Alive, alive, alive. I'm still breathing. I'm alive, and I'm breathing. These are the words I wake up to. I'm groggy and so out of it. My body's sore, my head pounds.
I open my eyes and sit up, only to hit my head on something. It takes me a moment to realise where I am: in the boot of a 4WD. Alone. It looks to be mid-morning, late morning – or hell, maybe early afternoon.
My brain feels like it's full of cobwebs. I shake my head, but that only helps to make the pounding worse.
The blanket lies at my feet where I kicked it off during the night, against the window by the rear door. Beside me is another blanket, looking to have been thrown off when someone got up and left. My pack lies undisturbed against the boot, as does Nate's. But his rifle's not, and he's not here either.
Moving is torture. My head hurts, my body aches, and my neck is stiff – I can only look at something when I move my entire body. And when I touch my throat, even just lightly, it stings. My eyes water, and even swallowing turns out to be difficult. A memory – vague, hazy – comes to mind, but I can't grab hold of it. I remember hands on me, I remember pressure.
Sore and stiff, I slowly climb out of the car. When I find my feet, I lean against the door and take in my surroundings. Again I'm in a forest. Different to the one I'd been in last night? as the trees here are taller, wider, and spaced further apart. The ground is more uneven and littered with dead leaves. The sky above is bright blue, but the sunlight only breaks through some of the foliage and the ground below is dappled.
Leaves fall all around me, some already making the transition to Fall. They fall like confetti in different shades of green and gold and orange.
I take one, maybe two steps away from the car to find that the area's been rigged with traps. Hooked up to run between four trees, pots are tied to the rope; another has glass bottles tied together by their necks. There's even one rigged with what looks to be bones.
Which means Nate must be nearby. Or out hunting. Either way, he's left me in such a position that I won't get caught unawares while he's gone.
I approach the closest trap and duck beneath it, the bottles rattling slightly as my back grazes the rope. But as I right myself, I hear the distant splash of water in the opposite direction. I curse because that means I have to either duck back under the trap or walk around them.
I can't be bothered with either. But I duck back under the rope, move as fast as my aching body allows around the 4WD, and then duck under the trap that consists of the pots. This time I get caught, and it takes me a good five minutes to untangle myself. The pots rattle and clang against one another like musical instruments, and I hope it doesn't make Nate come running over here for no reason.
My jacket is riddled with holes, and I pull it tighter around me as I make my way in the direction of where I think I heard the splash of water. The uneven ground slopes downward here. I hang onto the trees as I propel myself forward, slipping and sliding and grabbing the trunks at the last minute before I lose my footing completely.
There's another splash, closer this time, but off to my right. I change course and move in that direction, conscious of my movements, of my stiff neck, my aching body, my throbbing ankle which is protesting every single step I take.
And then – I'm blind. I stumble and almost lose my footing. My already injured ankle twists under me, and it takes everything not to collapse to the ground and grab my ankle like Peter Griffin and go "AAARRRRGGGGHHHH".
The source of my blindness is the river ahead. The sunlight dances across its surface, the water reflecting the light right into my eyes.
As I limp forward, moving on an angle so the sunlight doesn't continue to blind me, I move closer to the water's edge. I take in the sight before me, the beauty of the river, the lush green grass that runs close to the water; the few trees that overhang, the branches and leaves that dance and move in time to the river's touch, the – I spot Nate's rifle and someone else's rifle propped against a tree, and spread out on the ground nearby are his clothes.
Which are being used as a chew toy by Dog. He growls, trying to kill Nate's shirt, and doesn't notice me. But then I spot Nate, a little ways over. I approach, favouring my ankle.
Nate stands naked waist-deep in the river. His back faces me, and I watch as his swirling tattoos that cover most of his body, twisting and curling up one arm and up the side of his neck, the wings on his back, move as his body does, like living art. He splashes himself periodically, drenching himself from the head down. His dark hair is slicked back, and the water travelling south highlights the bullet wound he sustained to his shoulder, the injury breaking up the ink.
As he turns slightly, he steps closer to shore; the water descends to his pelvis, dangerously close to exposing more of him than I wish to see. But then I notice the familiar bar of soap in his hand. He scrubs it first through his hair, then over his arms, chest, stomach, and back.
