Desire Unmatched: 4 (Coded for Love) (3 page)

Shit, his father was going to have a field day with this. If
and when he made it back to the Program campus, he’d have to face his father’s
wrath over letting someone best him. Maybe he should let himself stay captured.
Death might be preferable to hearing his dad drone on and on about his mistakes
and stupidity.

He took another minute to look out the window, but the
awkward neck position was starting to hurt. He shuffled away from the door,
just now noticing he was barefoot. The soles of his feet hurt like a bitch with
every step, and no wonder. He leaned a palm against the wall and cocked a foot
up to look. Yeah, they’d tortured the shit out of his feet. Biting back curses,
he half limped, half hopped over to the one narrow door in the dank cellar
room.

The wooden door didn’t look like much of a prison guard. The
small brass doorknob could be easily busted in. If he had his boots. But who
knew what waited for him on the other side. He could rush the door, step out
and be mowed down by a barrage of bullets from guards with orders to shoot on
sight.

He finally made it to the door and leaned an ear against it.
He didn’t hear silence, but the shuffling noises of someone on the other side
doing something. Maybe reading a book, chugging water, it was hard to say
exactly what. Taking a risk, he knocked. And waited.

Accented English came back. “Mr. Soldier, you awake.”

The accent was Middle Eastern. He didn’t have the ear for
languages Gavin did, but he’d place it as Saudi if pressed. “Where the fuck am
I?”

No answer, but he heard dwindling boot steps, which meant
his guard had gone to get his superiors. No doubt he’d had orders to get a
certain someone the minute Xander awoke. Yep, roughly seven minutes later,
multiple footsteps sounded at the door.

“Soldier.” Another voice this time, also foreign-accented
English, but this time with the obvious sound of someone taught English in a
British environment. The faint British accent reminded him of Emma, but he
forced the fleeting thought out of his brain. He didn’t want her in prison with
him.

“Soldier, we are going to enter. You will lie on the floor
on your belly, hands on the back of your head.”

“Will I?” His sardonic words slipped out before he could
stop them.

“You will or we will play with your feet more.”

He couldn’t help it, he winced and had to swallow back bile.
It went against every cell in his body, but he was going to have to obey
orders. Today. Just to see what he was up against. Shep’s relentless training
for situations like this echoed in a remote cavern of his brain.
Don’t be a
dumbass and get yourself killed out of pride.

He backed away from the wood door with the peeling paint and
dropped to his knees. Crawling a few feet from the door, he got into position,
hands clasped behind his head. Given the length of his hair, he could tell he’d
been gone roughly five days. He held to a strict bimonthly haircut, and knew by
the softness of the ends he was due for a trim.

The concrete floor was cold against his bruised abdomen, and
the insides of his biceps screamed in agony as they stretched into position. He
lay parallel to the door, neck craned to the side to catch his first glimpse of
his captors. Two sets of black boots came into view. Goddammit, one of the
pairs was his. Stolen off his feet. The dude had to die.

The boots marched within inches of his line of sight. One
prodded his side, but he hid his reaction. He’d die before sharing how much
pain that one little push had caused. “Soldier,” the man said.

Xander turned his head but didn’t reply. They didn’t seem to
want a response. “Soldier,” the man said again. “Welcome to your new reality.
You will follow every order or you will die.”

He remained silent. Really, what was there to say to that?
Sir,
yes sir?
The only person who’d ever taken that kind of obedience from him
was his father.

“You will cooperate with the doctor or you will die.”

The guy needed to stop throwing the word
die
around.
Though he wasn’t chomping at the bit to meet his maker, there were things in
the living world that terrified him more than dying. Emma, for one.

Wait a second, had he said doctor? There was only one doctor
he could think of who would have interest in him. Sure enough, a small dark
shadow of a man appeared in the doorway. Xander blinked at the apparition to
see it was Paulson, looking much older than he had a few weeks back in London.
Of course he’d only caught a brief glimpse of the doctor, but the man hovering
in the doorway looked old. As in about-to-keel-over old.

