Page 34 of Beautiful Vengeance

Didn’t matter. He’d face his demons and any other threat put in front of him to protect Kiyomi.

It was just after midnight. Everyone was headed for bed, and he’d retreated up here to his room because he didn’t trust himself to be alone with Kiyomi right now. The more time he spent with her, the harder it was to keep his hands off her. And her admission outside that pub earlier tonight had rocked him hard.

It was unfathomable that someone so beautiful and full of life had been condemned to an existence of such harsh deprivation. From things as simple as friendship, food, and pleasure.

As usual, thinking of her and pleasure in the same sentence had predictable results on his body. He opened his eyes, glanced down at the erection standing straight up against his belly, and lower to the melted, twisted flesh of his left hip and thigh.

Kiyomi wasn’t squeamish and wouldn’t be put off by his scars, but the sight of the wreckage was just another reminder that he would never again be the warrior he’d once been. Another reminder that even though he’d kept his shooting and CQB skills sharp, his physical disability could have dangerous consequences for the team if shite went sideways.

His erection deflated. He got out of the shower, got ready for bed and strode naked from the en suite into the bedroom.

He’d lit the fire when he’d first come in. It warmed up the room, which could be cold and drafty this time of year, and he liked the ambiance of it while he fell asleep. Karas was curled up in front of it on her bed, her foreleg sporting the fresh bandage he’d put on before coming upstairs.

He slid between the cozy flannel sheets and pulled the covers up to his waist, letting the hush of the room settle around him as he tried to clear his mind. But the moment he closed his eyes, the ghosts appeared.

Alone in the shadowy room that served as his prison, he shook from cold and pain. They’d stripped him naked to increase the sense of vulnerability and humiliation. His training had prepared him to withstand this, but the reality of his ordeal had pushed him to his breaking point.

Every breath was agony. His left thigh was busted, the flesh lying open so deep that the bone showed in the center of the wound. All around it his skin was blackened and melted, the same on his neck and face. As bad as the physical pain was, it didn’t touch the level of suffering on the inside.

Seven of his troopers were dead, on his watch.

He didn’t remember how they’d taken him. The only thing he could recall was being out on patrol with his men, and the blinding flash of the IED going off. Then fire. Searing pain. Men screaming in agony all around him.

He’d lost consciousness, only awakening when someone threw icy water in his face and found himself tied to this chair, his hands and feet bound. Two of his soldiers were already dead, lying in the corner off to the right.

Knowing they were there was the worst kind of psychological torture he could have been subjected to. His captors had left them there as a reminder of what would happen to him once they were finished torturing him.

He didn’t know how long he’d been like this. Days, maybe. Sometimes he got lucky and the pain pulled him under. But when he woke, there was always more, and always someone there to add to his suffering.

I won’t break. I won’t let them break me.He’d die with his dignity intact, would never surrender, fueled by the memory of his men.

Oh, Jesus, his men…

They were his responsibility. He’d failed them. That agony was far worse than the physical pain.

He opened his eyes and thought he must be hallucinating. Instead of one of his captors, a young woman was bending over him. She was cutting the bindings on his wrists, speaking rapid, hushed English. “I’m getting you out of here, soldier.”

Confusion clouded his pain-hazed brain. He didn’t know who she was or how she’d got in here, but her accent was American. And she wasn’t wearing a uniform.

When she cut his wrists free, his arms fell limply to his sides. Pain stabbed through them like knives.

He couldn’t go with her. He was too weak to make it, and couldn’t walk. He was a liability to her. She had to leave right now. She’d never make it out of here if she tried to help him. And he didn’t deserve to live anyway.

“Go,” he croaked out. He was reserving all his remaining strength to take out one of his captors before they killed him. It would be his last act of defiance, of vengeance for his men.

She ignored him, quickly kneeling to slice through the bindings on his feet. He sucked back a scream as it jostled his broken thigh. “I know, I’m sorry, but we don’t have time to do this any other way,” she muttered, sawing through the plastic zip ties.

He struggled to bring his head up and focus on her through eyes almost swollen shut. He tasted fresh blood in his mouth. “No. Go,” he insisted. He would stay, and kill at least one of the sadistic bastards who’d done this to him.

She ignored him, sheathed her knife and put her hands on his aching shoulders to stare into his face. “I’m not leaving here without you. If you stay, we both stay, and then we’ll both die.”

He opened his mouth to argue but she was already leaning forward and grabbing him to hoist him out of the chair. He swallowed a bellow of agony, would have crumpled to the floor from the unbearable pain, but somehow she had him.

He struggled weakly, trying to pull free. He was already responsible for too many deaths. He didn’t want hers added to his conscience. “Just leave me.Leaveme, for Christ’s sake!”

“No. And we only have six minutes to make it out of the compound before the guards come. Now help me get you out of here, or we’re both going to die.”

Yanking himself out of the past, Marcus rolled to his back and let out a slow breath to stare at the ceiling where the firelight flickered over the centuries-old plaster and beams. To this day he wasn’t sure how they’d made it out of there. Megan had mostly dragged him, ignoring his protests and pleas to let him die.

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