Issac snorted. “Don’t be an ass.” He might not be a Hydraian by blood, but he was a respected member of their society. They trusted him, and for good reason. “Do you remember that time you asked me to trust Eli not to accidentally kill my only sister?” Technically, Amelia was Issac’s half sister since they had different fathers. Semantics.
Lucian’s blond brows rose. “You mean the one who also happened to be my sister?” Because they shared a birth father—Aidan. The same man who raised Issac as a youth and eventually turned him into an Ichorian.
“Not the point,” Issac replied.
“Entirely the point.”
“Whatever. Don’t be a dick. You know I’m more than capable of mentoring her, Lucian.”
“Because you did such a fantastic job mentoring Tristan.”
He had to go there. “Tristan has no place in this conversation.” Issac’s progeny needed some work, but he wasn’t that bad. “My gift for controlling vision might not work on her, but it works on everyone else. I’ll keep her hidden, introduce her to our world at the right pace, and convince her to help our cause.”
“That’s a hefty task for the CEO of a billion-dollar enterprise.” This from the corner again. Balthazar clearly had a death wish tonight. “I would be better suited for the job. My slate is clean, and you know she won’t be able to resist this face.”
Not after I disassemble it. “No.” Flat. To the point. And nonnegotiable. The mind reader could not—would not—go anywhere near Astasiya. Ever. He’d try to fuck her, not teach her. “No,” Issac repeated. “End of.”
“Worried about your competition, Wakefield?” Balthazar’s taunt made Issac’s hands curl into fists.
“I’m worried you’ll be too busy seducing her to teach her anything.” There, that was a fair argument.
“On the contrary, I could teach her all sorts of things.” The deep tenor of his voice implied what he intended to show Astasiya. If anyone would be giving her a tutorial around the bedroom, it would be Issac. Not Balthazar. “This territorial thing you’ve got going on is cute,” the mind reader added, smirking.
Careful, Issac warned. One psychic punch would black out the bastard’s sight and leave him curled in the fetal position on the floor—a visual tactic Issac had used on the mind reader many times in their long history.
Balthazar blew him a kiss and waggled his dark eyebrows before looking at the man in charge. “I vote we leave her with Wakefield, Luc. There’s more going on in that head of his than he’s admitting out loud, or even to himself.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, B.” Lucian’s biceps bulged as he combed his fingers through his blond hair and then down his face. “Before I agree to anything, I want some clarification.”
“Regarding?” Issac prompted.
“You met Astasiya at Owen’s apartment, which means two things. First, you kept her existence from me on purpose until now. And second, she knew Owen. Who else knows about her?”
Ah, this is going to start an argument. “Aidan, Clara, and Anya know, but only because I needed backup for…” He trailed off as Astasiya’s heartbeat changed.
It was a reassuring rhythm in the back of his mind, until it wasn’t.
Issac knelt by the bed and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. Weak. Too weak. Alarms sounded from the machines, making his stomach lurch. Don’t do this to me, Astasiya.
Balthazar joined him, hand on his shoulder. “I need you to move,” he said, his teasing nature subsiding to the powerful man beneath the jovial veneer. He’d attended medical school several times, providing him with the knowledge and abilities to treat Astasiya’s condition.
It had been Lucian’s primary argument for Balthazar being here.
And despite the man’s irritating habits, Issac trusted the mind reader when it came to matters of life and death.
Keep her alive, Issac thought at him, moving out of his way. It grated to defer to someone else, to place his faith in another to do what was needed.
But I can’t help her. The words bounced around his skull, making him wince. The Nizari poison killed fledglings. No rebirth. No future as a Hydraian. Nothing. Her death would be permanent.
The ache in his chest reminded him of the day he found Amelia’s ashes. An inane reaction to a woman he met less than two weeks ago.
Humans died every day.
His relationship with Astasiya was young at best. He knew little about her aside from the research. Her resilience intrigued him, and their brief kiss foreshadowed a passion well worth the seductive effort, but beyond that, what did he know about her?
She’s intelligent.
Brave.
Gorgeous.
Dying…
“That’s not good enough.” Lucian was on the phone. “No. She’s not going to make it. Bring what you have and we’ll improvise.” He hung up and joined Balthazar’s efforts to resuscitate Astasiya.
She’d stopped breathing.
Issac collapsed in the corner chair in the sitting area of his room, his head in his palms as he listened to her waning pulse.
This is your fault, his subconscious reminded him.
He made decisions every day that impacted the lives of others, but this one grated on him. Left him feeling… guilty.
Innocents died in war every day.
Why did this one bother him?
The loss of whom she could have become?
A hard thud brought his head up. Electricity flowed through the room as everyone waited to see how her heart responded to the paddles against her chest.
It was too silent.
His Ichorian senses picked up on the tiniest thump, followed by another. Her heartbeat. The rhythm sounded off, wrong, unhealthy.
“It’s only temporary,” Balthazar said in his doctor voice, the one void of teasing and seduction. Medicine was one of the few things he took seriously. “I’m honestly surprised she’s still alive. Most fledglings die within an hour or two, and she was injected almost eight hours ago.”
