Flame Read online

  For the first time in too long, I could honestly reflect upon her father’s influence in her appearance. Where my eyes were green, Ruby’s were a vibrant blue, much like Patrick’s. There were other parts of Patrick in Ruby, parts I stubbornly refused to acknowledge as anything other than environment.

  But now, seeing him again, I knew those qualities were more than the way I’d raised her. Ruby had Patrick’s determination, his inquisitive nature, and his ability to see the good in people. She even saw good where it didn’t exist and most certainly wasn’t deserved.

  Andros Ivanov.

  She saw him as the man who helped and provided.

  I was complicit in her assumption. I’d hidden the monster from her.

  Little girls had nightmares about monsters under their beds. I couldn’t tell my daughter that what she should fear most wasn’t hiding in the shadows but visible in the light. In retrospect, I supposed I hadn’t wanted her to live with the alarm that racked me day and night or to ever know the price I’d paid to stay by her side.

  If she fell into Andros’s hands—into his bed—it was my fault.

  At the sound of rattling, I spun toward the door as the knob turned. My breath caught in my throat and eyes widened as I waited. The door moved inward.

  As soon as I saw him, I pushed the chair away from the table and stood. My gaze searched his as Patrick shut the door behind him, closing us in. Within his grasp were clothes. They were folded, yet I was certain they were for me.

  “Patrick,” I said, his name both a statement and a question, for I was certain that my fate lay in his hands.

  Patrick’s head shook as he handed me a piece of paper.

  Reaching for it, I opened the page with trembling hands.

  Don’t speak.

  Come with me.

  I wanted to argue, to ask about Andros, and remind him about Ruby. There were so many words vying to be uttered, yet I kept them all at bay, instead, closing and opening my eyes in resignation.

  At least now Patrick was with me.

  Taking a step forward, Patrick opened the door.

  “Sir,” a tall man said as the door opened.

  He wasn’t the same one who had been guarding me before. This one seemed to emit more power. I believed he’d been present upstairs. There were too many new faces to keep them all straight.

  “Come with us and wait outside the conference room to collect...”

  My gaze went to Patrick’s, wondering what he’d left unsaid.

  Collect...what?

  Me?

  I reached for Patrick’s arm. Beneath my grasp his forearm, one that I knew to be both solid and strong, tensed. His icy stare looked at my hand and then to my eyes. Although he was silently telling me to let go, I couldn’t. The turn of events had left me alone in unfamiliar territory. Like a kite that had broken free—or been discarded—after most of its life it had been tethered to a string and controlled by a master manipulator, I was unsure if without Andros I would fly or crash to the ground. I needed the connection to Patrick to keep me from a free fall.

  Instead of releasing my hold, I gripped tighter.

  With a shake of his head, he led me down the hallway and around a corner to a new door.

  “In here,” Patrick said, turning the knob and opening the door to a small conference room.

  Letting go of his arm, I stepped in front of him, taking in the room. The table wasn’t large and was surrounded by eight chairs. When the door closed behind me, I turned back.

  Patrick handed me another note.

  Sighing, I again reached for his next instructions.

  Remain silent. Before we speak, you will strip yourself of everything—every piece of clothing, jewelry, and hairpins. Or I will.

  When I looked up, his head tilted to one side.

  Strip or be stripped, was that really a choice?

  Madeline

  I crossed my arms over my chest as I contemplated my future.

  It didn’t take a genius to understand that these men wanted a guarantee that I couldn’t contact Andros. If they only knew the depth of my hatred for the man, they wouldn’t be concerned. Of course, they never would know if they forbade me to speak.

  Instead of verbally responding, my lips came together in a straight line as I studied Patrick’s expression. Within his set jaw and cool gaze, I saw the determination I once loved and admired.

  Reaching out, I silently asked for a pen or pencil.

  The look staring back at me was all the communication we would have.

