She looked up at Player’s face, and her entire body stilled. Every cell in her body responded to him. His blue eyes were fixed on her. Piercing. Speculative. He was looking at her in a way he hadn’t for the last few weeks. It was both exhilarating and frightening.
She forced her attention back to her grandmother and Savage. She couldn’t let herself think about Player. Even if he changed his mind. What would be the point? He wanted sex. Off-the-charts sex, but that never lasted long, and she wanted to be loved. And he needed her. That wasn’t the same thing as loving her. She knew what real love was. Player didn’t.
“Did you really sunbathe, Anat? That might have been too long for you, all joking aside,” Savage said. “I don’t like the idea of you getting a sunburn or hurting your leg.”
He sounded protective. That was one trait the members of Torpedo Ink—including Player—seemed to have in common. Zyah liked them for that as well.
“I did sunbathe for an hour. The sun is very healing. Player made certain I didn’t jar my leg. He’s very strong.”
Savage made a perfect replica of Anat’s trilling sound. Perfect. It didn’t sound like a mocking mimic. It sounded as if he had been born and bred in her village. “Don’t tell him he’s strong. He already thinks he’s good-looking.”
Anat sent Player her lovely grandmother smile. “He is good- looking.”
Maestro groaned. “Now you’ve gone and done it. We won’t hear the end of it.”
Savage ignored the byplay. “I think it was smart to sunbathe. Anything to get that healing going. Did Player take off the bandage around his head? Maybe he’ll get his brains back. Got any fresh cookies?” Savage added, getting to his main agenda.
“Since I was the one making the cookies,” Player said, “no, there aren’t any. At least for you. Stick around for a little while. I’m heading out for a ride.”
He’d told Anat he was leaving. Now he wasn’t so certain. With Zyah’s scent surrounding him, with her taste in his mouth and breathing her into his lungs, it wasn’t so easy to just walk away from her. He didn’t dare look at the older woman. She would know she’d gotten to him with her reprimand—and she had. He’d never quite looked at things the way she’d laid them out to him. He had a lot to think about, and he thought better on his bike.
Zyah whirled around to face him. She all but planted her body directly in front of his. “What do you mean you’re going out for a ride?”
He shrugged casually, pressing his fingers deep into his thigh to keep from tucking stray strands of her dark, flyaway hair behind her ear. “I haven’t been out for a while, and I need to ride. I get restless. I’ll just be gone a short while.”
“Steele said you shouldn’t try it yet, Player. I heard you ask him last night.” She lifted her chin at him, daring him to call her out for eavesdropping.
In the last few days, he’d offered to exchange rooms dozens of times, but she said it was too much trouble. Hell, he wanted—even needed—to get out of her bedroom; she was everywhere inside those walls. It was silly, really, to want to exchange rooms, since she came into the bedroom every night. She had to when he had nightmares, when the illusions started and then reality blended with illusion and he was building bombs he’d never seen before. It was just that things in that room that were sacred to her bothered him. Really bothered him.
He’d spent a great deal of time after he’d taken Anat out in the sun, over two hours, just sitting on the bed, staring at the picture her grandfather had drawn for her grandmother. It was truly a work of art. There was no question about it. The man had painstakingly drawn out every line, and it must have taken him months to complete the work.
Every time Player looked at the masterpiece, it gave him a headache. The worst part about it was that he felt compelled to look. Zyah talked about it all the time. There was love in her voice when she did. She spoke about the love between Anat and her husband, Horus. There was the signature falcon rising from the drawing, and Zyah had explained that Horus meant “falcon” and that the bird was often drawn into his things.
Maybe it was because Zyah had such a history of family that Player disliked the charcoal image so much. His own father had allowed Sorbacov to murder his mother right in front of him and sold his son to be used by pedophiles and trained as an assassin.
Yeah, Player detested that charcoal drawing. He looked at it and saw something else. It actually hurt his eyes and made his head pound and feel like it was coming apart worse than ever. At times, he would rearrange those lines, the wings and whorls, making them into other, much more lethal things, because his mind was really fucked up like that. Worse, there was her father’s beloved frame.
Player loved his Harley. He loved music. And he loved wood. He had an affinity for it. When he touched the surface of any type of wood, alive or not, he felt the roots going all the way to the earth, deep, connecting him. He could almost hear whispers of the past in the wood. He liked the stories the various types of wood told him. Touching the frame around the picture Zyah’s grandfather had drawn, he’d expected to feel love along with the stories from the tree’s native land. He didn’t feel love at all in that frame, other than the places Zyah had touched. The frame felt sinister and threatening. Even more than the drawing, he found the frame disturbing, but he had no idea why.
“Player.” Zyah’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Steele said you shouldn’t ride yet.” She was insistent. “Your migraines are too severe and they come on too fast.”
“Steele said it wasn’t a good idea for me to ride, but he didn’t say not to,” he corrected as gently as possible.
She was upset, and that was the last thing he expected or wanted. He’d planned on leaving, but now he wanted the time to think. If she was this upset just at the thought of him riding his motorcycle, she was bound to really be upset if he left her house altogether. At least he hoped she would be.
