I don’t trust her. Not for a second. But I’ll give her the opportunity to try something. That way I can show her what I mean when I tell her she’d better do as she’s told. Actions speak louder than words.

My phone buzzes again, and I take it out of my pocket. I still have a contact in Beirut, a man who can get me answers. That doctor who saved my life? He came looking for me that night. Came looking to clean up after Malik was finished with his work.

I know the man Eve’s brother worked for. Malik the Butcher. No one’s ever seen his face. He has contact with very few, and those few usually turn up dead within a few months. Armen El-Amin was an exception to that.

The US military has been gathering intelligence on Malik for years, but they could never get close enough. I know he was there that last night. I felt it in my gut. I know he likes to watch the destruction as it happens. Likes to see the blood drain from a body, likes to watch the life seeping out of it. He’s a sick bastard.

But the piece about her other brothers, about Armen working for Malik in exchange for Malik’s help to find and free them, is that true? It sheds a new light on Armen. Still, he fucked me and my men that last night. He needs to pay for that. Eve’s betrayal, if she truly did it for her brothers, I’d understand, but I’m not sure. My gut says she’s innocent. Although when it comes to her, my gut’s fucked up.

I read the text message from my contact: Paper isn’t a match. Different maker.

Crap. I was hoping this would be easy, but nothing ever is. I was hoping the jerk who made my passport—Michael Beckham’s passport, I mean—had made Eve’s, because it’s a fake. And that’s another thing right there. Who the hell saved her life? And why pose as an American agent? Assuming he was posing.

Back to the drawing board.

I reply with my thanks and ask about news on Malik. Thing is, there hasn’t been anything in two years. Not since that night. But I can’t believe he died in that room. I’ve learned not to believe anything unless I see it with my own two eyes.

A creak from the darkened bedroom gets my attention. I know what she’s up to. She has to know I expect her to search for her passport. She won’t find it, but I’ll have some fun.

I give her a few minutes and even get up and go into the kitchen, turn on the water in the sink to make some sound. The hallway lights are out and I walk quietly toward the bedroom. I’m not really trying to be sneaky, but I know how to be invisible. And she’s not a trained soldier.

When I get to the bedroom door, I see the shadow of her hunched over my duffel. She can’t see much, it’s pretty dark in there, but she’s feeling around.

“Looking for something?”

She gasps, and jumps back.

I flip the light switch and she lunges toward the bed, reaching her hand between the mattress and the box spring and fuck if I’m not surprised to see her straighten with a gun in her hands. A gun aimed at me.

My training kicks in, years of it, and given her inexperience, it takes me all of two seconds to cover her hands with my own, and draw her into my chest as I maneuver the hand holding the gun downward. I don’t want that thing going off by accident, and I’m not sure if she’s even loaded it or has the safety on. I’m not taking any chances though.

“That was stupid, Eve.”

But she’s not done yet because she uses the fact I’m holding her close to ram her knee up into my balls. I’m not ready for that and with a groan, I drop us both down on the bed. I still have both her wrists and I don’t let go as I crush her beneath my weight.

“You want to fight dirty?” I ask through clenched teeth when the worst wave of nausea passes. I’m squeezing her wrist until she releases the gun and I hear it clatter to the hardwood floor.

“I can’t—”

She can’t breathe, is what she’s trying to say.

I lift myself a little, but it’s not to help her out with breathing, it’s to haul her higher on the bed. I drag her arms over her head and the whole time she’s fighting me with all she’s got. I’m keeping my thighs glued shut this time. The cuffs I’d used earlier are still at the top of the bed, and I when I release one wrist to bind the other, she’s clawing at my face, my shoulder, my arm, anything she can get at.

“Let go of me!”

“I can fight dirty too, Eve,” I say, binding her other arm so they’re both over her head. When that’s done, I get up on my elbows, but keep my face close to hers. “In fact, I like fighting dirty.”

I draw back and look down at her. She’s still wearing that summer dress she had on earlier. That’s a mistake because it’s ridden up to her belly during our struggle and I can see black silk panties beneath.

