Taken With The Enemy (4 page)
This time, they had left me a huge ice cream sundae.
My mouth watered.
Bastards.
I would not give in. If they wanted me to eat so badly, then they needed to let me go. I'd eat only after I was returned to camp.
Despite my stomach's objections, I left the latest lure on the table and made my way back into the bedroom. Collapsing on the mattress, I felt around the covers, searching for my bottle of water. Unscrewing the cap, I took deep gulps of the tepid liquid, as much as my stomach could tolerate, hoping it would ease my hunger pains.
I wondered how
they
even knew if I ate or not. Unlike my original captor, the other keepers never came around unless I was in my bed, which was most of the time due to the constant fatigue I'd felt since I started the ‘resistance'. I had yet to meet them—not that I wanted to.
Hidden cameras, maybe?
Day one was the Chicken Biryani, so I'd guessed my keepers assumed I wasn't hungry right then and that I'd eat later. Day two passed without a visit, as did day three. But the morning of day four I'd awakened to the smell of bacon. When I had gone into the dining room, there was a plate waiting for me with an all-American breakfast upon it.
The torture hadn't stopped since.
Yesterday's lunch had brought salad and yogurt, and dinner had been roasted lamb chops and vegetables. This morning it was fruit and muffins, and lunch, grilled kebabs and pita bread.
Now this. Fucking ice cream.
I had to laugh. I brought this suffering upon myself. What did I expect?
In a way, I guess I expected them to either let me go, kill me, or let me die of starvation. No questions asked. What I
didn't
expect was for them to care enough to cook on my behalf, with the sole purpose of trying to coax me into eating again.
In a few hours, they would come to retrieve the ice cream. Perhaps I'd make an introduction then. I couldn't fathom why I wanted to do such a thing, considering that previously, I had avoided them at all costs. But if felt like the right thing to do. Though I wouldn't partake of their fare, I still wanted to thank them for the concern.
Thank them?
Shit. The water fast was really screwing up my mind.
I thought about changing my pajamas for more appropriate clothing, so I'd be ready when they came, but my body was too tired to get out of bed again.
Maybe after a quick nap I'd be up for the task.
Thwack!
I woke up to darkness and another crashing noise, like that of a pot being thrown into a kitchen sink. Damn. They were being loud tonight. I rolled over and turned my back to the light spilling through my doorway from the living area. Later, when I felt up to it, I would get up and shut the door. But until then, I needed more rest.
Thunk.
Dinnerware slammed on the dining room table.
Then heavy footsteps advanced toward my room.
My eyes shot open.
They never came into my room. It was like some unspoken rule, it just didn't happen ... unless...
Sandalwood.
Yanking the covers away, he grasped my arm and pulled me off the mattress. I was so shocked, I didn't object when he dragged my ass into the dining room. He shoved me down into the chair at the head of the table.
"You will eat. Now,” he growled.
Staring at the steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup and the glass of fruit juice before me, I instinctively touched the spoon resting on the napkin, but drew my hand back. The thought of putting something in my mouth made me feel queasy. I really just wanted to go back to sleep. I was exhausted.
At the other end of the table, he angrily slid the heavy wooden chair out, marring the air with the shriek of scratching marble. I flinched, hating the sound that echoed through the room.
He sat and stared me down. “I said eat."
"I'm not hungry,” I mumbled.
"I don't care."
The edge in his voice, the hard set of his jaw, and the dark gleam in his eyes cautioned me not to press the issue. But amongst the inner chaos that consumed me—including the tug of self-preservation insisting I eat the damn soup—was the overwhelming urge to rebel against his demand.
"Don't make me tell you again,” he warned, raising a dark brow.
What was I? A wayward child. If I wasn't hungry, I wasn't fucking hungry.
I shook my head.
"Eat."
It was all too much.
Frustrated, I slammed my hands down on the table's surface. “I'm not eating this."
"Yes, you are."
I swept my arm across, knocking the bowl and the glass off the edge. They hit the hard floor in a shattering, splattering mess.
