Page 9

Tabitha

IV removed cleanly—check.

Room empty—check.

Underwear on—double check.

Body in top fighting condition—not a chance.

Tabitha’s stay in hell was now a week long, and she was done with the fussing and mollycoddling. Jasper insisted on keeping the IV line in, running fluids, but she knew it was only so he could sedate her if he felt it necessary. She’d tried to be a good little patient—more for Grit’s sake, seeing as he fought her corner over and over again—but a week in captivity was seven days too damn long.

The wounds on her hand and arms were healing well enough under the stitches. Her body was stiff, the bruises still plaguing her, and her face continued to ache like a bitch. There was some minor damage to her vocal chords, as predicted, which meant she was under strict no talking orders.

Do this, stay here, don’t talk, just rest…

The list was endless, and tedious.

She had things to do, one annoying Irishman to kill, and her own life to lead away from bossy, dominant men. All she had to do was sneak out of a security fortress, avoid bumping into her obsession and her brother, and hitch a ride back to Phoenix so she could be on her merry way.

Step one was getting her reluctant ass out of bed, which was easier said than done. Sitting up sent breathless pain shooting through her chest—wounds of the flesh healed faster than bone. Her ribs protested as she eased her legs around to hang off the side of the bed.

The sensible side of her brain warned her to wait until her strength returned and she could move freely, but this was the first time in a week Grit had left her side while she was awake. Jasper had pulled him into a meeting twenty minutes ago, which meant she had anywhere between ten minutes and three hours to execute her plan.

Knowing her brother and Atticus, she was betting on the big boys’ club staying in session for some time. Grit hadn’t been in Phoenix for a hefty period of time—he and his mercenary friends probably had a lot to catch up on.

Snickering at the thought of a bunch of tough, muscular commandos sitting around the conference room table, sipping tea with their pinkie fingers lifted, gossiping about their most recent missions and barely refraining from slapping their dicks out on the wood to compare sizes, Tabitha wiggled until her toes touched the floor and she slid onto the soles of her feet.

Easy does it, she thought when the room spun briefly. Fuck, she was in a worse state than she believed. The catheter was long gone, her visits to the bathroom allowed with an escort—Grit, of course, and he usually carried her.

Her first few steps were weak and shaky, requiring a supporting hand on the bed to keep her from falling face first to the floor. She tottered over to the chair Grit spent too much time in, reaching for the black hoodie with the Heisler Security logo embroidered into the breast.

When she pulled it on, the smell of him surrounded her, making her smile. The material fell almost to her knees, completely shapeless on her smaller frame; she imagined it resembled some kind of weird little black dress, but at least it covered her unmentionables.

By the time she got to the door, she was breathless, sweating, and exhausted.

Not to mention reconsidering her choices.

Still, there was no going back now. Ignoring the various aches and throbbing pains in her hip, cheek, and… hell, everywhere, she peeked around the edge of the doorway, scoping out the hall.

Quiet, unoccupied. Under the guise of making small talk, she’d already ascertained that she was the only current resident in the medical sector, and that her care was solely in Jasper and Grit’s hands.

No nurses, no doctors.

This area was vacant for the next little while, so she needed to gather her motivation and run. Stepping onto cool tiles with bare feet, she walked as quickly as she dared past open cubicles full of medical equipment. She knew the basic layout of the facility, despite the alterations and expansions Atticus kept making to the business.

Now she was out in the open, the biggest threat to her plan was the security cameras. Trying to appear nonchalant, as though she was just doing some physical therapy, she turned right toward the elevators, then turned around and hobbled toward the stairs.

Each step down jolted her goddamn hip. Twice, her knees buckled and almost sent her tumbling to the bottom of the stairwell. She came close to throwing up her stomach lining by the time she reached the last stair, the exertion too much for her body.

If her calculations were correct, she should be somewhere on the ground floor. She could either head for the main entrance or go down another level and sneak out of the garage.

“Perhaps this was a slight miscalculation,” she mumbled to herself as she staggered along the corridor. She really wasn’t feeling her best right now; the sweat running down her back wasn’t from anything but physical distress.

Logic suggested it would be wise to sit down; her sheer stubbornness dictated she keep going. After all, she’d gotten this far, and if she was recaptured now, her brother was going to stick those padded cuffs back on her wrists, making a second attempt to leave much harder.

The subtle crackle of a radio and the almost military march of boots heading in her direction kicked her fighting instincts to the fore, where they hovered for several long seconds, fizzling weakly like cheap fireworks.

The men who approached her were tall, bullishly built, and armed. The younger one—brown hair, brown eyes—plucked the radio off his belt as the other—gray hair, blue eyes—tilted his head and studied her.

“Control, this is Scout One. Subject located in the east corridor, ground level.”

Calling in reinforcements, she assumed. Good choice on a normal day, but today she was anything but on top form. Still, she had a reputation to maintain, so she squared up to the older merc as though she wasn’t dying inside.

Raising her arms, hands fisted, she exhaled slowly. “I’m leaving. Move.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Fairfax.” When she took a threatening step toward him, the guy didn’t retreat, but just held his hands out to the side. “Take a swing if you want, but you’re not permitted to leave the building.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, hemming her in. The younger one kept his hand hovering over his weapon—not the handgun, but the nasty little Taser that would knock her on her ass before she could break his fingers.

She was many things, but immune to fifty-thousand volts wasn’t one of them.

