Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

As a twenty-four-year-old med school dropout, Lex Desai wants nothing but to live a completely different life; one that’s carefree; one that's wild. Taking on the job of property manager for her late grandfather’s waterfront cabin on beautiful, stunning Puget Sound, Lex learns that everything she’s ever wanted is right there. The cabin is turned into a rental property, and Lex is consumed with the laborious but rewarding work out there in the wilderness she loves so much. She’s happy, she’s comfortable, and she’s hopelessly single.

Located just over an hour’s drive north of Lex’s cabin in a luxury high-rise apartment in the heart of Seattle is Ezra Fisk, a twenty-seven-year-old airline pilot who fucking loves his job. For a decade, he’s been throwing himself into his work to escape his past, and it’s working—until he meets Lex. She’s beautiful, smart, funny, and the exact strain of wild that is everything he could ever want.

Except he doesn’t want her—at least, not the way she wants him to. Ezra doesn’t do relationships, and Lex doesn’t do meaningless sex. They want each other, but they don’t want the same things. The worst part is that they can’t escape each other. Their two best friends are dating, and they want to do things together. Over and over, Lex and Ezra are thrown into heated, angsty situations that almost get out of hand, but not quite.

Like all love stories, there is a tipping point. Eventually, someone will make a move, and eventually, someone else will reciprocate. Unfortunately, in this eventuality, Ezra must confront his growing feelings for Lex. By the simple act of feeling for her, he is in danger of releasing all the darkness from his past. Is Lex worth confronting all that pain?

Sometimes, the greatest test in life is finding out if love is enough.

Maybe it is. Maybe it’s not.

Come find out.

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Why yes, there is!

I think this is the part where I’m supposed to write a hook. Let’s pretend I did.

The story starts like this: it’s raining, the music is trashy, and the party blows. It’s one of those parties that you can only ever have in New York City because New York City is the only place you’ll find a room full of this many assholes. My coworkers insisted that this was the place to be on a Friday night, and all things considered, this is definitely one of those places that you can come to network—but it’s not fun, which, all things considered, is what a fucking party should really be. The drinks here taste like ass juice that have been only mildly improved upon by the olives or curled ribbons of orange peel that garnish them, and if that already wasn’t enough of a crime, the food is served buffet-style, which means that if you spent an hour on the rooftop terrace browsing the internet on your phone until it began to sprinkle like I had, then you missed the dinner gong (yes, there was a fucking gong) and now the food is a cold, congealed mess. I’m starving, I’m miserable, and I’m probably too old to be whining this much. Instead of whining, I probably could have just gone home, but braving the rain without an umbrella in a pair of four hundred dollar suede shoes is not a crime I’m willing to commit. I decide to drink more orange peel-garnished glasses of ass juice and wait for the storm to pass.

I wish I could tell you that I looked across the room and caught the eye of a handsome stranger who would later propose to me exactly one year later at another nauseating party just like this one but—okay, yeah, that’s kind of exactly what happened. Trent Walker looked across a room full of assholes and somehow found me, the biggest asshole of all, and smiled. He was a complete stranger, so I assumed that he was either confusing me for someone else or that he was just a really friendly guy. Considering this was supposed to be a room full of assholes, I just assumed that I resembled another frosty bitch in four hundred dollar suede shoes. I found out that my assumption was completely wrong when a minute later, Trent Walker crossed the room and greeted me with a one-liner that still makes me cringe when I think about it.

“If I had a dollar for every time I saw a woman as beautiful as you, I’d have one dollar.�

Trent Walker, ladies and gentlemen.

“You are so funny,� I said. “I can’t stop laughing.�

Here’s the truth: he wasn’t funny and I wasn’t laughing. I’d delivered that statement with no enthusiasm whatsoever. Still, it turned out that he actually was a pretty friendly guy because all my bitchy remark did was make his handsome face crack into a smile.

“If you like jokes, I could go all night,� he said. I observed him, judging him the way everyone judges good-looking guys that act goofy to pick up girls. It was an act that’s already gotten old. I could probably open up my Instagram and find the same breed of man ten times over in my DMs. In order to balance out manic pixie dream girls, there are now men like these—insufferably handsome guys who act super down-to-earth because even humans are a part of the animal kingdom, which means that just like in the wild, sex is the driving force of, well, everything.

“I’d rather you didn’t.� I might’ve used a gentle tone, or I might not have. I don’t really remember. I do recall that it only seemed to encourage him.

“What kind of guys do you like? I can adapt.�

“I’m married,� I said bluntly.

He gave me a look.

“What? I am,� I said defensively.

He intensified the look.

“Okay, fine. I’m not married,� I said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m interested either.�

“Why didn’t you just say that?� he asked, looking amused.

“Say what?�

“That you’re not interested.�

“You couldn’t pick up on that from my tone?� I downed the last of my drink, wincing from the aftertaste of the bitter orange peel.

“Maybe. Probably.�

“Right. I’m gonna go now. It was nice to meet you, uh…�

“Trent. Trent Walker.� He paused, then lifted his drink (a martini, no less) and added, “Shaken, not stirred.�

“Let me guess. Three measures of Gordon's; one of vodka; half a measure of Kina Lillet?�

Most guys like to think they’re James Bond, but not many actually know a damn thing about it. Everyone knew the famous “shaken, not stirred� line, but very few even knew that the name of the drink was the Vesper martini, much less its ingredients. I thought he’d make a confused face, recover quickly with another smile, and then switch to another angle. But then, how would we get to the part a year later where he proposed to me?

