On His Six Page 11

  “By letting go.”

  Wrapping my arms around her, I bury my face in the soft silk of her hair and take a risk, letting a single ray of sunshine seep through the cracks in my black, cold heart. “I drive everyone away. I hate myself for it, but that doesn’t stop me. I don’t want anyone to get close. Because if I can’t keep the darkness buried, it’s going to swallow me whole. Me and anyone I care about.”

  I take a deep breath, unsure I can get the next words out, but I have to try.

  “You’re the first person in…forever…I want to see the real me. Please, Wren. Don’t let me shut you out.”

  The determination in her eyes scares the shit out of me, but deep inside, a piece of my broken soul mends. And when she kisses me, an unfamiliar emotion settles over me.

  Peace.

  17

  Wren

  I wake up alone. I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does. Cocooned in the sleeping bags, the scent of us surrounding me, my heart aches. I thought we’d turned some corner. But the space next to me is cold, and from down the hall, I hear Ryker pacing. And muttering to himself.

  I could go to him. Make him talk to me like I made him kiss me last night, but selfishly, I want him to come to me. To show me he understands…something. Me. Us. What happened after I found him in the kitchen, trapped in his memories.

  So I pull the sleeping bag up to my chest, tucking it under my arms to hold it in place, and reach for my laptop. With my back propped against the couch, I’m almost comfortable in this old, run down house with sputtering heat and dust everywhere.

  An email from Inara waits for me, and as I scan through her possible translations, pieces start to fall into place. All of Zion’s cryptic notes. Pulling up a map on my tablet, I scan the streets of St. Petersburg.

  Wren, most of the letters and numbers you sent me don’t add up to anything—in any language. But four sequences could be Russian. I cross-referenced the words with maps of the city.

  On one of the pages, Zion highlighted “nevostochnyy” and “podvoysk” and then had the letter X circled. What if he was indicating an intersection? Dal’nevostochnyy Prospekt and Ulitsa Podvoyskogo cross one another not far from the Neva River. Look at buildings around there. See if you can find anything suspicious.

  If you give me access to the servers you hacked, I’ll poke around in the morning and see if I can find anything interesting.

  Take care of Ry. He’s…difficult, I know. But there’s a heart buried under all of those muscles and pain. Find it.

  -Inara

  Of course she’d end the message with a plea. I’ve never met the woman, but after our single brief conversation and last night’s adventure, I feel like she’s someone I…could be friends with. And it’s obvious she cares about Ryker.

  I glance down the hall. Now I have to go check on him. Well, as soon as I finish the code to search property records in a five square mile radius of that intersection.

  “There you are,” I mutter to the laptop when one of my searches spits out the addresses of two buildings owned by the same company. I recognize the name as one of the nonsense words Zion left in the margins on the page where Harry finds the Sorcerer’s Stone.

  Shoving to my feet, I snag Ryker’s t-shirt from the pile of our discarded clothes and tug it over my head. It smells like him, and need twists my insides into a knot. If only anger wasn’t simmering under my skin. He’s been in the back room for an hour. I think he’s working out, because I hear grunts and heavy breathing as I pad down the hall.

  He’s doing push-ups again. Holy roses. I could watch him for hours. The way the muscles of his back cord and flex as he presses his arms straight. And those arms. So strong, his tattoos almost come alive. As he moves, the skull tattooed on his back seems to watch me, the serpents winding through empty eye sockets slithering down his sides to wrap around his obliques.

  “Ry?”

  He jerks, pushes to his feet, and turns. The haunted emptiness is back in his prismatic eyes, and if I weren’t so mad at him, I’d wrap my arms around him and demand he talk to me. But my anger flares, especially with his scent lingering on my skin, and his narrowed gaze at my attire.

  “You’re wearing my shirt.”

  “Your powers of observation are top notch, soldier. Next, you’ll tell me I have red hair. Or that you’re hiding out in here to avoid talking to me.”

  Regret twists his lips into a frown, and he rubs the back of his head. “I…needed to clear my head.”

