Her Secret Dom (16 page)

The biting words caught Pam unawares and lanced through her with surprising force. She peered into Jared’s stormy face, her heart sinking like a stone. He’d never spoken to her so harshly before. Ever.

She stared down at her plate, not wanting him to read the pain in her eyes. How she hated for anyone to see this side of her—the vulnerable core that bled much too easily. The part she kept hidden behind a toughened exterior, the one she disguised with flippant remarks and cutting rejoinders.

Shaken, she tried making sense of the sudden turn. Failing this, she retreated into quiet reflection. For her, daydreams offered a refuge from life’s bitter pills, yet this time, the memory that came to mind was anything but soothing.

It was at her aunt’s rural home in New Hampshire when she first witnessed the brutal indifference of the universe. That hot summer afternoon remained etched in her memory, although she’d just turned seven when it occurred. Having endured a particularly hot day, she sat reading on the porch steps, listening to the lazy hum of insects and the twitter of songbirds. Soon, the splendor of the day called to her, so she set aside her book to enjoy the sights.

She was too busy admiring the pretty, purple wings of a nearby butterfly to notice the approaching storm. Having never seen anything like it before, she stared after the butterfly, entranced at its ethereal beauty. The sky darkened ominously, and a slight breeze whispered a warning, but still she watched the butterfly’s meandering journey within the garden.

One minute it was dancing in the warm breeze, its fragile wings fluttering among her aunt’s flowers; then in an instant it got caught up in the howling winds of the summer squall. The tiny creature struggled valiantly against the forces of nature for a brief time; then it hit the porch screen and dropped to the ground.

Pam tried reviving it, but after twitching a time or two, it died, its gorgeous violet wings wilting within seconds. Heartbroken, she’d buried it in an elaborate ceremony under her aunt’s lavender patch, refusing to invite her rambunctious cousin, Simon, who would’ve teased her without mercy had he known.

What a silly dreamer she’d been. And still was. Instead of playing safe, she had tried getting closer to this enigmatic man she loved, and had nothing but pain to show for her effort. Like that dumb butterfly, she didn’t have the sense to hide from the storm.

Shaking off the unbidden memory, Pam reminded herself the first cut always hurt the worst. That was the reason why she felt gutted by Jared’s comment. What to do? Her first instinct was to retaliate, but she couldn’t seem to form a stinging comeback.

How humbling to realize she, a woman capable of defending herself against her foes, had been disarmed with such devastating ease by the one she loved.

Why? Because his regard meant too much to her.

Never mind. Self-preservation was one of her strong points—no matter what it cost her.

Pam tucked away the secret part of herself and ignored the ache in her heart. Looking for something to do, she reached for the water glass with a hand that shook a little. She took a sip through numb lips and wondered how things could go downhill so fast.

“Pamela.” Jared’s voice interrupted her quiet introspection. “Look at me.”

She managed to peer into his dark depths. They now held a look of remorse she didn’t want to see, as it only confirmed his awareness of her frailty. “Yes?” she replied, grateful for the dispassionate tone she managed to produce despite her distress.

“I’m sorry for striking out at you. That comment was uncalled for.” He reached across the table, then lifted her hand to his lips.

Pam tried pulling away, but he held fast. When he rubbed her hand against his cheek, she felt something inside her tremble and crack.

But no. She wouldn’t let him get to her again. Not when he could do so much damage. “Just forget it,” she said, snatching her hand back.

“I didn’t mean it, sugar.”

“Of course you did. But never mind. My fault for asking for more when you weren’t ready to give it.” She stood up. “Well, I’m done,” she said in a chirpy voice, snatching up her coat.

Jared followed suit, tossing a couple of twenties on the table. Before she could sidle past him, he grabbed her elbow and steered her toward the exit. Once outside, Pam turned in the direction of the subway station that led toward home.

Jared tugged her back to face him. “Stop it. You’re coming home with me.”

His imperious tone brooked no nonsense and, despite her inner turmoil, Pam stayed put. “What for? I just got some life-changing news. I need to go home and think.”

He lifted his hand for a taxi. “We need to talk. Now.”

“I have nothing left to say,” she responded, refusing to look at him. “And I think you’ve said enough.”