“Considering that Kina Lillet was discontinued, no, but there’s some dry vermouth in here somewhere,� he said.

The fact that he even knew what I was talking about was so impressive to me that I held out my hand.

“I’m Janie.�

He took my hand and shook it. “Trent Walker.�

“You already told me.�

“You didn’t care when I said it the first time, so I figured it was worth repeating.�

That actually made me laugh. He wasn’t wrong.

“So, what brings you to a place like this?� He gestured to the room full of assholes.

“I literally don’t even know,� I admitted truthfully. “My coworkers told me to come, so I came.�

His eyes flashed and I immediately realized what I’d said.

“Ew, wait. I didn’t mean—�

“Relax. I’m not here to judge.�

I crossed my arms. “What are you here for then?�

“I literally don’t even know,� he parroted. “My coworkers told me to come, so I ca—�

“U²µ³ó.â€�

I turned around and walked away, knowing he’d follow. Through the crowd, up a spiral staircase, away from all the people, right to a window with a view of a nearby park. He stood quietly beside me as I looked out at the wet, lush random splat of green in the middle of a busy, smoggy city.

“I hate the cold, but I always wanted to live in New York City,� I said, not even sure why I was telling him this.

“I didn’t. New York City always seemed cold to me too,� he replied, and for the first time that night, I heard what he sounded like when he wasn’t trying to be funny. I glanced at him, pausing for maybe a second too long on his face. He’s good-looking even at first-glance, but if you studied him just a little longer, you’d see that his features were all a little mismatched. His nose was a little crooked, and his cheeks were too sharp, and his eyes were a shade of brown that should’ve been boring, but it all just kind of worked for him. I didn’t realize it, but I was staring.

“W³ó²¹³Ù?â€�

“Nothing,� I said, looking away. “Why do you live here if you don’t like it?�

“I never said I didn’t like it here. I just don’t like the cold.�

Thunder rumbled in the sky. It was still raining.

“You must hate this weather,� I mused.

He nodded. “Very much.�

The rain pattered on the window, and I tried concentrating on each racing raindrop, using all of my brainpower to think about anything but Trent Walker and his face. It made no sense. He hadn’t done anything extraordinary, and I didn’t know anything about him, but for a reason that I still can’t explain, I liked that he was there, standing next to me even though I didn’t deserve it after the way I’d treated him.

“What about cold people?� I asked him. “Do you hate them too?�

He turned his head, his eyes staring right back into mine. Brown eyes aren’t supposed to be this mysterious, this warm, this� fascinating.

“I don’t hate anybody,� he answered simply. Somehow, it was the perfect answer. I was looking at him and he was looking at me and the rain was falling and the music was trashy and the party blowed... but I still kissed him. It was abrupt, but he didn’t pull away. He tasted like alcohol and bad decisions, but I was okay with that because for the first time since moving to this city, I’d found someone who made me feel a little less lonely than before.

We probably had nothing in common. Our personalities clashed. We didn’t have the same sense of humor—I mean, he drank Vesper martinis just for the joke.

But he was a warm body, and I was a warm body, and we did very much dislike the cold.

Hope you enjoyed the first chapter! The main character is Wes Spenrath's younger sister, Janie. You'll see some characters from Head Above Water, but not very often. This story is set in NYC, which is very, very far from California, where the rest of the characters all reside. If you enjoyed this first chapter, consider making a pledge on

Hello,

It's been a while. A long while. I have made a public post on Patreon, available for everyone to view, with an update and an explanation. You may view it here:

I hope this post finds you all safe and well.

With much love,

Nora

When Stockholm Syndrome meets Lima Syndrome.

He is a freedom fighter. She's the dictator's daughter. When his organization kidnaps her, he is the only one to show her kindness. In this world of chaos, she is the gentle beauty that tames his wild heart. But is it enough to stop him from murdering her father? And does she even want him to?

Depending on who you ask, we’re either freedom fighters or we’re terrorists.

I considered myself a soldier in the fight for justice. After twenty years of dictatorship, my brothers and I had had enough, and so we’d banded together and made a military of our own, training farmers and freed slaves to shoot guns and beat the opposition in close combat. We were a lethal bunch, and for six long years, I’d been proud of what we’d been doing. We were liberating a nation, saving millions of people from slavery, and bringing order back into the world.

But then the day came when we crossed a line, when we did something so horrible that we were no better than the dictator who terrorized us.

We kidnapped his daughter.

In the news she always looked larger than life, so well put-together, her nails manicured, makeup impeccably done, hair sleek as an otter’s tail, and a cold smile on her lips. I had expected a prissy princess, a woman with a heart as cruel as her father’s, but she surprised all of us, me most of all, with her quiet grace. Her eyes were honeyed and amber, soft and kind, and when I first walked into her cell, she rose to her feet and greeted me with a handshake.

