by Jade Kerrion
She nodded.
“How far along are you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Klah stiffened. He inhaled deeply. “It’s Danyael’s baby, isn’t it?”
If only she was. “Why would you think that?”
“Because he consumes your thoughts.”
“How would you know? You’re not a telepath.”
“You speak about him more than you speak about anyone else.”
“Really?” Had she been that obvious? She placed her hand over the growing fetus. Could it be Danyael’s? They’d only had sex once, and she’d been on birth control then. But then again, she had been on birth control the entire time she’d had sex with Galahad, and obviously, it had failed. No, the baby couldn’t possibly be Danyael’s. They’d only made love once; the odds were too great. But if it was…if only—
“Even if the child’s an alpha empath, he or she doesn’t have to be screwed up,” Klah whispered. “Danyael’s life doesn’t have to be the child’s life.”
“What do you mean?”
“The unchecked power of an alpha empath is too much for most people to handle, especially if they have no idea what’s coming at them, but if you did know, if you could take the precautions to do things right, you could raise an empath who effortlessly exudes joy instead of struggles to control his pain.” Wonder infused Klah’s voice. “Just imagine how powerful that empath could be.”
“I doubt that kind of empath would be able to kill with a touch.”
“You’re right—Danyael’s hellish experiences gave him the power to kill—but there’s more to life than killing.”
“Odd words from a Navy SEAL.”
He shook his head. “I protect my country and its people, and I do what I must to safeguard those entrusted to me. And so do you. You protect those you consider your responsibility. You don’t let them down. You can’t let this child down.”
Zara looked away. Klah’s words had struck too close to home. The breath she inhaled did nothing to lessen the sharp pain in her chest. Klah was right. She was fiercely protective of the people she loved—
Except Danyael. He killed to save me, and in return, I hunted him down and let his enemies take him away. I let them imprison him and torture him. For the rest of his life.
Her hands curled into fists. The last thing she needed was a sermon on the sanctity of life from one of the government’s most expensively trained killers. Her chin lifted. “Opinions are easy for someone not in that situation.”
“You’re wrong,” Klah said quietly. “This is my last mission with the SEALs. My wife is expecting our first child. I’m quitting active duty to raise my child right because she—my baby—matters.” His eyes met hers. “Nothing matters more.”
17
How far along is your wife?” Zara whispered.
“She just made it into the third trimester.” Klah relaxed against the seat. The smile on his lips gentled the angular lines of his face. “It’s been tough on her. Difficult pregnancy. The diagnosis didn’t help.”
“Diagnosis?”
The Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Canavan’s disease. It’s a genetic disorder—affects the nerves in the brain.”
Zara frowned. It didn’t sound good.
“There’s no real cure,” Klah continued. “Treatment is expensive. Doesn’t really fix anything though, just helps keep it manageable for a few years.”
“A few years?”
“Most children with Canavan’s don’t make it into their teens, but for as long as we have her, whatever it takes, I’ll make it the best damned life she could ever imagine.” He glanced at Zara. “You’re thinking it’s a hell of a lot of work for not much in return.”
She shrugged.
“And maybe you’re right. Parenthood is a heavy responsibility, and in many cases, a privilege. My wife and I—we’ve chosen this, together. Between Canavan’s and the possibility that our child will be an empath, we’ll have our hands full, but it will be a good life, for all of us.”
Zara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Danyael, for all his life-saving tendencies, would not have said anything that idiotic. He knew, better than most. In fact, he had often said that dying was easier than living, yet he chose to live anyway, probably because he was a stubborn son of a bitch.
Optimistic, too. Always hopeful. Always sweetly surprised by how far he had come, even if the rest of the damned journey didn’t seem any shorter, easier, or less painful. He always looked forward, never back, even though everyone, Zara included, considered him no more than the sum of his traumatic past. His strength and endurance in the face of unwinnable odds took her by surprise; his capacity for compassion always exceeded her expectations.
Maria. He had healed Zara’s friend, Maria.
At that time, Zara and Danyael’s friendship had been no more than a few days old. In fact, friendship was too generous a term for what she had felt toward him, but he had not seemed fazed by her scarcely concealed loathing; experience had trained him not to expect kindness from others.
He had also been exhausted, physically sick from the emotions he had absorbed from his hate-filled father and brother when he had accompanied her to Maria’s house that afternoon. Compassion had been the last thing she had expected from him. He had stood back and said nothing when Zara sat by Maria’s bedside and held her friend’s hand.
Maria, her frail body consumed by cancer, had gently caressed the curly-haired toddler napping beside her. Her whisper crackled with pain and trembled with love. “Jose…he will be alone. Who will take care of my Jose?”
“He will be provided for, Maria, I promise.” Zara’s hand tightened over Maria’s. “You needn’t fear for Jose. I will make sure he’s cared for, that he has everything he needs and wants.” Her chest ached. The promise seemed pitifully inadequate—how could she possibly replace a mother’s love and care?—but it was all she could do for Maria.
