a/n: Thanks to sallene for reading all this and helping me out! This is a massive chapter, and I have just two words to say about the content: Trust me.

Healing Temptations

Sark stirred the eggs, effectively scrambling them. The bacon in the other pan sizzled, and occasionally it sent splatters of grease on his skin. His arm twitched, but he let it go.

"Mmmhhh," he heard from behind him. "It smells good." Sark glanced over his shoulder. His mom stood there, her hair disheveled. She was still in her pajamas, as if she'd just rolled out of bed at the prospect of breakfast.

Sark smiled.

"Give me a couple of minutes, and it'll be ready," he said. He glanced over at his brother, who yawned as he poured orange juice in every glass at the table.

"I'll wake everyone up," his mom said.

Ilene and their dad joined them. It'd been empty lately, with Alan returning to London to straighten some of his business there, and Sydney returning to Los Angeles for awhile.

She called every day, saying hi to everyone and engaging Sark in what conversation he spared. He knew he was being distant, though he was trying to fight it.

It'd been two months since Sydney found him in Alaska, and dragged him to Alberta. Since then, and after his bout with pneumonia, he stayed with his family.

They were cautious around him. He couldn't blame them for that. No one really knew what set him running off. He wasn't even sure anymore.

Sark grabbed some tongs and started to remove the bacon from the pan. The grease seeped down and coated the plate.

Sark put that plate on the kitchen table, and returned to the stove for the eggs. My, aren't we domestic?

He promptly told himself to shut up.

"Jul, this is good," Ilene said pleasantly. Sark nodded, turned away to get some toast.

Everyone ate quietly, and Sark could feel the tension as he sipped at his orange juice.

"So, this was a nice surprise," his mom said. Sark smiled tightly.

"What's the occasion?" That came from his father. Ever the one to be blunt. Not that he was surprised. He usually helped with meals, when he wasn't taking a solitary walk around the neighborhood. But to outright prepare a meal?

"There is something, actually," Sark said. He set his glass on the table and leaned back in his chair. He paused, unsure of how to voice this. His eyes studied the bacon grease as a distraction. "Um, I've been thinking about taking a little vacation."

He could feel and hear the relief through his family.

"Alone," he added, and the relief was short-lived. No one said anything, so Sark plowed ahead.

"I just thought it'd be good to do something. On my own," he said. Again, no one said anything, though he noticed the doubting looks between his parents. "Look, this isn't to disappear for good or anything. I just need … some time. And space."

Ilene stared at him directly. Sark stared back, pleading with his blue eyes to just accept his request. He saw the fear in her eyes.

His dad cleared his throat.

"Where are you planning on going?"

--------

The afternoon sun beat down on his body. Sark lay on the beach, just absorbing the feel of relaxation. The sand scraped against his skin, but he didn't much care.

He left Canada two days ago, and planned to stay for two weeks. He made sure to tell his family that—it comforted them to know he did actually plan to come back.

The waves splashed on the shore, driving sand and foam towards his feet. It lapped over his toes once. Sark sat up. The tide was coming in, closer and closer.

Time to move. He got to his feet, stretching as he did. That's when he noticed the woman. He'd felt like he was being watched for awhile, but now he knew who it was.

She was tall and thin, and obviously very pleased with how she looked. She was even more pleased when Sark noticed her. Her blonde hair blew back in the wind, and she lifted her chin as if to challenging that wind to mess up her golden strands.

Sark bent over and picked up his tank top. He pulled it over his head, and covered many of his scars. He wasn't concerned with people noticing them. While he was sure the blonde noticed, Sark imagined it added to his mystery. Not that he was trying to pick up women, but how could he help someone appreciating his body?

He smirked at that. Cocky as ever. It felt good, actually. It was liberating. Being with his family made him think he had to be better. Calm. Collected. Strong yet polite.

To hell with that. For now anyway.

He grabbed his towel and walked away from the Bahamas' surf.

His feet slid in the sand, sinking and moving back as he walked. The granules got between his toes, and he wiggled them once he hit the sidewalk that led to his cabana.

