm in."

"Killy," I murmur. "I just want to go home."

"I know," he murmurs. "Me too."

"We need to call our families."

“I know. It's just been a fucking whirlwind since the second they dumped you in that container with me."

"That was last year, right?"

He snickers. "Yep."

"You know what's kind of shockingly stupid?"

"Thinking we could take on that many guys on our own?"

"I mean, that too," I say. "But no. I was gonna say that I’ve only got Mom and Dad's phone numbers memorized.”

"Oh. Part of being a Harris is memorizing a fucking phone book full of phone numbers. I know Mom’s, Dad’s, Brynnie’s, Rin’s, Cal’s, Uncle Val’s, Aunt Key's….as well as at least half a dozen call-in emergency service numbers. I just haven't had a chance to get a hold of a clean burner."

"Do we still have our guns?" I ask.

He nods, pulls a compact Sig Sauer from the small of his back, shows it to me, and puts it back. "The bag's in my room, too."

Something in the way he keeps saying "my room" brings a question to mind. "How long was I unconscious?"

“Two days. You lost a lot of blood, and when you hit your head, you hit it a lot harder than I think you realized. You nearly fucking died, Story. Doc Lia operated on you for four hours, getting the bullet out and making sure you weren't bleeding internally."

"We owe her."

He nods again. "No shit." A sigh. "Fucking Giuseppe. Should've known he'd sell us out. I had a feeling about him."

I grip his wrist. "You can't kill him unless you have no other choice. He has a wife and daughter. And it's Pugli. What was he supposed to do?"

"I wasn't planning on it." He frowns, staring at nothing. "You know what, I'm gonna be right back."

"Killy—"

"I'm just getting my stuff. With what you've told me, I'm not leaving you alone anymore."

"Please don't leave me alone, Killy," I whisper. "I'm scared. I can't even freaking shift positions without screaming. I can't help you, and I'm just…I'm helpless and scared."

He cups my face in gentle hands, nuzzles his forehead against mine. "I've got you. I won't let anything else happen to you."

"Or you."

Silence.

"OR YOU," I snap. "Right?"

"You're all that matters to me, sweetheart."

I grab his wrist, squeeze hard. "Killy, it goes both ways. You're all that matters to me, so if you die, I'm fucked. I'll never love anyone the way I love you. And we haven't even gotten to really enjoy being in love yet. So you have to promise me nothing will happen to you."

"I can't promise that," he says to me. "But I can promise that I will fight like a fucking caged tiger to stay alive so we can get that month alone and naked on the beach."

"I thought it was a week."

“I’ve revised the estimate up to a month. At least." He nudges my lips with his. "Close your eyes. Relax. I'm gonna grab my stuff. We have a few hours to dawn."

I try to stay awake until he comes back, but it's futile. I'm still so, so weak. This sucks.

I wake up for a moment, and Killian has found a weapon-cleaning kit somewhere, somehow. He has half a dozen pistols stripped to their components and arrayed on the floor around him, and is methodically and obsessively cleaning each piece. He must feel my gaze, because he glances up at me, smiling. "Hey."

"Hey you."

He glances out the window. "Still time. Go back to sleep. I've got the watch."

"I know you do." I wince as a dull but intense wave of pain steamrolls over me. "Wish we were on that beach about now."

"Same." He pushes, pulls, and twists a bristle brush through a short piece of barrel. "Soon. You and me, some stiff drinks, no clothes, and a whole lotta O's."

"Something stiff, at any rate." I laugh at my own joke. "Oh god, that hurts. Don't make me laugh."

He snorts. “You laughed at your joke, not mine."

“Yours wasn’t a joke. It was a pretty awesome turn of phrase, though."

He peers one-eyed through the barrel and then starts re-cleaning it. "I don't really have a plan, by the way. Did a little scouting around outside earlier, and there's just not much. This is a fairly small facility in an out-of-the-way little cove on the water. There's only steep, unnavigable hills behind and the sea in front, and it's several miles over seriously rough terrain to get to town, even if you follow the road, so there's nowhere to run even if you could get out of bed. I can't trust Dante and obviously not Giuseppe, and I have to assume Doc Lia is gonna be neutral since she's a doctor." He shrugs. "So the only option is to hole up here and make 'em pay. Hopefully they won't try and burn us out since they want you alive and intact."

"Yeah, barbecued white girl won't sell, I suppose."

"Dude, gross."

I groan as I try to stifle a laugh. "Ah god. Ow, ow, ow. Being on this side of the medical experience is not fun." I wiggle my fingers at him. "Come sit where I can touch you."

He arches an eyebrow at me. "Story, I don’t think—"

"I mean your hair or something, Killian."

“Oh." He finishes cleaning the barrel and then reassembles the weapon in a matter of seconds. "Right."

"Horny bitch I may be, but that ain't happening any time soon, Kills. Sorry."

He steps out of the arrangement of disassembled weapons and sits with his back to the side of the bed, rests his head back against the mattress close enough that I can trail my fingers over his scalp, toy with his hair.

He lets out a soft, pleased groan. "That's nearly as good."

I sniff softly—as close to a laugh as I can get without it hurting. "A little head-rubbing?"

"Consider the head-rubbing joke made."

"Consider it laughed at."

"Non-sexual affection, I mean,” he says, after a second. “Little-known secret about us dudes: non-sexual affection means almost as much to us as sex, just in a different way."

"For real?"

He nods. "Oh, god yeah. Cal and I have talked about this a lot. I want my dick touched, yes. Like, all the time, any way I can get it. But I also love just…handholding. I love it when you play with my hair like that, or my ears, or my face. It's not about thinking that it'll lead to getting my dick touched. Just to know that you care. Y'know?"

My heart melts a little. "This is a big deal to you, isn't it?" I ask, letting my touch idly explore the upper shell of his ear, then his temple, cheekbone.

He lets his head rest against the mattress, nodding. "Yeah. Dunno why, but it is."

I let my eyes close for a moment. "Good thing physical affection is one of the primary ways I show love, then, huh?"

"It's almost like you were made for me."

"Kinda seems like it, yeah."

We drowse, then. I feel Killian twitching a few times, a sign that he's actually falling asleep. And I can't help but wonder how much sleep he's let himself get while I was unconscious. Not much, I'd guess.

I'm on the cusp of sleep myself when the door to the room slams open with a sudden, jarring crash—we both jolt awake.

"They are here!" Dante says, panicked and breathless. "My tio has gone. He took his boat and left while I was asleep."

Killian surges to his feet with a tight snarl of pain, gun in hand, and then relaxes when he realizes it's just Dante. "Fine by me. The bastard sold us out."

"He has no good choices," Dante says. "But still, I am sorry. I do not know he is doing this."

"I know," Killian mutters. "Not your fault. Not even his. Just very big suck for us." He kneels and reassembles the rest of the handguns as fast as possible, his hands a blur of flawless precision; he taps a mag home in one, racks the slide, and hands it to Dante butt first. "Help or run. Your choice."

"I am not that kind of a drug dealer," Dante says. "In my heart, I am only a selling man."

"Salesman?" Killian asks.

Dante nods. “Like The Wolf of Wall Street, yes? I love this movie. Margot Robbie, you know what I mean? I do not know what stocks are, but it look very exciting."

Killian shoves a spare pistol in his waistband and then fills his pockets with magazines. "Dante? Focus. Ever been in a gunfight?"

Dante shakes his head. "No, no way. I am a good boy, okay? Sure, I sell the erba. But this is harmless, you know? I help tio on the boat. Sometimes we pick up a package. There is a…cazzo, I do not know the word. A thing which float in one place, hmm, out in the big water? To tell boats where is the deep water and where is the not-deep water. Ehhh…it sound like boy, in English."

"Buoy?" I suggest.

"Yes! One of the buoys. It has the tracciatore so we know where to find it. There is a package wrapped up to be safe from the water. We get it. We take it to the mainland. A man is waiting on the dock for us. We give him the package; he gives us the money. We do this…one time per month, sometimes two, sometime three, not often more. This is all. No shooting. No one is hurt. People smoke too much of the erba; they only fall asleep, sì? No one dies like the bad bad drugs."

"You don't owe us an explanation or justification, Dante," Killian says. "How you make a living is your business. And I tend to agree with you. I also know that there are better, legal ways of making a living. Just saying."

"If I do not die here today, I will look for this job. Tio Giuseppe has betrayed me. I do not work for him no more."

In the distance, I hear a door crashing open.

"Your aunt or whatever she is to you, Doctor Lia. She's gone?"

Dante shakes his head. “No, she will not go. This is her ospedale. If there is to be shooting, she says she must be here after for the fixing."

"These guys don't give a fuck, Dante. They'll kill anyone and everyone and burn the evidence.”

"She knows who this Pugli is. She says they will not kill her. And anyway, I should like to see you try to make Lia do anything she does not want to do."

"Not much we can do now, anyway," Killian responds.

"Killy?" I say. "Gimme a gun."

He snorts. "As if, babe." He extends one to me, but keeps it out of reach, so I have to lift my arm to grab it. "Take it and it's yours."

I glare at him, because I know exactly how it'd feel. "Let's see you show me a Weaver stance."

He just laughs. "Nice try." The levity in his voice is betrayed by the look on his face—worry, fear, and determination. "I can shoot one-handed. You can't even sit upright."

I groan. "Thanks for reminding me that I'm freaking useless right now."

Every now and then, the sound of a door being kicked in floats to us, each one louder. Killian takes a knee in the corner of the room, and Dante takes a position near him, copying his stance. Since his left arm is screwed, Killian holds his bad arm tight against his belly, his pistol upright next to his ear like an eighteenth-century duelist.

And all I can do is lay here and watch.

My eyes burn.

A door crashes open mere feet away.

"Clear!" The voice is brusque and rough, and just outside our door. "Last door, chief. Gotta be in here. We've checked everywhere else."

"You're quite sure the informant's intel was current? This is a supply closet, innit?”

The first voice is American, the second British Cockney.

"I'm sure, chief."

"Alright, fine. Best clear the closet just to be safe, but my report is that they're both wounded. I don't see how they can both fit in a supply closet." Ahwl-rih—b-OH-f.

The tension is palpable, thick. I can see Dante's hands shaking as he grips his pistol in a way that reveals he is not at all familiar with firearms.

Killian, as ever, looks steady as a rock, pistol held at arm's length, pointed at the door.

"Hold up, hold up." The second voice, the chief. "Are you fucking kidding me, mate?”

Dante, Killian, and I trade confused glances.

"What is it?"

"Big Boss is dead."

Silence.

"What? Are you sure?" The American sounds shocked.

"No, I'm not sure. All I've got is an encrypted message from Sal saying Pugli has been killed."

"And you get this now? Seconds from finishing the op?”

"I don't bloody fucking know a single bloody goddamn thing you don't, you stupid bloody fucking yank, so shut the bloody fuck up and let me find fucking out before you ask me any more stupid goddamned bloody fucking questions, you fuckin’ got it, mate?”

"Fine, Jesus. Keep your fuckin’ shirt on.”

Killian looks at me with overly wide eyes, mouthing PUGLI IS DEAD?

I just make an I-don't-know face because even shrugging hurts.

"Confirmed,” Chief says, a few seconds later. “Sal found his body ten minutes ago. Pugli’s gone."

Silence again.

"So…who pays us?" This is a new voice—Spanish, possibly.

"Fuck if I know, mate." A pause. "Sal's gone. Offline or dead himself, I don't know and I care even less. Pugli paid us himself. Sal hasn't got the scratch to match the pay Pugli promised us for this op, and I know that for facts.”

"We only got the first half," says a fourth voice, another American. "I ain't doin' shit unless I know I'm getting mothafuckin' paid, ya feel me?”

"Me either," says a fifth, followed by a veritable chorus—they sent a freaking army after us, it sounds like…probably why it took two days to get to us.

“SHUT IT!” The chief bellows. "We're agreed. We don't work for free, do we, lads?" The chorus shouts no in unison. "Much as it chaps my arse to let these little Yankee shits go, we ain't doin' shite without proper pay on the hook. And with Pugli dead, we're on the hunt for a new score. Let’s get scarce, lads.”

There's a squeak of sole rubber and then the indefinable quality of silence that comes with the sudden absence of people.

Killian stands cautiously on his feet, reaches for the door—he flinches backward when a fist pounds on it once.

"You fucks got lucky," the original American voice says, hitting the door again. "Punk ass bitches."

"Torino! Fuckin' come on, man. Helo's waiting."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, his voice fading into the distance. "I'm comin'."

Silence.

None of us dares move or breathe, not quite willing to believe it's not a trick.

But then the choppy thumping of a helicopter grows louder and louder until it’s passing mere feet overhead—Killian rushes to the window. From my vantage point, I catch a quick glimpse of a blacked-out older model Huey banking away, a door gunner visible for an instant before it carves away out of sight; a second, third, and fourth follow suit in quick succession—Jesus, they sent a lot of dudes after us.

Pretty badass, to be honest.

More silence.

Dante is the first to speak, albeit in a whisper. "Is that it? It is over?"

"I sure as fuck hope so," Killian responds. "Have a hard time believing it, though."

The door opens, and Killian’s pistol whips up, only dropping again when Dr. Lia’s white-coated figure fills the doorway.

"It is okay," she says. "They have gone." She looks pale, shaken.

"They hurt you?" Killian asks.

She shakes her head. "No. I knew Roberto in a life past. Before he became the…the thing he is now. He would burn this place to the ground around me, but he would not order anyone to shoot me."

"Well, he's dead," Killian says.

She blinks at this news. "Truly?"

"That's what they said. They got the notice right as they were about to come in here.” He shrugs, palms flipping up and then slapping to his sides. "They left. Wouldn't finish the op because they wouldn't get paid with Pugli dead."

"That is a stroke of luck for all of us." She indicates Killian. "You must let me fix that shoulder, now."

"Killian?" I say, my tone rising in warning.

"He would not let me do anything. Either he was going to die, in which case it is wasted effort, or he is needing more doctoring after the fighting."

"Killian, you idiot. You need a sling."

"He needs more than that. He needs stitches. He needs antibiotics. He has fever. I am worried he has an infection."

"KILLIAN!"

Now that I look at him more closely, he's sheened with sweat, looking peaked and pale.

"You're functioning through sheer force of will, aren't you?"

"Gotta protect you."

"It's over now," I whisper. "We're okay."

He blinks at me, suddenly looking peaked and about to pass out; the adrenaline has left him, and now the cost of pain has come due. "Over. It's over?"

"They're gone. Pugli is dead. It's over."

He deflates, the realization finally sinking in, and in so doing saps the last of his resolve.

He slumps back against the wall and slides to the floor. "Oh."

I look at Dante, who fortunately does know enough about guns to eject the magazine, rack the slide to eject the chambered round, and then sets the gun on the bed near me.

"Come now, mio amico americano. You need to sleep for a week, okay? Okay. I will help you." Dante helps Killian to his feet and half-carries him out of the room.

Dr. Lia lingers. "He loves you very much," she says to me. "He sat just there," She points to a spot a foot from where my head is. "For the time you are asleep. No moving, no leaving. We bring him food and drink. He would not sleep. He would not let me tend to him. Not until he knew you would live."

"Jesus. Stubborn asshole."

"Even in love, the men are difficult."

"Especially in love."

This gets a laugh. "True, true. Only when I am assuring him you are going to recover will he let me show him where to sleep."

"So this whole time, he's had a broken shoulder and two open gunshot wounds?"

"What am I to do? Make him let me help?"

I sigh. "No, no, it's not you. He's just so damned stubborn." I glance at her. "I have a question. Why did those men think this was a supply closet?"

She smiles, and there's mischief in it. "Do you think you are the first to need un medico without the asking of questions? Giuseppe, always is he living on the wrong side of the law. He is good at his heart, but sometimes?" A shrug, and she moves on. "This room is hidden. From the outside of the building, you do not see this room. Only a window, could be anything. From the hall, you think it is a supply closet. I have a sign and all. Once, this was a…a living place for the church men. In the robes? With the singing." She does an effective approximation of Gregorian chanting, albeit she sings gibberish and not real Latin. "Like so."

"Ah. This was a monastery. For monks."

“Yes, yes, this. A monastery for monks. Through many wars it is an ospedale, where the soldiers go to recover. Then it is only a ruin. And then I purchase it. Make it my own ospedale. And sometimes, I need a hidden place. So here you are."

"Clever."

"Necessaria."

"I need a phone," I say. "Now that it's safe, I really, really need to get ahold of our people."

Dr. Lia takes her own cell from her lab coat pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to me. “You know how to dial the States?"

"Um?”

She takes it back. "Say to me the number." I tell her, and she dials a long string of numbers, and then hands it to me without actually putting the call through, yet. “I will tend to your man. He will be okay."

"Thank you, Dr. Lia."

She just smiles. “If you need a job, I always need more good nurses.”

"Tempting," I say. "I sort of went missing without a word, so I'm not sure if I'll have a job when I get back."

"You will not make very much money, working here for me, but many are the people who need help."

"You don't go into emergency medicine for the money," I answer. "Thanks for the offer. I will very seriously consider it."

She nods and then leaves, tapping at her tablet, scanning a chart or set of orders as she sweeps out in the focused, bustling, imperious way of doctors the world over.

I set the phone on my sternum because I can't hold it to my ear, and tap the call button. It rings twice.

"Story!" Mom's voice.

"Mom," I whisper, my voice tight and strangled. “Oh god, Mom."

"Where are you?"

"A monastery turned hospital outside Golfo Aranci on Sardinia."

"A hospital?"

"Ahh…well…yeah?”

"You or Killian?"

"Both?"

"Story. Talk to me."

"We're alive, Mom. We'll both be fine."

"But you're hurt."

"Pugli is dead."

"I know. We just heard." A pause. "How do you know?"

I let out a breath. "Let's just say the news could not possibly have come at a better moment."

"Story…" a pause. "Are you okay?"

"N-no." My throat is hot and tight. "I need you."

"Dad is already on the phone with Uncle Harry."

"How did you know it was me calling?"

"Who else is going to call me from an unlisted number at one in the morning?"

My eyes burn, but I don't dare let go yet. "Mom."

"I know, my love. I know. But you will be okay."

"It was awful."

"You want to tell me about it?"

"N-no. Not…not yet. Not like this—not over the phone." I let out a shuddery sigh. "How do you cope?"

"With what in particular?"

"Knowing you've killed someone."

"Oh. Um…that…it takes time. Therapy. Self-forgiveness. Even if you had to do it, it leaves a mark. You won't soon forget, Story. I can't and won't lie to you about this." Even all these years later, after decades of life in the States, she still has a faint Hebrew accent. "But you will be okay. You just have to give yourself permission to not be okay for a time."

"Well, I'm not. I'm trying to be brave. To be strong."

"I am packing as we speak, motek.” Here, she uses a Hebrew term of endearment that means, roughly, sweetie. “Dad has a helicopter and pilot on standby to take us to the compound, and we will ride the very fast jet to you. I will be there in a few hours, my girl."

"Um. Just…prepare yourself, okay? I'm…um. It's not great, Mom."

"But you are okay?"

"I will be."

"You aren't lying?"

"No. Promise. Apparently it was touch and go for a bit, though."

"Story!"

