Page 43 of Indirect Attack
“Ben?” I repeated his name, clearing my raw throat to gain volume.
This time, he woke up, jerking awake before he scrambled to sit up. But he must have forgotten where he was or what he was sleeping in because, in his frantic movement, he nearly fell out of both chairs.
I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. I didn’t care about the awkward thrashing as he tried to steady himself or that he’d nearly fallen on his face—he was here. He was keeping me safe. That was all that mattered.
He was here for me.
As soon as Ben gained a steady seat in the chair, I reached for his hand, took it between mine, and held it up to my cheek. His hand was so warm, so big, so comforting, and tears burned at the backs of my eyes.
When I looked up, Ben was staring down at me, his eyes blue pools of emotions that skirted across his face like clouds on a windy day. He opened his mouth, closed it, cleared his throat once, twice, then finally took a deep breath.
“How are you?”
His words were soft, as full of emotion as his expression.
“Everything kind of hurts,” I replied honestly.
“I bet.”
He pulled his chair closer and sat down so we were nearly at eye level. Our gazes met, and we stared into each other’s eyes for a long, quiet moment, neither of us sure what to say. There was too much to tell, too much to understand, too much that wanted to pass between us. And it wasn’t just about yesterday or the terrorists. It was everything else that we should have said, that should have happened—everything we’d kept inside all these years but deserved to come out.
But there was too much, so I simply said, “You came for me.”
Water instantly pricked at the backs of my eyes again at my words before a tear finally broke loose to slip down my cheek.
“Of course I did.”
Ben’s tone was forceful, full of passion. He took both of my hands in his, his eyes burning—they wouldn’t let me look away.
“Of course I did, Jasmine. I would walk through hell to find you—now and forever.”
I knew he meant it. I’d never seen him so passionate before, so heartfelt.
“There was no way I was going to leave you there.” He shook his head, snorting in disgust, his gaze on the thin blanket. “That, or I would have died trying.”
“No!”
His gaze flicked up to mine at my vehement denial.
“No, Ben. Don’t you ever do that. I don’t want to live a life without you in it.”
“I don’t want to live without you, either.” Ben’s hands tightened around mine in a grip that was almost painful, but the message was clear—he wasn’t going to let me go. And then he showed me, circling me gently with his arms to avoid my various hurts.
“Was I—” The words wouldn’t come right away, stuck in my throat beneath a sudden lump. “Was I really kidnapped by terrorists?”
Ben pulled back, his gaze searching my face. I could see a hesitancy in his expression, in the way his mouth thinned into a line.
“Tell me, Ben. Please.”
He hesitated for a moment more, then nodded his acquiescence. “Yes, you were. They were pretty bad guys—my brothers have had run-ins with them. Did they hurt you?”
Ben winced, realizing the ridiculousness of his question. But I giggled, and he brightened at the sound.
“I guess it could have been worse.” I shrugged gently, trying not to jostle anything that might hurt.
Though there was no reply from Ben, from his expression, he knew it could have been far worse. Not-worth-thinking-about worse. I shivered from the implications—all I wanted to do was forget the previous day had ever happened.
But I doubted that I ever would. As sleep fully wore away, and probably the remains of medication, bits and pieces of the previous day had been slipping back to me—remembered moments, fear, terror, pain, faces, words. Things I would rather never think about again.
