Parallel Heat

by Deidre Knight

  Angrily, she wiped her mouth. ‘‘Why did you do that?’’

  ‘‘Because you’re only making it harder.’’

  ‘‘You’re way into this unilateral stuff, Jared, but I’m an equal partner in this relationship. I may not be the king,’’ she said, ‘‘but I’m sure as hell your wife—and that makes me the queen, doesn’t it?’’ He bowed his head in shame, but said nothing. ‘‘Doesn’t it, J’Areshkadau?’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ he answered simply, ‘‘you know that it does.’’

  She clasped him by both shoulders. ‘‘Then tell me what has you so freaking upset! You’re scaring me.’’ He couldn’t shut her out, not as bonded as they already were. He’d thought himself able, and yet staring into her searching eyes, seeing such strong love reflected there, he couldn’t possibly keep any secrets from his wife.

  Finally, for want of a better strategy, he slipped from her grasp and walked across the room, claiming the letter. ‘‘Here,’’ he said, handing it to her. ‘‘This is what has changed everything.’’

  Thea watched as Marek unexpectedly made for the door, quickly vanishing between a throng of new arrivals to the bar. ‘‘He’s leaving,’’ Scott announced, rising from his seat. ‘‘We have to follow him.’’

  Everything within Thea wanted to object, wanted to put as much distance as possible between the stranger and herself. But she was a leader, and she knew better. ‘‘Come on, let’s go.’’ She leaped to her feet. ‘‘I’ll go after him, you bring up the rear.’’ Her heart hammered out a loud crescendo, causing a deafening roar within her ears. Marek was absolutely the most dangerous man she’d ever encountered; every instinct within herself told her as much. Still, she couldn’t resist her desire to understand why precisely he was affecting her so strongly. More than that, they had to learn his identity.

  Following in his wake, she shoved her way through the bar patrons, nearly sending a waitress’s tray careening to the floor. ‘‘Hey! Watch it!’’ the woman called after her, but Thea didn’t waste time looking back. She was out the front door and onto the ice-covered sidewalk like a flash of lightning.

  Outside, the wintry air assaulted her, burning her lungs. With a quick glance down the sidewalk she spotted Marek moving at a brisk pace. He was already at least twenty paces ahead of her, his long legs allowing him to cover large distances much faster than she could. He had to be more than a foot taller than her; she had always been far too small for a Refarian, and at moments like this one she especially despised her petite size. Picking up her pace to a near run, she closed some of the distance, but then her boot slipped on a section of black ice, sending her sprawling onto the sidewalk. By the time she’d recovered, Marek Shaekai was nowhere to be seen.

  In exasperation, she broke into a full-fledged run, rounding the corner that he’d undoubtedly taken. Vaguely she registered that a heavy, clotting snow had begun to fall, flakes of which kept stinging her eyes. She blinked, quickening her pace, but something unexpected stopped her in her tracks, choking the very air from her lungs as powerful arms took hold of her, lifting her off of the ground and pulling her into a dark, hidden doorway. Before she could cry out, or shout to Scott, one immense hand spun her against a hard, solid body while the other covered her mouth. Her eyes darted wildly, trying to locate Scott, but beyond the doorway all she saw was the empty nighttime street being covered in silent snow.

  Behind her, she felt the solid bulk of Marek’s frame, felt his heart beating quickly against her neck. He had her; he had her right where he wanted her, trapped within his implacable grasp. She struggled, but his iron grip prevented her from squirming at all, lodging her with incapacitating strength against his large chest. She couldn’t see him—he had pinned her from behind—but she had no doubt as to her captor’s identity.

  ‘‘Let me go,’’ she tried to shout, but because he clasped her mouth tightly shut, nothing more than unintelligible, guttural sounds came out.

  Behind her, she heard him chuckle, his hot breath fanning against the top of her head. ‘‘A real wildcat, aren’t you?’’ he breathed, bending low so that his mouth grazed her earlobe. ‘‘I like that in a woman.’’

  She tried to elbow him in the ribs, but he had her completely captive, held by one large arm that might as well have been made of steel. So she made a screeching noise, and he responded with low, growling fury—the unmistakable sound of an irritated Refarian male.

