Page 10 of Damned
Chapter Five
Rather than cry and embarrass herself further, Bree stayed where she was, on her belly on the dirt floor, her head on her crossed arms, and watching Kruze Sinclair. At least he’d covered her before he’d gone outside. But there’d been magic between them once, and there still was. It simmered in the air like a magnetic charge. She could feel it, but he either didn’t, or he wouldn’t admit it. Kruze was right. He was an ass.
But he hadn’t always been, and those magnificent guns were still eye candy, even covered like they were. He had massive forearms and biceps that still stretched his shirt in all the best ways. His hands were impressively large, just like the other body parts she couldn’t see. Bree closed her eyes to her memories of those long, capable fingers as they worked his rifle. They’d worked magic on her body once. Like a lovesick fool, she’d given her heart away that night. But then he’d walked away.
Kruze positioned his rifle on its bipod in the narrow crack in the mountain he called the entry, had even dropped to the hard stone floor and aimed the rifle’s scope downhill. It had to be an uncomfortable position, him twisting on one hip to see out the narrow crevice that led to this cave. Yet Kruze hadn’t complained, not about the cold nor that she was wearing his one and only jacket. He’d even wrapped his dingy blanket around her legs. But there he was, embracing cold Mother Earth in the middle of temperatures that had to be below freezing by now, dressed in just pants and a couple shirts that couldn’t possibly keep him warm.
Bree already knew Kruze Sinclair was part-man and part-machine, compartmentalized to get the hard jobs done, just as quick to leave when those jobs were finished. She watched while his fingers adjusted knobs, dials, and the angle of sight on that huge, impressive rifle. When he pressed his cheek to the weapon’s butt-stock and peered through its scope, the air rippled with lethality, purpose, and power, the kind of power that came with only the few true alphas of the world. So this was who he was when he wasn’t charming foolish women? This was his livelihood and Kruze did it well. It was second nature to him. Yet the more she watched, the more Bree realized his job was more than just a means to get by. This was his calling. His life. Maybe even his one true love.
Which was sad at so many levels. He could’ve had a very different life—if he’d truly cared about her and what they’d done together. But after he’d sneaked away from her bed that one perfect night… Bree shook off the dream that didn’t stand a chance of seeing daylight. There was a time she’d longed for his arms around her again, but that day was gone. The longing she’d felt back then was the stupidest dream ever. She’d already gotten the best of him, hadn’t she? If he only knew.
His dark hair was extra shaggy tonight. The last time she’d seen him, it had been neatly trimmed and he’d been close shaven. When Kruze didn’t offer any insights on what he was watching, she assumed he’d zeroed in on the rebelcamp. At least, he hadn’t shot anyone. There was some comfort in that.
Bree was warm enough, but disillusioned to her core. There was a day when she’d loved working for USA Timeline, one of New York’s many media giants. But as much as she’d looked up to, had even appreciated Harvey Lantz for hiring her, she doubted the owner of USA Timeline contacted the United States President to secure her safety. It would be nice to know who had. Bree would like to thank that person. But it wasn’t Harvey. He wouldn’t have wasted the time.
Harvey Lantz was as driven as Kruze. But after working with Lantz, Bree knew he was a man without the empathy or compassion Kruze had. Lantz’s demand that USA Timeline surpass all other media outlets, no matter the cost to his human resources, was a hard burden to bear. He had no use for most of the people who worked for him, neither newscasters, writers, reporters, nor journalists. Not even his secretary. He was old school and believed workers were slaves who lived to make him look good. Ebenezer Scrooge had nothing on Harvey Lantz.What a crazy, backward place the civilized world had become.
“We can’t spend the night here,” she called to Kruze. “Please. We should pack up and leave.”
Turning from the crack in the wall, Kruze performed an eye-catching push-up and jumped to his feet. The man really did have awesome biceps, and his hands seemed capable of doing anything. Once he double-checked the view outside, he returned to Bree’s side, folded his long legs, and settled beside her. “Why?”
His brows waggled. Man, he still had some gorgeous, thick, black hair. Ruffled by the wind, it was shaggy enough that a lock dipped over his forehead and fell into his dark eyes. She wished she could see the sparkling green color she knew was there. If Bree felt better, she’d run her fingers through that hair and pull it until he complained—or purred. Once upon a time, she had known how to pet this beast. She wondered if his hair had been cut short then because he’d still been active duty.
