He nodded.
She jerked her head toward the master bedroom, the room Sofia had meticulously avoided during her stay. Frowning, Kyle preceded Zara into the room. He froze, eyes wide.
Danyael and Sofia lay, fully clothed, side-by-side on the bed, both as pale and still as death. They clasped hands, fingers intertwined. A thin strip of cloth bound their wrists together, ensuring physical contact even if they tried to pull apart.
Zara walked past Kyle to squat by Danyael’s side of the bed. She stroked sweat-soaked locks from his brow and shook him gently. “Danyael?”
A full minute passed before Danyael opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Zara. He was clearly weighed down by exhaustion so deep, so profound it required a conscious act of will to respond. His dark eyes were glazed. Pain flickered in their depths.
“Kyle’s back with the antidote.”
A faint motion tugged up at a corner of Danyael’s lips.
Kyle held up the precious vial.
Danyael’s head moved. His eyes flicked toward Sofia. “Inject into her.”
But Danyael was the doctor. Kyle frowned. “Can you?”
Danyael shook his head. His faint smile was rueful, even apologetic. He raised his right hand, the hand not touching Sofia’s, off the bed. His hand trembled visibly. “Not steady enough. I…can walk you through it.”
Danyael’s halting directions were clear and simple. Kyle quivered with impatience as he filled a syringe with the clear liquid from the test tube. Each second, each minute, Sofia’s life was at risk.
“I won’t let her go.” Danyael’s voice steadied him.
Kyle stared into Danyael’s pale face. He drew in a deep breath and then nodded tersely. “What do I do?”
Inserting the needle into a tiny, delicate vein was not quite the same thing as the crude violence involved with an adrenaline shot, but Kyle managed. Carefully, he depressed the plunger on the syringe and watched the antidote flow into Sofia’s veins. He looked at Danyael for more guidance, but the alpha empath had closed his eyes. Danyael sank into the pillows.
Zara reached for the cloth that bound Danyael and Sofia’s hands together, but Danyael whispered, “No, not yet.”
Damn, the antidote isn’t working.
Kyle cursed and turned away to slam his open palm against the wall, but Zara placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Give it a few seconds.”
Seconds turned into minutes. Kyle counted them down, every one.
At the six-minute mark, Danyael’s mouth curved faintly upward in a smile. “She’s breathing on her own now.”
Kyle knelt by Sofia’s bedside and pressed light kisses to her face and hair. She was going to be all right, thank God, she was going to be fine.
Zara yanked the cloth away and pulled Danyael’s and Sofia’s hands apart.
Danyael’s body seemed to collapse onto the bed, as if suddenly relieved of an unbearable burden. His breath still strained against his chest, but there was a soft sheen of relief on his face.
Zara said nothing. She stood back and watched him.
Kyle knew she too was counting down each second.
Several more minutes passed before Danyael stirred. “Time?” he asked without opening his eyes.
“Seven thirty-two.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I…have to go.” He rolled to his side, but suddenly, his body convulsed.
Kyle raced around the bed, but Zara was already there. She snatched up the deep bowl by the side of the bed, and held it as Danyael vomited bile and clots of dark red blood. His body heaved, collapsing under the assault of self-inflicted exhaustion and pain.
Kyle stared, wordless. In that moment, he understood nature’s perfect balance played out in the alpha empath as well; the devastating and deeply personal price Danyael paid for the power to kill and to heal—a power, Kyle realized now, Danyael had never wanted.
The look Zara gave Kyle confirmed that she had been through that particular scenario with Danyael many times. No wonder she was so protective of him. The anger in her eyes seemed directed at Danyael, but when she touched him, her hand was gentle, that of a woman in love.
She lowered the bowl and cleaned his mouth with a wet towel. “Water?”
Danyael shook his head. “Can’t keep it down.” He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and slowly pushed up on one elbow.
Kyle watched in silence, surprised by the dull ache he felt to see Danyael struggle to accomplish the simplest action.
