Sonata (North Security 3)

“Then what is it you want?”

“Love,” she whispers.

I try not to flinch. And fail. Because the one thing she wants is the thing I can’t give her. Not the way she wants it. “I do.”

“You love me as a daughter. As a guardian does a ward.”

Frustration burns all the way down. “Does it matter the way I love you?”

“Yes.”

A low growl. “Maybe I love you the way you want. How the hell would I know the difference? I’m not someone who was made to understand love. All I know is that I want you. I know the taste of you in my sleep.”

“Look me in the eyes. Say, I love you, Samantha Brooks.”

Fuck. She doesn’t know what she’s asking for. Or maybe she does. It’s like the bottle of rubbing alcohol pouring over an open wound. “Love is a word. It’s a weakness. I protect you. That’s all that matters.”

“What’s so wrong with loving someone?”

Because you’re going to leave. It’s something I could never explain to her. It’s something she wouldn’t understand. A bone-deep certainty. “This isn’t the time or the place.”

Even as I say the words, someone enters.

The heavy breath of the train mutes the sound of the sliding door and the steps of this woman. She might be passing through, except the only thing past us is more empty first-class cars. My mind catalogs anything noteworthy about her:

1) She was in the dining car when I got our drinks

2) She holds a canvas bag from a bookstore in Paris

3) Now that I see her face, she looks vaguely familiar.

Other people might be inclined to discount her as a threat due to her age. Old women aren’t usually seen as dangerous. Sometimes appearances are deceiving. I’ve seen children detonate bombs. I’ve seen old women smuggle cocaine. There is no one I would not consider protecting against.

Samantha offers a small smile. “When is the time? Where is the place?”

“Not a goddamn train,” I manage to growl, even as my eyesight narrows. It’s something that happens in battle. My heartbeat slows, so that my finger can pull the trigger at the second I want. It starts happening here, now, before my conscious mind knows the danger.

The woman stumbles over an uneven patch of carpeting.

The tray flies. Liquid launches into the air. A goddamn gun won’t help me now. A strangled shout of surprised pain. Hot tea spreads across Samantha’s white T-shirt, staining it to a pale beige. The woman drops her tote bag filled with books and papers.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman says in English. She does sound horrified. Her hands fly to the napkins, grasping, grasping. “Let me help you.”

I take her forearm in my fist. “Don’t touch her.”

My mind works through calculations. Did she come into this car with ill intent? Did she spill the tea on purpose? I’m worried about the hot liquid against Samantha’s tender skin, but not so much that I’ll loosen my hold on this intruder before I’m sure she poses no danger.

A man appears behind her, one wearing a sharp suit. The same one I saw in the dining car a moment ago. My brother. “I’ll question her.”

I give my thanks in a nod, nudging her into his custody. Josh and I have our disagreements, but I know I can trust him to interrogate her. Her name. Her purpose. Her deepest fears. He can ferret it out of people without a single overt threat. That leaves me free to drag Samantha forward to the lavatory. She squeaks in either alarm or pain as I close the door, imprisoning us both inside.

My hands are trembling as I pull her T-shirt over her head. So much for a soldier’s calm. So much for a goddamn smooth trigger finger. Her skin is red, but the burn doesn’t look severe. Thank fuck for the lukewarm water and weak tea. It’s soaked her bra, a simple white lace, and I reach around to unhook it. Then she’s standing there naked, a half-foot away from me, her nipples hard, her skin pebbling beneath the cool air and my searing gaze. I smooth my palm over her skin, reassuring myself that she’s fine, that she’s safe, that she’s warm in my embrace.

Samantha

I’m naked.

Half-naked, technically. I’m still wearing my jeans. Definitely more naked than I ever thought to be in a public restroom. The mirror shows my shoulders, my breasts, my stomach. The view stops there, to make way for a small sink. The sting of the warm tea is long forgotten, erased by the feel of cool air and a hot touch.