“Paulson?” he asked from the floor.

The old man shuffled closer. “You know me, soldier, but I
don’t know which of Shepard’s boys you are.”

“Does it matter?”

The older doctor sighed and reached an age-spotted hand to
steady himself on the wall, which was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint.
“No, I suppose not.”

“You’ve gotten into bed with some bad partners, Paulson.”
Xander spoke clearly, not caring that the captors surrounding him with guns
might take offense.

Paulson didn’t respond for a minute, but then he leaned away
from the wall and down so far Xander feared he might fall over on top of him.
There was a look in Paulson’s eyes he tried to decipher. Was it despair? Fear?

“Stop this conversation. Enough.” The guard with the cultured
accent stepped into Xander’s line of sight. “Doctor Paulson, tell him what you
need, then we leave.”

Paulson straightened and eyed the guard, who was clearly the
leader. “My old age has made it hard to talk. I wrote out a list of
instructions for the soldier. With your permission.” He held out a piece of
paper ripped from a notepad out in a shaking hand.

The guard scowled and grabbed for the paper. “I read that
first.”

Xander noted the byplay, using every bit of information to
gather intel and plot his escape. Paulson wasn’t fully trusted by these Middle
Eastern men. Interesting. He didn’t waste much time wondering about the motives
of Paulson’s partners. They were likely a terrorist cell hoping to breed an
enhanced soldier for their own use. Thinking long term, obviously, as it would
take a long time for an enhanced baby to grow up and do their bidding.

The leader read whatever was written on Paulson’s
instruction sheet. When he didn’t find anything suspicious, he nodded, crumpled
it into a ball, and hurled it at Xander’s face. Then he squatted on his
haunches, making sure the semi-automatic was within view at all times, and got
up in Xander’s face. “You follow instructions. You live a bit longer. You got
it?”

Xander didn’t respond. Was there a need? Until he read
Paulson’s paper, he wasn’t agreeing to anything. The guard rose to full height
and jerked his head toward the door. Everyone filed out.

“I’m going to want a bed. And food. And my boots,” he called
at their retreating backs. “Especially my boots.” He rolled to a sitting
position, making sure his meanest glare was directed at the asshole wearing his
boots. He didn’t know if the guy spoke enough English to get his meaning, but
his pointed look at the boots should be universal enough.

No one responded, and he hadn’t expected them to. When the
door closed and locked, he reached for the crumpled ball of Paulson’s
instructions. Smoothing the paper, he started to read.

A cup will be provided each morning for you to ejaculate
into.
That was it. He frowned. Paulson was getting too old to speak those
few words? Bullshit, there had to be more. He turned the paper over, sideways,
this way and that, and then his eye caught it. There in the margins, almost
looking like inconsequential doodles. It was a code every Program soldier would
know. It was the first code taught to the youngest cohort. It was a series of
lines, each shape corresponding to a letter of the alphabet. Even without a
pen, Xander was able to quickly translate the hidden message.

In too deep. Will help you escape. Cooperate. Take me
with you.
He read the message over a few times, then tore the paper into
tiny shreds that fell about him where he sat on the cold floor in a mockery of
party confetti.

Cooperate with Paulson? Not on your life. Then again, he
didn’t have many other options. Don’t cooperate, be killed. Cooperate, hold out
for a little longer until he could escape. Though it hurt every fiber of his
being, he’d didn’t see another option. He’d have to follow Paulson’s orders and
hope the old man lived up to his end of the bargain.

Emma wrapped her sweater tighter around her body and hurried
toward the dining hall. It wasn’t exactly cold out, but she couldn’t seem to
stop shivering. Ever since Xander had been kidnapped, she couldn’t get
comfortable in her own skin. It could be the hormones leaving her body. She
wished Samara were here to ask, but she’d been scarce on campus.