"Don't yell at me. I was kidnapped by an international ring of sex-slavers and chased all over this stupid island by professional killers. I didn't run away to Cancun for spring break."

A sigh. "I know. I know. I'm sorry. I've just been so worried."

"I've never been so scared in my life."

A long pause. "How is Killian?"

I hear the curiosity she's too respectful and circumspect to ask directly. "Just say what you want to say, Mom."

"That is what I want to say. How is Killian?"

"Infected. He refused to let the doctor here treat him until he knew I was going to be okay. But he'll be okay, she says."

"Men are so stupid, sometimes."

"Tell me about it."

"Fine," she huffs. "I'll ask. You and Killian…"

I smile at the ceiling. "It turns out we've been in love with each other since we were both kids; we just both hid it from each other a little too well."

"Wait. You mean to tell me that boy never realized you have been hopelessly in love with him most of your life? You were not exactly subtle about it, motek.”

"It was that obvious?" I ask, not realizing she knew.

"I am your mother."

"He's been a rockstar through this, Mom. I wouldn’t be here if not for him."

"Something tells me he is going to say the same thing."

"Maybe."

"Oh, your father says we must go. I will see you as soon as possible." A pause. "Ani ohev otech."

"I love you too, Mom."

"Rest. You are safe now. You will be home before you know it."

"Not Minneapolis. I'm gonna need to stay with you and Dad for a while."

"As long as you need." A sniffle. "Okay. I must go. Your father is very impatient to see you."

"Tell him I love him, Mom. Tell him his training saved our lives."

A few silent moments pass, and then I hear background sounds—a car door closing, an engine, the rustling of a phone changing hands. "Liebchen. I must drive very fast, so I will keep this brief. I am proud of you. You are a strong, brave, capable woman and I am proud. It has been the privilege of my life to get to be your father."

"God, Dad."

"Do not make me cry, liebchen." He says something muffled to Mom and then comes back to me. "Killian. Tell me only one thing. Does he deserve you?"

"And then some."

"He will make you happy?"

"He already has."

"No details of this, bitte." Of ziss.

I laugh. “Ow, ow, ow. Don't make me laugh."

"Ribs?"

“Yeah."

"Shot in the vest?"

"Four from a carbine at under a hundred yards."

He curses in three languages. "And?"

“One to the side. Almost hit my colon but didn't. It's out, now."

"And?"

"Mild concussion."

"You gave as good as you got, though." This isn't a question.

"And then some."

"That is my girl."

"Killian did most of it."

"Truly? I wondered how he would be when it came to it."

"He's everything, Dad."

"Then I am glad for you. This love between you will do more to heal you from all you have experienced than anything else. This is my experience with your mother, at least. She has saved my soul. I would have been lost to the horrors of my life already, if not for her." His tone changes, goes brusque. "I must focus on driving so I can bring your mother to you safely. Rest, okay?"

"God, if one more person tells me to rest. Ugh!"

He laughs. "You will hear it many more times while you are healing. I know this from experience. You will be sick of it."

"I already am."

“Ich weiss.” A pause. "Ich liebe dich, meine Tochter."

"Love you too, Dad."

"We will be there as fast as flight will allow. Sleep, now."

The line clicks as he hangs up, and I let my eyes slide closed—and it's only now that I truly realize the full weight of the burden of fear I was carrying.

Dr. Lia sweeps in a bit later; more asleep than awake, I’m only partially aware as she takes my temperature and blood pressure, checks my wounds, and adjusts the dosage of the meds on the IV.

She recovers her phone and then crouches beside me, murmuring quietly, "Your young man, Killian. I have stitched his wounds. There is no internal damage, but his scapula is badly broken. The bullet which passed through his arm was a low…ehh…velocità.” She frowns, thinking. "Velocity. It was a low velocity bullet, so the damage to his muscles is not so very terrible. In time, with fisioterapia, he will probably not know any lasting problems."

"The infection?" I ask, mumbling, half asleep.

"Treating with the antibiotic. No problem. Fever is lowering already. You are the more bigger concern. Four of your ribs were…" she explodes her fingers. "Rotto molto gravemente. Um. Shatter. Like a clay jar. You are molto, molto fortunato that your lung was not poked through." She shakes her head. "You are a very strong woman."

I don't feel strong.

I feel emotionally ravaged, mentally exhausted, and physically destroyed.

I want my mom and dad.

I want Killian to hold me.

I can't have either of those things, yet.

All I can do is sleep.

19

Blame It On The Painkillers

Everything is a jumble that I'm only vaguely aware of.

Dr. Lia's face. Dante. A pretty, young Italian nurse in pale green scrubs checking my temperature and blood pressure. Being moved, fluorescent lights overhead, the casters of the hospital bed rattling. More lights. Different doctors. A mask being placed over my mouth and nose and the nasty scent of fake banana, and then nothingness.

When my eyes open again, it's to a dull throb of pain all up and down my left side, pulsing at my shoulder and hip. My arm is immobilized in a sling, and bandages wrap around my midsection, low over my hip.

I feel achy, sweaty, and diabolically thirsty. I need a drink of water more than just about anything…except to see Story.

Someone comes in, checks the meds on the IV. "You are hurting?" This nurse is a little older, more middle-aged, with a cool, delicate touch.

"A bit."

"More drug?"

"Per favore."

"Italiano! Very good!" She adjusts something, and a slow numbing warmth spreads through me. "That should help."

"Yeah. Thanks." I sigh as the pain recedes. "Where is Story?"

"Other room. Riposa."

"Can I see her?"

"Dovresti riposare anche tu."

"I'm riposa'd. I need to see Story."

"Chiederò al medico."

"Ask Dr. Lia."

A snort. "Is what I say."

"Well, I don't speak that much Italian, do I?”

She frowns down at me and then fiddles with the IV again. "Riposa." It sounds like a command.

In fact, it's more of a statement of the inevitable, because I fade back into sleep moments later, without getting that drink of water.

Help, I've been drugged.

Kidding. I mean, I have, but I know it's probably necessary.

When I wake again, I'm alone and I need to see Story. There's a wheelchair by the door with one of those little hook-and-pole situations for the IV, if only I knew how to move the thing one-handed.

Fuck it. Let's try.

Dr. Lia comes in while I'm fiddling with the IV machine, trying to figure out how to move it from the bed to the chair. "Ehi, what are you doing? You stop that."

"Need to see Story."

"Why do you think I am here?" She tsks. "Gli uomini. Così fottutatmente stupidi. Cosa sai? Un cazzo. Standing up, gonna move around by yourself. Gonna ruin all my work to fix you. Cosi fottutatmenta stupidi."

I lay back down—not without relief—and Dr. Lia unlocks the bed's wheels, pushes me out of the room. We don't return to the secret room, this time. Instead, she takes me to another room like mine, just a couple doors down, with a real hospital bed. Every door, I notice, has been kicked in, the frames around the latches splintered. Down the hall, workmen are replacing the frame of a door.

Story is asleep when Dr. Lia rolls me in and positions my bed next to hers with a gestured injunction to keep quiet. I nod and let myself relax, now that I'm with Story. She's in a hospital gown, like me, with monitor leads and IV tubes everywhere. She looks better—she’s got some of her color back. Before, she wasn't asleep; she was unconscious. Not the same thing at all.

This is sleep.

Her hand is small and still against the white sheet. I cover it with mine, let my eyes close.

"Mmm." Her voice is a low, sleepy moan. "Kill?"

"Ssshhh. I'm here."

She moans again, turns her hand so our fingers tangle. "Killy."

"Got you."

"Talked to…Mom'n…Mom'n Dad. On…th’way."

“Okay, good. Means we'll be going home soon."

"Mmm. Home soon." Her sleepy blue eyes find mine. "You'n me. Home…t'gether. 'Kay?"

"Wherever you are is home, honey."

"Love…you."

"I love you too, Story. Go back to sleep. I'll be right here next to you when you wake up."

"Never…leave?"

"Never."

She falls back under, then, although her hand continues to clutch mine, even in sleep, for a long time before it goes slack.

I'm not far behind her, but not before Dr. Lia comes back with a Styrofoam cup of ice water, which I sip greedily until my stomach sloshes and my eyes slide shut without my say-so.

The next time my eyes slide open, Story is awake and eating, each movement cautious. She's chatting in low tones with someone—Selah, her long thick black hair silvered at the temples. Anselm is standing behind her, his hands resting on Selah's shoulders, listening as Story talks. Anselm hasn't changed much over the years—his hair is a little thinner, blond hiding most of the gray. A few more crow's feet, maybe. But overall, he’s the same as ever.

His eyes flick to me. "Ah. Killian, you are awake."

Story looks at me with a smile. "Hey, you."

I smile back. "Hi. You seem a bit better."

“Oh, I am. I'm on so many drugs right now." She does seem a bit loopy. "Yay drugs!"

Anselm whips out a cell phone and sends a quick message. "Your parents are here. They only stepped out for a moment."

"Brynnie?" I ask.

"Safe."

"Cal?"

The pause is heavy. "Still missing."

"But Pugli is dead."

"Reports are mixed," Anselm says, "but what we have been able to learn is that he seems to have escaped Pugli's men, only to run afoul of some other kind of trouble. What kind of trouble, we cannot say for sure, but it seems connected to a girl."

I snort. "Figures. Only Cal would get himself out of trouble and then into more trouble because of a girl.”

The door swings open and Mom flies into the room like an ICBM, only just barely halting her momentum before she reaches me, her hands fluttering like frantic birds around my face before settling, clutching gently. "Killy, my boy." Her eyes are tired but full of joy and relief. "There you are." Her wild, tightly curled black hair is pulled back into a giant curly poofball, which she only does when she's serious, worried, or seriously worried. "My sweet boy." Her kisses to my cheeks are delicate and soft and warm, just like when I was a boy and had a skinned knee or something.

Makes my eyes burn and my throat tight. I blink hard, look away. "Goddammit, Ma."

She sniffs a laugh. “I’m not crying, you’re crying,” she says, sniffling as she swipes at my eyes with her fingertips. "What are a few tears among family? You've been missing for more than two weeks!"

Dad is here, too, his hard, weathered face as unexpressive as ever, his eyes the only window into his emotions—relief, mainly. "Glad to see you in one piece, son.”

I snicker. "Mostly."

"Bah. Coupl'a holes. You'll be fine. Ask me how I know."

I take the bait. "How do you know, Dad?"

He grins at me. "Well, the first one, this one—" he lifts his black tee and shows me a faint, round, puckered scar high on his left side. "That one missed my lung by a whisker."

"Nicholas." Mom's voice is a bark. "I hardly think the kids need to hear your war stories."

"I dunno, Mom," I say. "I think I'll have a better appreciation for them, now."

"Perhaps now that we are all here together," Anselm says, "you two could debrief us on the events of the last few days."

I glance at Story. “You didn't fill them in?"

Anselm answers for her. "She would not discuss anything without you."

I scrub my face with both hands. "It's seriously only been a few days?"

"Less than a week since Story vanished," Dad says.

"Feels like a different life. It's honestly kind of hard to remember anything from before the container." I feel…shaky. Inside. Tightly wound. Fragile. "Shit." My throat burns, aches, tighter than a piano wire.

Maybe I’m more affected by time in that lightless hellhole than I realized.

Story sets her plate and fork aside and reaches for my hand. "Kills? You okay, baby?"

Mom, Dad, Anselm, and Selah trade glances at the nickname and the endearment.

“Yeah, that happened too," I mutter.

"We know," all four say in unison.

Story squeezes my hand. "What's up?"

I shake my head, words bubbling up and evaporating before I can get them out, dissolving in the infernal heat clogging my throat.

I close my eyes, but the darkness is oppressive, and suddenly I’m back in that container. I shake my head again. "Fuck."

"It's okay, sweetheart," Mom says. "You don't need to talk about it right now."

I wrench my eyes open. I can't stop the haze from leaking down my cheeks, and I drop my gaze to my lap, embarrassed to the point of physical pain.

"Lemme in," Dad growls, his voice gruff. Mom shuffles aside, and he perches on the edge of the bed, scrubs his hand over my hair and then grabs a handful and tugs my head back so I'm forced to look at him; despite the roughness of the gesture, it's affectionate, loving. Which doesn’t fucking help me control my shit.

"Goddammit, Dad."

"Hey.” His voice is hard, but it’s a shell of hardness over tender intent. "You listen to me, son."

I nod, not looking at him.

"You fuckin' look at me when I'm talking to you, boy." He waits until I lift my eyes to his. "You don't have a single goddamn motherfucking thing to be ashamed of." He wipes a thumb under my eyes like I'm three all over again. "This ain’t weakness."

"Never seen you cry," I mumble.

"I have," Mom says. "A few times."

Dad cuffs my cheek, leaves his hand there. “You held your shit together when it mattered, son." He sighs. "My first firefight, I was nineteen. Brand new grunt fresh outta training, didn't even have to fuckin' shave yet. Scared outta my goddamn mind. I froze. The whole fight happened without me. Couldn't move a muscle. Funny thing is, not one round came anywhere close to me. I was so fuckin' embarrassed and ashamed I cried like a little boy on the ride back to base."

"Bullshit," I say.

"It's true!" h e says. "Hold up." He dials a number from his contacts.

It rings a few times and then a deep male voice I don’t recognize answers. "Commander Harris. Been a minute. What can I do for you, ol' buddy?"

"Answer a quick question."

"Shoot."

"My first firefight."

The man on the other side chuckles. "Oh man. I was sure I'd been stuck with a NOF." He pronounces it n-AHW-ff.

Mom leans toward me, muttering, "That's a non-operating fucker. Someone useless in combat."

The man continues. "You froze, buddy. Clutched your rifle like it was blankie. Cried for your mama all the way back to the FOB.” He pronounces the acronym rather than spell it. “We called you Cabbage Patch for weeks."

"Cabbage Patch?" I can't help interrupting.

"The li’l baby dolls with the big heads?” the man says.

I snicker. "Oh."

“That’s my son,” Dad explains. "Just had his first taste of combat, including being held in iso for two weeks."

"No fuckin' shit. Well, son, if you're anything like your old man, you'll come through it no problem. Next time we hit the shit, he came in clutch. Saved all our asses. Couldn't call him Cabbage Patch after that." A pause. "I gotta run, Harry. Be glad you got out and went private. Being brass ain’t always what it's cracked up to be. Meetings up my asshole.”

“Meanwhile, I'm gonna be chillin' on my private beach, on my private island," Dad says.

"Yeah, and where's my invite?"

"Steely, you don’t need one. Get yourself some leave and come visit."

"I got some comin' end of the month."

“I’ll send you the coordinates."

A laugh. "What makes you think I need 'em? You forget who I am?"

"Consider yourself invited, old man. Come see us."

"Old man. Fuck you, Harry. I can still kick your ass six ways to Sunday.”

"I don't doubt it. Alright. You go. I just needed that backup."

The other man raises his voice. "Son, I've been in iso. We'll talk more when I'm down there to see you all, but I'll leave you with this, for now—I'm seventy-three goddamn years old, that shit was fifty-some years ago, and I still sleep with a light on." A quick pause. "Gotta run, kids. Love to you, Layla."

“Back at ya, Steely."

Dad ends the call, then, "That was my former CO and my mentor, four-star general Dan Webber, known to a select few as Steely." He looks at me. "That help?"

I nod. "I…I feel…" I roll a shoulder. "I dunno. I’m feeling a lot. I feel like all my pieces are gonna come apart, inside."

Mom crushes my head to her belly. "Because you've been through hell, my boy. You're allowed to come apart, now." She crouches and gazes up at me, cupping my face in her hands. "It's okay. It's safe. You're safe. She's safe."

I shake my head, panic sizzling and slashing through me. Guilt. Fear. Shame. Terror. All the shit I refused to let myself feel. "Fuck."

Story squeezes my hand. "Hey, hey. Killy? Look at me, baby. Look at me."

I force my eyes to her. "I'm s-s—"

"What did you say to me, before, when I was crashing out? Shut the fuck up with that shit, Killian. I don't want it. You did everything right." She lifts my hand to her lips. "Let it out, babe. It's okay. Trust me, everyone here gets it."

Selah nods. "We do. I was held captive, also. Only for a few hours before ’Selm came for me, but I knew what was…what was planned for me. I have never known fear like that. Not since, and not before." She glances at Story. "Until she went missing and we realized who had her, that is. And that is an entirely different kind of fear."

"Captivity of that kind is deeply psychologically damaging, Killian," Anselm says. "You must not reproach yourself for struggling with the natural emotional aftermath of such trauma."

"I didn’t…” I shake my head. "I didn't realize how… what I was…how bad I—"

"You couldn't," Dad finishes for me. "You put it aside because you had to stay alive. You had to fight. And you did. So." Dad pats my thigh. "Debrief us. Give us the whole nitty-gritty.”

Story and I take turns telling the story, obviously leaving out the more…private details.

"What I would like to know is how you and Story got off the freighter," Anselm says.

"They moved us. In the middle of a fucking crazy-ass storm," I answer. “Launched a rescue boat off the side in the middle of a storm with fuckin'…what, ten, fifteen-foot waves." I shake my head. "Still no clue why, but I’ll sure as hell never forget that shit.”

"Pugli knew we were on his ass," Dad answers. "It was a joint op—A1S, Johnny Raze's crew, and some cats outta Vegas. Hard-ass operators, that bunch. Except they don't kill. Weird but true.” He shakes his head. "I think when Pugli realized we were coming for him—when he found out Mercado was dead, the Vegas ambush had failed, and our people were chasing his ass across Europe, he panicked. Snatched you, Cal, and Story. Bryn got herself into trouble, and it was only blind luck that it just happened to involve the same people. Stashing you on a freighter was a smart play, I gotta say. The move?" he shrugs. "At the end, Pugli was on the run, on his own. My guess is he was panicking, spiraling, trying to retain control. I think he thought he could use you as leverage, you and Story."

"They kept saying he had plans for Story."

"Oh, I'm sure he did, the vile fuckstain,” Mom says. "But more than anything, you were supposed to be insurance. For all the good it did him. Didn't know who he'd snatched."

Story and I both laugh, Story carefully and with a wince and a hiss. "That's what we said," I say.

Mom eyes Story. "God. Wish I'd thought of that tampon trick.”

Story shrugs. "It's all I had. Enzo was shot and we knew more were coming, so I improvised." She looks at me, then. “His wife and daughter! We never made it to see them."

"The address is written down. It’s in the pocket of my jeans, wherever those are."

"I'm sure the doctor or one of the nurses will know," Mom says.

“On it,” Dad says, and exits the room—I think he’s glad to have something he can do.

"Too much emotion in here for your poor ol' hard-ass dad," Mom says, with a wry smirk. She kisses my forehead. "You should rest now, the both of you."

Story and I trade looks, and then burst into laughter, although Story's laughter halts immediately with a hiss of pain and a wince.

"Much as I hate being told to rest every hour of the day, I admit I'm pretty wiped already."

"If you'd not been a stubborn dumbshit and had let Dr. Lia fix you up, you wouldn't be in such pain," Story scolds me. "So while I have sympathy for you, I'm also kind of pissed. You sitting at my bedside and refusing medical help was just stupid."

Mom's gaze cuts to me, narrowing. "Killian Nicholas Harris. Please tell me she's making this up." A glance at Story. "I know you're not, honey. I know how men are."

