The Seers

  She squirmed. It had been an hour since Commander Bishop's last conversation. No shadows passed underneath the door separating them. No footsteps came from the next room. All seemed quiet.

  It was time.

  Of course her attempt might not be successful, but she wouldn’t spend her remaining days as a Variant in hiding, waiting, fearing the moment when Cyrus would come to kill her.

  She set the book down on the pale-yellow pillow next to her and slipped out from under the duvet onto the marble floor without a sound. She glided to the door separating the bedroom from the sitting room, each step lithe and silent. Decorated in the French style, the three-room suite was a stark contrast to the rest of the estate. Intricate friezes adorned the ivory walls, ornate chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, and heavy gold drapes lined the large windows overlooking the gardens.

  Eyes shut, she waited for any sound, then peeked into the sitting room, careful not to cast a shadow. Faint blue light shone from the arched windows.

  In the corner, a curled-up silhouette lay on a pale-yellow chaise. Except for the deep breaths flowing in and out of his chest, Commander Bishop lay motionless, covered in a green plaid blanket that clashed with just about everything in the room.

  Her gaze lingered on him, and she fought a smile. He had never fit into her world of genetic perfection, yet here he was, completely at ease. She wished things could have been different. Her heart still ached every time she saw him, but he was with Cyrus now.

  She shut the door and backed away before turning to face her quiet bedroom.

  Could it really be this easy?

  She strode to the bureau and bit her lip as she pulled out the top drawer, careful not to make a sound. The dagger gleamed. Picking it up, the golden bands of the chatoyant handle shined warmly in her pale hand. It was centuries old but didn’t show a trace of wear.

  That would change tonight.

  She placed it in a pocket of her silk dress and crept out the suite doors. Silver light gleamed from the windows of the otherwise dark and quiet hall. She stalked along the shadows, nearing the thick double doors at the end. Her hands trembled, but she fought to stay calm. Success hinged on her ability to keep focused.

  With a tight breath, she slid her hand around the smooth steel door handle and slipped into the central chamber of her brother's suite. The scarlet drapes and black leather, appropriate for a brothel, were fitting for Cyrus. She squinted, searching the room for any human shapes, but the room was empty.

  She crept to the bedroom door. Cyrus lay splayed out, tangled in a mess of black silk sheets, on the wide bed in the center of the room. An unrecognizable woman lay next to him, face down and naked without so much as a sheet for cover.

  Annabel’s pulse began to pound. She wanted to yell at him, demand an explanation. Would he have cared if she had died?

  She clenched her jaw. The answer was clear.

  It came as no surprise that Cyrus had a guest. Her revenge rested solely in killing her brother, but one collateral death was a small price to pay for reprisal.

  Her gaze shifted back and forth. Whom should she kill first? A scream from the woman would echo down the halls and alert the guards, but a quick slice to the throat would silence her. She glided toward the woman first, then it would be on to Cyrus.

  With revenge so close, her hands trembled as she slipped the dagger from the folds of her dress. She extended her hand to grab the woman’s thick, white curls to expose her neck.

  Quick, firm swipe.

  A hand clamped around her mouth, powerful and unyielding, and pulled her back. Another hand yanked the dagger from her grasp. A muffled sound emanated from her throat as she scrambled to get her footing.

  Cyrus stirred.

  She fell limp and silent in her captor’s arms. Caught at Cyrus’s bedside, in the middle of the night, with a dagger. How could she possibly explain this? The only death tonight would be her own.

  Her feet were swept out from underneath her, and she fell with her hands pinned to her sides. She landed silently on the bare chest of her captor, who rolled with her under the bed. As she lay on her side, a set of muscular arms and a tan chest trapped her.

  Commander Bishop.

  His black eyes bored through her, and her heart nearly dropped from her chest. There wasn’t any mystery behind his livid and terrifying thoughts now.

  Judging from the sweatpants and lack of a shirt, he must have awoken and chased after her without getting dressed. How had he known? She’d been so careful, but it was all over now.