Xander had been missing for five days, and as far as she’d
heard, they had no leads. Then again, she didn’t even rank on the people who
Shep would confide in. She was only keeping abreast of news thanks to Loren,
who was subtly asking Adam for details then passing them on to Emma. Gavin had
gone to London to explore Paulson’s old haunts, but that was a dead end. She
knew it in her gut.

“Emma?” She halted and turned toward the man who had called
her. He was tall and in good shape for his age, which she judged in his
fifties. His hair was thick and black with a few distinguished lines of gray
threaded through. He looked very familiar, yet she knew she’d never met him
before. She reminded herself she was safe on the campus. Everyone here was
safe, including her.

“Yes, may I help you?”

“I’m Mike Bristack.” He held out a hand but she didn’t
shake. She still didn’t know who he was.

“Michael’s father,” he explained.

Still no recognition. “I’m sorry. I don’t know a Michael.”

The man lowered his hand and narrowed his eyes. “You call
him Xander. Though why he chooses to call himself by his stupid middle name, I
don’t know. Guess it’s my fault for allowing his mother to give him that silly
hippie middle name.”

It took her a moment to remember how to breathe. Xander had
a father? Well, of course he did. She was the idiot for thinking he’d sprung
from the earth. “Xander’s real name is Michael?”

“Michael Bristack, Junior, to be exact.”

“He’s named for you, then?”

Mike Senior nodded. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Of course.” Though she wondered why Xander had never
mentioned a father who looked like his older brother. That’s right, Xander
never mentioned anything of importance to her and probably never would again.
She swallowed back tears.

She stepped with him to the side of the dining hall to a
wooden bench. Neither of them sat.

“Shep tells me they suspect you are Michael’s match.”

She didn’t know how to respond. Maybe he was here to warn
her off, as if he had someone else in mind. A woman who wasn’t messed in the
head, a woman with a job, a real career.

“Is he gone?” Xander’s father asked.

“Excuse me?” She took a step back.

“You’re his match and you should have a sense about whether
he’s gone or not.”

For the first time she looked into the older man’s face and
saw that beneath the tough exterior, there was fear and deep sadness etched
there.

“I-I’m sorry. We were never officially matched. I don’t know
anything about Xander, um, Michael.”

“Why not? Are you saying you weren’t intimate? I don’t see
any complications. You’re young and beautiful. He was a healthy male. Why the
hell were you living apart?”

“We’d only known each other a few weeks.”

He scowled at her. “What does that matter? Either you’re a
match or not.”

She suddenly had a very good idea why Xander went by his
middle name, and she now had fears about this man. What a bully. “I fail to see
how it’s your business.”

“Everything about Michael is my business.”

“He was an adult.”

“He’s my son and he’s still alive. With all the extra
training I gave him, he couldn’t have been taken down easily.”

She felt a sob, which had been at the forefront of her body
ever since Xander had been taken, break loose.

“Xander may have been my match, but he wanted nothing to do
with me. I pray you’re right and that he’s alive, but please don’t assume I’ll
be part of his life when he returns.”

An unreadable expression surfaced on Mr. Bristack’s face.
“When my son returns, you may not be given a choice. It’s time for him to
breed.”

She stared steadily at him. He might want his son to breed,
but his son couldn’t have been clearer about
not
picking her. “I’m
sorry,” she said again. “I wish I could help, but I don’t have any knowledge or
feelings about Xander and he’s made it clear he doesn’t want me in his life. I
hope for your sake he returns healthy very soon, but it doesn’t affect me one
way or the other.”

Her throat hurt at pushing the words out over the lump. Not
affect her? Who was she kidding? Xander was her match, her future, and the
inkling that he was in serious trouble ate away at every emotion in her body.
The only thing keeping her upright was the deep-seated knowledge he was alive.
Lore on the campus was that a matched couple operated on a sixth-sense level,
and she knew Xander was alive. The fear was how long would he remain alive and
in what state would they find him?

