clutching his bicep.
We were standing behind them, looking for an out.
“Now, now, shush. Our friend Mr. Channing and his fiancée, Ms. Saunders, deserve a little privacy after what they’ve been through, don’t you think? Have a little decency.”
Fiancée? The word rolled like a wave through the crowd of media mongrels, whispered, spoken, and yelled at so many decibels, it was impossible to keep up. This was not at all how I anticipated anyone finding out I’d be marrying Wes. I didn’t even have a ring yet.
“Dr. Hoffman, Dr. Hoffman, are Mr. Channing and Ms. Saunders on your show talking about his captivity?” a reporter screamed at the top of his lungs.
The doctor smiled wide. Motherfucker. Douchebag. He loved this additional press and planned it for sure.
“Now, now, Ms. Saunders is an employee on my show. She will be doing a segment every Friday. You all should watch. It’s brilliant, especially because her fiancé helped her with it.”
“Is that true, Mr. Channing?” The sharks went wild. “You’re already back to work after a dozen of your men were killed?”
That was it. I grabbed Wes by the hand, and we pushed our way through the crowd and ran. Ran for our lives. So many photographers chased us it was hard to see the forest through the trees, or in this case, the parking lot where my bike, Suzi, sat.
I jumped on her, revved her up as Wes plopped my helmet on my head and looped an arm around my waist.
“Don’t go home. Just drive, baby,” Wes growled in my ear, holding me tight. “Just drive.”
I was so going to marry this man. Period.
----
T hat night , Weston woke with a startling cry. This time, he shook the bed, and both of us came awake startled. He was panting as I turned on the light and popped out of the bed, not knowing what I’d find or if I should stay within arm’s reach. His eyes were black sunken-in holes. Both nostrils were flaring, and a snarl curled his lips. He stared at me as if I were his next meal and he hadn’t eaten in days. No. Weeks.
“Wes…” I slipped off my nightgown, allowing the fabric to skim down my body and pool at my feet. I didn’t even bother with underwear since the nightmares. He ripped every pair right off me, sometimes resulting in welts at each hip where he pulled them away.
The man I loved was not in himself at that moment. He’d been doing well and hadn’t had a dream for two days. I figured they’d be back, but was hoping for more than a two-day respite.
“Need you,” he growled.
“Why?” I tickled the tips of my breasts for his benefit more than mine. Though it wasn’t a hardship. My hair was loose and hung down my back in ebony waves the way he loved.
His teeth clenched, and I could have sworn I heard a low hum, a warning at the back of this throat. “Mine,” he grated.
I shook my head. “Nope, not good enough. Tell me you love me.”
“I love you,” he said instantly, but it wasn’t with a tone that said hearts, flowers, and walks on the beach. Wes told me he loved me in myriad ways. Sweet, tender, soft, desperate, and more, but not in that tone. I wouldn’t accept it. This raging inferno was not the man I loved. This man was a broken replica of someone, but this was not him. His mind was lost in a hut in a compound that had been decimated by the American military.
“No. Why do you love me?” I clarified, walking around the bed getting closer.
Wes’s eyes seemed to follow every step. “Because you take it away?”
That desperate tone broke me down to my own base level where the mushy side usually won over.
At least we were getting somewhere. Sweat trickled along his skin, toward his chiseled torso, and along the highway of muscles making up his fine abdomen.
“And how do I take it away?” I cocked a naked hip to the side. His eyes traced the movement. “Because you’re not being hurt, right? Not here in our bed.”
He flinched and shook his head.
“Wes?”
His head jerked and he winced.
“Do I
We were standing behind them, looking for an out.
“Now, now, shush. Our friend Mr. Channing and his fiancée, Ms. Saunders, deserve a little privacy after what they’ve been through, don’t you think? Have a little decency.”
Fiancée? The word rolled like a wave through the crowd of media mongrels, whispered, spoken, and yelled at so many decibels, it was impossible to keep up. This was not at all how I anticipated anyone finding out I’d be marrying Wes. I didn’t even have a ring yet.
“Dr. Hoffman, Dr. Hoffman, are Mr. Channing and Ms. Saunders on your show talking about his captivity?” a reporter screamed at the top of his lungs.
The doctor smiled wide. Motherfucker. Douchebag. He loved this additional press and planned it for sure.
“Now, now, Ms. Saunders is an employee on my show. She will be doing a segment every Friday. You all should watch. It’s brilliant, especially because her fiancé helped her with it.”
“Is that true, Mr. Channing?” The sharks went wild. “You’re already back to work after a dozen of your men were killed?”
That was it. I grabbed Wes by the hand, and we pushed our way through the crowd and ran. Ran for our lives. So many photographers chased us it was hard to see the forest through the trees, or in this case, the parking lot where my bike, Suzi, sat.
I jumped on her, revved her up as Wes plopped my helmet on my head and looped an arm around my waist.
“Don’t go home. Just drive, baby,” Wes growled in my ear, holding me tight. “Just drive.”
I was so going to marry this man. Period.
----
T hat night , Weston woke with a startling cry. This time, he shook the bed, and both of us came awake startled. He was panting as I turned on the light and popped out of the bed, not knowing what I’d find or if I should stay within arm’s reach. His eyes were black sunken-in holes. Both nostrils were flaring, and a snarl curled his lips. He stared at me as if I were his next meal and he hadn’t eaten in days. No. Weeks.
“Wes…” I slipped off my nightgown, allowing the fabric to skim down my body and pool at my feet. I didn’t even bother with underwear since the nightmares. He ripped every pair right off me, sometimes resulting in welts at each hip where he pulled them away.
The man I loved was not in himself at that moment. He’d been doing well and hadn’t had a dream for two days. I figured they’d be back, but was hoping for more than a two-day respite.
“Need you,” he growled.
“Why?” I tickled the tips of my breasts for his benefit more than mine. Though it wasn’t a hardship. My hair was loose and hung down my back in ebony waves the way he loved.
His teeth clenched, and I could have sworn I heard a low hum, a warning at the back of this throat. “Mine,” he grated.
I shook my head. “Nope, not good enough. Tell me you love me.”
“I love you,” he said instantly, but it wasn’t with a tone that said hearts, flowers, and walks on the beach. Wes told me he loved me in myriad ways. Sweet, tender, soft, desperate, and more, but not in that tone. I wouldn’t accept it. This raging inferno was not the man I loved. This man was a broken replica of someone, but this was not him. His mind was lost in a hut in a compound that had been decimated by the American military.
“No. Why do you love me?” I clarified, walking around the bed getting closer.
Wes’s eyes seemed to follow every step. “Because you take it away?”
That desperate tone broke me down to my own base level where the mushy side usually won over.
At least we were getting somewhere. Sweat trickled along his skin, toward his chiseled torso, and along the highway of muscles making up his fine abdomen.
“And how do I take it away?” I cocked a naked hip to the side. His eyes traced the movement. “Because you’re not being hurt, right? Not here in our bed.”
He flinched and shook his head.
“Wes?”
His head jerked and he winced.
“Do I
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