I growl. "It wasn't a conscious decision. I was exhausted, in pain, and delirious, I'd lost a good bit of blood, and I was fuckin’…” I close my eyes and sigh. "I was terrified she was going to die. It just didn't matter if she wasn't okay."

Mom's gaze softens. "I suppose that's an understandable response." She looks from me to Story and back. "To be totally honest, I'm surprised it took the two of you this long. It was obvious to everyone except you guys, I'm pretty sure, that you both were in love with each other for…god, since I can remember."

Story frowns at me. "Everyone knew but us, huh?"

I shrug. "I dunno. This is the first I'm hearing of it."

Selah lets out a soft little huff of laughter. "It really was obvious. Killian would follow you around like a puppy, Story. He looked at you like you held the moon and the stars in your hands. It was different for Story for a while, because you are younger, but she has cared about you deeply since you were just a child. And since you started becoming the man you are now, she too has looked at you with many stars in her eyes, although she has tried to hide it." Her smile is affectionate. "She cannot hide it from me, however."

Story is blushing. "Mom. God. We aren't kids anymore.”

Selah only smiles even more broadly. "I know. It is all the more reason for me to be happy. I know Killian. I know he is a good man raised by good people whom I love and respect. I know he will treat you well, unlike those…those…" a huff. "Ma'afan boys you have wasted your time on." She uses a Hebrew word I obviously don't know, but I assume it's derogatory.

"Mom!" Story snaps.

Selah holds up her hands. "Okay, okay. I am just saying…" she smiles at me. "This…has my approval. I know you do not need it, but there it is."

Story's irritation dissolves like an ice cube in boiling water. "Need? No. Want? Yes." She looks at me. "We just need some uninterrupted time together where we aren't in fear of our lives so we can figure things out."

Mom and Selah exchange looks. "I bet you do," Mom says, her expression neutral.

Selah keeps her face expressionless for a few seconds, and then she and Mom burst into laughter at the same time.

Story and I just trade annoyed glances at our embarrassing mothers.

"You'd think she'd be over embarrassing me," I say. "I'm a grown-ass man."

Story arches an eyebrow at me. "I'm almost thirty.”

"You will never be too old to embarrass," Mom says, ruffling my hair. "Okay. Now I know you're gonna recover, this old lady needs a glass of wine, a long nap, and an orga…nized tour of this cute little town." She was definitely about to say something that started with orga- and ended with -sm, but detoured halfway through.

"Nice recovery, Ma," I deadpan, giving her a droll stare.

She gives a cutesy smile and shrug. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

I sigh. "You two have a really fun habit of leaving your villa open. Let's just say I’ve heard a lot of your…organized tours and Dad's yodeling moose impression."

Mom splutters, cackling with a hand over her mouth. "Killian!"

"Blame it on the painkillers," I say, pointing at the bag hanging from the IV.

She kisses my forehead, and Selah and Story exchange gentle cheek kisses, and then Story and I are alone…for roughly a minute.

Until Dr. Lia comes in. "You have had enough visiting time." She looks at me. “I know to rest is difficile, but it is what will heal you most quickly."

I can't stop a yawn. "I hate it, but I know I need it. And I don't think I could stay awake much longer anyway. I glance up at the bags of drugs. "Did you give me knock-out drugs?"

Dr. Lia just laughs. "No, no. Unless you are fighting me to get out of the bed, I do not give you this. Your body will make you sleep. You only must let it."

"Well, I'm about to let it," I say.

"Good—that is good." She checks the IV machine settings, glances at the monitors for vitals, takes our temps, and then smiles at us from the door. "All is look good. Soon, you go home."

"When is soon?" I ask.

"Some days. Due, o tre, maybe four, but I do not think so. I think two. I think you leave on the third day from today."

"We can't thank you enough, Dr. Lia," Story says.

Dr. Lia shakes her head. “No, no. Is why I am here. You are not the first patient to be seen in secret, hmm? Not the first to need a hiding place. Giuseppe, he brings me some like you more oftenly than I should like. But I take the vow, hmm? So, I heal." She shrugs. "And anyway, I received a notice one hour ago—someone with a lot of money has donated cinque milioni di euros to my…" She frowns, thinking. "Organizzazione no-profit, which makes run this ospedale."

I laugh. "Sounds like Uncle Val."

"Who is this?" she asks. "This Uncle Val who sends me so much money?"

Story and I trade glances.

"He's not really either of our uncles,” Story says. "More like a very close family friend. He…he has a bit of money, and he likes to help out."

I snicker. "A bit of money? Like saying the sun is kinda warm."

"Ehi? What means this?"

"I was being circumspect," Story says.

"We're talking about Valentine Roth," I say.

Dr. Lia's eyes widen. "Oh. Oh my. I see." She shrugs. "It is a very large gift. Give him my thanks when you see him." A pause. "Is it a gift with…ehh…condizioni annesse?"

"Conditions?" I guess. "Like, strings attached?" She nods, and I shake my head. "No, god no. Never. That's not how Uncle Val works."

"Knowing him," Story adds, "That's probably just an initial thank you until he decides how to really reward you."

“But I do not ask for a reward."

"I know. But Uncle Val is…" Story shrugs. "He’s Uncle Val. You can't stop him."

Dr. Lia looks to me for help, and I just shrug too. "Don’t look at me. She's right. Uncle Val is gonna do what he's gonna do. Ask for a glass of water and he'll get you a whole-ass bottling facility."

"I do not know what this ‘bottling facility’ is,” she struggles with the phrase, somehow managing to add syllables. "But I understand." She slaps her thigh with her tablet. "Okay. You rest now. I must check on my other patients."

"Riposa," I say. "My favorite Italian word."

She just laughs as she exits the room, and now, finally, Story and I are alone for a moment or two.

"Quite a pair, aren't we?" Story says.

"Certainly are," I say, looking at her.

She smiles. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Me?" I say. "I didn't almost die."

She just tips her head in a shrug-like gesture. "I'm not going back to Minnesota," she says, after a moment or two. "I'm gonna need a few months to recover and regain my strength before I can go back to work."

I lick my lips. "I…I suppose I should admit that I wouldn’t entirely hate it if you never went back. Too damn cold up there for me." I look at her. "I just…I mean—"

She reaches out, moving very carefully, and takes my hand. "I know." She gives me a long, steady look. "We haven't really had a chance to discuss what us actually being together would look like, have we?"

I shake my head, yawning so widely my jaw aches. "No, and we need to. After a nap."

"Too bad we can't do like your mom. Glass of wine, a nap, and an orgasm."

I shake my hands. “Can you not? It's bad enough I know how they sound."

"Don't you find it inspiring how in love with and passionate for each other our parents are, still, after all these years?" she asks.

I nod. "God yes. I just don't need to see, hear, or think about my parents having sex."

She huffs a laugh. "I suppose that's valid."

"So you're heading to Miami from here, I suppose?" I ask.

"That is the plan, as of now, yes." She gives me a long, carefully blank look. "Did you have another idea?"

"I…yeah," I say. "Come to the compound."

"We are both gonna need a lot of support for quite some time,” she says, gazing away thoughtfully.

"I just don't want to waste any more time," I murmur. "I don't want to be away from you."

She gives me a soft smile. "I don't want to be away from you either. We can talk about it more after we wake up."

My eyes won't stay open anymore. "Okay." I sigh. "Wish I could hold you."

"Me too. Soon, though."

"Not soon enough."

"No, not soon enough," she agrees.

Dad pops his head in, then, to let us know that Enzo is alive and well and reunited with his daughter and mother-in-law, and is recuperating in Rome.

Sleep claims me, then. I dream of Story on a beach, wearing nothing but a smile.

20

You And Me, Some Stiff Drinks, No Clothes, And A Whole Lotta O’s

"One more, now," Sasha insists.

One of A1S's top operators and original members, Sasha’s been part of my life since I met Dad and became part of the A1S family. He's also a brutally demanding personal trainer and physical therapist, which is his side hustle when the security business is slow.

Right now, he's standing on my toes and catching a ten-pound medicine ball as I sit up and throw it to him, and then dropping it into my hands so I can lie down with it and do another sit-up-and-throw. This is my third round of ten reps, and my abs are in agony. My hip flexors, the one on the injured side in particular, are on fire. I've done kettlebell swings, chin-ups, squats, deadlifts, push-ups, presses, rows…he's put me through a truly brutal circuit, using much lighter weights than usual in deference to my recent injury, granted, but still. On the other side of the gym, Uncle Duke is putting Killian through a similar routine, with a bent toward rehabbing Killian's particular injuries and rebuilding his strength base.

We've had a challenging but overall good few months since the events on Sardinia; we were both bed-bound for a few weeks, me in particular. Killian was more mobile since his ribs were intact, but the gunshot wounds plus the broken scapula kept him nearly as bedridden as me. Mom has to work in Miami, so she has been popping down to see me as much as she can, but as the charge nurse for one of Miami's busiest emergency rooms, she can't just take off months at a time. Dad, obviously, can and does spend much of his time here on the compound island with me, but he still commutes back and forth to be with Mom. And honestly, I have all the support I could want or need here when Mom and Dad are back up in Miami. It's just extra blessings to have my parents around, because they are, generally speaking, my favorite humans. The support I mean, obviously, includes Killian, but his parents have been invaluable, as have Uncle Val and Aunt Key, and the various members of A1S, who tend to come and go from the island compound—which actually encompasses several islands, with the largest dedicated to the sprawling, multi-building villa estate occupied by Killian's family and the Roths.

Obviously, the extent and severity of our injuries has precluded any kind of sexy time business for Killian and me, but we've bonded emotionally even further, if only because we've spent just about every waking moment together, recuperating, talking, watching TV, helping each other get dressed and shower and go to the bathroom, and then, once we got the green light from Mom to start rehab and PT, we bonded over that, if only in a love-to-hate-it way; there’s also been a distinct—and I think intentional—lack of privacy.

But I am, to put it succinctly, done waiting. I can tell Killian has been intensely frustrated with the difficulty of the healing process, as he's never broken anything before; he was especially frustrated with having to still go easy even after he could get rid of the sling. Having broken my ankle, I'm more familiar with the broken bone timeline on a personal level, as well as, a medical professional. My ribs are mostly healed, although I feel them after too much exertion, but that's what Sasha is helping me with.

I know I can handle getting physical without discomfort, and I need it. We exchange kisses a lot, but since we haven't been able to go beyond kissing, we've had to pull ourselves back from going any further. Which, to put it lightly, has been seriously difficult.

I wake up from wet dreams about Killian's mouth between my thighs nearly every night. I crave him. I crave his body. His kisses. His touch. Just him. We tried sleeping together—as in just sleeping, just to be close—but being that close and not able to do what we really need was too hard for both of us, so we went back to sleeping separately.

Which means that despite everything, we're back to having to act like kids with crushes, essentially. We spend every possible moment together, but we don't dare let things go too far, or we'll get carried away, and until recently, my ribs in particular were too fragile, and the pain from even slight movements was excruciating, which simply precluded me from being able to do anything fun, no matter how badly I want to. And then once the worst of the pain was gone, I had to keep being cautious to avoid overdoing it and setting myself back; the same has applied to Killian.

Suffice it to say, we’re both rabid.

Mom has been monitoring our progress, and told us that she'd give us the green light to resume “all normal activities,” as she put it—with a knowing gleam in her eye—once we can both move normally without pain, at least to a reasonable degree.

Of course, Killian being Killian, he went too hard his first rehab workout and nearly re-injured himself because he underestimated how much the muscles had atrophied. Which meant he had to take it even slower and pushed that green light back. I may have gotten a little pissed at him for that stunt.

Now, Mom is watching both of us from her treadmill, where she's running at a pace no woman her age should be able to maintain for as long as she is.

As I catch the med ball, press my shoulder blades to the floor, and then sit up and toss the ball to Sasha, I see her give me a wink and a nod, and then a significant glance at Killian—who is going full beast mode.

After my last rep, Sasha takes the medicine ball and crosses the room to put it away, and I just sit, catch my breath, and watch Killian. He's clad in a pair of maroon shorts that are so short and so tight it's truly indecent. They cling to the taut half-moon bubble of his iron-hard ass cheeks and the dense, thick, sinewy tree trunks of his thighs; I’m pretty certain he wore them just to taunt me. He's drenched in sweat, droplets running down the channels of heavy muscle of his back. My mouth is dry just watching him, and my core is hot and wet, and my breasts feel heavy, and my nipples tingle, diamond-hard.

Fuck, I want him.

He finishes a racked forward lunge and drops the kettlebell to the thick rubber mat, gasping raggedly, hands laced on his head. He pivots away from Duke and paces my way, and I let myself stare, let the need consuming me show on my face, in my eyes. His abs ripple, sweat trickling down his smooth, slick brown skin, glistening and glittering in the late afternoon sun streaming in from the open, west-facing door-wall.

He crosses to within a foot or two of where I'm still seated on the floor, arms around my upright knees. I intentionally let my gaze lock and linger on his bulge. And dear god…it's taunting me. Tempting. Tantalizing. The shorts are thin, and he’s not wearing underwear, since the shorts have a built-in liner, but that just means everything is, ahem, outlined. Very visibly, very clearly.

"Hey," he says, panting. "You done?"

I nod. "Yeah, I am." I glance at Sasha. "Right, Sash? I'm done?"

Sasha nods, wiping the medicine ball down with an antiseptic wipe. "Da. Done for today. Tomorrow we challenge your chest and back, and I kill your legs with the jumping squats. You will extra hate me tomorrow.”

"Sounds horrible in the best possible way," I say. Then I look back to Killian. "You? You're done?"

He has black sweatbands around his wrists, and uses them to dab and wipe sweat away from his eyes. "Nah, I got one more round of the snatch-press-lunge complex."

"Looks pretty killer, Killy."

He huffs. "Fucking nasty. But I love it. It feels so good to be able to fully fucking send it again."

I let my eyes scan his body, lingering on his hard, powerful chest, rippling, carved-from-marble abs, his huge thighs, and, last but lingering longest, the outlined bulge of his package. "I know the feeling," I murmur.

He doesn't miss the look, or the expression. "I'm about to go crazy, Story," he mutters, sidling closer, so he's towering directly above me. "I know I had a rough start to rehabbing, but I'm good now. And so are you. I saw you tossing the med ball like it was a softball."

I trace a finger down his shin, and I trace around his kneecap. At the light, innocent touch, Killian's jaw ticks, and I nibble my lower lip. "Yeah, I'm good. I wouldn't want to take any body blows from Tyson, but I'm moving comfortably and without any real pain." I glance around—Duke and Sasha are deep in conversation on the other side of the gym, and Mom is locked in on her run, now, feet and legs a blur as she pushes herself to the max, arms pumping and black ponytail swinging. "I'm giving myself the green light to resume…normal activities."

Killian arches an eyebrow. "And me?"

"I think you're good." I cup the backs of his calves, slide my hands up to his thighs, glance around again to make sure no one is watching us, and then slip my hands up and under his shorts to grip the sweaty bubbles of his ass. "Very, very good."

He gazes down at me, drops his hands from his head, and fists them at his sides—right at eye level, his bulge is moving. Shifting. Unfurling. "I know a place where we can be alone."

"For how long?" I ask.

He rolls a shoulder. "As long as we want. You trust me?"

I slide my hands out and extend them in an ask for help up—he tugs me to my feet and tucks me against his chest, my hands trapped between our equally sweaty bodies. "That's not a real question, is it?" I ask. "Because obviously.”

"Then pack a bag and meet me at the docks in twenty."

"I need a shower," I say.

He shakes his head. "Nah. We're just gonna get all sweaty and…sticky…anyway." His eyes flick to my chest—I picked my sports bra with him in mind, so while it's meant for compression and containment, it’s a sexier one, with a lot of very complicated straps and more cleavage than a sports bra technically needs; I caught his eyes following the bounce as I did certain impact-heavy movements.

"What do I need to pack, then?"

A shrug. "Whatever you think you may need on an uninhabited Caribbean island, alone with me.”

"For how long?" I ask.

"Until we run out of supplies?" he says. "I was thinking a few days. Two or three."

"Three or four, you said?" I tease.

“What’s that you say? Five or six…weeks?” he says, laughing.

"We'd miss Wi-Fi and A/C, eventually,” I say. I cup his face and kiss him, slowly and deeply. "I love you."

"I love you more." He brushes a thumb over my lips. "I know it's been a long wait for us, but I am kinda glad we've taken the time to heal fully. I don't want either of us to have to worry about hurting each other by accident because we got too carried away."

I nuzzle his chin with my nose, slide my lips over his jawline. "I know. Me too. Plus, I think we've gotten to know each other emotionally a lot better. Which is important to me. I know I know you, but…" I trail off, start again. "I don't know what I'm trying to say."

"I think I do," he says. "We avoided getting too close emotionally for a long time because we were hiding our attraction. Now we don't have to." He kisses my temple, the shell of my ear. "I'm glad we've had this time. I don't…I don't want this relationship to be based purely on sex. I know it wouldn't be anyway, but I'm just glad we've had time to focus on the other elements."

I hook my fingers in the waist of his shorts, nip his chin. "You in those shorts is killing me, Killy. I'm about out of self-control, here. So you'd better get us to this island of yours, stat, or I'm gonna do something embarrassing right here, right now."

He steps back, eyes closing as he lets out a tight, slow breath. "Don't threaten me with a good time." His gaze flicks over my shoulder, and the heat in his gaze dissipates. "Your mom is watching us."

I pat his chest. "Docks. Twenty minutes." I lean in and kiss him, deeply, slowly, and with lots of tongue—a promise of what's to come. "And Killy-baby?"

"Mmm?" he grumbles, looking at me as if the kiss left him dizzy.

I touch my lips to his ear, whispering. "I went on birth control not long after we got here."

He hangs his head, growling wordlessly, resting his forehead on my shoulder. "Story, shit."

I step into him, pressing my lower belly against his package. "I want you inside me, Killy." I nip his earlobe, breathing my next words directly into his ear. "Bare."

He straightens, glares down at me; making sure I'm watching, he shoves his hand down the front of his shorts and adjusts his hardening member. "Jesus, Story."

I grin. "The dock. Twenty minutes."

"You do realize you're the only thing between your mom and an eyeful of my…situation?" he says.

I glance down at his impressive but still only partially engorged cock, and then up at him, biting my lower lip. “Tease." I lift up and kiss him quickly. "I'll distract her. You get out of here."

He pivots and strides away with single-minded purpose—he's walking as fast as he possibly can without it turning into a goofy-looking power walk. Once he's on his way, I turn and go to Mom, who is winding down her run, slowing from an all-out sprint to a run, then a jog, and then a sedate, cool-down walking pace.

"I don't know…what you…said to him," Mom says, panting as she does a cooldown walk. "But you…you really put a fire under his feet."

I laugh. "Lit a fire under his ass, Mom. That's the phrase."

"Okay, but the torture in ancient times was a fire under the feet, was it not? They are most sensitive."

I laugh. "You know what, never mind. It doesn't matter. I just wanted to let you know that Killy and I are taking a few days away. We both feel pretty much back to normal, and we need some alone time, badly."

