Fit to Be Tied [Marshals: 2] (25 page)

“I know.”

“And he operated on me, too, I think.”

Ian bent close to me. “M—”

“It was Wojno, he was the leak!”

“Yeah, the Feds figured that out already.”

“They did? How did—”

“Could you please stop talking and let these nice people do their jobs.”

“Yeah, but you won’t—”

“I won’t what? Go?”

“Yeah.”

“
No
.”

“But what if you get a call?”

“Deployment call, you mean,” he said solemnly, leaning in close to me, nuzzling my cheek, my ear, and kissing along my jaw.

“Yeah.”

“I will not move from your side.”

“Promise.”

“Oh yes. Not on your life.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

I had to ask, as much as I didn’t want to. “Did they catch him?”

“No, love, he’s in the wind.”

I took that in. “How long was I with him?”

“Four days.”

It had felt like so much longer.

“Breathe,” he whispered.

I nodded.

“I’m here now. You know I’ll protect you. I’m not going anywhere.”

It was good enough for me.

I
T
WAS
later when I heard him speaking soft and low, the tone lulling and resonant, and it wasn’t enough. I wanted to see him so I opened my eyes slowly, carefully because I wasn’t sure what the light situation would be. But the room was dim, it was dark outside and there was only a small bedside lamp on. Ian was at the window looking out as he spoke on his phone.

I watched him, appreciating the strong lines of his frame, the T-shirt he was wearing clung to his broad shoulders and the sculpted muscles in his back and biceps. The faded jeans hugged his lean hips, ass and long, powerful legs. My breath caught as I stared because yes, I knew all about his heart and that made me love him, but the body on the man made my pulse race.

He turned at the sound I made and the smile lit his face.

A throb of arousal rolled through me and I was so glad that everything still worked. Responding to Ian in such a primal way, a physical way, made me feel like me again.

“He’s awake,” he said into the phone, “I have to go, but I’ll send my report later tonight.” And with that he ended the call before crossing the room quickly to me.

I lifted a hand toward him and he took it gently when he reached me, bending to kiss my knuckles before leaning in further to kiss me.

The need for more was instantaneous but he pulled back to look at my face. I wanted him closer, on me, in me… and that was new. Not that I had never thought about Ian topping before but for whatever reason, at the moment, the idea was almost overwhelming for how much I needed him to.

“What’s going on?” I tried to ask, but my voice wasn’t working all that well.

“I think you need some water,” he concluded, turning to the pitcher on the nightstand to the left of him. He filled the cup with the straw and made sure I could drink easily, watching me intently. I drank slowly, and when I’d had enough, I leaned back and cleared my throat.

“Hi,” I said hoarsely, smiling at him.

“Hi back,” he sighed, trailing his fingers through my hair, pushing it off my forehead, over and over, languorously, seemingly content to do nothing more.

“Who was on the phone?”

“Kage. I’ve been giving him hourly updates.”

“Is he mad? I bet he’s mad.”

“Yeah, I don’t see either one of us—or anyone who works for him—on a FBI or DEA task force in the near future. Only ops we run that are secure.”

Ian had shaved, and his hair in its usual tapered crewcut was no longer standing on end. He still looked beat, but he was smiling rakishly at me, the lines in the corners of his eyes were crinkling and his lip was curled dangerously, and listening to him talk, with the rumbling growl, was making my body heat. Oh, I needed to heal faster.

“M?”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, but no op is completely secure. Even when we’re in charge of them, shit can happen.”

“I wouldn’t try and play devil’s advocate with Kage right now. He’s kind of pissed at everybody and you don’t want to be on his list.”

“Point taken,” I agreed, taking hold of the hem of his T-shirt, tugging just a little so he moved closer. “So tell me what happened to Hartley.”

Instant scowl. “He was gone when the FBI got to the place where you were held.”

“There were others guys. Did they get them?”

“Everybody was dead when they went in.”

“Oh shit.”

“But we figured that, right? I mean, Hartley, he’s not the forgiving type, and they let you get away. They were dead the second you went out the door.”