“I expect you’ve come to kill me,� I remember her saying. It had been a deeply disturbing comment, one that bothered me more than anyone else because out of all of the other commanders, I’d been the only one who’d opposed this kidnapping.

“No. I’m just here to see that you’re being treated well.�

The shock had been evident on her face.

“I, uh—I could use some privacy,� she admitted. “I can’t use the bathroom in front of the guards. They stare.�

“I will arrange for more comfortable ... accommodations.�

I had her moved into a luxury room without bars, but it was a jail cell all the same. Soldiers guarded her door, but they were no longer allowed inside. For a while, this suited her just fine, but after a few weeks, I heard from somebody that all she did was cry. The poised woman from TV had shown her true colors—she was scared and human, just like the rest of us.

I visited her.

“You’re unhappy here.�

She’d laughed through her tears. “I’m unhappy anywhere.�

That surprised me. “Weren’t you happy in your palace?�

“My prison, you mean? It was no better than this place.�

Well, that sure made me feel like shit.

“What can I do to make it better?�

Those honeyed eyes had looked up at me, puffy and rimmed red from all the crying.

“Just kill me already,� she’d said suddenly.

“I thought you were comfortable here,� I said, gesturing to the luxury accommodations. I’d put her up in the nicest room on base, one usually reserved for admirals. Everyone thought I was fucking crazy.

“A gilded cage is still a cage,� she said.

I left with my heart stuck like a hard candy in the center of my throat. For the first time since joining the resistance, I felt ashamed of what we were doing.

I began to visit her after drills and combat training every evening, sweat and dust stuck to my body, my face often bloodied and bruised from sparring. She became used to seeing me that way, and I got used to the sad emptiness in her eyes.

“Sit,� she said one evening, gesturing to a chair. I took the seat, a book in hand. Every evening I’d bring her a new one, and every evening, she’d return the finished one from the night before. Hundreds of pages, she’d read in a day. There was nothing else to do.

With gentle hands, she took a wetted rag and dabbed my injuries, cleaning them. I sat there, stunned by her kindness.

“Your training is barbaric,� she said. “Must it always end in blood?�

“It must.�

It was quiet for a moment.

“I heard you sent a ransom to my father,� she said, avoiding my gaze.

â€Ô¨±ð²õ.â€�

“What was his reply?�

“He’ll pay the price.�

“Will you make me go back to him?�

“Make you?� I repeated, confused. “You’ll be freer with him than with us. You can return to your humanities work and your studies.�

“I don’t want to.�

“Why not?�

Her eyes glanced at my lips. I resisted the urge to think about what was doing to my heart.

“I—I like it here,� she said, but her body language said otherwise.

“Tell me the truth. Would he harm you?�

She shook her head. “It’s not that.�

“Then what is it?�

She finally met my gaze, her eyes searching mine. I didn’t know what she was looking for.

“Don’t you get it?� she whispered.

I didn’t.

Not until a moment later.

“Men,� she said, sounding a little amused, and then pressed her lips to mine.

My heart burst into flames. I curled a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her closer, kissing her back. Our mouths moved together, and with my skin burning, with my heart on fire, I felt worse than ever. She was my prisoner, and there was an imbalance of power here.

This wasn’t right.

And yet it was.

“Don’t send me back,� she said.

I looked into those honeyed eyes, the sadness replaced by something I hadn’t expected to find there. Hope.

“It isn’t up to me,� I told her. “And even so, I can’t keep you here. A military base is no place for a politician’s daughter.�

“I’ve been here for months,� she reminded me.

“You don’t belong here. There is nothing here for you.�

“There is you,� she said softly.

I shook my head. “Your father is willing to pay a ransom that our organization desperately needs. I have no control over what happens to you. How can I damn our cause?�

“So you damn me instead,� she said. “You intend to return me as if I am property.�

“You don’t understand—�

“I do,� she replied angrily. “You are just like the rest of them.�

“How could you think that?�

“You’ve never even called me by my name before. I am just your prisoner.�

“Desta,� I said. Ethiopian for joy. I’d been ten years old when she’d been born nineteen years ago. I remembered what the media had said about her name, how she was the only girl in a family of six boys. She was their miracle, their joy. At the time, the only thing on my mind was the daunting prospect of having to kill a dictator and six sons to bring down the regime. I hadn’t thought much else of Desta, the joy of a family of slavemasters and terror.

“And your name?� she said. “I don’t even know yours.�

“K±ð±ô±ô²¹²Ô.â€�

She was quiet, her eyes filling with tears.

“What is it?� I asked.

“You killed my brothers, didn’t you? You’re that Kellan,� she said, her lips trembling. “I read

about you, in the papers. They call you the Prince Slayer.�

“Your brothers were not princes. They were a part of your father’s military, responsible for the deaths of millions.�

“Leave me,� she said. She turned around and walked across the room, seating herself on the edge of her bed. My heart ached as I watched her put her face in her hands and cry.

I could not ease this pain.

The next day, she refused to see me. The day after was the same. And the day after that.

Eventually, I stopped trying.

Her father had agreed to pay handsomely for her return, all but begging us to leave her unharmed. He loved her, and it was easy for me to see why. She was a gentle beauty, a kind, innocent soul who brought light wherever she walked. She kept her light locked away in her room now, but she shone all the same.

