From her upside down vantage point across Conan’s back, Ro watched another man close, bolt, and bar a small porthole-like door in a giant steel wall topped with razor wire. It closed silently, but it might as well have slammed like a cell door. Panic rose as Conan strode farther into the camp.
Ro renewed her struggles. And she didn’t keep quiet this time either.
“Put me down! Let me go! Umpf—” Ro’s words were cut off as her still-stinging ass landed on a picnic table bench.
Conan got in her face. “You’re in no position to be giving orders. And until you answer my questions, you aren’t going anywhere except where I put you.”
Ro opened her mouth to let out a scathing reply, but snapped it shut when she realized she could see the angles and planes of his painted face in the glow of artificial light. She hadn’t seen any working lights in the last week and was shocked to see one now. It was amazing how quickly things she used to take for granted became oddities. But back to the face in front of hers. He had lowered himself into a crouch in front of her. He looked like G.I. Joe come to life. But even bigger than the Channing Tatum version. His face was covered in smears of brown, black, and gray, and a black long-sleeve t-shirt stretched tightly over linebacker-esque shoulders. He looked as if he was easily twice Ro’s size. The bulging muscles and defined pecs briefly distracted her, but the rifle held casually in his grip, barrel pointed in her general vicinity, caught and held her attention. An M4, the smaller, more compact version of the M16, if she remembered her dad’s lessons clearly. Her eyes darted between his face and the gun, trying to figure out her best course of action if he decided to unload the thirty round magazine in her direction. Nothing. There wasn’t a damn thing she’d be able to do if he decided to use her for target practice. And the look on his face wasn’t inspiring any confidence that he wasn’t intending to do just that. His piercing dark eyes cataloged every detail of her appearance. Thinking it was best to present as small a target as possible, Ro wrapped her arms around herself and shrank back until the edge of the picnic table dug into her spine.
Under the camo paint, his dark brows furrowed, as if he was confused by her actions. He followed her eyes to the gun and lifted his dark gaze to hers.
One brow arched sardonically when he said, “You do know that I’m not planning to shoot you.” Ro couldn’t help mentally tacking on a “yet” to the end of his sentence.
She decided it was time to unearth her lady balls and stop acting like a scared little girl. Decision made … Ro couldn’t stop her snark.
“No, as a matter of fact, I was not aware that you weren’t going to shoot me when you’ve got the barrel of a gun less than twelve inches from my face. And after you mentioned snapping my neck, I’ve developed the impression that my continuing to breathe isn’t exactly a priority of yours.” Ro held his stare, unwilling to show any more weakness or fear by breaking first.
Wasn’t there some animal you were supposed to stare down to show you’re not afraid? Or was that what you were not supposed to do? Yet another instance where law school failed to teach her practical skills. Like how to stare down a giant, camo-painted man who comfortably held an assault rifle as if it was a part of his daily uniform. A man with too-long, dark brown hair that curled over his ears and the base of his neck, making him look unbelievably sexy.
Wait. What?
Ro must have hit her head when she’d fallen. That was the only logical explanation for the errant thought.
Standing, he propped the gun against a four-by-four beam that supported the porch covering the area surrounding the picnic table. He lowered the barrel and resumed his crouching position in front of her.
“Point taken.”
He looked like he was about to say something else when a tall, nearly as broad, man with longish golden brown hair sat down right next to her on the bench as if they were long lost friends.
“Don’t worry, doll. He’s all bark. He won’t bite unless you ask for it. Probably.” His drawl was as smooth and potent as Tennessee sippin’ whiskey. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Zach. Zachariah Sawyer.”
Ro automatically stuck out her hand to shake his. The habit was too ingrained to stop. Because that’s what you do when someone offers a hand. Shake it. Even if you’re in an end of the world nightmare scenario and the man offering his hand is beyond gorgeous.
Good Lord. Where was she?
But instead of shaking her hand, he kissed it. In a move that Ro was certain no man outside of the 19th century could pull off without looking like a complete tool. And yet, he made it look sexy. And feel sexy. Heat began to swirl low in her belly. Seriously, body. Timing more than a little inappropriate.
His eyes reminded Ro of whiskey, too. Golden amber and flaring with what appeared to be interest; as if he knew the effect he was having on her body. An irritated throat clearing broke the moment.