“You do not need my permission, darling," she says. "I only wanted you to heal properly and fully, and I know what it is to be young and in love and full of need for your man. You would have reinjured yourselves. I know this for a fact."

"I know, Mom. We both get it, and we're both glad for it. But we're good now."

She turns off the treadmill and comes to a halt, wipes her face and neck with a towel, and then takes a long drink of water. "Go, my love." She gives me a knowing smile. "That young man of yours appears rather…impatient."

"He's not the only one," I say.

Mom waves her hands at me, one holding the towel and the other the water bottle. "I understand. I do not need to know any more. Go. Have fun. Be in love."

I give her a sticky, sweaty hug and then all but jog to my villa, where I pack at warp speed—bikinis, coverups, sundresses, bra and underwear, toiletries…

I power off my cell phone and shove it in the bag along with a fully-charged portable battery pack and cord, just in case. And then I pause, contemplating an idea.

Yeah, I know what Killy said—don't waste time showering and changing.

So I'm not gonna shower.

Instead, I strip out of my sweat-soaked workout clothes and use a wet wipe to scrub down my pits, bits, and tits and then shimmy and dance into my sexiest bikini, the one I bought online on a dare while tipsy with some girls from work; I've never dared wear it to a beach or pool because it's basically two wisps of sheer material that does precisely nothing to obscure my parts in any way, shape, or form. I don a cover-up that isn't much more concealing, a floppy sunhat, and then check my bag once more; towels! I forgot a towel. I roll up two beach towels and add them to the duffel and then zip it closed, stuff my feet into my soft rubbery pool slides, shove my bug-eyed sunglasses on my face, and again all but run along the wooden path that mazes its serpentine way around the island from villa to villa to beach to gym to security HQ.

Killian didn't provide any details of his plan beyond "docks, twenty minutes" so I have no idea what to expect when I get to the jetty spiking out into the azure waters of the Caribbean.

What was I expecting? A speedboat, I suppose. Or a jetski. Or a seaplane with Mercedes at the controls.

What I don't expect is a sailboat. Not, like, a Hobie Cat or a Sunfish, but a live-aboard, deepwater sailing vessel small enough for two. I don't know boats—and yes, I know Minnesota is the land of ten thousand lakes, but I've been on precisely three of them, ever, and only in Dad’s old tin fishing boat. I see Killian on the deck near the prow, coiling rope. He’s still in his tiny workout shorts—yay!—and now has a pair of Wayfarers on and a pair of Hey Dudes. And a backward baseball cap, because he apparently wants me to spontaneously combust.

He sees me approaching and straightens, watches me step carefully from the dock to the deck. He has the bitter end of the line in his hand, and his jaw is slack as he stares at me.

I toss my bag down the open hatch into the belly of the boat and then make my way forward to where Killian is standing, open-mouthed, staring at me.

I stop just out of reach, grinning up at him, holding my hat on my head with one hand and clutching my hair in the other—the wind is blowing hard. "Hey, you."

He stares at me, expression inscrutable behind his blacked-out Sunglasses. "You changed."

I shrug. “Yeah. I felt gross."

He nudges his sunglasses up onto his forehead, and his eyes are wide and lingering on my body, scanning, devouring the hints of me visible beneath the cover-up. "Story, that bikini is…"

“It’s only for you, that’s what it is.” I lean in and kiss him, soft and quick. "Take us out, captain. Not gonna get anywhere moored to the dock.”

"Yes, ma'am," he says. "But you, in that…not sure how far we're gonna get."

I grin wider. "Is that so?"

He drops his chin so his sunglasses fall back into place, and he tosses the rope end down, sidling toward me. "Once we're away from shore, that cover-up is coming off."

I tug at his shorts. "Once we're away from shore, everything is coming off." I nip his chin. "So you'd best get us moving, babe."

He scrambles to free us from the dock, pushes us away, and then takes the wheel and guides us away from shore under the power of the engine.

It never even occurs to me to question if Killian can sail, or if he laid in enough supplies—my trust in him, at this point, is absolute. When you literally trust someone with your life in a gunfight, it's a heck of a lot easier to trust them with something as simple as a sailing trip.

And indeed my trust is well-placed; once we're out of the shelter of the cove, he kills the engine and starts putting up the sail; I've spent my share of time on sailboats, and I generally know how to pull my weight aboard when it comes to tacking and tying off lines and whatever, but it's quickly apparent that Killian is a sailor. He knows exactly what he's doing, and does it all efficiently and decisively. It doesn’t escape my notice that he does the lion's share of the work of sailing the vessel, only enlisting my assistance when he legitimately requires an extra set of hands. The rest of the time, I’m free to lounge nearby and enjoy the Killian show.

Once the sails are set and we’re locked in on a long tack, we settle in together at the wheel; despite our earlier flirty banter, we wordlessly agree to leave our clothes on and enjoy the sun and wind.

"So," I say. "Where exactly are we going?"

"Well, Mom, Dad, Uncle Val, and Aunt Key technically co-own just over four hundred acres of land scattered across seven islands. The main compound is the largest island, obviously, and the only one with any utilities like electricity or plumbing. Most of the other islands are remote satellite cays. We're going to one of those.”

"What's there?" I ask.

“Besides an acre or so of nearly impenetrable jungle?" he answers, tightening a line here and letting one out there. “There’s a fishing hut, and that’s it.” He gives me a hot, cocky smirk. "Its most important feature is complete and total privacy."

"Is there a bed?" I ask.

"Yup."

"A toilet?"

"Yup. It's not a plumbed toilet, but it's not an outhouse. Mom and Brynnie have no issues with it."

"Your mom doesn't give a shit, though."

He snickers. "Oh, she does. She'll do what she’s gotta do when needs must, but if she's faced with the choice between peeing in a porta-potty or outhouse and holding it for hours, she'll hold it."

I just grin at him. "I see. My point is that it has a bed and a toilet. As long as you brought food and water, that's all that really matters to me."

He goes still. "Oh. Shit. I knew I forgot something."

I frown at him. "You're kidding."

He holds the still, blank expression for another moment and then breaks into laughter. "Yes, of course I’m joking. I have enough supplies for several days. Plus, we're only an hour's sail from home, and I've got a full tank of diesel and several spare cans. We're good, I promise."

I clutch his arm and lean into him. "I never doubted you, Killy. Not now and not at any point."

He gazes at me. "You really mean that? You never doubted me?"

I shake my head. "Never. Not once. I woke up in that dark, awful place, but you were there. I…if I'd been alone?"

He shakes his head. "It was tough."

In addition to physical therapy, Killian has also spent a lot of time in psych therapy—his parents flew in a renowned PTSD specialist who focuses on prisoners of war or people who have been held captive in some way, like Killian was. He did EMDR, talk therapy, and horse therapy—he flew to Florida for a weekend for the horse therapy. He still struggles with the flashbacks at times, and dark rooms still give him trouble, but he's worked through the worst of his trauma responses. As much as you can in such a short time, at least. We both know it’s going to be a long process, getting over that captivity. His biggest issue is impatience with himself, feeling like he should be able to get over it sooner.

"The faith you have in me, Story?” he says, gazing down at me. “It's…" he swallows hard, shakes his head. "It's fucking everything to me."

"That goes both ways, you know," I say.

We sail for a little under an hour, a green lump of land in the distance growing larger by increments. Since we weren't going out into the seriously deep water of the open ocean, we're towing a rigid dinghy behind us. When we're within a hundred yards or so of the island, Killian anchors us and pulls the dinghy to the stern. We toss our bags into it and then Killy transfers the supplies—gallon jugs of drinking water, two large insulated coolers full of food, a portable camp stove, and a few other odds and ends.

As we zip from the boat to shore, Killian's face brightens, a grin spreading across his face the closer we get. "I've always loved coming here," he tells me. “It's one of my favorite places on earth."

“Really?" I ask.

He nods, throttling back as we near the beach. "Absolutely. It's paradise."

"You already live in paradise, Killy,” I point out.

“Yeah, but this is…" he shrugs. "It's different. You'll see."

The beach is a small crescent of sand against a backdrop of tropical island foliage. Beyond the beach, the jungle looks to be pretty damn well impenetrable, as advertised.

We hit the beach and he tips up the outboard motor, jumping out and hauling the boat all the way up onto the sand. Now that we're ashore, I can see that the wall of jungle foliage isn’t quite as dense as it seemed from a distance—in fact, I spy the shadowy line of a path leading into the forest. The jungle marches right to the water's edge a few hundred yards in both directions to either side of the beach, making this spit of sand the only place to land, unless there's more beach somewhere else around the other side. I almost miss the hut at first. It's built just inside the treeline so it almost disappears from view, just the shadows of outlines that aren’t natural to a forest.

We each grab one side of a cooler and carry it to the hut—there's a small porch made of hand-planed wood planks in front, ending right at the sand, with a pair of Adirondack chairs off to one side. It's a tiny structure, properly termed a hut or shack, but it looks sturdy and well-built, with real glass windows, storm shutters, and a solid door. It's weathered and aged, but I'd say it's only been here a few decades at most.

Killian uses his free hand to open the door and leads the way in. It's dark and cool in here, despite the heat: the reason it was built in the shade of the jungle. Sunlight streams in from the windows and open front door, illuminating a single open room—a bed along the back wall in the left corner, a tiny walled-off cubicle in the opposite rear corner, which I assume contains the incinerator or some other type of off-grid toilet. There's a low counter framing the corner on the front wall opposite the bed, and a round table and two chairs in the last corner. Under the counter is a small and adorably pink dorm fridge; a single Edison bulb housed in bubbled glass hangs in the center of the room, and the sink features a small hand-pump for the well. I peek back outside and see a solar array out in the sand a few yards from the shack, angled to catch the sun from rise to set; there's a switch on the wall with a handwritten label reading "GEN" on it; further around the side of the house, Killy tells me, is an outdoor shower, which uses an electric pump and a rain-catch barrel.

Killian flicks the switch and a generator behind the shack rattles to life.

"The real power comes from the solar panel," Killian explains. "But there's a small diesel genny. We mainly just use it to get the fridge down to temp. Once it's there, the solar system can keep it there and run the lights, toilet, and shower.”

"This is actually kinda bougie, babe," I say. "Much fancier than I was prepared for when you said 'fishing hut.' "

He laughs. "I'm comfortable here, but I wanted to temper your expectations. It's not the Hilton, but it's decent for a couple nights away."

I capture his hands. "Killy, it's perfect." I smile up at him. "I mean, this is me we're talking about. I'm an accomplished woodswoman. I'm just as comfortable with a handmade lean-to and a campfire as I am at a hotel.” I sidle closer, pressing my body against his. "I don't need a five-star resort or the Ritz, baby. I just need you." I look around, more as a gesture than anything. “This? What more could a girl ask for?"

"Plumbing? Electricity? Wi-Fi? A-C?"

I laugh. "Plumbing." I point at the toilet closet and hand pump. "Electricity." I point at the light bulb overhead. "My phone is off and will stay off." I point at the open door. "AC." I nip the tip of his chin. "Like I said. What else could a girl ask for?"

He shakes his head. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"Deserve doesn't enter the equation, baby," I tell him. "Who deserves anything? Deserve implies that it has to be earned. And Killy-honey, you didn't earn me. I love you because of who you are. Not because of what you did or who your parents are or how much money they have, or any of that. I love you because you're cool and funny and interesting and smart and fierce. I love you because you're hot as fuck. I love you because you fought like a barbarian to protect me and to get me home. I love you because my heart and mind and body just recognize something in you, honey. It was not and is not and will never be because you do or do not deserve anything."

He tugs my lower lip down. "There's that old lady wisdom I love so much."

I fake a glare. "Who are you calling an old lady, young man?" I nip his lower lip playfully. "Let’s get the rest of the stuff in so we can go for a swim."

He growls. "Okay, but I need to see that bikini. Stat."

I shake my head. "Once the stuff is in,” I tell him. “If I take this cover-up off, nothing else is going to happen. Trust me." I dance out of his reach as he grabs for me, tripping and skipping backward into the sunshine. "But I suppose I could give you a little preview." I point at him. "You stay right there, mister."

He shoves his hands in his pockets—because even men's booty shorts have decent pockets. "Yes, ma'am."

I smirk, then bite my lip and let my need for him light up my eyes, my face. I can let it all out now. Feel it all. Express it all. I've kept my need for Killian pent up inside me for months now. And not to put too fine a point on it, it's been torturous. For us both, I know.

I lift the hem of my cover-up inch by inch, shimmying my hips, dragging it up my thighs to my hips, then to my belly, and then up around my neck, baring my bikini for Killy.

As I reveal it, he slowly shoves the sunglasses up onto his head, and his eyes go wider and wider, so comically that I have to stifle a laugh.

He takes an involuntary step forward, reaching for me. "Jesus H Christ, Story."

I give a cutesy shrug-and-curtsey with a demure grin. "What, this ol' thing?"

"You know exactly what it's doing to me, so don't play, woman." He snorts. "This ol' thing."

I let the hem drop. "Let’s get the stuff put away." I wink at him, turn away, lift the hem in back and wiggle my ass at him. "So we can get to the fun stuff." I smack my butt cheek. "Namely…this."

"Well, when you put it like that,” Killian says, trotting after me with a shit-eating grin on his face.

21

Rough Demands And Firm Commands

Once the little fridge is up and running, we fill it with the most perishable goods. The huge white Yeti coolers contain a shitload of ice, so the rest of the food should keep just fine. We get things set up and feeling homey for our little getaway, which feels like a nice little domesticity warmup for the pair of us.

Once we've done everything we need to do—which takes all of ten minutes—we take sweating cans of Diet Coke to the porch and sit in the Adirondack chairs and sip in the early evening sun; neither of us feels much like drinking, for reasons neither of us can quite pinpoint.

Story rotates her can in her hands, fingertips noisily denting the tin. "You know what's weird?"

"What's that?"

"I'm kinda nervous?" Her tone makes it a question. "It's like, we've had to take such a big step back from the physical stuff that it kinda feels like…a reset, I guess. And I'm nervous, suddenly." She looks at me, appraising, assessing, seeking reassurance. "I know I shouldn't be, but…nothing has ever been as important to me as getting things right with you."

I transfer my can to the other hand and reach out, take hers. "Well, number one, there’s no wrong thing here. If you're nervous, we take things slow."

"I don't want to take things slow—that’s what’s dumb. I want you. I'm just…nervous. It's silly." She rolls a shoulder. "I get in my head about things, sometimes.”

"C'mere." I tug her toward me, and she sets her can aside and pushes to her feet, allowing me to pull her down to my lap, sitting sideways with my arms around her neck. "Story, listen. It’s not silly at all. This is about us getting the time alone together that we need. It's for us, for whatever we need it to be. If you're nervous, we accommodate that. I have no expectations, honey. I love you. I’m just glad to be here with you, no matter what does or doesn't happen."

She smiles at me, her eyes full of love and gratitude. "Oh, Killy. You're too damn sweet, you know that? I'm nervous, not scared. It's more…nervous anticipation than 'oh god, what's gonna happen and what could go wrong' vibes.” She toys with my hair, her eyes lingering on my lips. "I don't want to take it slow."

"No?" I ask, letting my hand roam down her back to the curve of her ass and thigh. "Then what do you want?"

She shifts a shoulder in a small shrug. "I dunno. A kiss?”

"Ah. Just a kiss?" I cup the back of her head and caress her ass and thigh. "Like this?"

I lean in, touch my lips to hers—it's soft and slow and gentle and easy, closed-mouth, no tongue.

She breaks, rests her forehead on mine, nodding. "That's an excellent place to start." She inhales a deep breath and lets it out, pulling away to look at me from up close, eyes on my lips. "I think we could do better, though."

"Oh? I dunno," I tease. "That felt pretty nice."

"Pretty nice?" She fakes offense. "We can do a hell of a lot better than pretty nice."

"I happen to agree, as a matter of fact.”

She drifts in again, palm on my cheek, thumb swiping across my top lip. "Try again?”

"As you wish."

Her lips curve in a sly smile, and then I'm kissing her again, and this time I put more of my hunger for her into it. I open my mouth and trace my tongue over her lips and tilt my head to deepen the kiss when she melts against me.

Story rotates to face me, and I scoot my butt forward on the angled seat to make room for her legs behind my back as she wraps them around me. She's still wearing the cover-up, which is a knee-length sundress-type thing made out of not-quite-sheer fishnet material; it somewhat obscures her figure underneath and doesn’t quite hide the revealing bikini.

"Cute as this thing is," I whisper. "I feel like it's in the way."

"So get rid of it," she suggests.

I kiss her again, this time giving her the full force of my need—she surges against me, whimpering as our tongues tangle, and I tug at the hem of the cover-up. She lifts her butt so I can work the fabric free and then breaks the kiss, lifts her arms so I can peel it up and off…and then stands up and does a slow turn for me, showing off.

"Fuck," I growl. "That fucking bikini."

She bites the corner of her lower lip. "It’s the first time I've worn it other than to try it on…at home, alone. I was out with some girls from work and kinda drunk, and they convinced me to buy it from an online clearance sale. I got it, tried it on, and put it in the back of my underwear drawer until now. I'd never, ever wear something this revealing at a public beach or pool, and certainly not around our families."

The top is sheer black and totally see-through, revealing the entirety of her breasts, her nipples thick and erect at the center of her wide dusky-pink areolae. The bottoms are slightly more opaque in front and totally sheer in the back, revealing her ass.

The effect is fucking intoxicating. She's clothed, but still naked.

I want it off.

Instead, I sit forward and clutch the outsides of her hips as she shifts forward to stand between my knees, rub my hands up her thighs to grip where the thigh bends to the waist. Press my thumbs into the delicate tender hollows of silky skin just outside her pussy. She whimpers with need, sinking down sideways onto my lap once more.

I nip her lower lip, soothe the bite with my tongue.

She pulls away, brows furrowed, gazes down at me, expression fraught. "Killy?"

I slide my hands up her sides, scour her back, her shoulders, her neck, back down her spine, and scrub them over her belly, halting just below the weight of her tits. “Yeah, sweetheart?"

"More." She crushes closer to me, fingers knotting in my hair and tugging my head back on my neck, then clasping her arms around me and hugging me to her chest.

I meet her mouth, demand her tongue; she gives it, eagerly.

She breaks again after a too-brief moment. "Feeling less nervous, now."

“Yeah?"

She nods. Kisses me, then pulls back enough to speak, lips moving on mine. "Definitely."

"So then, I could do this…" I take her mouth again, sink my tongue between her lips, growling at the soft, wet warmth of her welcoming mouth.

She whimpers in response, clutches at my head so I couldn’t break the kiss even if I wanted to. I let the kiss take over my mind, my body. Let desire pool and build, boil and press. Slide my hands over her low back, spread them wide to explore the curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, and then pause at the string of her bikini top. It's a simple knot keeping it together, and I pull away from the kiss, hold her eyes, and tug on one of the string ends. Her eyes go heavy-lidded, hooded, and her mouth hangs open. I tug a little more, and then a little more, and then the knot falls apart. The weight of her breasts falling free sends them swaying as the support of the garment dissolves, and the fabric now flutters loose in the wind, strings like streamers behind her. I pull the thing off entirely, toss it to the wood plank of the deck, and set my can on it so the wind doesn't snatch it away.

