Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

REMINGTON

" S he's getting restless," McQuade warned when he emerged from her room.

The first time he'd gone in there had been following a nightmare that woke all three of us. Everyone except Patch. It hadn't woken her at all. If anything, she'd been trapped in that nightmare until McQuade settled next to her, then put a single hand on her shoulder.

Even in the low light cast from the hall into her room, there was no mistaking the frown easing on her face. More telling had been how the muted, almost smothered cries had ceased. She didn't scream not long or loud. It was somehow worse, those near inaudible cries of pain. Censoring her own suffering, even in sleep.

It was a load of tosh, but she didn't ask me.

McQuade eyed the coffee where it brewed. Locke and Patch both seemed to enjoy the espresso machine more, but espresso was not what she reached for all day. I preferred to give her options. I nodded to him. "Help yourself."

The restlessness had been apparent over the past couple of days. She'd reduced the amount of sleep she needed. The lingering signs of the concussion had faded and taken her light sensitivity with it. She hadn't asked for her computer the day prior, but she had been looking around for it.

Or presumably, that was what she was seeking.

"You're thinking awfully hard over there," McQuade commented. "Going to share with the class?"

I spared him a look. "Locke is the one who likes to discuss his feelings."

His cough and splutter following his inhaling of the coffee amused me more than the comment. It also, almost, masked the sound of her bedroom door opening again. I cut a glance toward her reflection on the glass of one of the wall photos. It was blurred, indistinct—yet her. The long blonde hair that fell well past her shoulders and more than half of that length was a darker color. It was as though once she'd colored it years previously, she'd never changed it again.

Instead, she let the hair grow out. The blonde length a declaration for how long she'd been in hiding. A testament to her self-imposed exile, I supposed. Then again, she hadn't gone below the grid for so long because it was a vacation. She'd genuinely constructed a prison of sorts out of her bolthole.

There she stayed, until she'd been dragged out of it. I couldn't imagine her not kicking and screaming. So no, she'd given them a fight and they'd repaid her in blood and tears. Anger pulsed sluggishly through my blood the more I considered everything that had been done to her.

Including the latest—her memory loss. It wasn't permanent, or so the doctor had sworn. But he also said he wasn't sure if it was a true trauma response physically or emotionally. It could be both. So he strongly advised us to let her remember on her own. Thankfully, she hadn't forgotten who we were, even if she'd been stunned by our presence.

She remembered nothing of her incarceration or so she said… I believed her. She had no reason to lie to us. We'd been very up front about what we wouldn't discuss. No one pretended we didn't know, but the doctor thought for her sake, mentally and emotionally, it would be better if she retrieved her memories when she was ready.

Information was power. I would listen for now, but I refused to let anyone have that kind of power over her.

"Are you all right?" The softness in the question grounded me almost as much as the concern filling her gray eyes.

Frowning, I glanced from her eyes to where her hand rested lightly against my chest. I'd missed her passage from the doorway to where I stood. Compromised. I was very much compromised for this woman. It could prove problematic, because none of us could afford to lose focus in a combat situation.

"I'm fine," I assured her. Then because I wasn't certain what had given my mood away, I added, "Why do you ask?"

"You looked—fierce," she answered in a slow, almost sleepy voice. Not too drowsy though, she was waking up, yet still ready to do battle. We wouldn't be able to delay her much longer. Whether she was ready or not, I had total faith that she would absolutely find out the information on her own.

"It's early and McQuade isn't the best company first thing."

"Fuck you too, mate." The cheerfulness belied the bite, but the snap was still there.

"Don't call me mate," I reminded him, then covered Patch's hand on my chest. Closing my fingers around hers, I eased the contact that threatened to brand me through my clothes. "I made coffee. I was just considering breakfast. How are you feeling this morning?"

Initially, all but the blandest of foods had left her nauseated. She had vomited once or twice at the clinic. All consistent with a concussion. We'd kept the foods mild and eased her back into it. The night before, however, she'd eaten the grilled fish easily. I took that as a good sign.