A wave of fatigue swamped her, making her sway. To cover up the weakness, Tabitha used the motion to smack her palms against the older man’s black uniform shirt and shove him back.

The name badge stitched over his left pectoral muscle blurred in and out of focus, but she took a guess from the letters she saw clearly. “Listen, Buckle, I’m busy and have things to do. Get out of my way.”

“Uh, that’s Huckle, ma’am. No offense, but you’re in no fit state to do anything but go back to bed. Doyle and I are happy to escort you to your room.”

She huffed. Her room was a fucking prison cell and they all knew it. Suspicion snaked through her as she gave him another weak push. His reaction confirmed her hunch—he refused to lay a hand on her, even though she was violating his personal space.

Normally, an aggressive move like a shove would’ve resulted in an all-out hand to hand battle. A move like that from her should’ve brought hell raining down in an effort to contain her and return her to that godforsaken room.

Fuck, was she really so unthreatening?

“Ma’am, we have strict orders not to touch you under any circumstances,” the other mercenary informed her as he drew the Taser. “However, that doesn’t mean I won’t stun you if you pose a threat to me or my partner.”

Oh good, not quite as unthreatening as she believed. That was something; her reputation preceded her after all. Lip curling, she switched her attention to him, forcing a malicious smile. “Oh please, don’t hesitate. I kinda like an extra kick in the morning with my coffee.”

“Don’t rise to the bait,” Huckle warned him. “Look at her, Doyle. She’s barely got the energy to stand. She can’t kick our asses even if she wants to.”

Bristling at the insult, Tabitha sneered at him. Sometimes kicking ass wasn’t all about fists, feet, and teeth. Proving to be mentally superior—all right, so that wasn’t something she often claimed what with her defects—could be more demoralizing to the enemy than a stone cold KO.

With the military types, disarming them worked just as well.

Especially when they were arrogant.

She eyed Doyle, coming to the conclusion he was as arrogant as they came, and cocky with it. The way his finger twitched on the Taser trigger, she assumed he was a shoot-first and deal with the fallout later kind of idiot.

Oh, to have her knife. He’d already be disarmed, clutching his bleeding hand while she practiced carving her name into his forehead.

Against her better judgement, Tabitha lunged for the gun holstered on Doyle’s belt, slamming her forearm into his and deflecting the Taser as he fired it. The prongs sailed past her harmlessly, but her impetuousness still demanded a high price.

Her fingertips skimmed over the gun, her depth perception misfiring enough she completely missed the damn mark. Before she regained her balance, pain burst in her shoulder as Doyle brought his elbow down, sending her sprawling over the hallway floor.

“Fuck, you idiot.” Huckle knelt by her side. “What part of no touching do you not comprehend? This is gonna cost you your job.”

“Like hell it is. She attacked me, crazy fucking bitch.”

Tabitha moaned, assessing herself quietly and discovering she was lacking several things—energy, emotion, the ability to do much more than breathe and blink. Overall, she concluded she was all out of fucks to give and was happy to lay here like roadkill until someone came along and scooped her up with a shovel.

“We had orders. No touching, stay in control and maintain a calm situation until reinforcements arrive. Pulling your fucking Taser is a declaration of intent.” Disgust in every word, Huckle sighed and called in an update over the radio. “You wanted a reaction from her and goaded her into one. I don’t want to be on a team with someone who defies orders this way; it’s how good men get killed in the field, and morons like you walk away unscathed.”

Ooooh, burn. A laugh tickled her vocal chords, rising quickly until she forced herself to roll onto her back so she could breathe. Meeting Doyle’s eyes, she grinned. “Missed me,” she wheezed, the laugh shifting into a cackle. “Point blank shot and you still missed.”

There were certain kinds of men who didn’t take well to being bossed, she thought. Particularly by women. Judging by the look in Doyle’s eyes—the one that told her he was envisioning her neck in his hands, squeezing the life from her—he had issues with authority.

As Huckle said just moments ago, Doyle was not the man any team should rely on to have their back; he was an all-for-one player, a sure contender for a Most Likely To Sacrifice Someone Else award.

Atticus’ screening process had missed a rotten apple in the barrel.

Bristling like a dog, hackles raised, Doyle tossed the Taser aside and clenched his fists. His anger was palpable, and one wrong word would probably set him off. “She’s a whore, Huck. She sells herself to the highest bidder for cash, murders people. You’ve seen her file.” Lips twisting, turning his face into a mask of living rage, he snarled. “Like fuck she deserves being treated with respect. Bitch should be locked up in a cell. But no, just because she’s fucking McCabe, he thinks everyone should kiss her ass.”

“Of course, they should.” Tabitha flashed her crazy smile, even though her body was on the verge of passing out. “I’m the fucking queen, boy.”

Huckle rose and planted himself over her, blocking her view. Maybe she should tell Atticus the guy needed a raise. “It’s not our place to question orders. Our job is to watch her until Grit collects her, that’s all. If you can’t do that, you need to ask yourself if this line of work is for you.”

“We’re supposed to protect civilians, Huck, not serial killers.”

“I trust Heisler. Why are you so uptight over this?”

“Because we’re better than fucking babysitting a killer!”

“We’re all killers here, idiot. The only difference between us and her is the goddamn leash around our necks.”

“She needs to be locked up, or better yet, put down like the rabid bitch she is.”