  Patrick laid the clothes on the table and walked back to the door. With a twist of his wrist, the door locked. Step by step, he came toward me. My mind told me to rebel, to let out my brewing emotions on him. Yet my body wasn’t willing to push him away.

  My eyes closed as he reached toward me. I imagined a caress of my face or the cupping of my chin. Instead, I opened my eyes as one by one he plucked hairpins from my hair. Before long, a pile formed in the palm of his large hand. Laying them on the table, he ran his hands through my long locks, his fingers combing and searching.

  If this were another place—under different circumstances—the actions may be considered attentive and pleasurable. This wasn’t another place or time; it was a conference room in the office wing of Club Regal and I was being searched.

  My necklace was the next to go, followed by the platinum bracelet. My breath caught as Patrick lowered the zipper of my long emerald dress. Cool air met my back as the zipper descended. He brushed the straps from my shoulders, letting the material pool around my high heels. I spun toward him, meeting his stare with mine.

  This may be a strip search and in Patrick’s mind I may deserve it, but that didn’t mean I would cower in his presence. This man had seen me naked when I was younger than our daughter. He’d tended my bruises and infirmities as I had his. Life on the street wasn’t kind, yet we’d survived because of one another.

  It wasn’t until we were older that we discovered sexual pleasure. We found it in the warmth of togetherness and the way we enjoyed one another’s touch. One would assume that without the oversight of others that we jumped into sex.

  We didn’t.

  Like other teenagers, we experimented and explored.

  Streetwise and sexually ignorant, we were each other’s teacher as well as pupil.

  Patrick nodded toward my scant pair of panties.

  My thumbs caught in the waistband as I pulled them over my hips and down my thighs, allowing them to fall to my ankles.

  Without a word, he nodded his chin toward a chair at the conference table. As I sat, he crouched down and reached for the panties, pulling them over my shoes. Then he moved my feet apart and unbuckled each strap, releasing my high heels and removing them from my feet.

  Our eyes met as his hands landed upon my thighs. The width of his body moved closer as at the same time, he applied pressure, pushing my legs farther apart.

  Instinctively, I resisted.

  His blue eyes snapped to mine.

  Silently, they demanded my compliance.

  Intellectually, I understood his next move.

  A strip search wasn’t complete until every crevice was explored.

  Sitting taller, I complied by opening my legs.

  This wasn’t meant as a sexual experience, yet as one finger and then two searched, my core clenched. My body couldn’t separate the meaning, instead, responding to his long fingers and knowing of what he was capable. I stifled a moan as his touch disappeared.

  Helping me stand, Patrick turned me around, placing my hands on the table and applying pressure to my lower back, moving me to his desired position. This final search was the most demeaning and invasive. Tears threatened to return as he pressed a finger against my tight ring of muscles.

  I wouldn’t cry. I’d been through worse.

  My eyes closed as Patrick verified that my last possible place to hide something from the Ivanov bratva was indeed clear.

  At the loss of his touch,
I stood, spinning toward him. Folding my arms, I covered my breasts and stood my ground as he disappeared into the small attached bathroom. The sound of water running filled the office. When he returned, he lifted the panties, dress, and accessories and took them to the door, opening it only wide enough to pass my belongings over the threshold.

  “You know what to do.”

  I couldn’t see the person to whom Patrick was speaking though I easily assumed it was the man from a few minutes before. Embarrassment flooded my circulation as I imagined facing Patrick’s associates, knowing they knew what had happened in here.

  As the door closed, I finally spoke. “I’ve never hated you until now.”

  He scoffed. “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference.”

  “Elie Wiesel.”

  Patrick made a quick nod.

  “Tell me, Patrick. Is that what you now feel about me—indifferent?”

  With one quick glance toward the door, he took a step closer and then another. I didn’t back away. There was nowhere to go. Instead, my chin rose and my arms dropped to my sides, all the while keeping his blue stare in view.

