Prophet Page 6

  “We need shelter,” he mumbles to himself, examining our surroundings.

  “I know where we can go. It isn’t far.” He grabs me around the waist, and I tense. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to carry you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  My stomach sinks to my toes at the thought of Nick traveling down the mountainside in the dark with me on his back. Maybe he has a concussion from the blow to his head and he’s not thinking straight?

  “Yes, I am.” He gives me his back. “Hop on.”

  “This is crazy. You can’t carry me.” The crack of a branch or something up above causes him to swivel to me, pressing his finger to his lips. I’m too scared to keep quiet.

  “Oh my God, they’re here.” My pulse whooshes in my ears.

  “Get on.” His voice is fierce in its order.

  Nervously, I slide my hands over his shoulders, clasping them in front of his neck and he bends, tucking his arms behind my knees. My lips press together, stifling a moan, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

  The corded muscles of his neck and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple slide against my hands, hot and hard; it’s all I focus on. He crashes through the underbrush and the wind whips at my face. He’s not going very fast, he can’t with me on his back, but he’s moving at a decent pace.

  Once we stop, I open my eyes to see large boulders standing in a cluster, a wall-like formation. He gently puts me down with my back against a huge rock. He bends over, forearms on knees, panting, trying to catch his breath and dark strands fall in front of his face.

  “Over there,” a deep male voice yells, followed by the rat-a-tat-tat of what could only be a semi-automatic.

  My stomach clenches, and the oxygen, now trapped in my constricting throat, swells to epic proportions. Swallowing is near impossible.

  My fingers latch onto Nick’s arm, grateful for his touch, his guidance, and support through the dark. With his arm around my waist, we move into a long, narrow gap between the massive rocks.

  I hesitate, unsure how he expects me to get through the opening, but he takes charge, nudging me forward. We slip through the crevice, first me, then him. Again, he faces me, his fingers to his lips.

  We’re in a small space no bigger than a portable restroom. It is very dark.

  My mother’s vacant blue eyes flash before my eyes. She’s dead with a bullet in her forehead. A small, almost-soundless whimper escapes my sealed lips. I battle to keep my nightmares locked down.

  As if sensing I need grounding to this world, his knuckles tenderly caress my cheek. I shiver at the strange sensation sparking along my spine.

  Nick fills my thoughts. His intense gaze is on me, and the rest of his face is shrouded in darkness.

  Close by, a man spits out sharp, angry words in Russian. It sounds like he’s standing right where we were moments ago and I’m terrified.

  My lips part, and Nick’s mouth covers mine before I can take a breath. Hot and firm, yet chaste. My heart stumbles.

  I’m lost to his lips on mine and his hands on my hips, fingers digging into my flesh. But this is Nick.

  I should struggle to break away but the sounds beyond the rocks keep us lip-locked. Nothing else matters.

  He opens, and my tongue teases a taste of his masculinity—heady sweat, stubble and spice—gliding over his top lip before dipping into the heat of his mouth.

  This should feel wrong, revolting even, but it’s far from it. His touch and taste are invigorating and inebriating. I drink him in. Our tongues tangle and we become one.

  His touch, scent, and taste are everywhere, coaxing a different kind of excitement from me. My insides burn. Our tongues dance, but before I can deepen and explore further, he breaks our bond.

  His lips are gone, and their absence is felt to my very marrow. I shiver; the thought scares me. He shouldn’t have this kind of power over me. He doesn’t. It’s just circumstance. We’re running for our lives. He’s my only way out. Survival. That’s all this is.

  Drawing me into his arms, one hand holding the back of my head, he guides my face into the crook of his neck. I should protest, but I don’t have it in me. My lips and nose press into the warmth of his throat, and my only thought is Nick’s scent—leather and spice, and pure, unadulterated sweat.

  Again, instead of repulsion, breathing him in calms me. There’s a safety and security I haven’t felt in a long time. So long that I almost forgot what it felt like.

