Chapter 27

It starts off as another erotic dream.

Strong, hard hands slide up my naked body, callused palms scratching my skin as she squeezes my breasts, her thumbs rubbing against my peaked, sensitive nipples. I arch against her, feeling the warmth of her skin, the heavy weight of her body pressing me into the mattress. Her legs force my thighs apart, and her erection prods at my sex, the broad head sliding between the soft folds and exerting light pressure on my clit.

I moan, rubbing against her, my inner muscles clenching with the need to take her deep inside. I'm soaking wet and panting, and my hands grasp her tight ass, trying to force her in, to get her to fuck me.

She laughs, the sound a low, seductive rumble in her chest, and her big hands grasp my wrists, pinning them above my head. "Miss me, my pet?" she murmurs in my ear, her hot breath sending erotic chills down the side of my body.

My pet? Lisa never talks in my dreams—

I gasp, my eyes popping open . . . and in the dim early morning light, I see her.

Lisa.

Naked and aroused, she's sprawled on top of me, holding me down on my bed. Her dark hair is cut shorter than before, and her magnificent face is taut with lust, her eyes glittering like jewels.

I freeze, staring up at her, my heart thudding heavily in my ribcage. For a moment, I think that I'm still dreaming—that my mind is playing cruel tricks on me. My vision dims, blurs, and I realize that I literally stopped breathing for a moment, that the shock has driven all air out of my lungs.

I inhale sharply, still frozen in place, and she lowers her head, her mouth descending on mine. Her tongue slips between my parted lips, invading me, and the hauntingly familiar taste of her makes my head spin.

There is no longer any doubt in my mind.

It's really Lisa—she's as alive and vital as ever.

Fury, sharp and sudden, spikes through me. She's alive—she's been alive all along! The entire time while I mourned her, while I tried to mend my shattered soul, she's been alive and well, undoubtedly laughing at my pathetic attempts to get on with my life.

I bite her lip, hard, filled with the savage need to hurt her—to rip her flesh as she ripped apart my heart. The coppery tang of blood fills my mouth, and she jerks back with a curse, her eyes darkening with anger.

I'm not afraid, however. Not anymore. "Let me go," I hiss furiously, struggling against her hold. "You fucking asshole! You bastard! You were never dead! You were never fucking dead . . ." To my complete humiliation, the last phrase escapes as a choked sob, my voice breaking at the end.

Her jaw tightens as she stares at me, the sensuous perfection of her lips marred by the bloody mark from my teeth. She holds me effortlessly, her hard cock poised at the soft entrance to my body. Enraged, I twist to the side, trying to bite her again, and she transfers my wrists into her left palm, restraining me with one hand while grabbing my hair with the other. Now I can't move at all; all I can do is glare at her, tears of rage and bitter frustration burning my eyes.

Unexpectedly, her expression softens. "Looks like my little kitten grew some claws," she murmurs, her voice filled with dark amusement. "I think I like it."

I literally see red. "Fuck you!" I shriek, bucking against her, heedless of our naked bodies rubbing together. "Fuck you and what you like—"

Her mouth swoops down on me, swallowing my angry words, and my teeth snap at her in another biting attempt. She jerks away at the last second, laughing softly. At the same time, the head of her cock begins to push inside me. Maddened beyond bearing, I scream—and her right hand releases my hair, slapping over my mouth instead. "Shhh," she whispers in my ear, ignoring my muffled cries. "We wouldn't want your neighbors to hear, now would we?"

At this moment, I couldn't care if the whole world heard us. I'm filled with the primitive need to lash out at her, to hurt her as she hurt me. If I had a gun with me, I would've gladly shot her for the agony she put me through.

But I don't have a gun. I don't have anything, and she slowly pushes deeper into my vulnerable opening, her thick cock stretching me, penetrating me with its heated hardness. I'm still wet from my earlier 'dream,' but I'm also tense with anger, and my body protests the intrusion, all of my muscles tightening to keep her out. It's like our first time again—except that the twister of emotions in my chest right now is far more complex than the fear I once felt. My struggles gradually dying down, I gaze up at her mutely, reeling from the shock of her return.

When she's all the way inside me, she stops, slowly lifting her hand from my mouth.

I remain silent, tears spilling out of the corners of my eyes.

Lowering her head, she kisses me gently, as though apologizing for taking me so ruthlessly. My lungs cease to work; as always, this peculiar mix of cruelty and tenderness turns me inside out, wreaking havoc on my already-conflicted mind.

"I'm sorry, baby," she murmurs, her lips brushing against my tear-wet cheek. "It wasn't supposed to happen like that. You were mine to protect and I fucked up. I fucked up so fucking bad . . ." She exhales softly. "I never meant to leave you, never meant to let you go—"

"But you did." My voice is small and hurt, like that of a wounded child. "You let me think you were dead—"

"No." She lets go of my wrists and props herself up on her elbows, framing my face with her big hands. Her eyes burn into mine so intensely, I feel like she's consuming me with her gaze. "It wasn't like that. It wasn't like that at all."