* * * * *

Captivity Day Fourteen

Xander’s back slumped against the cool plaster and his eyes
stared ahead at the dingy paint job on the wall in front of him, but they
didn’t focus on it. No, his eyes watched an imaginary film of the first and
only time he’d had sex with Emma. Idly his hand fisted his cock and stroked
from base to tip. He wasn’t near coming. Not yet. He planned to enjoy his
foreplay.

It was early morning judging from the quiet penetrating from
the street, broken only by the clacking rattle of an early-morning delivery
truck. As had happened every morning around this time, the door opened enough
to shove a plate of food, a bottle of water and a sterile cup for his
ejaculate.

In deference to Paulson’s wishes he hadn’t seized the gun
pointing at him while the door opened, hadn’t flung the plate like a Frisbee in
a mad decapitation attempt on his captors. Instead he’d been pacing in the
small room for two weeks like a lab animal undergoing medical testing.

He had roughly ten more minutes before Ahmed, aka the boot
thief, opened the door to retrieve the cup of semen sample. He closed his eyes
and pictured Emma’s perfect, perky breasts. They’d fit his large palms as if
they’d been made for him. He hadn’t tongued them that day in the supply closet
and he regretted it now. He was being foolish. The thing he should be
regretting was that he’d never told his father to go fuck himself. Not regret
over licking a woman’s breasts. Even if those delectable breasts belonged to
Emma.

It had been hot that day and she’d been sweaty. Would she
have tasted salty? Or would she have tasted of some other more mysterious
feminine lotion she rubbed on her body after a shower? He’d kill to know. Hell,
he’d kill to be the one to rub the lotion into her skin.

His cock hardened a fraction in his hand. The tile floor had
warmed under his ass, covered by his pants. He hadn’t bothered baring his ass
this morning, and simply unzipped and pulled his cock out. If he’d been worried
that first day about producing a daily semen sample, he shouldn’t have been.
One passing thought of Emma and he was hard as a rock, ready to go.

He thought about her silky hair, usually spilling out of a
messy bun. He’d never seen her dressed with makeup and done-up hair. A groan
escaped him and he tightened his grip on his shaft at the thought of Emma with
crimson lips and a little dress showing more than a hint of cleavage. She could
wear fuck-me high heels with him and still only come up to his shoulder.

His hand moved faster. Harder.

He held back, not ready to come yet. He wanted more time
with dressed-up imaginary Emma. He imagined them walking into a restaurant. He
was actually wearing fancy shit. Clothes that had never seen the inside of his
closet. He’d do it for Emma. When he got out of here, he vowed he’d take Emma
to dinner. To a place with tablecloths and candles and specials of the day.

Harsh pants escaped his lips, filling the room, and his ass
shifted on the tile floor. He was getting closer. His left hand made a grab for
the sterile cup and he held it at the tip of his leaking cock. He was getting closer
to the moment he looked forward to every time.

His eyelids fluttered as he visualized Emma on her knees,
mouth on his cock, sucking for all she was worth. He was a blowjob virgin. But
shit, he wanted Emma’s sweet lips sucking his cock. Her on her knees sucking
his dick meant she wanted
him
for more than his enhanced semen. She
wanted him as a man and more than a breeding partner. At the visual, his balls
tightened painfully and the pressure built. The come gathered and moved up the
south side of his penis, finally releasing in spurts and hitting the plastic
cup bottom with wet splats.

It took a few minutes for his chest to relax and stop its
up-and-down movement from the exertion. When his heart slowed from sprint to
stroll pace, he roughly shoved his cock in his jeans and zipped them up. He
placed the cup on the floor to the right of the door, then got about planning
his day.

Sit-ups first or push-ups? Maybe he’d break it up by jogging
in place. He didn’t have a mirror, but a quick glance down told him what he
already knew. His abdominal muscles stuck out in stark relief. He’d always been
cut, but now he was nearing zero body fat and all muscle. When he did get out
of here, Emma would take one look and run the other way. His exterior finally
matched his insides. Harsh, cruel with no softness to spare.

