by Lexi C. Foss
She inched upright and rested against the dark wood headboard, admiring the view of the water. Where am I? She spotted her suitcase and purse near the suede sofa, resting up against one of the windows. They were the only items in the room she recognized.
When her head stopped spinning, she tried standing up. Her limbs shook with disuse and strained to keep her upright. She held onto the bed for balance as black spots danced before her eyes. Not okay. Her lungs expanded on a deep inhale. It seemed to help a little. As the dizziness subsided, she let go of the bed. Then she tried for a step and stumbled into the glass wall. It was a long way down. Not healthy for her vertigo.
The windows acted as a support system as she moved towards her purse. Her phone was where she expected it, but she wasn’t expecting the series of text messages glaring up at her. There was an entire conversation with Lizzie she didn’t recall having.
I guess that date went well then. You can thank me for the dress advice later. Stas frowned. She didn’t wear the dress because she didn’t make it to her date, did she?
Thank you, Lizzie. And that wasn’t a response she sent either, but her phone marked it as from Stas.
There was a kissy face. So where is he taking you for the week?
It’s a surprise. She snorted. No shit it was a surprise. She had no idea where the hell she was or why.
Well, check in every now and then so I know he hasn’t kidnapped you permanently.
You know that wouldn’t entirely be a bad thing, Liz …
Who are you and what have you done with my Stas?! Lizzie was an excellent best friend, recognizing an imposter when she saw one.
It’s Issac … He’s just … The words that followed had her jaw dropping. There was no way in hell she would ever say that about a man. Well, at least Lizzie isn’t worried about me. She was about to go find the person who sent all the messages on her behalf when she noticed the date.
It was Friday. Wasn’t yesterday Tuesday?
“What the fuck?” It came out as a rasp that burned her throat, distracting her from the phone. She set it down in search of water. There was a glass on the nightstand she failed to notice before, but the bathroom was closer. It was almost as big as the bedroom with a ten by ten walk-in shower boasting five shower heads. She used the fancy cup beside the sink and finished three glasses before the fiery sensation subsided. It still ached, but it was manageable.
What the hell is going on? She lost three days of her life and she ached all over. A glance in the mirror had her cringing. Okay, shower first. She felt like hell. For someone who never had a cold one day in her life, she was making up for lost time. She went back to her suitcase and found everything she needed. Whoever packed for her was efficient. Issac maybe?
As the powerful spray worked over her sore muscles, she noticed the bruises on her inner elbows. The immunizations? She frowned. Her last memory was of Issac waiting outside Lizzie’s condo. Everything went black after that with the exception of a few dreams. Each one was highlighted by beeps and Issac’s commanding tones. She couldn’t recall a word he said.
She scrubbed the injection sites, but no matter how many times she tried, she still felt dirty. Dr. Patel left an invisible imprint under her skin that was impossible to remove. She gave up and wrapped herself in a plush towel that felt like heaven against her skin. It made her want to curl up in a ball on the heated bathroom floor and take a long nap, but she needed answers.
Dressed in jeans and a tank top with her hair freshly combed and damp against her back, she felt like a new woman.
Windows stretched down the hall from the bedroom into a great room that was the size of Lizzie’s condo. There had to be over 2,000 square feet in the living area alone, all with breathtaking views of the Hudson to one side and towering ceilings above. An oversized couch with two matching recliners faced a mounted television that would make the entire male population drool. Beyond that was a wall of bookcases and another couch facing the Hudson. The decor theme was refined elegance with a masculine undertone that was all Issac.
She hung a left between the sofas and walked down a wide hallway. Just before the foyer was the kitchen entrance. It was spacious with an island at the center and a dining nook off to the side surrounded by windows. Issac was standing at the kitchen island, his back to her.
Her lips parted. Gone was the suit and in its place was a towel. Just a towel. How was she supposed to function with Issac Wakefield dressed only in a towel?
Brain fractured, she openly ogled him instead. Defined shoulders and a wide muscular back tapered into a lean waist that disappeared into that blue cloth she so badly wanted to remove. Fresh water droplets hung from his messy dark strands and dripped over skin that was tanner than she expected. The note of chlorine in the air suggested he just got out of a swimming pool.
Her tongue felt thick in her mouth as he moved from the island to the stove and flipped a pancake. The blue towel was dangerously low on his lean hips, revealing every inch of his rippled abdomen. There was a fine dusting of dark hair forming a happy trail that led below the cloth.
“You look refreshed.” The amusement underlying his tone said he noticed her blatant appraisal. Just what she needed. “I’m almost done making breakfast. Do you care for any coffee?”
He was gorgeous, half naked and offering her coffee. What more could a girl want?
“Yes.” Whether that was to the coffee or the overall package he offered, she wasn’t sure. Her brain wasn’t functioning and that towel looked ready to fall.
He handed her a cup. She managed a quiet, “Thanks,” before diving into the life reviving fuel. The dark blend with fruity notes warmed her raw throat and chest, making her sigh.