She begins her struggle anew when my eyes linger too long, this time twisting and turning and trying to kick her legs this way and that. She’s still yelling for me to let her go.

“You want the gag?”

I pick it up to show her and she zips her lips the instant I do, shaking her head.

“You sure?” I ask.

She opens her mouth to say something, and I make like I’m about to shove that ball in there so she shuts it again.

I put it down and lean over the edge of the bed to pick up the pistol. It’s smaller than anything I’ve used before, but it’s loaded and just as deadly. I empty it of bullets and set it on the nightstand before turning my attention back to her.

“What, were you going to shoot me?”

“I just want my passport back.”

“So you’d shoot me over a fake passport?”

Her forehead creases, and her big caramel eyes study me. I search her face, I can feel her heart beating against my chest. Watch the little pulse work on her neck. I’m hard again. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman, and Eve lying beneath me, half exposed, all warm, soft skin, her chest rising and falling as she labors to breathe, well, yeah, my dick’s hard. And this time, I want to play.

Her mouth is open and I can feel her breath on my face. I don’t remember the last time I kissed a woman. Even when I fuck, I don’t kiss them. I never want to. Her though, I don’t know what the fuck it is with her, but she makes me want to.

She makes me want. Period.

And I decide to take, just this one little thing.

I close my mouth over hers. Our eyes are open and I kiss her, just her lips at first, soft and slow. I swallow her gasp of surprise and take it deeper, touch my tongue to hers. I’m testing, seeing if she’s going to let me or if she’ll bite. I hope for her sake she won’t, and she doesn’t. She’s lying still beneath me, her struggles having ceased, and staring at me with those eyes like the fucking desert, vast, and golden and forever.

I moan, tasting her mouth. My hands find hers, close over them, and I think I’m going to disappear in this kiss.

I draw back and look down at her. Her lips are swollen and she’s breathing hard.

The night of the auction—I bought her. I still catch myself trying to figure out what I was thinking. What I thought would happen. I knew the instant I called out the number, the one that had everyone stop and turn, I knew I’d fucked up. That I’d fucked it up for my men. I remember knowing in that instant it was a trap. That I’d been played. That was when the first explosion had blown out the wall behind me.

“Zach?”

I shake my head, open my eyes. I guess I’d closed them. I know it’s PTSD. I don’t have the nightmares anymore, but that’s only because I don’t sleep. Instead, I have these moments, these flashes of memory flooding back, and every time, I relive that night. The whole of that night, or as much as I can remember. And every time I get a little piece back when I do. Like suffering through it again and again is the price I have to pay to get new bits of memory back. Like my brain doesn’t think I can handle it all at once. And maybe I can’t.

Or maybe I’m a coward because part of me doesn’t want to remember.

“Zach?” she repeats my name.

I blink. She sees what just happened, but she doesn’t know what it is. She can’t. I look her over, slide my hands back down over her arms as I sit up, straddling her. I can’t stop looking at her, at her eyes, her mouth, all that skin. Soft and pretty and mine.

Mine for now, at least.

My gaze slides to the flesh of her belly.

She squirms, but she isn’t going anywhere.

I touch her softly with the back of one hand and make her gasp as I draw my knuckles over the point of her pelvic bone and down the hollow of her stomach. Her panties are soft, dark silk and I swallow as I draw them down.

She makes a sound, but I don’t look at her face. I can’t drag my eyes from her belly. From the skin I’m exposing. It’s lighter here, there’s a slight tan line. I see a corner of neatly trimmed dark hair and my chest tightens. Her panties are caught beneath her hips and I have to tug once to get them off.

She’s breathing hard now, and she’s got her legs sealed tight.

I meet her stare for one instant, then, like a fucking magnet, return it to her pussy. I get up off the bed and slide the panties down her legs and off her feet, tuck them into my pocket before sitting down again.

“Please. You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” she manages in a small, trembling voice.

But I need to see. I just need to see.

