Kelley Armstrong - Stolen

Even after I'd Changed back, I stayed in my hiding place. While Clay paced beyond the thicket, I crouched there, listening to the crunch of dead leaves under his feet and wondering what the hell I was doing. For nine days, I hadn't known whether I'd ever see Clay again. For one endless night, I'd even thought he might be dead. The moment my Change ended, I should have run to him. Instead I knelt close to the ground, heart thudding, not with anticipation, but something closer to fear. I didn't know how to face Clay. It was like a stranger was waiting for me and I wasn't sure how to react, wanting nothing more than to huddle here until he went away. Not that I wanted Clay to go away. I just… I wished Jeremy were there. Wasn't that awful? Wanting a buffer to protect me against a reunion with the man I loved? Clay was the only person with whom I ever felt completely comfortable. And now I felt as if I were confronting a stranger? What kind of bullshit was that? Yet even as I railed at my lunacy, I couldn't bring myself to go to him. I was afraid. Afraid I'd see something missing from his eyes, see traces of the look he'd given me when he'd thought I was Paige.

Clay stopped pacing. "Elena?" he said softly.

"Ummm-I don't have any clothing."

Of all the idiotic things I could say, that topped the list. I expected Clay to fall over laughing. He didn't. He didn't make a sound, just reached into the thicket and held out his hand. I closed my eyes, took it, and let him pull me out.

"Lousy time for joking, eh?" I said.

But he wasn't smiling. Instead he stood there, eyes searching my face, hesitant, almost uncertain. Then he pulled me against him. My knees gave way, and I stumbled into his arms, burying my face against his shoulder, inhaling his smell as a sound frighteningly close to a sob burst from my lips. I breathed in his scent, filling my brain with it, crowding out everything else. My body shuddered, then started to shake. Clay hugged me tight, one hand entwined in my hair, the other rubbing my back.

When I stopped shaking, I bent my knees, lowering us to the ground. His hands slid behind my back, cushioning it against the cold earth. I touched my lips to his, tentatively, as if there was still a chance he'd pull away, reject me. His lips moved against mine, soft, then harder, increasing in pressure and intensity until I couldn't breathe and didn't care. I guided my hips up to his and pulled him into me.

Afterward, as we lay on the dew-damp ground, I listened for human sounds and heard only the tripping of Clay's heartbeat, slowing with each breath. It would be just my luck to have the guards find us now, lying in the grass twenty feet from freedom, having postponed our getaway to make love. Was that the ultimate in balls, recklessness, or plain stupidity? Probably a combination of all three. Never let it be said that Clay and I ever did anything as conventional as actually completing an escape from near-death before indulging in a quick round of reunion sex.

"We should go," I said.

Clay chuckled. "You think?"

"Probably. Unless you brought food. Then maybe we could squeeze in a picnic before we leave, watch the sun come up."

"Sorry, darling. No food. There's a town about ten miles from here. We'll grab breakfast there."

"No sense rushing things. Sex. A relaxing meal. Hell, maybe we find time for some sight-seeing before we go."

Clay laughed. "I'm afraid the only local sight we'll be seeing is the nearest restaurant drive-thru. I was in kind of a hurry to get away and I didn't grab a change of clothes. We'll have to share what I've got. Of course, that'll make it easier if we decide to stop for more sex after breakfast."

"Just take me home," I said.

"I wish I could, darling."

"I meant, take me wherever Jeremy and the others are."

He nodded and retrieved his clothes from behind a nearby tree. Then he handed me his shirt, boxers, and socks, leaving him with his jeans and shoes. Once we'd dressed-or half-dressed-he carried me to the waiting car. No, it wasn't some great romantic gesture. The ground was wet and I'd have drenched my socks if I walked. Plus my knee still throbbed when I put any weight on it. So maybe it was romantic after all. Practical romance. The kind we did best.

We were in Maine. Not seaside, vacation-land Maine, but the middle of the remote northern section. Before Clay had left Jeremy to look for me, the others had narrowed my location to upper Maine. In Clay's absence, Jeremy had moved everyone to New Brunswick, deeming it the safest location from which to search for both of us. Clay learned this by calling Jeremy from a roadside pay phone. Jeremy still had my cell phone and was able to give him directions.

On the way to New Brunswick we stuck to the back roads for as long as we could, but in that part of Maine, the non-highway roads were often so insignificant we couldn't find them on the map. We soon turned onto I-95. Forty minutes later we arrived at the Houlton-Woodstock border crossing. As usual, crossing the border into Canada was a snap. Pull up to the booth and answer a few simple questions. Citizenship? Destination? Length of stay? Bringing any firearms/liquor/fresh produce? Enjoy your stay. I hoped we would.

Jeremy had taken the others to a motel a few miles off the Trans-Canada Highway, near Nackawic. Why had Jeremy chosen western New Brunswick for their base camp? Two reasons. First, it was outside the United States. Tucker and his guards were American and knew all of us-except me-were American, so they'd assume we'd stay in the States, even if Canada was a few scant hours away. Second, western New Brunswick was primarily French-speaking. That might seem like an obstacle-and Jeremy hoped it would-but in reality the language barrier was as easily crossed as the international border. Jeremy and I both spoke French, and even if we hadn't, most locals would be bilingual. It was difficult to live in Canada and not speak at least some English, despite our official national bilingualism. If Tucker even thought to send a search party across the border, he'd gravitate toward the English-speaking regions in eastern New Brunswick. So, although we were less than two hundred miles north of the compound, we were safer here than if we'd run all the way down the coast to Florida.

Throughout the trip, Clay and I barely spoke. Anyone else would have peppered me with queries about my captors, the compound, my escape. Eventually I'd have to answer these questions, but right then, I wanted nothing more than lean back in my seat, watch the scenery pass, and forget what I'd left behind. Clay let me do that.

We reached the motel at nine-thirty. It was an old but well-kept motor lodge with a huge roadside sign proclaiming "Bienvenue/Welcome." Only a half-dozen cars dotted the parking lot. Come evening, it would fill with vacationers making the trek from Ontario and Quebec to the Maritimes, but for now everyone was gone, up early and on the road by breakfast.

"Is this the right place?" I said. "Do you recognize any of the rental cars?"

"No, but they'd have traded them for new ones. I do recognize that guy by the fence, though."

Jeremy stood before a caged pen of grouse and pheasant, his back to us. I threw open the door and leaped out before the car stopped rolling.

"Hungry?" I called as I jogged toward Jeremy. "They look fat enough."

Jeremy turned, giving me a half-smile, as unsurprised if I'd been standing behind him the entire time. He'd probably seen us drive in and stood here, watching the birds. At one time, not even so long ago, I'd have taken this as a snub, spent hours agonizing over why he hadn't come to greet me. But I knew Jeremy hadn't been ignoring me. He'd been waiting. Jeremy would no more coming running out to welcome me back than he'd scoop me up in a bear hug and tell me he'd missed me. Anyone else in the Pack would, but that wasn't Jeremy's way, never would be. Yet when I threw my arms around him and kissed his cheek, he hugged me back and murmured that he was glad to see me. That was enough.