Taken by Fire Page 17

  Then she needed to go shopping, but even if she knew how to drive, she doubted she’d be allowed off the base. So, in what was probably a highly insane move, she took Stryker’s cellphone from his pocket, cycled through his phone book, and dialed the one person she knew hated her and would have no problem breaking her neck if Phoebe somehow broke loose.

  Ender arrived, all scowls and curses, waited while she left a note for Stryker, and then drove her to the grocery store. She tried to make small talk, but the man didn’t make it easy.

  “Are you married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “Yes.”

  “Boys or girls?”

  “Yes.”

  Okaaaay. She gave up, did her shopping, and then, to her horror, at the checkout she realized she didn’t have any money.

  “I got it,” Ender said, and he didn’t even sound grumpy, to her amazement. “Dev said to buy you anything you wanted.”

  “Really?” she teased. “Because I saw a sporty little BMW on the way here that I’d love.”

  “I’ll have to call in for authorization on that one,” he said, without missing a beat. And holy crap, he was actually serious. Ender was fully prepared to buy her an expensive car. Why in the world would he believe that Dev had included a new vehicle in the order to give her what she wanted?

  When they got back to the guesthouse, Ender helped her bring in the groceries—Stryker was still sleeping like a log—and as Ender set down the last bag, she turned to him. “Thank you.”

  He swung around to her, his tawny brows coming down to form a serious line over his eyes. “You know how you can thank me? Don’t fuck with Stryker or Dev.”

  “I know you don’t believe me, but I’m telling the truth when I say I would never do that. I care about Stryker, and I plan to cooperate with your boss.”

  Ender’s voice was cool, but not unkind. “Good. They’re both rock-solid guys. Don’t hurt them.”

  Though he could mean physically, she got the impression he meant not to break their hearts, which made no sense. There was definitely something going on between her and Stryker, but Dev … he was interested in her only because she could help him. How in the world could she break his heart?

  She didn’t get a chance to press, though, because Ender stalked out of the house, started up his GTO, and tore out of the driveway. Sighing, she unpacked the groceries, including a bag of powdered sugar donuts she’d grabbed to munch on, and began cooking.

  She was nearly finished when Stryker came into the kitchen, his tousled hair lending a boyish appearance that was at odds with his markedly rugged facial features and body. He was shirtless, shoeless, and the only reason Mel didn’t jump on him right then and there was that her hands were covered in garlic.

  “Hey.” His voice was a lazy morning-rough drawl, and it reached right inside her. A weird, primal vision of her fat with his child and lying in bed with him, his powerful arms holding her possessively, fed her starved fantasies far more than food ever had.

  It was also nothing but a fantasy, and she needed to remember that. Even if she and Stryker managed to eke out some sort of relationship, they couldn’t ever bring a family into the mix. Who knew what Phoebe would do to sabotage a pregnancy, and she definitely couldn’t be trusted with a child if she emerged at the wrong time. And how could the situation ever be explained to a kid?

  It couldn’t. So back to food it was, and she smiled as she popped the French bread in the oven and removed the pan of filet mignons she’d finished off in the dry heat. “Hey.”

  He inhaled deeply. “God, something smells good.”

  “Filet mignon with blackberry sauce, sautéed broccoli with almonds, and spicy garlic bread with jalapeños and artichoke hearts.” She lifted the lid on the sauté pan to stir the broccoli.

  Stryker let out a long whistle of appreciation, which made her smile even bigger. “Where did you get all the food?”

  “Ender took me to the store.”

  “I can’t believe I slept through all that,” he grumbled. “Do I have time for a quick shower?”

  “If you hurry.”

  He moved toward her, his gait loose, shoulders rolling. He wore his smoky sensuality like a second skin, right down to his heavy-lidded gaze that held her captive as he stopped in front of her. One finger came up to hook her chin and lift her face to his. When his lips came down on hers, she was more than ready, and hell, she wouldn’t care if her dinner burned if he wanted to do some heat-making of his own.