  She’d failed.

  Her shoulder ached below her, but she didn't dare move. Every muscle in his chest and arms was rigidly braced. To fight back against him would have been futile.

  The mattress above them shifted and depressed.

  “Don't make a sound,” he mouthed.

  After a few moments, it shifted again.

  “You,” Cyrus barked. The mattress jerked. “Time to go.”

  Without a word, the woman rolled from the bed and plodded to a chair in the corner. Annabel stretched to see beyond his shoulder as the woman slipped on a pair of black underwear before staggering from the room.

  Commander Bishop's gaze remained on Annabel, impossible to avoid. She’d wanted to be this close to him once—back when she thought he might have cared for her. His face was inches from hers, his hands firmly planted on her back. Her pale arms were folded, resting on his chest… His strong, warm chest.

  Her breath hitched.

  He works for Cyrus!

  Air. She needed air. And space.

  She squirmed to gain some distance, but his arms tightened. Wide-eyed, he shook his head. She complied even though everything inside her screamed.

  A heavy thud behind her brought everything back to focus. She searched his face for any sign of what was happening. His eyes were trained on a single target over her shoulder with laser-like focus, but he made no effort to move.

  No effort to move was good. No effort to move meant Cyrus wasn't investigating… yet.

  Moments later, footsteps lumbered away from the bed. Her muscles relaxed, and her heart slowed. His chest rose with a deep breath—hard muscle under smooth skin, faint scents of leather and cedar. This was nothing like her friend from years ago, and for the first time, it was a welcomed change.

  She clamped her eyes shut.

  He’s Cyrus’s most trusted adviser…

  The brass hinges of the balcony doors creaked open. Moments later, a high-pitched din made Annabel frown. She couldn't place it at first, but then her mouth dropped open in a silent gasp. He was peeing into the garden.

  She forced a breath out of her nose, fighting the urge to slip from under the bed and push Cyrus from the balcony. Commander Bishop maintained his focus over her shoulder, revealing nothing.

  “Is he—”

  His gaze darted to her. “Shh!”

  He's protecting me.

  Why would he do that? He’d seen it all. Her reaching for the woman, dagger in hand—the same dagger now in his possession. He knew the truth, the nearly fatal truth, and it would be his duty to tell Cyrus. She pulled her head toward her chest to avoid his glare.

  She couldn’t be naive enough to believe that her friendship had anything to do with it. He’d chosen his career. He had barely said a word to her since. But there had to be some reason for hiding her under Cyrus’s bed.

  Leverage.

  Her heart sank. He was too smart, and now he possessed damning evidence of her plot to kill her brother. From now on, she would answer to two men: the brother who had betrayed her and the guard who knew too much.

  Cyrus's footsteps returned behind her. With a yawn, he collapsed on top of the bed, shaking the whole thing. Not long after that, slow, deep breathing returned.

  A twitch from Commander Bishop's arms signaled it was time to move. Slowly, they slid from their hiding spot. He emerged first and offered his hands to her. She begrudgingly accepted. His gaze anchored to Cyrus, he pull
ed her up and ushered her to the door. He shut it behind them without a sound.

  Safe for now…

  He spun and glared at her, and she cringed.

  But for how long?

  Grabbing her by the back of her arm, he pulled her out of Cyrus’s suite. They flew down the hallway. She had to run to keep up.

  “Let go of me!” she whispered.

  “Not a chance.” He threw the door to her suite open, hurled her forward, and slammed the door behind them. Leaning against it, he shut his eyes and ran a hand over his face.

  She eyed him carefully for his next move. Her room wouldn’t offer any safety from him.

  There wasn’t a place in the world she’d be safe now.

  He inhaled deeply before he opened his eyes and bored holes through her, then he ripped the dagger from his waistband and threw it at her feet. She skipped to the side of it with a yelp as it skidded across the floor and came to a rest by the wall.