And now she's topless for me, bared and beautiful. I fill my hands with the warmth and fullness of her breasts, cupping and lifting them, letting them fall with a hypnotizing bounce.

She grins at me, cupping her own breast and offering it to me. “Kiss me.”

I suckle her nipple into my mouth, my eyes locked on hers. Let go. Lick. Kiss. "Have I ever mentioned how obsessed I am with your perfect fucking tits?”

She turns her torso to drag her other nipple against my mouth. "You have. And I'm glad." She cups my head as I suckle that nipple into my mouth and flick it with my tongue. "They're for you. They're yours, Killy."

I take my time, then. Clutch and caress, lick and suckle, kiss and squeeze, until she's panting and biting her lip.

"I need more, baby," she breathes. "I need you."

"Show me what you need," I answer.

She slides backward to stand up, reaches for my hands, and pulls me to my feet. "What I need?"

She unties my shorts, pulls them away from my unfurling erection, pushes them down until they drop to pool around my feet. Curling a fist around my cock, she strokes my length until I'm fully erect and hard as a steel beam. "I need this."

"It's yours."

She grins. "Best news I've had all day."

"Shouldn't be news. I've always belonged to you."

She strokes me slowly, grinning up at me as she watches my face as I simply stand there and enjoy the feel of her soft, small, warm hand sliding up and down my aching cock.

"I haven't even jerked off since we were together," I warn her. "I'm gonna last approximately thirty seconds."

"I know." She drops her gaze to my cock, watching her hand as she twists her grip around the head in short, shallow pumps. "Which means I'd better get to sucking, huh?"

"Story, I want—"

She covers my mouth with a palm, pulling me off the tiny postage stamp of wood planking that is the porch, feet skritching in the soft hot sand. "I know. Me too." She leans against me, lifts to kiss me, small strong hand wrapped around my cock, just holding, squeezing gently. "I want you inside me. I want to ride you. I want you above me. I want you every way there is."

I slip a hand inside her bikini bottom and find her slit, cup her sex with my hand, caress the warm, silky skin and the scratch of pubic hair.

"I wasn't planning this today," she murmurs. “Haven't had a chance to shave down there."

I scratch my fingers through the short, dense curls. "Good. I like her just like this."

"Her?" She grins, sniffs a laugh. "We’re anthropomorphizing my vagina, now?"

"Yup." I tug at the knots at her hips, loosening both sides at once, and the bottoms flutter to the sand; she kicks them deftly onto the nearest Adirondack chair with remarkably accurate aim, and then she's nude as well; I cup her bare pussy. "She’s fucking sexy."

“You don't prefer it shaved?"

I shrug. “That’s up to you."

"You're the one looking at it. Just give me your honest opinion—shaved, trimmed, or full bush?”

I cup her again, and then press a finger against her seam, slowly fitting it inside her. "Story, my love—as long as it's you, I don't care. But if you really want to know what I’d prefer, I'd say trimmed."

She smiles. "Good to know. I have a tendency to shave, let it grow out to a full bush, and then shave it again. Summers, obviously, I tend to keep…her…trimmed, because bathing suits."

"Not into the whole bush sticking out of the bathing suit bottoms thing?" I ask, teasing.

She snorts. “Um, no. I think most girls do that once and never again."

"You did?"

She shrugs, nods. "Yup. Ninth grade swimming class. I had this awesome blue one-piece. I thought it was the shit. Like, I felt so good in it when I tried it on at the store. But that was at the start of the summer, and I got my pubes in that summer. So then by the time swim class came around in the winter semester, I had grown a full bush. I was too embarrassed to even discuss it with my mom, and the bathing suit thing didn't even enter my mind. I changed into the suit for the first day of swim class and half of the girls in the locker room pointed and laughed. I refused to leave the locker room, got in trouble, and Mom had to pick me up, and I had to explain the whole thing. I’ve been at the very minimum, trimming it since then." She laughs and shakes her head. "Why am I telling you this?"

"Because I want to know everything about you," I say. "But I can think of a better way for you to use that mouth than talking."

She grins. "An excellent point."

She sinks to her knees, caressing my length with her gaze locked on my cock—and I swear to god, the look on her face is downright loving, and then becomes ravenous and eager.

And then she has me in her mouth and she's pumping my shaft with one hand, cupping my balls with the other.

"I meant—oh fuck! I meant kissing," I say.

"I know." She gazes up at me. "I had a better idea."

I gather her hair and pull it aside so I can watch her lips wrap around my cock and slide down my length. "Jesus, baby. Fuck, that feels amazing." I reach down and cup her jaw. "Look at me, sweetheart."

She lets me out of her mouth with an audible pop and gazes up at me, sitting on her heels. "Yes, my love?"

"I want to make love with you," I whisper. "As much as I love the feel of your mouth, it's not what I want. I want you."

She clutches my ass in both hands, rubs, caresses, squeezes, clutches again. "I know. I want you too. I need you inside me like I need my next breath."

"So let's—"

She takes me in her mouth without using her hands, slides her lips stuttering down my cock until she's taken as much of me as she can, and an orgasm surges through me without warning, taking me from pulsing to about to blow in an instant. Before I can release, she lets me go and stares up at me as I fight myself back from the edge. "You're seconds from coming, aren’t you?”

I nod, head hanging. "Fuck. Yes. I told you, I haven't—"

"Neither have I." She rises to her knees and rakes her fingernails down my chest, down my hips, reverses her hands so her fingertips point down as she slides her hands down over my knees and shins and then carves them back up my thighs, pauses to play with my ass, and then explores my back and shoulders, and all the while, her lips are dancing and dotting kisses all over my chest. "We have all the time in the world, now, Killy. You know you want this. You just feel like you're supposed to stop me so we can make love."

“Yeah, I guess that's true."

"I don't want you to stop me. I want to do this."

"Not that I'm arguing, but why?"

She sinks to sit on her heels again, gazing at my cock as she caresses it one-handed. "I like it." She pumps the root and teases the very tip with the fingers of her other hand. "I love your cock. I love making you go crazy. I love knowing I can make you feel amazing.” Now, she squeezes the root of my cock with her middle finger and thumb, hard, pumping the head with a loose fist. "I love watching you get silly and stupid while I've got you down my throat. I love the noises you make, the faces you make. I love how wild you get right before you come. I really love it when you grab me and just stop trying to control yourself and come as hard as you can.” She looks up at me. "Does that answer your question?"

I'm on the edge, still, despite my best efforts, and can only nod, jaw clenched as I force myself to hold back.

She grins. "Cat got your tongue?"

I have no words. I'm at a loss—she's on her knees in front of me, big breasts bare and beautiful and mine, lips wet and swollen, eyes bright and wide, hair loose and wild. "So goddamned perfect." It's all I can manage.

She melts. "You're supposed to say something sexy and demanding, babe, not sweet."

"It's like that, is it?"

She nods. Palms my ass in both hands and kisses my hipbone, above my navel, the other hipbone, and then my thigh, and the other, avoiding my cock entirely. "It's like that." She kisses, kisses, glances up at me, mischief in her expression. "Unless you had something else to say?"

Fuck, I know what she wants.

She likes dirty talk. Rough demands and firm commands.

And I realize I've been holding back—she said she was nervous and I didn't want to make it worse by coming in too hot. Now, it would seem, she's not nervous anymore.

So I decide it's time to give her what she wants—a part of myself I’ve never really had the chance to explore, until her.

I growl as a surge of need blasts through me, arousal boiling inside me like magma about to burst free from a volcano. Cupping her jaw, I tug her lower lip down with my thumb. "Open."

The greedy glee that suffuses her expression at my command only makes me hotter. "Yes, Killian."

She drops her jaw, mouth open wide, eyes on mine. I fist my shaft and angle it toward her, slip the head onto her tongue. The second she tastes me, feels me, her eyes flutter closed and she takes over. She guides my hands to her head and then takes my cock in her fist, pumping my base as she suckles around the head. With her other hand, she cups my balls, teasing, tickling, gently squeezing.

"Give it to me," she breathes, her whisper puffing on the saliva-wet skin of my cock-tip. "Come for me, baby."

I let my control—such little as remains, at least—snap entirely. I snarl my hands in her hair, tangling and knotting, and thrust my hips forward, pushing my cock between her lips. She moans in delight, and then adjusts the angle and opens her throat, and I pull her toward me and thrust deeper.

"Fuck, baby. I love watching you swallow my cock."

“Mmm," she hums, eyes lifted to mine. "Mmm-hmm?"

"You want me to come?"

"Mm-hmm!"

She lets go of my root as her lips slide down my length, and she cups my ass in her hands and bobs her mouth down my shaft until her nose nuzzles my belly. Pulling away, she breaks free with a gasp, saliva stringing from her lips to my cock, gasping.

And that's the end of my ability to wait.

"Fuck this," I snap. "I need you. Right fucking now."

I crouch and pick her up, and she gasps as I cradle her to my body. Her legs lock around my hips instinctively, and I claim her mouth, tasting myself on her breath, her lips.

"Killy, I wasn't—"

I nip her lip. "Couldn't help it." I brace one arm under her ass and find her pussy with the other, delving a finger against her clit. "I fucking need you."

"Killy!” she pants. "Fuck!”

I finger her clit, and she starts to buck and writhe within seconds. "I need to taste you."

She shakes her head, face buried in the side of my neck. "No. Later." She clings to my neck with one arm and leans backward, feet hooked at my coccyx, and grasps my cock, strokes me a few times, and then angles me against her slit. "This, right? This is what you need."

"Fuck yes."

She paints her pussy lips with my pre-cum, smearing it on her seam. “Say it, Killy. Tell me what you need." She holds my eyes. "Tell me while you take me."

"I need your pussy," I whisper. "I need to be inside you. I can't wait. I don't want to come in your mouth. I want this." I finger her clit and then slip my finger inside her, dipping deep into her wet, tight, slick channel, finding her G-spot and making her jerk and wail as a climax builds inside her. "I need to feel you come while I’m inside you."

She writhes against me, bucking and grinding as I alternate thrusting my fingers against her G-spot and circling her clit. "Killy!”

"Come for me, Story."

"Oh god, fuck, I’m so close. But I can't—I need you."

I grind with her, driving my cock through the lips of her pussy. "This? You want this?”

She nods raggedly, desperately, gripping my cock as I circle her clit. "Please, baby. I need your big, fat cock all the way inside me.”

"Then come for me." I slick three fingers inside her, and she clenches around me as a tight-throated keening scream escapes her gritted teeth. "That's it, sweet thing. Let me feel this pussy squeeze me."

She arches backward as her orgasm slams through her, and her pussy vises down on my fingers, and she comes apart for me, wailing and screaming—loud, wild, and with total abandon. "Killian!"

I fit my tip to her seam. “Take me, Story. Now."

Still snarling through her orgasm, she pushes her forehead against mine, panting raggedly, and grips my cock, slips me between her lips, using her thighs' grip on my hips as leverage to lift up, and then, without so much as a pause, begins slowly sinking down onto me.

"Holy fuck, holy fuck, holy fuck," she pants. "Killian, Jesus." She only makes it halfway before stopping, and she holds there, trembling. "Don't …don’t move." A pause, a whimpering breath. “Please. Just for a second.”

I support her weight with a double handful of her perfect ass. "You okay?"

She nods her forehead against mine. "Yep." It's a short, sharp word. "Just…you're so fucking big." She whimpers, rolling her hips in tiny, questing circles. "Oh fuck, you're so big. It's been a long time."

"I'm not—?”

She doesn't even let me finish. "You're not hurting me. I just need to get used to you. Just….oooh god, Killian." She cups my cheek and nuzzles her face against mine. "I'm not teasing you on purpose, I swear."

"I know," I answer.

She whines low in her throat, a quiet, desperate sound. Buries her face in my throat, and then bites down on my trapezius muscle with a feral snarl, slowly driving herself down my shaft. "Killy, Killy, ohmygod, baby. Do you have any fucking clue how incredible you feel?"

I brace one arm under her and cup her breast with the other, pinching her nipple until she whimpers—I feel her pussy pulse around me at the burst of arousal. "I have some idea," I growl.

She shakes her head. “No. You really don't." She slings both arms around my neck and holds on tight, hands threaded into my hair and clutching my head as she tilts her hips back and forth, sliding me in and out of her in small, delicate, exploratory thrusts. "I haven't even taken all of you yet."

"Trust me, I know."

She grips my head hard, panting, and then inhales, holds it. Pauses, utterly still, not even breathing.

And then she drives her ass down to take the rest of me inside her all at once, and we both let out identical breathless groans in unison.

"Killy!"

"Oh dear god, Story. So fucking tight." Every muscle burns with the effort of holding still when every instinct is telling me to go full Ramjet the Rookie.

She nods. "Because your cock is so big."

"And your pussy is so tight." I wedge my fingers between us and find her clit, and at my touch she spasms, wails, and her pussy clenches around me. "Come for me, Story."

She teases her hips against mine, taking me in a hint of a thrust. And when I speed my touch, her hips buck and roll faster, and then she’s quaking and panting, and her hips are driving hard and her tits are bouncing against my chest. "Killy! Oh god, Killy. I'm—oh god, I'm so close."

"I feel you, baby," I whisper. "Give it to me. Come for me."

She nods. "Yes, Killy. Anything for you." She whimpers as I slow my circling touch, and then she wails as I speed it up again, and I feel her walls clamping around me, and I need to move, to thrust, but I don't dare, not until she's ready.

"Now, baby,” I demand. “Come for me right now."

She screams as her body obeys me, head throwing back, and then she bites down on my trap again, hard enough to elicit a grunt from me, and then I feel her explode, feel her pussy flush wet and clench hard. "KILLIAN OH MY GOD!" She flies to pieces, then, and her hips buck and roll. "Killy, please."

"Please what?" I whisper.

"Move. Fuck me. Please." A quiet whimper as she sinks lower, taking me deeper. "Fuck me, baby. Take me to bed. Please."

I pivot and carry her inside, into the cool, dark interior of the hut. She's coming around me, and each spasming clench of her pussy around me makes my knees shake and threaten to give out. As it is, I barely make it to the bed, landing on it on a knee, gently lowering her to her back on the bed—which is a real double mattress on a basic wood platform.

I lose her in the process of setting her down, and she whimpers at the loss of me. Her cheeks are flushed bright red and her eyes bright and wild.

Story scoots up to center herself on the mattress and then reaches for me. "Come here, my love. I need you back."

I crawl over her, lean down and kiss her. "I need to taste you first."

"Killy, I—ohhh. Oh fuck—oh god. Killy, Jesus, I don’t need—ohmygod!” Her legs shoot up to hook over my shoulders, soft, thick thighs at my ears, and she bucks against my mouth as I devour her.

She comes again in seconds, and I keep her there, thrusting fingers inside her and fucking her with them as I assault her clit with my tongue. I make her come a third time, and a fourth, because I'm greedy that way. "Fuck, you taste like heaven,” I murmur. "Fucking sugar and honey."

I'm about to go in for fifths when she swings a thigh over and blocks me, and then uses some sort of judo magic to reverse our positions. One second I'm on top, lying between her thighs and ready to drink down the sweet honey of her pussy, and then the next, I’m on my back and she's crawling over me, wide hips swaying, huge tits sliding up my thighs and belly, and then she's straddling me.

"Killy?" Her voice is low and quiet and sharp.

“Yeah, baby?"

She takes my hands and pushes them up over my head. "My turn."

22

A White-Hot Endless Universe Of Us

I've had multiple orgasms before. Hell, Killian gave me multiple O's back in that apartment in Olbia.

But what he just did to me? That was beyond next level. That was…I don’t even know. Heaven? Nirvana? Another plane of existence?

I have never, ever, ever come that hard, that many times. I didn't know it was possible.

My entire being is utterly attuned to Killian Harris, to his body, to the emotions I can read on him like a book.

Five times?

He made me come five times.

And he still hasn't come, despite telling me he'd last thirty seconds.

I sucked him for longer than that.

His control is exquisite; I’ll tell you that much for free.

A thousand things batter and blast through my mind, a firehose of thoughts and needs and doubts and questions and demands. But all of that is eclipsed by one thing—the raw, all-consuming need to feel him come inside me.

To know the oneness of that union.

To be his; to make him mine.

I straddle his belly and lean over him, one hand braced on his chest as I reach down between my thighs to clutch his cock.

His hands, so big and so strong, come to my face and cup gently. "You're so lovely, Story. You take my breath away."

I push my face into his hands, kiss his palm. Notch him inside me, brows furrowed as his thick tip splits me open. "I love you," I breathe. I cover his mouth so he can't reply. "No. Shush. I told you, it's my turn."

Once he’s notched inside me, I hesitate like that, drawing it out. "Ready?"

He nods.

I hold his eyes and prepare myself. Now that I've come, I'm accustomed to his immense size. I still take my time, though, because I want to savor every single moment of this. I've dreamed of it for so many years, wanted it, craved it, needed it, fantasized about it. I've had to wait and wait and wait, through years of longing and pining, through gunfights and death and injuries and recoveries.

No more waiting…

But no rushing.

He carves his hands over my shoulders and slides them down my arms, back up, down my sides, grips my hips and then cups my tits. "Story, fuck. I need to—"

I lean over him, crush my breasts between us, kiss him. "I know what you need. Just let me give it to you, baby. I’ve got you.”

His grip on my hips tightens. "I'm barely keeping it together."

I sit upright and then kneel tall, just the tip of him notched inside me. "Killy, my love." I roll my hips in wide circles, stirring his cock around, teasing him. "Say please."

"Please!"

"Beg me to fuck you."

"Please, Story. Please fuck me."

"Keep begging." I keep circling, keep just the tip of him inside me, torturing us both.

"Please, dear god please, baby. I'm fucking—I'm losing my mind. I need you. I need to come. I need…I need you, baby. Please." He isn’t exaggerating or playing around or telling me what I want to hear—his desperation is very real.

I'm alight with a fiery whirlwind of emotions—furious, all-consuming need; deep, ravenous, feral lust; a love so bright and so hot it's scorching my soul from the inside out.

I show it all to him. Let it all explode through me, unfiltered and unrestrained.

I slam down on him hard, fast, and without warning. He cries out, a loud and savage shout of shock and ecstasy. “Jesus, Story!" His hands rake up my back and skim back down, and then he grabs my ass and squeezes it. "Fuck, you feel…"

"Tell me!"

"Like heaven. Like home. I don't—I don’t fucking know." He sounds shaken. "Story, god. I need to—"

I lift, swirl my hips in wide circles around his cock-head again, and then slam down, just as hard. "You need what, baby?"

"I need to move."

I shake my head. "Oh no. No way. You got to make me come five times. You're gonna lay there and let me do what I want with you until I give you permission to move."

He grins. "Yes ma'am."

The unfeigned joy on his face is everything. He's not threatened that I’ve taken over—he loves it. He seizes my hips as I grind on him, pushing my hips back and forth to work him deeper and deeper, and I hunch forward as he fills me, splitting me apart with the insane girth of his cock. He grips my ass cheeks in his hands and pulls them apart, and I take him deeper—we both groan again.

I'm only torturing myself. There's nothing I want more in this moment than to feel him let go, to feel him fill me. I know we have all the time we could ever want, but I refuse to rush this. Not when we've both waited so fucking long.