She lets out a small scream when I touch the hair between her legs, splay my fingers through the mound.

I look up at her. “I won’t hurt you,” I say.

Her gaze is moving from my eyes to my hand, then my cock and back, and I know she doesn’t believe me.

“I won’t hurt you,” I repeat.

When my fingers slide over the seam of her sex, her breath catches. I want to open her, look at her. I already smell her and she’s aroused. I feel it too as my fingers dip between her thighs and touch the moisture there. I drag them up to her swollen clit and trace a small circle, closing my eyes for a moment, imagining it’s my tongue on her, tasting her, circling that hard little nub.

“Please don’t,” she whimpers.

I open my eyes.

“Please.”

But her pupils are dilated, and she’s licking her lips.

My fingers still, but I don’t pull them away.

“I bought you that night,” I say without looking at her. “Bought this. Everything happened because of this.”

“Zach?”

It’s like I’m back there again and she’s on that makeshift stage and I’ve just called out a bid that doubles the highest one made. And I know I’ve fucked up, but right that second, some sick part of me has come alive with the knowledge of what I’ve just done. What I’ve just bought.

“It’s mine,” I say again, rubbing her clit, shifting my eyes to hers.

“Please don’t.”

I’m watching her. She’s crying, but she’s not struggling. She knows it’s useless.

“I wanted you that night. I wanted this.” My touch turns into a pinch and she gasps. “My men died because I wanted this.”

She shakes her head no. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Then whose fault was it?”

“This isn’t you, Zach. You can’t do this.”

“I can.”

“You won’t.”

Our eyes lock, and I don’t know what I’m doing. What the hell I’m thinking. I just know what I said, that I can do this. It’s more true than I want to admit and I can’t let that be.

I pull my hand away and stand.

“You don’t know me, Eve. You don’t know what I’ve become.”

I turn and, without looking back, I leave her bedroom and get out of the house and I walk. I walk for what feels like hours, and all I can think about is her. Her that night. Her now. Her almost naked.

Her brother stripped her then, I did it now. I can still feel how she felt. Fuck, I can still smell her. I can almost taste her. If I put my fingers in my mouth, I will.

I fist handfuls of my hair and tug. Who the fuck am I? What kind of monster have I become? How far would I have gone tonight?

I’m standing outside her house again. It’s quiet. I want her. Fuck, I want her. I want to be inside her. It’s like that’s become the only thing now. I should stop drinking. Should get what I need from her and move the fuck on fast because all of this—her—being this close to her...it’s muddling things. It’s confusing what was once clear. I have a mission. I have to remember that mission. Get the truth, find out who fucked us, and kill them. What happens after that doesn’t fucking matter because I know this is big. And I know I won’t cheat death twice. Someone wanted me dead that night. Wanted to wipe out my team. This is a suicide mission, and I have to finish it.

My back burns. It’s like every name traced onto it is reminding me of my mission. Reminding me of that life. Of what I owe each of those men.

I won’t survive this. I know it. Always have known it. It’s just this is the first time I’m admitting it.

Something nags at me. It’s been bothering me since she told me her contact after that night was an American. Why the fuck did she survive that night? Who wanted to keep her alive? And why?

I take a deep breath in and make my way back up to her front door. I walk inside. She’s lying on her side and watches me closely. She doesn’t look surprised or even frightened right now, and I guess I’m relieved for the latter.

Her shoulders must be killing her. She doesn’t speak when I enter the bedroom and uncuff her. She just lies there, eyes on me, as she rubs her wrists.

I strip down to my boxer briefs. She’s watching me, and I’m watching her. I don’t know what she expects, but I’m not a rapist. I’m just fucking tired. I lie down on the bed, my back to her.

“I’m fucked up, Eve.”

It’s quiet for a long time. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. She’s so close. I can feel the heat of her body, and the memory of how her pussy felt haunts me. I’m staring at the wall, the window. I’m almost startled when I feel the tips of her fingers at my back. It’s when she starts tracing the names that I squeeze my eyes shut. I wonder if I could cry if it would be better. Easier. I can’t though. There’s no room for tears. All I have is rage. And it makes my vision go black.