He hadn't gone far when he heard the padding of bare feet behind him. Sark glanced over his shoulder.

"Excuse me," a woman said. Sark stopped and turned to see the blonde. She offered a nice, white smile, no doubt from the same bleach she used on her hair. But the smile seemed genuine, something Sark wasn't used to.

"You left these in the sand," she said, holding up a pair of sunglasses. Sark blinked at them. He hadn't even realized it, and that was very unusual of him.

"Oh. Thank you." He took them from her, and started to turn away.

"Um," she started. Sark paused, a small smirk playing at his lips. Her voice was timid and accented. He wasn't sure where she was from, but her speech patterns were drawled and laid back. Not like a Texan, but more like someone who'd lived in the Bahamas for a long time.

"There's a good bar around the corner," she said. Sark raised an eyebrow. "They've got a good homemade brew. They open at 9 tonight."

Sark smiled and glanced at the sidewalk.

"Thanks for the tip," he said. He shot her an apologetic grin and continued to his cabana.

His cabana was simple but nice. Wicker furniture, sliding doors with his own private veranda facing the water… Well, not as private as he'd like, but it was all he could get on short notice.

He slid the door shut behind him, locking it as well. He threw off his tank top and swimsuit and went to the bath tub.

As he dressed later, he wondered what he would do that night. Or the next day. Or the day after that.

He hadn't really made plans beyond just relaxing. That's the beauty of it. You can do whatever you want.

And without the pressure that had been on him constantly lately. He sighed as he buttoned a light blue shirt. He left the top three buttons undone, and the shirt hung out over his khaki shorts.

Sark was styling his hair when something outside his cabana caught his attention. He turned away from the mirror and glanced out the window.

A catamaran sailed by near the shore. Sark walked out to his veranda and watched the boat as it slid a mile away to rental shop.

That could be fun. He shrugged to himself. Tomorrow.

Sark grabbed the key to his cabana, and left without his gun. He almost hadn't brought it at all on this trip. He just didn't want to worry about that aspect of his life. Tonight was no exception. He left it in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

The evening breezes blew by, relieving some of the humidity. Sark's skin already felt moist, even with the sun almost gone into the ocean. He tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled to the town.

The shop owners were starting to take down their outdoor displays and prepare to close for the day. A few tourists ran past him, no doubt late for the boarding call on their cruise ships.

The sound of the people chattering started to just fade to the background, almost like music. Sark listened to it as he walked. His eyes searched for a restaurant. There wasn't much by way of fancy here, but that didn't matter tonight. He felt like take-out tonight.

An obliging Chinese restaurant appeared. He could smell the oily noodles two blocks away. Sark smirked at that, and went to place his order.

The food wasn't bad—not terribly authentic, but he doubted the cooks had actually made it to China. He picked at the food, trying to eat what he could. He finally pushed the food away and left the establishment.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Sark took it out, but didn't answer it. The number belonged to his family. He sighed. He hadn't asked them not to call, but since the whole point of his "vacation" was to get away, he just thought they'd get the point.

The phone vibrated again, two quick shakes. Sark dialed his voicemail.

"Hi Julian! We just wanted to see how you're doing. Calvin thought of something he wanted from the Bahamas, so if you could bring back a model sail boat, he'd really appreciate it. We love you!" His mom hung up, and Sark promptly deleted the message.

He kept walking, his hands in his pockets again. Suddenly he heard music, not really loud rock but a swaying beat that caught his attention. It came from a bar. Sark went in, feeling like a drink was in order.

The bar was packed, so much so that Sark almost turned and left. Crowds were never his thing. But he reminded himself that he had nothing better to do.

He pressed ahead until he found a spot at the bar. He glanced over the various choices before, and winced.

No wine.

What did you expect?!

A pretty bartender appeared and gave him a nod.

"Vodka, please," he said smoothly over the roar of patrons. She nodded, and appeared two seconds later with his drink in hand. Sark passed her a bill.

She smiled tightly and moved on to the next order. Sark smiled at his drink. He admired bartenders—they weren't soft. They didn't waste time. And they had guts to take on less-than-intelligent customers.