  “If you wanted to commit suicide, there's plenty of easier and less painful ways to do it,” he said through a clenched jaw.

  She twisted her face with feigned indignation. “I wasn't trying to—”

  “That is exactly what would have happened.” He paced around the room. “And what were you thinking? You thought it was a good idea to go after the woman first?”

  She pulled her shoulders back. The woman would have screamed and alerted the guards—not that Annabel could have explained her reasoning.

  “Do you honestly believe your brother would allow you to return to your suite if you posed any threat to him?” He thrust an arm in the direction of Cyrus’s suite. Every muscle from his abs to his biceps protruded with vivid definition. “I trained him to fight myself! You would’ve been dead before that girl's heart stopped beating.”

  “Why do you care?” she shouted.

  He was right, of course. Her plan would have never worked, but why would he bother saving her? At least her plan would have forced Cyrus’s hand. No more waiting or hiding, wondering when he would finally conclude she was useless and kill her. She’d rather die than live this way.

  He hung his head, continuing to pace. “It's my job to protect you.”

  She balled her hands, wanting to unleash a primal scream. “Why is that? Why did you volunteer to babysit me in the first place? Because we were friends once? We haven’t spoken in years!”

  His gaze darted to her for a fleeting moment, but he continued to pace. It drove her crazy how little she could affect him. Their friendship had meant nothing to him; protecting her had always simply been his job.

  “It’s because I could become a Seer, isn’t it? Everything is about the mission for you!”

  Nothing. He kept pacing as if she’d never said anything at all. There were drones with more emotion than him.

  “Or is it because I’m a Variant now? You're different, and with my blue eyes, I'm different, too?”

  He stopped mid-stride and lunged toward her, his chin inches from her forehead, his bare chest too close to concentrate on anything else.

  “Look at me,” he said, his voice low and commanding. His dark eyes were fixed so intensely on her, she turned away.

  “Look. At. Me!”

  She obeyed and could almost feel the color drain from her face.

  “I'm the Head of the Guard. I control over a thousand of the fiercest fighters in the world, and I'm more vicious and deadly than any of them! I know who I am, and trust me when I say I have no problem with any part of it.”

  His black eyes looked primed to explode. The shy low-level guard she’d known was long gone. He was every bit the Tavian warrior he claimed to be.

  He paced away. “And the next time you think about doing something so stupid, it would be good for you to remember who you are.”

  Her fingers curled into her palms. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It means the only thing you have is a pedigree, and you're a spare when it comes to that. I won't deny your bloodline has gotten you pretty far, but you don't wield any real power, and it can't protect you from your brother.”

  The words stung, but it was the truth—the blunt and raw truth. He’d said it like it was common knowledge, like she didn’t already know the bleak prospects of her life. As a Variant, even her pedigree was gone now. Cyrus had left her with nothing, and Commander Bishop had no problem telling her she was down and holding her there.

  She blinked back tears and glared at him through the pain. This definitely wasn’t her friend.

  He stormed away.

  “What?” she shouted after him. “You're not going to take the dagger?”

  “Keep it,” he replied over his shoulder, swinging the door shut behind him. “If you try something that stupid again, I won't be there to save you.”

  Chapter 8

  Jasper slammed the door shut behind him so hard the wood bent and warped with the force. It wasn’t enough. He clenched his fists, needing to break something—pulverize it to nothing.

  How could Annabel have been so stupid? He stretched his neck, the urge to hit something nearly irresistible. The room was full of delicate objects, reflecting another time and place. He wanted to break it all.

  But he wouldn't. Annabel would most certainly hear him as he carved a path of destruction through her sitting room. He wouldn't allow anyone—let alone her—to see him this way. He dropped to the ground for push-ups.

  In her brother's room with nothing but a dagger...

  He lowered his chest to the floor and thrust back up.

  Not a gun or a bomb… No, that would be too easy. Close combat with an easily identifiable weapon, that’s a great idea for a small woman with no combat experience…

  He sped the repetitions, coming within an inch of the floor and jutting up.