Oh, she’d take the bitch, but the rabid? That was uncalled for. She rarely foamed at the mouth or bit people. Before she could fire back a matching insult that called into question the size of his dick, there was the resounding thwack of flesh on flesh.

Oooh, that was sexy. A thick, heavy thud followed by the impact of weight hitting the floor. Through wavering vision, she saw Doyle’s face bounce, blood gushing from his nose.

Score one for Huckle.

But as she slid away into the black, finally too exhausted to hold on, it wasn’t the merc’s voice she heard, but Grit’s.

*

Grit

Was he surprised she’d run? Nope.

Disappointed? Not really.

Did he understand why? Of course, he did.

Flexing his hand to ease the sting of smashing his knuckles into Doyle’s furiously righteous face, Grit leveled Huck with a stare. “Appreciate you having my girl’s back. Is she okay?”

They both looked down to the bare feet and legs sticking out between Huck’s boots. He lifted a shoulder. “Didn’t look so hot before she went down; I imagine she’ll feel worse when she comes around. Doyle got in a good shot.”

Scowling, Grit gave the asshole a quick jab in the ribs with his boot. He’d been caught up in the briefing with Atticus and the team when Archie informed him Tabitha was on the move, albeit slowly and painfully. Jasper’s kitten kept up a running commentary the whole time he was extracting himself from the meeting, so he knew exactly what Doyle had done.

“Atticus will need your report.”

“I know. Want me to take the trash out?”

That pleasure belonged to someone else. As Huck stepped aside, Grit dropped to one knee beside Tabitha. Pale, sweaty, unconscious, she’d undone a week’s worth of care in about twenty minutes. “The trash has an end of employment debriefing scheduled when he wakes up. Jasper’s on his way down to collect him.”

“Oh shit, he’s getting the sadist’s personal attention?”

A few employees knew of Jasper’s connection to Avalon—a select few who held the same interests—but his sadism wasn’t contained solely to the club. It was an intricate part of the man, touching every part of his world, extending the sincere respect from his personal life into the depths of his work.

“Big brother, little sister. Doyle fucked up royally.”

As Huck chuckled, Grit checked his little tiger over for fresh injuries, relieved when nothing seemed broken. She was limp in his arms when he lifted her off the hard floor, but it made him smile to see she’d dressed in his hoodie. Not that she’d had much choice—he hadn’t left her any clothes for precisely this reason.

Standing, he tipped his head at the asshole still bleeding from his nose. “Feel free to remind him of his mistakes if he tries to get up before Jasper arrives. A hefty kick in the ribs should do the trick.”

“Happy to oblige.”

It was nice to have teammates who knew the score, Grit thought as he carried his prize toward the elevator. If he’d told Huck to shoot Doyle and let him bleed out, there may have been some debate and plenty of reasons why they should avoid using extreme measures. But a little rough and ready to teach a lesson?

They were men who trained together, beat the shit out of each other for fun in the gym, spent hours working on techniques and precision in hand to hand combat. They bunked together while on duty, lived and breathed in each other’s personal space when on missions.

Doling out discipline among the team wasn’t a rare occurrence.

Speaking of discipline… Tabitha had some of that heading her way.

Atticus and Jasper hadn’t taken the news of Evander’s offer well. The meeting posed the perfect opportunity to tell them, and to explain his reasons for considering it. They’d understood, to a degree—they were all getting older and, while Atticus and Jasper weren’t as involved with field work, they both knew the risks of getting hurt on a mission multiplied with age.

Becoming the head of security for Serenity was a downgrade in adrenaline, but it not only gave Grit a boost in the bank account, it offered him a chance to build a future where his woman wasn’t waiting for that knock on the door every time he went to work.

The deciding factor in his decision was Tabitha. Several weeks ago, she hadn’t really existed in his world, and how the entire thing revolved around her. If she was willing to relocate with him, try to settle down into some semblance of a normal relationship, he would hand in his resignation once this assignment was over and she was safe.

Of course, today’s development made that objective both more difficult and yet more achievable.

What kind of idiot put out a hit on a guy, then on the contract killer who accepted the job, and then decided it was a damn good idea to fly to a different country—presumably to take care of both jobs himself?

Grit snorted under his breath and summoned the elevator, stepping through the doors when they slid open. He managed to hit the right button, and sighed as the doors closed without preamble and sent the car rising.

One entanglement after another kept coming. He was sure if he convinced Tabitha that her place was with him, that she belonged with him, those entanglements would keep coming hard and fast.

Life with her wouldn’t be boring. She drew chaos like a light sucked in moths. Maybe it was her manic energy, maybe it was just the hand she’d been dealt with fate, but trouble would always find her.

He accepted that. Relished it, even. As a Dom, as her companion—lover seemed a bit presumptuous right now—he held a responsibility to protect her. That meant utilizing his skills, matching his wits against hers and anyone else’s who dared come for her.

Putting his life on the line.

Yeah, he’d still have his adrenaline fix.

She was eerily still as he walked out of the elevator and headed down the hallway to her room in the medical sector. He made a mental note to ask Archie to send him a copy of the security footage—he was curious as to how she’d behaved during her bid for freedom.

“There won’t be a second chance at that for a while,” he murmured, shouldering open the door and crossing over to the bed. He laid her down carefully, propping her up long enough to strip off the hoodie. “Naughty little tigers don’t run around the halls half-naked, bare-footed, and almost get Tased by asshole mercs, Tabby. They stay in bed when I tell them to and get rest so they can heal after they’ve been smashed into bruised, bloody pieces.”