  ‘‘Be still or I’ll have to really aggravate you,’’ he cautioned silkily, his voice a husky rumble of sound. ‘‘Neither one of us wants that, now do we?’’

  He seemed to wait for her response, but she refused to rise to his bait. In the silence she became painfully aware of his breath against her nape, the huffing sound of it, so quick and urgent. His forearm tightened about her rib cage, his knuckles grazing the underside of her left breast, and instead of feeling frightened, gods forbid, she felt aroused. Electrified. On edge as if the man had just stripped her bare, ready to devour her. Slowly, the hand cupping her mouth slipped away. ‘‘You aren’t going to scream,’’ he said knowingly. ‘‘So I might as well let you talk.’’

  She heaved air from her lungs, a cloud of breath instantly forming. ‘‘Let me go, you asshole,’’ she snarled. ‘‘Or I will scream so loud every cop in Jackson will come after you.’’

  ‘‘You wouldn’t.’’ A deep, rumbling laugh escaped his chest, but he made no move to release her; with his free hand he slowly scraped his knuckles against her cheek, outlining her jaw for a long, impossibly seductive moment. She shivered at his touch, cursing herself for the unstoppable attraction she felt toward him, her enemy. Rough fingertips traced down her nape, trailing around to the base of her throat; for a moment, he hesitated, lingering over the straining beat of her pulse. When she thought he would never stop, she began to quiver at his touch. Then, and only then, did he ask, ‘‘Why did you follow me?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t.’’

  He blew out a hot breath against her cheek. ‘‘Like hell.’’

  ‘‘Why were you in that bar?’’ she shot back.

  ‘‘I like that place,’’ he whispered in her ear. ‘‘Got a problem with that?’’

  ‘‘I-I should know you—you’re recognizable to me.’’ She spoke in euphemisms rather than come straight out and admit that she knew he was a fellow Refarian.

  ‘‘I’ll take that’’—he nuzzled her cheek significantly—‘‘as a compliment.’’

  She was about to argue with him, when suddenly the click of a weapon drew their attention to the street. Standing there, silver pistol trained on them both, stood Scott Dillon. She released a grateful breath. ‘‘Let her go,’’ he commanded Marek in an even voice. ‘‘Or I’ll finish this now.’’

  Marek eased the tension of his forearm, allowing her to slip from his bracing grip. ‘‘No problem,’’ he said in a voice like sleek gravel. He held out both palms in blameless surrender as she stumbled out of the darkened doorway toward Scott’s side.

  ‘‘You’re coming with us,’’ Scott ordered, using the barrel of his gun to indicate the direction he wanted Marek to walk. He must be planning to take him to the Suburban, Thea thought, feeling as if her heart had been permanently lodged in her throat.

  Marek gave a slight nod and made a step to leave the darkened doorway. Scott’s gaze never wavered from Marek, his stance that of a long-time soldier. Thea assumed a similar posture, her gaze sweeping in a full arc around them, but then, seemingly from nowhere, came a new voice: ‘‘Drop your weapons.’’

  Thea whirled in the direction of the newcomer and discovered that Marek’s companion from the bar stood behind them all. He was of medium build and had messy blond hair, looking much more a ski bum than an adversary.

  Scott lowered his weapon, holstering it with a fluid movement. ‘‘Let’s take this off the street,’’ he ordered.

  Good work, Dillon, she thought. Keep command of the situation.

  ‘‘Where do you propose we go?’’ Ma
rek asked with a smug grin. ‘‘It seems we’ve reached a stalemate.’’

  ‘‘Back in the bar,’’ Thea said. ‘‘That’s a neutral enough meeting ground.’’

  For a brief moment Marek and his companion exchanged a glance that obviously communicated a great deal, then both nodded in reluctant agreement, the other man holstering his weapon too.

  ‘‘We have a lot of talking to do,’’ Scott said. ‘‘Starting with who you are and what you’re doing here in Jackson.’’

  ‘‘The better question, Lieutenant Dillon’’—Marek paused dramatically, smiling at Thea in devilish provocation—‘‘and Lieutenant Haven, is what you hoped to accomplish by engaging us. That’s the answer I want to hear.’’

