He smiled, but offered no comment. Instead, he tried to shove more baklava into my mouth.
I turned away. “Thank you, but please, no more. You're going to put me in a sugar coma."
Placing the plate on the vanity, he dropped to his knees before me. “If my goddess is done eating,” he said, lifting my leg. “Then it is my turn for desert. And in the process, I have the pleasure of worshiping her body."
My pussy tingled in anticipation as he kissed his way up to my inner thigh.
Feeling like someone was staring at me, I opened my eyes.
"Good morning, gorgeous."
I blinked at the sunlight filtering in. My captor was sitting on the edge of my bed looking down at me, freshly showered, dressed, and smelling delicious as usual.
"What are you doing?” I asked.
"Watching you sleep."
I rubbed my forehead. God, I was exhausted. “Don't you ever sleep?"
"I only need a couple of hours. Three, four at most."
"It's not good to do that to your body,” I offered in my concerned physician tone. “You should rest more."
Smiling, he took an extra pillow and signaled me to lean forward. “I know. After I leave here, I'm going on a long vacation."
As I sat up to let him place the cushion behind me, my tired mind finally woke up, joining the here and now.
Shit, I was still naked.
I pulled the covers over my breasts as memories of the prior night assaulted me. I'd literally thrown myself at him. What had I been thinking? What must he think of me?
"Hmm. Morning regrets?"
His question jerked from my thoughts “What?"
"Morning regrets? You're blushing again, and you're suddenly being shy.” He stared pointedly at the blanket I had nearly tugged up to my chin.
More memories.
More blushing.
"Oh, no, it's not you. It's me,” I offered awkwardly, waving his concerns off.
A cliché and corny answer, I know, but I didn't know what else to say.
The look he gave me said he found the answer inadequate as well.
"Really,” I continued. “You were amazing. I just..."
He reached behind him and produced a tray which he placed on my lap. Breakfast. Fruit, yogurt, toast, and juice.
"Thank you,” I mumbled.
"Talk to me."
What did he want me to say? That I was embarrassed for acting like a royal slut?
I stared at the food.
I was in love with him. Maybe he was in love with me too, but I couldn't be sure. He never declared it. Either way, the possibility was there and I hated to think he thought less of me because I acted so ... sexually assertive. I had initiated the intimacy for the sole sake of my sexual gratification, true, but I couldn't have done it if I hadn't felt comfortable with him. And after the initial act, the following ones had seemed special, had been special, at least to me. He took such care in my pleasure, made love to my body in a way I had never experienced before, made me feel something deeper than carnal satisfaction.
Did that mean he
really
cared for me? Was he just the best lover I'd ever had, or did he love me? And if so, did I ruin things by being so forward? Did he take my lascivious display as a sign that I felt no emotional bond with him? That I was acting on lust alone, using him for my pleasure, that he felt everything and I felt nothing? And did he now have this negative perception of me, that I was not the lady he had come to know over the weeks, but some wonton bitch in heat who often slept with random men whose names she didn't even know?
"Brenna, how about less thinking and more talking."
I met his gaze.
As odd as it might be, my nameless captor was probably the closest thing I'd ever had to a best friend. And even now, the way he stared at me gave me the sudden urge to spill my guts. Somehow, he always found a way to make me open up, make me laugh, make me feel safe, secure, and like I was something special and to be treasured.
"Last night, the way I acted ... Shit, how do I say this..."
"Just say what's on your m—"
"Do you think I'm a slut?” I blurted out.
Doh! Nice, Brenna. Very classy.
His eyes shone in humorous disbelief. “If I couldn't see for myself how much you're worried about this, I'd think you were joking with me."
"You find my question stupid,” I groaned.
"No, I don't.” He took my hand in his. “And to answer your question—no, I don't. The word ‘slut’ never entered my mind in connection to you. Passionate, beautiful, amazing—these are the things I think of when I think of you. Last night was indescribable. I couldn't put into words what it meant to me. And you were—are, perfect."
"I wouldn't say all that,” I whispered.
He kissed my knuckles. “You're so damn enchanting, incredibly sexy, and I can't get enough of you."
I pulled my hand back. “You do know I'm in love with you, right?"
"Yes, but it's always nice to hear it.” His eyes shined bright in the morning light. “And if you'd hurry and complete your half of our bargain, then I could tell you I how I feel."
"Do I want to know?"
He shrugged. “Do you?"
Yes.
"Tell you now?” I asked.
"No time like the present."
"Okay. I lied on my application because I was afraid they wouldn't let me in the enlisted ranks if they knew my medical qualifications. Before I signed up, I called a recruiter on the phone in the guise of a wife getting information for her ‘husband'. After I explained what I, or my husband, did for a living, and what he wanted to do in the military, the recruiter said that it was his duty to place people where they would most benefit the force and that he could not, in good conscious, let my husband's specialized skills be wasted. Not when the military was in need of good medical personnel.” I laughed, recalling the recruiters concern. “He then asked for my husband's contact information so that he might tell him about the large sign-up bonuses doctors were getting, etcetera."
"You do know that recruiters are like car salesmen. If you're insistent, they usually give you what you want."
"I know. That's how I got to be a combat medic. I wouldn't sign the enlistment papers unless they could guarantee me that position. But I didn't want to run the risk of ruining my chances by being overqualified."
He nodded, but said nothing else.
"I joined the enlisted ranks as a medic because I needed some time away from being a doctor. I love my job. I love helping people. But I was starting to lose confidence in my abilities. I was even ‘bringing my work home with me’ as they say. I couldn't sleep. I didn't want to eat. I was starting to suffer from depression. I was haunted, not by those patients I couldn't help, but by those left behind.
