Lora Leigh - Primal

“Por favor,” a woman begged. “Ayúdame!”

It sounded like she was close by. God, he wished his gift had some useful secondary application, but it could be used for only one purpose—and that was why he had chosen to accept five years of abuse in lieu of revealing it to his captors. He could never allow them to learn what he could do. The price was simply too high.

Ignoring the shallow cuts and bruises on his arms, he located the woman by listening to her intermittent calls. A fuckton of rubble had fallen on top of her, and he hesitated to start digging. He might make it worse: unbalance the wreckage and kill her. He’d intentionally gone off the grid, but now that decision carried awful weight. Out here, there was no emergency infrastructure, and no telling how long it would take Ecuadoran authorities to mount any kind of rescue. In all honesty, Puerto López probably wouldn’t rank high on their list. More populated areas required assistance first.

Therefore, this woman had him, and nobody else. As he contemplated that, she wept in tiny choking sobs.

Using the brute strength that accompanied his size, he pulled chunks of cement off the pile and tossed them behind him, careful not to let the load topple inward. It required great patience, but fortunately, life had taught him about timing and waiting for the right opportunity. That permitted him to be methodical: shift this, pull that, don’t let it collapse. He listened to her whimpering breaths; they weakened as he worked.

“No abandone,” he said, knowing his accent was terrible. “Casi soy terminado . ”

To his surprise, she responded in English. “You’re American?”

“Yeah. I’m doing what I can for you. Nobody official’s on scene yet.”

She responded, her voice tight with pain, “Thank you.”

Silas spoke of inconsequential things as he dug. He told her how he’d traveled from California to Mexico and meandered south on hot, dirty buses. Sometimes there were boats, but he didn’t like them. Everything he owned had been in the duffel he’d left at his hostel, but it was probably long gone.

At last he uncovered her legs. Blood spattered her dusty skin, but he couldn’t tell how badly she was injured. He might be able to pull her out this way, but he needed more information first.

“Where are you hurt? Upper body or spine? Are your arms or shoulders trapped?”

“No,” she said. “Please, just get me out.”

Brave. All right, then. He curled his hands around her calves and towed her out in increments. Each movement made the wreckage teeter, and he was afraid she’d be crushed before he saved her. It was a hot day, overcast, and dust in the air lingered on his dry lips, coating his tongue. Finally, he dragged her shoulders clear, and then it was quick work. As he lifted her into his arms, the whole pile caved, plaster and cement slamming down to fill the space she’d vacated.

Despite the heat, she trembled in his arms, her taut silence revealing a fear he shared and that she’d kept locked down until now. Though they were strangers, he would’ve hated hearing her die. And if he hadn’t intervened, she would have. That was an odd feeling. For once, he’d done something right. While the world wailed around them, she let him hold her for long moments, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so close to a woman. His tough exterior usually terrified them.

Dark, wild hair spilled to his shoulders, uncut for months. They’d demanded he shave it, so they could monitor the hardware in his head. Back then, he’d also cut his eyelashes off because it made him look strange and stupid, easier to maintain the necessary pretense. Since the escape, his hair had grown back, and he had a scar behind his ear where he’d dug out their chip in a shitty gas station bathroom and prayed against infection. So yeah, he knew how he looked—and most of the time, he didn’t care. Better if people kept their distance.

But she still hadn’t glanced up from his shoulder. He might scare her yet. Cradled against his chest, she seemed small, but then, almost everyone did. Few men could look him in the eyes. He was always conscious of taking up space, pulling his arms and legs in so he didn’t intimidate other people. Not that it worked—most practiced snap judgments.

“I’m better,” she said at last.

He took it as his cue to set her down. “Are you vacationing here?”

“No, I’m with an educational coalition, teaching English. You?”

“Just traveling. I was drinking a beer when it all went down.”

“I was shopping for the school.” Her eyes went wide. “Oh my God, the kids .” She tried to run but fell before she’d gone five steps. Her knee buckled beneath her.

It took him all of ten seconds to make up his mind and then even fewer to reach her side and offer his hand. “Show me. I’ll help you.”

Nodding, she let him pull her up, left her hand in his, and shook his in a formal greeting. The woman studied the ink etching his wrists and the backs of his hands. Black and red, the pattern continued up his arms and onto his shoulders, not that she could see it all. The tatts combined with the rest to render him pretty fucking scary, which was a good thing, traveling as he did. He expected a comment or recoil. Instead, she smiled up at him, her face grimy and blood smeared.

He slid an arm around her shoulders to support her. “How far?”

“Four blocks that way.” She pointed behind them.

The light brown of her hair showed even through the dust, worn loose, but with random braids and trinkets, streaks of blue and pink that didn’t look likely to wash out. Girls did such styles on the beach. But it was more practical to plait all of it in this climate. Her refusal showed a hint of vanity and a refusal to conform, echoed in the unusual colors.

“It would be faster if I carried you,” he said.

For a moment, he thought she would protest. To make it easier for her, less passive, he knelt, so she could climb onto his back. It gave her a role to play; if she didn’t hang on, she’d fall, and it took some of the control away from him. He understood the importance of such distinctions.

Without further comment, she got on and he straightened. The damage, as they walked, proved incalculable. People staggered in the streets, bloody and disoriented. Others stood outside wrecked buildings, weeping. No structure had gone untouched, and the rubble spilled into the road, making passage difficult. In a town this size, nobody cared about safety codes.

“That’s quality work,” she said, surprising him with a touch to the patterns curling up his biceps.

An unexpected compliment, under the circumstances, and then he realized she wanted a distraction from the mess surrounding them. “Thanks.”

“I have one on my shoulder.” She leaned forward, so he could see the stylized star by glancing back. “I’m Juneau, by the way. Juneau Bright. I should’ve thanked you before now. You saved my life.”

“Silas.”

That’s a first , he thought. He was all too experienced at causing pain and doing harm. The role of savior was entirely new. Silas found he rather liked it. But he couldn’t think of anything to say to keep the conversation going, and she fell silent, her anxiety kicking in anew.

The school lay at the heart of town. Total devastation. As they approached, Juneau sobbed, just once, and then swallowed her grief. He felt the tension in her arms as she did.

“It’s no use, is it?” But he could tell she already knew the answer. The damage was so profound that there was no way the two of them could perform search and rescue safely. This required a crew, medical supplies, and equipment, unlike the small store where she had been buried.