It was true.

“What about Wojno?”

“He wasn’t there.”

“Okay. So what’s the next—”

“Enough,” he said gruffly. “There’s marshals and the FBI and the state police and Phoenix PD all out looking for Hartley and Wojno. You and I can’t do shit about that.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I don’t wanna waste time talking about them. I have something else to say.”

Whatever it was couldn’t be good, from his irritated expression, the squint, the frown, and the clenched jaw. “Okay.”

He took a breath. “You gotta marry me.”

It took me a moment, because even though I’d heard him, and what he was saying was amazing, I was also very concerned that he’d lost his mind. “I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he grumbled, moving his hand to my cheek, stroking over my skin. “But listen, there were decisions that had to be made about you.”

My throat hurt and my mouth was dry, but I was afraid to ask for another sip of water because I didn’t want him to stop talking.

“And they had to get in touch with Aruna,” he said, his voice cracking just a bit. “I was right here, but what I thought, nobody gave a shit about.”

I nodded.

“You want another drink?”

“Yeah,” I croaked.

He poured more water for me, then maneuvered the end of the straw to my lips and watched as I took several sips. Taking a breath after he replaced it on my nightstand, he slipped his hand into mine.

“So will you?”

Could he have looked any more miserable?

“M?”

I chuckled softly. “Listen, I know you were scared, but—”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Ian—”

“Just say okay, you’ll marry me.”

“No.”

His head turned sideways a little, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me right. “No?”

I couldn’t hold back my smile. “You wanna marry me so you get to say what happens to me, and I get that. But you don’t have to—”

“No, I—”

“We can get a power of attorney and—”

“You wanted to marry me before you were kidnapped,” he said defensively.

“And you didn’t,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but now I do.”

I shook my head. “You wanna have a say—
the
say—and I’m telling you, you can have it. You don’t have to put a ring on my finger just to be the guy who’s in charge of pulling or not pulling the plug.”

“Miro—”

“It’s okay,” I soothed him, lifting my hand to his face. “God, I’m so glad to see you.”

He closed his eyes a moment, leaning into my hand, and then sighed deeply as his gaze met mine. “I thought the marriage thing was stupid.”

“I know you did, and do.”

“Yeah, but now I’m thinking I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s put this whole discussion on hold until you figure it out, okay?”

“But I wanna be… closer.”

“Oh, marshal, you have no idea how much I want that.”

It took him a second. “I’m unburdening my heart and you’re being pervy.”

I didn’t want to laugh because it hurt. “Ow-ow-ow… stop.”

“You’re thinking about sex.”

“What?” I teased innocently.

“Jesus, only you.”

“Come here and kiss me,” I mumbled, my energy level dipping, making it hard to keep my eyes open.

“I think you need to rest.”

God, I was tired. “Yeah, okay,” I agreed, hearing my voice crack as I closed my eyes. “But kiss me first.”

His lips brushed my forehead.

“Not what I mean,” I yawned in conclusion.

“I know,” he agreed huskily, pressing his lips to my temple. “Sleep now.”

“You’re staying, right?”

“Yes, love, you don’t have to worry.”

And I didn’t. It was Ian after all.

T
HERE
WERE
things that surprised me and things that did not. Like I was not shocked to find Ian passed out on one of those recliners beside my bed when I woke up, but I was surprised that one of my best friends, Dr. Catherine Benton, was standing there hovering over me, resembling a wrung-out old mop.

“You look terrible,” I commented, my voice scratchy, full of gravel.

“Well, you’re not looking so hot yourself,” she volleyed, never missing a beat.

“Why’re you in scrubs?” I asked, wondering why she was there.

She stepped closer, brushed my hair back from my face, and then bent and kissed my forehead. “Because I just operated on you,” she answered when she straightened.

“How come?”

“That man took a rib out of your body and I wanted to make sure there were no sharp edges left inside,” she said flatly.

I grinned up at her. “Who called ya?”

She lifted an eyebrow.

Shit. “Aruna,” I answered my own question.

“Yep. She’s your emergency contact; she’s who they called to ask what to do.”

