To Die For

Hunter takes my hand in his, rubs a knuckle with his thumb. "Do you know what's happening?"

I shrug. "I think yes. I cannot stay. I am not American, not worker, not translator. So I go."

Hunter frowns, brow wrinkling. "No, Rania. I mean, yes. You can't stay since you're not...well, they want you go back to...to go back. But there's a way you can stay."

I glance up at him. Hope hits me like pain. I do not want to hope, but it is hard not to. "What way is this? You will not send me away?"

He pulls me down to perch on the edge of the bed, wraps his arm around my waist. "No, Rania. No. You can stay if you marry me. Come back to the States with me."

Shock rocks me. "Marry?" I am not sure I heard him right. I switch to Arabic. "Be your wife?"

He nods. "I...don't have a ring," he says in English. "But...I'll give you one, as soon as I can. It's not just a way for you to stay, though. It's what-I want you to be mine."

I shake my head, disbelieving. "You...you want me, always? I have nothing. No one. If you take me to America and then do not love me, where will I go? Back to whoring?"

Hunter touches my cheek, kisses my chin. "I will always love you. You saved me, Rania."

I shake my head. "No, you have saved me."

"We saved each other, then," he says.

I smile my agreement.

"So you'll marry me?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, shedding a tear. "Yes. I will."

Derek returns with the other soldiers I recognize from Hunter's rescue, and another man, older, with the soft, gentle face of a religious person, not a killer's eyes, but peaceful ones. He is a priest, or an imam. Something. A holy man, but I do not know the English word. I think, make myself remember. Chaplain, Hunter said. That is the word. The chaplain holds a thick black book, a religious book. Not the Q'uran, but the Christian book. The Bible.

Hunter struggles to his feet, stands facing me, takes my hands in his, with the chaplain in front of us. We are in the hospital in the American base. Camp Fallujah, I think it is called. They referred to it as something else, three letters. M-E-K, or something like that. My knowledge of the English letters is next to nothing, and it does not matter. Hunter's eyes are soft on mine, blue as the ocean in the photographs I have seen in the magazines and stores, blue as the sky on a hot day. He is smiling, calm and confident and rea.s.suring me.

Fears pulse through me. Marriage is for always. To marry is to belong to that man. I have never belonged to anyone. I have never wanted to belong to anyone. I am my own. I survive. And now this American whom I have known for only a few weeks has swept me away from the only life I know, and I am marrying him. It seems mad, foolish, rash. But...it is right. It is what I want. I want to belong to him. He will not hit me, as I know many husbands do their wives. He will not make me take the hijab, I do not think. He will not make me continue to be a wh.o.r.e. He will not let me continue to be a wh.o.r.e, I think is more true. He wants me all for himself. I do not know why, but he does.

I swallow hard, my throat thick and tight and dry.

The chaplain speaks, and Suran translates.

"We are gathered to witness the marriage of this man, Hunter Lee, to this woman, Rania..." He pauses and glances at me, then Hunter, and I realize he wants my last name.

I hesitate. I have not thought of my family name in a very long time. In the end, it does not matter.

"Only Rania," I say.

"To this woman, Rania," the chaplain continues, "in the bonds of holy matrimony..."

He says many other things, regarding the sanct.i.ty of marriage and the bride of Christ-which I do not understand, since Hunter is Hunter, not Christ-and then he asks Hunter to repeat after him, and there is an embarra.s.sing moment in which the chaplain is made to understand there are no rings, but I do not care for such things. I have never owned jewelry, and have never expected to. And then the chaplain asks me to repeat after him.

"I, Rania, take you, Hunter Lee, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part."

I repeat the words, and I mean them with all my soul. I will be all I can for Hunter for as long he will have me, through anything.

And then we have both said "I do," and Hunter kisses me, a short but pa.s.sionate kiss, and something clicks inside me. My fear abates, my fear that Hunter will not want me, my fear that this is all some kind of game, or trick.

I find myself weeping again, quiet tears, soft tears. Hunter brushes them away with his finger.

"You okay?" he asks.

I nod. "It is just...much. So fast. Is it real?" I am whispering for some reason. The other men have left, and Hunter and I are alone, but my fears must be voiced, but not too loud lest they come true. "I am afraid this is not real. I am afraid that you will not love me until death parts us. I do not know what to do. I do not know what will happen to me."

"It's real," Hunter says, pulling me down onto the narrow hospital cot with him. I lie next to him, cuddled into his arms. "I promise it's real. It's fast for me, too, but...I can't let you go. I can't...I won't let you go back there, go back to being a wh.o.r.e. I love you. You belong with me."

"I belong to you."