Sark moved away from the bar and found a spot in the corner, not far from a little stage where a local band played. He didn't bother to sit—there weren't any available chairs—so he just leaned against the wall.

The liquor was cool, though it raked his throat as he slowly sipped it. Sure, he could toss it back and be ready for another one, but he wasn't one to get drunk. He had enough problems, and he didn't need another from incapacitation.

Someone was watching him again, and it bothered him. Sark looked around the room.

It wasn't just someone. Several people were watching him, all female except for a couple of jealous boyfriends. Oh please—can't I enjoy a drink?

He sighed and turned his attention to the stage. The vodka was almost gone, and Sark downed the little that remained. A waitress passed, and Sark deposited his glass on her tray. She turned.

"Anything else?" she asked. Sark glanced at her, and then froze for a moment.

It was the blonde from the beach. She grinned, showing him her white teeth again.

"Oh, you came!" she said. This must be the bar she talked about.

She works here. He hadn't expected that. He shrugged.

"Have you tried the beer?" she asked. Sark shook his head.

"I'm not much of a beer-drinker," he said politely. She patted him on the shoulder.

"I'll get you one. On the house," she said. With that, she moved away, picking up glasses as she went.

Sark watched her until she was at the bar. She leaned over it and poured a beer. She's actually doing it?

Better go now. He headed for the front door, which unfortunately was on the opposite side of the room. As he walked through the crowd and past tables, he felt his heartbeat increase. He was anxious to leave.

And suddenly he was stopped. Two girls stood in his path. He furrowed his brow, confused at why they stopped him. They couldn't have been more than 19 years old.

"Hi," one said, in a very obvious Southern California accent. Sark smiled and turned to go another direction.

Which was blocked off by yet another girl.

"What's your name?" this one asked. She had red curly hair. It actually looked beyond frizzy in this humidity.

"Excuse me," he said, trying to push by her. He felt someone grab his arm. It wasn't threatening, but Sark was very tempted to throw a punch.

One of the first two girls pulled on his arm so he'd face them.

"That's not a name," she said, giggling. Sark rolled his eyes.

"How perceptive of you," he said blandly.

"Are you English?" one asked. Her eyes were wide with the possibility. It's the accent, he thought. Why not just always talk like New Yorker? That would scare any woman.

"No, I'm Chinese." His tone was getting across now, and one of the girls scowled at him. "Now if you'll let me by . . ."

The red head piped up. "Oh, don't go!" She stepped in Sark's path again and gave him the saddest excuse for puppy eyes he'd ever seen. "We've been watching you since you came through the door."

"And you can watch me leave through it," he said through clenched teeth. His hand tightened to a fist.

"Ladies," a new voice said, "leave him alone." It was the blonde waitress, the rescuer of sunglasses. And now the rescuer of you. She gently pushed Sark forward, until they both were outside the bar.

Sark faced her as soon as it was clear. She had an amused look in her eyes.

"What?" he asked with a sigh.

"Couldn't handle a bunch of girls, huh?" Before he could get too offended, she held up a bottle. "Here," she said, pushing it into his hands.

Sark smirked to defend his pride, but took the bottle.

"They were … persistent, to say the least," he said. He just hung on to the bottle. He hadn't been kidding when he said he didn't drink the stuff. Too low on the chain of alcohol. "Thank you for interfering." It was an afterthought, but she didn't seem to mind.

"No problem," she said. He noticed she had her own bottle, which she took a swig of. She didn't have the waitress apron on anymore. Must have just gotten off her shift.

"Well, thanks for the beer," Sark said. She laughed automatically.

"You haven't had one sip of it."

Sark tried to seem embarrassed, but it didn't work, and both knew it. "I'm a wine person," he said simply with a shrug and a smile. She smiled back, and he instantly realized that had been her goal.

She leaned towards him, her fingers brushing over his as she took the bottle away. With a toothy grin, she tossed it down an alley. The glass shattered and they could hear the hiss of the fizzing alcohol. Sark raised an eyebrow at her.