  Slipping my hands around his waist, I cling to him for dear life. I’m thankful he’s here with me, not daring to think about the state I’d be in if alone, as a bunch of Russian thugs, only feet from us, curse and bicker about how we vanished into thin air. One of them must have tracking skills because I wouldn’t have been able to tell we’d come this way.

  The voices eventually fade and he pulls away, but not before taking my hands in his with a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He motions that he’s going to check outside. With one more squeeze, Nick slides something smooth into my hand before leaving. I mourn the loss. I’m alone in this small, dark cave. I fucking hate the dark.

  A hysterical laugh threatens to burst from me as flashes of the fifteen-year-old me hiding in the ceiling while her parents are killed bombard my mind. Tears sting my nose and eyes. Alone. Dark. Again.

  Before I lose it, the cool, smooth object in my hand drags my gaze to his phone. Instead of nine-one-one or any other number I could call, I activate the flashlight. He must have figured out my fear of the dark. It’s the only reason he’d leave me his phone.

  “They’re gone. We have to move quickly before they decide to double back.” He slips his upper body into the small cave and pulls me out, tucking his phone into his pocket.

  Without any discussion, I’m on his back again and he takes off. Only stopping when we reach a small, dilapidated shack nestled in a narrow clearing surrounded by big maple trees.

  The building is no bigger than a shoebox and weather-worn. With a light kick to the door, hanging on its last hinge, he steps into a damp room.

  Faint moonlight streams through holes in the roof that I’m sure will collapse at any moment. But one thing the run-down structure does provide is cover from the wind. It’s still cold, but we’re no longer constantly pelted by the frigid gusts.

  “What is this place?” I hobble to lean against a wall.

  “It’s a maple sugar shack.” The room is barren, save for a wooden counter with double sinks in one corner.

  “Sugar shack?” I’ve heard of them, but this looks nothing like what I’ve seen online.

  Nick must hear my disbelief. “It’s old and was only used for its purpose. Never for tourists. Some today are twenty times the size with restaurants and gift shops.”

  I nod, more familiar with the picture he’s painting. “Have you been here before?”

  “Yeah.” He leans beside me, rubbing his hands together. Both of us inch closer to each other for warmth.

  “And?” I glance his way.

  “Came when I was a kid. Mr. Dubois owned it. When he died, the kids used it for…” Our eyes lock, and he’s first to look away.

  “For what?”

  “To fuck.”

  “You too?”

  “Look, rest. At first light, we leave.” He pushes from the wall, his fingers encircling my wrist. I flinch, and his brow furrows as he casts a glance at my bruised skin. “Fuck.”

  Pointing to the other corner where the roof is solid, he says, “Let’s sit over there.”

  A rain-snow mixture has started to fall, and some of it filters through the holes in the roof. He helps me across the room, and I slide onto the dirty, damp wooden floor, chilled to the bone and wishing I had more than the windbreaker.

  I fold my arms across my chest, my hands gliding up and down my arms to create warmth. He stares at me, his eyebrows knitted and lips a twisted slash.

  The entire left side of his jaw is engorged and caked in dried blood. The rock I hit him with split th
e edge of his lip. I wince, breaking eye contact, sliding my gaze downward. He’s wearing a black parka, and I narrow my eyes and purse my lips, jealous at how warm he must be.

  He sits next to me, his entire side against mine. Normally, I wouldn’t want him to touch me. His proximity causes too much internal turmoil, and I have to remind myself that we may have bonded over the chase, and I’m resigned to being in this with him, but we aren’t friends. He kidnapped me.

  “Could you move over?” My tone is snarky.

  He cocks a brow and smirks. “You’ve gotta be freezin’. Come here.” He unzips his jacket, opening it wide to invite me in.

  The rise and fall of his hard, defined chest is tempting. Heat radiates from him like a roaring fire. I want to be wrapped in his arms. I’m freezing from the inside out. Before I can decide whether to resist or relent, his muscled arm bands my shoulder, drawing me in.

  Nestled in the warmth of his body and the goose-down coat, I give up my fight. I push aside everything that’s brought me to this place and focus on how he protected and sheltered me tonight. At least for now.

