by Maddie James
Maybe her pursuers expected them to go west. Did they know about Betatakin? Know that was where they were headed?
"Then why here? Why fork over the last bit of cash we have for a room? Why not sleep in the woods, hide away, instead of displaying ourselves here, practically out in full view?"
McCrae paced the cramped room and she watched. Catlike. Back and forth. Back and forth. His brain was whirling, she could tell. And the last thing he needed from her right now, probably, was the third degree.
She headed for the bathroom. “Fine. I'm going to take a shower."
"That's one reason we're here. Clean up. Get rest."
Man of few words. She turned back just as he started to toss something her way. “Here."
They'd stopped at a convenience story about half a day go and he'd tucked his purchases into one of the saddlebags on the bike. She'd wondered but didn't ask. Now she opened the bag and pulled out a dozen white powdered donuts.
"Those are for breakfast. We'll drink the hotel coffee."
She grimaced and reached back into the bag.
Contact lens solution. Good. She needed her eyes back.
And hair dye. Navajo Bronze. Sassy brunette with a hint of red.
"Ah, you shouldn't have,” she smirked. “All for me?"
"You betcha. Be ready to head out early in the morning. Before daybreak.” He returned to his pacing and Cyan just gave up trying to get anything more out of him tonight. At least he'd thought of two things she needed. Two very important things.
In the bathroom, she looked in the mirror, noticed the blonde roots becoming way too apparent, the wispy ends that framed her face a dead giveaway to her existence. Her heritage. Her legacy.
She chuckled and brought the box of hair dye closer to her face. Navajo Bronze. Appropriate, since they were heading to the southwest. Was this McCrae's stab at a sense of humor? She really didn't think so.
She'd never been brunette with a hint of red before. Might like it. Couldn't hurt to try something new.
Lord knows she would never be blonde again.
In thirty minutes her hair was colored, her hair and complexion in stark contrast with each other—not a wisp of blonde remained—and she was showered and smelling much better than before. She wished she had fresh clothes, but resorted to rinsing her underthings out in the sink and tossing them over the towel rack. If they weren't dry by morning she'd use the hair dryer on them. Or wear them damp. Wouldn't be the first time.
She donned her dirty knit shirt and slipped on her pair of athletic pants, sans underwear.
The bathroom door swung silently outward as she stepped from the small, steamy space. McCrae sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, watching some entertainment television show, his gaze locked on the television.
On her face. Blazing across the monitor.
Soundlessly, she stepped forward. Listened.
"Cyan Seye is on the run ... we've all heard the myth, folks ... not many of us really thought it was true. But it is believed that the mysterious daughter of recently murdered scientist Dr. Edward Seye, the woman who for years has been sequestered away in hiding with her family, is on the run. And it is speculated that she is indeed the legendary, and highly sought after Pure One—the last known Caucasian, blue-eyed woman in the world. The last of a dying race. And folks, get this—they also say that she is still a virgin. An anomaly in this day and age, agreed? Ups the ante on the bounty on her head, eh? Especially if you are the last true Caucasian blonde, blue-eyed man, if there is such an animal...."
The Mulatto on the screen laughed, tossing her brunette mane.
McCrae shot up and flicked off the TV with a slap of his hand.
Stunned, Cyan stood silent, and let the tears fall.
Her secret was out.
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Chapter Three
McCrae crossed the room.
"This doesn't change anything."
Cyan threw her arms into the air. “It changes everything! They know! My face is plastered all over the country. The world, probably. I can't make a move without someone noticing me. And everyone will be looking. Watching! A bounty on my head?"
McCrae shook his. “She was joking. No bounty. But you are in danger, yes. We both are. Have been. Just more now."
"Fuck! I can't do this anymore. I don't want to do this anymore! I want my life back. The way it used to be. When I was a kid. I want my dad and my safe, fully-barricaded and secure fortress of a home. Like what we had the past few years. I don't want to see anyone. I want to read and paint and play music. I want my life back, damn it!"