"I know that dealing with the family comes as part of the job, but I was starting to let their pain affect me personally. The grief, the anger, sometimes the accusations that I hadn't done enough, that somehow their death was a result of my negligence. It was starting to get to me. I began to wonder if they were right, that maybe I hadn't done enough to save their loved one, or if I had done this instead of that, the patient would still be alive.
"When working emergency room trauma, you don't have the luxury of time. Since every second counts when it comes to saving someone's life, you have to make decisions quickly. But I found that I was starting to hesitate, and to second-guess myself. I knew then I needed a break.
"As a combat medic, no one expects miracles. All they expect is that I do the best I can to stabilize the patient until they could make it to a doctor. I thought it was good choice for me for many reasons. I could get out of the hospital setting for a while, but still work in the medical field. I could also do my part for my country and help our injured troops. I felt that my schooling and experience with trauma would be an added benefit. I knew that medic training would be a breeze, and I was already accustomed to dealing with the severely wounded, the concept triage, stressful situations and hard decisions. Nor would I break my oath as a doctor and cause harm, because I would only use my weapon for my own protection. I also thought I might learn something new, get to travel the world, and I could do both jobs, as the hospital would hold my position while I was away on duty. One weekend a month, two weeks a year, and couple of deployments thrown in."
Hell, I only had one question left to answer, but I needed to think of the best way to put it.
Stalling, I nibbled on my toast and took a sip of juice. “Thank you for breakfast by the way."
"Anything for you."
I smiled. “How do you always know the right thing to say? Is your suaveness a part of your training, like your ability to read people?"
"That's a loaded question,” he chuckled.
"How so?"
"If I say formal training, then you'll think everything I say from here on out is not from my heart, but out of practice. If I say a natural ability, then you will think I have had lot of a practice, and that I must have manipulated and seduced many women to hone those skills."
"You know me so well?"
"I want to know you even better."
"See!” I squealed. “That's what I mean! I never had a chance, did I?"
He laughed.
"Why did you take my dog tags?” I asked. “You said you've known since the day we met that I was a doctor. But I know you found that out with the personal information on my tags. What made you take them in the first place?"
"I don't know. There was something special about you. I watched you work on that wounded soldier and knew you were more than what you seemed. And when I pulled you into my arms, you felt like you belonged there. I had the strongest urge to know more about the angel of mercy I'd stumbled upon. When I found out you were a doctor, I thought that it was fate intervening, sending me a sign. We needed a doctor, and I needed to see you again. How could I ignore it?"
How could I not love him?
“I wouldn't have believed that such a man as you would put so much stock in fate."
"I believe everything happens for a reason. There was a reason why we met, a reason far more important than completing the mission, capturing the bad guy, or—"
Someone pounded on the front door.
I saw an expression of apprehension cross his face before he masked it with a small smile. “Give me a moment."
The muted discussion lasted under a minute.
He returned, sat on the bed, his eyes shuttered, distant. I knew there was something wrong. I wanted to ask, but I knew he'd never say what it was. I began to wonder if the way he kept secrets was official procedure, or if it was his way of protecting me from the horrors of the world.
"I have to leave again for a couple of days. Will you be okay?"
I nodded.
He leaned in and placed his lips on mine. Despite the tension in his body, his kiss was warm and gentle.
He pulled away and caressed my hair. “Be good while I'm away,” he murmured.
"I will."
I closed my eyes as he gave me another brief kiss, and then he was gone.
On the afternoon of the seventh day, I shot up from the couch when my front door crashed open.
"Doctor, we need you,” my captor hollered.
He began unlocking the secret ‘not a torture chamber’ room while behind him, two men waited, holding tight to a third guy who was muttering and falling in and out of consciousness.
"What happened?"
My captor opened the door and ushered us all in. I took two steps inside and stopped. I felt like I was standing in an emergency room resuscitation bay. This room had all the same equipment.
The patient began struggling. The two men deposited him on the hospital bed and held him in place while my captor strapped him down. Once secured, they went about removing the patient's clothing and hooking him up to monitoring machines.
Lesions?
I blinked twice to be sure.
No. Burn holes. The patient's torso had burn holes, like those produced from a lit cigarette. There was bruising and lacerations covering his ribs.
"Brenna!"
Hearing my name shook me out of my stupor.
I scurried over to where my captor was holding out latex gloves. “We'll be your nurses. Tell us what you want us to do."
I looked at him in disbelief.
"We've had some training. We'll know what you mean. Just hurry."
The patient was flushed, twitching, his eyes roaming around the room, the pupils dilated. Clearly he'd been tortured, but something other than his physical injuries was causing these symptoms. What was I missing?
It was then I noticed his arms. He'd been injected—more than once.
"What did you all give him?” I asked, leveling the men an accusing glare.
"Nothing,” my captor muttered. “He's one of ours. We just got him back."
Leaning in, I placed my hands on the side of the patient's face. “I need you to look at me,” I stated calmly. When he didn't comply, I asked again, stoking his hair back in a soothing manner.
His frantic gaze found mine.
"There you are. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
He nodded, grimacing in concentration or pain. I wasn't sure which.
"You were injected with something. Do you know what it might be?"
"Dr—drugs,” he stuttered.
"Do you know what kind?"
He trembled beneath my fingers, his breathing growing shallow. His eyelids began to flutter close.
"Stay with me,” I urged. “Do you know what drug?"
"Ss-ser-rum."
He then fell into unconsciousness.
I looked at my captor. “Serum?"
"Truth serum. Probably a barbiturate like sodium thiopental. Or some type of benzodiazepine. But I could be wrong."
Shit. They must have given him too much.
"Which one was most likely administered?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don't know."
Then all I could do was treat the symptoms and pray that his body would decontaminate itself quickly. “Put him on oxygen and start an IV."