  Instead, he kissed her, a leisurely meeting of lips that might appear tame to someone watching, but from where Mel stood, it was a carnal promise of more to come. Just as the broccoli pan began to hiss with steam, he pulled back, winked, and sauntered off to the shower.

  The bastard. She’d gone weak in the knees and he was swaggering away like he knew it.

  Well, she might not be able to make a man swoon with the skill of her kisses, but she’d make him moan at the first taste of her meal.

  By the time she’d plated everything and placed all the food, plus two glasses of wine, on the table, Stryker was dressed and looking better than the main course. And sure enough, he moaned at the taste of the beef.

  “Jesus,” he said. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “I watch a lot of cooking shows and experiment with recipes.” She shrugged. “When you don’t have much else to do, you get real good at the things you do do.”

  “You aren’t real good, babe. You’re freaking fabulous.”

  The compliment was food for her soul, and she grinned so broadly her cheeks hurt. “I’d love to be a chef, but I can’t exactly enroll in cooking school or get a job, you know?” Which was why she’d gone with studying art history. The first couple of years could be done with online courses. She might even have been able to find some sort of online work.

  Stryker took a sip of his wine. “At the waterfall, you said something about being an art history major?”

  Dabbing her mouth with her napkin, she nodded. “Well, I haven’t declared a major yet, but that’s what I’m aiming for.” She tucked the napkin in her lap. “My mom had an extensive collection of art, and some of my favorite memories of her were when she explained their origins to me or took me to a museum. I learned to appreciate the art in all the places Phoebe takes us, so it just made sense to take online classes while I could.”

  “Was your mom also an awesome cook? Because this is amazing.” Stryker cast her a smoldering, seductive glance. “You’re amazing.”

  Cheeks heating, she stabbed a broccoli floret. “I wanted to do something nice for you. You’ve been so good to me … it was the least I could do.”

  “I’d make you a house every day if I knew I’d get fed like this afterward.”

  She waggled her brows. “We’re not done yet either.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his belly. “I don’t think anything else will fit.”

  “This will.” She went to the kitchen and grabbed the handheld immersion blender and two bowls in the fridge. When she placed the bowls on the table, Stryker frowned.

  “Bowls of murky water is dessert?”

  “Just wait.” She dunked the whisk attachment into one of the bowls and turned on the mixer. Then she turned on her own power, and keeping a tight hold on it, she channeled a trickle of her gift into the ceramic bowl, ignoring the twinge of pain in her head that came with her restraint. The mixture in the bowl, which had been lukewarm, since it had been made with boiling water and then placed in the refrigerator, chilled quickly. It set up within seconds, and thanks to the whisk, it whipped up into a light froth. When it was the right consistency, she removed the whisk and repeated the procedure with the other dish.

  “Voilà,” she said, as she pushed one bowl in front of Stryker. “Foamy blancmange. Light, sweet, and tastes like vanilla. It’s art and food combined.”

  “That. Was. Awesome.” Stryker’s crystalline eyes fixed on her with someth
ing akin to admiration, and she warmed from the inside out.

  “Wait until you taste it. It melts on your tongue.”

  He kept his gaze on her while he dipped his spoon into the foam and brought it to his mouth. “That’s good.” His eyes darkened dangerously, and her spoon froze halfway to her mouth. “But you know how it would be better?”

  She gulped. “N-no?”

  The wicked smile that touched his lips made her mouth go dry, and then he was on his feet, she was lifted onto the table, scattering dishes everywhere. She squealed, and then gasped when he flipped up her dress, tore off her panties, and used one palm to push her back on the table.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “Why—”

  “Close. Your. Eyes.”

  Right. Okay. She obeyed, and was rewarded with a curious sensation between her legs. The foam. Stryker drizzled the foam over her sex, and she groaned with pleasure. It was like soapsuds, except cooler, with the bubbles popping and tickling her sensitive flesh. She’d never felt anything like it, but she made a mental note to keep the ingredients handy for future erotic play, because damn … amazing.