“Sawyer, if you’re finished eye-fucking the shit out of her, I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
Zach tossed Conan a bandana and rested his arm on the picnic table behind Rowan’s shoulders.
“Clean the paint off your face, G, and calm down. I’m just getting acquainted.”
Turning his gaze back on her, he asked, “What’s your name, doll?”
Ro scooted down the bench to put some space between them and grasped her lady balls tight in an attempt to sound tough. “It sure as shit isn’t doll. Could you back up off me?”
Conan laughed, or at least that’s what Ro made of his gravelly rumble.
Conan was using the bandana to wipe the paint off his face as if he’d done it a million times. Who were these guys?
The face that came clean underneath was unexpected. A broad forehead, sharply carved cheekbones and a strong, squared-off jaw, covered in dark stubble. If she’d seen him dressed in a suit, passing her on the streets of Chicago, Ro might have spontaneously orgasmed. Seriously, who were these guys?
“What’s your name, girl? And why were you alone and running through the woods like you were being chased by the devil himself?” Conan asked.
The statement wasn’t far off the mark, and the images of the beaten woman, knife at her throat, came rushing back. Ro shifted, jostling her ankle, which had started to throb like crazy. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to suppress the images and the pain. The shame of forgetting about the woman for even a moment burned sharper than the pain in her ankle.
“It’s Rowan. Not girl, not doll, not anything else. Except maybe Ro, if you’re not a total asshole. I was running through the woods in the middle of the night, by myself, because I didn’t have a choice. It was either that or end up the backwoods bride of three creepy, inbred rednecks. Or dead.” Ro wasn’t convinced dead was the worse option of the two.
“Care to elaborate?” Conan asked, both eyebrows arching this time.
Ro couldn’t think of a good reason not to explain further and told them what she had witnessed. Guilt for not doing something, anything, filled Ro. Hot tears pricked her lids. “I just left her there and ran.”
Zach slid down the picnic table bench, and his big arm came around Rowan in a comforting gesture. For some reason, this time she didn’t pull away.
“It’s okay, Ro. What could little ol’ you do against three grown men? You did the best thing you could possibly do.” Ro looked at him, completely confused by his words.
Zach smiled at her and clarified, “You came straight to us.”
The girl, Rowan, looked at him, and then Graham, and then back to him, before asking, “Who are you? And where the hell am I?” Her earlier attitude seemed to have drained away, leaving her sounding young and lost. She glanced around her, and in the pale glow of solar lights, Zach could see her trying to make out her surroundings.
He was about to answer her questions when Graham spoke.
“You’ll get your answers when we’re satisfied with yours. Your story sounds like complete bullshit to me.”
Her attitude flared back to life. Zach wasn’t sure what Graham’s angle was. It sounded like she’d almost had an unfortunate meeting with their inbred neighbors. For years, Jonah had been telling the rest of the team about the family that lived a few miles from their fence line. With no obvious form of income, Jonah suspected they were deeply involved in the rural meth trade.
“You think my story is bullshit? Then go out there and fucking get her. Go be all Rambo badass commando, and you’ll see that I’m not fucking lying.”
Okay, someone had issues with being called a liar. Interesting. But Graham was a total hardass. It was embedded in the man’s DNA. It was what had made him a great leader of their Force Recon team for six years. But Graham was solidly in the camp of seeing before believing. Zach had zero facts to base his conclusion on, but his gut said she was telling the truth. She looked pretty busted up over the fact that she’d left some stranger behind when she didn’t have a chance in hell of being able to go up against three armed men. That type of reaction didn’t seem like it would be easily faked. But Zach knew damn well that Graham wasn’t going to leave the security of the ranch to chance. This interrogation was just beginning.
“G,” Zach said firmly, giving Graham a hard look. “The questions can wait.” It wasn’t often that Zach countermanded Graham’s orders, considering it used to be insubordination, but the girl was still freaked and obviously in pain, if the way she cringed every time she moved was any indication.
Graham clearly interpreted Zach’s back the fuck off look and returned one that said this goes bad, it’s on you. But Graham backed off and took a seat on the bench of the picnic table that was parallel to the one where he and Rowan sat.
“You hurt, sugar?” Zach left the bench to go to his knees in front of her, lifting her ankle carefully. She flinched.
“I don’t think it’s broken. At least, I really hope not.” She sounded like she was panicking at the thought.
