Defending Zara (Mountain Mercenaries #6)(47)

“One day, not too long after I ended up in that first barrio, I decided I was going to walk back to Miraflores. I set out, determined to get to safety. I walked all day. All day, Meat. My feet were nothing but blisters on top of blisters because the cute little dress shoes I’d been wearing the night my life changed weren’t exactly meant for hiking.

“I don’t know where I ended up, but it wasn’t anywhere near the ‘nice’ part of the city. I turned around, hoping to find my way back to that hole in the wall where I’d been hiding, but I was lost. So lost. It was getting dark, and I was scared. I saw a few people, but instead of taking pity on a poor little white girl, obviously out of her element, they made lewd comments. Said if I took care of them, they’d take care of me. One man even pulled his pants down and started rubbing his dick while trying to convince me to come closer! I’d never even seen a naked man before and was scared out of my mind!

“So I ran. With no clue what direction I was going, I just ran. I lost my shoes somewhere. Even though they didn’t fit and were hurting my feet, that was the thing that finally broke me. I found a car and crawled under it, curling up next to the front tire, trying to get warm and hiding from everyone who wanted to hurt me.”

“Jesus, Zara,” Meat said, wanting to hold her. To comfort the poor, scared, lost little girl she’d once been. But at that moment, she looked like the last thing she wanted was a hug. She was pissed—and she looked glorious in her anger.

“Those FBI agents had no right to make assumptions like they did! They had no sympathy for the scared kid I once was; they only saw a woman who may or may not be lying. I know they have to consider it a possibility, because of the amount of money my parents left me, but it felt like they were condemning me for the actions of a child. It wasn’t fair, and if that’s how others are going to see me, I don’t want anything to do with them!”

Zara was panting as if she’d just run a mile and glaring at him so fiercely, Meat couldn’t help but be impressed. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he told her calmly.

She raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“I mean it,” he said. “You don’t want to give a press conference, you don’t have to. Once the DNA results come back and prove you’re exactly who you say you are, the FBI or cops will have no reason to talk to you again. And even if they want to, it’s your decision if you want to give them another chance. You can hole up here in my house and ignore the world, if that’s what you want.”

Some of the anger went out of her rigid stance and expression, and her hands dropped from her hips. “Hiding sounds like heaven. Why are you being so nice to me? Is it because I saved you? I don’t need your pity or gratitude,” she said, still a little angry.

“I definitely don’t pity you, but you have my gratitude whether you want it or not. You saved me. And I’m in awe of you, Zara. You’re a survivor. A warrior. And I respect the hell out of you. When I think back to when I was ten, I know for a fact I couldn’t have done what you did. All I was interested in was cartoons and food.”

She swallowed hard and sighed. “You probably wouldn’t have let the men take you away in the first place.”

Meat shook his head and took a cautious step toward her. When she didn’t back away, he took another. Then another, and he kept going until he was standing right in front of her. He gently put a finger under her chin and raised her head until she was looking him in the eyes. “You impress me so much, Zara. You went through something so horrifying and unbelievable, and yet . . . here you are. Standing strong, kicking ass and taking names. Don’t let the insensitive questions and remarks from others who don’t understand—will never be able to understand—get under your skin. You be you.”

“What if I don’t know who I am?” she asked softly.

“Then you take all the time you need to figure it out,” Meat told her. “Now . . . you hungry?”

She nodded slightly.

“Then how about we go downstairs, and I’ll make you an omelet or something?”

“Can you . . . Will you teach me how to do it?” she asked. “I obviously haven’t had a chance to learn how to cook in the last decade or so . . . and I don’t think cooking raw meat on a stick over a fire counts.”

Meat refused to feel sorry for her. If she could laugh at herself, then the least he could do was laugh with her. “That might come in handy if we’re camping, but I’d be happy to teach you what I know. Although, Harlow might be a better teacher. She’s a chef.”

Zara looked horrified. “No! I’d feel so inadequate next to her.”

Meat shook his head. “She’s a very good teacher, and she’d never make you feel deficient or bad about your skills or lack thereof.”

Zara shook her head. “No. I want you to teach me.”

Meat couldn’t help but feel touched by her words. He shouldn’t. He was just the most familiar thing to her right now. At some point, she’d realize that there were a lot more people out there way more qualified to help acclimate her to her brand-new world, but for the moment, he was enjoying it just being the two of them.

Without asking, and without thought, Meat pulled Zara into his arms. She didn’t struggle or pull away, merely put her cheek on his chest and curled her arms around his waist. They stood like that for a minute or two before he reluctantly pulled away. “Come on,” he coaxed, taking her hand in his. “Time for your first cooking lesson.”