“He said if a migraine came on, you could have balance issues.” Her hands went to her hips. Her lips pressed together ominously.
The problem with her belligerent stance was, he found it sexy. Her voice was too smoky, far too sinful and sexy for her to sound as if she was lecturing him. Player also had a very vivid image in his head of those lips wrapped around his cock, which sent that part of his anatomy into a frenzy of activity. Shit. That wasn’t good. Not with them being in her grandmother’s room. He lifted a hand to Anat and slid back into the shadows, inching toward the door.
“A short ride, Zyah. I just need to clear my head a little.” He began moving again, edging around her, trying to make certain there was no body contact. If he made it to the open road, he could decide if he was going to leave for good or not.
“Wait a minute. Destroyer, can you stay with my grandmother, make certain she’s safe? I’m going with you, Player.”
Player’s heart stuttered. He put his hand over his chest and pressed hard. “Baby, you can’t do that. You just got home from work and you’re tired.” He forced his voice to be gentle, to not dictate. She couldn’t ride with him on the motorcycle. It was far too dangerous for either of them, and not in the way she was thinking. She’d resisted every time he’d tried to get her back in the bed with him, and he knew she was trying hard to save herself. He was trying just as hard to save her.
“No, Player.” She glanced back at her grandmother, placed a hand on his chest and put pressure on him, so either he had to move backward or she would walk right into his arms.
Player had no problem with taking her into his arms, but not there. Not with her grandmother looking on, or Maestro or Savage, for that matter. What was between them was private and intimate in a way he didn’t want anyone else to see. Their connection didn’t just strip him naked and make him completely vulnerable, it did the same to Zyah as well. He wasn’t allowing that, not even in front of his brothers. He let her walk him backward out of the room.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
Her tone was low. Musical. It vibrated thr
ough his body, sending little electrical charges right through his veins straight to his groin. Her hand was still on his chest, and he doubted she was even aware of it, but he was. The heat of it seared him through the material of the tee he was wearing. Her head was thrown back, and more of that thick hair of hers had come loose, so untamable, just like she was.
“I need to breathe,” he answered honestly. “My head is coming apart, and being so fuckin’ close to you, breathing you in night and day, is turning me inside out.” He caught her hand and slid it down his body to the front of his jeans. “I’ve got to just take a breather, babe. Ride along the highway.”
She should have pulled her hand away, but she didn’t. She just looked straight into his eyes while her palm curled over his heavy erection. While she pressed harder and rubbed a caress over him.
“Don’t you think it’s doing the same thing to me? I’m breathing you in too.” There was an ache in her voice. “Neither one of us knows why you’re continuing to get migraines, Player, but you can’t take chances. I don’t know why you keep going back to building that bomb, but the last time, that bomb was too real. I saw it. It wasn’t filled with some kind of soda, Player. It was real.”
He had to think. Clear his head. He had to make choices, and one of them was to talk to Czar. He had to let him know the truth about his illusions and what happened when things went wrong. How they were going wrong now. Worse, he had to tell Czar about the things Zyah knew about him. About the club. About his brothers and sisters. He wanted to pound his fists into the wall until they bled. He wanted to pound his cock into Zyah’s body until he stopped hurting so damned bad and he could think with a clear mind.
“You think I don’t know that? How dangerous I am to you? To your grandmother? To my club? My head is so damn fucked up and I can’t stop what’s happening to me.”
“I can,” Zyah hissed, for the first time sounding angry. Not loud. Not belligerent. Her voice was still musical, but it took on the tones of an older instrument, a crumhorn. “Not Steele, none of your brothers or sisters. Not a doctor. They can’t heal you or stop what’s happening. I can do that. I’ve been doing it. You’re almost there, and you’re not going to mess it up.”
She pulled her hand out from under his, away from his pulsing cock, and turned away from him, but not before he caught the glitter of liquid in her eyes. His heart stuttered.
“Zyah. I swear to you, I know my limitations. I wasn’t going on some suicide run.” Even to himself, his voice didn’t sound sure, because he hadn’t been so certain. He was a danger to her. To her grandmother, to everyone he cared about. He was the most fucked-up human being on the planet.
He’d learned to build bombs, several different types, but none like the one he’d been building over and over. He was getting good at putting that unknown bomb together. Fast too. He knew the parts now. The order. He was getting faster and faster while the shadowy figure timed him with that pocket watch.
She swung around to face him, and he shoved both hands through his hair and winced when he inadvertently touched the long, deep, carved-out groove in his skull. “Damn it, Zyah, I don’t know, I just have to think. I can do that on my bike.”
“Fine. Then I’m going with you.”
He took an aggressive step toward her, hooked her around the nape of her neck and used his thumb to press into her jaw, forcing her face upward. “We get on that machine together, and when we get off, I swear I’m going to fuck your brains out and you’re going to let me.”
“Fine, then. Let’s do it. It’s just sex. I can do just sex.” She shoved at the wall of his chest without rocking him, turned and flounced up the stairs.
It was breathtaking, watching her walk away from him. The way her jeans clung to her hips and hugged her bottom. He was a damn fool to even consider putting her ass on the back of his bike. He’d made up his mind that he wasn’t going to have anything to do with her, not after their last insanity in her bed, but he had to have her. And it was never just sex.