  Fluttering my fingers over my bracelet, I swallow the lump in my throat. “Just what a woman wants to hear when she wakes up alone after a night of…whatever the horse-pucky we did.”

  “Horse-pucky?” With a shake of his head, Ryker snorts. “Where did that one come from?”

  “If you’re ever willing to have a real conversation with me, I’ll tell you. Until then, I’m keeping my secrets.” I hug myself tightly as I back out of the room. “I’m going to take a shower. I sent the addresses of a couple of buildings that might belong to Kolya Yegorovich to your phone. Thought you’d want to check them out while I get to work on the traffic cameras.”

  Stalking down the hall to the bathroom, I blow out a deep breath. “Damn you, Ryker McCabe. Why won’t you just let me in?”

  Ryker

  Fuck. The sight of her in my shirt left me speechless, and now she’s upset with me. I don’t blame her. Leaving her sleeping this morning? I didn’t have a choice. In a few hours, she broke through all of my defenses. And when I was buried deep inside of her, something in me cracked in two.

  Outside the bathroom door, I pause, my hand on the knob. I should turn around. Go back into the empty bedroom and push myself through another hundred crunches. If I weren’t worried about being seen, I’d go out for a five-mile run.

  But…that would leave Wren alone. Unprotected. If this Yegorovich asshole weren’t after her, I’d take her with me everywhere. Then again, if she were safe, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.

  I need air. Wearing only a pair of loose shorts, I’m ill prepared for the elements, but I head for the back stoop. Times like these, I wish I still smoked, but I gave that shit up years ago. Fifteen months of my captors stubbing their cigarettes out on my chest, forearms, and inner thighs cured me of any cravings. The frigid spring air prickles along my skin, raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck. The sun filters through the trees, shadows dancing along the still-snowy landscape. Out here, I can breathe again.

  And of course, all I can see when I close my eyes is Wren wearing my shirt. How the black cotton clung to her ass. The way her hips swiveled as she marched down the hall. The twin points of her nipples hardening as I stared her down.

  Goddammit. I can’t let her think I don’t care.

  Still, I take the time to check and double-check the locks before I head down the hall to the bathroom. The shower runs, and steam fills the room as I push my way through the door.

  Training taught me to move silently. To enter rooms without making a sound. To temper my footsteps. To glide, even when my muscles are screaming at me.

  Fuck me. She’s…singing. The sweet, light words of some musical I vaguely remember from my youth. Mesmerized, I watch as she moves behind the frosted glass door. When her fingers sink into her hair, the position highlighting her breasts and the curve of her ass, my cock stands at attention. Whatever I did, I have to fix it. Because if I don’t get my hands on her again, right now, I’m going to explode. In more ways than one.

  Shedding my shorts, I slide the door open. Her voice rises at the end of the song, and…shit. She doesn’t know I’m here. But, I can’t retreat now. I’m committed. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I hold on tight when she yelps. “Snack cakes!”

  “I’d rather eat you than a Twinkie, little bird.” Closing my teeth over the shell of her ear, I let my hand trail lower. Down the patch of trimmed reddish curls to her slick folds. When I slip a finger inside her, she shudders, her head falling back agains
t my chest. “What do you want?”

  “You…”

  I kiss her shoulder, all the way up the curve of her neck, and score my teeth along the sensitive skin. “You taste like honey, sweetheart. Honey and…”

  Hope.

  Wren’s fingers join mine, guiding me where she wants me. A breathy moan spills from her lips. “And what?”

  “And...” I can’t tell her the truth. That in a few short days, she’s become my oxygen. So I spin her around and press her against the shower wall. Trapping her hands in one of mine, I pin them over her head, then capture one taut nipple between my teeth.

  Her arousal mixes with the hot water, coating the fingers of my free hand as I play with her clit. My balls feel like they’re about to implode, but she comes first. Always.

  “Ry—” Her toes curl, her thighs tremble, and her eyelids flutter as I draw her closer to the edge. “Please…”

  “Please what, sweetheart? Please make you come?” Peering down at her, I chuckle when all she can do is nod weakly and thrust her hips harder against my hand. “Kiss me, Wren.”