"So what type of person are you, beyond a wine-drinker?" she asked. She started walking, and Sark joined her.

What am I doing? He shook his head.

"What type of person am I?" he repeated. Isn't that a loaded question. His hesitation must have clued her in.

"Okay, what's your name then?" she said. Sark smiled. And another precarious question.

"Patrick," he said, using an alias. "And yours?"

"Kora."

He nodded. The name suited her.

"How long have you lived here?" he didn't know why he asked, but it filled the void as they walked. They seemed to be heading to the beach, judging by the increasing roar of the waves.

She had both of her hands in her hair, taking down a ponytail. Her hair was long, beyond the middle of her back. It was damp from work and the climate, but it still was pretty—

"I've been here for about four years," she answered. "I came here from Georgia." He nodded.

"Notorious for their peaches," he commented lightly. It made her laugh.

"Yes, they're obsessed with their peaches," she said.

"What made you leave there?"

She was quiet for a moment. "Oh, just . . . not my scene anymore. I left college after a year, and decided to just . . . make it on my own." She glanced over to him with a tentative look. He smiled reassuringly. It was obvious that more than that made her leave, but Sark could sense the pain and let things be.

"So," she began, changing topics, "you knew I wasn't a native."

Sark nodded. "You have a drawl that's a little too American Southern." She laughed, a wavy, melodic sound.

"You're very observant," Kora said. "Let me see what I can figure out about you, Patrick." Sark's mouth curled at being called that. It was very Irish, and so maybe fitting, but he'd always sort of hated the name. So you used it as an alias . . . why?

She'd stopped walking, and Sark was slow to follow suit. They were on the beach now, just a few feet closer to the ocean than the sidewalk. She was studying him, looking him over from head to toe. Sark stood still and tried to appear impassive.

Finally she smiled.

"What?" he asked. She was confident, that was for sure. That made him curious.

"You're used to being alone. Private," Kora started. "I think it's from the pain you've had. Maybe you're still holding on to it." Her eyes flickered to his chest, then back to his eyes. "You don't like being hit on, especially by recent high-school graduates. And your name isn't Patrick."

Hmm. That was smart. He tried not to show any emotion, but that seemed to fuel her. Kora smiled victoriously.

"Not bad," he said finally. He looked away from her persistent studious looks, and out to the ocean. The town's lights reflected against the white caps. The waves were quite big, actually. It was awe-inspiring, and yet scary. Sark quickly looked away.

"So what's your name?" she asked.

"Call me Patrick," Sark said. She laughed.

"Fine." She started walking again. "Come on, Patrick."

He smirked as she led the way.

She didn't stop until her feet were well in the water. The waves rushed by her lean legs. Sark stood a little ways back.

"Come on," she said again, motioning for him to join her. Sark didn't move. He kept his hands in his pockets, and glanced at the growing swells of water. "I'm not in too deep, trust me."

That wasn't his concern yet, but he took a few steps until the water reached his toes. She rolled her eyes and sloshed over to him through the water. She grabbed his arm, pulling it out of his pocket, and pulled him deeper in the water.

Their legs were covered, and the waves now wet them to the waist. Another wave crashed, and Sark stumbled a bit.

"Are you scared of the water?" Kora asked. Sark shot her a look. "Why come to the beach if you're afraid?"

Sark sighed and faced the vast ocean. "The last time I was out in the ocean at night wasn't the most pleasant occasion."

Her hand suddenly touched his arm, and Sark almost jumped back. His eyes must have lit up with something that scared her, because she let go.

"Your scars," she said, and then swallowed. "The ocean?"

Sark nodded. Simple enough explanation. He knew she noticed the scars earlier at the beach. He was surprised, pleasantly so, that she hadn't questioned him about it till now.

"Do you mind if I ask how?" She was hesitant, and Sark appreciated her restraint. She at least knew he may not want to talk about it. Sark smiled, his eyes narrowed like a wise man.

"Maybe another time," he said. She nodded.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

Sark laughed, until he saw she was serious. "Um, I plan to rent a catamaran for the day."

"Hmm, just make sure you get a good captain."

