Chapter 8 - Rattling the Cage

"I need to run," Deira said as Gage walked in the door.

"The treadmill is upstairs with the other equipment."

"It's not the same." She paced like a caged animal. It had been five days since she had been able to go on a decent run. Her skin was too tight.

"Chances are good they are searching for you. Running in any of your usual places would be dangerous. They will not have given up hunting you, and if they knew where you lived, they are likely to know other things." He set down a bag of groceries and began putting them away.

"So I'll run somewhere else." She would not let it go. "Besides, we don't even know Cavuto's men were in my apartment.

He regarded her evenly. "I would think the training would be tiring enough. But if it is not, I can speak to Nicky about it."

"I don't know if Nicky would speak to you right now," she said. "But that's not my problem. Running is what I do. I can't do it in the warehouse."

"What you do now is train for this job. When are you going to understand your life has changed? You cannot do what you have always done. Not now."

"Fine. Running is training for me. But if I can't run, I'll figure out something else," she huffed.

"Good."

"I suppose going dancing is right out, huh?" It was worth a try.

"Because drug dealers never spend time in nightclubs," he said dryly.

"There is that." She grinned at him.

He shook his head and set about making dinner.

"So what is it you do when you aren't...on a job?" she asked. He had an office beyond the living room, but he kept the door closed whenever he worked and locked when he went out. Wherever he went, he always came home late.

"Is that not like asking the superhero to reveal his secret identity?"

"Nice dodge, but superheroes don't go around killing people," she countered.

"That is not what I remember from comic books." He held out a spoon. "Taste this."

She took the spoon. "That's good." A hint of mustard and a stronger taste of horseradish rolled over her tongue.

"I have a hard time picturing you reading comics." The taste of the sauce lingered.

"I was young once," he said.

"You aren't old now."

He ignored that.

"Comic books helped me improve my English. I knew enough to get by when I came to this country, but I was still a boy. And I remember superheroes killing people."

"Okay, so they kill some bad guys."

"I am the bad guy," he muttered.

"So what do you call the guys who are worse than us?" She purposely included herself.

"Targets. I usually call them profit. It helps when there is nothing personal at stake." He frowned.

"I blew that for you." It was more apology than admission.

"I did not have to help you. I could have left you to die." Nothing in his tone indicated a lie.

"Why didn't you?"

"A dead woman in front of my house would raise questions I thought it best to avoid." He put two steaks in the broiler.

"Dead men in front of your house raised questions."

"Yes, but not as many and not the same sort. Also, I had not planned on killing anyone." He shrugged and stirred the sauce.

"Okay, but that's not what I was getting at. Why are you still helping me?"

"Perhaps it is because I rarely get the chance to do something good." He paused. "The men who raped your sister deserve to die." The steely tone returned to his voice.

So that's it – or part of it. She was glad she could not see his eyes.

"But you're still going to charge me for the assistance."

"Certainly." He gave her a level look. "Profit comes in many forms."

"And you still aren't going to tell me what the charge will be."

"I will not know what will settle the debt until the time comes. For now, you can set the table." He waved her towards the cabinet on the other side of the room.

"That should be worth a quarter, at least."

"That is not even worth the effort it takes to feed you," he replied. "But you can work it off by doing the dishes." It was the first time he had not insisted on cleaning up.

When she had finished cleaning the kitchen, she found him practicing forms in the living room. Music played, turned down low. The couch had been pushed back against the wall. She leaned against the door and watched him. For once, he did not seem to notice she was there. There was beauty to it, a controlled flow from one move to the next. Done quickly, it could be deadly.

"It is like a dance," he said, looking up.

"I was thinking the same thing."

"You said you wished to dance. Come here and I will show you." He held out his hand. "I will slow down so you can follow."

She stood behind him, trying to mirror his movements. Years of dance training helped, but she still felt awkward. He repeated each move several times, eventually changing into a sequence she tried to follow.

"Now you show me," he said, stepping behind her.

As she moved from one form to the next, he quietly corrected her, lifting her arm, touching her side so she turned at the right moment, straightening her shoulders. She realized she was sweating. It had looked far easier than it was. But it was one more thing that might help her get what she wanted, one more weapon in her arsenal.

"Enough," he said. "You did well for the first time."

"We could do more," she protested.

"It is late."

She looked at the clock. An hour had passed.

"We should shower and go to bed," he said.

For a brief moment, she thought he had meant they should shower together. Her mind flashed on what it would be like, water running over his shoulders and down his back, dripping from his long fingers. She blinked. Don't go down that road. Sleeping beside him was difficult enough.

"Good idea. I'll go first," she managed to say without choking. Her throat was dry.

"I will finish first. The showers have instant hot water, and you take far longer than I do. I am not sure if it is because you are a woman or an American."

"It's the hair. Takes a lot to care for long hair." She tossed her head and smiled at him over her shoulder as she headed for the bathroom.

When she got to the room, he was already in bed.

"I bought you something today." He tilted his head, indicating a box on the chair.

He didn't have that when he came in. She opened the box. A pale blue nightshirt rested in tissue paper.

"You didn't have to do this," she protested. She picked it up. It was incredibly soft.

"I do not have very many pairs of shorts and I hate doing laundry," he teased. "You will be more comfortable in that. Put it on."

She headed for the door.

"I will turn my head and close my eyes," he offered, smiling. He kept his word.

"Thank you," she said, getting into bed.

