It is time to repay him. I touch his stomach, let my hand drift down, but he catches my wrist yet again. I meet his gaze.
“Why?” I ask, in English.
He responds in Arabic. “Not for me. Not this night. Another. Maybe.” He kisses me softly. “This was for you. Only you.”
His eyes betray the fact that he is still in agony, the lines of his forehead deep, the corners of his eyes wrinkled in focus. He twines our fingers together on his stomach, as if to assure himself that I will not try to touch him.
This really was a gift to me. He expects nothing in return. He put himself through unimaginable pain to give me pleasure, the greatest pleasure I have ever known, and will not let me do anything for him in return.
I cannot stop the sobs then. He is too much for me to bear. What will I do when he is gone?
Another thought strikes me, and this one is worrisome, making me sob uncontrollably: How will I work now? I have tasted heaven, and I cannot forget it. I have known the pleasure that is possible. It will be difficult.
No, it will be impossible.
I glance at Hunter. He is asleep, his handsome features relaxed. His forehead is still wrinkled with pain. I cannot stop my hand from touching his brow, smoothing the lines. I touch his cheek and marvel that one man can contain such fury as I saw when he fought Abdul, along with the tenderness with which he kisses me, the strength and stubbornness to refuse pain its paralytic hold over him. So many contradictions. I know he wants me. I see the way he looks at me. I sensed it when he touched me, when he kissed my br**sts, when he moved over me to begin his journey downward. He denied himself pleasure, taking instead pain.
I let myself cry, pressing my cheek to his chest, away from the tender area where he was wounded, and eventually fall asleep, held close by Hunter’s arms, contented, confused, awash with physical pleasure and emotional pain.
One last thought pierces the fog of impending sleep:
Is this love?
THIRTEEN
HUNTER
I’m woken by a male voice shouting Rania’s name. Rania, not Sabah. Before we can move, a familiar-looking young man appears in the doorway, heaving and sweating from extreme exertion.
Rania gasps, and I look at her. She’s pale and visibly shaken.
“Hassan?”
Shit. That’s her brother, whom we both thought was dead. Rania is still naked except for her miniskirt, and she’s sitting up, bare ni**les peaking in the cold air. Her brother halts in the door, stopped short by what he sees: his sister in the arms of an American soldier.
He starts jabbering in Arabic too swift for me to follow. Rania listens, clutching the sheet to her chest.
My heart is pounding, and I can feel adrenaline begin to rush through my system. My skin is prickling, and my spine is shivering. I’m sweating, even though I’m cold in the early dawn.
Battle.
Rania tells me her brother is claiming that Abdul is coming to kill us. That evil f**king camel cunt who tried to rape Rania. He thinks he’s gonna get revenge.
Fury boils through me.
There are nearly fifty men coming for us, Hassan says.
I turn to Rania, who has put a shirt and shoes on. “Hide. Don’t come out for anything. No matter what you hear, stay hidden. I’ll come for you.”
She shakes her head. “Hunter, you cannot do this.” Her English is nearly unintelligible. “You are badly hurted. Please. Come with me. We run.”
I snatch the rifle from Hassan’s hands, check the clip, and then limp out the door. My leg blazes with every hitched step, but I have no time for pain. “I’m not running, Rania. I’m a f**king Marine. Marines don’t run.”
Hassan follows me, jabbering in rapid, angry Arabic. I don’t catch any of it, but I’m guessing he’s pissed I stole his rifle. I swing around and face him. “Protect your sister. Hide her. Protect her.”
“Give me my gun, American.” Slowly-enunciated Arabic.
I hand him my knife. “Use this.”
“Wait,” Rania says. She comes out dragging a bundle wrapped in a sheet. “It is your weapons, Hunter. I did not know what to do with them, so I hid them.”
I open the bundle to see my M16, spare clips, and body armor, which is battered and rust-red stained with my blood.
“Fuck yeah,” I say to myself. “Real gear.”
I toss Hassan his rifle back and strap the armor on over my wife-beater. My M16 could use some love, but there’s no time for that. I can feel shit coming. My blood runs hot, ready for battle. I’m gonna f**king finish that bastard Abdul. He’s dead—he just doesn’t know it yet.
I feel a small hand on my arm, and Rania’s breath on my neck. I wrap her close with one arm. “Hide, Rania. I’ll be fine. This is what I do.”
She gazes up at me, brown eyes liquid now, hot chocolate framed by loose blonde tendrils. “Please, Hunter. Come with me. Come away. There are too many. You are only one man. I…please.” She presses her warm, soft lips to mine. Her next words are whispered. “I need you.”
I’m rocked down to the core of my soul by her admission. She needs me?
I’m tempted. It would be easy to run.
But, tactically, I know better. They’ll catch us. I can’t run. I can ambush them, fight them door to door. Go down swinging. Give Rania a chance. I don’t expect to make it through this, but I’ll damn well give it a try. Ooh-rah.
I don’t know what to say to her. I’m in battle mode. Shut down. Hard. I’m not Hunter anymore. I’m Lance Corporal Lee, USMC. Semper Fi, bitches.
I look down at her, brush a stray wisp of hair behind her ear with my forefinger. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”
She frowns and backs away from me. “Go, then.” She seems angry. “Stupid men. Always wanting to fight.”
She turns and runs, vanishes around the side of the mosque.
Hassan laughs. “She is afraid for you, American. She is angry at me for becoming a soldier.” His eyes are hard and challenging. “I have killed many of your kind.”
I blink. “Just keep her safe.”
He spits. “For once in my life, I will.” And then he’s gone, chasing after her.
Finally, I’m alone. I spin in place, looking for the best spot. There, a burned-out wreck of a car nudging into a wall on an angle, not far from an alley. Cover, and a retreat. I limp to it, hide in an agonizing crouch. I can see the road in both directions, and the alley behind me isn’t a dead end. All I have to do is wait.
There, a dark face below the red and white of a keffiyeh. Wait for it. My finger twitches on the trigger, seeing the rifle in his hands, but I wait. Spring the ambush after they’re committed. Two, three…six…ten. All in a line. I’ve got no grenades, nothing but my rifle and three clips. They’re stopping, now, crowding around the mosque. I see Abdul, striding in the middle of a cluster of heavily armed thugs.