"Oh my fucking god, Killy," I breathe, shaking with the need to quit screwing around and just fuck my man to completion. "So fucking big."

"Gonna give me an ego problem, you keep telling me that."

"Good. A cock as magnificent as yours?" I lift to kneel tall, reach down and cup his balls, drag my fingers along his slick shaft. "You should have an ego problem."

He moans as I touch him. "Story, my fucking god. You're killing me. I'm so fucking close. It's taking all I’ve got to hold back." His voice is raw and shaking. "Please, honey. Have mercy. Please. Fuck me. Please fuck me. I'm begging you, Story. Please, please fuck me."

My grin is wild and feral. "I thought you'd never ask."

I collapse forward and hook my arms under his neck and nip his chin and then kiss his ear, keeping him buried as deep as he can go. And then I kiss him. Hard. All tongue and teeth, all savage need and unquenched fervor.

I nip his earlobe. Squeeze his cock with my vaginal muscles, and I get a grunt of surprise from him. “You can move now,” I tell him.

His answering snarl is the only possible response. It's primal, a predator's growl. He snags my hair in his fist and jerks my head back, rough, demanding. Takes my mouth in a hard, furious kiss. Keeps that grip on my hair, keeps kissing me like he'll die if he doesn't. And with his other hand, he grips my ass cheek, growling into my mouth as he drives his hips against mine in a small, questing thrust; I groan raggedly as a little burst of lightning sizzles through me.

He does it again, and the lightning is hotter, brighter.

A third time, harder. I whimper, now.

"Killy," I breathe. "Let go."

He shakes his head, panting and growling. "Can't."

"Why?"

"I'm…I'm fucking crazed, baby. I don't wanna hurt you."

“You won't." I roll my hips against him. "Killy?" I whisper in his ear.

“Yeah?"

"Ruin me."

He groans, grips both of my ass cheeks in his hands, and pulls me against him, and then relaxes back…pauses, and thrusts into me, once—hard.

"FUCK!" I cry. "YES!"

My involuntary response is the push he needed to totally let go.

He thrusts again, harder, and now our bodies meet with a wet squelch and a loud slap of skin on skin, and Killian's grunt of ecstatic exertion is hot in my ear. I push up to brace my hands on his chest, lean forward over him, breasts draped against his chest, and I sink backward, meet his thrust.

His grunt is soft, now, ragged and shaken. "Story!”

"Give it to me, baby," I whisper. "All of you. Let go. Come inside me. Fill me."

He grips the bend of my hips and drives into me, pulls back immediately, and gives me another hard thrust. "Oh god, Story. Oh god. Oh god."

"You're close?" I ask in a whisper.

"Yes, god yes. I’m so fucking close."

"Go, baby!" I sink back to impale myself on him, crying out shrill and wild as he meets me, pounding into me so hard and fast my whole body jerks forward. "Fuck yes, fuck yes, Killy. Don’t slow down, baby. Keep fucking me. Fuck me hard!"

"Like this?"

It's slow at first.

"No," I whimper. "Harder."

He increases the force of his thrusts. "This?"

We're moving together, now. I rock back to meet him, wailing as each thrust sends me higher, makes my core tighter, makes me quake and clench and spasm. "YES!" I cry. “More!"

"Ah fuck, baby," he pants, fucking harder, faster, and this time he doesn't pause but sets a savage, dominating rhythm, his heels drawn up, hands gripping my ass, hips pistoning with punishing perfection. "This is how you want it?"

He grips my ass and holds me in place, pulls me open for himself and ravages me with an onslaught of thrusts as fast and as hard as he possibly can, and I let my upper half collapse onto him and push my ass back and wail and weep with ecstasy as Killian finally, finally, relinquishes the last of his restraint.

"YES!" I scream. "Don't stop, Killy! Don't stop. Don’t ever stop fucking me—just—like—that!”

An orgasm detonates within me, all at once and without buildup or warning. One second I'm taking the fucking of my life, and the next I'm flung to the farthest corner of heaven, white heat crashing through me, pulsations of glory shattering me from the inside out, and I take every one of Killian's mad, wild thrusts with a louder, sharper, more breathless scream, and each one takes me higher and then I can't even scream anymore, can't breathe, can’t cry, can only shake and take him and come, wave after wave after wave of orgasmic bliss tearing me apart and wrenching my soul open so Killy can pour his love into me.

At some point, his mouth finds mine and we don’t exactly kiss, but rather fuse our mouths and breathe and move madly together, and now I feel him reach the edge. I feel his balls pulse and his cock throb, his muscles lock and his thrusts stutter. I take over, push him down and ride him. I fuck him, then. I take him for my own, take his orgasm. Rip it out of him. Devour it. Bury it in the corners of my soul—the sounds, the beauty, the abandon, the wilding bliss, the mutual possession.

It triggers yet another of my own, but I don’t stop fucking him through it—I can't. I come around him and feel him go still and tense, and he shouts wordlessly, loud enough that my ears ring, and he arches off the bed, and I writhe on him, ride him, crush down onto his cock and take him as deep as he can go and roll my hips to take him and take him and take him.

Oh fuck yes—there it is: now he comes in me.

My world dissolves into a white-hot endless universe of us—his arms around me, his mouth on mine, trembling, my tears mingling with his, our shouts mingling, our breath coming in tandem ragged gasps. I feel the first twitch of orgasm from him, and I crush him deeper and he gives a full-body spasm as his climax explodes out of him. Cum floods me, hot and wet and thick, filling me, and he's coming and coming and coming—my pussy spasms and quakes and clenches, keeping him inside me as he regains the ability to move and resumes fucking me into blissed-out oblivion.

We move together until neither of us has anything left, and then I collapse forward onto him, gasping as raggedly as if I'd just competed in a 100m dash.

For a long time, he just holds me, panting, his arms iron bands around my middle. "My god," he gasps.

"I know."

He shakes his head. “No, Story. My god!”

I giggle. “Killy, I know."

His hands explore my body, then, in slow, hungry circuits, travel from shoulders to ass and back around. "My fucking god, Story. I feel like saying I love you isn't enough after that."

“Mmmm."

He laughs. "You good?"

I shake my head. "You ruined me."

"You told me to."

I reach up and pat his face blindly. "Yep. And you really, really did."

"So…you good?" I get the sense he's actually asking.

I lift on my elbows and squish his cheeks between my palms. "I have never been and could not possibly be any better than I am in this moment."

He relaxes. "Good." He tenses again. "I didn't hurt you?"

I giggle again. "God, no!”

"Thank god." I feel him relax again. "My eyes won't stay open."

I snuggle into him. "So let them close. I'm not crushing you?"

“God, no,” he echoes. “You’re perfect right there.”

"Then just hold me. We don’t have to go anywhere or do anything."

"Gotta clean you up." he tries and fails to rise.

I shake my head. "No. Let's just be messy. I don't care. I'm not moving."

He groans in relief. “Oh, thank god. I’m not sure I can move either.”

With him still inside me, his cum leaking out of me, his arms around me, his hands softly caressing my curves, I fall asleep on the man I love.

23

Forever And A Day, Please

I wake up to darkness, to starshine silvering the sand beyond the door, to the warm weight of Story's perfect body passed out on mine. Her cheek is on my sternum, her breath huffing out softly and pulling in with a tiny, almost undetectably little snore—that snore, for some reason, fills me with such heart-cracking love that my eyes burn.

I've loved this woman since I was a kid.

Through every phase of my life, I've loved her.

I gave up on ever having it returned, and now here we are.

Together.

I try to fall back asleep, but it's not happening. For one, I have to piss like a demon.

I fight it for a while, but it quickly becomes a necessity, so as much as I hate having to move her and lose the heat and comfort and security of her soft body on mine, I roll and very gently lay her on her side, back to the wall. She snorts, nuzzles into the pillow, but doesn't wake. The incinerator toilet isn't exactly quiet, so once I'm sure she's still asleep, I creep off the bed and tiptoe outside. I step away into the treeline a few yards from the hut and let loose the single longest and most satisfying piss of my life.

Bladder relieved, I stride to the water. The moon is high and full, a bright round yellow-white disc hanging in the sky, shining a path of light on the rippling, ceaseless sea. The stars are infinite and glittering, and the water is bathtub warm as I wade in.

For a while, I just stand there in the ocean, the water at my waist, searching myself.

Despite hours and hours of therapy, I still struggle with the darkness. What helped more than anything, honestly, was my conversation with General Webber—Steely, as he insists I call him. That man was a POW for years, and a good portion of that was in pitch-black isolation, as he kept trying to escape. He and I talked for hours—all night, around the fire on the beach, sipping whiskey and letting our shared trauma bleed all over the sand. Dr. Ripley, the PTSD specialist, made it clear that it would be a long process—and I was only imprisoned for a couple of weeks. I simply can’t imagine what it must be like trying to recover from being a legit POW for years. My respect for General Webber, for this alone, is second to none.

It doesn't go away, Steely told me, his eyes vacant and distant. Never. You never forget. Time, therapy, and love, however…they help. They heal. They brick over the broken places. But that brokenness? It never totally goes away.

I feel like an imposter, a little bit. I wasn't a soldier. It wasn't war. There was no name-rank-serial-number, no brothers to hold out for or secrets to keep. I wasn’t even actually tortured. It was just greedy, evil, power-hungry assholes doing horrible, vile, terrible, violent things to innocent people for sadistic, depraved reasons.

But then, that does describe a lot of wars throughout history, I suppose.

Story, though.

Through the recovery process, she showed me so much love and understanding and tenderness that I still have trouble fathoming it; I did my best to give back as good as I received, and I like to think I mostly succeeded. I know she’d say I did, but then I’m always my own worst critic.

We talked things through—shit, for the months that we were healing, all we did was talk. It's all we could do. We talked more about her childhood, the mall shooting, and the process of healing from that, especially as it concerns my own healing process. We talked more about her exes, and mine. We talked about nothing in particular and everything in general, and all things in between.

I thought I loved her before. But now? After what we just shared? English needs a word more powerful than "love."

I turn and look over my shoulder at the hut; I felt her, I think. She's standing naked in the doorway, one hand in her hair, squinting at me sleepily.

I gesture for her to join me.

She shuffles off the porch and scuffs through the sand, splashes without hesitation into the water, arms reaching for me when she's still several feet away.

And again, the adorableness of the whole thing squeezes my heart until I think I’m gonna explode.

Not like that, though.

I'm laughing as she hurls herself into my arms.

"Woke up and you weren't there," she grumbles, sounding peeved.

"Had to pee."

"Why are you laughing?"

"Because you're just so goddamn cute."

“Oh." A pause. "I gotta pee, too."

I wade deeper into the water, holding her like I’m carrying her across the threshold, until she's submerged to her shoulders.

"Cut loose, baby girl."

She frowns at me. “You'll feel it."

"So? We're in the water. The current will take it away. And do you honestly think I'm gonna be bothered by a little pee? After the container?”

She wrinkles her nose. "I dunno if I can." She nuzzles into my neck. "Don't look at me."

I snicker a laugh and look up at the moon, and just hold her as she concentrates. And then she huffs a sound of relief, and I feel warmth spreading around us, quickly replaced by cooler water as the gentle currents here in the shallows pull it away.

She lifts her face and looks at me. "That wasn't weird for you?"

I shrug, shake my head. "Nope."

"Question."

"Shoot."

"Your parents. Do they pee in front of each other?"

I laugh. "God, yes. Mom walks in while Dad is taking a shit if she needs something."

"Both Mom and Dad are very private about that stuff."

"And you?"

She shrugs. "I've never felt comfortable enough with anyone to behave like that." She looks at me, a small smile on her lips. "But now that I've peed on you, I think it's safe to say I'm comfortable."

"Good. I'm glad.”

I twist to my back and kick away until the bottom is just deep enough that I have to do a moon-jump to touch bottom and keep my face above the water, and then I roll onto my back and kick away with her on my chest like a baby otter. Story clings to me, all arms and legs, head on my shoulder, eyes glittering in the starlight as she gazes at me while paddling us aimlessly this way and that.

"Kill?"

"Mm."

"Thank you."

I frown. "For?"

"Accepting me." I see her blush in the silver light. "Loving me. Making me feel safe." A deeper blush. "For earlier."

"Shy now, huh?"

She nods. "Once I'm turned on, I'm bold as brass and have no filter. But otherwise, not so much."

"Story, tonight will be imprinted on my soul for the rest of my life."

I dance us along the shoreline a ways, and then back the other way—there are stronger currents in both directions—the beach is the ending, a sandbar that extends almost a mile straight out, reaching toward another island now long sunk, representing a former isthmus. To either side of the sandbar, the water is much deeper and much swifter—which is why the sailboat is anchored just off the sandbar.

“You’re thanking me for accepting you taking control,” I say, making my guess a statement.

She nuzzles into my throat. “Yeah.” She's shy, sleepy. It's so cute it's killing me.

"I love it. And I love that it can be a dynamic thing. I can be in control, and so can you. I'm not threatened by it—just the opposite, actually. It's fucking hot. But I also love it when you beg me to get rough with you."

She burrows closer. "Killy!” It's a scold.

"What?" I laugh.

"Don't tease me."

"I'm not!" I say, laughing. "God, you're so fucking adorable when you're sleepy."

She just snarls, soft and small and cute. "I’m not cute."

"The fucking cutest."

"Do I need to get on my knees and show you how uncute I am?"

I nibble her earlobe. "Yes, I believe you do."

"Then take us to shore."

I wade toward the shore, and once the water is swirling and sucking in and out between my knees, she puts her feet down. Reaches up and pulls me down for a hot kiss, demanding and hungry. I palm a breast and give her my tongue, and she reaches between us, caresses me to life.

When she drops to her knees, I go with her. She frowns at me, and I just pull her in for another kiss, slip my hand between her thighs and find her wet and eager for me, dripping for me—still dripping me, too. I kiss us breathless, finger her to the cusp of orgasm and then stop.

I show her what I want: twist her in place so she's facing away from me, spend a moment with my stomach against her back, caressing her tits and her belly and her thighs, finger her clit until she's panting and mewling—I tease her like that for long minutes, bringing her to the edge of climax and then away, again and again.

"Killy, what are you doing to me?" she whispers, as I let her fall away from the edge one more time.

"Whatever I want."

“Okay," she breathes. "Just give me you. Please."

"I planned on it." I turn her face to mine, kiss her until she breaks, gasping. And then I push her forward until she splashes down to her hands and knees. "When I said I wanted you on your knees, this is what I had in mind.”

"Oh." She cranes her head to look at me over her shoulder, hair falling in a golden cascade, pale, fierce blue eyes hot with need and rife with desperation. For me. “Yes, please.” She lifts her ass, wiggles it at me in invitation.

How do you not feel ten feet tall when a woman like Story Binyamin is looking at you like that?

I line myself up against her slit, one hand sliding over her back, the other guiding my cock to her entrance. The second I'm there, she rears back into me, eagerly taking me with a soft cry, head hanging; it’s a marvel how she can go from sleepy and shy and adorable to a sex-crazed goddess in no time flat.

I push into her slowly and gently, filling her and filling her until my hips tap the soft, plump give of her ass cheeks, and when I bottom out inside her, we both groan in unison.

I gather her hair in my fist, and wrap the silky golden tresses around my fist.

"Oh god, fuck yes, Killy," she hisses.

The sea crashes around us, rushing and breaking beneath us, all around us. The world is otherwise silent but for the crash of the breakers, and the starshine and moonglow bathe Story's skin, giving her a burnished quicksilver glow as I thrust into her slowly, unhurriedly.

I palm her ass as I drive into her, and she cries out with each thrust, slamming back into me harder and harder, even though I never change my pace.

"Killy, please," she whispers. "Harder."

“No." I give her a slow, gentle thrust. "Just…like…this."

She wails as I bury deep, shuddering and shaking; she adjusts her weight to one hand and fingers her clit. I let go of her hair and grab onto both hips and pull her back into me as I slowly thrust.

"Fuck, Killy. I need it. Please. Fuck me harder."

"No," I insist. "Slow and gentle."

She shakes her head, growing desperate now. "Please!" she rears back into me, falls forward onto one elbow and fingers herself as the seawater surges just below her face and licks at the dangling tips of her loose, wild, curly blonde locks.

"Don't come yet," I tell her.

Her hand splashes down, and she’s shaking all over, panting. "I was…oh god, I was right there!"

"I know. But I'm not." I thrust in again, slowly, gently, pushing deeper and deeper, gripping her ass cheeks and opening her so I can fill her to the fucking brim. "And you don't get to come until I do, this time. I want us to come at the same time.”

"Then you'd better hurry up," she says, driving back into me. "Because I can't stop it for long."

I feel it boiling in my balls, but I hold it back, keep thrusting slowly. "Not gonna hurry this, baby. I'm gonna…oh fuck. I'm gonna take my time. I want…I want this to last for—for fucking ever."

She whines through gritted teeth. "Killy!" She spasms backward, helplessly rearing into my thrusts, head hanging, hair spread across the star-silver water like spilled sunlight. Faster and faster she sinks her big perfect ass backward, tight pussy taking my cock, rippling around me with wet, clenching heat. "Please! Oh fuck, baby. I can't stop it. You feel too good."

She extends her arms forward and lengthens her torso, crying out as I drive in.

"Holy fucking god, your cock is hitting my G-spot." She slams backward, crushing herself onto me, reaches back and grabs her own ass cheek to pull it away so I can fuck deeper. "Please, Killy. I'm gonna explode. Please!"

"No,” I growl as I fight the urge to do what she’s begging for, instead forcing myself to ease in, slowly, gently, torturously, savoring each millimeter of wet, tight, slippery slide, until my balls smash against her skin and my cock aches and throbs. "Do not come yet."

She snarls like a trapped wildcat. "FUCK!" Her fingers dig into the sand as she clenches them, pushing herself backward. "Please, baby, please. I’m begging you—I need to come. I can't hold it any longer."

"Yes, you can." I rake my palms up her back, scratch my fingernails down her spine, grip a double handful of her big beautiful round ass. "You're gonna wait for me, sweetheart. We're gonna come together, and it's gonna be…oh fuck, you feel so goddamned incredible, Story. Jesus, your pussy is so tight."

"Your cock…oh god oh god." She twists to look at me over her shoulder, mouth open, eyes wide and brow furrowed. "I can't get enough of you."

"I want to fuck you just like this forever."

"Please?"

I can't fight it much longer—the boil of orgasm is a brutal heat and punishing desperation overwhelming every other thought and sensation within me, burning and aching and raging.

Story shudders, pushing back into me hard as I surge forward. "Killian, goddammit, please let me come."

"Not yet," I growl, pulling back slowly and feathering slow, shallow thrusts into her, barely enough to feel, just enough to tease. "Almost, baby. Wait for me."

She mewls, a desperate little sound of raw, ragged need as I keep pumping shallowly, barely splitting her pussy. "I can't! I can't wait!" She shifts her weight again and touches her clit, flinching an involuntary backward thrust. "Oh-oh-ohhfuckohfuck, Killian. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come. I can't stop it, baby. I can't—I can't help it. I'm sorry—I'm sorry—I have to…oh fuck! I have to come!"