"You are welcome, princess." It was the first time he had used the word as an endearment.

He had bought the nightgown because he had thought it would be more demure. Watching her approach the bed, he realized he knew nothing about women's clothes. The dim light in the room did not keep him from seeing the curve of her breast, the outline of her waist, the brush of fabric over her hips. His clothes did not cover her as well, but they revealed less.

The feel of her hair against his skin had been difficult to ignore. The soft fabric of the nightgown was worse. As she pressed her back against his chest, he resisted the urge to pull away. She would not understand.

She fell asleep quickly. Despite her protests, she had done so every night. To his consternation, so had he. Tonight was different. She shifted her hips and he stifled a groan. He turned on his back, moving so they were not touching. She is too young for me. That did not help.

He had not had a woman in his bed in a long time. Making her sleep next to him had seemed a smart move at the time, but he wondered if he should not let her stay in Katya's room until the apartment was ready. It would be safer for them both, but she would think it meant he trusted her. He could not afford to look weak.

She rolled over, moving closer to him. He listened to her soft breathing and stared at the ceiling. He could get up, do some work. Minutes passed. He had almost convinced himself to make a pot of coffee and place some calls when she snuggled closer. She put her arm over his chest and buried her face in his side. He lowered his head and drew in the scent of her still damp hair. Brushing it from her face, he let his fingers tangle gently in her curls. She sighed, soft and warm on his skin.

It was going to be a very long night.

Deira opened her eyes. Morning light filtered through the curtains, giving no indication of the time. He was already up, as usual. She closed her eyes again, trying to remember her dream. All she got was a vague sense it had been pleasant. That was a change.

For two years, her dreams had been filled images of suffering and death. She rarely slept more than a few hours at a time. At first, it had been a replay of seeing Kara in the morgue. When she had discovered what had happened, her subconscious had created variations of Kara's torture and death. I should have been there for her, should have known, should have protected her. The thought came to her over and over. It formed the background noise in her head. She had grown used to it.

She had thought if she learned what had really happened, the dreams would at least be consistent. Maybe she could live with that. It hadn't worked out that way. There was still blood and death but she was the one who did the torturing, who let the blood flow and laughed while the men who had hurt Kara died. The screams belonged to them, their suffering like a balm, filling up the hole left by her dead sister. Those dreams had told her what she had to do.

When she threw herself into training, the dreams stopped. Mostly. When she did have one, she fed it into her obsession. Those dreams were her fuel. And she hadn't had one since she'd begun sleeping next to Gage. She wasn't sure whether or not that was a good thing. At least she got regular sleep.

The sound of weights clanking in the next room interrupted her thoughts. It was odd. Morning was usually reserved for a leisurely breakfast and office work. She straightened her side of the bed as much as possible without getting out from under the covers then rolled over and did the same to his side before getting up and making the bed properly. He was picky.

Her muscles ached from the dual workout the day before. Since he was occupied upstairs, she stretched out in the kitchen while she waited for water to boil. He had brought home "real" tea for her. He had said if she insisted on drinking the stuff, she should at least follow the example of cultures where it was truly appreciated. It was stronger than what she usually drank, more fragrant, and delicious. He wouldn't go anywhere near it.

When he came downstairs, he found her sitting sideways on the couch, legs stretched out in front of her, a book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. She still wore the nightshirt. This was the first time she had not gotten dressed before coming downstairs. She looked completely at home, relaxed and beautiful.

He closed his eyes for a moment. It did no good. He could see her pale legs against the brown leather of the couch as well either way. She did not look up from her book as he crossed the room. He closed the door to his office, took a deep breath, and began working. Maybe by the time he had finished, she would be dressed.

He found his reaction to her disturbing. She should be nothing to him, merely a random girl who had made his life difficult. It had not worked out that way. This must stop. It was too easy, this progression toward something surprisingly normal. Patterns of normalcy involving other people tended to end badly for him. Or them. She needed to go.

The living room was empty when he emerged from his office. He found her in the weight room, running on the treadmill. The look on her face warned him to not say anything about it. She looked at the display, nodded her head slightly and shut it off.

"Done working?" She grabbed a hand towel and wiped her face.

"For now. I have news."

"About the job?" she asked eagerly.

"No. It is about your apartment. They have finished early. I have arranged for furniture to be delivered tomorrow." It had taken a fair amount of persuasion on his part, but he was the persuasive sort.

"Oh." Her reaction was subdued.

"Did you want anything from your storage space? I can set up a time if you wish. Should you still be reluctant to tell me where it is, I will give you the number of the moving company and you can arrange it yourself."

"No, that's okay. I don't have all that much in there."

"So you will finally be free of me," he said, hoping she would be pleased.

"I guess so. Does this mean I can go running again, outside like a normal person?'

"Nothing about your situation is normal, princess. You would do well to remember that. I would not advise spending a lot of time on the street. They know what you look like."

"Fine." She walked past him and headed for the bathroom.

The hot water did not stop her from shaking. Raw anger overwhelmed her. It made no sense. All she had wanted since this whole thing began was to be free of him. Really? She shoved the thought aside. Now she would be able to spend her time as she wished. Whatever time was left to her, anyway.

She had not expected to live through her vendetta. It hadn't mattered. Maybe that was why she was mad. He had given her hope she would survive. She had no idea what she would do if that happened. Part of her took grim pleasure in the notion that if she didn't live, there would be no payoff for him. She suspected he wouldn't let it happen. That should have been comforting.