She stared out the bulletproof glass window and thought about what had happened on the Island when Mikhail Fallon had been a patient there ten years earlier.
Security was tight back then but nowhere near the level of today. There was a reason for the overabundance of guards, dogs, watchtowers, flight line cameras and security protocols that were now in place.
Ten years before, nine mercenaries had infiltrated the Island with aerosol containers of a virus that killed most of the inhabitants. What the virus did not kill, hollow-point bullets did. One merc had died in a firefight but eight survived. When they left, they took Mikhail Fallon’s woman with them.
Fallon had believed her dead. A body—with the back of its head blown away—had been found in the room Fallon and Keenan had shared. As far as he and the Supervisor knew forty-nine people from the Island and one merc had died that day on the Island. Forty-five died from inhalation of a toxic airborne poison and five others from gunshot wounds. The woman Fallon thought his Extension had instead been a clone, an exact duplicate of the woman he loved—right down to the Celtic tattoo on the small of her back. The real Keenan had been spirited away.
Laci had read the report of the massacre. Every new agent who came to the Exchange was required to know the history of that horrible day. One quote stood out in her memory for it had brought tears to her eyes at the time.
“I should have felt it,” Fallon had said of his lady’s death.
Thinking back now on their last mission, Laci realized she hadn’t felt Tay’s death when the bomb detonated. All she’d felt was numbness and horror and a deep sense of guilt that she hadn’t died alongside him. But the god-awful pain of losing him had not struck her. Depression had. Despair, misery, loneliness and helpless had but not the soul-crushing hopelessness of never seeing him again that should have permeated her entire being.
“Because a part of you knew he wasn’t gone,” she said aloud.
And she hadn’t followed him into death as had been expected of her. Her survival had perplexed the doctors at the Exchange. Never had an Extension survived the death of her mate. That, in itself, should have been a red flag alerting them that Taylor Reynaud was still alive yet no one picked up on the fact.
Taylor had been universally loved at the Exchange. His endearing Cajun personality had won over even the most caustic of operatives. Where the staff had feared—or at the very least been wary of Mikhail Fallon—they had nothing but affection for Tay. His death had devastated everyone but most of all the two people who cared the deepest for him—the Supervisor and her.
“I need to assign a new man but I keep hesitating,” the Supervisor had said.
Laci wondered if he had known all along Tay was alive or suspected as much.
The knock on her door made her jump and she spun around, her heart in her throat.
There was a tall, handsome man with black hair and amber eyes standing in the hall. She frowned.
“Yes?” she questioned, her voice sounding hoarse to her own ears.
“Laci? I’m Mikhail Fallon.”
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry,” she said, stepping back. “I should have recognized you, Agent Fallon. Please. Come in.”
He moved past her with the lithe grace of a Prime Reaper, an Alpha with supreme confidence in himself and his abilities. Up close, he was even more intimidating than the photos she had seen of him.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he said and shook hands with her.
“Please, sit down,” she said as she closed the door then joined him in the great room. “May I get you something to drink?”
“No thank you,” he said, taking the chair in front of the window. His voice was soft, sensually modulated and his direct gaze gave her tingling feelings in her lower body. The man was sex on two legs and—what was more—he knew it.
“Are you sure? I could get you—”
“Sit down, Laci,” he said quietly. “I don’t bite.” He grinned, his white teeth flashing with just a hint of the fangs hidden behind his upper lip. “Well, I do, but I won’t.”
She smiled. She perched nervously on the edge of the sofa. “Is it that obvious?” she asked.
“That you’re scared shitless of me?” he asked with a chuckle. “Aye, it is.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She clenched her fingers together in her lap. “I’ve met only one other Reaper and that was…” Her chin quivered. “Is Taylor.”
“As I’m sure you realize Tay is why I’m here,” he told her.
“Is he…?” Her eyes filled with moisture and she lowered her head, unable to look at him.
“Tay was given a hellion about an hour ago and had a successful Conversion,” he said. “The surgeon assured the Supervisor that he is well on the road to recovery.”
Laci took a hitching breath. “They couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” she whispered.
“I’m sure you understand why,” he replied.
“How bad was it?” When he hesitated, she lifted her chin. “I need to know and I suspect the Supervisor won’t tell me, Agent—”
“Misha,” he corrected.
“I need to know, Misha.”
The Reaper locked eyes with her. “You need to understand that what was done has been healed by the hellion. An hour from now all traces of his physical injuries will have vanished.”
“All right,” she said. She was trembling.
“I won’t beat around the bush with you. Prolonging bad news is never good,” he said then drew in a long breath. “Laci, Tay was tortured repeatedly over the years. The surgeon believes they immersed him in some kind of caustic liquid up to his neck then poured the same stuff over his face. Whatever they used severely disfigured him.”
She ceased to breathe. Her eyes widened and she put a hand to her mouth.
“They were careful not to get it into his eyes,” he told her. “My guess is they wanted him to see the destruction of his body more than just experiencing the agony of having his flesh…” His brow furrowed. “You know.”
“Why?” she asked and realized the tone of her voice struck a chord in him.