Her fingers fly over her clit, and I feel her tight, wet pussy squeezing tighter, flushing wet heat and rippling hard around my cock as her orgasm builds and builds. She screams, then, and her pussy clamps down so hard it feels like her fist squeezing me, and I thrust through the slick silk vise with a loud, feral snarl.

"Fuck!” I groan, feeling her pussy gush her release, making the tight hot wetness even hotter, even tighter, even wetter, and now the dizzying ecstasy of being inside her is a glory beyond description, and my mind spirals out of my body in a weltering crashing glut of orgasmic chaos. My body shudders, and I see white, and I grab her shoulder in one hand and smack her ass cheek with the other. “God, I fucking love how you feel, taking me like this. So fucking sexy.” I smack her again. “I love this ass.”

"YES!" she wails. "Spank me, baby!"

I push deep, lean back, and spank her ass hard, one side and then the other, and she cries out with each smack, but they're shrieks of ecstasy—on the last spank, I withdraw until I’m almost out of her, smoothing the pinked and swollen skin with gentle soothing circles of my hands, once again thrusting so shallowly it's more of a tease than anything else.

"Killy!” she wails. "I'm coming, baby, please—please come with me. Please, right now. I need it—I need you."

She spasms again as a wave of climax shatters through her, and that is my undoing.

I pound into her, hard and without warning. She screams.

It's loud and guttural, as much snarl as scream. "KILLIAN!"

I can't form words as the white heat shatters me, can only give over to need, to release. I hear myself grunting and snarling like an enraged bear as I pound into her, hips cracking into her ass in a loud slapping rhythm, and now she’s crying out sharp wild shrieks of orgasm in time with my thrusts, and still the white heat boils inside me, pushing me to the edge of dissolution.

And then, finally, I come.

I grip her ass in both hands and squeeze as hard as I can, and I fuck her with total abandon, wild and crazed and rabid.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck! YES! YES!" she chants, lengthening her torso to push back into my maddened thrusting. "Yes, Killy, yes! Fuck me harder! Don't stop! Oh fuck, I'm coming with you! Oh my god! OhmygodohmygodohmyfuckingGOD!” The last word is shrieked so loud they very well may have heard it back on the compound.

Our united climax goes on forever—I lose myself in it, subsumed in the blinding sun-hot glow of our conjoined ecstasy, feeling my soul braid around hers until there's no telling where she ends and I begin.

"Story!" I gasp, her name a prayer on my lips. "Oh god, Story. God, I love you. God, I love you so fucking much."

My release pumps endlessly through me, each thrust ripping more and more out of me, each hot clench of her pussy around me soaking it up and demanding more, more, more.

How long?

Forever.

The sun rises and sets, maybe, as we fuck in the crashing sea, as we love each other to absolution, to completion.

My thrusts slow, eventually, gentling until I'm pressed against her ass, slumped over her as she shakes and shudders and sobs.

I withdraw from her slowly, reluctantly, and when I lose the cum-soaked heaven of her pussy, I groan and she whimpers.

I sag backward to sit on my heels, gasping, while Story crawls shakily out of the ocean on all fours and flops to her back, the surf lapping around her hips and waist, covering her up to her sex with each crashing surge.

I crawl after her and flop down next to her, and she immediately rolls into me, nesting on my chest.

We say nothing for a long, long time, just breathing in synch and staring up as the stars wheel overhead.

A star falls, streaking across the sky from horizon to horizon, and the moon is bigger than I've ever seen it in my life, and Story is soft and warm and mine.

“That was magical," she whispers, sounding as shaken as I feel. "I thought the first time was the best sex of my life. But that?" She shudders. "I'm gone. Done. Ruined.”

"You're fucking incredible, Story." I tip her chin up and dip down to kiss her. "No matter what I want or what I do, you always meet me where I am and take everything and make it that much more incredible."

"We're made for each other, my love," she whispers. "I'm yours, and you’re mine and we belong to each other. Now and forever."

The sea creeps up around us as the tide starts to roll in, and we just lay there, naked and sated and glutted in the afterglow, watching as the sky ombres from black to gray to pink and the stars fade, and maybe we sleep, maybe we don't.

I barely remember moving, but at some point we must have because I crack an eye open and find us in the bed with the door open and the sunrise painting the infinite folds of the restless sea pink and orange.

I fall back asleep

When I wake again, it’s to unexpected ecstasy. I’m on my back and Story’s golden hair is spread across my belly and thighs and she’s going down on me, all wet hot mouth and slithering tongue and caressing hands, and I can only hold her head and groan, shocked and shaken, as she takes me to heaven and leaves me panting and shell-shocked. And then she climbs up my body and kisses me, and I taste my cum on her breath and smell the sea salt on her hair and then she's moving again, sliding up my body, straddling my chest and then giving me her pussy, crouched above me with her hands braced on the wall and I pry her open with my thumbs and lick her clit until she weeps her release through several waves of slow, melting climax.

When she's back in the shelter of my arms, she sighs contentedly. “Thanks—I needed breakfast."

I huff a laugh at her little joke. "Best way to wake up ever."

She nuzzles the underside of my chin with her nose. “Welcome to the rest of our lives."

“On that note,” I murmur. "Hold that thought."

"Huh?" she mutters. "Hold what thought?”

"Welcome to the rest of our lives," I repeat, leaning off the bed to snag the handle of my duffle and drag it to the side of the bed, where I rummage through it.

"Kills?" she asks, her voice level and even, indicating extreme curiosity. "Whatcha lookin' for, babe?" She rests her chin on the curve of my ass as I hang off the bed, watching me dig through the bag.

"There's not that much shit in here," I mutter. "Shouldn't be this hard to find it. I know for a fact I put it—hah! Here it is."

I conceal it from her, hiding it in the mess of wadded-up clothes I shoved in there.

I unwrap the roughly four hundred layers of Saran Wrap around the Ziploc bag I used to protect it, hiding it in my hands as I roll to my back and pull Story onto my chest.

"You're being a little secretive over there, babe,” she mutters. “Gonna share?"

"Share?" I echo. “No. This is just for you.”

She frowns at me. "Well now I’m really curious. What do you have?"

Nerves crackle through my veins, making my blood feel effervescent. I suck in a deep, shaky breath.

She hears the shake. "Killy? You're making me nervous. What's going on?"

"I, um. Before we left, I ran into your mom."

"My mom?" She's more confused than ever.

“Yeah." I keep the object hidden between my palm and thigh, under the blanket, until I'm ready to show it to her. "She's had something super important that she's kept safe for you until it was the right time. I…I've debated this for a while now, and I know this is probably a stupid way to do it, but I can't wait anymore. I just can't. Yesterday, last night, and now this morning? All I can think of is how fucking insanely in love with you I am."

"Aw god, Killy. I love you too."

"I knew—the second I felt that syringe poke my neck, I knew that my life was going to change. I just…I had no clue how much."

"Killy—"

I kiss her quiet. "Shush, baby, please. Just…just let me get this out.”

"Okay." She nuzzles my cheek and kisses my cheekbone. "I'll just do this, then." She kisses me softly, everywhere—lips, chin, ears, eyes, cheeks, jaw, neck, throat, chest, forehead, endless soft loving kisses as I fumble for the right words.

"You're everything to me, Story. You're my past, my present, and my future." I swallow a hot lump, panting as my eyes burn and my heart crashes in my chest. "I just…I fucking love you. I don’t remember a time I wasn’t in love with you. I’ll love you until the end of time."

"Killian?" Her voice shakes.

I bring the object out, open it one-handed. It's a tiny box of crushed red velvet; the velvet is old and faded to a sheen.

Story gasps as the light catches the diamonds within—the ring is not really anything super special to look at. It's a simple, small, square-cut diamond, maybe half a carat at most, with three tiny diamonds to either side. But then, it’s not the financial value of the ring that makes it so important.

"It belonged to your mother," I say, my voice soft. “Your birth mother, I mean.”

A brief, fraught silence follows my statement.

"Killy, you mean…"

"After…what happened…" I say, hedging around getting too deep into the emotional minefield of the mall shooting, “Selah somehow managed to get a hold of this. I have no idea how, and she didn’t say—there wasn't time."

She sits upright and reaches for the ring box—I let her take it, and she holds it in both cupped palms, staring at the engagement ring nestled within with an extraordinarily complex set of emotions on her face; I can read the onslaught of emotions cascading and shredding through her like shrapnel in a tornado.

"There was a lot of confusion in the weeks after the shooting,” she says. “It's all super vague and hazy to me now—I was really young, after all. I ended up at a temporary foster home for a few weeks. I had nothing—none of my stuff. I never got any of it, actually, and I've never had anything of my birth parents’, either. I don't know how Mom ended up finding me. I just remember sitting on a front stoop, waiting for I didn’t know what with a trash bag full of hand-me-down clothes and a raggedy old stuffed owl one of the other foster kids gave me so I'd stop crying all the time. The sidewalk was cracked and humped from a tree root; I remember that.” Her voice is distant—remembering. "I hated that house—I don't know why. I just remember hating it. And then this awesome Wrangler pulled up. I remember the tires were big and knobby and the wheels were super shiny chrome. Mom got out, and I just remember thinking very clearly, ‘Wow, she's so beautiful. I wish I could be as beautiful as her someday.' And then she came right up to me and crouched in front of me, and she asked if I remembered her."

"Did you?"

She nods. "Yes, of course. At that point, she was the only thing I could remember clearly. My brain had blocked everything else out, I was told later. The rest—or most of it, at least—came back later through therapy. All I could remember at the time was Mom, Selah, I mean, taking care of me.” A pause, a shaky breath. “She sat down next to me and she asked if I wanted to go live with her forever. I couldn't believe it." She looks at me, then. "She's had this the whole time?”

I nod. "Apparently. I guess she was waiting for the right time to give it to you, and decided that this was it."

She frowns. "By way of you?"

I gently take the box back, and pluck the ring out. "Well, yeah. I asked your dad for your hand, after all."

Her eyes snap to mine. "Killian…what?"

Sitting cross-legged and naked on the bed facing her, I take her left hand and kiss her ring finger. "Will you marry me?"

A bark of shocked laughter bursts out of her, and she claps a hand over her mouth. "You asked Dad for my hand in marriage?"

I snort. "Yes, Story." I pause. "Didja miss the question?"

"No! I mean yes!" She covers her face with both hands, lets out a steadying breath, and then gives me a long, loving look, extending her hand to me. “Sorry. Yes, Killian Harris. Of course I'll marry you."

I slide the ring on her finger—it's a tight fit over her knuckle but then loose once it's past.

"When did you ask him?” she says, holding her hand out so the light catches the diamond.

“Just before we left. I packed and asked one of the guys to bring the boat around while I got supplies together. And then I went to their villa and sat them down and asked Anselm for your hand in marriage."

"I bet they were confused."

I laugh. "Not at all. Your mom burst into tears, ran off, and came back with that. Said she brought it down on a hunch."

"A hunch?" she repeats, sounding surprised.

I laugh. “Well, she said 'hoonch' but yes."

Story snort-laughs. "My skepticism was the word, not the pronunciation, you goof."

I shrug. “It was her word. She had a hunch that I was gonna ask you."

"What did Dad say?"

"That…" my throat goes tight and I clear it gruffly before continuing. "That he would be honored to consider me a son. He said…he said he sees how happy you are with me. How good we are for each other. He said that he couldn't imagine anyone more perfect for you than me."

"Neither can I," Story says, and then leans this way and that, looking out of the open door as if looking for someone or something.

"What are you looking for?" I say, amusement tingeing my voice.

"The priest or reverend or whatever. I want to marry you right now."

I laugh and pull her down to the bed, pin her, and kiss her. "I think your parents and mine would probably like to be involved.”

She caresses my cheek. “Yeah, maybe. I just want to be Mrs. Story Harris."

“I dunno.” I frown. "You should keep Binyamin. A hyphen, maybe, if you really want. But…yeah. You should definitely keep Binyamin."

She sniffles, tears filling her eyes. “Really?"

“God yes. Of course! She adopted you out of a hellish situation. It's…your bond with her is incredibly unique and special, and that name is part of it."

"Story Binyamin-Harris," she murmurs. "I like it."

"Me too."

She gazes up at me, eyes glittering wet. "God, I love you. I didn't think I could love you any more, and then you go and propose to me with my birth mother's engagement ring." She cradles my nape and pulls me down for a kiss. "You're everything. You know that?"

She reaches between us and finds me and brings me to life and fits me inside her and I fill her with myself, and then we're together again and moving and breathing and kissing as one, and it's slow and lazy and loving and takes forever for us to find our completion together. Her eyes never leave mine. She caresses me and clasps me to her breasts as I lose myself in her all over again, and when we're both panting and sweaty and finished, she pets my back and shoulders, kisses me softly and endlessly.

"Welcome to forever," I whisper.

She only nuzzles closer, nestled against me, hands exploring, fingers tracing, trailing.

"Forever and a day, please," she whispers back. “Because forever just isn't gonna be long enough."

No, it really won't be.

Epilogue

Hottie Operator

Um, shit.

I'm really, really fucked.

Big time fucked. The most fucked. And not the fun, can't walk right the next day, still leaking cum down my thigh kind of fucked.

This is a clusterfuck of epic proportions, and I'll be lucky to get away with my life.

It was supposed to be an easy job. The type of thing I do best: get in silently and undetected, make the grab, and get out. No muss, no fuss. I've done it a hundred times, a thousand; I’ve been doing this shit since I was thirteen.

I'm huddled in a dark closet clogged with the stench of high-end leather, the scent tickling my throat and making it hard to breathe correctly as I watch the mark. A sliver of light streams through the crack where the door doesn't quite meet the frame; I put my eye to it, and I can see glimpses of the room beyond.

My heart is slamming against the cage of my ribs like a lion pawing at the bars of an old-timey zoo. I'm sure he can hear it. How can he not? It's deafening to me, my pulse thundering in my ears. My hands, however, are steady as a rock, as ever.

I will my pulse to slow, and it obeys a little bit. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth in a steady, even, slow rhythm until my pulse gets on board and calms the actual fuck down.

Now.

Get the target—don't get caught—get out.

Easy.

Just like I’ve done a thousand times.

Except this isn't like the other thousand times.

The mark wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in the air en route to Hong Kong for a meeting. I was supposed to have all night to get the thumb drive and make my escape. No armed guards on synchronized patrols, no savage, snarling dogs, no vicious, murdering, reputed-to-drink-the-blood-of-his-enemies Romanian warlord.

Except a thunderstorm canceled his flight at the last minute and he turned around and came home unexpectedly, and nearly caught me with my hand in the only somewhat proverbial cookie jar.

Now, the aforementioned possibly blood-drinking Romanian warlord is pacing his office, cell phone to his ear, jabbering in a dizzying barrage of languages. I've a bit of an ear for languages myself, what with my…um…unique upbringing, so I hear Romanian, Czech, German, and French, with the occasional English variation of ‘fuck’ thrown in there for good measure.

He's pissed.

I'm not, like, fluent in any of those; I just recognize the sound of them and a word or phrase here and there—enough to know that the meeting he missed was very important to him and he's irate as fuck about it. Whoever is on the other side is getting the ass-reaming of a lifetime in half a dozen languages for something beyond his control, the poor bastard.

Probably good he's not here, or he'd be dead.

“Just get me a fuckink flight!" he shouts in English. "NOW!" He cocks back his arm to hurl his phone at the wall but thinks better of it at the last second, and carefully sets it down on his desk with exquisite precision, as if only just barely controlling himself.

And my god, the desk.

You could land an F-18 on it. Four computer screens—the curved, Too-Much-Important-Business-For-One-Monitor kind. Papers in precise stacks. A mug full of Montblanc pens. A solid gold letter opener with a roaring lion's head as the pommel and rubies for eyes. A crystal ashtray. A box of Cubans. An electrum-plated Desert Eagle .50cal handgun lying angled on a stack of invoices.

I nearly took the gun on a whim, and thank God I didn’t. Can you imagine? He'd know I was here. That's for sure the gun he uses to dramatically blow the brains out of a poor lackey's skull after a minor fuckup. Probably after turning and pretending to walk away, and he definitely does the brains-blowing-out with a pleasant smile that doesn’t reach his cold, lifeless eyes.

There is no such smile on his admittedly handsome face at the moment; it’s more of a rictus of pure, unadulterated rage.

He slumps heavily into the Herman Miller deck chair, toying with the gaudy weapon as if wishing there was someone he could shoot with it.

He wiggles the computer mouse and spends a few minutes doing who-knows-what, and then sits back with an irritated sigh, muttering under his breath in Romanian.

"Fuck this,” he says in English, and then picks up his phone and hits a speed dial. "Yes, it's me. No, it was canceled." His English is superb, with only a slight accent. "Is anyone available? Oh, very good. Have Uri bring her to me and wait in the car outside. No, just her. Very good. Thank you. No, I am waiting for Gregor to find me a new flight. Not until tomorrow, I think. Okay, yes. Goodbye."

Shit.

I do not like the sound of that. It sounds like I'm in for a long wait, and probably an eyeful of something kinky.

I find a more comfortable position amid the leather jackets or whatever it is in this closet—and my god, who needs so many leather jackets? I settle in to wait. Turn the brightness on my phone all the way down and hide the dim glow inside my jacket as I tap out a text to my boss.

me:

Ionescu came back

me:

im trapped

MeanieHead:

Can you still complete the mission?

Me:

Probs

MeanieHead:

Try again.

Me:

PROBABLY

MeanieHead:

The abbreviation was not the issue. Can you complete the mission?

Me:

well, hes still in the fukcign office BOB so waht do you watn me ot do

MeanieHead:

Get the drive. Whatever it takes, Archer.

Me:

Sure thing I'll just sit here n wait

MeanieHead:

Very good. Confirm when you have the drive.

Me:

ur a real asshole u no

MeanieHead:

Get the drive, Archer.

Me

eat a dick

MeanieHead

You are a foul young woman.

Me:

its ur own fault, dummy

MeanieHead

I despise this form of communication and I despise even more your abysmal lack of spelling, grammar, and punctuation in this context. I educated you far better than this. Just get the drive and come home.

Yeah, he writes perfectly spelled and punctuated paragraphs in his texts. Me? Not so much, and it drives him bananas, which is part of why I do it. More on that later.

I sigh silently, find my earbuds case, thumb one in, and turn on my romantasy novel. Keep an eye on Ionescu as he alternates between browsing on his four computer screens and furiously typing on his phone. In my left ear, a crisp, upper-crust British male voice actor growls his way through the dirty dialogue, playing a millenia-old vampire masquerading as a stuffy professor with a love for history tempting an innocent young human woman with improbably large boobies and a dark, dangerous secret. In the book, the narration switches to an American-accented female voice discussing the practical problem of navigating down a flight of stairs in a precariously buttoned shirt while improbably well-endowed.

I feel ya, girl. I nearly put my eye out on the treadmill the other day because I thought I could sprint.

Spoiler alert: I cannot sprint.

I'm sneaky, I'm silent, and I can steal your wallet out of your hip pocket while looking you in the eye. I can shimmy up and down drainpipes like a spider monkey, disarm laser tripwires, bypass alarm systems, hack into security cameras, and lay out men thrice my size.

I cannot sprint. At least not without knocking myself out, that is, and it’s kinda hard to flat-out sprint for your life while holding down several pounds of tit.