  Of all the asinine moves...

  He focused on the control of his movements and welcomed the burn of muscle fatigue.

  Her motives had been written all over her face the moment she’d seen her blue eyes in the mirror. Her features had barely tightened, but they’d held an unmistakable ire that seemed out of place on a face so sweet.

  Cyrus had never treated her like anything more than a tool at his disposal. He had isolated her under the guise of protection when his true motive was to marginalize her. He demeaned her behind closed doors. He’d even tried to have her killed once. But killing him wouldn’t solve anything.

  If she’d become a Seer, the playing field would have been leveled. All of Octavius would have seen her worth. Instead, she’d become a Variant. As a Variant himself, Jasper knew the danger Annabel was in.

  White hair, black eyes. Those were the physical signs of the ideal genetic profile. If her blue eyes were discovered, the other Elite Families would jump at the chance to overthrow Cyrus—and Annabel, by extension. She could kill Cyrus herself and somehow avoid suspicion, she could develop into a Seer, it wouldn’t matter. Suspicions would always persist about her. She’d never be accepted as ruler.

  Whether she liked it or not, her survival now rested in a secure rule for Cyrus.

  He lowered himself to the ground. She was smarter than this dagger-wielding, bungled attempt at an assassination. She should be dead; she would have been dead if he hadn't intervened.

  The worst part was the way she’d glared at him when they’d returned: her jaw flexed, those blue eyes sparking. Had she actually deluded herself into believing she would succeed?

  Stubborn, naïve…

  Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he kept going. If ever called to testify about his actions in Cyrus’s suite, Jasper could defend himself perfectly. He’d averted a disaster. He had prevented bloodshed within the ruling family. He might even earn a commendation.

  But he knew the truth.

  As he’d sprinted down the hall to Cyrus's suite, he had expected the worst. He’d never wanted anything more than to find her still alive. And if he’d found her alive, he would’ve been prepared to do anything to keep her that way. He’d al
ready run through Cyrus’s sparring weaknesses. Kick to the solar plexus to immobilize, rear-naked chokehold for the kill.

  He rolled onto his back and stared at the shadows cast along the ceiling.

  I almost killed Cyrus.

  Memories from a different time flooded him. The shy girl from the garden. She’d hidden there sometimes at night, worried that her parents’ murderers would return to find her. Even then, one smile from her had kept him going for days—and that was saying something for a dark-haired, Level-2 guard.

  She’d always been beautiful, but now? The urge to slide his hand around her waist or to kiss those beautiful lips was nearly constant. It would be worse after tonight, after he had held her so close.

  The memory of her hands on his chest sent a shiver through him. He wanted to be touched by her. He wanted her to yearn for his touch as much as he did for hers.

  And those eyes. They were obviously different now but still just as deep, full of facets that glimmered when she moved. He clamped a hand over his eyes, as if that would block the vision of her.

  He would do anything for her.

  Even if she had asked him to kill Cyrus, he couldn’t rule it out, but it wasn’t what she needed. She’d always wanted and needed to feel safe, and he’d spent his life trying to give that to her, even when that meant walking away. He rolled to his feet and vaulted to a stand to pace but avoided all view of the garden from the window.

  Despite his faults, Tiberius had been right. Her best chance was to attract one of the sons from the other Elite Families, but it wasn’t easy to watch, especially where Remington Sacarro was concerned.

  While it was true that none of the other families would challenge a Sacarro-Renaud alliance, Annabel would have paid a high price with Remington—he wasn’t much better than Cyrus.

  Jasper smirked. He’d taken care of Remington, but his jaw still ached from the beating he’d received from Tiberius’s men because of it. Tiberius hadn’t deserved the death Cyrus had given him, but Jasper certainly hadn’t felt sorry for him.

  He clenched his fists. He’d promised himself he’d work his way back into her life someday. He was the Head of the Guard now. He had access. Few people could touch him.