In Control (8 page)

She watched, the fish eye view of the peephole lending her a surreal vision of a discorporate hand clapping onto his shoulder. In response, Zach stepped backward, away from the door. A bizarre sense of loss swamped her heart. Then Seth's figure stepped into sight and it wasn't loss that hollowed her stomach, but an unexpected sense of alarm.

What the slave felt when the Master was displeased.
Damn him
. Seth was not to be disrespected. She'd learned that the hard way. But she owed him no obedience. Not one iota more, in fact.

"Not a slave...not a slave...not a slave." She chanted the mantra in hopes it would defuse his training, even as Seth's voice came through the door as though on a wave of darkness.

"Have it your way, girl, but consider closely your decision. Think about who will pay the price of you taking care of this through the door."

The hair on the nape of her neck shivered. He meant JoBeth. Her neighbors would probably enjoy, while at the same time condemn the drama in the hallway, especially when one of the primary players wasn't a resident. She might get JoBeth evicted. Some guest she was.

She worked the deadbolt, unsurprised by the trembling of her fingers.

Not in obedience to Seth, but out of concern for JoBeth. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that, when all else fails, fall back on bravado. She wouldn't show fear, not to these jackasses. Never again.

Annabel wrenched open the door and took up a position in the doorway, blocking their entrance. She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Zach. Seth, she ignored.

"Fine," she snapped. "Inside. But don't you dare touch me. You do, and I'll scream down the walls and to hell with the neighbors."

"I understand."

"You"--she retargeted her glare--"are not welc--" She broke off when she realized she was speaking to Seth's back. He was already on his way to the exit.

"Gonna let me in?"

Zach's comment returned her attention to him. He stood in front of her, his eyebrows raised in a half-amused inquiry, and his hands fitted to his jeans-clad hips. Behind him, across the hallway, a shadow moved on the floor, briefly eclipsing the band of light between the carpet and the bottom of the door. Half-heard whispers and giggles filled the silence between her and Zach.

Her audience seemed to find the drama vastly entertaining.

Her cheeks heated, and she knew she'd blushed.

She stepped aside.

* * * *

Zach walked inside and made a quick recon. Old habits died hard.

Evidence of her emergency residence change filled the room. A nest of blankets and pillows packed the not-new-but-still-nice couch. Clothing and belongings filled boxes stacked in the corners. Remnants of microwave meals, as well as dirty dishes, sat at various points on the coffee table. A thirteen-inch TV sat on a long chest of drawers and displayed a Saturday evening comedy. Canned laughter filled the room. Fluorescent lights glowed in the kitchen. A darkened doorway filled the far wall, which probably lead to the bedroom.

Used tissues littered the floor next to a knee-high trash container stuffed with more of the same. Unless she'd caught a cold overnight, she'd been crying. A lot.
Damn it!

The door behind him closed with a meaningful thump. He turned and found her leaning against it, her arms re-crossed beneath her tits and a combative expression on her face. A large heart pounded in Annabel, he reflected. No coward, that one. He'd trust his back to her on the battlefield, except at this moment, since she looked ready to stick a serrated Ka-Bar between his shoulder blades.

"Say what you have to say and leave," she commanded.

He hid a smile. She was an adorable spitting kitten, nothing but bravado, puffed up hair, and tiny, tiny claws. The lightweight summer nightgown she wore sported small, embroidered pink flowers against yellow fabric. There was nothing remotely sexual about it. Neither was the dingy, grayish ankle socks on her feet, or the tumbled knots of her inky hair. His dick twitched its interest anyway.

He never did do things the easy way.

Zach lowered himself onto the nearest reading chair beside the couch. "This will take a few minutes."

She dropped into her nest and drew the blankets over her legs. His missing T-shirt tumbled to the floor. He said nothing about it. His heart gave a few excited thumps. Its presence gave him hope, even as she grabbed the remote and flipped channels, appearing supremely bored with the situation.

"I'm not offering you a drink or any snacks, so you might as well get to it."