No answer; he hadn’t expected one.

Settling her back into the pillows, he studied the new bruise forming over her shoulder. The mark displeased him—it stood out among the healing contusions, yet another sign of violence on her fragile body. She might believe she was invincible to a large degree, but she’d proved she could be harmed.

Wrapping the Velcro cuffs around her wrists, Grit set her hands by her sides and tugged the duvet up to her chin. He frowned at the IV beside the bed, wondering if Jasper would bother to replace it again.

The woman was vehemently opposed to having anything foreign in her body—IVs, catheters… hell, she’d even pitched a fit about the painkillers controlling her discomfort. She was systematically suspicious of anything unknown, wary about offering trust and accepting it.

Seeing her like this, Grit made a choice. Once she was better and fit to travel, he was taking them back to Denver. Jasper loved his sister, but her past and current history was too widely known in the area, especially with many of the merc teams reading her file in case she slipped through security and went on a murderous rampage.

In Denver, she relaxed more. The afternoon with Evander, Elias, and Callie had been a success. He wanted to replicate that on a daily basis, and he figured a secluded wood cabin might encourage her to rouse those softer, dormant emotions he knew she kept buried.

Skimming his fingertips over the greenish-yellow bruises still marring her cheek and eye socket, he sighed heavily. Violence was a considerable part of both of their lives; for Tabitha, it was ingrained in her blood, all but written in her DNA because Dominic had been a psychotic megalomaniac who played with things he shouldn’t.

“I think it’s time we talk about what’s coming next,” Grit told her, though she couldn’t hear him. “There are going to be rules, little tiger. Abiding by your own isn’t enough anymore; this relation needs to be a partnership at the core, regardless of the rest of the dynamic.” His thumb brushed over her bottom lip. “Maybe knowing what was done to you—the paper version, at least—will help us. Perhaps it’ll be a hindrance. I don’t know. All I do know is that you need me, and fuck my life, I need you as equally as I want you. All of you, Tabitha. The good, the bad, the ugly, and the sheer force of all you are.”

There, that took some of the building pressure off his chest. It wasn’t an outright declaration of I love you, but vocalizing the burgeoning connection seemed to clarify the depth of it in his own mind.

In all likelihood, he would never be able to deprogram what the Fairfax monsters had coded into her brain. He wasn’t an idiot; he wasn’t a psychologist or a therapist, and he had no right to poke around in complex gray matter.

That meant he needed to be sure he could support Tabitha on her personal mission—to remove pedophiles from society, one by one, until the scourge was eradicated. It was a lifetime commitment, one she’d never see completed because she was only one woman against a consistently expanding horde of perverts.

So, being with her called for a hard examination of his morals and limits. As a mercenary, he was used to killing on a superior’s command and by using his own judgement in difficult situations. He tried not to spill blood unless absolutely necessary because it all came back eventually.

Karma was beautiful, but she could be cruel.

Before he read Rita’s notes, he’d probably have tried to coax Tabitha into taking a more… legal road to taking down her prey. Encourage her to find and cultivate contacts in different police departments, utilizing the law to bring down the sick and twisted seeds burrowing through the civilized world.

Now, however… Disgust and fury rotted his composure.

Rita’s detailed accounts of Tabitha’s decades-long torture really opened his eyes into how those perverted minds ticked. Not just the acts themselves, but how the pain and suffering of others gouged chasms of selfish pleasure in the perpetrators.

The Fairfax bitch hadn’t raped her project in a traditional sense. She’d left that dubious honor to her husband until he’d taken everything he wanted, then pounced on what was left of her project’s sexual innocence for the benefit of ‘science’.

Grit didn’t have any written account of Dominic’s thought processes, but then, did he really need one? The man had been a sadist, a sociopath, a narcissist. He’d raped his own flesh and blood, stolen countless childhoods, murdered untold numbers of children and teenagers as though they were faulty goods plucked off a conveyer belt.

Rita… that cunt was something else entirely.

The true monster, in one sense.

She’d been a voyeur in the early stages of her notes, aside from the scientific shit. But once Tabitha had been stripped down to nothing but a husk, programmed to fuck whenever she was commanded, Rita showed how fucked up she was at her core.

The thing with monsters was, they kept crawling from the woodwork. Tabby did the world a favor by killing the Fairfax fuckers, yet there were more like them all over the globe. Hiding in plain sight, camouflaged by the thin veil of politics and celebrity adoration. Surviving and thriving in small, rural areas where the locals never expected one of their own to be capable of such sins.

They perched their asses in church pews on Sundays. Ate breakfast with their spouses and children, went to work six days a week, laughed and drank beer with their friends on hot summer nights. They projected normality while the dark sickness inside them writhed in shadows, waiting for the opportunity for their kiddie porn fantasies to become real.

Grit cupped Tabitha’s lax face in his hands. “I’m standing with you, little tiger. I doubt anyone’s ever made any kind of commitment to you, so this is mine. If you want to hunt down vermin, I’m with you. I’ve got your back, I’ll be your partner in crime. I’ll wash the blood out of your hair if things go wrong.”

God, had he lost his mind?

Choosing a life of murder and mayhem, attempting to merge it in with a legitimate job and building some kind of family at the same time?

No, he thought, pressing a kiss to Tabitha’s forehead before taking his seat beside her bed. His mind was exactly where it should be. But his heart?

Oh yeah, that sucker was all Tabitha’s now.