“She’s resilient,” Lucian said, frowning. “Do you think Owen knew about her?”
“Yes,” Issac replied softly, his body frozen as he focused all his energy on her pulse. Such a sweet sound. “Their phone records suggest they’ve been friends for almost seven years. No way he was around her that long and didn’t notice what she could do.” Not when Issac figured it out during their second meeting.
“So he knew her for as long as he lived in the city?” Jayson whistled low and shook his head. “That’s incriminating.”
“It is indeed.” Lucian checked something on the machine and gave Issac a nod. “You already know my answer, Wakefield. I’m trusting you to protect what’s mine, assuming she lives.”
Issac didn’t care for the verbal claim. She wasn’t an object to be owned or a weapon to be used.
Except isn’t that what you’re planning to do with her?
Fuck off.
“You know I will,” he said, addressing Lucian’s comment.
“I do. And you’ll call me the second anything changes.”
“Of course.”
Lucian started to fiddle with one of the cords, then dropped it and pinned Issac with a stare.
And here comes the comment about me talking to Aidan before him, in three, two . . .
“Oh, and the next time you discover a powerful fledgling roaming the streets of New York City? You better tell me before you talk to Dad.”
“Duly noted, but let’s focus on helping this one survive first.” That was all he could think about right now. He needed her alive. He would consider the why of it later.
Lucian nodded. “Fair enough.”
7
A Slow Introduction
Stas’s nose twitched and her stomach growled.
Bacon.
Oh, yes, please.
Lizzie loved to make brunch on the weekends, and Stas adored her for it. Especially when bacon was involved.
Stas stretched her arms and legs, feeling a dull
ache inside that left her frowning. She felt exhausted despite the nightmare-free sleep. Odd.
She reached over to grab her phone from the nightstand and hit a fluffy pillow instead. Groaning, she rolled closer and tried again. More pillows.
What the hell? Her bed wasn’t this big. She blindly patted around. It wasn’t this soft, either.
And what the fuck am I wearing? Yoga pants and a tank top. Stas never wore those clothes to bed.
Yawning, she forced her eyes open for a look around.
Floor-to-ceiling windows with a magnificent view of the Hudson River greeted her.
She flew upward, causing her head to spin. “Ow,” she managed through her dry throat. Shit, she felt awful. Like a hangover, but worse. Lying down again helped marginally, her vision no longer blurring.
A high ceiling—not common in Manhattan apartments—met her gaze. Mahogany tones decorated the oversized bedroom suite, and glass doors led to a terrace outside.
Okay, so she was in a building with views of the Hudson River to one side and Manhattan to the other.
Definitely not Lizzie’s condo.
Stas inched upright and rested against the dark wood headboard, admiring the mahogany tones of the room. Very masculine. A familiar suitcase rested on the floor in the corner beside her purse.
How did I get here?
And when?
She took several deep breaths, calming the spinning in her head. Despite the strange surroundings, she felt safe. An odd sensation, considering, but her instincts rarely failed her.
The familiar scent of sandalwood reminded her of a certain demon, too.
Stas frowned, trying to recall her last memory. Something about the polygraph, being concerned with the serious-crimes question. Everything after that was fuzzy.
Had she drunk too much afterward on her date with Issac?
That would explain her memory loss and presence here, except she rarely overindulged in alcohol. Although, Issac could likely easily drive her to that point. And that would explain the hangover-like throbbing in her skull.
I hope we didn’t… yeah.
No, definitely not.
Stas would be naked if they did, not dressed for yoga. And his side of the bed—or what she assumed to be his side—was perfectly made.
Assuming I’m in Issac’s room.
She swallowed, her throat reminiscent of sandpaper.
God, she needed water before she figured all this out.
Bathroom.
There, near the glass doors.
Of course, it was across the room.
With a sigh, she slowly slid from the silky bedding. Black spots flashed in her eyes at the undesired movement. Definitely dehydrated and hungover. Great. What had Issac done to push her to drink this much?
Unless he drugged her.
No. No, he wouldn’t do that.
Not that she knew him well enough to know for sure.
Her brow crumpled as she gingerly stepped toward the all-marble bathroom. A stack of towels sat on the expensive countertop, the oversized shower behind her a standing invitation. But the giant tub beside it appealed to her more.
Water first.
She grabbed a glass tumbler—there were three—from beside the left sink and filled it to the brim before downing all the contents. The W etched into the crystal of her glass further confirmed her whereabouts.
W for Wakefield.
Three cups later, she felt slightly better, but not great.
Although, the brown stone tiles of the shower looked even more inviting now, as did the multitude of showerheads. A glance in the mirror confirmed her need for a wash even more—tangled hair, sunken eyes, pale skin.
“I look like shit,” she said to herself, her voice raspy despite the water.
With a shake of her head, she locked the bathroom door, undressed, and took advantage of the gorgeous bathroom.
It was as she ran a bar of soap over her arms that she noticed an array of colors smattered along her skin. They resembled week-old bruises.