Not that she cared. Her cocky, over-confident persona, the one that wanted to tell him her secret, died back in that narrow hole in the rebel’s camp. Two of the women had attended to her needs there, but they’d made sure she knew American women were sub-human whores to capitalism. Bree hadn’t been warm, not once in the last two months, and there hadn’t been enough room in that narrow post hole of a prison to sit, even to turn around. At least, not at first. After she lost weight, she’d had more room. Not much else.
Three times a day, her surly caretakers had pulled her up by the rope tied around her chest and under her arms, so she could relieve herself. They’d given her crusts of dried bread then, and tiny cups of piping hot chi, sometimes a piece of cheese if they were feeling generous. But other times, they’d simply scoffed and lowered her back into her pit of despair, without anything to eat or drink. Those had been the longest, hardest, loneliest days of her life.
“What’s going on, Bree?” Kruze asked, gently running a finger along her jaw. “Talk to me. Are you hurting? Did I miss something? Another sliver?”
She blinked up at him, needing to focus on the here and now, instead of the hellish misery she’d endured. Over the last two months, Bree had come to understand how much she appreciated freedom and her country. Which had been a very rude awakening. At first, her mind had a hard time grasping the concept that poor, uneducated women, like her caretakers, hadn’t wanted to be educated, well-paid, or to have brighter futures for themselves and their children. To brush their teeth or pluck their brows. To bathe regularly.
But Bree understood now. Those women—these people—wanted to live their lives and fight their warstheir way. If and when enlightenment came to them, it would come on their terms. Not because some high and mighty‘woman’from the other side of the planet showed up to tell their story for them.
Kruze was watching her, his eyes dark and keenly assessing. The pan of soup he’d heated, waited nearby, but was probably cold by now.
“You shouldn’t have come for me,” Bree whispered, her strength and courage failing.
He leaned down into her face, fingered a chunk of her dirty hair, and tossed it over her shoulder. “Because…?” He drew that word out.
“Because the bonfire was a celebration. That day my women jailers pulled me out of the hole for the last time. They set up a tent, and they gave me privacy. For the first time in two months, I was allowed to wash my hair and bathe, while they watched and whispered. I thought they’d decided to treat me better because of the Geneva Convention’s rules on humane treatment for prisoners. But I was so dumb. After I was clean, and they’d dressed me in these awful rags, Josephus shoved his way into the tent. He’s the one who gave me that stupid scarf.”
“The red thing?”
“Yes. He said it was a gift for my wedding, and he forced me to wear it while we traveled. He wanted everyone to see it.” Bree cringed, remembering the creepy lust in the guy’s squinty black eyes; how he’d looked her over as if she were his to do with as he pleased. “He…” Her mouth was so dry it was hard to speak. “He said he’d brokered a deal with a very important man, that I should be honored.” The deal where she would’ve lost her country and her soul forever.
“What kind of deal?”
“The worst. With General Berfende.When he found out that I was still alive, he ordered Josephus to present me to him, preferably on my hands and knees, by the end of this week. Josephus sold me to himfor three US Army Hummers and two tanks.”
“Sounds like Berfende’s trying to start a war,” Kruze growled. “And that scarf’s called a shara buke. Only it’s usually placed on the bride’s head after the wedding. I’ve never seen a red one before, though.”
Kruze couldn’t have said anything worse. Bree dropped her gaze, frightened all over again. “Does that mean I’m already married to that awful man?”
“No way.” Kruze tipped her chin up with his index finger. “Look at me, sugar. You’re safe. I’ll get you out of here. Promise.”
Her heart stuttered up her throat at that tender endearment. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it did. The man who’d been so impatient with her back on the road was gone. Concern glowed in his eyes like it had long ago.
“But I might be. Betrothed, I mean,” she worried out loud. “That’s the only reason they let me out of the hole. That’s why the big, whoop-dee-doo celebration. It was for me, Kruze, one of those bizarre pre-wedding parties where bastards count their chickens—or bridal dowries—before they’re hatched. Not that there’s much difference between chickens and brides around here. We’re just chattel to be bartered, killed, ruined, or in my case, sold into slavery. What was I thinking?”