He jerked his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the
sole blanket in a crumple on the floor under the window. His captors thought
they were being cruel giving him the one blanket without a mattress or a
pillow. Little did they know his father had ensured the one blanket looked like
luxury.

As a kid he’d had to earn his bed each day, and he rarely
had. No one, adult or child, could measure up to his father’s astronomical
standards. More nights than not, he’d slept shivering under a thin blanket on
the floor next to his small camp cot. The shit he’d catch from his dad was not
worth sneaking onto the thin mattress in the middle of the night. Somehow Dad
always knew and the punishment made the meager luxury of sleeping on the cot
not worth it. He’d learned to get comfortable on the floor.

He got into position, bare feet against the wall, knees at a
ninety-degree angle. With elbows cocked and arms behind his head, he started
his sit-ups. He’d stopped counting reps a few days ago. What was the point?
There was nothing else to do other than push his body until his abs told him to
quit.

The smell of freshly baking bread seeped in the space
between the glass and caulk of the window. What was it today? Croissants? Baguette?
The bakery down the street was an element of the torture his captors hadn’t
taken into account, but it would likely be his breaking point. The French knew
their
boulangeries
. And yeah, he was in France somewhere. The smell of
baking baguette was a dead giveaway, as were the French words penetrating the
barred window. Not Paris. Marseille, if he had to stake money on it.

Sweat blossomed on his skin as his muscles greeted the
familiar and welcome pull of strain. He could do this all day. Had been doing
it all day. Yet he was losing patience with Paulson. He’d only seen Paulson one
more time four days ago. There’d been another communication that Paulson was
close to getting them out. He wasn’t sure he believed it anymore, but he didn’t
have many alternatives.

He was shoeless, cashless, weaponless and friendless in a
foreign country. And any other kind of less he could dream up. If there was an
opportunity to take out his guard and escape, he hadn’t found it yet. He would.
Then he’d be stateside and back with Emma. A grunt escaped on his latest
stomach crunch and he took it as a sign to roll to his stomach and start in on
the push-ups.

Once in position he noted his fingernails were getting long
thanks to the lack of clippers. Maybe he could claw his way out. Something
resembling a smile crossed his lips. It was his first glimpse at humor since
his capture.

His arms easily pushed his planked form up and down while
his bare toes held his lower half. His feet had healed significantly during
captivity. That was the good news. The bad news was his mental health. If he
didn’t get out of this one-room jail cell and get some fresh air soon, he was
going to go insane. He knew he was going insane because he was fantasizing
about a future with Emma, which could never happen. He had to escape.
Yesterday.

* * * * *

University of Maryland

Emma shifted in her front-row seat of Intro to Biology and
tried to take notes. She was one of the few students using an old-fashioned pen
and notepad. For one, she preferred it and two, she didn’t have a laptop. She
knew the Program probably had one to spare, but she didn’t want to ask. She was
beholden enough as it was.

They were already covering most of her tuition. She had
written several IOU notes, but she suspected they’d be
missing
if she
ever tried to repay.

It was her last class of the day and her mouth kept
stretching into yawns. She’d barely slept last night. Or the night before, or
the night before that. Ever since Xander had been taken, really. It was as if
something deep in her psyche knew her match was in grave danger. Until she knew
Xander was safe, she couldn’t feel safe either.

She and Shep had argued long and hard about having a guard
tail her on the college campus. She’d refused, arguing that she held less value
than an enhanced soldier, and it wasn’t worth having one on her all day. Shep
had reluctantly agreed, just as she’d reluctantly agreed there was little she
could do to help with the Xander search. Shep had men scouring the world. They
were trained and she was not. They had resources and she had none. He’d
promised her if they had a clue on Xander’s location, they’d bring her there to
get a lock. Apparently, she’d have that ability.