Danyael paused, breathing heavily, exhausted by his efforts. He turned his head to look at Zara. “Can I please…get a ride to work? The bus and metro…won’t get me there in time.”
A thin line furrowed her brow. “Rest today, please.”
“I don’t have… I can’t afford—”
“You can’t stand. You can’t even sit. There’s no way you can work today. I’m paying for a doctor to cover for you at the clinic today. Don’t fight me, Danyael, please. Let me do this for you.” There was a plea in her voice.
Danyael stared at Zara, his dark eyes wary.
Kyle knew better than to interfere in a conversation that bristled with tension, but still he wondered. How screwed up did Zara and Danyael’s relationship have to be to make him so reluctant to accept any kindness from her?
She reached out to touch Danyael’s cheek, and he turned his face into the caress—a rare moment of physical intimacy between two people who made it a point not to touch each other.
Slowly, he nodded and sank into the bed, curling on his side.
Zara drew up the blanket to cover his trembling shoulders.
Danyael closed his eyes. A moment later, he was fast asleep.
Zara released her breath in a sigh that was more motion than sound.
Kyle turned to her. “The eight-hour deadline Danyael set, was that driven by when he had to get to work?”
Zara nodded. “Probably. He usually picks something completely arbitrary as his goal. A more practical person would have simply stopped when they started coughing blood four hours ago.”
“How much longer would he have been able to hold on?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.” She met Kyle’s gaze. “I would have separated them.”
“I know.” Her statement did not offend him. She would kill to protect Danyael; he understood that fact now. He looked down at Danyael. “I guess I owe him.”
“He’ll settle for a thank you. What happened out there?”
Tersely, he reported the events of the evening.
Zara listened without interruption and then nodded. “I’ll handle the media fallout. Thanks for the heads up.”
“What happened at the warehouse?”
“Xin contacted the Federal Emergency Management Agency.”
“FEMA stepped in?”
“An untested chemical agent in a warehouse in the middle of Washington, D.C.? Hell, yes, it qualified as an emergency. With the FBI, they secured and sealed the warehouse.”
“Casualties?”
“Tons, though none from the government. Anyone with even the faintest hint of a South or Latin-American background was pulled from the task force. Even so, no one’s taking any chances. Those entering the warehouse are in full hazard suits. The task force recovered at least a dozen bodies from the warehouse. Many others are in critical condition and not expected to survive the night.”
“And Luis Sanchez?”
“We haven’t found him.”
Kyle cursed under his breath. He handed the container with its remaining vial of antidote to Zara. “Can you give this to the IGEC? If I show up at the building, agents will arrest me.”
“Sure.” Zara threw a glance over her shoulder at Danyael, pale and unmoving. “I’ll take care of it, but someone needs to stay here.”
Kyle nodded. “I’ve got this covered.”
“Danyael will probably sleep for twelve hours or more, but if he wakes and insists on leaving, drive him back to his apartment and make sure he
gets safely up the stairs. He’s not going to be stable on his crutch for several days.”
He nodded again, that time to Zara’s back as she strode out of the room. There was little he could say when confronted with the cost Danyael had paid to keep Sofia alive. He owed Danyael, big time, and considering how skittish the alpha empath was around any gestures of kindness, whether spontaneous or deserved, he knew he would have a hell of a time getting Danyael to accept his gratitude and his apologies for his prior behavior.
He’ll settle for a thank you, Zara had said.
With a low grunt of pain, Kyle shrugged out of his leather jacket. His shoulder wound—the one he had stubbornly refused to allow Danyael to heal—had reopened from his exertions at Proficere Labs. The bandages were stained crimson. He could change them, likely neither gracefully nor well, but he would manage.
Just as soon as he caught up on his sleep.
A sigh escaped him as he stretched out on a loveseat much too small for him, but it was comfortable. He sagged against the soft microfiber cushions and turned his head to watch Sofia sleep.
