A/N: I know I'm a failure as a writer :/ I am so sorry I can't manage to update regularly. I can only say that real life is incredibly stressful at the moment as I'm still adjusting to my new job, and also I'm still working through some personal stuff. Thanks for sticking with me! Reading your reviews means a lot to me!

The song used for the title is by Black Lab.

A special thank you to my friend and beta AvaniHeat!

Disclaimer: JAG is property of Donald P. Bellisario; I'm only borrowing.

18 This night

Pain.

That was the first thing that filtered into Mac's awareness. A dull, throbbing ache that originated in her shoulders, radiating up her arms and down her back. Mac forced her eyes open, the bright glare of a lamp prompting her to close them again. She blinked a couple of times, her vision blurry, refusing to focus. She knew at once that something wasn't right, only it took her nearly a minute to figure out what.

The perspective was wrong.

She shook her head, immediately wishing that she hadn't. Pain exploded behind her forehead, accompanied by a wave of nausea. Her stomach heaved, bile rising in her throat. She swallowed, then winced.

A memory flashed up. Hands around her throat, squeezing, choking.

She gasped, her mind suddenly clear. Instinctively, she tried to bring her arms in front of her for protection.

Only then did it register with her that she was standing, held upright by a rope suspended from the ceiling. He'd wound it so tight around her wrists that her hands had gone numb. More memories flooded her mind. The autopsy photos she'd looked at for hours, knowing she shouldn't because it would give her nightmares. Details from the ME's report. Multiple contusions on the victim's upper torso. Signs of repeated sexual assault. Bruising around the victim's neck, suggesting she was strangled.

Her breathing sped up, her heart hammering in her chest. No no no no! She tried to pull her hands free, ignoring the pain that suddenly appeared. Blood began trickling down her arms, the crimson crawling slowly over her tanned skin.

"Don't struggle."

The calm voice came from somewhere behind her. Mac froze. She saw movement in her peripheral vision; a second later he stood in front of her, facing her. He seemed unhappy. His forehead was creased, his lips pressed into a tight line. As he studied her face, his frown deepened.

Mac stared back, unable to take her eyes off him. He didn't look like a killer, didn't even look particularly threatening. When she'd talked to him the day before, his regret at being unable to help her had seemed sincere and he'd appeared troubled by the fact that someone he knew had been murdered. How many women had been fooled by his handsome face? How many had failed to see the monster lurking underneath the surface, the predator waiting to pounce?

I should have known, Mac thought, the first coherent thought since she had woken, and it finally pierced the panic shrouding her mind, driving it away. Adrenalin rushed through her body, momentarily dulling the pain and allowing her to think clearly. I couldn't have known, she corrected herself. He hadn't done or said anything suspicious, and then she'd she'd been looking for a witness, not a suspect. Even so she might not have noticed. Besides, there was no point in dwelling on what could or might have been. She had to concentrate on the present, had to figure out a way to get out of here and call for help.

Don't you think that's exactly what Florence Acker did or tried to do? Didn't exactly work out, did it?

The thought sprang unbidden into her mind.

Mac had to admit that this was true, but she refused to believe that there was no way out of this for her. She had to believe that she'd make it out of this alive. She wouldn't give up, wouldn't back down, wouldn't let him win.

She would not give him the satisfaction of breaking her.

He shifted, and her attention snapped back to him. His eyes were still on her face, watching her, but now there was a calculating intensity to it that made a chill run down her spine and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

She was looking at the monster.

Mac made herself meet his gaze, refusing to give in to the urge to avert her eyes. Let him try to intimidate her, she thought defiantly.

His lips twitched in amusement and he started towards her, the frown replaced by a smile.

She flinched despite herself, retreating until the rope snapped taut. She barely noticed the sharp twinge of pain as it cut deeper into her flesh.

He lifted his gaze, his expression hardening. He seemed unhappy by the fact that she was hurt, which struck her as odd; when he'd come for her, he hadn't held back.

Or had he? He'd only punched her once to throw her off balance; after that all he'd been doing was trying to restrain her, trying to keep her from escaping. Another memory, cold water being forced down her aching throat. She remembered choking, coughing, and then darkness, her body going limp, no longer responding to her commands.

He'd drugged her.

Was that his preferred method? She could see why it would be.

But why did it seem to matter that she was hurt when he would hurt her anyway?

More questions tumbled into her mind. How had he gotten her off base? And how long had she been out? That last one was easily answered—four hours and thirty-seven minutes. It was just past three in the morning.

His eyes flickered back to her face. "You don't have to pretend, Colonel," he said quietly. Closing the distance left between them, his hand closed around the rope. He'd approached her from the side, perhaps expecting her to try and kick him.

The combination of sweat, traces of musky aftershave, and motor oil made her queasy stomach heave. "Pretend what?" she grit out hoarsely. Speaking hurt.

"That you're not scared," he answered. Without warning he yanked hard at the rope, nearly dislocating her shoulders as he pulled her farther up. Her toes barely touched the rough wooden floor.

Mac couldn't contain the scream of agony as pain exploded through her body. For a moment, her mind went blank, the pain the only thing that mattered. As it ebbed, slowly fading into the dull, throbbing ache she was already familiar with, clarity returned and with it came the bitter realisation that she had just given him what he wanted: That seeing her suffer was what he got off on.

The erection pressing hard against her thigh was proof enough.