I'm quite happy in just watching him, in a creepy/ stalkerish way from behind the trees. I mean, I can definitely appreciate him from afar. I'd have to be blind to think he's not good-looking, what with his broad shoulders and narrow hips and bulging muscles. It's riveting to watch, even as he submerges the bar of soap and–
"I use that on my face," I say, and never have I heard my voice sound so bad. It scrapes like sandpaper; a croak. I clear my throat, which of course does nothing.
Nate looks up then, and watches as I slowly and painfully approach. I know he's taking stock of me and my injuries, and he doesn't look away or say anything as he continues to wash himself, like I haven't just interrupted his bath time. His movements are mechanical, slow, like he's distracted. But then a wicked grin slowly turns up the corners of his mouth.
"I don't want dick on my face," I say to him, and god help me for having a voice that is croaky and sore and scratchy. I swallow, but it doesn't do me any good; it only irritates my throat further.
Nate continues to wash himself, now with exaggerated movements; his arm is lost beneath the water. I doubt he's unintentionally flexing; I doubt he's not trying to draw my attention to certain areas. "Did you just call me a dick?"
I smirk at him, though it's uncomfortable to do so. "If you want to be, you can."
Nate's grin slowly turns into his smirk, that stupid all-knowing one. He gives me a brief look before he turns his attention to my bar of soap, which he brings to the surface and rubs between his hands. The water around him turns soapy. To say my eyes don't drift to his abs would be a bit of a lie. "It's all good. See? Clean."
I scoff at him, but the sound only agitates my throat. "You can keep it."
Nate looks up at me, shrugging before he tosses the soap to me. It lands at my feet. "Can't waste it," he says simply before he leans forward and dips his hair into the water. In doing so, he gives me a nice glimpse of his ass.
"Do you always put on a show for the ladies?" I croak. I take a seat on the ground by the river, the ground warm through my jeans. The sunlight shines directly upon my head, and a slight breezes kicks droplets of water onto me every now and again. But it's refreshing – a word I haven't used to describe a situation since Day Zero.
Nate's back is still to me as he washes his hair. "Only for you," he says.
"I'm flattered."
"I can tell." He turns to me now, his mouth crooked up in that smirk of his. "Join me."
"Unfortunately I would have to say no to that."
He cocks an eyebrow and takes a step forward, the water dipping dangerously low on his pelvis.
"Do not come any closer."
Nate pauses, blue eyes scrutinising, trying to gauge my reaction. He probably doesn't take me seriously because I'm not being serious. But then again, it's stopped him in his tracks – until realisation flashes across his face. "No," he says, and it's enough for me to cock an eyebrow. "I didn't take you for a prude."
"It's not that," I say seriously, and he practically stares at me now, waiting for me to continue. It's easier to read his face now than it has been previously, with his hair pushed back from his face. "I just want to keep the fantasy alive, you know?" I try to keep a straight face. "How am I meant to stay mad at you if you don't actually have a small dick?"
Nate scrubs a hand over his face. In a first for the both of us, he breaks eye contact first. When he finally looks back at me, that familiar pull tugs at me, and I hate this thing that's between us. I hate everything about this situation, from when we first crossed paths to right now, with him standing before me, naked.
But his gaze – it's the blue eyes – gets to the point of intense, and if I wasn't so tired and sore I'd just ignore it all.
"What?" I snap.
He gives me a feral grin. "I'm ruining your fantasy," he says, and he does just that. He steps out of the water, in all his naked glory, and stalks towards me. Yep, fantasy well and truly ruined.
I keep my eyes averted from where he obviously wants me to look, so I purposely keep my gaze locked with his so he gets no satisfaction whatsoever. "Not funny," I say. My voice scratches against my throat. "I could have an insane phobia of dicks."
"I seriously doubt that," Nate says. He stands before me, and I refuse to look anywhere but his face. So when he reaches forward, grabs my hands and hoists me to my feet, I'm suspicious. I only let him do this because if I fought back, I'd more than likely hurt myself.
"Okay, so–"
"Trust me." And as soon as the words pass his lips, he grabs me around the waist and lifts me up and over his shoulder.