  A warm, wet stroke brought her hips off the table as Stryker licked right up her center, catching the sweet froth. He licked again, added more, and kept the lick, foam cycle going until she was writhing, panting, begging him to let her come.

  “You’re ready?” he said against her core. “You want my cock in you?”

  “Yes, God, yes.”

  He rose above her, palmed her thighs, and tugged her butt to the very edge of the table. Reaching down, he unzipped, released his erection, and guided it to her entrance. But before he penetrated, she scooped some froth out of a bowl and placed it strategically so he’d feel the cold effervescence with her. His sharp inhale through clenched teeth was followed by a slice forward of his hips, and he was seated fully inside her slick heat, his balls rubbing against her ass.

  There was nothing leisurely about this session, and that was fine with her. They’d sated one hunger but fueled another, and this was a main dish of raw need with a side of naughty.

  He leaned into her and went at it with wild, uncontrolled strokes. The foam crackled between them, the bubbles bursting on her clit with every hammering thrust. Her orgasm struck like a thunderstorm, crashing over her with such intensity that she threw her head back and screamed. Distantly, she heard his answering shout, felt the hot, rhythmic pulses of his come as he spilled inside her.

  When it was over, she was trembling with post-orgasmic exhaustion, and Stryker was hunched over her, fists planted on the table on either side of her head, eyes closed.

  “You’re going to kill me,” he breathed. “Damn, Mel … you’re going to kill me.”

  He meant it in a way that should have given her warm fuzzies. Should have made her grin from ear to ear, and maybe it would have if she didn’t feel Phoebe starting to stir and knew that it was almost time to head to the cave.

  Instead, she closed her own eyes so he wouldn’t see the fear in them. The fear that what he’d said might actually happen.

  “Baby, maybe you should sit down.”

  If there was any way to get Annika to not do something, it was to suggest she do it, and she shot Creed a glare as they strolled around ACRO’s little park. Darkness had closed in, and the duck pond was quiet, the ducks having settled in the grass with their beaks tucked into their wing feathers.

  “I need to walk,” she gritted out. She’d been restless all day, had been cleaning like a madwoman, grocery shopping, and now she wanted to work out. Obviously, spending two hours in the gym wasn’t an option, but she could wear out the ACRO sidewalks.

  “Why don’t we go home, and I’ll give you a backrub?”

  “I’d rather you gave me an orgasm.”

  “Another one?”

  They’d been screwing like rabbits for the last couple of days—her obstetrician had given them the green light, and as a plus, it might trigger labor. Excellent. Because she was so ready to not be pregnant anymore.

  Creed, on the other hand, seemed to want to plug her up and keep her fat, as if maybe the kid could just grow to adulthood inside her. He never said anything, but she was pretty sure he was still freaked out by his brother, Oz’s, prediction that if she had Creed’s baby, she’d die. Or something like that.

  Oz was so full of shit.

  Someone was walking toward them from the direction of that ridiculous cave Dev had built for Phoebe, his gait clipped, stiff, and Annika’s temper surfaced. She’d talked to Dev a couple of hours ago, and when he told her about the deal with Stryker and that murderous bitch, she’d come uncorked.

  Annika marched—well, waddled—right up to Stryker. She must have looked as pissed as she felt, because when he saw her, he halted, his stance wide, shoulders back, and his expression shuttered.

  “Annika, no!” Creed grabbed her arm, but she jerked out of his grip, closed the distance between her and Stryker, and struck him hard on the cheek. His head whipped to the side, but other than that, he didn’t react.

  “You bastard,” she snarled. “How could you? How could you be fucking the woman who murdered your best friend?” Next to her, Creed’s presence was a comfort, and she felt him go taut, as though he expected Stryker to react badly, maybe violently, to what Annika had just said and done. Creed was so overprotective lately. Not long ago, that would have driven her nuts, but she’d sort of grown to enjoy it.

  “It’s not that simple,” Stryker said softly.