  As desperate as I am, she shocks me with the intensity of her mouth on mine. Her teeth capture my bottom lip, tugging sharply as I thrust three fingers deep inside her channel. My thumb presses to her sensitive nub, and she shatters against me, her legs finally giving out as I hold her through her release, whispering her name.

  18

  Ryker

  I’m still hard as a rock when I wrap a towel around Wren and help her out of the ancient shower. “Are you hungry?”

  She frowns, leaning against the sink as I wind another of the threadbare towels around my waist. I didn’t think…this is the first time she’s seen…this much of me…in daylight. I start to turn, but Wren grabs my wrist. “Stop.”

  My entire body stills, and I hold my breath as she cups my cheek. “Why is it so hard for you to talk to me?”

  “I…can’t.” Despite the urge to look away, I hold her pale green gaze. I owe her that—and so much more.

  “Not good enough, soldier.” Her sweet scent invades my nose. “I fell asleep in your arms. And when I woke up, you were gone.” The shadows of my nightmares haunt me, flickering in the corners of the room as she wraps her arms around my waist. “Trust me, Ry. Please.”

  With a sigh, I drop my chin to the top of her head. “I don’t sleep much. Four hours is a lot for me.”

  “Next time, wake me.” She peers up at me, one brow arched and challenge darkening her eyes. “Or better yet, stay with me. There are a lot of things we can do in a sleeping bag besides sleep.”

  Her breath tickles my chest, and if she doesn’t step back soon, I’m going to lift her onto the sink and bury myself deep. “Wren…fuck. You don’t know what you do to me.”

  “Oh, I think I have an idea.” She cups my dick through the towel and a hum—almost a purr—rumbles in her throat.

  Hauling her into my arms, I carry her back out into the living room, lay her out on the sleeping bag, and fish another condom from my go bag. “Tell me to stop.”

  “Why?”

  This woman is perfect. Soft in all the right places, but with a steel spine and nerves harder than diamonds. She palms my hard length, running her finger over the head as she waits for me to tear the packet open. Damn. No one’s ever…touched me the way she does. Like I’m not broken. Not a monster. Not…me.

  Hooking her legs around my hips, she moans as I slide home. “Don’t close your eyes, Ryker,” she whispers. “Look at me when you come.”

  I can’t. Can’t let her see how much I need her. But…when she runs her hands over the scars on my back, pure acceptance curving her lips into a smile, I start to rock against her. “You’re…so…tight and hot…little bird. Like you were…made…just for me.”

  “Harder.” Flecks of gold brighten in her green eyes, and she swivels her hips in time with my thrusts. Balanced on my elbows, caging her small body, I let her see everything. All of me. All my pain. All my nightmares. All the raw need flowing through me every time I touch her. She doesn’t understand—not caught in the heat of our coupling. But I do. And when my balls tighten, the pleasure shooting through me like a flaming sword, I let go as I shout her name.

  I close my eyes and let my hands drift over my body. Burner phones—one in each of my jacket’s side pockets. Wallet with fake ID and enough rupees to look natural. Moving slowly and methodically, I pat my lower back. A hidden pouch rests just under the waistband of my jeans with a couple thousand US dollars in case I need to pay someone off. A spare magazine in my hip pocket. Continuing my mental inventory, I verify the knife strapped to my ankle, the extra ear bud stowed in a slit in my sock, and the tracker tucked…where only Wren should find it.

  When I finish and look back at her, she’s fiddling with her bracelet, one of the sleeping bags wrapped around her.

  “Promise me you’ll stay inside,” I say as I hoist my pack. “Get dressed. Make sure you have your tracker. But don’t leave this house—”

  “Unless you send me the 911 code or the perimeter alarms go off.” Wren rises and pulls on a pair of black panties, and the contrast against her pale skin makes me ache for her again.

  Turning around, I slide my pistol into its holster. “I’ll be back before dark. You find any sign of Elena or Semyon, raise me on comms. You remember where the backup car is?”