Hunter frowns. "I hope you understand something, Rania. You are your own person. When you come home with me, you'll be...free. You can do anything you want. You can learn. You're smart. You don't belong to me, like a dog or a car. I don't own you, and I won't try to control you."

I nod. "But I am only yours. You will not...share me."

Hunter's eyes blaze. "Never! You're mine." He takes my face in his hands. "You're not a wh.o.r.e anymore, Rania. Never again."

"Then...what will I do, for food?"

Hunter frowns as if confused. "I will take care of you."

"But...then..." I do not know how to say what I am thinking. I start over. "Nothing is free, Hunter. If I am not a wh.o.r.e, and you feed me and clothe me and give a home, then I must work to earn it. I cannot do nothing. You will be simply paying me in food, rather than with money."

"Paying? Paying for what?"

"s.e.x."

Hunter drags his hand through his hair. "Rania, listen. I don't expect anything in that

I shake my head. "I have never...I do not-" I stand up and pace away, turn back and stand in front of him. He wraps his arms around my waist, gazing up at me. I try again, this time in Arabic, slowly so he can follow. "This is a new way to think. I have survived by doing what I must to earn food. I have never known anything else. I am a wh.o.r.e because it is the way I could get money for food. You say you will take care of me. I will have to learn how to let you do this. I do not know how. No one has ever taken care of me. I take care of me."

Hunter's gaze hardens. "You are not a wh.o.r.e anymore, Rania." He pulls me closer and rests his head on my body just beneath my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I cannot help my fingers from tangling in his hair, and realize that now, I do not have to help it. "Everything is going to change for you now, Rania."

I whisper my next words, because I am not sure if they are meant for him or for myself. "That is what I am afraid of."

HUNTER.

I can't sleep. I'm feeling better, but the docs tell me I'm stuck in the hospital for observation for another few days. I just want to go home. I want to get Rania alone. I'm f.u.c.king married to her, but I can't get a single hour of privacy with her, d.a.m.n doctors coming and going all the time.

I'm not even sure if she wants me like that. She's skittish still. Hesitant to touch me, like she's not sure she's allowed to. I'm basically alone in this part of the hospital, so she's been bunking in the bed next to mine, the curtain between us drawn back. Not a lot of privacy, but then, we haven't needed it.

It's odd being back here, back among Americans, in the base. Rania is clearly unsure of herself here. She used the Sabah mask to get by, I think, but deep down, she's still a scared little girl. Now, without Sabah's fake confidence, she doesn't know who to be. She's been so alone for so long, and she doesn't know anything different. She doesn't even know what happiness is, I think.

I'll have to teach her.

She's asleep, curled on top of the blankets, wearing a pair of BDU pants and a T-s.h.i.+rt drawn from supply. Her feet are bare, the socks and boots I got for her set neatly at the foot of the bed. The hospital lights are dimmed, moonlight filtering in through the window. It's air-conditioned in here, cold. I can see her skin p.r.i.c.kling with goose b.u.mps.

"f.u.c.k it," I whisper to myself.

I slip out of bed, dragging my blanket with me, and lie on the edge of the bed behind Rania. She rustles in her sleep but doesn't move. I drape the blanket over both of us and wrap my arm over her waist, intimate but not s.e.xual. I want to touch her, want to kiss her and slip my hand underneath her s.h.i.+rt.

d.a.m.n it.

That one night was such a f.u.c.king tease. I can't get her voice out of my head, the insanely erotic way she writhed and moaned as she came, the hot silk of her skin...I'm teasing myself thinking about it. I'm getting hard, and I can't help it. I should be sleeping. I should've stayed in my bed because this is just going to make things more difficult on me.

She twists in the bed, making a little noise in her throat as she does so. She's facing me now, and her hands are clasped up between our chests, almost as if she's praying in her sleep. I let my hand rest on her waist, and I just can't help but let it slide down to her hip.

Then her eyes are fluttering open and she's looking into me. Not at me, but into me.

So beautiful, soft and lovely.

One of her hands uncurls, flattens against my chest. I blink hard, desperately, pathetically hoping she'll touch me. I feel like a teenager again, working so hard for a first kiss, awkwardly groping in the dark back seat of my car, hoping she'll touch me anywhere, hoping she wants me like I want her.

This is crazy. I'm married to her, but our relations.h.i.+p is so odd, so hesitant, so careful and exploratory.

Minutes pa.s.s, my hand on her hip, hers on my chest, neither of us moving, barely breathing. I wonder if I should try to make a move, kiss her, or touch her, or let her set the pace.

My gut tells me to stay still and see what she does, and I've learned to trust my gut.