"Captain?" he repeated. He really would rather go alone.

"Yeah," Kora said. "There's no way they'll let you rent one without one of their own manning it."

Sark pursed his lips together as he thought. I don't really want to be on a boat alone with a captain.

"Why don't you join me?" He wanted to retract that statement, knowing it would mean more to her than him.

Or would it?

"I'd like that," she said. Sark gave her a fake grin.

"Okay," he said. "I should go. I'll see you at 8 o'clock, over there." He pointed at the rental shops.

"Okay." Kora smiled, her white teeth almost shining in the darkness.

"Good night."

His conscience was screaming at him, questioning him, begging him to reconsider everything he had been and was doing. He made it to his cabana before he threw a pillow at the mirror. It didn't silence any voices, but it felt better.

What about Sydney? What are you doing getting to know some woman on an island, thousands of miles away from your family?

What does that matter?! She's just an acquaintance. Was it wrong to meet new people when you travel?

Sydney!

He sighed and fell back on his bed, foregoing any shower for now. His life was complicated.

"I'm a retired spy," he said aloud to the wicker furniture. "A retired terrorist who's still on Interpol's most wanted list, and who's still being hunted by enemies."

And …you're a coward who keeps running away from commitment.

But it's not commitment that kept him away.

Or is it? Why couldn't he just accept his family? Or Sydney?! She gave up her life practically! Resigning from the CIA, almost moving to Canada to be with me and my family . . .

He sighed and grabbed another pillow, this time covering his face with it.

Stop. Just relax, for a little while.

Things would make sense, eventually.

-------

It was 7:45 when he woke up.

"Crap!" He bolted out of bed, still dressed in his shorts and shirt from the night before. Sark darted to the bathroom and changed into his swim trunks and another tank top.

He dove for the mini fridge and grabbed a bottle of orange juice. He thought about the gun, but instead grabbed a wad of cash for the catamaran.

No weapons today either. Just enjoy.

Kora was waiting for him when he jogged up to the rental shops. They were their own mini marina, but with no motor boats.

"Just a second," he said. "Let me, uh, get the boat." He jogged on by into a shop, guzzling his orange juice as he slowed down.

The shop owner wanted ID and various paperwork. Sark obliged with the ID, fake of course, but didn't want to hassle with other things. He pulled out the wad of cash, and sectioned off a good portion of the bills.

"Here," he said, handing it to the owner. "I think this should more than cover today's rental." The owner's eyes were wide with the cash, as were another person's. A young man who just entered the shop raised an eyebrow at the exchange. Sark noticed his tattoo, that of a shark.

"Your captain will be out shortly. Enjoy the catamaran," the owner said, a slow smile spreading over his face.

He left the shop, ready to leave and find his boat.

"Which one?" Kora asked. Sark glanced around at the choices, nodding when he found the right name.

He jumped on board and turned back to help her. But Kora just jumped on board herself. Sark watched her. She had short jean shorts on, and a coral-colored bikini. She hadn't bothered with a tank top, though she did carry a small bag with whatever else he could guess.

A portly, and very tan man came out. "Welcome. I'll be your captain today." He yawned as he spoke.

That's inspiring. Sark was determined to ignore the man as much as possible.

"Any particular point of interest?" the captain asked.

Sark looked to Kora.

"Some place to snorkel," she said, with a glance at Sark. He nodded.

"Whatever, wherever."

With that, Kora grabbed Sark's hand, and almost pulled him down on the netting over the water. The captain got the boat going, motors even, and soon they were off.

The wind flew through his hair, and Sark soon found himself leaning back, facing the sky and feeling the ocean spray over his body.

"You'll get a funny tan line with your shirt on," Kora said suddenly. Sark sat up. He didn't want to analyze her statement. He just obliged and took off the tank top. He noticed she'd taken her shorts off, and was clad only in her bikini.

Sark lay back down on the nets and closed his eyes. His hands were behind his head, supporting it as the boat sloshed over the water.

Suddenly he felt something on his chest. He moved his arms and raised his head to see what it was.