I remembered what she’d said, about how her father’s palace had just been another prison. If I could, I would set her free. I’d free her from the resistance, and I’d send her far away, somewhere that even her father couldn’t reach her. She was too young to be what she was—a political pawn.

To me, she wasn’t that. She was a girl who deserved so much more.

“It’s me,� I said. I was standing outside of her door. There was no reply.

“Tomorrow, you return to your father.�

Another moment of silence passed, and then finally, I heard a small voice say, “Come in.�

I gestured to the guards to unlock her door.

“Desta,� I said, entering her room. It was the same as before, except she looked different now. She was skinnier, almost frail. It shouldn’t have surprised me; I’d known for a while that she’d been refusing her meals, but I was still shocked by the sight of her. Her hair had lost its luster, and her face was pale.

And those eyes. Dead inside.

“Why have you come?� she asked.

“To say goodbye, I suppose.�

“Goodbye then,� she said stiffly.

“This is out of my hands. That much, you must know.�

Her gaze pierced me, like a sharp icicle spiking my heart.

“I do,� she said. “You are a coward.�

“Don’t you think I fought for you? Don’t you think I tried to put a stop to this deal?�

I had. I’d done everything in my power. Pulled every string, made every argument, and yet, it had not been enough. The money had been too great of an amount to pass on.

“You all disgust me,� I had said. “You claim to oppose slavery, and yet you sell this girl like cattle.�

The room had been quiet as I’d stormed out.

Now I stood before her, and it was as if it was the calm before the storm. This time tomorrow she would be back in her father’s arms, and I would continue slaying his men. She belonged in her world, and I belonged in mine.

“You killed my brothers,� she said. “They were cruel murderers, but they were still my brothers. I suppose you don’t think I should blame you. They deserved it. Even I know that.�

“What are you saying, Desta?�

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I’m saying that I’m a traitor. You are my enemy, and still I love you.�

My heart burned for her.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,� I said, my voice hoarse. My mouth had gone dry.

“You killed my brothers, but that is not who you are.�

“You don’t know that.�

She crossed the room, grabbing the shirt of my uniform in her fists, looking up at me with anguish in her honeyed eyes.

“Tell me you are not compassionate, and I will tell you that the sun does not rise in the east,� she said. “Tell me you are not kind, and I will tell you that the sky is not blue. Tell me you are not brave, and I will tell you that the world does not turn. Tell me you do not love me, and I will tell you that I am not human.�

This time, I was the one to kiss her.

I claimed her mouth as if I had any right to it, kissing her hungrily as she whimpered against my lips. My hand slipped into her hair, and the other found its way to her waist, pulling her closer as I deepened the kiss. She tasted of sadness and youth, her hands tightening on my uniform, tears streaming down her face.

I did not deserve her.

But I took her to bed anyway. I undressed her, my hands exploring her thin body, my heart thirsting to make her mine. She was small beneath me, her hair splayed out on the pillow, eyes darkened with lust.

She gasped my name when I took her innocence.

It was�heaven. She was tight, her body burning like wildfire, so hot that I almost couldn’t take it. I moved in her slowly at first, drawing out every last one of her breaths from her lungs, and then I showed her what pleasure meant. The friction was an addicting drug, and we both chased the high, clawing for our climax. Her fingernails dug into my back, and I gripped the sheets as I pounded into her.

When we came, we came together.

In the aftermath of the destruction of my heart, she was in my arms, tracing her fingers over the scars on my body. I held her for hours, and that afternoon, we made love twice more. I spent myself in her body, giving her pieces of me until there was nothing left of me that didn’t belong to her.

The next day when they loaded her up into the car, I stood and watched, feeling pain unimaginable course through my body. Then they drove away, taking away the gentlest creature that had ever stepped foot on this base. For a long time, I looked to the distance where the car had disappeared and fought the urge to pick up a rifle and gun down anyone that dared to stand between us.

But I was still a freedom fighter, and I would not stop fighting until her father was dead.

“K±ð±ô±ô²¹²Ô.â€�

There was blood smeared all over the walls. I looked around the room. I was no longer just the Prince Slayer.

Today, I’d slain a dictator.

“Kellan,� the man repeated. He was a brother, someone I’d fought alongside for the last ten years. The place was swarming with the resistance, freedom fighters running left and right, securing every room in the palace.

“W³ó²¹³Ù?â€� I said, putting down my knife. I’d killed the dictator the old-fashioned way. Blood was on my hands, but I was not ashamed; I was proud.

“She is here in the west wing,� my brother said.

Desta.

“Tell me she is not harmed,� I said, terror spiking in my veins.

“We have not touched a hair on her head,� my brother replied. “Go. She waits for you.�

I ran.

She waits for you.

Five years had passed since I’d last seen her.

The freedom fighters in the west wing guided me to her room. I burst through the doors, breathing harshly, my eyes searching for her.

And then I saw her.

Beautiful as the day I’d met her, she was older now, grown into all of her delicate features. Her cheeks were sharper now, and her body had all the curves of a woman—but it was still her, my Desta.