"Seriously!?" My voice comes out more like a garble, but Nate ignores me as he turns around and heads back to the river. Now I do struggle, and my neck screams in protest as I try to wiggle my way out of his grip. But I'm weak, and I hate the feeling. I hate not being able to do things for myself, and I hate not being able to fight back or defend myself. So I do what any other woman would do in my current predicament: I stare at Nate's glorious butt before the water rises much too fast and I'm submerged.
Nate lets go of me and allows me to swim to the surface. I splutter, and push my hair back from my face as I drag in air past my sore windpipe. Nate resurfaces nearby, and I splash at him.
"That's not even remotely funny," I say. He runs his hands through his hair, slicking it back again. I watch him as I tread water, and I have half a mind to go back to shore because being in a river with a naked guy can and most likely will have disastrous results. And the fact that I'm fully dressed and my clothes feel like they weigh a ton doesn't make matters any better.
I splash at Nate again when he doesn't say anything. "I could've drowned."
He rolls his eyes but is amused nonetheless. "Stop complaining," he says. "Get your gear off."
"You did all this just so you could get me naked? Weak, Tarver, weak."
I feel Nate's eyes on me as I swim back to shore, my sodden boots so heavy I basically flail. But when I make it to shallow water, I stand until the water pools around my waist. "You did it all yourself," he says, and because he's in range, I toss my shirt at him once I chuck my jacket onto the grass.
Dog dashes over now, yapping and growling and happy, and he makes good work of my jacket; it's well and truly dead as he takes it back over to Nate's belongings.
"Dog!" I shout. "No!" But of course he pays me no attention. I turn to Nate. "Nope, all you," I say, and somehow, despite the death grip, I manage to wrench my socks and boots off my feet, and I toss them near my jacket; I shimmy out of my jeans which now stick to me like glue, and I end up floating on my back just to get them off.
"As much as I would like to take the credit," Nate says, and he tosses my shirt onto the shore with the rest of my clothes, "I can't. It's all you."
Fine. Free will and all that shit. He said something, I did as he said. "Whatever. Doesn't mean you didn't want to see me naked."
Nate stays a respectful distance from me, and by doing so I feel comfortable enough to remove my underwear and chuck them with the rest of my clothing. Then I swim out into the river, paying him no heed, the water refreshing against my naked body. I've never felt so liberated. I could almost forget everything that's going on, the state of the world, my – our – next plan of action.
The water churns around me as I dive under, and all but ten seconds later I break the surface, my lungs burning, my neck aching, my throat tight and throbbing. Hell, just for the fun of it, my ankle joins in, too.
Nate swims over to me, and I'm not sure if it's because he senses my distress or if he just wants to be closer. Either or, I don't care. But when he pulls up in front of me, all I see is pity.
"I don't want your pity," I snap, before he can even get a word in; I don't want him to say otherwise. No, actually, I dare him to. Distracting or no with his shoulders above the water, with his many tattoos and his gunshot wound, I will not be part of this pity party. I have half a mind to swim away from him.
"I wasn't giving you any," he says finally. He gestures to my throat with a slight tilt of his head. "But it's good to know that you can still talk."
I swallow. The action burns, like a permanent but painful lump. "Oh."
The corner of his mouth curves upward, lopsided; but then it's gone, like he hadn't just made a private joke. "Care to tell me what happened the other night?"
"Other night–?"
"You've been unconscious for just over a day," Nate says impatiently. We tread water, a metre, maybe two metres apart from each other. Besides the obvious, I also can't help looking at the two rings that hang around his neck. Until he tells me the meaning behind them, I'll always be curious.
"I'd rather talk when we're not buck naked," I say finally, and I look away from his necklace. This leaves meeting his gaze the safest option, even with his all-knowing eyes. "Because right now, I just need a five minute breather."
It actually surprises me when Nate agrees. "I don't think I've been more excited for a woman to put her clothes back on," he says, and I splash him again. He simply rubs a hand over his face, over his five o'clock shadow, and his eyes are as bright as the sky above.
"You're awfully calm and patient today," I observe. I swim backwards and away from him, and closing my eyes, I tip my face towards the sun.