“What the fuck?” she breathed, eyeing her inner elbow and bicep in horror. “What the fuck?”
A face flickered in her mind, a short woman with dark hair. Something about injections. And an all-white room.
Stas’s legs began to shake, her heart hammering in her chest.
She swallowed and grasped the stone wall for support, the hot water doing little to dispel the chill overwhelming her skin.
Her stomach roiled with a memory she couldn’t quite grasp, her mind refusing to release the details.
But something bad had happened.
That’s how she ended up here.
What did Issac do to me? She frowned, the thought not quite right. Somehow she knew he didn’t harm her. Someone else had.
Stas quickly finished her shower, needing answers. She combed her hair with a brush from one of the drawers, then wrapped a towel around herself before venturing back into the room for the suitcase she’d spotted in the corner. Inside was everything she needed—jeans, tank top, toiletries.
Who packed this?
They’d even included her matching lace undergarments—a penchant she considered to be a secret.
Did Lizzie do this?
Stas quickly dressed before searching her purse for her phone.
Several text messages appeared featuring a conversation between her and Lizzie that she didn’t remember ever having.
I guess that date went well, then. You can thank me for the dress advice later.
Stas frowned. She didn’t remember wearing the dress.
Thank you, Lizzie, was the reply. In Stas’s name. From her phone. But she couldn’t for the life of her remember this conversation.
So where is he taking you for the week? Lizzie had asked next.
It’s a surprise, she’d apparently replied.
Stas snorted. Definitely a surprise, as she had no flipping idea how she arrived or when or where she even was right now. Aside from in Manhattan.
Well, check in every now and then so I know he hasn’t kidnapped you permanently, Lizzie had messaged.
You know that wouldn’t entirely be a bad thing, Liz…
Who are you and what have you done with my Stas?!
It’s Issac… He’s just… The words that followed had Stas’s jaw dropping. There was no way in hell she would ever say that about a man. “Oh, hell no.” She started toward the door, when she noticed the date on her screen.
And froze.
Friday.
Wasn’t yesterday Tuesday?
“What the fuck?”
Her legs were moving again with purpose, out the door, down the hallway lined with windows, and into a great room the size of Lizzie’s condo.
This place is huge.
And it faced the Hudson River, with towering ceilings above, indicating her location at the top of the building.
An oversized couch with two matching recliners faced a mounted television that would make the entire male population drool. A wall of bookcases graced the opposite wall with an oversized U-shaped couch.
The refined elegance and masculine textures were very Issac.
So where is he?
She hung a left between the two seating areas, toward what appeared to be the foyer, and found another hallway just before it that led to the kitchen—a kitchen Lizzie would obsess over. Marble counters and tiles, hardwood cabinets, an island large enough to host a dinner party, and a half-naked Issac beside the stove.
Flipping a pancake.
In a towel.
Her lips parted, her brain fracturing.
Defined shoulders and a wide, muscular back tapered into a lean waist that disappeared into a blue cloth wrapped loosely around his hips. Fresh water droplets hung from his messy dark strands and dripped over skin that was tanner than she expected. The note of chlorine in the air suggested he’d just come from a swimming pool.
How? Why? Where?
Her tongue felt thick in her mouth as he moved from
the stove to the island to pick up a plate.
The front was even better than the back—all rippled, lean muscle. And a dusting of hair leading her eyes on a happy trail to the impressive bulge beneath the towel.
“You look refreshed.” Amusement underlined his tone and darkened his eyes to an alluring sapphire she could easily lose herself in. “I’m almost done making breakfast. Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
Gorgeous. Half-naked. And offering her coffee.
I must be dreaming.
“Yes,” she whispered, unable to think or focus beyond the offering before her. And she wasn’t even sure what she was accepting, either. Him? The towel? Coffee?
He handed her a cup with a knowing smirk.
She managed a quiet “Thanks” before diving into the life-reviving fuel. The dark blend with fruity notes warmed her raw throat and chest, eliciting a deep sigh of contentment.
This is exactly what I needed.
What about answers?
Her eyebrows lifted. Shit. The demon had completely distracted her practical senses.
She joined him at the island, her back to the counter as he chopped up what appeared to be a fruit salad. A fucking fruit salad. Like they were in some sort of alternate dimension where they played house together.
“What the fuck is going on?” She meant to ask that the second she saw him, but his lack of clothing derailed her focus. Maybe this is all just one very fucked-up dream?
“You have no idea how thankful I am to hear that tone, Astasiya.” He sounded so casual and at home, like they did this together every day and his walking around in nothing but a towel was completely normal. He flipped a pancake and turned off the burner before crowding her against the island. With one hand on either side of her hips, he stared down at her. “I’m not sure how to word this without sending you into a fainting fit.”
“I don’t know what that means, so start talking.” God, my throat hurts. She took another sip of her coffee, abundantly aware of his nearness and the heat flaring off his bare chest.
His forearms flexed beside her, drawing attention to the muscular masterpiece on display before her. She needed to find him a shirt or something before she lost her mind, because wow. And did he have to stand so close?
Vote Then Read: Volume I Page 128