Page 28 of Damned
Chapter Fourteen
Thank you, God.Wayne’s kidnap victimwasBree. Kruze wasn’t about to let her go. Leaning in, he wrapped his arms around her trembling shoulders and turned her body until she was sitting sideways on his thighs. Not straddling him. Not that he hadn’t liked her in that position, but Bree was in no shape for play tonight. As if to prove the point, she’d turned to stiff, unfriendly wood. No longer making eye contact. He didn’t let that slow him down, just brushed his hair out of his eyes and rocked back and forth until she relaxed the tiniest bit.
Her dirty blonde hair hung in a limp ponytail down her back. Poor thing didn’t look much different than the last time he’d seen her. Why not? With her hair pulled back on her skull as tight as it was, her face seemed thinner. Paler. There was plenty of defiance in her eyes, but there was a boat load of bleak misery there, too. Why hadn’t she filled out a little? It had been three months since he’d rescued her. Surely she had something to live for, now that she was home.
He smoothed her long skirt down until it covered her bare legs, then straightened the thin, white sweater top she was wearing. The last time he’d seen Bree, she’d been inside the ambulance at Incirlik Air Base. She’d been sick and hurt. Tonight, she looked worse, not better. The spark in her eyes was completely gone. She was a deserted house with no bright, shining candles in the windows.
Wayne had peered out the community center front door a few minutes ago. When he’d seen Kruze sitting with Bree, he signaled a thumbs-up and ducked back inside. Bree hadn’t seen the exchange behind her back, so she hadn’t reacted. Kruze understood why Wayne was worried about her. Her slender body was strung so tight with tension. She hadn’t healed at all. Bree was still gaunt and edgy, and Kruze was fairly sure the shadows around her eyes weren’t that smudgy make-up shit. When at last her breathing evened out, he tugged her cautiously forward until he could press the side of her head under his chin, putting her ear flat against his chest.
Bree was skittish, like a filly in a burning barn. She didn’t know which way to run. That she’d been frantic to have sex with him, when they’d barely gotten along in Turkey, scared the shit out of Kruze. Yeah, he was a horn dog, and usually, he’d take advantage of any woman who threw herself at him. But Bree wasn’t most women. If anything, she’d come onto him like an addict going through withdrawal, desperate, and not thinking right when she’d attacked him. Because it was an attack, not that she could hurt a big guy like him. But that proved how fragile she was. How breakable. And he simply couldn’t hurt her.
Kruze splayed one hand on her back and started humming the lullaby Suede sang to her baby boy. It was a cheery little tune, and he wasn’t sure he had the melody right. But bit by bit, the stiff wooden soldier in his arms melted. Her hard edges softened. She dropped her face into her hands and cried.
“Is my singing that bad?” he teased.
Bree didn’t look up, just ran a hand over her face, then wiped her tears on her skirt.
“Want to hear a story?” he asked, keeping his palm on her back, his voice low and non-threatening.
She shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
Another clue of depression—indifference. It happened with men and women who’d seen combat, even those just stationed in or near combat zones, who’d never fired their weapon. Depression and hyper-vigilance were silent killers, and poor Bree was suffering from a wicked case of both. The rage she stored inside was tearing her apart.
Kruze kept his voice mellow. “Well, here goes. Stop me if you’ve heard it before. I don’t want to bore you to sleep. Okay then. So…” He took a breath. “…once upon a time there was a little teapot. Man, she was a pretty thing. She was made from the purest white china, then sprinkled with tiny blue stars and golden stardust. But she’d never been needed or used. For months, she sat on her tidy shelf in the kitchen, above the stove where things were perfect.”
“Did she have eyes?”
“Well, of course,” Kruze replied with a twinge of indignation. “All imaginary teapots have eyes.”
“You didn’t say. I was just wondering.”
Kruze smiled. The big clunker in his chest seemed to like having Bree’s warm body pressed up against it.
“Well, as a matter of fact, she had big, blue eyes and lovely, black velvet lashes. You would’ve liked her.”Because she’s you.“Anyway…” Kruze cleared his throat. “One day, the sweet older lady who owned the teapot filled her up with brisk, icy-cold well-water and plunked her on the stove. The teapot was excited. She was going to be used and appreciated. That’s all she’d ever wanted, to be useful and enjoyed.”And treasured and l-l-l…
Kruze cleared his throat again, that darn L-word stuck there like a rock that wouldn’t go down and sure as hell shouldn’t come out. It couldn’t be the reason his heart felt so light tonight, could it? It couldn’t be because he was holding Bree again. L-l-love was a damned frightening word in his book. He’d never said it to anyone but his mother. Why had it popped into his head now?
“And so…” Bree prompted quietly. She’d stopped wiping her eyes, but her head was still tucked under his chin.
“And so…” Kruze licked his dry lips. “The pretty teapot was finally filled to the brim and happy. But the burner under her cute, little tush—”
“Teapots don’t have tushes.”
“Well, this one did, and it was cute as a button… Anywayyyyy…” He drew out that word to silence further criticism from Bree.
At last! A tiny giggle escaped. It was magic, the sound of tinkling wind chimes. Kruze wanted to hear it again.
“The burner under her cute, little tush warmed her up, and you know how teapots are. The water inside of them boils and boils until at last, they whistle a happy tune.” He was totally improvising. “Only the artist who’d crafted her and sold her to the little old lady, hadn’t gotten the teapot’s spout right. There was no hole in it, no way for all that hot steam to escape. She couldn’t whistle a happy tune, couldn’t whistle anything. She became so full of dangerous, hot steam that she—”
“I broke,” Bree squeaked. The moment she did, she turned her face into his shirt and hooked one arm around his neck. Her shoulders shook.
Kruze dropped his nose into her hair and whispered, “Yes, sugar, you kind of had a breakdown, but you’re not broken. You just need a better way to vent all that anger you’re keeping inside. It’s not good for you.”
“A better way than sex?”
Never in a million years had Kruze thought he’d say, “Yes. There are better ways than sex to release anger.” Man, that felt a lot like the pot calling the kettle black.
“N-n-nobody understands. Nobody knows. I can’t tell my mom and dad how awful it was in that hole. That would hurt them. I can’t do it.”