"I'm hungry," she admitted, her faint smile not quite erasing her puzzled expression. Though she didn't say anything until I pulled out a chair for her at the table. Then I went about getting her coffee prepared. "Remy?—"

"I'm gonna grab a shower," McQuade said and I cut a glance to where he leaned over the table and pressed a kiss to the top of Patch's head. "Be good for Remy."

"You have?—"

"I'm aware." He didn't even let me finish the reminder. Yes, he had a supply run to do today. Supplies and information, we were spreading out where we retrieved them from. At the moment, no wireless or analog signals were leaving this location. Our phones were off when we were here and they were in shielded bags.

The only electronic devices were on a local network only that had no external access. It let us watch the security system. The need to keep this location as far under the radar as we could meant isolating that contact. I still wasn't sure how they tracked us when we'd been so damn careful.

Until we figured it out, I didn't think there was enough of a level of paranoid to keep her safe.

"You're aware?" Patch prompted, focusing on McQuade. I didn't like the interception of her attention. She'd been watching me before, yet the loss allowed me to study her a little more covertly. There was an awareness to her that had been lacking since she woke from the shooting.

A vitality in the faint flush to her cheeks and the determined lift of her chin. I didn't know her micro expressions as well as I might. Her tone of voice was far easier to read and to understand. She had so many different ways to speak.

Teasing.

Affectionate.

Exasperated.

Cooly professional.

Sharp, dangerous, and solving problems only half-aware of the fact someone was on the line with her.

Afraid.

Hurt.

There were easily more, I could catalog them all if I took the time. I understood the nonverbal cues in her voice. Not in her face. It didn't help that when I tried to study her to learn more, or at least begin to identify what a faint frown on her forehead meant versus the tightening around her eyes, I stopped looking at her expression.

Instead, I found myself studying the contours of her face. How defined her cheekbones were. The fact her collarbones jutted told me all I needed to know about her lack of nutrition while they held and tortured her. She seemed wound too tight, her skin pulled taut, and all of it stretching like a mask to keep the damaged parts cobbled together.

The woman with so much strength, she prevailed on pure determination alone. That quality merely added to her overall appeal.

"I'm aware of what I have to do today," McQuade was saying in answer to her earlier prompt. She wouldn't be brushed off. "If we wanted to tell you directly, we would." Not an unfair point.

"Maybe Remy was about to, before you cut him off." The tart response pulled a real smile to my lips and I started the grinder as McQuade opened his mouth. His glare toward me just made me smile wider.

Once I had the perfect puck, I pulled her shots before retrieving the milk. "Go take your shower," I said. "I'll fill her in on what she needs to know."

McQuade snorted, but it was Patch's turn to give me a flat look even if the corners of her lips tilted. She was more amused than she wanted to let on. "You need me, press the button."

The panic button. She had it with her always now and it buzzed to all of us. The device was more for our comfort than hers. Locke pointed that out the night he set it up, not that it slowed his hand even once.

"I will," she said. "But I doubt I'll need it. Remy is here."

I appreciated both her vote of confidence and McQuade's grumble in response. The mercenary didn't linger after that, vanishing back toward the room he'd claimed for himself. Steaming her milk didn't take much longer and I was getting better at creating the foam she enjoyed. When I carried the coffee over, I met her assessing gaze.

"I'll make you a deal," I offered.

"For what?" Head tilted, she accepted the coffee and grinned at it. "Also, thank you for this."

"You're very welcome, the deal is, you answer a question and I'll answer a question."

"Quid pro quo." She summed it up beautifully. "That seems almost too easy."

"Does it?" It was an open-ended question. So while she pondered that, I continued, "Breakfast?"

"Yes please, and I think I would like some eggs with the toast this morning."

She sipped her coffee. The flick of her gaze away as she drank didn't fool me. I'd laid out the bait neatly. If she missed it at all, then she was definitely not ready for the conversation. She waited until I was getting the eggs out.

"What are you keeping from me?" The broadness of the question was almost too wide in scope.

"I'm sure we're keeping a great many things," I told her. "I'm afraid you need to be more specific and I can't answer for the two of them on everything. Do you want your eggs fried or scrambled?"

Most of the time, she seemed to prefer the scramble. Or so I thought. I'd been getting to know her habits before. Despite her injuries, most remained consistent. Her food preferences shifted some. I suspected that had more to do with the aftereffects of the concussion than an actual personality-level change.

