Page 28 of Savage Escape

“A few.” She huffed at him, looking almost as annoyed as he was.

“As in two, three, four...?” It was like pulling teeth trying to get anything out of her.

“A few,”she growled and shoved to her feet.

“What are you—do you need help?”

“I swear to god Savage, I’m gonna bust your kneecaps if you keep doing that.” Scowling, she gingerly tested each limb.

“Doing what?”

“That—that—that good ol’ boy scout let’s help this woman across the street and rescue fucking puppiesthingthat you do!”

“You mean trying to help you to your feet?” Was she insane?

“Yes, I am not a quadriplegic—I can get to my own goddamn feet without your help.” Slowly, as if testing her limits, she moved one arm at a time until they were both over her head. It was at that point the ex-special ops soldier’s brain turned to liquid and poured out his ears.

She stretched for a full minute and Nathan had a hard time remembering just where the hell he was and why it was so imperative for them to leave. So it was doubly easy for him to forget about how incredibly annoying and frustrating the woman was.

And holy Christ, why was it now that he was zeroing in on the fact that she was indeed a woman?

Usually, her ten-foot-tall-grenade-munchin’-assassin swagger and the body armor she wore pulling jobs and going into combat hid it. But clad in only his tattered t-shirt and purple panties, he could see every feminine curve.

There had to be something wrong with him. She was all kinds of tortured and beaten and there he was, getting hard just watching her stretch.

So Nathan did the only thing he could do in defense: flopped onto his back, stared at the ceiling, and thought of how unsettling and creepy small children were. And how unpleasant electrocution felt. And that one time his dad had worn a speedo to the beach. And when that wasn’t working, he dug deeper and thought of combat, firefights, good men dying, and the smell of burning flesh. Absolutely anything other than how Caden Quinn’s long legs would feel wrapped around him—or straddling him.

Holy hell. He had to pull it together.

Questions—he was supposed to be asking a question. It was a onetime offer that he wasn’t gonna waste. Somehow, understanding how she stole a statue was no longer at the top of his list. There were so many he was burning to ask.

Like, where did she come from? Asking about her childhood would most likely incite some kind of violence. What had she been doing in Oregon? He’d had his suspicions, but he needed them confirmed. Who the hell had failed to slit her throat—was it even a combat wound—how had she survived that? Who was Ezzy? What was that horrible nightmare that made her, the inhumanly stoic mercenary, cry and beg?

All of which were personal questions, and she’d either respond by sucker-punching him or ignoring him altogether. Although she’d asked about his mother so maybe he could assume that she’d be up for answering family-related ones as well.

Under control now, Nathan turned to watch as the woman moved to the far side of the cell, by the half-eaten rat, and breathed deeply for a bit. Without opening her eyes, she moved slowly and deliberately: block, duck, hit, dodge, hit. Katas, she was going through routine martial arts moves. She repeated it twice, faster each time, before it finally struck home for him.

She wasn’t the innocent little civilian woman turned mercenary that he’d assumed for years now. Holy hell, because she was a woman, he hadn’t even thought to entertain the notion. How many times had he simply brushed aside or ignored the obvious? Mentally, the man connected the dots and then resisted the urge to kick his own ass.

First: because, well, it was physically impossible and being all drama queen about it wasn’t going to change anything.

Second: there was that time in Greece and then Syria and hell, even that time on the borders of Canada. But Christ, why the hell hadn’t he even caught on in Syria?

He’d caught up to her in Syria, was waiting on the other side of the window for her when she emerged, winnings in hand, and arrested her for the third time. He hadn’t had time to report in before a car bomb (unhappy civilians protesting their government’s rule via homemade bombs and Molotov cocktails) went off. She’d been barking out orders left and right and making barricades while he’d laid there with half the car door sticking out of his leg. They’d made it out okay, but the newbie agent she’d been handcuffed to did not. By the time the full-out civilians versus soldiers mayhem moved streets, she’d escaped.

“Where did you receive your training?” Attempting to swallow that pill, the one where he’d blatantly ignored the obvious for—hell, how many years? He wanted to know under which flag she’d served. Maybe Israel?

“The United States Military.” Her lips pulled into a grim line and she moved faster in her routine.

“What?” And Savage was once again shocked by the mercenary. “How do we have nothing on you, then? I don’t...”

“I spent a couple of years in the army before I got snatched up by CIA Black OPS. Spent five years as a government-sanctioned attack dog. Five years doing all kinds of... wet work for god and country. One of our missions went to hell; we were set up from the start. Didn’t have a fucking chance in hell. And then you know how it goes. Big Brother denies any involvement and either scrubs you from the database or names you a rogue agent.” She’d stopped moving and just stared at the wall beside his head, eyes glazed, reliving the horror.

“Someone in management sold us out. We... my team—everyone was slaughtered. They blew us up first; I took five pieces of shrapnel to the heart and back, and then they moved in to deliver headshots to anyone still breathin’. Garth, he’d had his leg blown off—blood was spurting everywhere, and little bits of his leg were dangling. He couldn’t fucking walk, let alone crawl. But he somehow got to me and shoved me over the bridge. He was always doin’ shit like that... always putting everybody’s life before his own. He was my team leader... he was a good man. They all were.”

Once again, Nathan was awe-struck by the amount of sheerfightshe had. No matter what she faced or how dead she was supposed to be, the woman always came out on top. Nathan felt a swell of pride at that thought and then promptly shook himself.

Admiration, yes, he could understand. All you had to do was meet the woman to feel awe. But pride was something he shouldn’t be feeling when it came to Quinn. She wasn’t his family or a colleague. The man should not be feeling pride at the thought of the things his woman had done and survived doing. Because she wasn’t his woman. She’d probably beat the living hell out of him if he ever let that thought slip.

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