“And she called you like a second later.”

“As she should have,” she answered.

“Is she okay?”

“She’s worried, as were we all.”

By
all
she meant my coven, Catherine and the three other women who had been my family since college. “But you told them I’m okay.”

“And they all agreed to stay home as long as I made the trip.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” she murmured, glancing over at Ian.

It was ridiculous, but I sighed deeply. “He’s pretty, huh?”

“Gorgeous, yes.”

“I think he loves me.”

“Yes, I would agree.”

I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I wanna marry him.”

“You already got him moved in. I think you’re on the right track.”

Thinking for a moment, I looked down at the hospital gown, the cast on my left leg from right below the knee down, and then returned my gaze to her face. “I’m kind of out of it.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Is that why I’m so calm?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think I’m stoned.”

She waggled her eyebrows at me.

“Hartley gave me drugs when he had me too.”

“He certainly did.”

“It’s why I didn’t die from sepsis or something when he took the rib, right?”

“I refuse to give that psychopath credit for anything,” she replied, her voice icy. “I don’t even believe in the death penalty, but in his case… I’m ready to make an exception.”

“No, you’re not.”

She went quiet a moment, thinking. “No, I’m not. I’m sure I could think of many more creative alternatives to death.”

I reached for her hand and she grabbed it tight. “Siddown.”

She perched beside me, and I finally noticed how tired she looked. “My fault, I’m sorry.”

“For what? Being kidnapped? Really?”

“You really do look terrible.”

“I know. Normally I’m stunning.”

She was right, she normally was. With her long, thick black hair swept up into a side braid with a low bun, her eyelashes so perfect they appeared fake, and the slightest blush to her cheeks, she was a goddess in the flesh. Even in pale blue scrubs she was usually quite alluring, and now that I was really studying her, I could still see her innate beauty, but her concern, her worry, her fear… for me… had changed her appearance. Furrowed brows, lips set into a tight line, dark circles under her eyes, and how pale she looked all worked together to show me a picture of grief. I’d scared the crap out of her.

“Forgive me.”

“Stop,” she said simply.

“You’re beautiful,” I croaked.

She covered our entwined hands with her other before her gaze met mine. “Stop talking, you’re not strong enough yet.”

“You, then.”

Quick inhale of breath. “He took out your number twelve rib, what’s called a floating rib, and if you have to lose one, that’s the one I’d pick.”

“Okay.”

“It’s called a floating rib, or a false rib, because it’s attached only to the vertebrae, not to the sternum or to any cartilage of the sternum.”

“So?”

“So it’s not like you snapping the ones near the top, this one is small.”

“It was the best one to lose.”

“Right.”

“And so why’d you open me up?”

“I told you already—I wanted to make sure he did it right and that you were okay, nothing punctured inside, nothing bleeding, and nothing left behind. I needed to see for myself.”

“You couldn’t just do an MRI or something?” I prodded. “You had to open me up again for fun?”

“Yes,” she said dryly. “I did it for fun. I’m a sadist, I thought you knew.”

I scoffed. “And?”

“And it looks fine and two other surgeons agreed with me.”

“Okay.”

“I won’t even guess why he needed your rib.”

“Best not to.”

“You had to have been in shock afterwards because the pain would have been unbearable.”

“He gave me lots of drugs.”

“I saw—he had quite the cocktail going.”

“But nothing that could hurt me long-term, right?”

“I think it messed with your memory a little, but other than that, no.”

“What else is wrong?”

She explained that my left ankle was broken, as were the ring finger and pinky on my left hand—that Hartley had already told me about. I was covered in scrapes and bruises; I had a concussion. I’d been stabbed in the shoulder and it had required nineteen stitches to close, but her dear friend, Gavin Booth—who was some kind of miracle-worker plastic surgeon who worked in Scottsdale—had come when she called and sewed up everything on me that needed mending.

“The scarring should be very minimal,” she informed me.

“I don’t care.”

“I do,” she retorted sharply. “It’s bad enough this animal had you. I won’t allow him to leave any marks.”