Dark Enemy Captive Page 3

  When he got back to the room, the first thing he noticed was the tray of food in the compartment behind the little glass door, and he took it out. Sitting on the mattress, he placed the tray on the floor in front of him. Again, he was pleasantly surprised—the coffee was excellent and the two sandwiches were loaded with cold cuts. A decent meal.

  Who knew, maybe this was the worst his rich captors could dish out. He doubted anyone had taken pity on him or had cared to treat him kindly.

  Unless, this was meant to be his last meal. Though, if this were indeed the case, they should've at least served him a juicy steak. And a stiff drink.

  Did he dare entertain hope that it had been Amanda's doing?

  Nah. He knew her better than that. She would not have bothered with food. If anything, she would've been on the other side of this door, demanding to see him.

  Yeah, as if there was a chance in hell she cared for him—enough to defy her brother.

  Dalhu wondered whether she would visit him, at least one last time to say goodbye, or forget all about him and let him rot in here alone.

  After all, she'd never claimed to have any feelings for him. And engaging in sexual activity was as meaningless for her as it used to be for him…

  With her, though, it had been nothing but. More like a life-altering experience. He'd been different with Amanda, and not just in the way he'd interacted with her, but on a more visceral level…

  He felt as if he'd been reborn in that cabin, reshaped to become the man she needed him to be.

  Still, it might have been all one-sided.

  True, she'd defended him against her own brother. But there was a big difference between not wanting to see him dead and wanting to be with him.

  Yeah.

  It was time to wake up from the dream and face his grim reality. He needed to get back to the way he'd been before. Ruthless and cold would get him through this, romantic and soft would not. After sorting out his new cache of feelings and memories, he would lock it away inside the minuscule compartment dedicated to the good he'd experienced throughout his life.

  Dalhu finished the last of the coffee and returned the tray to where he had found it, then went back to sit on the mattress.

  With his back slumped against the wall and his elbows crossed over his up-drawn knees, Dalhu buried his face in his arms and delved into his cache of precious memories.

  For a long time, it had been the memory of his mother and sister that had kept him from losing it and surrendering to the darkness around him.

  The sound of his sister's giggles, the image of his mother's indulgent, loving smile—those memories had sustained him during other bleak times, and he'd desperately clung to them for decades. But inevitably, they were doomed to fade.

  Amanda had gifted him with new ones.

  He had so little time with her, and there had been precious few of them. But he cherished each and every one.

  Aside from what he'd experienced with Amanda, and what was left of what he'd once had with his family, there was nothing else in his life worth remembering.

  Hell, he would've paid good money to forget most of the crap he'd been through.

  This new cache would have to sustain him for shit knew how long. If he were to escape execution, that is. But just in case he got to live, he wanted to preserve every little detail of his time with Amanda.

  CHAPTER 4: ANDREW

  As he drove back to the high rise, Andrew barely managed to keep his eyes open, let alone concentrate on the road. And it didn't help that neither he nor Kian were in the mood to chat.

  First, they'd dropped off Jake at his home and then Rodney. Despite being exhausted to the point of nearly passing out, Kian had insisted on waiting for each to shower and get in bed before doing his thing with their heads.

  Just as he'd promised.

  "You'd better crash at my place and get a few hours of sleep before heading home," Kian offered as they reached the underground parking.

  For a moment, Andrew was tempted to play it tough and pretend he was perfectly fine to drive back to his place. But that would've been stupid.

  And pointless.

  In his youth, when impressing his friends had been paramount—safety and self-preservation a far-flung, distant notion—he would've said he was okay. He would've driven home even if it meant forcing his eyelids open with his fingers the entire time. But those days were long gone, as were the days when he could've pushed it, going without sleep for two or three full cycles while still functioning at close to optimal level.

  He was getting old, and as much as he hated to admit it, particularly to himself, he could no longer pull the same shit he had been able to—with ease—a decade ago.

  And wasn't that a bitch.

  A midlife crisis before forty.

  Reluctantly, he nodded, eased into an empty spot, and cut the ignition.

  They made the trip up to the penthouse in silence. Kian unlocked his front door and headed down the hallway to his bedroom, just pointing to one of the doors he had passed to show Andrew where to crash.

  The guy was operating on fumes. The difference was that it had taken Kian three days without shuteye to reach this state. Andrew, on the other hand, had a full night's sleep less than twenty-four hours ago.

  It wasn't a good feeling—relatively young, but already over the hill—at least for any kind of active field duty, that is. Of course, he could still supervise, train, plan missions, spy—do all the things that required his knowledge and experience but not physical strength, agility, and endurance.

  It sucked balls.

  Taking a perfunctory, one-minute shower, he got into bed naked and slid between the sheets. In his own home, it was standard operating procedure; as a guest? Yeah, not so much. But he didn't have a change of clothes and asking Kian to borrow some of his was not cool.

  Most likely, the guy was already sleeping. And if he wasn't? Well, then he was probably busy doing other things…with Syssi…

  Yeah… no need to go there.

  Exhaustion taking over, Andrew's eyelids slid shut. But as soon as they did, the image of Amanda's naked perfection popped behind his closed lids, and he grew instantly hard.