Kora studied his many scars. Her fingers gently touched one. Then she moved to the next scar. It felt . . . Sark swallowed, and just watched her. She appeared confused, and even concerned for him, as if the wounds were just created.

He looked at his chest. It really was a sight. The scars were mostly just white lines, puckered above the normal smoothness of his skin. Some were more jagged than others, but almost all had healed otherwise.

Kora finally sat back. He could tell she wanted to ask him more about the scars, but he was glad she didn't.

Just enjoy; relax, he told himself.

Hours went by. Kora and Sark ended up in the water, which was nice and calm. They grabbed some snorkeling gear and dove beneath the surface of the water.

He saw an eel, something that really sort of freaked him out, but he refused to show it. Kora pointed out a tiny octopus, and also some sting rays. Sark took it all in, just enjoying a side of the water he'd never thought of before, except on menus of Japanese restaurants.

Kora dove beneath the water again, and Sark watched her as she swam deeper. She was picking something up. It looked like a little sponge or something.

Suddenly he saw something dart around them. Sark whirled his body around. It was a shadow, but it moved. Sark's eyes followed it closely.

Shark.

It was probably only five feet long, but that was more than enough to convince him to get out of the water. Keeping one eye on the shark, Sark dove beneath the water and motioned for Kora to come.

He pointed to the shark, and she turned. Suddenly she dropped whatever she held before, and she swam frantically to him.

Both of them broke the surface and swam quickly back to the catamaran. Sark helped Kora get up first, and then with a glance back at the shark, he got out of the water.

His chest was heaving faster than his heart. Underneath the nets, he saw the shadow of the shark pass.

"Hey, Captain," Sark shouted out. The man popped his head out of the lower deck.

"Yeah?"

"Are sharks normal to this area?" Sark pointed at the predator's form as it went deeper.

The captain simply shrugged. "Where to next?"

Sark rolled his eyes.

He and Kora lay back again, just enjoying the speed and safety above water. Sark glanced at his skin.

You're frying, he thought.

"Do you have any sunscreen?" he asked Kora. In his hast in the morning, he forgot his own. She nodded and dug through her bag.

She watched him as he rubbed the lotion of his chest and arms.

"Want me to do your back?"

Sark froze momentarily. She looked scared that she'd voiced that, but he nodded. He saw her swallow.

His eyes shut involuntarily as she started rubbing the lotion over his back. It was soothing, to say the least. With slow, circular motions, she massaged the lotion into his skin. And then she seemed to run her fingertips over the scars on his back.

He crawled over the nets, away from her.

"Thanks," he said. He played off the motion, and leaned over the boat to wash his hands from the oiliness.

"No shark could make those marks," she said. Sark slowly leaned back and faced Kora.

"You're right," he said. Her head tilted to the side, prompting him for an answer. Sark sighed. "It was coral," he said. "Among other things," he muttered.

"And your legs?" she asked. He glanced down at them. There were scars there too, but from a knife and bullet.

"Something else," he said simply. He heard her sigh and look away. That was such a Sydney thing to do. He froze at that thought.

"Did you do them to yourself?" That seemed to come from nowhere. Sark sighed again.

"They weren't self-inflicted, but I bear some responsibility," he said. That only seemed to confuse her more. "Kora," he said, trying to curb some curiosity. "I've had a colorful past. I'd like to leave it there, if you don't mind."

She nodded slowly. And that ended it for awhile.

--------

When they docked again, the last of the sun's rays were close to disappearing. Sark helped Kora off the boat, and surprisingly, she accepted.

"Thank you, Patrick," she said. "I had a fun day." She said it, but Sark heard the underlying disappointment in her voice.

From what?

From you hiding, as usual.

"I'm glad you came," he said. They started walking. Doubts clouded Sark's mind, pestering him to tell her something directly.

No. It'll get her in danger. And me too.

He didn't want to cause anyone undue harm.

Their walk was in silence, maybe because of tiredness, and maybe because of the strain Sark caused. In the darkness, though, it hid some blatant awkwardness he felt.

"Give me your cash." It was a hiss and a demand, coming from behind them. Kora gasped and Sark tried to react, but she was grabbed by one of them.