Too close to tears. Spilling over. She was losing it.
The stress of the past thirty days was just too much.
His soft touch on her forearm startled her. Almost frightened her. She pulled away.
"That life is gone, Blue,” he began softly. “I'm sorry, but it is. Once we get to Betatakin, things will be better. Your father—"
She whirled. “My father! What do you know about my father? You killed my father, you bastard!"
McCrae stared at her, then backed away and turned toward the door. She guessed he knew how to pick his battles, and this one he wasn't going to take on. At least not today. Slimy bastard.
"Go to sleep, Blue,” he ordered. “Morning will come soon enough. You need to sleep."
Shit. Sleep?
How in the fuck could she sleep?
"Stop calling me that. My name is Cyan. Use it."
"Same difference. Cyan is blue."
"Use my name, McCrae."
He growled and batted at the light switch. The room sank into darkness. A glimmer from the flickering fluorescent light in the bathroom still peeked through the crack in the door. Cyan decided to leave it. She needed it on. Didn't want to be totally left in the dark any longer.
Yes, damnit, she needed a night-light, tonight.
Chase away the boogieman.
Thing was, he was probably going to be lying right beside her.
At that thought she heard a grunt and the groan of the double bed as he fell into it. But she stood fast. Standing, staring at the crack of light in the door. Her back to him. Not knowing what to do, which way to turn, what tack to take.
His voice came to her on a feather-soft whisper. “Cyan. Lay down. Go to sleep."
Involuntarily her head jerked toward him at his words. “I..."
"C'mon."
Resigned, and tired, she slowly sat on the edge of the bed. Not too close to him. Then after a few minutes, still staring at that small beam of light coming through the door—her safety net—she sank onto her side in the bed, her head cradled in a dank, old and smelly feather pillow.
It felt better than anything she'd experienced in a long time.
And within seconds, she slept.
* * * *
Sleep wasn't going to come for him. Not tonight. Devin lay there, letting the sound of Cyan's labored breathing waft over him. She was restless. Fitful. In a deep enough sleep that her tossing and turning didn't wake her. There were days he couldn't imagine how she was holding it all in, how she managed to get through each day—with him, with her life, with the prospects of what might, or rather, more-than-likely would, happen to her.
He could only deal with it in one way: Take one thing at a time. Right now, he just wanted to get through the night. Come morning, he'd worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow, the goal was to get further west, find Chaco, get money. Those were his only plans. He figured he might make two of them. Was worried about the third.
Thank God they'd gotten far enough away from the mines, where there was less risk of being discovered. The old coalmines, no longer in use, had proven a safe haven for the past month. Chaco had seen to the security. The underground village had everything they needed. Was safe. Until two nights ago.
Somehow he had to make contact with Chaco. Didn't trust the cells. Too many frequencies, too many ways to link in. Too many satellite monitors. Technology was so r
isky these days. Unregulated since the 2040s. Either antiquated or so damned high-fuckin'-tech it changed every other hour, and it was difficult to keep up with what state-of-the-art was anymore.
No, he had to find another way. Had to know that he was alive. But if he didn't locate him? Plan B was always a backup. There was always a Plan B.
Good thing they had thought it through, all scenarios, before this mission began.
When communication was lost, when all else failed, Devin's mission was simply to get Cyan to Betatakin, by whatever means possible. And that meant anything. Blackmail. Burglary. Terroristic threatening. Murder.
Whatever it took.
Cyan had to be protected at all costs. She held the key to preservation of an entire race. And as much as he hated to see her hoisted up as some silver-plated, glass-encased, endangered species zoo specimen—he'd sooner turn her over to the guys who wanted to make a circus freak show buck off her than to the guys who wanted to use her for breeding purposes. Fucking White Supremacists-Nazi-KKK assholes. The scientists who wanted to study her, chip away at her DNA, her brainwaves, gray matter, and examine every corpuscle of her blood in the name of science, medicine, or fucking space travel, were no better.