  Shit, his damn erection didn't give a rat's ass about the rest of his body not being on board for the wakey wakey.

  Reaching under the covers and fisting the bad boy, Andrew felt like a dirty old man. Though, come on, occasionally, every guy whacked off to the image of a woman he wasn't involved with—even those who fronted the holier-than-thou attitude. The only men who didn't, couldn't, or took a turn at the self-serve station to the image of another guy.

  Andrew chuckled. If Amanda were a famous star, her poster would've been hanging over every teenager's bed, providing the boys with inspiration for endless hours of self-play.

  Funny thing was, he had the distinct impression that she wouldn't have minded. In fact, he was pretty sure she would have loved it.

  What a woman.

  Stroking himself, he pictured Amanda in all her naked glory.

  She was magnificent, standing in the middle of that cabin with her hands on her hips and her foot tapping the floor, staring Kian down while ignoring the rest of her drooling audience. Hell, the woman couldn't have looked more confident if she were addressing a courtroom dressed to the nines in a power suit.

  Having had every detail of her stunning face and perfect body already memorized, Andrew tried to go a step further and imagine himself with her. But the face of that Doomer intruded on his fantasy, turning the hard club in his hand into a limp noodle.

  He tried again, focusing only on Amanda, but it was no use.

  Andrew sighed and turned on his side. It was probably nothing. The bad boy down-under had evidently gotten a bitching memo from management about him draining the last of the energy reserves and had finally agreed it was time to give it a rest.

  It wasn't like the guy was malfunctioning or anything. He had never let Andrew down before. And there was no way in hell
Andrew was accepting any other explanation.

  CHAPTER 5: KIAN

  On his way to the bathroom, Kian glanced at his empty bed, regarding it with mixed feelings. He would've loved nothing better than to snuggle up to Syssi's warm body and have her lovely scent soothe his raw nerves. But it was good that she was with Amanda.

  At a time when he couldn't even bring himself to look at his sister, let alone provide comfort, Kian was grateful to Syssi for being there for her. Not that he would've been capable of doing much good under normal circumstances—providing a shoulder to cry on wasn't his style. He was more of a kick to the butt kind of guy.

  Amanda needed someone to unload her ordeal on—someone who cared for her and would listen and ah and uh at all the right places without passing judgment. True, their mother was with her as well, but Kian wasn't sure if Annani were any better at handling an emotional crisis than he was.

  From his experience, it dependent on his mother's mood. At times, she had been supportive and understanding, but more often than not she'd expected him to toughen it up instead of seeking solace from her. But maybe Annani was more indulgent toward Amanda. After all, no one expected the princess to assume a leadership position, which would have demanded a steel backbone of her. Unlike Sari and Kian, the princess was allowed some slack, and Annani might be more inclined to grant her some motherly comfort.

  Still, there was no one better for the job than his sweet, empathetic Syssi.

  During the long drive to Jake's place in Valencia, Kian had plenty of time to think, and it had helped clear his head. Not that he had a choice. He had to force himself to calm down in order to do a decent job of suppressing the guy's memories without damaging his brain. Later, after they had left Rodney at his home in Santa Clarita, Kian had done more soul searching on the drive back home.

  As he'd sifted through their memories, watching the replay of what had happened over at the cabin and seeing himself through their eyes hadn't been easy. It had been a chilling eye-opener. And even though they had only seen the end tail of his attack, from the mortals' perspective, he'd looked like an out-of-control madman; raging at a traumatized, vulnerable, naked woman.

  An incredibly beautiful, naked woman.

  It had been no big surprise to witness the males' reaction to Amanda in her birthday suit, but he hadn't expected the almost worshipful reverence they had been hit with. The poor schmucks had been literally rendered stupid.

  No wonder they'd immediately taken her side.

  Nevertheless, as much as he would've liked to, he couldn’t entirely dismiss Andrew's buddies’ opinion as biased, or their assessment as inaccurate—regardless of the back story they had been missing.

  Still, to be able to see things in a different light, he needed to let go of the rage.

  Easier said than done, though. And in Kian's case—impossible.

  His deep-seated hatred for his enemies was built upon two millennia of witnessing their unimaginable cruelty and their complete disregard for human life.

  True, the atrocities had been executed by the mortals under the Doomers' control. But to say it had been the mortals' fault was like blaming the finger for pulling the trigger and not the brain commanding it. But to be perfectly honest, he couldn't blame the Doomers for all of it. He was well aware that some of the humans hadn't needed any outside influence.

  There were always those who thirsted for the rush of power they got from the killing and the raping and the terror and destruction they wreaked. In the past, bloodthirsty thugs had joined armies, nowadays, they joined terror organizations and rebel groups. The motive was the same, though—to indulge their evil appetites with impunity.

  But when people who would've otherwise spent their entire lives without committing even one act of cruelty became monsters, there was influence behind it.

  Some called it the Devil. Kian had another name for it—The Brotherhood of the Devout Order of Mortdh—The Doomers.

