“What changed?”
“It became one of the lesser traumatizing things I’ve seen,” he said softly. “But if I do get them, they’re usually that I can’t get you out, or that you slip away in the current. Never gets past that, though. I’m perpetually battling to get you to shore.” His hand paused, and he squeezed my shoulder. “What about you? How often do they still happen to you?”
“Depends. Usually only when I’m in the middle of something really stressful, or something that’s out of my control.” Like right now. “Feels like I went through years of therapy for nothing,” I tried to joke.
“If they happen less than they used to, it’s worth it.”
I somehow doubted he’d acted on that sentiment in the last three years, given how opposed he’d been to it before.
Moments passed, and the impropriety of it all struck me straight in the chest. “Is this how you comfort every assignment you’re given?”
“Hardly,” he scoffed, shaking his head, and I knew that if I looked up, I’d see that slight smile curving his lips. The one that always made me ache to kiss him.
I couldn’t stay there, curled up against him like I wasn’t someone else’s fiancée.
Are you really, though?
I shifted my head slightly and felt the lump under my cheek, then drew back to stare at it.
“I was in the middle of getting dressed when I heard you,” he said, pulling the chain from beneath his shirt to reveal what looked like a dog tag, but it had been wrapped in black tape.
The tape was so he wouldn’t make a sound when moving around, if I remembered correctly.
“Explains the bare feet,” I said, shifting out of his lap and taking the blanket with me. It was odd that he was wearing dog tags if I wasn’t even allowed to call him by his name. All these years later, he’d dug deeper into the same life, while I’d completely changed mine.
He cleared his throat and moved to the other end of the couch, leaving only my feet on the no-man’s-land of the center cushion.
“What were you doing up at four in the morning?” I asked, tugging the blanket closer to cover the fact that I didn’t exactly wear a bra to bed. Not that he hadn’t already seen every inch of me naked.
“Getting back from the gym.”
I dropped my gaze to his hip, where a weapon was holstered. “And the first thing you do after a shower is strap up?”
“Listen to you.” He grinned, flashing that dimple, and my heart freaking clenched. “Strap up.”
God, it was safer against his chest, where I wasn’t looking straight into those eyes. Ten years later, and they still had the same thigh-clenching effect on me. The man could have done nothing but look at me, and I bet I would have come if he stared hard enough. I gripped the edge of the blanket.
His brow knit. “You’re not wearing your ring.”
Heat flushed my cheeks, and I drew my hand back beneath the blanket. “I don’t sleep in it,” I explained. The damn thing was cumbersome and caught on the sheets, and maybe I just needed a damn break from wearing the symbol of being Jeremy’s. “It’s . . . not comfortable,” I finished in a tone so lame even I cringed.
“I can see how a rock like that would get . . . heavy.” He looked away, his jaw ticking.
Guilt sat like a rock in my stomach, and a thousand things I wanted to say tickled the tip of my tongue. Then I remembered the sight of his rain-soaked back retreating down my hallway in New York, refusing to turn when I called his name over and over, and my chest tightened. “How are we supposed to do this?”
“Do what?” He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.
“Stay this close for the next two weeks and just ignore . . . everything?” It came out as a whisper.
He shoved his dog tags back under his shirt. “It’s only twelve more days,” he answered quietly. “And we just have to.”
“Nate.” I moved to scoot closer, and he pinned me with a look that stopped me dead.
“Don’t, Izzy.” He shook his head. “I have one weakness on this entire planet, and you’re feet away when you’re supposed to be halfway round the globe.” That mask he wore like armor fell away, and the pain in his eyes was enough to make me suck in a sharp breath. “So please, have some goddamn mercy on me for once in your life and just . . .” His eyes squeezed shut. “Just ignore it.”
I studied the lines of his face, the tattoo that moved and rippled on his forearm when he curled his hands into fists. Every line of him was tight, like he was prepared to fight a battle I couldn’t see. It wasn’t fair to him. I was here by my choice, and he was only staying for me. “Okay,” I said. “I can ignore it.”
“Thank you.” His posture relaxed, and he stared at the coffee table in front of us. “What is that?” He motioned to the folder.
“The latest posts by American journalists,” I answered. “Kacey must have come in and put them on the table after I went to bed. I crashed early.”
“She has a key?”
“Yes. She’s a junior aide. She’s not a threat, Nate.” I rolled my eyes.
“You need to lock your dead bolt,” he muttered, reaching for the folder.
“And if I had, you wouldn’t have been able to get in, either, would you?” I challenged, tucking my legs underneath me as he handed me the folder.
He snorted. “Like a piece of metal is keeping me out when I hear you scream.”
I didn’t bother pointing out that if he could get past a dead bolt, so could anyone else. Instead, I thumbed through the articles. My breath caught when I saw her byline. “Nate,” I whispered, shoving the printed article at him. “She’s not in the picture, but it’s Serena’s article.”
I bet if I check my phone right now, I’ll have a Google Alert waiting in my inbox.
He took the article and studied the picture, sighing. “She’s in Mez.”
“What?” Against my better judgment, I moved closer so I could see it, too, my shoulder brushing his arm.
“That building. It’s the Shrine of Ali, also known as the Blue Mosque.” He pointed to the building in the distance of the picture. “She’s either in Mazar-i-Sharif, or she was recently.”
I couldn’t help but smile, because she’d filed it earlier this evening, according to the post time. “But she’s alive.”
“She’s alive.”
And now we knew where she was.
CHAPTER TEN
NATHANIEL
Tybee Island, Georgia
June 2014
“Seven ball, corner pocket,” I called out, flipping my ball cap backward before leaning over the pool table and making my third shot in a row.