“I knew them all,” she says, her voice so low it’s almost a whisper.

“I know.”

I’m holding my breath. I think she might be too. When she’s traced every name, she touches the bumpy skin on the other half of my back. Then she does something that genuinely startles me. She kisses it, that scarred, hideous flesh. I suck in an audible, broken breath. Her lips are so soft. So damn soft.

I turn to face her and something in my eyes must frighten her because hers go wide, and it takes her a minute to settle down.

“I recognized you that night. When the bidding began,” she says.

All the men covered their faces so only our eyes peeked out from beneath the scarves wrapped around our heads.

“It was your eyes. The horror inside them.”

I remember. And—my God—what I’d give to forget the look inside hers.

“Armen used me to find you in that crowd.”

She’s started crying and sits up. I follow, studying her so closely, but she won’t look at me. Not right now. She’s focused on her hands, nervous, just like she was the first time I saw her in that interrogation room.

It takes her a long time to speak, and her voice sounds strange when she does.

“The day of the arms sale—the auction—Armen was different. He was stressed. Anxious. That afternoon, he came with others. He called me a whore.” Her voice breaks. “He said I was the Americans’ whore. And it was time for my punishment. He knocked me out with some sort of drug, and when I woke up, I was at the auction.” She doesn’t look at me when she says it, and I feel that rage building inside me. That’s good though. That’s what I need. Anger. Fury. I need the strength to obliterate my enemies.

“Look at me.”

She shakes her head.

I touch her chin, lift her face to mine. She’s struggling to keep from sobbing, I can see it.

“See, you’re right about something,” she says, tears sliding down her cheeks and falling on my arm. “It was my fault. If it weren’t for me, they’d all be alive.”

I want to tell her she’s wrong. That it’s not her fault but mine, but I have to remember she could be lying to save her neck. Trying to make me believe she’s sorry. Make me trust her so she can slip away.

At that thought, I slide my hand down her chin and close it around her throat. Her eyes go wide when I push her backward against the headboard. Her neck is at a strange angle and I know it hurts her, but I get up on my knees and straddle her.

I have to remember why I’m here.

She’s a weakness. I have to keep a tight leash on the chaos she wreaks inside my head. And the way to do that is to see her, all of her. Not just what I want to be true.

“Were you part of the setup?”

I realize her hands are clawing at my forearm. Her nails have broken my skin, but I don’t feel it. It’s my damaged arm. I loosen my grip a little.

“Did you know all along?” I ask and my voice is so low, so deep, she shudders with the question.

She shakes her head. Or tries to.

“Because you know what I can’t wrap my brain around, Eve?”

She’s still trying to drag my arm away. Her face is red, her eyes redder. I’m squeezing too hard.

“How the hell did you survive that night?”

I know the answer the instant I ask the question: because she’s a trap. She’ll be my downfall. Not once, but twice.

I stare at her, almost not seeing her as this realization dawns on me. I draw my hands away, releasing her before getting off the bed and grabbing my jeans. I need to get out of here, out of this room. I can’t be this close to her. Not right now.

At the bedroom door, I turn to find her kneeling in the middle of the bed rubbing her neck, watching me. When I speak, my voice is level and I sound much calmer than I feel.

“I can’t figure out what your role is. I don’t know if you’re lying or if you’re a pawn in this too. All I know is you’re alive, and everyone else is dead. You don’t get a free pass like that, not from people like Malik the Butcher. Not from covert US military operations. And until I figure it out, you’re mine. You will do as I say, and if, when all is said and done, I believe you’re innocent, you’ll be free to go.”

I take a step toward her and she plasters herself against the back of the bed.

“But if I find out you’re a fucking liar, I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you.”

I notice the pistol and ammunition from earlier. I gather it all up along with my duffel bag, and walk out. I don’t have to warn her not to try anything stupid. She will, at some point. And I’ll stop her. And if I need to, I’ll punish her.