Watershed (38 page)

‘Oh God,' she said. ‘The Tower. They know everything.'

I thought about Ballard, all his boasting about the information he'd had, where and how he'd got it, the Tower, the games they'd played, the giving back and forth.

‘Yeah, they know. I think they've known the whole time.'

‘But Garrick –'

‘I don't know, Alex.'

I had no idea what Garrick was up to. Like all of us, he answered to the Tower, but for all his faults he had one abiding principle: he didn't lie. And I thought about that, thought about the very beginning, when I'd first got involved in this mess, when I'd been summoned to face the Council with him; thought about his mood in that cold room, and his showdown with Cade at the gate. Remembered his words, as I'd packed for the journey out.
You know you're screwed.
Recalled his rage in my quarters, the piece of paper he'd left behind for me to read. I thought about all of it, and none of it helped. Because if Garrick knew – if he'd known all along – then why the hell had he sent Jackson to follow us from the Hills? Why hadn't he screwed Alex? Why had he warned me about Reed? And why the fuck hadn't he killed me already?

‘Why wait until now? If they already knew, why not attack us earlier?' she asked.

‘I don't know. Maybe they thought it'd be easier to deal with everything at one time, in one place. Reel you all in and get rid of you once and for all.'

‘That's a huge risk,' she said, and I wished I could've laughed. Not the realists Ballard had claimed, but idealists, all of them, without any real clue of what they'd taken on.

‘Not so much. This is their territory, Alex. They've already got every advantage.' I didn't add what she didn't want to hear: that the only way the Tower could've been sure of every detail was if they'd had inside knowledge. And it didn't matter any more who it was; only what they'd revealed.

‘You have to get out of here, Jem. Please. Find some way to get to Cade and Ballard and warn them.'

‘Too late for that,' I told her, and she twisted in my arms.

‘No!'

‘Alex, listen.
Listen!
They're on their own now, just like us. The best way out of this – the
only
way – is to deal with what we can, not worry about what we can't. D'you understand?'

‘Please!' She squirmed again, wriggling to free herself, but I caught one of her hands, kissing it hard before pinning it to my chest.

‘You trusted me before, remember? Now I need you to do it again. Okay? Trust me, and I'll get us out of this.'

She looked down at our hands, mine covering hers, so much larger and steadier and stronger. And I knew she was thinking of that room and those Guards, our hands on her knife; knew she was thinking of that night when she'd come to me, giving herself but taking too, the night when she'd shed her vows as easily as she'd shed her clothes. I knew she was thinking about it, because I was too, and I needed her to remember it, to feel what she had then. Not the desire, but the trust.

She didn't say anything, didn't do anything; didn't argue or nod or shake her head. She just stared, her eyes threatening tears. That's how close to the edge she was. She'd been so brave, so determined, but the past few days had finally taken its toll, fear upon fear, shock after shock. And too much shock can do terrible things to a person, building a wall as thick as the Tower, chilling to the core to freeze
the warmest heart. So the strength I'd taken from her earlier, I now tried to give back, and I pulled her down, folding her into me, letting her hear my words and feel my touch. The minutes stretched out, but I kept murmuring, kept us both calm, kept her with me, and didn't let go. And when she finally spoke it was in a whisper almost too low to hear.

‘Sing me that song,' she said. ‘The one you sang before. In the Hills.' A tune to tame her terror, so she could deal with everything else.

I don't know why I did it then, just knew it was time; that somehow I'd been saving it for just that moment. Not just the tune, but the words too. Not my song any more, but ours. And if it was all I had left to give her, if this was the final comfort I could offer, then that was okay, because it was the right thing.

She pressed her head closer, hearing with one ear, feeling with the other, and I made it through the first couple of verses, before pausing to gather breath and thought.

‘Again,' she whispered.

‘There's more,' I said, but she rolled her head. So I started over, and when I got to the same point and she said nothing, I kept going. When I launched into the chorus again, she tried copying me, her voice uncertain but low and sweet. After, we listened to the silence for a while, before she sat up suddenly, turning to straddle my legs, and thumped me gently on the shoulder. And I finally saw her smile.

‘You made up that last bit,' she accused.

I held up both hands. ‘No, I swear. It's a real song, or at least it was. My mother named me for it before she died. I guess she liked it for some reason.'

She stopped smiling then, no longer feeling the joy. ‘You said you didn't know the words.'

‘Been a long time since I've sung them.'
Too long.

‘What's a bullfrog?' she asked, and I knew she was looking for a distraction.

‘They were these funny-looking things, used to live in the water and hop around. Made this weird croaking noise. My grandfather told me about them. Drew me a picture once.' I grinned at her. ‘Looked fucking ugly.'

She palmed my cheek, leaning down, staring at me with those grey-green eyes. ‘Then you can't have been named for one.'

And that's all it took. The press of her mouth was warm and slow but I sensed her need, and her uncertainty. She clutched my head, drawing me up, and I returned her kiss, fighting the familiar stirring, the hardening and thickening, the beat of blood and that voice in my head that urged me to screw the niceties and give her what she wanted, the assurance she sought. Then slowly, gently, I pushed her away.

‘Not now, Alex. Not here.' Not in that room, with its memories of pain. Not with her torn stomach and all her fears.

She took my hand and placed it flat to her belly, pressing to make me feel her hurt. ‘I need this, Jem. I need to know.'

I knew what she meant so, tugging the cloak from her shoulders, I slid my hands to her arse, lifting her onto her knees to bring her forwards. She watched, silent, as I bent to lick her carved skin, letting her know it was all right, that she was still desirable. So fucking desirable. And I felt her flare of heat, felt the quickening of her heart with my mouth, and heard her sigh.