I'm only twenty-two percent into this audiobook, and the hero and heroine haven't even fucked yet, so I'm guessing this one is a slow burn. Which is good. I like a good slow-burn romance novel once in a while, mainly because I just don't understand it. If you want to bang someone, bang them. If you don't, don't. The whole will-they-won't-they thing is just confusing to me. But then, the will-they-won't-they part is really about the luh—nope. Try again.

Luh—I gag. Nope.

I can read about it, but I can't even think the word. Probably some sort of Pavlovian thing Bob put in my head through his Jedi mind trick psychological warfare bullshit.

Or maybe it's just me.

No, my boss's name is not Bob, it's Robert Antony Millpark Robards the Fourth. No, really. I've seen the passport and birth certificate, and it is his real name, because he's rich and powerful enough that he can do all kinds of totally illegal shit with complete impunity.

Such as employing me to do the shit he hires me to do…

Such as stealing a thumb drive containing half a billion dollars in crypto from a vicious, murdering, reputed-to-drink-the-blood-of-his-enemies Romanian warlord.

So yeah, I call him Bob because he hates it, as in with the fire of a thousand suns. And I live to annoy the ever-loving shit out of Bob, because I'm a tricksy, impossible, obnoxious bitch like that. He may have quasi-raised me, he may have let me live when he could have killed me, he may have given me not just a life but a career—of sorts—that I love and am damn good at…but my god is he an insufferably uptight son of an actual bitch.

I've met his mother, and she's the bitchiest bitch to ever bitch. Elizabeth Bathory, who? JKLOL…mostly.

I actually start to feel drowsy as I listen to my book, but then a bell dongs balefully somewhere in the house. Ionescu taps a key that puts his computer to sleep and pushes to his feet, muttering, “Finally."

He strides to the French doors of his office and throws them open, standing in the opening waiting. A few seconds later, a stunning woman appears from the stairwell, which I can just barely get a sliver of a glimpse of through the crack. She's tall, brunette, gorgeous, and has taken "improbably well endowed" to a medically inadvisable level. Or, at least, inadvisable according to the laws of physics. Although, based on how little those beach balls move as she playfully shoves Ionescu backward, physics doesn’t apply to that much silicone.

I can't not watch, okay? If you were stuck in this leather-stinking closet, you'd watch too. And by the way, who the fuck has a closet full of leather jackets in their office? That's just weird.

She shoves him backward, grinning like the cat who ate the canary, doing the whole silly catwalk strut where she dramatically places one foot directly in front of the other in her four-inch stripper heels. Six-inch? A lot of inches. Props to her for rocking them, though, and for being able to do that walk in stiletto heels like that.

I fall on my ass in anything bigger than a wedge.

Anyway.

Back to the show.

She uses a single index finger to shove him backward until he hits the desk, and then she does the whole overly dramatic porn thing where she pets his chest in a way that's probably meant to be sensual or something as she drops to a squat in front of him, unzipping his slacks—and damn, girl, drop it like it’s hot in those heels? Okurrr.

The obvious happens, then. She makes a hell of a production of it, and she was clearly trained in the fine art of fellatio by pornography directors, let's just put it that way.

Not gonna go so far as to say I'm better at it than her, but all that drama is just unnecessary, I've found. Every man I've ever gone down on has left singing my praises and begging for more. A little bit of plain old hawk-tuah and gobble-gobble does the trick just fine, I’ve found. I don't go in for all that nose-nuzzling-the-shaft and deep throating till I gag nonsense, and I really, really don't do the tongue-out-come-on-my-face-daddy bullshit. Fuck that. It's sticky, it smells weird, and the texture is…no. Just no. Nope. I'll swallow all night long, and you'll thank me for it. But facials like that? No way. Not this girl.

And my god, does she take a hell of a load; I mean, damn, Ionescu, lay off the horny goat weed. Her face looks like a milk commercial gone very, very wrong by the time she's done taking it—my hiding place has a side-on view of the desk, which means I can see him, her, his penis, and her mouth taking it, the hinky whole business.

The real irony is that my book is still going in my ear, and at nearly the same moment as Ionescu blows his wad, so does the vampire professor. Although his load goes on the plucky heroine's tits, which is something I don't mind allowing. I don’t love it, but if you really, really want to? Fine. But it's weird. How is that better? Does it, like, do something for you? Whether it's the face or the cleavage or wherever, why? Why on me? I don't get it. It obviously feels fucking amazing for you when I take you down my throat, so why would you want to pull out of my hot, wet mouth at the last second and finish anywhere but down my throat? Seems dumb to me, but then, I'm not a man. And men are, as we all know, exceptionally stupid whenever their penises are involved.

Which is all the time. Hopefully you got that joke on your own. If you didn't, you're probably a dude.

God, I'm bored.

The, um, festivities progress apace; to his credit, Ionescu returns the favor.

They fuck on his desk.

And the floor.

And against the wall.

Jesus, the man has stamina. I’m impressed, despite everything.

Finally, after enough sex to make a—I check my watch…forty-six-minute video—Ionescu escorts her out of his office by virtue of a hand on her taut ass. Which I got an eyeful of from a few different angles. I wait until I hear her heels on the Carrara marble stairs and his voice echoing off the ceiling of the three-story foyer before I burst out of my hiding place, rush to the desk, and yank at the bottom drawer on the left side.

Locked, which is not unexpected. I produce my lockpick set from my pocket and make quick work of the flimsy lock. Inside, the drawer is empty but for a truly ancient Ericsson cell phone, as in the kind that has a flip-down cover over the T9 keyboard.

Jesus, Ionescu. At least get a Razr.

I tap the drawer bottom—false. I find the latch and lift the false bottom, and there it is, thank the sweet baby Abraham.

Why Abraham? No clue. I'm just weird.

It’s an innocent-looking little thing, this drive. Silver and red, and about the size of my thumb…thus the name. No label, nothing to say that it has five hundred million dollars on it.

I snatch the drive, zip it safely into the waterproof, cut-proof, fire-proof pouch banded tightly around my midsection under my clothes.

And just to dispel any stupid myths or misconceptions, I'm not dressed in a Michelle Pfeiffer-esque pleather catsuit. I'm not even wearing all black. I'm in black jeans, a dark maroon long-sleeve tech shirt—you know, that slippery, stretchy material they make workout shirts out of—and a dark gray zip-up hoodie. And black Nike Air Jordans, if you must know.

You see, any sufficiently dark shade blends equally well into shadows as black, and if you're dressed in some silly-bitch catsuit, you can't exactly blend in with people on the way home after the job. Nondescript is the name of the game, in my profession.

I hear the door close with a thunderous noise that shakes the house, and then footfalls on the stairs.

Hurry your ass up, Archer, I tell myself.

I return the drawer to its original state, and then re-lock it with the lockpick set. And yes, that's a thing; they just don't show cat burglars re-locking things in the movies. Which is stupid. If you leave the safe wide open, your mark is gonna know they got robbed and call the police immediately. If you take a few extra seconds to close things up and relock them, you buy yourself at least a little bit of time, if not a lot. Who comes home from the theater and immediately goes to check the safe? No one. But if you come home and see it standing open? Duh, call the po-po.

So yes, I re-lock the drawer and then hurry to the glass French doors leading to the balcony. Fortunately, this door isn't locked, and I let myself outside, shut the door, and dart to the side just as Ionescu re-enters his office.

I peek around the edge of the frame through the glass—fuck!

I left the closet open.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Rookie mistake.

Panicking now, I hold my breath as Ionescu sits behind his computers and wakes them up—the fucker is playing Diablo IV. Spreadsheets? Invoices? Emails? Nope. Killing demons with—I squint and assess—a pretty high-level barbarian, it looks like.

And then he sees the partly-open closet door, abandons his game mid-battle, and tugs open the door, flicks on a light.

And oh…my…god.

The leather?

Not a jacket to be seen.

Gimp suits. Whips. Gags. Flogs. Cuffs…All sorts of bondage stuff.

Fuck me.

My skin crawls and my gut rises into my gorge. Thank god he didn't want to play with Miss Beach Ball Boobs.

How do you decide when you want to be whipped and when you want to just have your beef jerkied? And also, why keep that stuff in the office?

I dunno.

But that's not my concern, is it?

Getting off this balcony is.

I peer over—it's a long drop to a flagstone patio. No drainpipe, no trellis, just the balcony and a hell of a drop.

Fuck it, we ball.

I swing my leg over the railing and sit on it for a second, looking over my shoulder as Ionescu rifles his drawers—bottom left first.

His bellow of rage shakes the foundations.

Ionescu picks up a computer screen and hurls it across the room to smash onto the floor, cursing in several languages. And then he goes back to the drawer, and this time he takes the relic—I mean, phone. Dials a number.

Waits.

Morbid curiosity holds me in place, stupidly.

"It is me. We have a very big problem. Someone has stolen the drive." A pause. "If I knew who, you idiot, I would not be calling you, would I? Of course I have cameras in my office. No, not connected to the system."

Um?

Fuck?

What cameras? I killed all the cameras.

"If you must know, they are…strategically located. And encrypted.”

Oh, ew. He records his trysts.

And me robbing him, apparently.

“Yes, I'm pulling up the footage now."

Shit, fuck, damn. I'm screwed.

Remember back at the start when I said I was fucked?

See?

Fucked.

"It is a young woman. About five-ten, blonde hair. Magnificent ass." Thanks, Ionescu. "She was hiding in the closet. She must have been here when I came back unexpectedly. Which means she must have seen—never mind. She went out the…balcony." He gets up and drifts this way. "Yes, I have a good angle on her face."

His eyes meet mine for a split second, because I'm a crazy, arrogant, stupid bitch sometimes, and then I drop.

Hit the ground and roll, find my feet and sprint across the expansive grounds of Ionescue’s sprawling estate in the Swiss Alps—my right ankle screams the whole way, but I refuse to limp or slow down; to do so is death.

I hear a sound that curdles my blood—the savage barking of dogs.

Fuck, fuck, fuck me.

Ever seen someone get torn apart by dogs? I have. It's the single most brutal thing you can witness.

I run faster.

Bam-bam-bam. You know what that sound is. No, not my pulse. That’s more bambambambam.

It's the sound of my improbably large boobies whacking me in the face.

Run harder, Archer.

My lungs burn and my ankle throbs with fire, but I keep sprinting. The dogs are barking, but they haven't gotten my scent yet—and they'll have a hard time doing so, I hope.

Before every job, I scrub myself down very, very thoroughly with antibacterial soap and a high-grit loofah. Wash my hair several times and bind it up tight. Clean under my fingernails. My clothes were freshly washed in free-and-clear detergent. My shoes are brand new and clean-soled. Long sleeves, a black ball cap over my hair to prevent stray hairs. I was careful about my path in, avoiding dirt and anything else that may leave my scent or any kind of trail.

It's not foolproof—they'll still pick up my scent given time, but it’ll hopefully give me enough of a lead to reach the gate and the eight-foot-high fence topped by razor wire.

The estate is just outside Zermatt. If I can get off the estate, there's a good chance I can lose them in the city.

I just have to get to the fence.

I reach it, and judge the jump as I approach at a run—ten feet to the top of the razor wire. My mat is still laid over the razor wire, so I stop, back up a few feet, take a breath and prepare myself, and then sprint and leap, catch the lip, roll over the mat covering the wire, catch the lip on the other side, snag the mat, and drop to the ground.

Easy, once you’ve practiced it until you can do it in your sleep with your eyes closed. Well, your eyes are always closed when you’re asleep, unless you’re a wizard. You know what I mean.

Anyway, easy. And I’m off, none the worse for wear, and hopefully scot-free.

Except, you know, the tweaked ankle and the dogs, which I hear barking and snarling near the fence.

The first few steps are limped, but I've got plenty of experience running hurt, so I grit my teeth and push onward toward the lights of Zermatt at a quick jog.

Jogging I can do, I just don't like it. It's still way too jiggly for comfort, but it's not nearly as bad as an all-out sprint.

My brain wanders as I jog toward the city—Bob, my childhood, such as it was, my many single-use-only sexual partners, most memorably the one before last. Hector. A big, handsome lad from Argentina, the location of my job at the time. Lovely penis, bad breath, excellent at sex.

That only occupies my mind for a few minutes—the length of time it takes me to relive that short but extremely satisfying encounter; just like dick size, sex isn’t always all about how long it lasts. Take notes, folks, I know what I’m talking about.

My mind wanders back to the office. To Ionescu.

Why?

My mind does this when it wants to tell me something I’ve forgotten or don’t realize I know.

So…what am I missing?

I go over everything. He won't get anywhere with my fingerprints—they're not in any system on earth.

He had me on camera, but…

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Fuck me sideways, while running.

"Yes, I have a good angle on her face."

That, my dear friends, is what we in the business call a big fucking problem.

He has my face on camera.

Why is this a problem?

Well, the one thing Hollywood does right is how simple it is to track someone across the world if you have their face, the expertise, computing power, and a bit of patience.

It's not as easy as they make it look, but it's not hacking the NSA.

I make it to Zermatt, weaving from street to street at random, trying to avoid detection and hopefully leaving a hard-to-follow trail.

I'm about to cross a street and duck into an alley to catch my breath when a blacked-out contractor van squeals around a corner on two wheels, swerves, skids, and fishtails, and then rolls a good half a dozen times violently.

It comes to a halt, the engine smoking, the glass shattered.

An impulse—a stupid, foolish, idiotic, braindead impulse—sends me across the road to crouch and peer into the driver's window.

Curiosity? Mostly. Concern? A little.

Fuck most people. But then, sometimes, you just know you have to do something.

This is one of those times.

The driver—the reckless dummy who doesn't know how to corner at speed in a van—is a fucking hottie.

Long, shaggy blonde hair, messy and bloody and matted and tangled and filthy. Sharp, symmetrical features. Plump, kissable lips.

And then his eyes snap open—they’re piercing, electric blue, vivid and intense.

"Help." His voice is raspy and hoarse. He blinks at me.

Unbuckles, slumping to the ground, and then crawls out.

He’s wearing truly filthy blue jeans, equally filthy, once-expensive high-top sneakers, and no shirt.

He has roughly forty-seven abs carved by Michaelangelo himself; I’m a sucker for a nice set of abs, lemme tell you.

But his forearms—well, this is foreshadowing, but I’m an absolute whore for sexy forearms, and while I don’t notice it in this moment, later on I’ll find out that he has the sexiest forearms I’ve ever seen.

Shit, he has the sexiest everything I’ve ever seen.

In this moment, though? His abs catch my attention because they’re razor sharp and blocky and powerful.

The other thing that catches my attention are the cuts all over his body—which look suspiciously as if he's been tortured.

Tires squeal, and another black van rounds the corner—this driver knows what he's doing.

"Fuck me." Hottie just sounds tired. "No, no, I got it." This must be to me, because I’m just standing here staring at him, watching him.

He ducks into the overturned van, then drops to his hands and knees and crawls half in the window, rummaging for something.

The man’s ass is a work of art in those jeans. Like, damn.

Mama likey.

No, I don't have kids; it’s just a weird kink I have, okay? I refer to myself as mama when I’m turned on. Yes, I know it's fucked up, lame, and hilariously stupid. I just can't help it.

He finds what he's looking for and crawls backward and finds his feet—standing up is clearly an exhausting thing, as if getting to his feet takes the last of his strength. His platinum blond hair is in his face, and he scrapes it back with one hand in that impossibly erotic way of sexy, long-haired men.

He turns as the other van’s doors fly open, disgorging one, two, three, four…six men in black BDUs, balaclavas hiding their faces, suppressed assault rifles at their shoulders.

"Fuck you."

BAM-BAM-BAM! He drops three in quick succession before they know what's happening, and then—BAMBAMBAM! The other three go down just as fast.

And just like that, there are six dead men in the streets of Zermatt, and Hottie Operator is shuffling and weaving toward me, dizzy, weak, drunk with pain and exhaustion.

"Please help me." The gun drops from his fingers and clatters to the ground at my feet, and then he collapses forward into my arms.

Um, shit.

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About the Author

Jasinda Wilder is a New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author of more than 100 titles including the #1 Amazon bestseller Falling Into You, the Audie Award-winning (best audiobook) Alpha, and the beloved, 17-book Badd Brothers series.

She and her husband Jack Wilder have sold more than 7 million copies and have been translated into more than 20 languages worldwide. You can find them at their fairy tale cottage by a lake somewhere in Michigan with their 6 kids, 5 dogs, 2 cats, 2 bunnies, and way too many ducks and chickens.

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My other titles:

The Preacher's Son:

Unbound

Unleashed

Unbroken

Biker Billionaire:

Wild Ride

Big Girls Do It:

Better (#1), Wetter (#2), Wilder (#3), On Top (#4)

Married (#5)

On Christmas (#5.5)

Pregnant (#6)

Boxed Set

Rock Stars Do It:

Harder

Dirty

Forever

Boxed Set

From the world of Big Girls and Rock Stars:

Big Love Abroad

Delilah's Diary:

A Sexy Journey

La Vita Sexy

A Sexy Surrender

The Falling Series:

Falling Into You

Falling Into Us

Falling Under

Falling Away

Falling for Colton

The Ever Trilogy:

Forever & Always

After Forever

Saving Forever

The world of Alpha:

Alpha

Beta

Omega

Harris

Thresh

Duke

Puck

Lear

Anselm

Sigma

Gamma

Delta

The world of Stripped:

Stripped

Trashed

The world of Wounded:

Wounded

Captured

The Houri Legends:

Jack and Djinn

Djinn and Tonic

The Madame X Series:

Madame X

Exposed

Exiled

The Black Room

(With Jade London):

Door One

Door Two

Door Three

Door Four

Door Five

Door Six

Door Seven

Door Eight

Deleted Door

The One Series

The Long Way Home

Where the Heart Is

There’s No Place Like Home

Badd Brothers:

Badd Motherf*cker

Badd Ass

Badd to the Bone

Good Girl Gone Badd

Badd Luck

Badd Mojo

Big Badd Wolf

Badd Boy

Badd Kitty

Badd Business

Badd Medicine

Badd Daddy

For a Goode Time Call…

Not So Goode

Goode To Be Badd

A Real Goode Time

Goode Vibrations

A Very Badd Christmas

Badd Apple

Badd Baby

Badd Love

Dad Bod Contracting:

Hammered

Drilled

Nailed

Screwed

Fifty States of Love:

Pregnant in Pennsylvania

Cowboy in Colorado

Married in Michigan

Christmas in Connecticut

Billionaire Baby Club:

Lizzy Goes Brains Over Braun

Autumn Rolls a Seven

Laurel’s Bright Idea

Club Sin

Rev

Kane

Chance

Silas

Saxon

Solomon

Lash

Inez

Beast

Blood Heir

Blood Heir

Blood Rising

Blood Bonds

Blood Reign

The Cabin

The Cabin

Christmas at the Cabin

Three Rivers:

Into The Light

Light In The Dark

Light Up The Night

Relationship Goals:

Too Pucking Old For This

Standalone titles:

Yours

The Parent Trap

Wish Upon A Star

Big Hose

Music & Lyric

Non-Fiction titles:

You Can Do It

You Can Do It: Strength

You Can Do It: Fasting

Jack Wilder Titles:

The Missionary

JJ Wilder Titles:

Ark