  10

  Friday 2:03 AM

  Nick

  “That’s better.”

  My arm tightens around Maggie, and I shudder, not sure if it’s the chill or having her this close to me. We’re both wet, cold, and bone tired. We’ve been running for what feels like the entire night.

  Thank fuck I thought of old man Dubois’s shack. I was sixteen when last here, looking to get laid. Hard to believe it’s still standing. It reeks of mold and rotting wood, but we’ll be safe for the night.

  Drago’s men could circle back, but I doubt they will venture past the rocks. To anyone not familiar with the area, the terrain around here is perilous and, to most, a suicide mission. You’d have to know where to go.

  “What if they find us?” She trembles.

  “Not likely, but just in case, I’ll keep watch. You sleep.” I squeeze her reassuringly, like we’re friends, or hell, lovers.

  What the fuck am I doing? Kissing her messed with my head. I only did it to shut her up, but she was into it; I could tell by the way she took over. Now that I’ve tasted her—the fire in her soul–and want more.

  “I can’t sleep,” she snaps, killing my dumb thoughts.

  Oh, there she is. The feisty one. I’d wondered if I’d lost the fearless woman to the darkness.

  When we stop at the edge of the cliff, there was the moment when her usually beguiling eyes were blank. It was some scary shit, and I hope to never see that again. Now she’s back. The warrior.

  Maggie’s that woman. A goddess of war. Fearless and willing to go to battle for you. The kind of woman you want in your corner. In your bed. In your life. Too bad we’re not on the same side.

  “Let’s talk about what happened back there.”

  I want to lace into her for escaping—I still can’t believe she got away—but not now. Talk about letting my guard down.

  Thank fuck for the alarm chime. It isn’t loud, but it was enough to wake me. I might have been able to stop her altogether if it hadn’t taken me a minute or two to figure out where I was and what I’d heard.

  If it weren’t for the motion sensor light, indicating she crossed the house toward the back rather than take the road, and the fact that I know the area way better than she does, she might have gotten away.

  Her Criss Angel escape stunt put us in this position. I’m too tired to get into this, and we’d only end up arguing, in which case, I should just shoot a flare into the sky and wait for them to find us. I’ll give her an earful later. I can hardly fucking wait.

  “What?” She knows exactly what I’m getting at. “The cliff?”

  I nod, and she fidgets, trying to inch away. My arm clamps around her neck, and our gazes collide. Mine puzzled, hers troubled.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, tenderly grazing my inflamed and throbbing jaw.

  Her gentle strokes tighten my gut and groin, and as much as it soothes, I remind myself she hit me. I never saw her coming.

  First the karate kick to my chest, knocking the wind out of me. That wasn’t luck—she had training—and then the fucking rock. Jesus H. Christ, I almost lost it. If the Russians hadn’t shown up, I’m not sure what I would have done.

  “Right.” I remove her hand from my face, not sure if it’s her or me I don’t trust at this moment.

  Her closeness and concern could be an invitation to kiss her again, but that would be a huge mistake. She could be playing and I need to focus on getting us out of here.

  My head pounds. I’m not at my best. While running, there were a few times when I thought for sure I’d retch, pass out, or both.

  She straightens, still in my grasp, and scowls. “You can’t hold it against me.”

  She’s defensive and delusional. I chuckle silently, no louder than a whisper, listening for any unusual sounds outside. Last thing we need is uninvited company.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I can, and I will. You could’ve broken my jaw.”

  Grimacing, her fingers tangle in her lap. “But I didn’t, and I’m truly sorry.”

  I frown, not liking her apology or the sincerity that comes with it. She has successfully diverted me from my original question about her freak-out. I’ll give her that. For now.

  “Where you’d learn to kick like that?”

  “MMA.” She’s haughty, and if I wasn’t impressed, I would lob a barbed reply.

  “You fight?” If so, why didn’t she kick the shit out of me when we first met?

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you train?” I dip my chin, hoping to catch her gaze, but she’s staring into the darkness.