We closed the divide, embracing one another, falling into each other’s arms, exchanging burning kisses. She said my name, and I might’ve said hers, and the earth might’ve stopped turning, and the sun might have risen in the west that morning, and maybe the sky was no longer blue, and maybe—maybe we weren’t even human anymore.

It didn’t matter.

She was mine and I was hers, and everything else ceased to exist.

Finally, we were free.

A damask rose dawn, hellish in its shocking pink, starched all the color from the stars as it spread across the sky. With the sun came bedtime. Down the throat went a Valium, chased by a cup of ice-cold Gatorade. The drowsiness came after, the muscles finally relaxed, tension dissipating, replaced by a soft sort of haze—if only for a moment. Turning off all the lights, even the pink neons, and the buttery yellow fairy lights, dousing the room with the cold thrumming air from the AC. Blackout shade lowered and curtains closed tightly. Finally, in the pitch black, it was time time to get into bed.

Here, the fire consumed me.

Even with the icy air and the gulps of cold Gatorade, that fire burned through me, eating away at my bones until they felt brittle, as if I could snap with a touch. After an entire night of broadcasting on Gaminar, the streaming website that hosted my gaming channel, I felt weak and exhausted and overwhelmed from wearing the skin of a confident, bubbly girl who riffed off of negative feedback as if it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was everything.

Put some clothes on, slut.

Why is your smile so weird?

Did you get those scars on your wrists from cutting yourself for attention?

“Stop,� I whispered, covering my ears as if it would drown them out, but it did nothing. They were in my fucking head.

I wanted to sleep. I needed to sleep. I had work in six hours, and if I was going to make it through another day working for Duncan, the creepiest perv in all of West Hollywood, then I needed to keep it together and not be a zombie when I walked into his restaurant. He’d make a big show of pointing out everything wrong with me, too. Was my makeup too light? Too heavy? Why wasn’t my hair down? He liked it down; didn’t I remember him telling me so? Was my skirt fitting my tight body exactly as the employee handbook instructed? And was I still as athletic and toned as the day I’d been hired?

I just wanted to cry, but I didn’t have the time. Breakdown hour wasn’t until after work. Coming home, snapping open a can of beer, chugging it down to dull the sting of the tears. But it stung anyway. It always did.

And even though I tried not to cry, even though I did my best to just shut my eyes and go to sleep, the tears still trickled down my cheeks, wetting the pillow. I was stronger than this—and yet, I wasn’t.

Because even the hearts of lions are vulnerable when exposed.

Coming soon to Literotica Geek Pride 2021. For early access, consider making a pledge (as low as $3) on Patreon at

Sincerely yours,

Nora

My newest book, The Bedroom Archives, is now available! To purchase from Amazon or read on Kindle Unlimited, go to:

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Yours sincerely,

Nora Fares

The Hitman

A shot rang out in the late afternoon.

It did not alarm me. I’d been the one to shoot the rifle. It was hot in my hands, the metal warming my palms in the cold. An early snowfall was drifting down and covering my target. It was bleeding, falling to the cold forest floor.

The buck.

“Father, you got it.�

I looked to my right and found a steel-eyed Jibril. It had been a near-impossible shot, but I’d been confident in my abilities; I needed to prove to my son that even the seemingly impossible was often possible. He lowered his Remington 700 chambered in .308 with a scope, same as mine, and beside him, two others followed suit. Ashley and Danny, each with the smaller .243 Winchesters, a good deer rifle with low kick. Both looked a little disturbed; they were not used to death, not as Jibril was. He’d spent eleven years in Pakistan, witnessing the sacrifice of animals every Eid. It did not faze him.

“Sick,� Danny whispered, sounding slightly impressed. Mostly, he was anxious, but he was doing his best to hide it. I felt a surge of pride for him. I’d been teaching him to obscure his weaknesses.

Ashley was quiet, her golden braids rippling in the cold wind, a determined look on her face. I’d told her to make the shot, and when she’d been unable to, I’d made it in her place. She was the best shot out of all the kids during target practice, but she was also most squeamish. She did not have it in her to kill, and that worried me. To survive, she’d have to learn.

I had not always planned to teach the children how to shoot, at least not in their youth, but as dangers loomed before us, I’d changed my mind. They needed to learn to defend themselves, to kill to keep from being killed. I kept tabs on our enemies; they searched for us, even now, three years later. Ayd Farooqi, once my esteemed teacher, the man I’d looked up to, was in the United States, trekking from state to state, torturing my old contacts for information on our whereabouts. Word came to me in snippets—often, he left them dead, so there was no news at all. It was when the communication went cold that I knew.

The kingpin in Los Angeles was not a professional. He’d put out feelers but hadn’t had much luck in following our trail. Still, I despised that my family was forced into hiding because of the likes of him.

Naeem Badrashi, my father-in-law and Jibril’s grandfather, sat upon his throne in Pakistan, now a corrupt politician, dirtying his hands with the drug trade. He was easiest to keep track of, now that he had gone public. I did not view him as an immediate threat—only his faithful dog, Ayd. Naeem couldn’t touch me, not in a million years, but a professional like Ayd could.

The kids needed to learn to defend themselves, and fast.

“It’s still alive,� Ashley said, breaking her silence. I glanced at the buck, and sure enough, it was struggling to get to its feet, its breathing labored.