*

Tabitha

“This is unacceptable, Rory McCabe!”

“Is it?” Laughing, the asshole ascended the steps into the Heisler private jet. He paused in the doorway. “Would you like to wave goodbye to your brother?”

Hanging over Grit’s shoulder, her ankles and wrists bound, she lifted her hands with the middle fingers extended in Jasper’s direction. Her dear, dickhead brother was playing chauffeur, apparently tasked with making sure she left the state without taking a sneaky detour to where she actually needed to be. “Fuck you, said the rabbit, and you, and you, and you. Fuck you once, fuck you twice, and fuck all the pretty little maids in a row.”

The rumble of laughter deepened. “Oh, little tiger. Surely by now, you know the only pretty maid I want to fuck is you.”

Tabitha harrumphed in disgust. It was three weeks post-beating and she was feeling more like herself. She wanted to hate that he’d spent those weeks by her side, tending to her like an invalid, keeping her company when the poking and prodding threatened to drive her up the wall, through the roof, into outer space.

Instead, she’d learned—or perhaps accepted—that he was a decent man. Pretty much unheard of in her world, but he continued to show her, again and again, how dominance in a guy didn’t have to be abusive. How he cared for her even without sex in the equation.

Sure, he made… suggestions? Quips? Small, direct hints at what might be if she ever found the courage to let him.

It was more than a little frightening to realize she was standing on a high, unstable peak with huge chasms surrounding her. On one side, she could plummet into a lifetime of loneliness—not that she’d admit such a weakness aloud—but on the other… oh, the other side was her personal hell.

So why, when she was dangling over Grit’s broad shoulder like some warrior’s claimed prize, was she considering doing something stupid like getting drunk enough to straddle the passing out line and climbing into bed with him, naked?

Well, one answer was it would get the awkward terror out of the way, right? Wham, bam, he’d come and all would be good. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if she was so intoxicated she didn’t know what day it was—from experience, she knew getting to that level of drunk didn’t require much alcohol on her part; Dominic always insisted that vices—drinking, smoking, drugs that Rita hadn’t cooked up—were crutches.

The couple of times she’d indulged her curiosity resulted in her head being stuck in the toilet after a glass and a half of wine, several hours of mindless giggling, and random thoughts on why the floor was rocking like the ocean.

The air left her lungs abruptly when her back thumped gently against a seat. All the blood accumulated in her head started to rush back into her body, pounding in her ears as her brain went light and fuzzy. “Whoa, headrush.”

Grit frowned down at her. He reached for her wrists, paused to check the door was closed, then carefully unwound the soft ropes binding her. “Sorry, little tiger. Couldn’t risk you breaking free and bolting across the runway.”

She jerked her feet. “No bolting. Bunny-hopping, maybe. Boing, boing, boing.” The toes of her boots bounced on the plush, fancy carpet with each sound effect. “Wouldn’t get far before the big, bad wolf ate me all up.”

Even as his eyes turned sad, his lips curved into a predatory grin. “I wish.”

Something had changed over the last couple of weeks. Around the time she’d flunked her great escape and almost gotten tased, she mused. It was subtle, more of a feeling, but it niggled at her. There was still the heat in his eyes, the sexy thrum of power in his voice, but they were muted.

Had Jasper warned him off her? Or Atticus?

Hell, it wouldn’t surprise her if both of them and the other Masters of Avalon had discouraged Grit from spending time with her in anything other than a guard dog/babysitter capacity.

“Mr. McCabe? My name is Felicia, I’ll be your hostess for this flight. I’ve been asked to tell you we’re ready to take off when you are.” A stunning brunette with blonde streaks appeared from the cockpit. Her makeup was immaculate, her pale blue uniform matching her eyes.

Tabitha glared at her when those eyes lingered on Grit for several seconds longer than she felt were appropriate. “Tell the pilot to file a new flight plan. We’re going to Dublin.”

Grit’s hand covered her mouth. “Ignore that. Inform the pilot we’re ready.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll return once we’re in the air with refreshments.”

Of course, sir. Tabitha mocked her silently, adding in a mental hair toss and pursed lips. Can I kiss your ass, sir? Suck your dick? Perhaps I can serve you a beer with my big, barely restrained tits?

“I think we’ll be okay, Felicia, thank you. It’s a short flight.” Grit’s tone was flat, uninterested yet polite.

“Yes, sir. Just use the intercom if you change your mind.” She flitted away to wherever gorgeous, sex-doll fantasy hostesses went when their services weren’t required.

Jealousy hissed through Tabitha’s veins. A new and not particularly thrilling sensation. She seethed in silence as Grit dropped to one knee and released her ankles, his big hands rubbing where the ropes had been.

When he glanced up at her questioningly as though he’d asked her something important, the hissing became violent, morphing into popping sounds until she snapped.

Grabbing fistfuls of his hair, she yanked him forward. For a long second, barely enough time to comprehend what she was about to do, she stared into his eyes, seeing confusion and lust twining together.

“Mine,” she snarled, shocked by the possessiveness in the word before she sucked in a bolstering breath and slammed her mouth against his.

Her stomach lurched at the pressure and texture of his lips. It didn’t matter that she was the instigator, that the choice to do this was hers. Her brain just veered right back to when she was a kid, pinned down beneath Dominic, having her innocence stripped away an inch at a time.