The gratification was short-lived.
Quick as lightening, he was out of his chair and in my face, as dangerous as the first time we met.
"I'm going to let that slide,” he growled, “because apparently, not having food for five days has made you irrational and far braver than you should be, given the circumstances."
I glanced away.
He pounded the tabletop. “Look at me!"
Flitching, my gaze immediately jumped back to his, my heart thumping in fear.
"I am going to get you another bowl and you are going to eat,” he continued, enunciating each syllable with careful restraint. “And if you don't, I will tie you to that chair and force feed you. Am I making myself clear?"
Stunned speechless, I couldn't do more than nod.
"Don't move."
He retreated and disappeared into the kitchen.
The heavy silence weighed upon me, and I did something I had not done in over two decades since the death of my parents ... I started to cry.
I covered my face with my hands as I fell into hysterical tears.
Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb.
I was being irrational. And careless. I was doing stupid, ridiculous things ... for what? Where was it going to get me? Foolish decisions would not gain me my freedom. But worse than my illogical behavior, I was hurt by his words. To my utter shame, I actually cared what my enemy thought of me.
His boots crunched against the porcelain and glass, and he set a new bowl down in front of me. “You can cry all you want, but that's not going to get you out of eating."
Grabbing the napkin, I dabbed at my cheeks and attempted to get a hold of myself. “I don't know what's wrong with me.” I choked out between sobs. “I usually don't..."
Actually, I did know what was wrong. This was me having a nervous breakdown. It had been years in the making. The war, my capture, this freaking fight over soup—all were tiny grains added to an already tipping scale.
Twisting around the chair beside me, he sat in it and sighed. “You are going to make it through this. And once you eat, and get your strength back, you will feel better."
I picked up the spoon and dipped it into the soup, but my fingers were shaking so bad, I couldn't keep the liquid from spilling off before it reached my lips. Dropping the utensil, I pressed my palm over my mouth, trying to contain the new flood of tears and still my quaking body.
He took my hand in his. “Breathe, Brenna."
I met his dark gaze and shook my head. One breath and I'd fall apart.
But when he drew me into his solid embrace, the torrent came anyway. Laying my head on his shoulder, I cried and cried, letting out years of pent up pain and anguish.
Gathering me onto his lap, he rocked me back and forth, stroking my hair.
My mind screamed ...
What are you doing, going willingly into the arms of my enemy?
But my heart was hurting, and at the moment, didn't care who was comforting me, be it American or Iraqi, friend or foe, ally or enemy.
Peculiar how the heart did not make those distinctions the way the mind does.
"I imagine that you're scared and confused,” he said.
"I'm a weak person,” I mumbled into his shirt. “I'm bawling like a baby."
"No, never that.” He nudged me back and raised my chin with the curve of his index finger. “Showing emotion does not make you weak. You are brave and courageous, and as strong as you are beautiful."
His out-of-place compliment fluttered through me, caressing me like a breeze ripples over the wings of a butterfly. But my mind was quick to shoot it down. I was an emotional wreck. My hair was a mess. I hadn't showered in five days or even changed my pajamas. And in the end, no matter how poetic his words were, or how soft his touch was, he was still my captor and I his prisoner.
He picked up the napkin and tenderly wiped my cheeks. “Your eyes, your expressions, they hide nothing,” he said. “I can see the fight within. How much you want to believe me, but you refuse because your sense of honor says it's wrong. And here I am, unable to hold that against you, because I am the one who has put you in this situation. But I am at a loss, Brenna. You still see me as an insurgent holding you hostage, and it's not true. One day, I'll prove that to you."
"You could let me go,” I responded in a soft, subtle plea.
Slowly, he shook his head. “Not yet."
"Then tell me why you have brought me here?"
"When—and if—the need arises."
I looked away. “If you're not an insurgent, then what are you?"
He didn't reply.
I moved off his lap and back into my chair. “You want me to trust you,” I murmured. “How can I when you can't answer the simplest of questions?"