  Scott hunkered over an open bottle of beer; they’d all ordered drinks in order to avoid undue attention from anyone within the bar. ‘‘You have us at a disadvantage,’’ Scott said, taking a long swig from his bottle. ‘‘Knowing our names when we’re not sure who you really are.’’

  Marek nodded seriously, his voice low. ‘‘It doesn’t matter who we are. What matters is that we’re your allies.’’

  ‘‘An ally doesn’t hold someone prisoner,’’ Thea fired back angrily.

  He stared at her for a full five seconds before answering, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing intensely. She felt almost as if she could lose herself in those depths, as if every time she made eye contact with him some secret language buzzed through her mind. His eyes were so dark they almost seemed black, rimmed by a thick fringe of inky lashes that gave them a moody, sensual quality. ‘‘I wasn’t aware that holding you in my arms translated to holding you prisoner,’’ he finally stated huskily.

  You’re just trying to be infuriating! she wanted to snap. Instead she opted for a more even-tempered response: ‘‘Marek Shaekai, you aren’t the only one who knows the score here.’’

  The velvet lashes lowered slightly, his expression becoming guarded, but otherwise he displayed no recognition of the name.

  ‘‘It is who you are, isn’t it?’’ she persisted.

  ‘‘That’s another man’s name,’’ he answered coolly, ‘‘so you don’t know quite as much as you think you do, Haven.’’

  ‘‘You’re Refarian—both of you,’’ Scott interjected with a glance between the two men. ‘‘We know that much.’’

  Marek leaned forward in his chair, planting both elbows on the table. Dropping his head and speaking so softly they all had to lean closer, he whispered, ‘‘And you, Scott Dillon, are not.’’

  ‘‘No, I’m not,’’ Scott agreed in a subdued voice.

  Marek indicated Thea with a slight movement of his hand. ‘‘Our business isn’t with you, Dillon—it’s with her.’’

  Thea’s heartbeat increased, a rushing noise filling her ears. ‘‘What about me?’’ she heard herself ask breathlessly.

  ‘‘We’ve always made the royal families our business,’’ Marek answered with a nonchalant shrug. ‘‘And you are naturally part of that concern.’’

  ‘‘All right, cut to the chase,’’ Scott insisted with a scowl. ‘‘Who the hell are you people and what is your position?’’

  ‘‘We’re Madjin,’’ Marek answered with an obvious flash of pride. ‘‘For all our lives, it’s the only thing we’ve ever been.’’

  Thea felt her face burn hot. The Madjin no longer existed—couldn’t possibly exist, not in any universe or on any planet. An elite, prestigious band of royal protectors, they had guarded the king and his family for thousands of years. When the revolution had begun, the Antousians decimated their small circles—or at least the pitiful remnant that had managed to survive so many years of war already. The last of them, Jared’s personal protector Sabrina, had vanished two decades ago, and no one—despite Jared’s tireless efforts to locate the woman—had ever heard from her again.

  ‘‘Th-that’s not possible,’’ Thea stammered, glancing toward Scott whose own face had seemingly drained of color. ‘‘The Madjin are dead.’’

  This time it was Marek’s companion who smiled, something bright sparking in his eyes. ‘‘You’d be surprised just how alive we are,’’ he said with a quiet laugh. ‘‘And we can prove it to you—quite easily, as a matter of fact.’’

  ‘‘How can you prove it?’’ Thea demanded. The ways of the Madjin were so secret, so sacrosanct, that no one had much reliable knowledge about them. ‘‘We know almost nothing about the Madjin,’’ she continued, ‘‘which makes proving your claim more than a little problematic.’’

  Marek glanced between them with an intent expression. ‘‘Simple,’’ he said. ‘‘Take us to your base and allow us a meeting with the commander. That’s how you’ll know we’re legitimate.’’

  ‘‘Oh, I just bet you’d love that,’’ Scott said, his voice cold and precise.

  ‘‘It’s the only way you’ll ever really know,’’ Marek persisted. ‘‘Because there’s just one man who can authenticate our identities for you, and that’s Jared Bennett.’’