How many? Two—and from the lights from the town, Sark could see the faint outline of a tattoo of a shark. Sark felt that man press a blade to his back.

"I know you have cash. Give it, now!" He kept his voice low. The other mugger held a knife to Kora's throat.

"Let her go," Sark said calmly. The blade at his back pinched into his skin.

"Money, now!"

Just give it to him. You have millions still. Slowly Sark pulled out the remaining wad of cash. He held it up, and the assailant behind him grabbed it and moved in front of Sark.

"Stay here, or we'll kill her." They started to back away, Kora still in their grasp.

Sark started to protest, but the knife against her throat silenced him. She whimpered, her eyes wide and panicking.

They'll kill her.

Sark narrowed his eyes. He watched them as they ascended the beach. They disappeared into some trees.

And Sark sprinted.

He ran to the right, not following them directly. He dodged through trees as quietly as he could. Kora yelped somewhere ahead, but it wasn't pain. Yet.

And where's your gun? He smirked.

I don't need a gun for them.

There they were, ahead of him and to the left. They were gagging her, and tying her hands.

They planned this out. Or they were just overly prepared. It annoyed Sark, and that fueled him.

He kept himself low to the ground. The one with the shark tattoo grabbed Kora by the hair. He sneered close to her face. The other one started to tease her with the knife.

Sark moved slowly, almost painfully slow, but he couldn't risk discovery. His feet slowly felt their way over twigs and sand.

Three more steps.

He was in position.

The one with the knife started to tear at Kora's shorts. He's playing with her. Sark knew the knife would find its way to her top.

Quickly.

He took two bounds and suddenly twisted his body to kick the man in the head. He fell away from Kora, his knife still in hand. The whites of the other guy's eyes showed his fear, but he tried to launch an assault on Sark.

Sark easily fended off the first punch, diverting it to the side, and opening his target up. He slammed the man twice in the gut, then kneed the man in the head. Sark heard Kora scream through her gag.

The first one punched Sark in the back.

Ow.

He stumbled to his knees, but quickly turned to catch a follow-up kick. He caught the man's leg and twisted it abnormally. He heard the twist of cartilage and the man screamed as he fell again.

Sark was up on his feet again. But neither man was moving. They're not used to this.

Me.

Kill them.

Kora whimpered. Sark shook his head, and went to her side. He removed her gag first, then untied her hands.

"Come on," he said, getting her to her feet. He didn't bother to collect his money.

She was numb, but her body shook. Sark tried to get her to stop shaking as he half dragged her out of the trees.

He stopped.

"Are you cold?" he asked. Her wide eyes didn't move, and she didn't answer. Sark pursed his lips together and took off his tank top. He put it over her head, trying to provide what little warmth he could. Then he scooped her up, holding her in his arms.

He walked quickly back to his cabana. It was close, and he had no idea where Kora lived.

He glanced back over the way he'd come, his eyes alert and searching for any threats. Seeing none, Sark quickly went into his cabana.

Kora still hadn't said anything, but she started to follow him with her eyes. Sark double checked the locks on the doors. He wanted to get his gun out of that bottom drawer, but he didn't want to scare Kora any more.

He went to the mini fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. He ripped off the cap and chucked it across the room.

"Here," he said. "Drink something."

She just stared at him, waiting, debating. And then she reached for the bottle and drank. Her hands still shook, and the water dribbled down her chin.

Sark found himself stroking her forehead, trying to calm her. He glanced at her arms. They were covered in goose-bumps.

Sark jumped to his feet and grabbed a blanket from the closet. He fluffed it out and spread it over Kora.

"Come on, Kora," he said, by her side again. "Talk to me." Her eyes darted over his.

"Ca—can you . . ."

"Can I what?" Sark asked. She held the bottle away, and he took it from her.

"Can you hold me?"

Such a simple request. Plan and sincere. Sark nodded. He sat on the bed and moved himself by her. Then he gently pulled her close to him, until he held her between his arms and legs.

"Rest," he said. "You'll be fine."