  Wren steps in front of me, thankfully mostly dressed. “Ryker,” she says with an edge to her voice, “it’s two blocks away. I have the key. I’ll be fine.”

  Grabbing her around the waist, I kiss her hard enough to leave us both panting. “I’m…sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”

  “Do what?” She blinks up at me, and God, I don’t want to leave her.

  It’s one word, you stupid oaf. Tell her.

  I touch her still damp locks, loving how she angles her head towards my hand. “Care.”

  “You’ll learn.” With a smile and a quick kiss to my cheek, she whispers, “Come back safe.”

  “I will, sweetheart. I want to know what other things you think we can do in a sleeping bag.”

  The battered old Ford Focus has seen better days, but I don’t worry about blending in as I head into the heart of St. Petersburg. With my baseball cap, old denim jacket covered in patches, and gloves, I look like any other wannabe rocker bumming around the city. Well, except for my height. The oversized sunglasses cover the worst of the scars on my face, and I glance in the rear view with a sigh.

  What does she see in me? I screw up every relationship I’ve ever had. My own team’s proof enough of that. Yeah, Inara’s helping us with this op, but she’s distant. I know I hurt her when I left the warehouse. Hell, I wouldn’t blame West if he quit after I bailed on his wedding.

  But Wren…

  “You’ll learn.”

  She’s a hell of a lot more optimistic than I am. But for the first time since I escaped Hell…I want to try.

  I wish I could talk to her. Or…at least hear her voice, but we agreed to stay off comms unless absolutely necessary. I need to focus. Stay alert. No distractions. When I get back, though, I have to be…better. For her.

  The morning rush hour is largely over, and I merge into traffic on the motorway, mentally inventorying the various weapons I have with me again, despite my pre-mission ritual back at the safe house. We all have our own little quirks. Inara uses headstands to center herself. West has this long mantra he recites before every op. Me? I take inventory. Despite my memory—and my routines—I still worry every time I leave that I’ve forgotten something.

  The addresses Wren sent me are less than ten miles from the little safe house, and I find a parking space across from a small town square with a fountain. Half a dozen kids—mid-twenties—gather, joking and roughhousing like only cocky boys can.

  I can’t hang out in the car too long. I need to blend in. Disappear. So I pretend to send a couple of texts from my phone as I snap photos and video of the area. Then, I unfold my large frame f
rom the car and stick a pair of fake AirPods in my ears. With the occasional nod or shake of my head to non-existent music, I amble down the street, taking in everything.

  The kids watch me. Well, two of them do. The others play it cool. I should have packed the telescoping mic.

  At a small cafe on the corner, I stop, using the window’s reflection to keep an eye on the kids. One of them is headed my way, so I duck inside. The place smells like boiled vegetables—cabbage mainly—and I try not to choke on the humid air.

  Nodding to the older woman behind the counter, I point to a pile of pirozhkis in a glass case, hold up two fingers, and then gesture to the coffee pot as well. “Kaffe und zwei bitte?”

  I don’t speak Russian, but my German accent is passable, and my papers identify me as a German citizen.

  “English okay?” With a scowl, the old woman slides two of the pastries onto a plate. “No German.”

  “Okay. How much?” I ask.

  “Fifty. You want milk for coffee?” She stares past me, and when the door opens, her demeanor turns decidedly hostile. A string of Russian pours from her lips, and I turn, like any tourist would, to see one of the punks from the square.

  He spits out a response that includes one of the few Russian words I do know—cyka. Bitch.

  The woman points towards the door, and he flips her off before leaving. “Gopnik,” she mutters before turning back to me. “You take sweet.” Now, she’s almost apologetic as she thrusts another plate at me with a powdered dough ball in the center.

  “Danke.” This…is promising. Zion used the same word—gopnik—in one of his codes. Inara confirmed it’s a general term for poor kids. The ones a cliché would call “from the other side of the tracks.” This could be nothing. Just punks being…punks. But given my proximity to the buildings on Wren’s list, I’m going to sit here and enjoy a cup of strong, hot coffee in this stuffy cafe, and see where it leads me.