“Hello, Paul.”

She had prepared herself for his reaction to her apparent resurrection but even so, the visual effect of such a rapid cycle of painfully obvious emotion is startling. He turns his head away from her, closing his eyes. His face is etched with exhaustion, his skin sallow against the sterile white of the pillowcase. “I’ve spent the last two days wondering who was responsible from bringing me back from the dead,” he mutters, his voice raspy. “I have to admit I never once considered that it might be you.”

Closing the distance between them, she rests one hand on the cool sheet-clad mattress. “I hope it’s a pleasant shock?”

He doesn’t smile. When he speaks, his voice is as cold as she’s ever heard it. “You let me believe you were dead.”

“Your reaction needed to be real.”

“So you put me through hell instead?”

There is no anger in his voice now, just a weariness that seems to go bone-deep, and she fights the impulse to curve her palms around the stark planes of his face. “I’m sorry,” she offers softly. The words sound unfamiliar and awkward to her ears.

He looks at her and, for the first time in a long time, she cannot read his eyes. “So am I.”

~*~*~*~

“So, Nikita’s in charge now.”

The words are uttered with a decided huff of resentment, and Madeline hides a smile. “For the moment, yes.”

“And the boy?”

“With his father.”

He nods, as though this news pleases him, then fixes her with a pointed stare. “Do you miss it?” His voice is much stronger now. It’s been four weeks since the Collective left him for dead, and he is obviously tired of convalescing. His chosen form of entertainment is to do his best to disarm and provoke her. It troubles her how often he quite nearly succeeds.

She shifts in her chair. “Things are very different now.”

An amused gleam shines in his steel blue eyes for an instant, then melts away. “That’s not what I asked.”

Perhaps it is the lateness of the hour, or perhaps she is more affected by his presence than she cares to admit, but she finds herself giving him the simple truth. “Yes. I miss it.”

They sit in an almost companionable silence for a few minutes, then his hand brushes against hers in a casual touch she knows is far from accidental. “Would you ever consider going back?”

She ignores the heat that flares into life beneath her skin, and gives him a smile and a lie. “No.”

~*~*~*~

It’s been two months since the day he suddenly awoke in a brand new world. He is tired of waiting. He is tired of pacing, and he is very tired of being spoon-fed information and platitudes.

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries when she arrives. “So, what happens now?”

She merely looks at him with that infuriatingly detached expression. “They seem to think that you need more time to recover from your injuries.”

“Bullshit.” He steps closer to her, his fingers encircling her upper arm with the surety of a long-familiar lover. “I’m fighting fit and you know it.” She lifts her chin, her gaze meeting his in a mute challenge, and he’s abruptly aware of the scent of her perfume, the warmth of her arm beneath his hand. Heat slides through his body, slipping into his bloodstream, and he wants nothing more than to crawl inside her body and her head until she whimpers with need.

He hears the almost inaudible hitch of her breath, but her expression doesn’t change. He knows that the same desire chewing on his insides is eating away at her, and yet her goddamned expression doesn’t change. “I didn’t bring you here for that, Paul.”

“Didn’t you?” Ignoring the rigid set of her jaw, he slides his hand slowly up her arm, then palms the delicate curve of her shoulder. “I think perhaps you did,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb along the line of her collarbone, his fingers digging into her shoulder. “Even if you won’t admit it to yourself.”

She says nothing as she regards him with dark eyes that reveal nothing and promise less, and he has to fight the urge to shake her. He takes a half-step, pressing his thigh hard against her hip and his hand hard against her breast. He can feel something shimmering through her body, a faint tremour that betrays her own weakness, then she steps away. “I have to go.” Her voice is brittle.

He smiles mockingly, knowing that she is angrier with herself than with him. “Goodnight, Madeline.”

~*~*~*~

Two days later, she watches as he reads the American newspapers that she’s ordered for him and wonders why she is sitting here when she has so many other demands on her time. Has she allowed herself to become sentimental? Or is it something far less complex, simply the familiar pull of raw sexual awareness she feels whenever she’s in his presence?

Madeline bites back a weary sigh. She has always been a pragmatic woman. Sexual intercourse is a very necessary human need, and she has never seen the sense in denying herself. But she knows what he wants from her, and she has no intention of yielding on this particular battlefield - she knows the difference between scratching an itch and creating an unnecessary complication. But being with him again, even at arm’s length, makes her skin feel taut, stretched too tightly over her flesh and bones and blood. All too often her thoughts are straying into the dangerous territory of remembered pleasure and dark, addictive need, and it displeases her as much as it tantalizes her.

“Just out of interest,” he asks conversationally, “why did you snatch me from the jaws of death?” He turns the newspaper page with a crackle. “So I could retire to a planned community and spend the rest of my days discussing politics and bowel movements with the other residents?”

Her chuckle seems to catch them both by surprise. “Of course not.”

“Then get me the hell out of this nursing home.”

Her smile lingers. “It’s a state of the art military medical facility, Paul. I doubt they’d appreciate it being referred to as a nursing home.”

He scowls. “I’m bored.”

She leans towards him, putting her hand over the article in which he’s feigning interest. “The meet with the Agency is in two days’ time. There’s nothing I can do to change that.”

His gaze narrows as he studies her mouth, then the newspaper is roughly shoved aside, his touch no more gentle as he reaches for her. Paper flutters unheeded to the floor as he pulls her around the small table toward him until her body is flush against his, one hand cupping the curve of her bottom, the other resting in the deep v-neck of her jacket. “Perhaps I didn’t make myself entirely clear,” he mutters in a thick voice, his pale blue eyes glittering with both intent and defiance. “I’m very bored, and I’m very tired of waiting.”

She takes a deep breath, pleased that her pulse has yet to spike, despite the slow throb of arousal stirring her blood. “Read another book.”

“I’ve read them all.” He slides his hand down between her breasts, down her stomach. “I want do something else.” He dips his head until his lips graze her ear, his breath hot on her skin. “And so do you.”

Madeline closes her eyes as his hand slides down her body, down, down, until the heel of his palm is pressing hard between her legs. A faint spasm of pleasure echoes through her flesh, both a promise and a reproach. Tendrils of pure hunger insinuate themselves into every thought, her self-control slipping sideways and leaving her with nothing but the admission that she does want this. She turns her head to kiss him, relishing the never-forgotten taste of his mouth, the feel of him beneath her hands, the delicate yet heady fluttering of her own senses.

Capitulation doesn’t always mean defeat.

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