  Chapter Four

  Marco lay wedged across the bench seat of the Suburban, both hands tied roughly behind his back. Thea Haven had done the honors with her very own belt, both she and Dillon insisting on the measure for security reasons. She’d wrangled them into prone positions—Riley on the floorboard, Marco sprawled face-first across the seat—all the maneuvering an effort to protect them from discovering the compound’s position. Neither he nor Riley had bothered explaining that they already knew the location of Jared’s compound; hell, they could have guided everyone there blindfolded.

  Even now as Dillon took turns obviously intended to mislead them, Marco found himself wanting to explain the futility of their plan. But he didn’t. He remained with his face pressing into the artificial leather seat, wishing that Lieutenant Haven would move much, much closer. As it was, she sat behind him, leaning over the bench so that her pistol pressed into his lower back—which, unsettling as it might have been, didn’t feel nearly close enough.

  The woman did things to him, strange, alien things that left his mind muddled and his body titillated. Thank All he was facedown so she couldn’t see the very obvious bulge in the front of his jeans, an eager erection he’d gotten the instant she fastened his hands behind his back. He told himself it was something about the belt, something about her roping him up like her very own steer that had turned him on this wildly. You always were into bondage, Thea baby, some distant voice hummed in his mind. That’s you, my little wildcat—you need that control.

  Pressing his eyes shut, he felt a headache swell, causing bright spots to fill his darkened vision. He had never met Thea Haven before in his life; sure, he’d had her under surveillance on plenty of occasions, even followed her when duty required it. But until tonight he had never once gazed into those clear, vibrant blue eyes. Eyes that had spoken volumes to him, wooed him closer, promised lifetimes of seduction. His swollen, aching erection pushed harder into the seat as he remembered. As he allowed the sensations he’d experienced earlier in the bar to fan to life all over again.

  The Suburban made a series of turns, and Thea—for reasons he wasn’t even sure of—dug the barrel of her weapon into his lower back with even more force. All of a sudden it seemed he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. There were only the swimming memories of something he had never once experienced in all his almost thirty years, not with any woman, not on any planet: He was remembering making love. And with Thea Haven, of all people, one of his protected.

  Gasping, he fought the rising tide of nausea that always accompanied these blinding headaches. What in All’s name is this? he wondered, cursing his strange abilities that sometimes left him open to this kind of sensation. What am I picking up on about her? She’s D’Ashani, utterly out of my league.

  But he knew it wasn’t imagination, or even foreknowledge; the impressions and emotions were far too brilliant, unlike anything he’d ever felt before in his life. It took all his resolve not to simply roll onto his back and grab the
woman, pulling her atop him with enough force to knock the gun from her hand. Then, and only then, he would cover her mouth hungrily with his own. Tasting of her, taking her, knowing her. It hardly mattered that in this imagined scenario, the pulse pistol would have already destroyed his spinal column and obliterated his internal organs. Good thing it wasn’t an actual plan. Just a desire, he thought, and I’ve mastered plenty of them as a Madjin warrior.

  On the floorboard beneath him he heard Riley’s steady breathing. His brother was nothing if not a cool customer. Damn it all, but the guy would probably fall fucking asleep during the drive back to the Refarian compound. Then again, Marco had no doubt that Riley was happily connected with his lifemate, rattling along in deep, soulful conversation with her across their shared bond. Lucky bastard. He never had to be alone, not like Marco did. Marco had long ago accepted the hand he’d been dealt. He would never mate or even take a lover. Which meant that this insane attraction to the D’Ashani woman was out of the question. The emotions and memories—for surely that’s what they were—had the material air of something experienced. Not pre-known, not imagined. But the pulsing life force of real events. The question was . . . how was something like that even possible?

  The blinding headache tightened hard behind his eyes, and with it, a wash of memories came over him.

  How could you have slept with him? he demanded, rounding on her in a dark, abandoned warehouse. How could you have betrayed me like that?

  She laughed, a cold, lost sound that caused something hard to lodge in his chest. You don’t think this is love, do you, Marco? She released a slow, jeering laugh. Not with you of all people.

  Of course not, he said. You’re not capable of it.

  Shaking his head, he tried to beat back the tide of half memories, determined to battle away the onslaught. Perhaps this was a trick of their enemy, a strategy meant to divide them before their full circle could form completely around their king and queen. And they did have a queen now; he knew it because of Riley’s intel from within the camp.