  “A gym in The Beach.”

  I tense at the coincidence. There’s only one gym that offers MMA in The Beach. “Dalt’s?”

  “Yes.” Now staring at me, she searches my face for some clue as to how I got it right. It’s my gym too. I’m friends with Dalton, the owner. “Who’s your trainer?”

  I know all the guys and the one female trainer, and I don’t expect her to say Nia. Before she even answers, a chill whispers up my spine.

  “Dalton,” she says.

  What are the chances we train at the same gym? If she lived in the area, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but she lives much further west with her pick of gyms.

  On the other hand, from the little I know of her, I suppose it makes sense that our circles of friends overlap. Shit, there’s Lo and Phoebe, for starters.

  “No shit. Dalt’s my trainer too.” I play stupid, for now.

  “He is?” She’s as uncomfortable as I feel. Either that or she’s a really good actress. I’m going with the latter.

  “Why didn’t you use your moves when I got the jump on you in the shower?”

  “In case you forgot, I was naked and you had my neck in a vice grip.” She’s snarky. “I wasn’t exactly in the best position to fight.”

  “Oh, I didn’t forget. Kind of hard to.” My carnal intimation grows between us, hot and loaded. I’m on edge. Another coincidence. Coincidence never sits well with me.

  “How do you know Dalt?” She changes the subject.

  “We go way back.” I’m vague. “And you?”

  She clears her throat. “Dalt and my ex-boyfriend are friends. I’ve been training with him for years.”

  Not bothering to mull over this new bit of information, I don’t skip a beat and go with my gut. “Jesse?” He’s her ex, has to be, and the connection to Dalt. It makes sense.

  Maggie’s eyes, dark and beautiful, widen, and she nods, her brow pinching together. Confused, but more suspicious than anything else.

  “How… how’d you know?” Before I can answer, she continues, “Just who are you?”

  Her eyes narrow into thin slits like blades ready to make a meal out of me. With a weary sigh, I tip my head back against the wall and close my eyes.

  “Just a guess.” I would kill for some meds or a scotch. Anything to n
umb the pain. “I know a lot of Dalt’s friends and just figured, knowing you…” I trail off, not wanting to pile on more to my lie.

  “You figured what?” She pushes at my shoulder, and I wince. Achy and fatigued, I’m crashing from the adrenaline. Everything hurts.

  “Look, let’s not do this.” Scrubbing a hand down the undamaged side of my face, I straighten. “How’s your ankle?”

  Not happy with the change in subject, she frowns, holding my gaze for two, three beats. She’s the first to break away, casting a glance in the direction of her foot. “The same. Swollen.”

  I pull her back into me; her absence created a draft, and I want her warmth as much as she needs mine.

  Reluctantly, she comes into the fold. The tension is thick. She pokes at my side, trying to get comfortable, or at least that’s her pretense. She’s upset, and I need her relaxed so she can sleep for a few hours.

  Once Kit texts that he’s arrived, we’ll have to go. We can’t be here when dawn breaks. Those guys haven’t given up. They’ll be back.

  “What’s Maggie short for? Margaret? Margot?” It’s lame but innocent enough to loosen her up.

  “It isn’t short for anything. Just Maggie.”

  “Hmm. Your mother a fan of Rod’s song Maggie May?” I tease with a whispery imitation of the raspy crooner.

  “Nope.” She bites her lip to stifle a giggle. Maybe I can thaw some of this thick ice between us. “Tennessee Williams. He’s a playwright,” she offers like I’m stupid.

  “I know who he is. I even know the play—Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” I don’t even bother to hide my smugness. I’ve shocked her; she quirks the side of her mouth but doesn’t say anything.

  “Are you anything like Maggie the cat?” I can’t seem to abstain from toying with her. “Come to think of it, you do have claws.”

  She wrinkles her adorably perfect nose and purses her lips like something stinks. Great, in less than two minutes, we’re back to pissed Maggie.

  I wait her out. Silence.

  “Come on, I’m kidding. Just trying to get you to open up a bit.”