  “It seems pretty simple to me,” she snapped. “I get that she’s Dev’s sister, so he has an excuse to be a little mush-brained when it comes to her. But you? You saw what she did. You heard Akbar’s screams.” Annika still heard them sometimes.

  Stryker swallowed, his gaze tripping away for a second. “It wasn’t Mel—”

  “Yeah, yeah. It was Phoebe. Whatever. I don’t trust either one of them, and what are you thinking, letting her run around loose?”

  “Only Mel gets to be free. We’re locking up Phoebe.”

  Annika snorted. “You can’t contain someone like that. Trust me.” The baby kicked, and she winced, pretty sure a foot was lodged in her throat. “How old was she when she started training? When she went to Itor to be their product? Because I’m telling you, she doesn’t think the same way the rest of you do. She’s a machine. A cold, hard killing machine. She’s hardwired for two things: killing and survival. She will not be contained.”

  Annika knew, because she had been raised that way, and it was a miracle that she’d turned out okay. The fact that she’d still been a teen when Dev saved her was probably a factor, as was the fact that although she’d practically been born to be a trained assassin, the CIA hadn’t been particularly cruel. She could only imagine what Itor had done to Phoebe … Mel—whoever the hell she was.

  “Rik was a killer when she came here too,” he pointed out, but she shook her head.

  “Not the same thing. Rik was forced to do the things she did. Phoebe does it willingly. And she enjoys it. You can’t cure psycho.”

  “We’ve taken precautions,” Stryker said. “It’ll be okay.”

  “Okay?” She jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “I promise you, this will not end well. She will get out, and she will end up killing someone. God help you if she kills someone I care about.”

  “Ani.” Creed’s voice was low, soothing, and it brought her down a notch. Maybe half a notch. “We should go.”

  “Oh, no. I’m not done with him—” She broke off with a gasp, as a sharp, stabbing pain ripped through her belly.

  “Annika?” both men said simultaneously as they caught her arms.

  Fuck, that hurt. She’d been shot, stabbed, beaten, run over by a car … and yeah, this kid was kicking her ass. Wetness bloomed between her legs, and then became a gush down her legs.

  “Annika!” Creed’s voice was as panicked as she’d ever heard it. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s time,” she groaned
. “Get me to medical. Baby’s coming.”

  Stryker was finding it hard to breathe. Annika had been ushered off by Creed and he’d uselessly sat down on the nearest steps and buried his head in his hands and wondered how things could be so damned good and so damned shitty all at once.

  Trance was sitting next to him. Stryker had no idea when the man had arrived, but he’d been apparently waiting patiently for him to pull it together and stop hyperventilating.

  Probably why the man’s hand was on the back of his neck, holding his head between his knees.

  “You all right?” Trance asked as he peered down at him.

  “My neck hurts,” Stryker growled.

  Trance snorted and let him up. “You were hyperventilating.”

  “Thanks for saving me,” Stryker said, with more than a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. “I’ll have to owe you one.”

  “You can come work out with me, then. Ender was supposed to train with me but he’s, ah, busy.”

  Stryker raised his brows. “Kira’s in heat already?” Ender was mated to Kira, an animal whisperer who literally went into heat every spring and needed to be serviced, quite often. Usually, halfway through the season, Ender cried uncle and Kira’s needs were satisfied with the sperm he banked for that express purpose.

  But that didn’t stop him from trying.

  “No. But he’s practicing. Asshole’s determined to do it without any help this year.” Trance stood, and yeah, just what Stryker wanted now, to practice sparring with an excedo who could literally throw him through a wall with no effort.

  Still, it would keep him sharp.

  After a quick walk to the excedo gym, Trance and Stryker suited up. Rather, Stryker suited up so he wouldn’t be beaten to a fucking pulp while Trance trained.

  “Want to tell me what’s wrong?” Trance asked as Stryker deflected a hard blow to his gut.

  “No.” Clenched teeth. Sweating already, and goddammit, this was the worst idea ever.

  “Have it your way.” Trance slammed him across the back, sent him flying face-first into the mat, and stood with a foot on Stryker’s back.