Chapter 6 - Show and Tell

Deira stared at his back, unable to move. She tried to think, tried to speak. Both attempts failed. He calmly washed the dishes, saying nothing. She looked down at her wine, red liquid in a half full glass. She had always prided herself on her ability to think quickly and come up with a fast retort. There was a distant irritation over not being able to do so now.

"I don't understand." She spoke slowly. He hung up the dish towel, and turned to face her.

"From such a clever girl, I find that surprising," he said quietly.

"You just said, " she started but could not finish.

"I said there is no trading sex for your debt. I did not say I was stupid enough to sleep when you were free to roam my house." Quiet, not soft. No, never soft.

"You don't trust me." The gun under the table had confirmed that.

He laughed, a harsh sound.

"I do not trust anyone. That is why I am still alive. The last woman who had free reign of my living space is currently regretting her curious nature."

"That indicates she's still alive." She looked up at him.

He nodded. "Quite."

"I'm not comfortable sleeping with you."

"Hardly surprising. I am not comfortable with you figuring out where the guns are." He shrugged. "And since this is my house, and you have put me in a situation where I have no choice but to put you up, my discomfort wins."

"The other room has a keyed lock. You could put me there and lock me in," she offered.

"I could, if I thought you were without skills to get out of it. The lock was installed for privacy, not imprisonment."

Deira was out of ideas, which aggravated her. At least her brain was working again.

"So what, I'm supposed to curl up at the foot of your bed like a puppy? What's to stop me from walking out once you're asleep?"

"I do not sleep so deeply. You would not make it out." His voice held no rancor. "I will provide you with something to sleep in and we will share the bed."

"You have to admit it's reasonable for me to be nervous about sharing a bed with you."

"It is. I really don't care. Once again, you have given me little choice as to how things will progress. But if it makes you feel any better, I have no intention of seducing you."

"Seduction isn't what I'm afraid of," she retorted. She had crossed her arms over her stomach without realizing it. "You've already proven you're faster and stronger than me, so it's not like I could stop you..." she trailed off.

"I am not a rapist." His voice grated like raw steel drawn over a stone.

She looked up. His eyes were hard, fixed on a point behind her. Whatever he saw, it was not her. He gritted his teeth; she could hear the grinding. He was right. There were some things she didn't want to know.

"Merely a murderer." She said the first thing that came to mind. Anything to break the silence. He turned his gaze back to her.

"Yes, but only when paid or provoked. I doubt you will provoke me."

"I won't." She stood up slowly. "I guess you should show me to your room."

"You know the way. I will be up when I am done." He took her wine glass to the sink as she headed for the stairs.

The comfort of his scent in the room struck her again. Considering there was nothing comfortable about the situation, she couldn't fathom why she would have that reaction. She hoped it would dissipate before he joined her. The night would be difficult enough.

She walked over to the window, standing to the side to look out. There wasn't much of a view, just the empty street, and the junk yard beyond. She shivered, remembering her fear the night they had met. Some things about that night remained clear, none of them pleasant.

She didn't hear him enter, so when he spoke, she flinched.

"Police outside?" He did not join her at the window, instead going to the closet.

He moved very quietly for a large man, but she supposed he would have to.

"Not tonight. They seem to have moved on." She turned to watch him. He might be comfortable with his back to her, but she did not have that sort of confidence around him. He handed her a pair of shorts and a tank top on his way out of the room. She found it amusing, as he'd already seen her naked. Still, she appreciated the gesture.

"Get into bed. I will join you shortly." His voice came from the stairs.

She wondered if he was making sure the guns were really secured, then rejected the thought. He would have done it right the first time. She changed, crawled into his bed, and lay staring at the ceiling. She was exhausted, but sleep was unlikely to come soon. The barest sound of him coming up the stairs started her heart beating faster. She closed her eyes and tried to control it.

"Sleeping?" he asked.

She did not answer. Breathe slowly, pretend to sleep. He must know she was awake. She sometimes thought he could hear her thinking. Not that she was good at it around him. She observed him beneath lowered lids, needing to know where he stood. He moved so carefully when he knew she was watching. It would be nice to see him off his guard.

He moved around his room with a loose grace. He had his back to her when he removed his shirt, stretching so the muscles stood out. He rolled his head, causing a series of loud pops. The sound always made her slightly ill, but she managed to not react. When he began taking off his pants, she turned her head towards the window.

"Tired of the show?"

He had known she was watching. She could feel herself blush and hated him for it. At least the darkness hid her reaction.

"There are some things I don't need to see," she said, giving up all pretense of sleeping.