My hands slowly lower to her shoulders. "What was it like then?" I ask bitterly. How could she have done this to me? How could she have stolen me, taken everything from me, only to abandon me so cruelly?

"I'll explain everything," she promises, her voice low and thick with lust. There's sweat beading up on her brow, and I can feel her cock throbbing deep within me. She's holding on to her control by a shred. "But right now, I need you, Jennie. I need this . . ." She thrusts her hips forward, and I moan as she hits my G-spot, sending a blast of sensation through my nerve endings.

"That's right," she whispers harshly, repeating the motion. "I need this. I want to feel your tight little pussy sheathing me like a glove. I want to fuck you, and I want to fucking devour you. Every single inch of you is mine, Jennie, only mine . . ." She lowers her head again, taking my mouth in a deep, penetrating kiss as she continues thrusting into me with a slow, relentless rhythm.

My own breathing picks up, a rush of heat flooding my body. My fingers tighten on her shoulders, and my legs wrap around her thighs, taking her deeper into me. After months of abstinence, it's almost too much, but I welcome the slight burn, the exquisite pleasure-pain of her possession. I can feel the tension growing inside me, the delicious prickling of pre-orgasmic bliss, and then I explode with a strangled cry, my inner muscles clamping tightly around her thick cock.

"Yes, baby, that's it," she groans hoarsely, her pace picking up, and then, with one last, powerful thrust, she finds her own peak, her shaft pulsing deep within me. I can feel the warmth of her seed releasing inside me, and I hold her close as she collapses on top of me, her body heavy and covered with sweat.

"Do you want coffee or tea?" I ask, glancing at Lisa as I putter around the tiny kitchen in the corner of my studio. She's sitting at the table by the wall. With her hair cut short, her cheekbones appear sharper, her features even more chiseled than before. Frowning, I take a closer look. She seems thinner than I recall her being, almost as if she lost some weight.

Ignoring my staring, Lisa leans back in the flimsy chair I bought at IKEA, stretching out her long legs. Her feet are bare. "Coffee would be great," she says lazily, watching me with a heavy-lidded gaze.

She reminds me of a panther patiently stalking its prey.

I swallow, placing the cup on the counter and reaching for the coffeemaker. Unlike her, I'm wearing jeans, thick socks, and a fleece sweater. Being fully dressed makes me feel less vulnerable, more in control.

The whole thing is surreal. If it weren't for the slight soreness between my thighs, I would've been convinced that I am hallucinating. But no, my captor—the woman who had been the center of my existence for so long—is here in my tiny apartment, dominating it with her powerful presence.

After the coffee is ready, I pour each of us a cup and join her at the table. I feel off-balance, like I'm walking on a tightrope. One second I want to scream with joy that she's alive, and the next I want to kill her for putting me through this torture. And through it all, at the back of my mind is the knowledge that neither of those is an appropriate response for this situation. By all rights, I should be trying to escape and call the police.

Lisa doesn't seem the least bit afraid of that possibility. She's as comfortable and self-assured in my studio as she was on her island. Picking up her cup, she takes a sip of the coffee and looks at me, a mesmerizing half-smile playing on her beautiful lips.

I curve my hands around my own cup, enjoying the warmth between my palms. "How did you survive the explosion?" I ask quietly, holding her gaze.

Her mouth twists slightly. "I very nearly didn't. When they saw that they were losing, one of those suicidal motherfuckers set off a bomb. Two of my men and I happened to be near the ladder to the basement, and we dove into the opening at the last minute. A section of the floor collapsed on me, knocking me out and killing one of the men who was with me. Luckily for me, the other one—Bambam—survived and remained conscious. He managed to drag both of us into the drainpipe, and there was enough fresh air coming in from the outside that we didn't die of smoke inhalation."

I draw in a shaky breath. The drainpipe . . . That was the only place I hadn't looked that horrific day when I spent hours combing through the burning ruins of the building. I had been so dazed and shellshocked, it hadn't even occurred to me to check there for survivors.

"By the time Bambam got us both to a hospital, I was in pretty bad shape," Lisa continues, looking at me. "I had a cracked skull and several broken bones. The doctors put me in a medically induced coma to deal with the swelling in my brain, and I didn't regain consciousness until a few weeks ago." Lifting her hand, she touches her short hair, and I realize the reason for her new haircut. They must've shaved her head in the hospital.

My hand trembles as I lift my cup to take a sip. She had almost died after all—not that it makes her absence for the past few weeks any more forgivable. "Why didn't you contact me at that point? Why didn't you let me know you were alive?" How could she let my torture continue even a day longer than necessary?

She tilts her head to the side. "And then what?" she asks, her voice dangerously silky. "What would you have done, my pet? Rushed to my side to be with me in Thailand? Or would you have told your pals at the FBI where I could be found, so they could get me while I was weak and helpless?"

I inhale sharply. "I wouldn't have told them—"

"No?" She shoots me a sardonic look. "You think I don't know that you talked to them? That they now have my name and picture?"