She clenched her teeth, nearly choking on the strangled whimper rising in her throat when he gripped the rope one last time, pulling her up until she was at eye-level with him. Her breathing came in ragged, laboured gasps.

"Because you are," he said softly as he ran his thumb along the edge of her bruised jaw, his touch unexpectedly gentle.

For some reason, Mac found that worse than if he'd hit her. It made her unsure of what to expect, what to prepare for. No doubt that was exactly what he intended. Keeping her guessing and in a constant state of fear.

"I can see it in your eyes, Colonel. You're trying to hide it," she winced as he gripped her chin, turning her head so that she was facing him, "but I know what to look for."

She met his gaze defiantly. Of course he was right. She was terrified. How could she not be? Every time a rape case crossed her desk—which, thankfully, wasn't all that often—it sparked some primal fear in her that one day she might suffer the same fate. But she couldn't let that fear take over now. If she did, if she let him break her, he'd win.

Whatever happened to her, she wouldn't let him win.

Eyebrows lifted, he waited for her to answer, then shrugged when she didn't. "Okay," he said, tugging at the rope one last time before he fastened it somewhere out of her sight.

She sucked in a sharp breath at the sharp pain rippling through her arms.

Chuckling, he grazed his knuckles lightly along the line of her jaw. "I'm sorry about that, by the way," he murmured. He curved his hand around her cheek in a gentle, tender caress that made her skin crawl. Automatically, she turned her head away from his touch.

Grabbing a fistful of hair, he yanked her head back, resting his hand over her exposed throat. He was barely touching her, yet she stiffened, her breath coming in quick gasps, her heart pounding in her chest. The memory of his hands closing around her throat crashed back into her mind and although she knew it was futile, she began to struggle, her legs kicking at nothing but air.

He squeezed ever so slightly and she froze, terrified.

She had never felt so helpless, so out of control. He could do with her as he pleased and there was absolutely nothing she could do to prevent it, to stop him. She could fight him, yes, could resist, but in the end it wouldn't matter.

"As I said," he continued conversationally, "I am sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen. You caught me by surprise, Colonel." He quirked a smile. "Doesn't happen very often."

Despite the panic that was threatening to take over her mind and turn her thoughts into incoherent nonsense, she wondered why he continued to address her as that. But perhaps he simply got a kick out of that as well.

"Flo did too." Tilting her head sideways, he met her gaze. All she saw was the handsome young man; there was no trace of the monster. "She escaped." A delighted smile that made his green eyes light up. "I like challenges. Unfortunately," he went on, more soberly, "it won't be long until people start looking for you, Colonel, so I can't take that risk with you. I hope you understand."

The panic dug its claws deeper into her mind.

Don't hurt me. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she clamped her lips together, refusing to let them slip out. She wouldn't beg. She would not beg. She wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

"I'll be right back," he said, pressing his lips to her cheek before he disappeared.

A door opened and closed with a soft click.

Only now that she was alone did she realise that she'd been holding her breath; she let it out slowly, blinking away the tears of pain and humiliation and fear burning behind her eyes. She looked up at her restrained hands, at the threads of dried blood snaking down her arms. She was bound so tight that she knew immediately that she'd never be able to free herself; she hadn't expected that she would be, but knowing for certain made crushing hopelessness clench around her heart.

Fighting the mindless panic, she scanned the room she was in. It was a cabin of some sort, she assumed, the walls made of rounded boards. A narrow cot sat in the corner to her left. This is where he held Florence, she thought, although there were no traces to suggest that someone else had been here recently. He must have cleaned up after himself meticulously.

There were no windows, the door behind her the only way of escape. How had Florence managed to get out? Had he been careless? Had he forgotten to lock the door?

I can't take that risk with you, Colonel, he'd said. What was he going to do? Break her legs so she wouldn't be able to walk, let alone run?

Positive, she reminded herself. You have to stay positive. If he wanted to keep her from escaping, he was planning on holding her here for a while. Alive. Hopefully, that would give NCIS enough time to find her.

Hopefully, it would give Harm enough time to find her.

How long until he'd figure out she'd been taken. Would he know that something was wrong when she didn't show up for work in the morning? Or would he assume that she was avoiding him? If she hadn't been abducted, then this was probably exactly what she would have been doing. But she knew that eventually he'd notice that she was missing, just as she knew—knew with absolute certainty—that despite how they'd left things, he would never ever let her down. He'd move heaven and earth to find her, to save her.

He wouldn't fail her.

Tears blurred her vision. On some level, she'd always known that he loved her, that he wanted her. But she'd managed to convince herself that she deserved more, that she couldn't wait for him forever.

Why did you go to him so quickly?

You pushed me away.

Had she gone to Mic because he'd pursued her, because he'd made no secret of the fact that he was attracted to her? Or had she gone to him to punish Harm?

She should have waited, she thought miserably, should have given him more time. Shouldn't have given up so quickly. Should have taken the road less travelled by instead of the easier path that had led her away from Harm and into Mic's arms.

No regrets. How she wished that this was true for her! But if God forbid she died, she'd die knowing that she had given up when it would have mattered most.

I'm sorry, Harm, she thought, closing her eyes to keep the tears from falling. I am so very sorry.

Footsteps. Then the door opened.

She tensed.

I'm sorry, she thought again.

Then he came up behind her, pulling her against his frame, and panic wiped her mind as she felt the sharp edge of a knife on her throat.