"Don't worry, princess. I sleep clothed."

"I'm surprised you don't sleep armed," she shot back, and then fell silent. He had turned around. A long, ragged scar ran across his midsection, white even in the low light.

"Not when I have someone in my bed," he said. His smile was bright. She did not return it.

"I don't sleep well with others," she said. It was true; she never had.

"I told you that you would be safe with me," he offered, getting into bed.

"You said you wouldn't seduce or rape me. That's hardly the same thing."

"It's a start. Since we are not sleeping, what would you like to talk about?" He put his hands under his head.

"Scars," she answered. "You've seen mine, but they aren't nearly as impressive as yours."

He tensed. "No, but the one on your shoulder is going to be permanent. It's a pretty pink already." He fought the urge to reach out and touch it, instead running his hand over his own scar and considered how much he should say. Very little. It had always been the rule.

"I got the stomach wound when I was fifteen. It came close to killing me, but ultimately saved my life. I was carried to hospital in time."

"Who saved you?"

"My brother." His tone warned her to leave it alone. For once, she complied.

"Maybe a different topic," she proposed.

"That is hardly fair, princess. I have not had the chance to ask you an inappropriate personal question. How did you get the scar on your back? The triangular one at the base of your spine."

"I fell down the stairs," she said automatically.

"Really." He did not buy it. "I seem to have heard that from more than one woman. Who pushed you?"

She closed her eyes and then opened them quickly. Some things were not worth reliving, but as she had started it, she could hardly fault him for asking.

"I wasn't pushed. My father stumbled into me when he was drunk. I did fall down the stairs, and landed against a piece of modern art." Admitting it embarrassed her. His laughing at her did not help.

"Modern art?"

"It's the best description I have. My brother discovered welding and art at the same time and thought he could combine them. So there was a sculpture with multiple edges at the bottom of the stairs, demonstrating that my reckless disregard for life runs in the family."

"Now that is a good story." He continued to laugh.

"So glad the pain of my childhood amuses you."

"There are many things about you I find amusing, princess. That is part of why I've kept you around." But only a small part.

"And here I thought it was because getting rid of bodies is such a chore," she said.

"Not nearly as hard as you might think. I have had sufficient practice."

"For some reason, that doesn't make me feel any safer sleeping next to you. Go figure."

"You are safe. I will watch over you." As soon as he said the words, he tensed. How long had it been since he had heard the same promise? She had dug up memories best left buried, and he had let her.

"I know you will," she said softly. She had no idea why she had felt compelled to say it, much less why she believed it.

She felt him uncoil with no small relief. Whatever nerve she had touched tonight – and she had touched it several times – she was determined not to do so again. Raw threats were less frightening than his sudden tension. She shivered.

"Come closer." It was more a request than a demand, the words quiet in the dark. The streetlight had gone out and neither had noticed. She took a deep breath and slid towards the middle of the bed.

He moved towards her, a shadow, but warm and solid. She turned onto her side, back to him. It felt right. He curled around her. As she drifted off to sleep, she noticed that his arm barely touched her ribs. He planted his fist firmly on the bed in front of her. She was safe.

He woke up at five o'clock, as he always did. Some training could not be overcome. He turned his head. Sranje. He should not have allowed himself to sleep. He had not expected to.

Deira shifted, muttering something incomprehensible. Her hair covered part of her face. He resisted the urge to move it. The feel of it against his chest was enough. He watched her for a while, mesmerized by the sound of her breathing, the twitch of her hand in sleep, the way she pressed against him. So alive.

He slowly moved away from her, careful not to wake her when he got out of the bed. He didn't need coffee as much as he needed to be somewhere other than in bed with her.

Two years ago, he would never have gotten involved in this mess. Faking his death had seemed a way out of such complications, an opportunity to become someone else. He should have known better. His was not a life from which escape was possible, no matter how good the idea had seemed. Her arrival on his doorstep had proven that. He had been incapable of leaving her to die, and now he would pay for it.

Soft. The voice in his head was not his. He flinched. The memory followed him down the stairs. You are too soft. We will fix that. But they hadn't. Karol had stepped in to do what Gage could not, and things had gone from bad to worse for both of them. Karol might have forgiven Gage. They never spoke of it. Eventually, Karol had been able to forgive himself. It didn't matter. Gage would always remember, and always at the worst time. He shook his head to clear the memories. It never worked, but it did help him refocus. He hit the button on the coffee maker and headed back upstairs.

Deira still slept, stretched out on the bed. She looked young, vulnerable. He turned away.