No. No. She wasn’t a child anymore. She was stronger now, she was her own woman. There was no need to be afraid, not with him. Lips were just lips. Tongues were just muscle.

Panic sweat soaked into her T-shirt. She couldn’t stop the whimpers tainting every harsh exhale, but she refused to give in. This was a battle she’d started, one she had to win if she stood any chance of being victorious in the war against herself.

Grit eased back. “Little tiger—”

“Get back here.” She attacked his mouth a second time, forcing herself to do more than just crush their lips together. She kissed him the way she remembered her father had—thrusting her tongue into Grit’s mouth in a mimicry of sex, trying so hard to separate reality from memory, until she was splintering apart.

When he pulled away again, she didn’t try for a third attempt.

“Good effort, Tabby Cat.” Concern furrowing his brow, Grit leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her damp forehead. When the jet’s engines kicked into gear, he quickly strapped her in before taking his seat and securing himself. “Should I be worried about that?”

“It was just a kiss.”

He linked his fingers with hers. “A kiss is never just anything when it comes to you. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but fear has a taste to it, little tiger. I hate knowing you’re terrified. I’d like to know what triggered it.”

She pressed her lips together.

“That mine was pretty fucking sexy,” he continued, ignoring her silence. “Green looks damn good on you, even though you don’t have to be jealous.” As the jet began to taxi, he bent down so his lips brushed her ear. “If the stewardess strolled in here naked with a bow tied around her waist, I’d still only have eyes for you.”

Some of the sick, nervous energy dissipated. “Really?”

“Only for you, little tiger.”

Her lip trembled. Biting it, worrying it as the plane finally picked up speed and launched into the sky, Tabitha mulled over her options. Finally, she found the courage to speak. “Is there a bedroom on this thing?”

“In the back,” he said slowly.

She nodded, feeling her throat constrict. “I need to bite the bullet, Rory. No, hear me out,” she croaked when he looked like he was about to argue. She knew he understood she was serious when she used his real name. “I hate being like this. I fucking hate that I’ve found a good guy, a nice guy, and I can’t… be normal. I want to be normal for you, to be able to give you sex. She could,” she muttered bitterly, flicking her hand toward where Felicia had stood. “She’d have no problem fucking you wherever, whenever you wanted.”

“Probably not,” Grit agreed amiably. “But then, she hasn’t been in your shoes, Tabitha. When someone hasn’t been tortured, raped, brainwashed, it’s far easier to take things like intimacy for granted. Do you think she’d have survived Dominic?”

“No.”

“Exactly. Felicia is the kind of woman who believes she’s a strong, empowered female because her genetics gave her good genes and she knows how to flaunt them; because she understands sex, how the game is played, how to win.” His voice lowered an octave so it was deep and resonant. “I prefer strength of character, little tiger. A body honed by battle, scarred yet beautiful. Sharp wit, sharper tongue, cunning brain. I’ve been waiting for you, Tabitha.”

He said it so simply, she believed him. The conviction of his words gave her the courage to take the next tentative step. “I’m here. You’re here. There’s a bed. I’m going to get a stiff drink, and then we’ll go do… it.”

He shot her a look that was sympathetic and patient. A bad combination, in her experience. “Think about this, Tabby. I mean really think about it. There is nowhere to run when you panic. When,” he repeated gently, “not if. We are on a plane, high in the sky. We’re not alone.”

Tabitha nodded, understanding there was no escape and that she was risking public humiliation in front of the jet’s crew if she freaked out. “Two stiff drinks then; I’ll be paralytic so it won’t matter.”

“No.” He grasped her hand in both of his, squeezing until their warmth penetrated her cold fingers. “Consent is imperative, little tiger. You can’t give it or take it away if your brain is swimming in alcohol. A drunk fuck can be fun, but fun isn’t what you need right now. A positive experience is about all we can hope for.”

A positive experience. She turned those three words over and over in her head as she struggled to catch her breath. It dawned on her that they were openly discussing having sex. Not a month from now, not in a few days, but imminently.

Summoning her inner brat, she flashed him a cocky grin. “Joining the mile high club is positive, right?”

“Tabby… shit, we’re going to regret this,” he murmured, lifting her hand to his mouth. He kissed her knuckles, obviously trying to figure out a way to dissuade her from leaping into the fray this way. “All right, we’ll try. That’s all I can give you.”

A giggle wanted to choke her. A kernel of distress lodged under her breastbone, warning her that the attempt might be more than her heart could take. She swallowed hard enough her throat clicked audibly.

As the plane began to level off after its ascension, Grit set their joined hands on his thigh. His expression was calm, yet she sensed the tension growing in him. Unsurprisingly—this was one hell of a responsibility she was dumping on him. “What’s your safeword, Tabitha?”

“Rory.”

He grunted in approval. “You will use it, do you understand? I know your body now, how you react, when you’ve reached your limit, so I’ll know if you’re pushing yourself beyond what you’re ready for and I will put a stop to it if that happens.” He bounced their hands lightly on the thick muscle as he gathered his thoughts. “The only pressure here is what you put on yourself. I don’t care if my dick doesn’t get wet or if we only get as far as stroking your perfect cunt to an orgasm. Don’t force yourself into something you’re not comfortable with doing.”

Tabitha attempted a smile; it fell flat. “Do you always try and talk women out of fucking you?”

“I don’t make a habit of it, no. But then, none of them were you.”

Why did he have to be so sweet? “Are you talking yourself out of fucking me?”