He rubbed his forehead, suddenly looking very tired. “Your simple questions actually have complicated answers."
"Then I can only judge you by what I know. You say that you're not an insurgent, but when we met, you were running with them. You kidnapped me and brought me here, and I have no idea where I am. I'm kept under lock and key, constantly watched by what I guess is to be hidden cameras. If you keep me in the dark, then how can I see you as anything other than my enemy? How can I see myself as anything more than your captive?"
He gave a small smile. “If I knew you wouldn't try to flee, I wouldn't lock you in."
I absently picked up the spoon. “Until you can find a way to disprove my ‘prisoner status', I am obligated to find a means of escape. I'm a soldier. I must attempt escape whenever the opportunity presents itself."
"Are you familiar with the Law of Armed Conflict?” he asked.
I nodded.
"Hypothetically, if I was your enemy, I have more than adequately followed the guidelines listed by the Geneva Conventions concerning prisoners of war, such as providing sustenance."
I moved the noodles around my bowl, worried by the serious nature the conversation was taking. “You have."
"Yet, you do not accept what I have offered. Doesn't that go against your military training? How can you attempt escape if you are too weak and malnourished, or are dead from starvation?"
The Geneva Conventions also stated that seriously sick or injured soldiers had to be released. I wondered if he would let me go if I were too ill to serve whatever purpose he had in mind.
"Are you saying that if you were my enemy,
hypothetically speaking
, you'd follow all the Laws of War?"
My question must have caught him off guard. He studied me for a few moments before answering. “Perhaps."
Then maybe I wouldn't eat the soup after all.
As I went to lay the spoon back down, his fingers closed about my hand. “Have I mentioned how easy you are to read?"
I nodded slowly.
"You can eat, Brenna. I'm not your enemy, you're not my prisoner, and those rules don't apply here. Besides, I won't allow you to purposely hurt yourself."
His earlier threat to tie me down and force feed me came to mind.
He slowly pulled the spoon from my grasp and submerged it into soup before bringing up it to my lips. I looked up and met his piercing gaze.
Is he really going to feed me?
"Please,” he said, softening his tone.
I opened my mouth and closed my lips around the warm metal. When he withdrew, I swallowed.
Big mistake.
Thankfully, I was able to grab my napkin and cough into it before I sprayed the table with my
nourishment
.
Unconcerned, he dipped the spoon into the bowl and brought it back up. “Try again."
This wasn't going well. And I didn't want him see me like this.
I turned away. “No more."
"It'll pass. You have to eat."
"I'll eat after you leave."
"Unfortunately, I don't trust that you will."
Trust.
There was that word again. I hated hearing it from his lips. I tried to quell my rising anger, but it still inflected my response.
"Why do you care either way?"
Letting out a heavy breath, he laid the spoon in the bowl and sat back in his chair. “I'm surprised that you don't. Doesn't starving the body go against the doctor in you? Your oath?"
The way he said it ...
No. He couldn't...
"You mean medic,” I tested.
He pulled something out of his pocket and laid it on the table, his palm covering it from my view.
"Brenna Marie Mathews, M.D. I know who you are.” He removed his hand, and my breath caught in my throat. “I have since the day we met."
Shit.
I stared at the dog tags lying innocuously on the table. “You're mistaken. I highly doubt I'm the only Brenna Mathews in the world."
"While that might be true, it's the nine-digit number listed under your name that sets you apart."
"So what?” I shrugged, feigning indifference. “Okay. I'm a doctor in the civilian world. You got me. You Googled my name, you paid your twenty dollars to whatever website and obtained my public records. What's the point?"
"Why lie?"
I scoffed. “This coming from you? When you've done nothing but? Cute."
"Do not insinuate that I've lied to you about anything. I've gone out of my way not do so—"
"Said the man whose name I don't even know."
"Stop."
"What?” I chirped. “Don't like hearing the truth?"
"Look, I know I've withheld a lot of information from you, but what I have shared has been completely true."