  When he came to a stop, we were close enough for me to feel the heat of his body as the lingering scent of cologne filled my senses. He reached for my chin.

  “Indifferent? No.” He stared down at me. “At this moment, I hate you too. I should fuck that tight ass to punish you for...for all of this.”

  I didn’t back away from his grasp of my chin. My eyes stared into his icy blue glare. “Is that who you’ve become, Patrick, a man who uses his cock as punishment?”

  A vein throbbed to life on his forehead as the muscles in his neck grew taut. “At this moment, I’d say yes.”

  Spinning from his touch, I resumed the position he’d placed me in, my breasts flattened on the hard surface and my legs spread. Craning my neck, I looked back. “Do it, and then I will have more reason to hate you.”

  Instead of taking my dare, Patrick reached for my arm, spun me, and pulled me back to standing. My motion didn’t stop until I crashed against his hard chest. I sucked in a breath of relief as his arms encircled my waist, and he pulled my naked body against his clothed one. The hardness of his contained erection probing my stomach alerted me that he was capable of doing as I’d said. However, within his gaze, the ice from earlier was shattering before my eyes, crack by crack and fissure by fissure. Heat returned, a flurry of flames crackling as his blue orbs swirled with emotion.

  “I fucking hate you,” he said, “and God help me, I still love you.”

  My body melted against his as new tears filled my eyes. With a blink, one escaped and rolled down my cheek. “I never stopped...loving you. I did it every day through Ruby.” I laid my cheek on his chest, too overwhelmed to continue our stare as I confessed, “I didn’t know if you ever came back from the war.”

  With his heart beating in my ear and the scent of cologne in the air, Patrick stood taller.

  Pulling my face away, I again sought his gaze. “Yes,” I said, “I looked for you. It was only once. You see, I had a rare opportunity. All I could find was that you’d enlisted and gone off to fight.”

  “After I lost you, I wanted to get away from here.” His arms loosened their grip until he took a step away. “How could you not tell me about her?”

  I shrugged. “How could I? I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know until I saw you Thursday night.”

  “It should have been the first thing you said.”

  I shook my head and again covered my breasts with my folded arms. The loss of his warmth left me chilled, reminding me of my lack of clothes. “I better get dressed.”

  One side of his lips curled upward. “I’d rather keep you like this.”

  “Whether you love or hate me, I’m begging you to please help me get to Ruby. I want to believe Andros isn’t capable of doing what he said.” I swallowed, debating my next words. When I looked back up, I concentrated on the eyes the color of our daughter’s. “She’s sixteen. I was eighteen.” I inhaled. “He’s capable.”

  “How do I know I can trust you? How do I know this isn’t a ruse to bring down Sparrow? It could all be a trap. She might not exist.”

  “She does. If only I had my phone—”

  My words were cut off by a loud banging as the door to the hallway rattled on its hinges.

  Patrick nodded as he scanned from my hair to my toes. “Get dressed.”

  Maddie

  Seventeen years ago

  Quietly as possible, I turned the knob and pushed the door inward. Soft snores filled the warm air of Patrick’s and my apartment. That term was deceptive. The space we had to call our own wasn’t much. Like others in the mission, our apartment consisted of one room. Our furnishings were second- or thirdhand, but they were ours. We had a bookcase, a dresser, and a small table with two chairs. The sides folded down to a rectangle or came up for a circle. Our bed had a simple metal frame, mattress, and bedspring. The sheets and blankets were clean and soft. Once a week I’d take the sheets and our towels to the basement laundry room along with our clothes.

  Despite its simplicity, it was more than we’d ever had and exceedingly more than I’d expected. At this early hour, the lights within were turned off and the large windows were covered with plastic blinds. While it was the middle of the night, the blinds helped to limit the illumination of streetlights below.

  As I opened the door, a triangle of golden hue highlighted the bed and the man sleeping.