Sons-of-bitches.
And then there was the fact that she was a virgin, on top of everything. Talk about your fucking cherry on top. Every Mulatto male ... dark-skinned, dark-eyed, dark-haired ... all the races of the world nearly blended now—whoever held a fantasy of being with a mythical purely white woman—was going to want her for his own. Not nice. And those guys were the ones who worried Devin more than anything. High-end sex slave traders. Cyan would bring top price. Hands down. She'd end up somewhere in the Middle East as a whore to some rich oil bastard who'd as soon slap the shit out of her as fuck her. One who would pay millions to pop her cherry. And enjoy the pain it put her through. The power. He wouldn't give a damn about who Cyan really was.
He didn't want her to end up like her mother. It was her father's dying wish.
Not that he wanted to be reminded of her father, right now.
Devin's gut tightened at the prospect of any of those scenarios. And others. Some they'd probably not thought of yet.
He wasn't going to let any of that happen.
He knew who Cyan was.
Cyan was his charge. His sole purpose in life. Handed to him by the one man who had the right to do so.
Her father.
And Devin would do his damnedest to see to the man's wishes.
* * * *
Run, Cyan, run!
Something wrong with her feet. Lead. Can't lift them. Can't run. Moving too damned slow.
McCrae was screaming at her from up ahead. Move it, Cyan! She watched his strong back, the knotted biceps of his arms as they worked through the field of ... what? Corn? Tall stalks of something. Cutting her face as she tried to run. Slicing her. Green, razor-sharp talons that reached out to grab her.
Where were they going? What was happening?
McCrae?
She lost him. Too far ahead. Gone.
Stood still.
Silence.
An abrupt and powerful rustling of plants exploded to her left. She screamed. Didn't she? Her mouth wouldn't move. No sound. Her feet planted. Just like the rows and rows and rows of corn stalks.
Planted. Not moving. If she stood still, perhaps they would move on by her.
Not see her.
Leave her behind.
Not to be. A green curtain of leaves opened up, a large machete leading the way. She saw the blade on the knife first, as it cut through the stalks.
"McCrae!"
No use trying to be quiet, hoping they would pass her by. They were here.
Three men moved out of the stalks.
Large men. Hoods on their heads. Caucasian. Like her. She knew that because she could see their hands. Like her father's. They had hands like her father.
White men. Like her.
She'd never seen white men before—except for her father.
God. Not good.
Several scenarios raced through her head. None of them pleasant. But no time to think ... no time to move ... scream ... no time to....
Someone grabbed her from behind. Forced her to the ground.
Fumbled with her pants. Pulled them off. She fought. Screamed. Grabbed the hood from his head.
"McCrae!"
The machete came down centimeters from her neck, pierced the ground beside her. Silenced her.
The hood was off. The man chuckled and glared into her face. She got a good look at his eyes. Blue. Like hers.
It was the last thing she saw before she felt him plunge....
* * * *
The scream woke him. Her bolt off the bed scared the hell out of him. In seconds he'd assessed the room. No one but he and Cyan. And before he could come to his senses, he'd flipped himself off the bed and had tackled her back to the mattress. She was out of control. He had to rein her in. Keep her from making a lot of noise.
She was the only danger tonight. To him. To them.
It was her soft sobs that undid him, as she lay gasping for air beneath him.
"Damn it, Cyan. What is it?"
The small shaft of light from the bathroom flickered across her face, illuminated a trail of tears.
He didn't want to be tender. Didn't need to be tender. But every muscle in his body screamed for him to be compassionate, caring, and yes, tender.
Unlike him. Didn't need that now. Not now.
Tenderness would throw him off his edge. He needed his edge.
"Dream,” she said finally, looking up into his face. “Vision."
He nodded. Understood.