"No, I'm not," Nate replies.
This forces me to right my position, though the water sits just below my chin. I look at him. His expression gives nothing away, a look so impenetrable that he's had time to perfect. It's like a slab of stone, and I project what I want to see onto him. So really, he's not patient, and he's not calm. I see what I want to believe.
And I know exactly what he's referring to, though I'm surprised he didn't mention it sooner. I'm surprised I didn't mention it sooner. "What's stopping you?" I ask.
Nate turns those blue eyes on me. Though I'm already naked, I feel as though he's stripping even more layers of me away. But his gaze never leaves my own, and I don't know if I should appreciate his undivided attention. "You," he says.
"You could've left," I say immediately. "You could've left me a note."
"You know where they've taken her."
I do. And Nate's waited over a day to find out where Jai's taken Emmi. I'm surprised he didn't try to wake me sooner. Instead, he'd let me sleep until my body felt it was time to wake up. How considerate.
Okay, that was a bit mean. He's lost his daughter, an indirect result of one of my many decisions. God, there are so many things I need to say to him. Thank you. Sorry. Let's go get Emmi back. You saved my life. You're a pain in the ass.
I swim over to him. I think he can stand up, because he isn't treading water, but the water still comes up to his chest. I don't stop until I'm about a metre from him, where it would be easy for me to reach out and touch him. He watches me, waiting to see what I'll do, what I could possibly want.
"Thank you for saving my life," I say, and because he is within reach, I grab his face and kiss him on the mouth. He doesn't kiss me back, for when I pull away, his eyes are narrowed, and I see the question there, the small amount of confusion he's allowed me to see.
"I thought you wanted to be fully clothed," he says.
"I do. But I wanted to thank you first."
I don't mean it to be an invitation, and I'm pretty sure it didn't sound like an invitation, but Nate pulls me to him until I'm flush against his body, boobs to chest, hips to hips, legs entangled. My breath flies from my lungs in a whoosh, and I'm sure Nate can feel my pounding heart through his skin.
I cling to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other at the back of his head. One of his arms wraps around me, while his free hand kneads the back of my thigh. Dangerous territory. And it's made even more dangerous when he leans forward and kisses me, mouth fierce and demanding, lips soft.
Every inch of him presses into me. The moment is too intimate, too intense, but I don't do anything about it. I just let him do what he wants, because it feels nice. Hypocritical, I know. But my body wants one thing, my mind wants another. So I guess I meet them in the middle, where I don't do anything. I just react to the stimuli around me; I respond with a moan as Nate kisses me again, the sound lost as he surges up, his cock brushing against my inner thigh, warm, slick, hard.
I pull back at the touch, unsure, unprepared. "Slowly," I murmur, and the arm around my waist only pulls me closer, tighter.
Nate huffs what I think to be a chuckle that fans delicately over my cheek. I can't see his face, can only guess his expression. "I'll try my best," he says, and with only a gentle nudge I open to him. He kisses me again as he moves up and I move down; he slowly sinks into me, I sink onto him, whichever. I slowly spread around him, and I suck in a whimper that gets lost when Nate kisses me again and again. It's slightly uncomfortable as it's a tight fit, but I eventually take all of him, and the feeling of him inside me makes me gasp.
Nate goes still, his entire body rigid. "Fuck," he breathes, and his face falls against my shoulder. He moves deliberately then, the friction stuck between awkward and just right.
Warning bells, bright, loud, and constantly flashing, go off in my head, but again I do nothing. I close my eyes, focus on my breathing, and clench around him. Nate sucks in a breath and mumbles something against my skin, his movements inside me steady, rhythmic, long.
And it's damn-well frustrating. I tell him so, but he does nothing about it. He just keeps his pace, like he has all the time in the world. Then he goes still again. His face is still pressed to my neck, his brow on my collarbone. His breath fans roughly across my skin.
I can feel him pulling away, both physically and emotionally. He closes himself off to me, and in all honesty, it doesn't surprise me. This is all wrong. So I pull away too – I push him until we separate. I don't say anything as I turn away, and neither does he. He doesn't try to pull me back, try to explain what's going on in his head. He lets me leave.