“Only the gods know,” he said softly. “Some men—and a few women—are truly evil. Maybe they were punishing him or maybe…” He looked away from her. “Maybe they were experimenting on him. The surgeon doesn’t know how long ago he was subjected to whatever burned him.”
She flinched. Even without his hellion, the only true ways to kill a Reaper were to decapitate him or burn him to ashes. Since Tay had been in such bad shape they feared for his survival, there was only one reason for it.
Fallon turned to face her, intercepting her thoughts. “My guess is he finally gave up and began to will himself to die. The body and soul can take only so much abuse before they start to shut down. Perhaps he felt he no longer had a reason to live and wanted the pain to end.”
“He gave up on us finding him,” she said. “Rescuing him.”
The Reaper nodded. “Aye, that could have been the case.”
Closing her eyes slowly, she hung her head. “What now, Misha?” she asked quietly.
“Yours should be the first face he sees when he wakes,” he told her. “I don’t know how long that will take but you should be there when it does. Not the Supervisor. You.”
“Has he seen Tay?”
“He has,” Fallon said. “Hopefully now that Tay is most likely whole in appearance again, he’ll give you permission to see him. I hope to the goddess the bastard doesn’t think he’s the most important thing in Tay’s life and park himself in a chair at his bedside. That would be a major miscalculation on his part.”
She opened her eyes and gave him a pleading look. “Will you talk to him?”
“Sweeting, I intend to,” he assured her. He got to his feet. “I’m sorry I made your headache worse.”
Not bothering to question how he knew she had a migraine, she shrugged. “I’m used to them.”
“Me too,” he said. “Reaper-Extension occupational hazards.
” He put out his hand. “If you need anything, need to talk and don’t feel comfortable doing it with me, my lady is available to you 24/7. Just pick up the phone and ask for her or me. Okay?”
She nodded. “Thank you, Misha.”
“You are very welcome, dearling,” he said and walked to the door. He stopped with it half open and turned back to her. “One last thing. He’ll not be in a good frame of mind, Laci. I’m sure you know that. Don’t question him about what happened. Just let him talk. Let him tell it in his own way, in his own time.”
“I will,” she said. “I won’t push.”
Chapter Three
He slowly opened his eyes, for the agony in his head was excruciating. Nausea pushed at the back of his throat. Hand trembling, he brought it to his face, perplexed by the slight pinch in his forearm. He became aware of the IV bottle hanging beside him and that puzzled him even more. Since when did they feel the need to help him stay alive? He wondered. Yet the IV tube ran from the bottle to his arm, carrying with it a clear white liquid that fed into his body.
Fingers to the wicked throbbing over his left eye, he was further bewildered by the smoothness along his brow. Gingerly, he ran his fingertips across his forehead.
He frowned.
He ran his fingers down his nose, his lips and his chin.
The skin felt smooth—though whiskers scraped at the pads of his fingertips as he moved them onto his neck.
He flexed his feet and there was no tight pull on the muscles.
He moved his right hand to his cheek, laid his palm there and encountered no puckered flesh.
Tensing, he slid his fingertips down the side of his neck and onto his chest. For a moment he was stymied as he felt soft cotton fabric, the coolness of metal snaps beneath his palm. It had been years since they’d allowed him clothing. Lowering his left hand also to his chest, he slowly pulled apart the placket of the shirt, the snaps easily giving way as he opened the shirt all the way to his waist. Tentatively he ran his palms over his chest and sides but felt no telltale ridges. Barely daring to breathe, he pushed his right hand beneath the elastic waist of what he realized were hospital pajamas. The moment he touched his cock, he sucked in a hissing breath.
Intact.
Smooth.
The words flooded his mind but turned cold as ice water when he encountered the plastic tube inserted into his shaft.
With a growl of fury he snatched his hand from his cock and reached over to yank the IV from his arm. Throwing back the covers, he swung his legs from the bed, felt the pull of the catheter in his cock and growled again. A distant part of his mind warned him not to jerk that catheter out as he had the one in his arm. Instead, he pulled the tubing that led to the collection bag from the port on the catheter. A trickle of urine spread on the front of his pajamas then ran down his thigh when his feet touched the floor.
For a second, his head swam and he wavered. More urine ran down his thigh from the dangling catheter to plaster the cotton to his flesh and that pissed him off. He tried to ignore it as he made his way into the bathroom. Keeping his head down, he stumbled to the sink, trembling so violently his teeth were chattering. He barely noticed the pale-blue hospital pajamas, his bare feet that looked smooth beneath the hem of the pant leg. The backs of his hands were likewise smooth, unblemished save for the few scars that had been there since his childhood. He kept his eyes on the stainless-steel sink as he braced his hands on its cold rim.
Drawing in ragged breaths, keeping his teeth clenched to restrain the clicking, he slowly raised his head inch by inch until he could see the lower edge of the mirror hanging above the sink. In the mirror, he was stunned to see a thick mop of black hair instead of the light brown that should have been there.