Her eyes widen slightly and waver as her gaze s.h.i.+fts on mine. She runs her hand over my shoulder and down my arm, just her fingertips along the bicep. And then she's sliding her palm down my chest again, twisting her hand so her fingers face sideways, cupping my waist and my side. I stay frozen, letting her touch me. She scoots sideways along the edge of the bed, pulls me toward her, and then pushes me to lie on my back, adjusting her own position again so she's lying half on me, my arm now cradling her head.

"Okay?" she whispers. "Not hurting you, am I?"

I shake my head. My fingers are twisting in her hair, smoothing it, toying with strands. I just watch her, examine her lovely features, memorizing, admiring.

She places her hand on the center of my chest, staring at my body now rather than my eyes. Her fingers move down the fabric of my s.h.i.+rt, a proper regulation green BDU T-s.h.i.+rt now. She slips her fingers under the bottom edge of the s.h.i.+rt and explores upward, pus.h.i.+ng the cotton as she goes. I lift my back slightly so the s.h.i.+rt is free to bunch under my shoulders. It's a bit uncomfortable, so I tug the s.h.i.+rt off with one hand and toss it on the floor next to the bed.

I don't know what the doctors are monitoring, since I'm not hooked up to any machines; a random, aimless, displaced thought.

Her hand rests on my right pectoral muscle, and she traces around my nipple, rubs her thumb across the tip of it, then traces the arc of my pectoral with one finger. Now the stomach, her palm sliding across my taut belly, tracing the grooves between my abs, like she did that one night in her house. I resist the urge to flex for her.

She runs up the other side of my body, then back down. Farther, closer and closer to my waistband. She's working up the courage to go farther. I won't stop her this time. I think she's just exploring, for herself. Exploring her own sense of desire.

She takes a breath, slow and deep, lets it out as she snakes her palm down my torso to the fly of my pants. I unconsciously suck in my belly a little, then force myself to relax it. She glances up at me, unsure. I tuck a wayward hair behind her ear, run the side of my thumb over her cheekbone, then kiss her, as slow and soft and sweet as I can manage.

This seems to give her courage.

She twists the first b.u.t.ton free, then the second. She stops, looks up at me. I quirk one side of my mouth up in a tiny smile and keep playing with her hair. She glances away, smiling shyly. So innocent, approaching this almost like a virgin.

I lick my lips and focus on breathing evenly as she unb.u.t.tons my fly the rest of the way. She puts her fingers in the waistband of my underwear, then hesitates, shakes her head.

"Hey," I say. "It's okay. This is whatever you want. No rush, okay? Just...just relax."

"I am not so much afraid," she says. "I am only nervous. Unsure of what I want, or what I am doing."

"Just do whatever you want. If you're not sure, just ask."

She bites her lip and looks at me, long and hard. "I want...I want to see you," she says.

"See me?"

She nods, not looking at me now, embarra.s.sed. "Just see what you look like, first, as a man."

"Oh. You mean you want me to take my pants off?"

She nods her head against my chest again. "Is it okay?"

I laugh into her hair. "Of course. Everything's okay. Listen, only do what you want, okay? I told you, I don't expect-"

"I want to," she interrupts. "I just am not so sure of what to want, or how to want it. You know? I have never wanted a man before."

"And you want me?"

She nods. "It is frightening, a little, how much I want to touch you. To be touched." I can feel her heart beating hard in her chest. "What you did, before, to me. To make me..." she makes an exploding gesture with her fingers, "...that was...I liked it. Very much."

I chuckle. "Me, too."

She tilts her head to look at me, nose wrinkled in confusion. "But you...I did nothing for you."

"It's not just about that. I enjoyed that as much as you did, but in a different way. Watching you...making you feel those things...I loved it. I'll do it again, if you want me to."

She shakes her head. "Not yet. First, this. I am afraid to touch you, but yet I want to. I cannot be only afraid. I must know in my heart that it is okay to want. To touch."

I think I sense what she's saying. "This is different for you. Different from...being with someone as Sabah."

She flinches and goes tense. "That is not 'being with.' It is... 'doing to.' You see the difference? Sabah...she is one who allows men to feel what they want, do what they want. Sabah? She does not feel. She is cold. So cold that she cannot feel."

"Numb."

"Numb?"

"That's the word for when you're so cold you can't feel anything."

"Oh. Then yes. Sabah is numb. She pretends." A long silence. "I am not Sabah. I am Rania. And I feel."

"Good. No more Sabah. Only Rania."

She nods. "But you are right. This is very different. Maybe you think because I was a wh.o.r.e for many years, I should know much about s.e.x, about men." She shakes her head. "No. They do. I...do nothing. Only let them and make the noises they like."

"Not anymore," I say.

She shrugs, a tiny movement. "Perhaps. If you say so." She's drifting away.

I've f.u.c.ked it up. She's distant now, cooled off. Thinking about then. About Sabah.

"I'm sorry I brought it up."