He used his free hand to scrub his face. “Little tiger, there’s nothing I want more. I know you’re mine—you do, too. There’s no question in my mind that you belong with me. I also know how much this is going to hurt you on a level that isn’t easy to heal.”

“I’m not weak.”

“Far from it. Strong women earn their power, Tabitha, through blood and tears. Dominic stripped you down to the bones and gave nothing back. That isn’t what you’ll get with me.” When a light flicked off at the front of the plane, he offered her a rueful smile. “I won’t refuse you, but I will protect you. From yourself if needs be.”

“It’s just s-sex, Grit.” Shit, her voice caught unexpectedly.

He reached down and released the catch on her seatbelt. As the straps slithered over her hips, he flicked his hand toward the rear of the plane. “We’ll play it your way for now, little tiger. Go then. Find the bed, get comfortable. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

Okay, that was smart. Some time on her own to wrestle everything despicable into a box and bury it where fear couldn’t unearth it again was a good idea. Still, she hesitated. “You’re not coming with me?”

His eyebrow lifted subtly. “I didn’t exactly come prepared for sex, Tabitha. I need to see if Atticus has condoms on board.” His lips quirked. “By the way he and Alicia keep procreating, my guess is no.”

Safe sex, yes, that would be wise. Tabitha’s hand clutched her throat, kneading the stiff muscles down her neck. There wasn’t an ounce of sass left in her; trepidation was all she felt as she stood slowly, her legs unsteady.

When Grit’s expression changed, she walked away before he lectured her on making choices, the right choices for her. Her breath shortened with each step down the aisle, almost strangling her by the time she reached the doors at the rear.

Storage closet on the left, bathroom to the right.

Trying to muster some dignity, she set her hand on the knob in front of her and pushed the door open. Of course, Atticus would have the biggest bed in the world on his goddamn plane—after all, he was a giant in his own right.

Her heart threatened to evacuate her chest as her eyes roamed over the wooden spindles in the head- and footboards. The covers were drawn back to expose the sheets, and everything was either blue or cream.

Fuck, she was in over her head.

No, she told herself sternly. She was not in over anything; she had a phobia, a horrible and debilitating flaw that needed to be dealt with. It was time she tackled the issue, and she would do so with pride. She was not going to cry or beg or be anything but calm, controlled, and coherent.

No babbling, she thought as she took a step toward the bed. No riddles, no stupid rhymes.

Get comfortable, he’d said. How exactly did someone do that when it felt as though ants were crawling under her skin, through her veins, spreading anxiety like wildfire?

What did he expect from her? He was a Dom, so obedience was undoubtedly high on the list. Once, it had been her comfort zone—all she had to do was what she was told, and she wouldn’t be whipped or pounded on until her bones came close to snapping.

Did he want her fully dressed so he could remove her physical defenses himself, or naked so that she exposed all her vulnerabilities from the start? Just her bra and panties, a mixture of submission and defiance?

Tabitha chewed her lip as she stared at the sea of cream sheets. There wasn’t even a wrinkle in them, it was like they’d been ironed on to the mattress. Pristine, unsullied.

She pressed her fist to her stomach. It wouldn’t be so bad, she tried to convince herself. Maybe if she stripped and laid naked on the bed, he’d just… get on with it. Pain was no stranger to her; she knew how to balance it, but if it got too much to handle, she’d take herself away from it.

Thinking of how the Avalon women presented themselves for their Doms, she wondered if laying down was the right thing to do. Would he prefer her on her knees? Standing? Doing a fucking handstand?

Jesus Christ, why was this so complicated?

“There’s a lot of thinking going on in here.” The unexpected rumble of Grit’s voice almost buckled her knees. Her time was up, and she was open and unguarded. Her breath hitched as the door snicked closed quietly. “Gray isn’t a good color on you, little tiger.”

Tabitha clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering.

“We don’t have to do this.”

She wanted it over with. Memories were her worst enemy; if she couldn’t erase them, maybe replacing them would work. “It’ll be okay. I’m not changing my mind.”

Grit sighed. She felt his presence behind her, then his hand curled around her nape possessively, his thumb stroking the rigid muscles in her neck. “Stubborn little tiger. So brave even when you’re fucking terrified.”

“A-Am not.”

“Perhaps you’ve convinced yourself you’re not,” he mused softly, “but it’s not the truth. Look at your hands, Tabby. Shaking so hard, it’s affecting all of you.”

Damn it, she usually had better control than this. “I’m fine. Just nervous.”

“Hmm. All right then, let’s distract you.” With a squeeze of her neck, he directed her to face him. “Hold out your hands.”

His tone brooked no argument. That dominant tone, lower than his normal timbre, spoke to the years of training hardwired into her system.

She offered them to him, her heart stuttering mid-beat as he showed her the fleece-lined cuffs dangling from his fingers. “Going straight for the kink, huh?”

“Quiet.”

She couldn’t stop herself. “This is some psychological shit, right? The cuffs represent your hands; they’re supposed to offer security and safety, so it feels as though you’re protecting me.”

“That’s one aspect, yes.” Slowly, he unfastened one cuff and wrapped it around her wrist, tightening it until the fleece fit snugly against her skin. He slid a finger between the cuff and her wrist, obviously satisfied it wasn’t going to cut off her circulation. “I want you to wear them because they’re a tool of submission, Tabitha. I want you to remember I’m in control. When I tell you to do something, you do it. They bind your submission and your trust to me.”