Stas allowed herself a moment to admire his ass before joining him at the kitchen island. He appeared to be finishing up a fruit salad. Beside it were several breakfast dishes. As much as she appreciated the eye candy and food preparations, she wanted an explanation.
“So.” She cleared her raw throat and winced. Another sip of coffee soothed the ache enough for her to speak again. “What the fuck is going on?” She meant to ask that the second she saw him, but was distracted by his lack of clothing. Now that her brain was functioning again, she was back on track. It’s like I woke up in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Missing three days of my life, walk into a kitchen and find a half naked gorgeous man. She wondered if this was all a messed up dream.
“You have no idea how thankful I am to hear that tone, Astasiya.” He sounded so casual and at home, like they did this together every day and him walking around in nothing but a towel was completely normal. He flipped a pancake and turned off the burner before crowding her against the island. With one hand on either side of her hips, he stared down at her. “I’m not sure how to word this without you having a fainting fit.”
“I don’t know what that means, but if you don’t start talking, I’m going to start freaking out. So you might as well get it over with before that happens.” Her voice was hoarse towards the end. God my throat hurts.
His forearms flexed beside her, drawing attention to the muscular masterpiece on display before her. She needed to find him a shirt or something before she lost her mind because wow. “The short of it is you nearly died, but my team of clinicians saved your life.”
Okay, forget the damn towel. “I, what?” Of all the things she expected, that wasn’t one of them. There had to a better reason for her losing three days. Took a bad drug and went on a trip she couldn’t remember? Drank too much? Slept for days because she was tired? All of those she would have preferred over almost dying.
“The important thing is, you survived. As for the how of it, well, it appears the CRF has created their own version of Nizari poison.” The coffee cup fell from her hand and landed in one of his. She didn’t have time to contemplate his insane reflexes. Her mind was too busy dissecting his words. “How about you sit down, I’ll serve breakfast, and we’ll discuss over food. The physicians said you need to eat an
d I’m starved after my swim.”
It sounded rational enough, but she wasn’t in a rational mood. She needed more information. Now. “Why would the CRF try to poison me?”
He used a hand on her lower back to guide her towards the dining area and pulled out a chair at the oversized table. “That is one question I can’t answer.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would be speculation on my part.” He went back to the kitchen to continue preparing food while she chugged one of the glasses of water sitting on the table. There was a pitcher in the middle of two place settings that she used to refill her cup when she emptied it. He set a few items on the table and her brow furrowed.
“Baked beans?” It seemed an odd breakfast food and offered her a moment of needed distraction from her jumbled thoughts.
“It’s an English thing,” he called from the kitchen.
“Right.” She took a sip of the coffee he brought over for her throat. How about a less dangerous question? “Who sent all those texts to Lizzie?”
He paused on his way back to the kitchen. “Hmm, I believe Balthazar did.”
“And who the hell is Balthazar?”
“He was one of the physicians looking after you this week.”
“You let a stranger talk to my best friend?” And you thought that would be okay?
“He’s not a stranger.” He brought over a frying pan. “He’s an old friend who I occasionally want to punch in the face. Pancake?”
“Sure.” Why not? She chewed her lip as he added one to her plate and put two on his own. “Okay, I can accept the texts because they kept Lizzie from losing her shit. But what’s a Nizi whatever?”
“Nizari,” he corrected as he scooped some eggs onto her plate, beside her pancake. He grabbed the bowl of fruit from the kitchen and set it between them before taking a seat across from her. The man really needed to put on some clothes. Those abs were seriously distracting and only half hidden by the table, and she needed to focus. “Eat something first and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“I’d rather you tell me now.” She was filling up on water, not food, which was making her stomach ache. Or maybe that was the realization that she almost died. Seriously, what the everliving hell?
“Eat,” he told her, demonstrating with a few bites of his own. She sampled the pancakes, which were good, and the eggs, then stared him down.
“My stomach is small from not eating in three days.” Her raw throat made her wince. Long sentences were not working for her.
His midnight gaze traveled over her. “The physicians said you’re healing remarkably well, which I suspect is a result of your genetics. Those bruises on your arm were fresh a few hours ago, but look days old now. It would appear the Nizari is out of your system, so your throat should heal similarly soon.”
She hoped he was right. “What’s a Nizari, Issac?”
“How about we make a deal.” He finished a bite and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll tell you what you need to know, but not everything. Not yet, anyway.”
“Why the hell not?”
“For several reasons, the foremost being you’re not ready to know everything yet, and the second being you still owe me a few dates. Dating for information, remember?”
“I think my almost dying voids our deal.”
“It voids nothing, but I’ll give you the details you need, and I’ll continue to give you information as we date.”
She wanted to throttle him. Irrational, yes, but she wasn’t in a rational place right now. “Tell me what the hell the Nizari is, Issac.”
He ran a hand through his dark strands, giving her a tantalizing view of all that sinuous muscle. “It’s a poison that was developed by an elite group of Conclave assassins who used it centuries ago to slaughter fledgling immortals after realizing their threat to the Ichorian race. The assassins were referred to as the Nizari, hence the elixir they created was named after them. However the one used on you was a variant, not the pure substance.”