She had held Maria’s hand until the woman fell into a fitful sleep. Her heart heavy, Zara pushed to her feet and glanced at Danyael. “I’ll need five minutes to talk to Lucinda, and then we can leave.” She walked out of Maria’s bedroom, leaving Danyael behind. There were plans to be made for Jose’s future, and Lucinda, Maria’s mother, would want to be a part of them.
Their conversation however was cut short by Maria’s weak voice calling out, “Mama—”
Lucinda and Zara rushed into Maria’s bedroom to find Danyael slumped beside Maria’s bed. Lucinda screeched. “What are you doing to my baby?” She pushed Danyael away from the bed. “You stay away from her. Get out!”
What the hell? Zara grabbed Danyael’s wrist and pulled him out of the apartment.
He sagged against the closed door and pressed a hand to his forehead. His body reeled slightly, as if he were on the verge of passing out.
His sudden vulnerability shocked—no, it terrified her. He knew she scorned weakness, and she knew he made it a point never to appear weak in front of her. If he was so far gone as to not know or care— “What did you do?” She touched the back of her hand to his cheek. His skin scalded her. “You’re burning up. When did your fever start?”
He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “I need a moment…”
“You healed her? But Seth told you not to. He told me…he said you could die. You’re not strong enough to handle it right now. Couldn’t you wait a week?”
“She had hours, not days,” Danyael murmured. He wrapped his hands around his stomach and gritted his teeth. “I’ll be all right. I just need some time.”
What the damn freaking bloody hell! It was easier to display anger than give in to terror. “What are you going to do? Wait out here in the corridor until you’re strong enough to walk?” she demanded. “How long will it take? Damn you. Do you even think about all the trouble you’re creating for others? I’m not going to waste my time on you if you’re going out of your way to set back your progress.”
He raised his head. His dark eyes were
so glazed and unfocused, she did not think he could even see her. “I told you to leave. I don’t need your help.”
“How are you going to get home?”
“Guess I’ll walk.”
“It’ll take hours.”
“I’ve nowhere else to be.” Bitterness crept into his voice.
Zara’s breath caught. That tone was so rare that it took her aback. She swallowed hard. “You can’t make it.”
Danyael closed his eyes. He released a shuddering breath. “I’ll be all right,” he whispered, his voice trembling.
Damn it, why couldn’t he bring himself to accept her help? Why wouldn’t he just ask? She stalked out of the apartment complex, hailed a cab, and promised the driver a hefty fee for waiting. Now she just had to get Danyael—
Where was he? The corridor where she had left him was empty. Annoyed and more worried than she would admit, she knocked on Lucinda’s door.
Moments later, Lucinda opened the door, her face radiant. “Miss Itani, you came back. Where is he?”
“He, uh…” Zara had hoped Danyael would return to the apartment, seeking a safe place to rest and recover, but apparently, that move was too obvious and logical for him.
“You must see this.” Lucinda led her to the bedroom where Jose snuggled against his mother. Maria seemed shriveled in her white nightgown, but she was awake and alert. She sat upright in bed, a large portion of beans and rice on the tray in front of her. Her pallor was replaced by a healthy flush, and her brown eyes beamed as she looked up at Zara. “Where is he?”
“Danyael?”
“The angel sent by the Virgin. He touched me and took the pain away.” Awe shone in her eyes, and she nuzzled her son’s curly head of hair. Jose leaned into her and picked out the beans from her rice to shove into his own mouth.
The innocence of a child. He did not know that he had nearly lost his mother.
“Where is he?” Lucinda asked again as she accompanied Zara to the front door. She wrung her hands and chewed on her lower lip. “I told him to get out. I thought he was hurting her. I didn’t know.” Distress filled her eyes. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” Zara reassured her. “So, he didn’t come back here?”
“You don’t know where he is?”
How could she explain that she had left him pale and trembling, alone in the corridor, too sick to stand? “I’ll find him.” Damn.
She headed down the corridor toward the front door of the apartment complex, but paused as she heard a muffled cough, quickly stifled. Retracing her steps, she stopped in front of a custodial closet. She opened the door in time to witness a violent coughing fit wrack Danyael’s body, the sound muffled by the leather jacket he held against his mouth.
He looked at her with weary disbelief as he wiped the trickle of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are you still doing here?”
“Came back to check on the progress you’ve made. Congratulations. You’re about ten feet closer to home.” She squatted and reached out to him, but he pulled away from her. “Don’t be stubborn. Lucien will kill us if I leave you here. I’ve got a cab waiting out front.”
She suspected he would have willingly spent the night in the closet to avoid being around her, but he was too exhausted, too sick to argue. She dragged him to his feet. It was not easy, though he did his best to support his own weight. Fortunately, the cab still waited by the front door of the apartment complex. The two entered the vehicle, and she directed the cab driver to Danyael’s address in Brooklyn.
She glanced at Danyael as the cab lurched to a start. He leaned against the headrest and turned away from her. His eyes were closed, but she saw the subtle twitching of facial muscles. He was still struggling to get out from under the pain. She ground her teeth. There was no point in asking if he was fine. He never changed his answer, irrespective of his actual physical state.
“Don’t, please,” he whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t think about me.”
“And you’re a telepath now?”
“It pisses you off, and I can feel it.”
