Page 36 of Triple Threat

“You know what,fine,” I said, knowing there would be no further reasoning with him when he was like this. I slammed the door as best I could, but the whisper hinges reduced my desired stab of violent sound into a hiss and a soft click.

I half stalked, half stomped my way to the kitchen and put my hands on the slab of marble cutting board. I had to do something; I couldn’t let all of this anger settle in. I had tomakesomething. There was a block of gourmet chocolate in the cupboard, Oaxaca dark, and a jar of Ceylon cinnamon sticks.

The meteoric steel santoku knife made easy work of the block, reducing a corner of it down to fine shavings. This went in a steel bowl, over a pot of water. The induction stove would make quick work of this, rendering the shaved chocolate down to a smooth liquid. I micro-planned the cinnamon into it while it did its thing, and then whisked milk into it all to make a smooth, gourmet drinking chocolate. This felt ridiculous, but I could think of nothing else that I could do that wasn’t pointless or destructive. I topped the mug with a dollop of whipped cream. There was something about the stuff from the can that was unique, and though I preferred whipping up my own, I much rather preferred speed in checking on Sadie.

I carried two cups of the finished cocoa into Sadie’s bedroom and found it empty. I knew she had come this way – there was a trail of wet footprints on the hardwood floors of the hallway. I left the cups on their platter sitting on her dresser and followed the tracks in her bedroom carpet. She was sitting in the walk-in shower, the rainfall head turned up to high. The water had hidden her tears, but she seemed so small, so vulnerable and weak, huddled as she was, clutching her knees to her chest.

I sighed in utter defeat, and went to the shower door, opening it with a clack that made her jump like a spooked horse. I went in with her, and changed my mind from hauling her to her feet, instead, easing myself down next to her. The water was cold, which was absurd, as our water heaters were the best that money could buy and would never run out of hot. I reached up and turned the knob to get it warmer, the falling water instantly plastering my shirt to my skin.

I settled beside her and raised my arm closest to her passively, in invitation. She sniffed and wouldn’t look at me but moved closer. I put an arm around her, and I expected her to change her mind; to pull away or recoil from me, but she didn’t. She leaned into me, and I could feel her tiny frame shuddering next to me and though I wished to convince myself that it was only shivering, I knew it for what it was – weeping. I just held her; I knew none of the things that came to mind to say would help her. She had seen the screens, the men being killed, and realized that Lach, however and in whatever context she had known him before, was a professional killer. A lot of people weren’t equipped to deal with that sort of thing.

I reached over and took her hand in mind, lacing my fingers through hers. God, she seemed sosmall, so delicate. I knew she was made of sterner stuff, but she was such a wee thing.

She had a good cry. There was no telling how long that she had been holding it in, and how much of that was just because of Lach and me, and how much were older things. How much was emotional debris from her life before she crashed into ours.

After what felt like hours, I reached up and turned the water off. Despite its warmth, I was chilled, and she had to be freezing having been wet for far longer. I pulled her hand to my lips and gave the back of it a slow kiss. She seemed more composed and sniffed loudly. I stood, nowhere near as smoothly as I would like. I groaned, though I didn’t intend to, damn stiffness.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“Aye, I’m alright,” I said. “Just wet. Let’s get you dried off and warmed up.” Her nipples were completely exposed, the material soaked and clinging to them like a second skin. I tried valiantly to ignore them as I wrapped a towel around her, rubbing her down briskly through the rougher material, attempting to dry her off. She gave me a small laugh.

“I don't think you can dry silk with a towel, no matter how many threads or where the cotton came from,” she gently chided. I gave her a small chuckle in return.

“Egyptian,” I said softly.

“Of course, it is,” she murmured and there was a sadness to it. I offered her a second towel. She took it and I stepped out of the bathroom and let her strip out of the clinging silk. I took a few deep breaths and pushed my desire down. I prided myself in being stoic but I was not made of stone. When she emerged from the bathroom, it was with just the towel wrapped around her. Eyes red, a little puffy, and with her drawn-in posture, she seemed so vulnerable.

I felt something in my chest, and then, less honorably, something between my legs.

I offered her the mug of Oaxaca chocolate, and she took it, hesitantly. The mug seemed large in her hands, as she cradled it with both of them. “What’s this?” she asked, curiously, and it was a habit of hers. She always asked, no matter what I offered her, and I had to wonder if there was something there other than idle curiosity.

“Hot chocolate,” I said.

“Just hot chocolate?”Ah… there it is.I sidestepped the inquiry designed to elicit a guilty response, to clue her in if I had perhaps slipped tranquilizers or some other type of drug into her drink.

“No, it’s fair-trade dark chocolate from Oaxaca, Mexico. A dash of ground cinnamon from Ceylon. Some turbinado sugar, from Natural Foods Grocery, and the whipped cream came from a can.”

“A can?” she asked, amused. “And here I was going to say that nothing is ever simple with you, is it?” she said softly.

“I’ve had a belly full of simple and low, and poor, and I don’t ever want to go back to that,” I said quietly. She watched me over the rim of the mug as she brought it to her lips and sipped, her eyes slipping closed as she made a blissful face. She looked like she had been plucked from a shipwreck or a warzone, with a bit of shock, and that distant gaze.Lord knows, I’d seen it often enough in men’s eyes. There was something particularly poignant seeing it in hers.

“It’s good,” she said.

“I wouldn’t have anything in this house that wasn't the best that could be had,” I returned.

“I wish you had told me,” she murmured, and though the change in topic was abrupt, I knew precisely what she meant.

“Yes, well… I do enjoy my puzzles,” I said. “Though, I suppose, I was going to tell you, when the time was right… if he hadn’t bloody beat me to it,” I said. Truthfully, I felt a fool to not have asked her if she’d known a KylefuckingLachlan… though on another note of truth… “I was more concerned with your health,” I said.

Part of me also knew that Lach had some things right to his observation – I did like her and wanted her to be a friend. My eyes glanced across the expanse of her chest and the hint of cleavage above the towel, and I knew that if I didn’t do a better job guarding my emotions, they could get me into some serious trouble. “And considering what we do for a living, we don’t talk about the details of it often.”Especially with mysterious kidnapped girls…

“What do the neighbors think you do?” she asked, her gaze drawn to the night-darkened windows.

“Officially, I am retired on disability and a military pension,” I said. “Which is technically true.” I reached down and gave a knuckle rap on my prosthetic leg. She gave me and my leg a look. “As for Kyle, on paper he’s a consultant, in the vaguest terms I could manage.”

“Are you sure you two aren’t…” She let the question linger, unasked, and yet I perfectly knew her meaning.

“We’re more like brothers than anything, and I assure you, we’re both straight; if that was what you were asking,” I replied. “I don’t know who Lach is to you, and who you are to him, he didn’t tell me. I couldn’t bring up who we are and what we do without knowing that. Your records are almost non-existent. You are as close to being a ghost in the machine as anyone I’ve met.” She gave me a quizzical look.

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