  Unaffected by the hallway light or the opening of the door, Patrick lay stretched out on top of the blankets. His legs were covered by gray sweatpants and his widening chest was bare. The work he’d been doing with the pastor was affecting his body. Physical labor brought definition to his muscles. Regular, healthier meals also aided in our transformations from too skinny to healthy.

  Even though he was eighteen, Patrick was still growing and maturing. With his one arm cast over his eyes, I couldn’t help but notice that Patrick’s biceps had grown as part of his transformation. Since our placement in the mission he was even a few inches taller. The change was increasingly noticeable in his jeans. Thankfully the mission received donations of clothes and household items. Kristine was generous when needs were brought to her.

  It didn’t matter that it was still winter in Chicago; the man before me was a furnace, radiating warmth. In his arms or simply in the same room, that warmth filled me in a way I was coming to recognize. Since our first meeting, there was a calm about him that kept me anchored.

  In our world it was easy to get led astray. Patrick was my tether.

  As I watched him, I contemplated climbing back in our bed, sliding under the covers, and curling up next to him. I didn’t want to wake him by disturbing him. I also didn’t think I would. Recently, he’d become a sounder sleeper. Within the safe walls of the mission, no longer did he need to protect us as we slept.

  Oftentimes when I woke during the night, I enjoyed moving close, placing my head on his shoulder, and running the tips of my fingers over his toned abdomen. The memories brought a smile to my lips.

  Closing the door, I waited in the dimness for my husband to stir.

  Patrick was my husband.

  I was his wife.

  The titles broadened my smile.

  After my parents died, I never thought I’d again be part of a family. The foster-care homes were filled with people, yet they weren’t a family. Even this mission wasn’t a family. To me a family was about acceptance and security. The concept had been elusive until now, but by some miracle or maybe stupidity, it was within my grasp.

  Patrick, me, and our child could be a family.

  My hands went to my stomach.

  It had been four days since I spoke with Kristine. During that time my nausea had persisted. The waves hit me at all times of the day. Morning seemed to be the worst, but that didn’t mean it went away later in the day. I’d found that keeping some small bits of food in my stomach helped. It
didn’t need to be a lot; even a few crackers would help. Surprisingly, I’d also been able to keep the news from Patrick. While having the bathroom down the hall from our apartment had its disadvantages, lately I’d come to appreciate the distance.

  Taking a seat at the table, I pulled a packet with two saltines from the pocket of my robe. It was still too early for others to be awake, and yet I’d awakened with the urge to race to the bathroom and vomit. After I brushed my teeth and donned a robe, I tiptoed to the kitchen in search of what I now held.

  The cellophane wrap crinkled loudly in the quiet darkness. I held my breath, again waiting for Patrick to wake. It wasn’t that I was afraid of his ire. It was that I wasn’t ready to tell him about our situation, not until I was confident.

  Once I freed the crackers, I lifted one to my lips. My mind told me to eat, but my body wasn’t on board.

  Having food in our rooms was a violation of the rules, yet I hoped that Kristine would understand. Barely opening my lips, I nibbled on the salty edge. Bit by bit I ate, taking very small bites and waiting for the rebellion to rage within my stomach.

  Once the crackers were consumed, I continued my wait. When the nausea didn’t return, I removed my robe, revealing the camisole and shorts I’d worn to bed.

  As I crawled to my side of the bed, the springs squeaked, echoing off the walls. I slid under the covers, and curled closer to Patrick. Even in his sleep, he wrapped his arm around my shoulder, tugging me against his warm chest.

  “Maddie girl, you’re cold.” His voice was thick with slumber as he ran his warm hand over my bare shoulder.

  “Go back to sleep. It’s too early.”

  Lips came to my forehead. “Did you have a bad dream?”

  That had been a problem when we first met. I’d wake in the middle of the night in a complete state of terror. Imagined images of my parents after their car crash. Rats and bugs crawling over them and me. Faceless people threatening. There was never an actual abduction or assault. I would wake just in time.