“No, I haven’t.” The slight catch in his voice caught her attention and her head snapped up. Jared reached over and stroked her cheek. “Give me a chance. It’s time I told you a few things.”

Just then, a cab pulled up to the curb, cutting off any reply. Jared ushered her into the taxi before she could protest. Once inside, Pam stared out the window, trying to lose herself in the controlled chaos that was New York.

Chapter Eight

Four years earlier…

The desert was a hellish place, especially this time of year. The nights often turned blessedly cool after the scorching heat of day, yet in spite of the diminishing heat, Jared felt icy rivulets of sweat trickling down his back, soaking through his uniform.

As the team made their way toward the tiny village, he stole a glance at William Brady, his next in command, trying once more to figure out the emotions hidden behind his friend’s impassive expression. The platoon sergeant’s easygoing nature had shown some cracks in recent weeks—the sudden turn demonstrated in mean-spirited comments about the local populace, and brooding silences. Today, though, he seemed more tranquil than angry. Perhaps his shuttered look signified he’d descended into that state of weary acceptance often adopted by soldiers after too many tours.

Jared had enlisted a detachment of seven other men—having determined a larger unit would be too heavy-handed for this mission. This particular community had never shown hostility toward the Americans, in fact, they’d proved a great asset in the ongoing battle against the insurgents. However, a source had claimed this was no longer the case, that for reasons unknown people had turned to the other side, and perhaps a few enemies lay hidden within the walls of a certain home near the center of town.

Jared harbored some doubts about the reliability of his informant. Even so, he had little choice but to follow up on the tip. Reconnaissance remained the heart and soul of intelligence gathering, so despite some misgivings about questioning allies, he put together a small team of his best men to investigate.

The unit had parked their vehicles a quarter mile down the road and continued on foot. They filed up the dusty hillside in near silence. Not that it made any difference—no doubt, the roar of jeeps echoing off the distant mountains had announced their arrival.

Using stealth wasn’t part of the plan anyway. As far as he was concerned, driving right up to a man’s front door while armed to the teeth made no sense if he wanted his continued support.

In the unlikely event that a few insurgents lay hidden among the villagers, he knew the bastards would be ready for them regardless. It didn’t matter if he ordered an ambush or gave some warning—cornered rats were always prepared to fight hard and dirty. Knowing this, he’d taken the precaution of arming the team well. Even if the intelligence was uncertain, he wasn’t taking any chances in this blood-soaked region.

The sun wouldn’t set for another hour, yet the village looked abandoned. The house in question came into view. It was little more than a shack. Although a humble abode, it showed evidence of care, from the well-tended vegetable patch to a recent roof repair.

As the unit advanced on the house, with Jared and Sergeant Brady leading, the front door swung open. A man stepped over the threshold and shut the door. He turned to face them, and Jared recognized him as one of the village leaders, held in much regard by all. Despite their noisy arrival a few minutes before, the man’s head was bare of the
karakul
often worn by the village elders. Thin, gray strands of hair stood out in all directions, and Jared suspected his men had likely woken him from an after-dinner nap.

The old man approached the soldiers with some caution, his hooded eyes scanning the small group, then settling on Jared.

“Lieutenant Marlowe,” he greeted in clear but thickly accented English.

Jared returned the salutation, taking a moment to inquire about the man’s health and recent concerns of the village. He communicated in a tortured mixture of stilted Pashto and English, but the man seemed to understand him.

Pleasantries aside, Jared stated his wish to conduct a quick search of the premises. When the elder’s eyes flashed with surprise and affront, Jared launched into a carefully worded explanation, while attempting to convey the importance of his continued cooperation in order to rule out future searches.

He was a stubborn pain in the ass, but Jared sensed he would comply in due course. Such token resistance was not only a matter of retaining a measure of pride, but likely a stalling tactic to give the women of the household an opportunity to make themselves presentable.

Relief washed over him when the man yanked at his hair and flung up his hands in the universal gesture of defeat. Finally. Consent.

The interlude came to a halt when Brady marched forward, a hand poised on his M16 rifle. “Enough of your bullshit, you fuckin’ raghead. Move aside or I’ll move you myself.”