She exhaled loudly as he secured the second cuff. “They mean I’m yours.”

He smiled. “You’re always mine whether these are on or not.”

Oh, that was kind of sweet. With the cuffs weighing her arms down, she waited for his next move. “Are you going to tie me up? Down?”

“No. They’re simply a reminder tonight, not a weapon.” Taking her face in his hands, he stared into her eyes until everything around them faded. “My name, my real name, stops everything. If I feel I do something that causes you distress, if I think you can’t handle this, we’re done for the night.”

“Grit, I need—”

“You need me to rein in this impulse to be normal before it damages you further,” he admonished quietly. “You’re smart, Tabby, one of the smartest people I know, but Dominic fucked with your head to the point where you’ll hurt yourself in an attempt to get over it. This is where you trust me to know when you’re going to break and stop before more damage is done.”

She dropped her gaze to the carpet. Blue, lighter than the covers. “Can’t you just fuck me and get it done?”

“No. I don’t want a broken toy to play with, Tabitha. I’m not your father.” He kissed her forehead. “I need a woman who understands her limitations, who craves what I do to her without fear. I need you.” Another kiss, ever so light, on her lips. “But you’re hurting and afraid, so it’s going to take time.”

Time was not her friend. “I’d rather—”

“Switch off that anxious brain and let me take charge,” he interrupted. “That’s a good idea. Get undressed, little tiger. I want you in bed in the next two minutes, naked with no backchat.”

Scowling, Tabitha considered giving him all the backchat, but the look in his eyes was altering. Shifting into the utterly-controlled steel gaze of a Dominant in his element. Shoulders slumping, she conceded temporary defeat and began to strip.

A condom landed on the covers, a shiny square package that immediately twisted her guts into a knot. She paused with her T-shirt halfway over her chest, shooting Grit a questioning glance.

He wasn’t going to have sex with her, but he’d brought a condom anyway?

“I said we’d try,” he said as he yanked his own shirt off over his head. “No sense in not being prepared.”

Shutting off the inane chatter in her head, Tabitha removed her T-shirt, then her bra. Her pants slithered to the floor before she remembered her sneakers, bending to undo the laces. As she toed them off and stepped out of the puddle of fabric around her feet, Grit was already down to his boxers.

“The next time we do this, I’m going to have the pleasure of stripping you myself,” he muttered, watching her with a heated gaze. “Panties off, little tiger.”

Breathing hard, she discarded the scrap of material serving as her last defense. Maintaining what courage she had left, she ignored the sheer masculinity of his body on display and completed the final part of his command.

“Good girl.”

The bed made her feel small. A lonely little starfish at the bottom of a vast ocean. While the sheets were soft and smooth beneath her back, they were chilly too. Feeling susceptible and hating it, she inched her hand down to snag the covers and pull them over herself.

Grit’s expression didn’t flicker. He just watched in that patient way of his, as though he was reading her, studying her, psychoanalyzing her. He folded his thick arms over his broad chest, standing with his legs set apart.

If she knew how to paint, she’d capture him just this way and title it: The Modern Warrior—Boxers, Bulges, and Brains.

Nerves took control of her voice again. “If you’re planning on getting into bed with those on,” she said with a nod at his boxers, “then it’s going to be hard to…” Swallowing hard, she made a circle with her thumb and forefinger on the left hand and used her right index finger to poke in and out. “You know.”

“Ah, the ubiquitous you know.” Grit sat on the empty side of the bed, dipping the mattress—a sign he significantly outweighed her; something she was already aware of, along with his size. “I’ll take them off when I’m ready. Perhaps I’m shy.”

“Shy, my ass.” Rolling her eyes at him, she huffed. “I’m not a virgin. I’m hardly going to run screaming to the cockpit, babbling about pant snakes and one-eyed monsters.”

Chuckling, he picked up the condom and set it on the small wooden table acting as a nightstand, then settled himself into bed next to her. While she huddled into herself with the covers acting as a shield, his body stretched out as though he didn’t have any sense of modesty at all. “A virgin has nothing to fear, not really. Their first sexual awakening falls prey to their imagination, yes, but if they choose the right partner, someone with patience and compassion, it can be exciting.”

Tabitha blocked out memories of her father’s hands pinning her down with bruising grips, the sounds she’d made, how afraid she’d been despite Dominic’s efforts to train fear out of her.

Grit turned onto his side, facing her. Eyes soft with sympathy, he reached out to brush his knuckles down her cheek. He was close enough for her to feel his heat, for her body to tingle and ache. “You, my little tiger, don’t have the luxury of blind innocence. Dominic and his friends subjected you to every torture under the sun in the name of science, and you… Under all your bravado, your brain knows what a man is capable of doing to you. Your body remembers the pain. This isn’t about teaching you what sex is, Tabitha; it’s about showing you how it’s meant to be.”

She knew how it was, period. Whether it was a one-night stand, a committed relationship, or some fucked up arrangement without a name, sex boiled down to one person having the ultimate power over another, using their body to dominate and violate under the guise of procreation, recreation, fun.

Still, she was aware that sex was considered an integral part of a relationship, and she found her obsession with Grit continued to evolve. A man like him didn’t wait around forever, no matter how far his patience stretched, and it would be nice to keep him around for a while longer.

Plus, he’d been right when he said her phobia was a liability.

All in all, she surmised, if she had to take this step with anyone, there was only one man for the job.

God help her.