He felt the corners of his mouth twitch. All she needed was a yawn to pull off the ploy. Unfortunately for her, the throbbing of the pulse in her neck was visible and pounded at an elevated tempo. Nervous.

He knew the feeling.

Zach gathered his thoughts. "I'm here about yesterday."

"So you said."

He hadn't expected she'd make this easy for him. "I'm here to make things right."

She stared at him, her eyes widened and mouth agape, as though he'd transformed into one of those desert vipers occasionally encountered in 'Stan. An unpleasant situation for everyone involved, including the snake.

She eventually managed to find language again and gasped, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"This a joke?"

"No."

Suddenly enraged, she slammed down the remote control. A cluster of used flatware clinked a protest against dirty plates and bowls. Her pretty mouth twisted into an impressive snarl. "Get the fuck out of here."

He'd seen less scary battle-faces on the Marines of his fire team. "I know you're angry, but hear me out."

"I've heard enough. Leave."

She grabbed up the remote control again and returned to switching channels. He was certain she had nothing in mind but to appear supremely disinterested in whatever he had to say. She'd probably wear that mask to the very end unless he forced a change, no matter what lived in her heart--as provided by the T-shirt's presence.

He sighed and pushed to his feet. His leg winced, but he ignored it and moved between her and the TV. He took a seat on the coffee table, having to push aside some crap to do so. He plucked the remote from her hand, hit the off button, and tossed it to the floor.

"Hey!" she yelped.

The TV went silent behind him. "I said we're gonna talk."

"We did. It's done."

"That was a monologue. Now you and I will exchange thoughts instead of sparring. We'll communicate with each other."

It was impossible to ignore the fact she'd straightened away from him, moving as far out of reach as she could get without surrendering her seat. It wasn't revulsion, if he was any judge of the way her eyes had dilated. Brave as she was, she would hold her position and conceal her fear. She didn't trust close quarters. With what he'd heard, he could understand that. But sitting here probably did nothing but extend her anxiety.
Get to it, Roberson.

"My actions last night were regrettable." She choked, but he plowed on before she unleashed the tempest coloring her cheeks a fiery red. "They were based on misinformation and bad intelligence."

He stopped and waited. Eventually, she realized he was waiting for a response. She gave one, but not one he appreciated. Her upper lip curled in that impressive Annabel snarl.

"That's your idea of an apology?" she scorned.

Well, yeah, it was, and it was the best she would be getting. "I'm a Marine and a dominant man. I don't apologize for choices I make, but...I will allow that behavior and actions based on bad intel are rarely productive."

She stared at him, her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide.

Zach forced himself not to squirm. Enough time passed for him to realize she was struggling too hard to come to grips with the situation to speak. Again it fell to him, but what did he expect? He was the man, the Marine, who'd fucked up.

He passed a hand over his used-to-be-crew cut hair and huffed a sigh. "Look. I know I've done damage and you need help. I want to make it right. Will you let me do that?"

She offered a prideful sniff and looked away. "What makes you think I need help?"

He reached for her chin. At the contact, she jumped and flinched, making a sound like a puff adder's warning hiss. He didn't pull away. In fact, he curved his palm around her cheek and tried his best to radiate calm and reassurance, while Annabel held herself stiff, clearly uncomfortable and wary.

"That's what makes me believe you're not fine."

She tossed her head, the action not coincidentally pulling her face away from his hand. "You're such an ass. Even if there was a problem, and there's not, what makes you think you can
fix this
"--her fingers curled in the ubiquitous gesture of air quotes--"when your hands are all over the so-called problem?"

He reached down, grabbed up his T-shirt and carefully drew it over her lap. She went rigid, flushing. "This is what makes me believe I can fix things. My scent comforts you. That's a truth we can work with."

* * * *

Humiliation slammed through Annabel. She grabbed the bit of cotton and chucked it at Zach. It bounced off his chest. He didn't react. Not a smile, a smirk, or a laugh, and thank God for that because if he had, she would've lunged off the couch and punched him.