The tension in his unit became palpable. A momentary dread gripped Jared. Nevertheless, he stepped between his friend and the villager. “Hands off the weapon, Sergeant,” he ordered. “Step back. Now.”

Brady’s eyes turned wild with disbelief. “Ya kidding me, right? This fucker is breaking your balls and you’re just gonna take it?”

Instead of responding, Jared leaned in and chest-butted the smaller man, nearly knocking him to the ground. “Falcone, cover me,” he bade his third in command, keeping his gaze leveled on Brady. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Falcone take position inches behind his immediate superior.

Brady stiffened and stared at Jared. “You siccing one of my own men on me, Marlowe?” Then, turning to the soldier standing behind him, he edged closer, going nose to nose. “Back the fuck off, you little shit.”

Falcone looked a bit terrified but didn’t budge. Brady swung out his leg and hooked Falcone behind the knees in a sweeping movement. Caught by surprise, the soldier landed on his ass in the dust.

Brady reached down and smacked Falcone on the cheek. “I won’t even punch you like a man, motherfucker. You deserve no more than a bitch slap.”

With a growing sense of foreboding, Jared shouted, “You have assaulted your own man and have shown insubordination, Sergeant! Hand over your weapon!”

Brady swung to face him. The two men glared at each other, with neither backing down. A brief standoff ensued; then without warning, Brady barreled into Jared, who stumbled back and nearly lost his balance. With a bone-chilling roar of fury, Brady pushed away from Jared and sprinted toward the villager, who stood rooted in shock.

It was in that crucial moment between intent and execution Jared made his decision. The bullet hit its target—Brady dropped the rifle and crashed to the ground, shrieking in agony and clutching his thigh. Jared stalked over to his writhing body and, holding his own gun aloft, kicked the sergeant’s rifle to a safe distance.

“Falcone, secure the weapon,” he commanded. Jared shadowed Brady, who had managed to crawl to the side of the house and press his face to the wall, his grunts of pain audible in the shocked silence. He shifted onto his good leg and to Jared’s astonishment, began bashing his forehead against the unforgiving surface, muttering foul curses. Over and over, until bloody smears stained the whitewash.

Brady stopped, and an eerie hush descended. Jared cringed when Brady lifted his head and his unearthly howls filled the air.

The front door flung open, and Jared shouted for his men to take position. Instead of an insurgent, however, a girl of about twelve darted from the house, her long black hair trailing behind her as she streaked toward the old man, her choking sobs of “Baabaa!” adding to the din. A wail of alarm followed in her wake before her grandfather caught her in his embrace. Crouching over her thin frame, he shielded her with his body, staring up at Jared in naked terror.

The howling had stopped, and Jared’s attention switched to Brady, who now sat propped against the wall, shaking, his face bloodied, and eyes vacant. A growing spot of crimson bloomed on his uniformed leg.

“William,” Jared whispered low, but Brady didn’t respond. He inched over to the downed man cautiously, hands on his weapon.

A muffled sob rose from the cowering duo, and Brady’s head swung in the direction of the sound. With the unemotional precision of an automaton, he reached for the M9 pistol tucked in his belt.

Two shots rang out. The first tore through Brady’s hand, rendering it useless. Although ruined beyond repair, his hand spasmed around the gun, causing a second bullet to discharge and enter the girl’s skull.

* * * *

Pamela sat on the sofa next to Jared, trembling and heartsick. “Please tell me she didn’t die,” she pleaded.

Jared was staring into the distance as if communicating with the ghosts from his past. Finally, he turned to her, his face strained and pale. “No. She didn’t die,” he murmured low. “But she sustained brain damage. She’s able to function on a limited level, but her abilities are…reduced considerably.”

It was too horrible. “That poor baby…and her grandfather.” Tears welled up, but she forced them back. This was not the time to indulge in sniveling. Jared needed her. She threaded her fingers in his, offering comfort.

Jared patted her hand with a preoccupied air, then gazed at her with a look of such desolation, it nearly tore the heart from her chest. He continued in a husky voice. “The real heartbreak, you see, was that before this tragedy little Amina had been her family’s shining star. They’d managed to educate her despite terrible odds, and she’d always been a brilliant student. There was talk of university—she had dreams of being an orthopedic surgeon…”