Zach heard Graham speak into his radio, “Beau, need you at the mess ASAP.”
“Copy that. On my way,” Beau, the group’s SARC—Special Amphibious Reconnaissance Corpsman—replied within seconds. As a Navy medic, Beau was the only non-Marine on their team. But since he’d actually gone to med school before joining the Navy and had saved most of their asses at least once, they didn’t hold it against him.
Graham stood and gave Zach a long, hard look. “Don’t move her until I get back.”
Ro watched as the two men shared a look that carried an entire conversation. Both nodded before Conan stalked off.
Ro was relieved he was gone. Except for a few brief moments, his intensity had completely unnerved her. She looked at the man kneeling in the dirt before her. He was almost as big as Conan, but didn’t emit those I’m-a-badass-mofo-and-you-better-watch-yourself vibes that Conan did. He still looked like a badass mofo, but somehow he was more approachable. Strange, that.
“We’ll get you all fixed up, darlin’. Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing,” he said, smiling up at her. Definitely more approachable.
“I’m not the one you should be worrying about. That other woman ...” Ro paused, replaying the scene she had witnessed in her mind. “You need to get her away from them. You don’t understand, they were ... disgusting ... and the way they were treating her ...” She shook her head, stomach twisting at the memory.
Zach gripped her calf with his big hand.
“Babe, put it out of your mind for now. We’ll handle it.” Ro was well aware he was trying to soothe her, calm her down, because it must have seemed like she was gearing up for a freak out. Accurate assumption.
“Seriously—”
Zach cut her off, and this time his tone was stern. “Listen to me. There wasn’t a thing you could have done, and you’re lucky your pretty little ass made it here in one piece and without holes.”
“But—”
“Damn, woman, you wanna argue with me. Just let it be. Let’s worry about Rowan right now.”
Apparently Zach wasn’t as approachable as she thought. Ro’s spirits fell, along with her hope that the commandos would rush in and save the day. Because that would be too much like a friggin’ movie. Men weren’t like that in real life.
Ro settled back against the picnic table and looked away from Zach. What little she could see of her surroundings had her forgetting her disappointment with individuals of the penis variety. The glow of the solar lights was muted, definitely not bright enough to be seen beyond the walls, and the giant branches of the towering oaks and white pines formed a canopy overhead. Ro could make out rustic, wood-sided buildings scattered around. The thump of a bag hitting the ground in front of her brought her attention back to the man—check that, now men—in front of her.
Piercing blue eyes assessed her from beneath black brows. His black hair was cut ruthlessly short, not shaggy like Conan and Zach’s. He didn’t smile, which made his knife-edged cheekbones stand out even more.
He met Ro’s gaze for only a minute before shifting his attention to Zach.
“What you need, Sawyer?” He sounded annoyed. Like he’d been in the middle of watching his team in overtime and had been interrupted. Except there were no games, no teams, and no overtime happening right now. Ro was pretty damn sure of that. What could she really have interrupted? His spank session? He didn’t need to look so put out by her. She was the one brought here against her will. Ro’s attitude fired into overdrive. As if Zach sensed her building tension, he squeezed her calf before he stood and stepped to her side.
“Beau, meet Rowan. Rowan, Beau.” Beau nodded at her, looking completely uninterested in her presence. “Rowan here twisted her ankle, and I’d appreciate it if you’d check her out.”
Beau didn’t respond; he just squatted before her without ceremony.
Without looking up at her, he asked, “Which leg?”
“Left.” Ro shrank back when he reached for her ankle.
“Babe, it’s okay. Beau will fix you right up,” Zach said.
“He looks like he’d just as soon amputate over handing me an ice pack,” Ro replied.
At that, Beau finally cracked a smile.
“I do have a handy saw for amputations, but I think I’ll leave it stashed tonight.” He looked up at Ro. “It’s going to hurt like a bitch getting this boot off. I’ll try to go easy, but there’s not much I can do about it.”
Ro had figured that. She nodded as he got down to the business of unlacing her boot, gritting her teeth as bolts of pain shot through her ankle. She gripped the edge of the picnic table and closed her eyes. She tried to think of her sister and her dad. Waiting at home for her. A warm hand covered her left hand and squeezed. She didn’t open her eyes, but grabbed it like a lifeline and squeezed back when the pain kicked up another notch.