"Hmm, scrambled. The fluffier the better. Might be lighter to eat." The explanation answered a couple of questions for me, so I saved those. "What caused my head injury? The most recent one."

When it came to whittling her focus down, she took it to a razor's edge. An excellent sign. Critical thinking skills and application could be compromised and we had scant few resources for testing them.

"I believe it was a ricochet, but I don't have the evidence to validate it fully. We were on our way to a meeting. We walked into a sniper's ambush. Multiple shots were fired and exchanged. One of them creased your head."

She traced the line of her injury with her fingertips. I studied it every single time I saw it. Four centimeters in length, curved at the ends. Slightly flatter on the anterior versus the posterior. The bullet creased her along the curvature of her skull.

The line was still pink, the skin around it flushed. Too recently healed to hide against her hair. It stood out, the stain of color against her pale golden hair. Once I had the eggs going, I dropped the toast to cook.

I gave her another minute to process the direct answer. She'd been shot. Ricochet or direct, the only thing that mattered was she survived. That said, it was still a harsh reality to realize that someone really had tried to kill her. The holes in her memory aside, she didn't seem shocked by the news.

Good sign? Bad?

Undetermined.

"How is your headache today?" It had been rather ongoing, easing off but then returning for several days. Partially eye strain, or so I suspected. "And do you know where your glasses are?" The last question slipped out even though I had already asked one. Choice in eyewear hadn't made it to the list of our earlier discussions.

"It's not bad," she answered slowly, as though she had to do an assessment first. "Actually, I don't really have one this morning."

"Are you sure?" Because the lack of certainty echoed under the last few words.

"Pretty sure," she murmured, then lifted her shoulders. "I think I had one when I woke up, but more of a nagging one. It went away with my shower. So—that's good."

I was in no rush to agree or not. Not without more information. Patch continued to be something of an enigma, and while it intrigued me on so many levels, it also frustrated, because I needed to know all her tells. I needed to know she wasn't holding anything back that might indicate something more was wrong.

"Yeah, I don't. That's kind of weird." Her laugh was far more bemused than entertained. Not that I could blame her. So much she didn't remember yet. Some parts, I would never be eager for her to reclaim. "Anyway… no, I barely know where I am, Remy. Besides, I only need them when my eyes are tired."

I nodded. "We need to find yours then or get you a new set made. I should have realized." She hadn't had them when we pulled her out, but she hadn't even had clothes. Then we were too focused on getting her out and safe. While she hadn't complained before, now I had to wonder how much eyestrain she'd been subjecting herself too.

The toast popped up as I turned the heat off under the eggs. It was into that silence that she asked, "Why don't you want to tell me what happened?"

This close to her, I couldn't miss the vaguest note of hurt in her voice nor the way her gaze latched on to mine. Protecting her shouldn't involve leaving her vulnerable. This question, however, closed off the easier avenues to avoid it.

"Because we aren't sure if the reason you don't remember is due to physical or mental trauma." It was the truth. I carried the plates over and set hers in front of her before I grabbed the silverware and the butter dish. "The missing days are fairly specific…"

"And you know what happened?" She asked as if it were almost an involuntary reaction.

"Yes." I nodded once before pulling out my chair and twisting to focus on her and not the food. Leaning forward, I held out a hand. Would she take it?

She didn't hesitate and that helped to ease a jagged weight off my soul. A weight that had fallen in and begun to crush me from the moment I'd realized she'd been shot.

"I know you want to know," I said, closing my hand around hers. "I know you want to dig and to look. We aren't answering you because we don't know if telling you will do more harm than good."

She searched my face and whatever she was looking for, she must have found because she gave a slow nod. "Something happened to me. I need to know what it was."

"Can you give yourself a few more days to heal?" She was doing so much better now, and I wanted that improvement to continue. The last thing she needed was to suffer a setback. Particularly more than an hour away from the closest medical intervention.

"If I say no, will you answer me?"

I saw things so much better from a distance. I lacked the kind of distance I needed to be as cool and rational as she deserved. She was so much more than a job.

So. Much. More.

"Yes."