“Put it out of its misery,� I said, and took the Glock from my hip. I held it out, pointed down at the ground. Ashley shook her head wildly.

“Don’t make me do it,� she whispered in horror.

“Very well,� I said, sighing. “Jibril.�

Jibril took the G17, stepping deeper into the forest, gun raised, his sights focused on the buck. Danny looked relieved to have not been called upon. I knew that he was not ready. He was only eleven. There would be other opportunities.

“Praise be to Allah,� Jibril said in the darkness of the trees. Now, the meat would be halal. Living in the Midwest, it was often hard to find halal meat unless we hunted or slaughtered it ourselves. There had been many times where Jibril and I had muttered a shameful “Bismillah� before our meals and then prayed for forgiveness later.

Another shot rang out. Jibril had shot the buck square between the eyes. He turned around, looking to me for my approval. I nodded, and he relaxed his shoulders, finally allowing the tension to leave his body. The children and I approached the buck. I checked that it was dead, and it was. Jibril had done well.

“Venison for dinner?� Danny asked hopefully as I lifted the buck onto my back.

“Venison for dinner,� I confirmed. I carried the carcass through the forest, the children following closely behind. Jibril kept the Glock, eyes alert. At fourteen, he understood the dangers, understood that we were never safe, not as long as our enemies lived. I’d told him to protect this family, and he took it seriously, always watchful, ever vigilant.

After a three-mile hike through the forest, we reached the clearing. The Jeep was parked on the side of the road. We secured the buck on the roof, the kids put their rifles in their cases, stowed them in the back, and then everyone got in the car, buckling in for the journey home. I blasted the heat to warm the kids, whose teeth had begun to chatter the last mile to the car.

Jibril was sitting up front, fiddling with the radio. Danny and Ashley were in the back, bickering quietly. The Glock was back in its holster on my hip, but I had another in the glove compartment, which Jibril was fully aware of. At home, the firearms were nearly endless, hidden conveniently under coffee tables, in shelves, under sinks. He’d been ordered to memorize the locations of all of them, as had Danny and Ashley.

Sophie, the baby of the family, now eight, was not allowed to touch the guns yet, but she too knew where they were. She was home with—Ellie. I felt a tug in my chest from the mere thought of her, the woman who’d claimed me and kept my heart hostage. A cruel woman, she slyly kept me tethered to her with unspoken promises of eternal happiness. I did not deserve it, but every time I’d try to walk away, she’d tighten the velvet leash, using new and creative ways to blackmail me into staying.

I was grateful for her efforts.

Three years ago, the first thing we’d done was rent a house. It was on a sprawling seven-acre parcel that was fully-wooded with only one small, off-road path to access it. The house itself was beautiful; freshly painted white as eggshells, it was a three-story, six-bedroom, four-bath home that had been built only two years prior. A beautiful white veranda surrounded the house, and a spring and stream ran through the property, close enough that it could lull Sophie to sleep. At night, the crickets came out to chirp, the frogs croaked, and the stars shone their white-hot flames, flickering in the distance. It was the opposite of the seedy part of Los Angeles where Ellie and her siblings had lived—which meant that it was ideal for raising the kids. Secluded enough that I could train them all, it was the perfect place to live.

When the house came into view, Ashley and Danny were fast asleep. Only Jibril was still awake, his eyes red and tired, but he was still alert. My young soldier, always ready to perform his duties. I’d have to make sure that he got proper rest tonight. Constant vigilance was exhausting.

The front door swung open as we were getting out of the car. Sophie came bounding down the porch steps, her blonde curls bouncing.

“Moody!� she squealed, running over to me and jumping up into my arms. She’d been five when I’d come into her life. Unable to pronounce Ahmad, she’d started calling me Moody, and it just kind of� stuck. Ellie always laughed and said it was a fitting name.

I pressed my lips to the top of Sophie’s head, hoisting her onto my hip. She was too big to be held like this now, but I spoiled her. I shouldn’t, but I did.

“Go inside, shower, and take a nap. I’ll wake you kids up for dinner,� I said to Ashley, Jibril and Danny. They nodded and trudged up the stairs, disappearing into the house.

“Did you bring me a deer?� Sophie asked excitedly. She loved venison. The entire family did.

“Yes,� I said just as the front door opened again and a slender figure stepped out. Long blonde hair, a pixie nose, plump lips and sparkling blue eyes—the woman of my dreams come to life. Ellie.

“Took you long enough,� she said, making her way down the porch steps. “Go inside, Soph. It’s cold out here.�

Sophie pouted but she obeyed when I put her down. She gave me a little wave and went back into the house.

“Whose glory?� Ellie asked, pointing to the buck.

“Mine and Jibril’s,� I replied.

“Did Danny puke again?�

“Not this time.�

“That’s good,� she said, walking up to me. She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, biting it. As I’ve said, cruel woman.

“Don’t,� I warned her. “I’ve got a buck to butcher.�

“A quickie, then,� she said, reaching me and placing a hand on my cheek. I leaned into her touch, pulling in a deep breath through my nostrils. These were the types of moments that I lived for, quiet and comforting. Just me and Ellie, connecting.