‘You're sure?' I whispered. In eight years I'd never thought to ask a woman; payment pretty much guaranteed compliance.

‘Yes,' she said. It was that simple.

Grabbing the chain, I pulled her to me, suddenly desperate to taste her. Devour her. Ready to fill that need of hers and knowing why she'd asked. This was how she'd deal with her anger, and how she'd face her fears: fears for her husband, for her brother and Tate. Fears for me, and fears for herself. And I didn't mind. I didn't share her concern about being used. Alex could use me until it hurt.

Her fingers worked at my ties while mine slipped between her thighs, teasing and readying her, and I shifted when she pulled on my trousers to ease me out of them, just enough so she could guide me in. I hadn't come here for this, hadn't intended it to happen, but once I was inside her, I never wanted to leave.

‘Fuck, you're so beautiful.' I cupped her face, kissing her again, groaning when she moved on me to clench, squeeze tight and release again. Clamping her hands to my shoulders she pushed me back to the wall so I lounged against it while she took control, timing it perfectly, rising high, sinking low and circling slow, her thighs trapping me like a vice. Torture, like I'd never known it before. And joy to the fucking world.

Then suddenly she stopped. Gripping my hair to hold me still, she stared intently, fixing me with those eyes, passionate and fierce. ‘Whatever else happens, Jem, you have to get rid of Garrick and Reed. Promise me.'

A man will do pretty much anything, given the right motivation: she worked those muscles again and I bucked up into her.

‘You keep doing that, and I'll kill everyone. Just for you,' I growled, and grabbing her hips, holding her low, I drove in deep. Because it seemed this was our thing: to speak of death and fuck like there was no tomorrow. Tender then tough, soft then savage, heartfelt and hard and achingly good.

And this time when she came, she took me with her.

There's always a lull after every storm, a sort of reprieve before the next onslaught, when the frenzy is over and passion's spent. Never silent, but always peaceful, giving you those few moments to appreciate what it is to be alive. It's the same after a kill: that heady rush followed by exalted relief. One climax the same as another.

I listened as our breathing steadied, felt the hammering in her chest even out like mine and I lay still, careful not to scrape against her stomach, waiting for her to move off me. But she was in no
hurry so I stroked the length of her back, following the ridge of her spine, down then up again, slow and soft. If I could've stopped time, I reckon I'd have chosen that moment to do it.

Sighing at last and lifting her head to rest her chin on my chest, she stared at me. ‘What if you're wrong?' she asked, breaking the mood.

‘Then it's business as usual,' I said, keeping it simple. But I knew I wasn't wrong. Too many things weren't adding up.

‘It's not too late for you,' she said finally, her voice small but determined, braver than she had any right to be. And I smiled for her.

‘Yeah, it is.'

She didn't argue. Instead, she asked the impossible. ‘What will you do?'

‘Not a fucking clue,' I said, pressing my lips to her forehead. ‘I've still gotta get to Garrick. And I need to find us a way out of here. Before they make their move.' I slapped her backside lightly. Fun times were over. ‘C'mon, hop off.'

She didn't move. ‘What happened to your face?' she asked, as though noticing for the first time, but I knew she was stalling.

‘Garrick's way of showing affection. He's always been good like that.' I gave her a gentle prod. ‘Let me up.'

‘How did we not realise, Jem? All this time?'

I sighed. ‘Alex, we can stay here and you can keep asking me questions and I'll keep trying to answer them. But eventually they're gunna come for us. Is that what you want?' Her silence was answer enough. ‘Then let me go, so I can finish this.'

If she'd begged and pleaded, if she'd clung to me and held me and kissed me, I'd have stayed, no question. I knew I would. But I was counting on her not doing any of those things. Alex was a fighter. She just needed reminding.

Gently, I raised her up and off me, and she didn't protest. Unstrapping my boot, I ferreted out the slim package wrapped in its layer of oilskin and handed it to her.

‘It's just a flick knife, but it'll do the trick. If you're sure you can get clear. Until then, keep it hidden.'

I eyed the bare room with a sinking heart, taking in the single cot, the lamp on the wall, the waste pots and the small jug of water next to it on the floor. Nowhere to hide anything. Nowhere to hide at all.

‘I know a place,' she said softly, and I looked at her.

‘Safe?'

‘Safe enough.' She slipped her hand between her thighs, pressing lightly, and when I frowned, she said, ‘They haven't touched me yet, Jem.'

No, they hadn't. And if they moved her, she'd still have it with her.

‘That'll work.' I grinned and gave her a quick kiss. Then, because the idea of that sharp knife folded safe inside its skin and inside her was doing real strange things to me, I said, ‘Can I watch?'

‘No,' she said, all disapproving and spoiling my fun.

‘At least it'll go in easy now.' Touching my mouth to her cheek, then her ear, smiling when I heard her soft sigh, I whispered, ‘And if you don't end up using it, I'll help you get it out again.'

That did it, and she turned her head to meet my mouth, kissing me hard before pushing me back. ‘Go,' she said. And I was the one who sighed.

Standing, I pulled my cloak around her again, this time fastening it, and she bravely smiled her thanks. It felt good to be on the move again, able to square up to whatever was coming, but it was going to be so much harder for Alex.

‘Jem?'

‘What?' I brushed her cheek with my knuckles.

‘Do it,' she said, her voice as hard as any man's. ‘Kill them all. Do it for me.'

Excerpt ~ Letter #19

 

… some people think we choose how we behave, as though the decision to stand and fight, or to flee, is a conscious one. It's not. It's inherent and instinctive, a split-second reaction to danger. And all of us are animals.