Was she supposed to be responsible for her feelings too? Her anger coiled, lashed out, and he flinched from the impact. Unfortunately, her perverse sense of satisfaction was significantly ruined by the concurrent flicker of guilt.
She had hurt him.
She had not realized it then, but she had hurt herself too.
Zara, now six months older and a lifetime wiser than the woman who had callously scorned Danyael, released her breath in a soft sigh. The memory of his flawless profile, his face deliberately turned away from her, had seared into her mind. He had learned to stay away from her when he was weakest, when he needed her help most.
Looking back, how could she blame him? She had done everything but tell him to his face that she despised him. He was an alpha empath; he had not needed words to know that she hated him. Yet not even her hatred had kept him from doing what he deemed necessary. He had healed Maria, absorbing her sickness and struggling through the physical backlash on his own. It occurred to Zara then that she had not thanked him—not for healing Maria and not for the many times Danyael had healed her.
Danyael Sabre was—Zara gritted her teeth—a hell of a guy. She only wished she had realized it sooner. If only she had been kinder. He had deserved that much, at least, from her.
And now it’s too late.
Dusk spread its orange glow over the horizon as Baalbek came into view. Zara shook Klah awake, and they looked out of the window as Idris drove the car slowly through town.
Klah wound down the window. The tiny crack was enough to sample the emotions around him.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“The people are tense.” He frowned. “Suspicious.”
“Disproportionately large numbers of men among the tourists,” Zara remarked. “And they’re not getting on the buses that take the day-trippers back to Beirut.” Her gaze fell on two men standing by a street corner. “Smooth shaven. Military-style haircuts. Dead giveaways.”
Klah ran his hand over his short hair. “I didn’t think we were that obvious.”
“The small things matter. If they had used headdresses and grown out a beard, I wouldn’t have known. It’s a fundamental difference in philosophy. The SEAL teams and other special ops groups get their job done and leave. Hezbollah and Nakob, among others, blend in and build ties. You can’t tell them apart from the locals because they are the locals. The boy who delivers groceries, the girl who sells flowers at the corner—that’s who they are.”
“You’re saying special ops groups can’t win the war in the Middle East.”
She shook her head. “The war belongs to the one who hangs around long after everyone else has left. The western governments aren’t that committed to peace in the Middle East. And who’s to say peace is the answer? The tiny skirmishes keep troublemakers occupied enough not to get into bigger mischief.”
“Spoken like a true cynic.”
She reached for her smartphone and called Nazrol. “I’m in Baalbek.”
“Just in time.” His voice was taut, and the snap of Arabic words harshened his tone. “The girls will not be safe here through the night.”
“I know,” she responded in Lebanese, since Klah understood Arabic but not Lebanese.
Nazrol switched languages. “You have a plan?”
“Get through the night.”
Nazrol paused for a beat. “Not much of a plan.”
Zara chuckled. “We’ll plan tomorrow. My head’s usually clearer in the morning.”
“Then let us hope that by Allah’s will, we get there. My men and I are in your house. It seemed smarter than betraying our numbers by loitering outside. What are we facing?”
“I’ve counted as least twenty heads. Military-trained, possibly American.”
“I thought you were working with the Americans.”
Zara shrugged. “Americ
ans are easily confused.”
“Ah, and here I thought we were the only fuzzy-headed ones. If there are only twenty, we will be fine. The numbers almost add up. We are ten men in here, and you and the SEALs make nine.”
“Two, actually.”
“Two?”
“I lost most of the SEALs.”
Nazrol sounded perplexed, although amusement subtly tinged his voice. “Zara, how does one lose an entire team of American’s best trained fighting unit?”
“Since you’re asking me, I’d say it was the work of a traitor.” And I’m not entirely sure it’s not the man sitting next to me right now. What is Danyael’s influence worth? “It’s just Klah and me now. We’ll circle the perimeter and if they—whoever they are—start converging on the house, we’ll take them out before they get within range. Whatever you do, don’t leave the house. Faces are blurry a mile out, and I’ll shoot anything that moves.”
“Where will you be?”
“There’s a hill north of the compound. It has the best view in Baalbek. Perfect place for a sniper’s perch.”
“You don’t even know which side they’re on.”
“True, but if I see them approaching my house with guns in their hands, I’m not waiting to ask.”
“Zara, the commandant will not be happy if I’m drawn into a fight with Americans, even if you started it. Could they be U.S. troops, sent in to retrieve the girls from what they think is a hostage situation?”
“All the more reason to take them out before you are mistaken for terrorists.”
Nazrol chuckled. “Technically, I am.”
“Liberation fighters, Nazrol. Marketing is half the battle. Stay in the house.”
“As you command, Zara. May Allah and your thrice-blessed good luck keep us all alive.”
She hung up and turned to Klah. “How good a sniper are you?”
“Who are we shooting?” He gestured out the darkened window. “Do you know who they are?”
“No. Do you?”
Klah’s frown furrowed his brow. “They could be embassy Marines, but you don’t know, and you don’t care. Why is ‘killing’ your instinctive response to every situation? Do you ever stop to think about all the lives you tear apart?”