“Kiss me, you brute,� she whispered softly. I took her face in my hands and leaned down, pressing my lips to hers. In the seconds that followed, my emotions caught on fire, exploding in a blazing heat as she opened her mouth, inviting my tongue inside. We tasted one another, kissing hungrily in the cold, warming each other. My hands left her face, traveling down her body to grip her ass. She moaned into my mouth, throwing her arms around my neck, deepening the kiss.

It was nightfall, the only light coming from the windows of the house, but we were obscured in the shadows of the trees that lined the driveway. I walked her back against one of them, quickly unsnapping the button of her jeans and pulling down the zipper.

“Ahmad,� she gasped as I turned her around a little more roughly than I intended to. She didn’t sound like she minded—she liked it when I manhandled her.

“Don’t make too much noise,� I said, and pulled her jeans down to her thighs, kicked her legs apart, and unbuckled my belt. A twisting, aching need filled me as I thought about what I was just about to do: fuck my wife against a tree. In seconds, I’d undone the button of my own jeans and pulled down the zipper, my breathing harsh as I braced myself for her tight heat. I fisted my cock, rock hard and thick, and shoved it inside of her from behind. It was�heaven. She was soaking wet, her pussy slippery, the heat engulfing my arousal.

“A quickie,� I reminded her, and she laughed, cut short by a cry as I began fucking her hard, my fingertips digging into her hips to hold her in place. The pleasure ate away at my bones, burning through every nerve in my body, leaving all the ends frayed. Her frantic gasps, the tightness of her velvety wet pussy, the curve of her little bubble bottom, her lithe body—it all drove me crazy. I closed her legs together, and it became a tighter squeeze, making us both groan in satisfaction.

“Don’t stop,� she moaned, pushing her ass back, trying to match my rhythm. I growled, and pounded into her, rasping out an “Ellie� when I felt her pussy begin to tighten around my cock. She was getting close—which was convenient because so was I. I snaked an arm around her, my hand traveling down between her legs to rub her clit. She inhaled sharply, caught off guard, and her legs turned to jelly as I quickened my pace. It took only seconds for her to choke out an �oh god, yes!� as she came, her pussy contracting around the thick length of my cock. I groaned as I came, jetting thick ropes of cum inside of her, each beat of my heart extended to an eternity. Time had slowed, and all I could do was support her body as she went limp, gasping for air.

When I’d recovered, I pulled her panties and jeans up, and zipped and buttoned myself back up. Ellie, in control of herself again, snapped her button and zipped up her pants too, a wide smile on her beautiful face.

“W³ó²¹³Ù?â€�

“Nothing,� she said. “I’m just happy.�

I pulled her in for a chaste kiss and then took her hand, leading her back to the Jeep. She helped me with the buck, and I took it out back, hanging it up to butcher. I skinned and boned the carcass while Ellie trimmed the meat. It took two hours of working quietly together to finish. By then, I was starving.

“I’ll fry you up a quick steak,� Ellie said, noticing the hunger in my eyes.

“That’s not necessary,� I said. “We’ll make a stew like we always do. You go shower. I’ll get it started.�

Venison stew was a household favorite. We always made it after a fresh kill, using up the last of the meat from the previous kill while the new meat went up in the drying area to age. As Ellie went to shower, I ate a banana for a boost of energy and some potassium while I got the stew started. Sophie wandered into the kitchen, hugging a doll. She’d started saying that she was too old for them, but every now and then, she’d have one in her arms.

“Can I help?� she asked eagerly.

“Wash the vegetables.� I’d put out carrots, celery, onions, and potatoes on the counter. The frozen peas were in a bag, but she knew they didn’t need to be washed. Sophie had helped make this meal before.

Ellie walked into the kitchen while I was cutting the vegetables, her hair glistening and wet. Sophie was completing her next task, peeling the potatoes. She proudly showed Ellie, who gave her a double thumbs-up.

“I’ll get started on the meat,� Ellie said. She took out our large Dutch oven, placed it on the stove over medium-high heat, and began to brown the meat. The smell of freshly cooked game filled the air, and I felt the hunger pangs constrict in my belly. The stew wouldn’t be ready for another hour and a half.

“Why don’t you go shower?� Ellie suggested, looking me over from head to toe. I had animal blood all over me. I nodded, kissing Sophie’s cheek before making my way to the bathroom. Besides the sizzle of meat and quiet chatter of the girls in the kitchen, the house was silent. There was peace in our home. All was well—for a moment.

Glass shattered, the front door was busted open, and shots were fired.

They’d found us.

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Time for me was linear, one chronological moment following another with no skips in between. For a hundred thousand years, I have roamed aimlessly through this earth, once so barren that you could have mistaken it for the moon if it hadn’t been for all the green. Humans had been nomads back then, hunter/gatherers until I taught them how to plant seed. That had been cheating, of course.

The gods hadn’t liked that.

Slowly, the cities began to erupt like volcanoes, rising up through the ground, spreading like lava. Then came civilization, and with it came the first problems in history. The rising lust for power, the creation of borders, and then those bloody monarchs with their need to own everything. I’d watched, half-amused, half-horrified at what had become of them.

Of us.

I was human too, and a lonely one. Moving from place to place, I traveled the world, never staying more than a decade in a single place. I did not age, ever unchanging. It was sometime in a tent with Genghis Khan that I first met her.

