Page 10 of Striker
“Easy, you’re good. Remember me?” He took a few steps back.
Slowly, she nodded.
“Good. You need to drink. And eat. Then I might see about getting that IV in you for good measure.”
He grabbed a water bottle from the case at the dinette table, then pulled a chair up next to the bed. “I stayed in this room last night. It’s decent. Bathroom’s over there.” He nodded to the narrow door across the room. “TV’s shit. Bed’s lumpy, but more comfortable than what you had.”
Her golden eyes watched him warily. Christ she was pretty. Here he was blabbering like an idiot. He cracked open the water bottle and passed it to her.
She accepted greedily, bringing the bottle to her dry, colorless lips. Her hands shook so much that water spilled from the top. He caught the plastic and held it fast while cradling the back of her neck to steady her.
She didn’t flinch. Instead, she seemed to sink into his hold. When she’d drunk half the bottle she gasped, wiping her mouth with her bare arm.
He grimaced at how thin she was. How pale.
“Good girl,” he said easily. Too fucking easily. “Are you hungry?”
She roamed her gaze warily over him. “Why are you doing this?” Her raspy, untrusting tone struck him in the feels.
He frowned and reached into his bag, where he kept an arsenal of snacks. “Doing what?” He laid out jerky, trail mix, and several kinds of protein bars on the mattress beside her.
“H-Helping me.” She scanned the room, fresh uncertainty in her expression. “Where am I?”
“Sagreja. About eighty miles from Rex’s compound.”
She inhaled through her nose, her body rigid. “I thought we were going to Panama City.”
“We will be. Soon as we can.” Hell, he didn’t want to be tight-lipped, but he couldn’t compromise their mission.
“Are they dead?”
He folded his arms over his chest. Was that hope in her voice? Or concern? “Every guard who was on the property is, yes. Rex escaped and I’m assuming he’s not alone.”
She nodded, her eyes downcast. She snagged a protein bar then glanced at him with caution.
“Go ahead.”
She pulled at the wrapper, her hands trembling. He took it from her, ripped open the packaging, and handing it back.
“Thank you.” She took a bite and eyed him over the bar.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He needed information, but she needed rest and replenishment. And to get cleaned up. “Look, I don’t have much with me, but I have a new toothbrush in my bag, and you can have whatever clothes of mine might fit.”
She glanced down at her rumpled shirt and bare legs. Then she flushed and shifted uncomfortably, stretching the hem of the tee to cover more of her thighs.
His chest tightened. Jesus Christ, had they sexually assaulted her? He couldn’t fucking ask, but he also needed to know what he was dealing with.
All the guys with Phantom Ops had medical training. He could stitch, patch, administer IVs, and do whatever else necessary to stabilize someone . . . but sexual assault? His training didn’t touch that shit.
However, there was one thing he could make clear, to help take the flighty look out of her wounded eyes. “I’m not going to hurt you, Molly. You have my word—for whatever that’s worth. I’m guessing not much right now, but I won’t touch you unless you absolutely need me to.”
Those watchful, haunting eyes blinked. She lowered the half-eaten protein bar from her mouth and folded the foil over what was left. He wanted her to eat more. Hell, he wanted to hold a fucking glass to her lips all night.
“Thank you,” she said, with a faint smile. “That helps. Honest.”
“You should have more electrolytes, and if it’s okay with you, I’d like to check out your veins and see if you can hold an IV.”
She recoiled. “I don’t like needles.”