He’d been the one to push her away, over and over. She had tried to connect with him, but he’d been ashamed for her to see his past. He didn’t want her to know about the many kills he’d made. She’d been so far into his mind, he was certain he hadn’t managed to protect her from those things anyway. She’d been the one accepting and forgiving. Nonjudgmental. He’d been the one pushing her away, over and over.
He turned away from the stairs and picked up his jacket from the sideboard, shrugging into it. Anat had made some damn good points. Really damn good points. What was the standard he was judging himself by? His talent? It wasn’t a talent, it was a fuckin’ curse. Everyone else in his club had a psychic talent that contributed in a big way to their survival. He didn’t. A couple of times, his talent had pulled them out of the fire, but then he’d nearly killed them all.
Building illusions and using them had been a disaster until he’d learned how to control that power. He’d kept quiet at first, afraid he was going insane, figuring he was useless when they had been children fighting for survival. He still felt that way. He glanced toward the stairs. Most people, if they did have psychic talents as Czar believed, never developed them. They still went after what they wanted. They still fought for happiness. He had one chance, and that one chance was that woman up those stairs.
Was he using his past as an excuse because he was afraid of failing with Zyah? Afraid of letting her down? Or was he afraid of failing himself? Being the one in the club who couldn’t cut it yet again? Was Anat right? He had to take a good, hard look at himself. He never ducked a tough assignment. Never. He pulled his weight when it came to any kind of dangerous assignment. Hell no, he wasn’t a coward.
Damn it all. Maybe when it came to personal shit he was. He never talked about his cursed gift to the others. Not even to Czar. He’d never admitted to them that illusion turned to ugly reality, and reality could kill. He was always afraid of being rejected by the others. Was that what he was doing to Zyah? Rejecting her before she could refuse him?
What was he doing standing there in the Gamal house-hold with his colors inked on his skin, feeling them all the way to his bones, when he hadn’t gone to Czar and told him the truth? Laid it right out in front of him. All of it. The White Rabbit with that pocket watch who persisted in turning into Sorbacov with his fucking gold watch. The ticking time bomb that was so real even Maestro and Anat heard it. They heard it. If Zyah hadn’t stopped it by kissing him, connecting them so deeply, that bomb could have gone off.
He cursed under his breath in his native language. Anat was right. He was a fucking coward. Now not only could he lose his standing with the only family he’d ever known, but he could lose Zyah. Really lose her, as in she could be dead. He couldn’t take that. He wouldn’t be responsible for that. He needed time to think things through. He had to make certain she was safe, but also that his family was safe. The ocean air would help. The open road and his bike would clear his mind. They had to. He couldn’t make mistakes, not when lives were at stake.
Player felt Zyah’s presence before she even appeared on the staircase. He turned slowly to look up to watch her descend. It was almost a compulsion. A need just to be in the room with her. To breathe her in, to see her like this, doing mundane, simple, everyday things. She flowed in silence down the stairs like the dancer she was, so gorgeous she took his breath away. Her beauty wasn’t just skin deep.
He didn’t think she was perfect for him because he found her curvy body sinful beyond temptation, a playground he could spend hours teasing and playing with, or even because she had a gift that could counter the mess of his own talent. She was unique. A soft-spoken woman unafraid of hard work, capable of unconditional love and loyal to a fault. She was worth fighting for, and he’d be a damn fool to let her slip away because he was afraid of failure.
She didn’t smile at him when he reached out and pulled her close, standing her in front of him to inspect her gear. She wore a thick jacket and good gloves. She’d
managed to tame her hair enough to twist it into a long, loose braid that was never going to hold with that thick mass, but with a helmet over it, she’d do fine. Bog, but she was drop-dead gorgeous.
A little half smile played around her full lips. She shook her head. “I am not. There’re all kinds of things wrong with me.”
“Did I say that out loud?” He probably had. Half the time he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing around her. He caught the front of her jacket and tugged until she took a step closer to him. “You absolutely are. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about.” He said that with all sincerity. “Are you dressed in layers under the jacket? It’s going to be cold out there this time of night.”
Her dark chocolate gaze slid over him, hot enough to melt a glacier. She was going to give him a heart attack for sure. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple. It was hurting like a mother again. Pounding. When was it ever going to stop for good?
The only time his headache let up anymore was when Zyah was talking softly to him, usually in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep because his damn head was going to explode and the ticking of the bomb was so loud the entire household could hear it. She would come and lie down on the bed beside him, take his hand and just talk to him.
“Stop thinking about it. You’ll make it happen. I can already feel the illusion building. We’re going for a ride on your motorcycle, and if you can’t handle that, we’ll walk outside for a while in the open air,” Zyah declared.
“I’m sorry I’m putting you in such a bad position,” he said, meaning it. Not meaning it. Rethinking his decision to leave. To give her up. He wasn’t a coward. Her grandmother had given him a lot to think about. “I know every time you have to find the scattered pieces of my brain and glue them back together, it connects us more.” He felt every single one of those ties binding them closer and closer.
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