Sarah.

Flaming red hair with a fiery personality to match, she’d been captured and was seconds away from being ravished. I’d stepped out into the field, noting her clothes were otherworldly. She wore what the Englishmen wore. Something like trousers and a tunic, but in a material I did not recognize. Fascinated, I’d gone and, in rapid Mongolian, asked for her as a part of my war spoils. Miraculously, in one heated argument with Genghis Khan himself, she became mine.

“I won’t be here long,� she said when I’d taken her to my tent. “And I’ll bite you if you try anything with me.�

She was speaking in English, unaware that I understood every word.

“I will not harm you. You may go in the night when they sleep.�

Her eyes widened, and a moment later, a wide grin spread across her face.

“You’re a pretty cool guy, huh?�

I did not understand. It was warm in my tent, the fire pit crackling.

For many generations, I would not understand.

I met her again at the time of the Black Plague in England. I’d been carefully making my way around sick people on the street, fully aware that the gods were being cruel again, as they had been many times in the past. I passed her on the street, and this time, she had on clothes to fit the times. Her face had startled me—a face I hadn’t forgotten, not even nearly 300 years later.

“Madam,� I’d said, going after her. She’d turned around, and just like that, my heart had shattered. She was every bit as beautiful as the first time I had lain eyes on her.

“Hello,� she said, looking taken aback. “Have we met?�

I could see in her eyes that she was trying to place me.

“Once, many years ago, I saved a woman like you from� well, something horrible. You must be a descendant. The resemblance is uncanny.�

“Oh,� she said, her eyes widening. “I know you.�

This could not be. I was the only immortal that roamed this earth. This, I knew for sure.

“Come,� she said, taking my hand. “Let’s talk somewhere more private.�

I took her to my home in the heart of London. It wasn’t too grand, but I called it home. It was cozy enough for me, bookshelves lining the walls, filled with my trinkets that I’d collected over time. Pieces of history.

“What are you?� she asked, taking a seat on my settee in my parlor.

“I am an immortal man.�

“I didn’t know such beings existed.�

“What are you?� I asked her.

“A time traveler.�

“I didn’t know such beings existed either.�

She laughed. “In the future, everything is possible.�

I would not see her again until World War II. I’d been drafted into the military, an American at the time of the war. I met her as I was boarding the ship to go to Europe and fight the Germans. She was in the crowd, waving a handkerchief.

“You again,� she said, smiling brightly when I approached her.

“And you.�

“Always a pleasure—oh, what’s your name? I never asked.�

“I am Cassius.�

“Cassius,� she said, testing out my name on her tongue. “I’m Sarah.�

I went to war, wondering when I’d see her again. In the next sixty years, not a day went by that I did not think of her, of the flaming red hair that was burned into my mind. I looked for her face everywhere, but she could be anywhere in the world at any time in history. She could be traveling back and meeting other versions of myself. I wondered often how that worked, but I did not ask the gods, for I was sure that they would only laugh in my face.

“C²¹²õ²õ¾±³Ü²õ.â€�

It was 2005, and I was in Murree, Pakistan. The snow was drifting down, and the clouds were so close that I could almost touch them. It was a beautiful mountain with an ancient city on top. The bazaars were bustling with crowds of shoppers, and the sweet scent of pink Kashmiri chai filled my senses.

“Sarah,� I said, recognizing her voice. I turned around and found her standing there in a shalwar kameez and a scarf covering her hair.

“Nice aviators,� she commented, grinning. I flipped them up, resting them on top of my head to get a good look at her.

“Am I cool enough for you?� I asked her, remembering what she’d called me all those centuries ago in the tent.

“Most certainly,� she replied, laughing. She remembered too.

“How do you keep finding me?� I asked her.

She smiled. “I look for you, Cassius.�

“I look for you too.�

“Why don’t we spend the day together?�

We did, and at the end of it, she was gone.

Fifteen years later, I met her again, and this time, she was changed. Older, her face lined with a few wrinkles.

“I haven’t traveled in a while,� she said. We were in Tokyo, eating a few bowls of ramen and drinking saké. We were both a little drunk.

“You are still beautiful.�

She grinned. “Thanks,� she said, and then paused.

“What is it?�

“I’m married now,� she admitted. “And I don’t think I’ll be traveling anymore. I’ve settled down. I think it’s time I stop searching for you every year.�

Every year? She searched for me that often?

I understood, though. We were human, and humans needed companionship. She had found her companion.

“It’s not healthy,� she added. “I love you, though. I wanted you to know that.�

That took me by surprise. We barely knew each other.

Once she was gone, she was gone.

For a thousand years, I did not see her. And then time travel was invented, and I considered going back, considered looking for her in all those places she’d been.

But it was unhealthy. She’d been right about that.

Until that fateful day when there was a knock on my door. I opened it, and there stood Sarah.

“I’ve been waiting for you,� she said, giving me that familiar wide grin.

I was confused.

“It was always you,� she said. “In the future. It was you that I married. It’s time we finally get to know each other, don’t you think? We can fall in love now.�

I stared at her, and then cracked a smile.

“Cool,� I said, and she burst into laughter.

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