They sat there in silence, together, against the cold ground for what felt like an hour. At some point, after he'd noticed her shiver, he'd twisted out of his blazer, and draped it across her bare legs.
She didn't want to talk? Fine. She didn't have to. And he certainly wouldn't force her.
"They videoed with the US," she whispered.
His head turned to the left. Her voice was so quiet he'd almost missed the words.
"Conrad will be ready for war," she said pulling his coat up over her arms.
He didn't doubt it. The Sit Room was probably in hysterics over her abduction.
"What do they want?" He asked.
"A trade," she breathed. "Me for Nicolai Rogov."
His eyebrows pulled. "The guy who led the attack on the Florida Capitol?"
She nodded.
"God," he breathed as he looked straight ahead towards the wall. It'd been like another 9/11. There was no way in hell that Rogov would be set free.
"I'm scared," she muttered.
He tilted his chin into his chest. He'd never heard her so… so weak? She was always so strong. So big, not in stature, but in persona. Her character, compared to the typical men that littered the streets of DC, that made up the vast population working in the political world, was unique. And now she looked, sounded, so small as she was huddled against the wall.
She'd turned her body towards his.
His eyes searched hers. "Did they touch you?" He asked quietly. It was as if he was trying not to spook her. He was putting on the kid gloves he oftentimes used with Chloe.
His stomach turned when she gave a slow nod.
"It's not what you think," she told him. "They groped me through my clothing. That was all. Nothing else." He watched as her throat bobbled. "At least not yet," she blew out. She didn't bother to wipe away the tear that fell from her left eye.
That was all.
"What they did…" He paused, trying to convey the importance of his point. "It's still wrong. Even if it wasn't in your eyes full-blown assault."
He didn't want her playing the game of 'someone had it worse.'
She continued to stare at him.
He hoped she understood.
"They banged up your face pretty bad," he said.
Her stare fell from his, and her eyes pointed down towards the floor.
"They wanted to make their point very clear." She bit her bottom lip.
His eyes moved up and down, following the row of bruises on her cheekbone. He couldn't help but worry. He understood this dance well enough to know how a situation such as this played out. The United States, under no circumstances, negotiated with terrorists. The top brass would string them along long enough in attempts at getting a SEAL team dispatched out, but he feared, with what they had done to her already, she'd be dead before they even realized Rogov wouldn't be released from prison and transported back to Moscow. And himself? He was practically a dead man walking.
He reminded himself that at least she was talking.
He'd decided to try again. "I still would like to look at this if you'll allow me to." He pointed to her side.
She glanced his way. "Okay," she mumbled as she positioned herself, so he had better access to her side.
She pulled up her shirt on that side and balled the silk into her left hand. He took that as his okay to go on. "I'm just looking," he said again as he pulled back the bandage. She winced, jerking away. A hiss left her lips. "Sorry," he mumbled as he looked at the wound. "Someone stitched you up?" He asked.
She gave a nod.
He tried not to think about how painful that must have been. Though he worried about what would have happened if the bleeding hadn't have been stopped.
Her skin was red and tender to the touch. She'd have a scar no doubt, and the stitches were sure to get infected if she wasn't properly treated sometime soon.
He pressed the gauze back over the wound and pulled the bandage tight.
"How bad is it?" She gritted.
"It could be worse." He sat back against the wall, letting his head rest against the stone.
"You're right," she mumbled. A moment passed and then— "Blake was shot," she said.
It sounded more like a question. "He was."
There's another moment of quiet until her voice came again. "Do you think he's dead?"
He sighed. "I don't know."