"I only spoke to them because I thought you were dead!" I jump to my feet, nearly upending my coffee cup. All of my anger suddenly surfaces. Furious, I grip the edge of the table and glare at her. "I never betrayed you, even though I should have—"

She rises to her feet, unfolding her tall body with athletic grace. "Yes, you probably should have," she agrees softly, her gaze darkening as we stare at each other across the table. "You should've turned me in at that clinic in the Philippines and run as far and fast as you can, my pet."

I run my tongue over my dry lips. "Would that have helped?"

"No. I would've found you anywhere."

My stomach twists with excitement and a dollop of fear. She's not joking. I can see it on her face. She would've come for me, and no one could've stopped her.

"Who are you?" I breathe, staring at her incredulously. "Why was there no record of you in any of the government databases? If you're a big-time arms dealer, why hasn't the FBI heard about you before?"

She looks at me, her eyes strikingly green in her darkly tanned face. "Because I have a wide network of connections, Jennie," she says quietly. "And because, as part of my interactions with my clients, I occasionally come across some information that the United States government finds valuable—information that relates to the safety and security of the American public."

My jaw drops. "You're a spy?"

"No." She laughs. "Not in the traditional sense of the word. I'm not on anyone's payroll—we simply exchange favors. I help your government, and in return, they make me invisible to all. Only a few of the highest-level officials in the CIA know that I exist at all." She pauses, then adds softly, "Or at least, that was the case before the FBI got their hands on you, my pet. Now it's a bit more complicated, and I'll have to call in quite a few of those favors to get this information erased."

"I see," I say evenly. My head is spinning. The woman who kidnapped me is working with my government. It's almost more than I can process right now.

She smiles, visibly enjoying my confusion. "Don't over-think it, my pet," she advises, her eyes gleaming with amusement. "Just because I help prevent an occasional terrorist attack doesn't make me a good guy."

"No," I agree. "It doesn't." Turning away, I walk over to the small window and gaze outside. The sun is just beginning to come up, and there is a light layer of snow on the ground.

The first snow of the season—it must've fallen overnight.

I don't hear her moving, but suddenly she's behind me, her large arms folding around me, pressing me against her body. I can smell the clean scent of her skin, and some of the residual tension drains out of me. Lisa is alive.

"So where do we go from here?" I ask, still staring at the snow. "Are you taking me back to the island?"

She's silent for a moment. "No," she says finally. "I can't. Not without Sorn there." There is a tight note in her voice, and I realize that she's missing her too, that she feels her loss just as acutely.

I turn around in her embrace and look up at her, placing my hands on her chest. "I'm glad those motherfuckers are dead." The words come out in a low, fierce hiss. "I'm glad you killed them all."

"Yes," she says, and I see a reflection of my rage and pain in the hard glitter of her eyes. "The men who hurt her are dead, and I'm taking steps to wipe out their entire organization. By the time I'm done, Al-Quadar will be nothing more than a file in government archives."

I hold her gaze without blinking. "Good." I want them all destroyed. I want Lisa to tear them apart and make them feel Sorn's agony.

In this moment, we understand each other perfectly. She's a killer, and that's exactly what I need her to be. I don't want a sweet, gentle man with a conscience—I want a monster who will brutally avenge Sorn's death.

A faint smile lifts the corners of her lips. Bending down, she kisses me lightly on the forehead, then releases me to walk over to the bed, where the rest of her clothes are.

Frowning, I watch as she pulls on a long-sleeved T-shirt, socks, and a pair of boots. "Are you leaving?" I ask, feeling like a cold fist is squeezing my heart at the thought.

"No," she replies, putting on her leather jacket and walking over to my closet. "We are leaving." Opening the closet door, she pulls out my winter coat and warm boots and tosses them to me.

I catch the coat on auto-pilot and put it on. "Are you kidnapping me again?" I ask, pulling on the boots.

"I don't know." Coming up to me, she cups my face in her hand, her thumb rubbing lightly against my lower lip. "Am I?"

I don't know either. For the first time in months, I feel alive. I feel emotions again, sharp and bright. Fear, excitement, exhilaration.

Love.

It's not the sweet, tender kind of love I always dreamed of, but it's love. Dark, twisted, and obsessive, it's both a compulsion and an addiction. I know the world will condemn me for my choices, but I need Lisa as much as she needs me.

"What if I don't want to go with you?" I don't know why I feel the need to ask. I already know the answer.

She smiles. Dropping her hand from my face, she reaches into the pocket of her jacket and pulls out a small syringe, showing it to me.

"I see," I say calmly. She's come prepared for any eventuality.

She puts the syringe away and offers me her hand. I hesitate for a moment, then I put my hand in her large palm. She curls her fingers around mine, and her eyes look impossibly bright in that moment, almost radiant.

We walk out together, holding hands like a couple. She leads me to a car that's waiting for us—a black car with window glass that looks to be unusually thick. Likely bulletproof.

She opens the door for me, and I climb inside.

As the car takes off, she pulls me closer to her, and I bury my face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her familiar scent.

For the first time in months, I feel like I'm home.