Slowly, he reached up to her cheek and smeared away one of those tear-tracks. “I'm sorry. But good. Info we need. Things to avoid. Or be prepared for."
She nodded, not breaking the connection with his gaze. “I couldn't find you. You left me."
He shook his head. Impossible. “I won't do that, Cyan. I'll never leave you behind."
Her chin jutted out slightly. “You did. You will."
Damn it. Her psychic abilities could be both a blessing and a curse. “I'll try my damnedest not to, Cyan."
Nodding, she returned softly, “I know. I think."
I think. The trust wasn't totally there yet. He couldn't blame her.
Twisting his body slightly, he pulled her toward him and cradled her in his arms. She started to protest but he held fast. Finally, after a moment, she relaxed against him. And for the first time in a month, he really felt like he was protecting her.
"I won't leave you,” he whispered into her hair. “I promise."
* * * *
They exited the hotel from the back window an hour before daylight. Devin silently pushed the old Harley around the motel and toward the two-lane as Cyan followed. She was better this morning. He was relieved. She'd stepped out of the bathroom with her long bronze hair tied back into a ponytail and her brown contacts in place. Glad for that. Her sea-blue eyes were a dead giveaway. He'd never seen eyes like hers before in his life. Never. And he had to admit, they fascinated him.
But today he was thankful for her specially-made contacts, the ones that turned her sea-blue eyes into a deep chocolate brown. One less thing for him to worry about.
Harder for anyone to detect.
She was stunning. Even with all the running, the stress, the lack of any number of amenities. Tall, willowy, but thick in the right places. Fair complexion ... oh, so different from his. His gut tightened and his brain took him back to a few hours earlier, when he held her close, inhaled her scent, palmed her soft skin. How vulnerable she had felt in his arms. How so badly he wanted to protect. Felt so male.
Devin shook it off.
No good for either of them to let his thoughts meander further.
No time for that. No way.
Not his mission.
Glancing back, he caught her gaze in the morning sunrise. She was close. Never
too far away. Hadn't taken her eyes off him. That fact at least told him that she trusted him to some degree. He just wasn't quite sure how far. She didn't want to be alone, however, of that he was certain. Or maybe she was just scared out of her wits. Even a murderer she trusted slightly was better than the ones out there pursuing her.
"I think we're okay now. Let's get out of here."
They'd walked about a quarter mile down the road. No traffic at this hour.
Devin liked two-lane highways, small towns, rednecks, and homegrown locals. That's where he was comfortable. That's who he was. His roots. So they would travel this way as far as it took, as long as it took them to Betatakin. He knew it would take longer but it was safer.
That was the name of the game.
Cyan donned her helmet and pushed her ponytail up underneath.
It took only seconds for him to hot-wire the bike again, make sure Cyan was snug next to his back, and kick the engine into high gear. Soon they were winging their way west, and he was loving the feeling of her thighs straddling his ass, her breasts pushed into his back, her arms tightly gripping his abdomen.
His cock hot, hard and thrumming.
He could ride like this for days.
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Chapter Four
Somewhere in Oklahoma, Cyan's radar screen lit up like a goddamned Roman candle. Nearly dizzy, fearing she might fall off the back of the bike, she laid her head against McCrae's shoulder and pressed tighter into him.
Can't black out. Not now.
They'd been riding for hours. Stopped once to pee, get something to eat, fill up the bike, and for McCrae to make a call, bumming some cash and borrowing a cell from a truck driver. Smooth talker. He never spoke into the device though, and just shook his head as he walked back toward the bike. She noticed he did take a moment to punch in a series of numbers before hanging up.
Locater device? GPS tracker?
Maybe he was sending some sort of signal to Chaco. She hoped so. Hoped Chaco was alive to receive it.
Shit. Her mind went totally blank for a split second. Then the vision flashed across it and clarity hit. Fast. They were going too fast. But she had to stop him, stop McCrae.