Guarding the Princess - By Loreth Anne White Page 0,75

eyes and his voice went strange. “He was never into Carla. They were using her all along—her father was right. They surprised me, beat me, tied me up where I was forced to watch and hear them rape her. Then Alejandro slit her throat.” He swallowed. “They let me live—to deliver the message to her father.”

Horror washed up her throat. “Oh, God, Brandt.”

How did someone come back from that?

“People do make mistakes in life,” he said quietly. “You learn from them and move on. But my mistakes—they resulted in death. I tried to run from the images in my head, the sights, sounds, smells...her screams. But they would wake me in the night. That’s when I hit the whiskey—looking for relief. I was blind drunk for months, living in a slum. That’s when your brother came to Nicaragua, to find me, haul me out. He took me back to the FDS base on São Diogo, sobered me up, slapped me around and forced me back into some sort of functional shape. And that, Dalilah, is why I’m going to hand you back to Omair in one piece, or die trying.”

No man left behind.

The final puzzle pieces locked into place. Emotions rushed through her chest.

“So that’s when you quit military life—you vowed to get out, to stop killing.”

“I used to think of violence as a harsh but justifiable means to an end—most soldiers do, or they couldn’t keep doing the job. But violence has consequences—it always, always comes with collateral damage. You think soldiers, cops, become inured—that’s a myth. Most perpetrators of violence just keep pushing their reactions down deep, until there’s too much buried, and you wonder why they snapped.”

A profound and powerful affection for this man swelled so fast and hard in Dalilah’s chest it was painful. This powerful body of Brandt Stryker’s housed a man with depth and compassion. He’d been hurt inside and out, and was badly scarred because of it.

Dalilah understood that kind of scarring—her family had been through it with her brother Tariq. And she was filled now with the need to nurture, hold him, love him, heal him and it made her eyes burn because it scared her.

His gaze flicked to her engagement ring.

“That’s also why I know marriage is not what it’s cracked up to be,” he said quietly.

Without thinking, Dalilah leaned forward, took his roughly stubbled cheek in her hand, drew his face toward her and kissed him. Softly, tenderly.

Brandt melted into the sensation of her lips over his, the touch of her hand against his skin. His eyes burned with a sweet kind of pain as he kissed her back gently, so gently it hurt every aching, burning nerve in his body. And he wanted her—all of her—for himself.

He wanted to take her home. Make her his.

Brandt had never taken a woman back to his farm.

His world narrowed as he threaded his fingers into her hair, soft and thick in his hand, and he drew her closer to him.

Then a slow prickle started up Brandt’s neck—a hunter’s instinct. A sense of being watched, preyed on. He froze. Her body stilled under his.

“Don’t move,” he murmured against her lips, his hand going for his gun, finger curling into the trigger. He breathed in slowly, very slowly, then whipped onto his back, spinning the rifle round.

Chapter 14

A little black face peered at them from between the scraggly branches of dry scrub. Brandt’s heart slammed against his chest, fury lacing through him as he released his finger from the trigger—he should have been aware, heard this kid approaching.

Now they’d been spotted. This small child, and possibly his whole village, had just been put in jeopardy.

Brandt raised his finger slowly to his lips, telling the kid to stay quiet. But the boy exploded from behind the bush and bolted on skinny little dusty legs and bare feet toward the village, calling out in a high-pitched voice.

Brandt swore, lurching to his feet as he took chase. He dived for the boy, tackling him to the ground. The child squealed in terror, squirming like a snake in his arms. Brandt held the kid steady until he stilled. Eyes huge and white with fear looked up into his face. Again Brandt cursed—the boy was only about eight years old.

“Take it easy,” he said in Setswana. “It’s okay. We mean no harm. We just want to buy that old jeep parked inside the fence. What’s your name, boy?”

“Wusani.”

“Who does the jeep belong to, Wusani? Can you bring him out