  It wasn't a case of a different ideology, or a fierce competition between rivals, or even personal vendetta. This was a battle over the fate of humanity. Kian and his clan wanted it to thrive; the Doomers wanted it to yield to their power.

  And to that end, the Doomers were doing everything in their power to keep the human population divided, ignorant, and fearful.

  So yeah, Kian felt well justified in his hatred. But be that as it may, he shouldn't have extended it to his own sister, despite her momentary lapse of judgment—even if it had been a monumental one.

  In fact, the sex with her captor had probably been Amanda's way to cope with a terrifying situation, and convincing herself that she'd wanted it made it tolerable.

  But even though the shift in logic helped him see things in a different light, Kian still felt contaminated by the filth that had soiled Amanda.

  Standing under the spray of the almost scalding water, he kept running the soap over his body, over and over, wishing he had one of those loofah things to better scrub with. In the recesses of his mind, Kian was aware that the stain he was trying to rub off was on the inside, but he couldn't help the compulsion.

  His only consolation was that Syssi wasn't there to witness his slip into insanity.

  CHAPTER 6: AMANDA

  "Where is he?" Amanda rounded on Anandur the moment his door cracked open.

  The racket she'd made pounding on his door should've been enough to rouse the whole floor, and yet the guy had taken his sweet time getting his butt in gear.

  Through the sliver of an opening, Anandur peeked at her with a tight-lipped stare. Then, after a long moment, he swung it open and turned back inside, flashing her his naked ass. She followed, waiting impatiently as she heard him flush the toilet and brush his teeth, then watched him plod to his bedroom to finally emerge wearing a pair of unbuttoned jeans.

  Without sparing her a glance, Anandur continued to the kitchen and got busy making coffee.

  Insufferable man.

  Were all the males in her family jerks?

  At last, as the coffeemaker spewed its few remaining drops, filling the two cups he'd shoved under it to the brim, Anandur pulled one for himself and handed her the other. "Milk is in the fridge, but I would check the date if I were you. Sugar is right over there." He pointed to the cluttered counter.

  Amanda humphed in indignation but accepted the mug. After all, coffee was coffee and she needed her fix. After a horrible nightmare had awakened her way too early, she'd bolted up from bed barely pausing to pull on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, let alone stop for coffee.

  Terror clawing through her, she'd grabbed her phone and texted Syssi.

  Thank heavens, her friend had answered immediately. Syssi had reassured her that Kian had been sleeping soundly beside her. And that no, the clothes he had worn before coming to bed hadn't been bloodied.

  Amanda had made Syssi check.

  With panic shortening her brain, it had been a miracle that the idea to ask Syssi had managed to surface from that disjointed swirl.

  Even now, knowing it had been only a dream, the image of Dalhu's mangled body had her heart hammer a drumroll against her ribs. Hanging from chains bolted to a stone wall high above him, he'd been so beaten and bloodied she'd barely recognized him. His manacled wrists had been broken, and his ankle had been secured by links bolted to the floor, his feet pointing in the wrong direction.

  Amanda shivered. She hadn't needed to see the face of his tormentor to know it had been Kian. She'd heard his voice, distorted, demonic, while he'd tortured Dalhu for information, demanding more and more…

  Except, Dalhu had had no more to give. He'd already told Kian everything.

  Rationally, Amanda accepted that it hadn't been real, but she needed to see Dalhu with her own eyes to banish the last of that nightmare's vestiges.

  That being said, though, she could spare a few moments to drink her morning coffee.

  The milk turned out to be fine, and she poured some into her cup, then added sugar. "Okay, enough stalling. Tell me whe
re you dumped Dalhu. I want to see him."

  Leaning against the counter and sipping his hot brew, Anandur just stared at her for a long moment before responding. "He is down in the dungeon. It's on the same level as the rest of the guest rooms, but in a section that is better secured and not as lavishly appointed."

  "Take me to him."

  "I can’t, not without Kian's authorization. And frankly? Hell would freeze over before he allows it."

  "Then we'll go over his head."

  "What do you mean over his head? Kian is at the top of our food chain."

  "Wrong. My mother is. Or did you forget that she is still the head of our clan? The fact that she lets Kian and Sari run things as they see fit and doesn't interfere with the day to day operations doesn't mean she can't or wouldn't. After all, we are not a democracy, and she has the final word."

  "You've got a point there. You'll have to forgive me, though, if I demand to hear it from her own lips… or in writing. As it is, I'm in enough trouble with Kian already over that little incident with Syssi."

  "Damn you, Anandur. Since when did you turn into a wuss? My mother is still sleeping, and I really need to see Dalhu now. I had this horrible nightmare about Kian torturing him. It was so bad that I didn't even brush my teeth before rushing down here."

  Anandur arched a brow, but then his face softened. "You can rest easy. No one tortured your Doomer. Kian left with Andrew and his men, going straight from the helipad to the garage. And I'm sure he was too exhausted to torture anyone when he came back. But if you need to see your Doomer so badly, I have a solution that can ease your mind without getting me in trouble or waking a sleeping goddess and risking her wrath."

  "Yeah? What is it?"

  "We can go down to security and view him on the surveillance monitors."