"Keep it," she snapped. "You don't know what I need. You proved that already."

He eased the crumpled blue cotton from his lap to hers. The furrow of his brows didn't speak of temper. It spoke of deep, careful thoughts. And when he spoke them, they rocked her world.

"You need is what we all need--to belong. I can help with that."

How had he known? All she had ever wanted was for someone to love her enough to protect and comfort her. But no one ever had. Not even her mom. Traumatic memories haunted her nightly regarding the many, the futile things she'd done in her quest to be treasured, to be valued, to be loved. The list was both extensive and heartbreaking.

She'd buried that need, goddamn it.

Didn't I?

With one sentence, he resurrected that need, that soul-deep want. It twisted in her gut.
Please, somebody, love me
...

"And because you are worth the effort."

His cloud-gray eyes were steady as they looked into hers. Believe me, they seemed to say. The want was so strong it shook her. Oh, God, she prayed, not again. Please. But the dream fluttered in her heart, proving that a lifetime of failure hadn't stripped it from her soul.

"H-how?" She breathed the question. "I mean, I am?"

He smiled that movie star smile of his. Dimples grooved his cheeks.

"Of course you are," he said, then stood and glanced at the door. "Seth's waiting in the car to drive me home, so I'd better go. I'll see you tomorrow night at the townhouse. You'll be meeting with me for dinner all this week, maybe more."

He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and extracted a twenty-dollar bill, which he sat on the coffee table behind him. "Here. For gas."

She must have lost a point during their talk. "Why?"

"As I said, I expect you at my house on Monday. We'll be meeting for dinner every evening this week."

Yep, she'd missed something. "Why?" she asked again.

"Because I want you there and because you need to eat. You're so damned skinny you scare me."

The door closed behind him without her managing to find anything to say to that.

"Over here. On your knees."

Annabel froze in shock and disbelief. She'd spent the past hour or so working alongside Zach in the kitchen. The delicious scent of halloumi cheese and chicken skewers wafted across her senses in the most tantalizing of ways. She'd followed him into the living room, her stomach growling its impatience. His words, however, froze her in place.

Maybe she hadn't heard right. "What?"

Plate of food in hand, he walked to an overstuffed chair across the room from the fireplace. He stopped and set the plate on the convenient end table before turning back to her and leveling a steady gaze back to onto her.

"Over here," he repeated. "On your knees."

As they'd prepped the food and prepared it, she and Zach had bounced off each other. Well, she had bounced, she admitted. He seemed to enjoy pressing into her personal space. She was always uncomfortable when that close to another person in a non-sexual scene. A slap or a painful pinch could come at any time.

It was second nature to move out of arm's reach whenever anyone was that close. But what had really fried her nerves had been his determined act of whispering every word into her ear. "Hand me the oil; pass me the parsley." She'd nearly dropped her glass of white wine the first time he'd done that. However, after hours spent with his body inside her personal bubble, she'd managed to relax. It was clear he was occupied with stovetop duties and busy hands couldn't hit or pinch.

But now? Had he lost his mind? Kneel?
As if
.

She sipped from her wineglass as she exited the kitchen and approached him. He stood between her and the halloumi skewers, seemingly protecting the munchies with his body. She tossed her head, daring him to make her. Her stomach growled.

Don't you dare laugh, fucker
.

He didn't. Instead, he plucked the wineglass from her hand and lowered himself into the chair. A pained wince flashed across his face as he used the leg. Maybe she should say something? Before she could think of something to say--polite? Supportive? Compassionate?--he'd set her glass on the table beside his own.

He made a triangle of his fingers and pressed them against his lips as he gazed at her, not unlike how a pompous royal examined the annoying peasantry who'd dared to bother him with their needs. The urge to be compassionate evaporated.

He lowered his hands. "What we're attempting to do here with the kneeling is to get you used to trusting someone else with your safety. I think it's clear you've had troubles in that area and our goal here is to repeat the action with no negative consequence. Yeah, it'll be uncomfortable, but like my fucked-up leg, it must be worked in order to heal."