Cold air hit her sweaty sock. Finally. Her boot was off. And then the sock. Ro let out a slow breath and opened her eyes, first looking down at Beau grasping her ankle, and then over to where her hand was clasped by another large, callused one. But that hand didn’t belong to Zach like she’d assumed. It was ... Conan. He’d appeared soundlessly, and for some reason ... offered her comfort? Ro was shocked. Amazed. Freaked out? She didn’t even know. She pulled her hand back, trying not to look at him.
“What’s the verdict?” Conan asked, actually sounding like he gave a shit. Which was strange, considering he’d threatened to kill her upon meeting her. She would’ve thought he’d gotten off on torturing people.
Ro sucked in a sharp breath and cringed as Beau manipulated her ankle. Conan’s hand grabbed hers again, and the shooting pains tapered off.
“I don’t think it’s broken. Could be a hairline fracture, but it’s hard to say without an X-ray. Which we obviously don’t have. Probably a bad sprain. Either way, she’s going to need to stay off it for at least a few days to start, but probably longer. Unfortunately, I have three pairs of crutches—old school wooden ones, built for guys our size. They’re not very adjustable and would be way too fucking big for her,” he told Conan, as though she wasn’t present.
“Hey, I’m right here and would appreciate you giving me the diagnosis, thanks.”
Beau looked at Ro condescendingly and said, “Okay, Rowan, your ankle is sprained. Don’t walk on it for at least a few days to a week. Keep ice on it for fifteen minutes at a time, and keep it elevated and wrapped up. Got it?”
Ro couldn’t help feeling like she’d just thrown a bit of a temper tantrum and deserved his annoyed glare. He’d never done anything to her to merit her throwing him attitude, but now that throwing attitude had moved back into her repertoire, it was instinctive.
“She won’t be going anywhere. So, that’s not a problem. You’ll wrap it up for her and grab her an ice pack.” That wasn’t posed as a question. It was definitely an order. And then Ro played his words over in her head. Um, yeah. That was a problem.
“Um, thanks, Conan, but I’ll just take the wrap and the ice. If you have a place I could crash for the night, I’m sure I’ll be all set in the morning. I’ve got somewhere to be.”
Zach let out a strangled laugh-cough. “I think that’s probably the most accurate nickname anyone’s ever given him. Gonna have to share that one with the team.”
Conan was silent, and she had to assume he was not as impressed by her creative naming skills. Her suspicions were confirmed when he said to Zach, “I know where you sleep.”
She could feel Conan’s intense stare drilling into her. When she didn’t look up at him, his hand shot out and tilted her chin up.
“You got somewhere to be? How ‘bout you share that with us.”
When Ro didn’t reply immediately, she swore she saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. Ro yanked her head away from his grip and looked at Beau, about to ask him for that ice pack, when the hand that grabbed her jaw turned her face back to meet a snapping brown gaze.
“Look, woman. You are in my house, and you will answer my questions. All of them. Get me?”
About to launch into a snit to end all angry snits, another hand on her shoulder stopped Ro. This one belonged to Zach.
“How’d you like to clean up? Get some of that mess off you? I’m not sure if there’s an inch of you not covered in dirt.”
Ro checked the snit. A chance to get clean trumped throwing another tantrum. Priorities and all.
She tried not to sound too excited when she answered, “That would be great. Even some water and maybe some paper towel would be fine.”
“Oh, honey, we can do better than that. You can take a proper shower, if you’d like.”
Shower? Um, yes please.
“That would be awesome.” Because six days of wet wipe baths left a whole lot to be desired. Ro figured she had to be pretty ripe, in addition to dirt-covered.
“She can’t stand to take a shower, dumbass. What’re you thinking?” Beau said.
Undeterred, Zach responded, “So we’ll get her a chair. She can sit and shower. I mean, I know she needs to get her foot up, but that can wait ten minutes while she cleans up, right? I’ll give her a hand.”
A grunt had Zach looking toward Conan. “You need to report for fire watch. Now.”
“I don’t have watch tonight.”
“You do now. I had to ... redeploy some assets, and you’re taking Alex’s shift.”
From the mulish set of his jaw, Ro could tell that Zach wanted to argue, but for some reason he didn’t. He just tapped her cheek with two fingers and said, “Later, doll. Enjoy the shower.”
Ro was so excited about the shower she didn’t even bother to ream him for calling her doll.