A full minute passed before he could raise his head any higher. The sight of his forehead—natural, light creases running horizontally across the otherwise smoothness—stopped his breath. Terrified of what he might see, he raised his head all the way and his eyes widened as he saw pale-golden irises instead of the green that had once stared back at him from a mirror.
But it was his face that shocked him the most.
Gone was the red expanse of uneven, acid-blotched flesh.
Gone were the deep ridges of scars that had been carved down his cheeks with a scalpel.
Gone was the hideous creature who had stared back at him for so long he had forgotten what his real face had looked like.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement and jerked his head around. The motion brought nausea galloping back to his throat, caused him to grab tightly to the sink rim to keep from falling as dizziness struck.
“I think you need to be in the bed,” she said softly and held out her hand.
His voice was rusty, husky, little more than a whisper. “The front of my pants is wet.”
It was a stupid thing to say but it brought a smile to her lips. She came a step closer, her hand still stretched toward him.
“My pants are wet,” he repeated, suddenly ashamed of that situation.
“I’ll call the nurse to come in to take out the catheter,” she said. “Thank God you didn’t pull it out yourself.”
He looked down at the dangling tubing with the bifurcation of ports sticking out from the fly of his pajamas and shrugged. “Balloon,” he said, the word so quiet she barely heard it.
“Yes,” she agreed and came another step closer.
“No, chere,” he said, shaking his head. He was still clinging desperately to the sink. “Reek.”
She stopped, obviously realizing he didn’t want her to come into contact with him as he was. She nodded, lowering her arm. “I’ll get the nurse.”
He didn’t want to let her out of his sight. She must have realized that for she raised her voice—remaining where she was—and shouted, “Nurse!”
The sound of rubber soles slapping against the floor made his heart stutter with fear for a moment but she was still smiling calmly at him.
“Is this a dream?” he whispered.
“No dream, baby,” she said. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
“Safe,” he repeated.
Another woman and two men suddenly appeared in his line of vision and he gasped and stumbled back.
White uniforms.
Set faces.
His face paled, his eyes widened. He made a strangled sound as he stumbled back and his back hit the wall. He brought his arms up, crossed them over his face and slid to the floor, drawing his knees up protectively as he lowered his head.
“Let me.”
It was her voice, speaking softly but firmly. The smell of her perfume—almost forgotten—hit him like a brick as he felt her hunker down in front of him. It was her gentle hands closing around his wrists to bring his arms down to his bent knees.
“Taylor, you are on the Island,” she said. “You are safe now. We have you, baby. We have you.”
Slowly he raised his head. She was just beyond the crook of his knees. Her pretty hazel eyes met his and although she was no longer smiling, her face was filled with encouragement.
“We have you,” she told him again and her hands tightened slightly on his crossed wrists.
“No dream?” he asked, his lips trembling.
“No dream.”
He looked past her to the three people crowded beyond the doorway. They were looking back at him but their eyes weren’t hard and cold. They were filled with concern. Their faces weren’t rigid with anger or schooled into dark purpose. They were creased with sympathy.
“Laci,” he said on a long, hitching sigh.
“Yes, baby.”
“Help me,” he asked.
She got gracefully to her feet and held her hand out to him again. This time he took it—feeling the fragile bones in that soft little hand, the warmth of it nestled within his own.
“Agent Reynaud, I need to remove your catheter or you’ll start having bladder spasms,” the nurse said. “Will you let the orderly help you up?”
; His gaze snapped to the beautiful woman who was his lifeline. At her smile, he looked past her to the smaller of the two men looking in on him. He nodded.
Slowly the orderly came into the bathroom and leaned over to grip him beneath his armpit. With infinite care, the man hoisted him to his feet in front of Laci.
“I want to hug you,” he said.
“You can,” she replied.
“Not clean,” he said.
“We’ll get you cleaned up,” the orderly said. He took a step forward as Laci moved back.
“Don’t leave!” he begged.
“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” she said. She backed out of the room so he could track her movement, the nurse and other orderly moving out of her way. She kept her distance as the orderly helped him from the bathroom and to the bed.
“Don’t berate him for pulling out the catheter,” he heard Laci order.
“I wasn’t going to,” the nurse said.
“I’ll get a basin,” the other orderly said.
As he reached the bed and sat down gingerly, the orderly released his arm and bent over to hook an arm under his legs to bring them onto the mattress.
“Pajamas are so much less emasculating to our male patients than the gowns our female patients wear,” the nurse said in a soft, unhurried voice. “And they are so much more comfortable.”
He was shivering as she drew a pair of sterile gloves from a box attached to the wall. The gloves disturbed him although the demons who had tortured him over the years never bothered to don the latex protection. He flinched as she snapped the first covering on her hand.
“I prefer pajamas,” Laci said as she came to stand at the foot of the bed. She laid her hand on his bare foot. “Don’t I, baby?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “T-shirt and pjs.”
“Give me a good old flannel gown any day,” the nurse said with a laugh. “Summer or winter. I just like the feel of it.” She moved to the side of the bed and the orderly faded into the background as she kept up a steady narrative about her favorite flannel gown and fuzzy flip-flops.
A Reaper's Love (WindWorld) Page 3