Her breathing was steady, her expression at peace. A small smile curved his lips. Amazing. She had taken on the IGEC, the Rue Marcha, and Zara Itani with nothing but courage, conviction, and a collection of carnival tricks fueled by her weak telekinetic powers. No one else he knew could have gotten as far with so little.
“I love you,” he whispered. He was grateful she could not hear him. He would have to convince her first that his stupid response to her mutant powers had been completely out of line.
Then he could tell her he loved her and wanted her. Mutant powers and all.
Chapter 20
Sofia awoke with a sharp jerk and sat upright.
The afternoon sun swamped her, pouring in through the glass windows to flood the room. The heavy quilt that had covered her slipped off to pool around her hips. Okay, I’m not in hell.
Across the room, Kyle sprawled on a love seat too short for his length. He snored lightly. Sofia pressed her lips together to hold back a traitorous smile. Not in heaven either.
She was, however, in her parents’ bedroom. For a moment, she had to squeeze her eyes shut against the memory of her parents pleading for their lives. She could still see the bullet she failed to stop. It traveled, as if in slow motion toward her father. She saw the moment of impact, saw steel penetrate flesh a fraction of an inch at a time. There had been surprisingly little blood at first.
The blood came later.
The heart-wrenching pain, the guilt, lasted forever.
Her stomach churned. She had to get out of the room.
Sofia flung the covers aside, and stared in surprise at Danyael, who was lying beside her, fast asleep. Even awash in sunlight, his face was pale. There were subtle lines of strain around his eyes and mouth.
That was when it hit her.
Despite inhaling the chemical agent designed to kill people like her, she was alive.
She suspected it had everything to do with Danyael and Kyle. He had been there in the hazy recesses of her final memory before she lost consciousness. His voice, his promise, had resonated through her even when the darkness took over. “I’ll get you out of here.”
Her Prince Charming, bad attitude and all.
He stirred, blinking blearily. A scowl crossed his unshaven face as he dragged an arm, swathed in bandages, across his eyes.
She leapt out of bed. “Oh my God, you’re hurt!”
She gently pulled his arm away from his face, and turned it so she could study the fresh bruises and cuts on his rough-hewn features. “What happened?”
“The Rue Marcha showed up at Proficere Labs.” He groaned softly and eased into a sitting position.
“Why aren’t you at the hospital? You need to get those injuries treated.”
“They’re not as bad as they look. Nothing’s bleeding or broken. Danyael bandaged me up yesterday, though some hard core painkillers would be a good thing right about now.” His eyes focused on her face. “And how are you, baby?”
“Pretty sure I’m alive.”
He nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Things weren’t looking so good at seven this morning, but eight hours of sleep—and the right kind of drug in your veins—can do wonders.”
Drug? She looked over her shoulder. “Danyael—”
“Kept you alive while I went for the antidote. Zara says to let him sleep. He looked like hell this morning.” Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, he’s not looking all that much better.”
Sofia went over to Danyael and laid her small hand on his forehead. “He’s burning up.”
“Zara said to leave him. His pain is psychic; the physical symptoms are the least of his issues. You can’t do anything for him.”
Sofia rolled her eyes at Kyle. She was certain she could at least keep Danyael comfortable.
She went to the bathroom and returned with a damp towel that she had soaked in cold water. Carefully, she draped it over Danyael’s forehead. He stirred but did not wake. A muscle in his cheek twitched as if even that small of a motion hurt.
Across the bedroom, Kyle shrugged and stood. He rolled his shoulders and arched his back.
Like a cat stretching in the sunlight after waking from a nap. Sofia smiled at the thought. No, Kyle was nothing like a cat. A tiger was a more appropriate analogy—a muscled predator with teeth and claws, sleek and deadly.
He folded the throw Sofia’s mother had spent several years knitting and draped it over the back of the love seat before turning to face Sofia. “You must be hungry. I’ll get something started for lunch.”
How many times had her parents said those exact same words to her?