Her brain caught on two words in particular. “Fledgling immortals?”
“Yes. It’s what we call your kind. Fledgling for short.” He ate his pancakes while she considered the term. It wasn’t familiar to her. “How are you feeling, Astasiya? I know this is a lot to take in, but I mean physically.”
She sipped her water. “Well, I feel dehydrated, my throat is sore, and I have bruises in weird places. I think this is the first time I’ve been sick, but other than that, I’m okay.” Oh, and I’m kind of freaking out inside over the fact I almost died. But she kept that to herself.
“You’ve never been sick? Not even a cold?”
“No.” She knew it was weird, but everything about her was abnormal. “Can we go back to why the CRF would want to hurt me?” She couldn’t wrap her head around that. Yes, they gave her some shots that left her feeling woozy afterwards, but Dr. Fitzgerald would never authorize something that would hurt someone. She trusted him implicitly.
“I suspect the CRF used it on you to test your bloodline. But as I said earlier, that’s speculation on my part.”
Meaning it might not be true. There’s no way it could be. It was a renowned humanitarian agency. Why would they dabble with poison meant to kill fledglings? “So if I’m a fledgling, what are you?”
“An Ichorian.”
“As in the race that kills fledglings like me?”
“One and the same.”
Well shit. She licked her lips, considering. She could ask him why he didn’t just let her die, but she suspected he would answer evasively. He wasn’t ready to admit her purpose here or he would have told her already. He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who waited when he wanted something.
A memory surfaced. It was fuzzy. She kept repeating Ichorian over and over in her mind until the memory came into focus. For such a recent experience, it seemed far away. Most likely a side effect of her near death experience. “During my polygraph the agent asked me if I knew any Ichorians.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“But apparently I lied because I told him I didn’t, and I know you.”
He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Probably for the best, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”
“They would have …?” Issac was implying that the CRF would kill her for knowing him. Impossible. Dr. Fitzgerald would never authorize it. He was her mentor. His son was one of her closest friends. They would never intentionally harm her in anyway. She was sure of it. There was a misunderstanding here.
They poisoned you, her subconscious reminded. Maybe?
“Okay, so what’s an Ichorian?”
“Something I’m not ready to tell you yet, but maybe later.”
“You’re joking, right? I almost died and you won’t tell me what you are?”
“I’m thankful you’re alive, more than you know, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to answer every question.”
“That makes you an ass.”
He folded his arms over his bare chest, drawing her attention to all those defined ridges of muscle decorating his abdomen. “Sure. An ass who saved your life and made you breakfast.”
“You’re not playing fair.”
He leaned towards her, his eyes narrowing. “Who said anything about fair?” He pushed back his chair and stood to casually stretch his arms over his dark head. Every sinewy inch of him not covered by the towel was on display, something she suspected was done for her benefit. Amusement flirted with his lips.
“However,” he said, lowering his arms, “because I’m feeling generous I’ll answer something you haven’t actually asked yet. Not with your mouth anyway.”
“Yeah? And what’s that?”
He dropped his towel. “A swimsuit, darling.” With a wink, he took his leave through the kitchen. She tried to scowl. She really did. But the swim trunks showcased strong legs and an exquisite ass. The man was walking perfection. Damn demon Ichorian. Whatever the fuck that all meant.
“Oh, and don’t go anywhere. We’re not done.” The words were thrown over his shoulder before he disappeared from sight.
Groaning she put her head on the table and attempted to beat some sense into her brain. She was swooning. She never swooned. Lizzie would be so proud of her. After years of only having passing interests in men, she was finally attracted to one. Damn it.
She was in trouble. Her emotions told her to follow him and demand he keep talking while her logical side reminded her that Issac was the first person she met with real answers. Pissing him off, especially after he saved her life, wasn’t a smart plan. She was closer to the truth than ever before because of what he told her today. I’m an immortal fledgling. It was the first time she had a term to refer to. She also now knew who might want to kill her, which matched something he alluded to after Owen’s memorial service.
It’s customary for one in my position to kill you on sight.
Those words still gave her chills. But he didn’t want her dead. Why go through the trouble of saving her life if he wanted to kill her? Hiring physicians to treat her inhouse couldn’t have been cheap. Allowing her to wake up in a comfortable bed was a point in his favor.
She drummed her fingers against the table top. Issac’s accusations regarding the CRF didn’t sit well with her. They didn’t make any sense. How would a humanitarian organization know anything about the elixir that almost killed her? They were involved in international affairs, not supernatural nonsense. He admitted it was speculation. It was possible someone else poisoned her. But who? She was sick before she stumbled into Issac that day, so it wasn’t him. And all the evidence pointed in the direction that he tried to save her life, not take it.
Should I trust him? Her instincts whispered yes, but common sense held her back. She would see where it went and learn more about herself along the way. It was her best option if she wanted real answers. The kind only he could answer.
Okay, Issac. Let’s play.