Her throat swelled with unshed tears. She needed a shower, but more importantly, she needed to get out of her parents’ bedroom.
Sofia made a dash for the door, but Kyle caught her arm. His dark eyes searched her face. They were too sharp, too penetrating. “What’s got you so freaked out?”
“I’m not freaked out.” She tried to pull her arm out of his grasp, but only succeeded in tightening his grip.
“Large eyes. Pale face. Trembling lips. One makes you concerned. Two afraid. Three definitely counts as freaked. The only time you’re not freaked is when you’re obviously thinking about someone else—like Danyael or me. Spill it, Sofia. You’ve kept the door of this room closed the entire time you’ve been in this house. You give it this…look…every time you step past it, like you’re afraid of something in it.” He waved his other hand to encompass the room. “Tell me, what’s in here that sends you into a panic?”
“It’s nothing. Just old memories.”
Kyle shook his head. “No such thing as old memories. There are just the ones that hurt and the ones that don’t. What happened in here?”
“My parents died here, okay?”
His eyes flared wide. His grip loosened.
She yanked her arm out of his. Her mouth quivered but she fought the need to turn away, the need to run and hide. “And I let them die.”
“Sofia—”
She bit down on her lower lip, spun around, and walked out of the room. She held her head high even though, deep inside, she was a weeping wreck.
Kyle had not interrupted her while she was in the shower. Like most men, he seemed to have an intuitive sense for staying out of the way of an upset woman. He gave her the space she needed to cry herself dry, her tears washing down with the water from the showerhead.
A half hour later, she emerged from the bathroom, composed. The scent of roasted chicken wafted up to her, and her stomach growled. She would have to face Kyle if she wanted her first meal in more than twenty-four hours.
If he decided to be a nosy, interfering pain-in-the-ass and ask questions she did not want to answer, she could just toss him out of her house.
Or not, she sighed. She did owe him her life after all.
Sofia put on a pair of jeans and a green sweater. The baseball cap she had purchased from
Johns Hopkins Hospital perched jauntily on her bedpost. Had it only been two days since she bought it? So much had happened in that time, and if she were to be honest, most of the chaos and confusion was her fault.
I should have just given Zara the damn microchip.
Still, she could not find it in herself to regret the decision. Someone had to do something. Zara would not, and Danyael could not. And Kyle…?
Kyle had stood behind her decisions, even the stupid ones, and fought for her the entire way, even after he knew she was a mutant. In spite of his feelings toward human derivatives, he had risked his life to save her.
She was grateful—immensely grateful. The intense attraction and the early blush of love had preceded her gratitude, but were also reinforced by it. How could they not? He was sexy, and, far more important, an inherently good man beneath his gruff, gun-toting exterior.
Sofia knew she stood on the edge, peering down with suspicious eyes, into the chasm of love. Could he get over the unchangeable fact that she was a mutant, or was she just setting herself up for inevitable heartbreak?
Bracing herself, she went downstairs to the dining room. The late afternoon sun poured in through the gauzy lace curtains drawn across the French windows, obscuring but not eliminating the view of the light weekday pedestrian traffic on Dupont Circle.
Kyle had finished laying out the meal on the table. Sofia’s eyes narrowed as she studied the art project on her plate. Mashed potatoes had been smeared across the plate—the backdrop for a face—and Kyle had used peas for eyes, a baby carrot for a nose, and thin strips of zucchini for a smile. It was silly and childish, but it won a smile from her, and sent her tumbling right over the edge. She looked at him, and hoped he would not notice her glistening eyes. If her parents were alive, they would have loved him too.
“I never pegged you for a food art kind of guy.”
“It made you smile, didn’t it?”
“Yes, it sure did. Thank you. And thank you for not bugging me about the master bedroom.”
Kyle shrugged. “I got the gist of it.”
“How can you?” the question popped out of Sofia’s mouth before she could help herself. She sat down and dragged a spoon through the mashed potatoes before popping a heaping spoonful into her mouth.
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