by Jade Kerrion
Alex remained silent for a long moment, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. “If you’re right, how certain are you that you can keep Danyael alive while using him as bait to hunt down that assassin?”
“I would never let Danyael get hurt.”
“Let?” Alex shook his head. “Danyael will do what he believes is right, regardless of your opinion or mine. Physically, he may not be able to keep up with you, but he won’t be controlled, Zara. You should know that by now.”
“It’s for his own safety.”
“And the last time Danyael paid attention to his own safety was…when, exactly?”
Zara had no answer for that question, because there was no answer for that question. Danyael’s inability to accurately assess risk—especially when it involved his life—absolutely infuriated her. “I will keep him safe.”
“He has to be accompanied by the telepaths.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Zara, if he’s killed—”
“I’m trying to set a trap for an assassin. How effective do you think that trap will be if I have to babysit nine alpha telepaths?”
“They don’t need to be babysat.”
“Of course they do. If alpha mutants didn’t have to be nagged on how to do things right, they would have found that assassin skulking in the next apartment, and we wouldn’t even be having this conversation right now.”
Alex grimaced, probably because even he had to acknowledge that she was right about alpha mutants. “It’s too dangerous. If something happens to Danyael, you could be looking at hundreds, maybe even thousands of innocent people dying.”
“I’m trying to find an assassin. Small haystacks are easier than large haystacks. We’ll keep away from crowded places.”
A muscle ticked in Alex’s cheek. “One week. No more. If you can’t find and track this assassin down, then I want Danyael back here in D.C. where at least I can have an army of telepaths on top of him.”
“You’re using him as bait, too, Alex.” Zara’s smile was devoid of humor. “But your only workable plan is to keep the collateral damage under control when he’s killed. No wonder he doesn’t trust you.”
“He trusts you even less,” Alex retorted. “You can’t convince him to follow you.”
She smirked. “Watch and learn.”
The unuttered sigh weighed heavily upon Danyael’s chest, making it hard to breathe. The surgery and recovery wing seemed subdued and darker after Zara left. Her presence exuded energy and passion; her emotions, viewed through the eyes of an alpha empath, were a swirl of modern art. Each time she walked away from him, she took all that living color with her, flattening his world into shades of gray.
Danyael did not expect to see Zara again for several days. She showed up intermittently in his life, often without warning, and usually when it was going to hell. She then proceeded to help it get there faster—
No, that statement wasn’t fair. He grimaced; the motion twitched a burst of pain in his shoulder. Ever since July 4th, he and Zara had reached an unexpected truce. He visited her Georgetown townhouse every Sunday morning to spend a few hours with their daughter, Laura Itani.
Laura. Danyael smiled at the thought of the other burst of color in his life. The golden-haired toddler radiated joy and delight over the smallest things. She was too young to judge and still innocent enough to love without qualification. When he struggled through suicidal depression after July 4th, Laura Itani had been his salvation. Her obvious affection and unstinting love had sustained him until he was strong enough to rebuild his life.
Danyael still did not have all the pieces reassembled, but he had enough fragile fragments haphazardly pasted to pull off a semblance of normality. And today, the near miss notwithstanding, was just another day in his life. He had rested enough. He had to get back to the free clinic.
Thanks to the psychic healers at the Mutant Affairs Council, his shoulder was well on the path to healing, the shattered bones already knitting together, the pain dampened beneath a heavy dose of medication. Within a few days, he would be able to get rid of the cast and begin physical therapy.
He was still exhausted, starving, and sleep-deprived, but that was normal. He had to squeeze in a few hours of work. He was already a month behind on his electricity bill and his student loans. Any bit of money—
Danyael glanced up as the door opened, and Zara strode in. She wore a white leather coat, belted at the waist, black leggings, and matching gloves. With her exotic features, long dark hair, and violet eyes, she could have been a model on a catwalk, if not for her predatory grace.
“Ready to leave?” she asked. Her voice was brisk and businesslike. “I have a car waiting.”
“I can take the metro.”
“Danyael, your desire to do things for yourself is reaching absolutely ludicrous levels.”
His smile was wry. “Can’t afford to pay for help.” He drew a breath and expelled it in a sigh. If Zara was trying to be kind, the least he could do was acknowledge it. “I’d appreciate a ride. Thank you.”
The ride, however, wasn’t Zara’s BMW, but a black sedan with a stoic-faced driver. Danyael’s empathic senses remained quiescent, but his gut instinct shrieked a warning. The flutter of anxiety in the pit of his stomach soured with fear, but Danyael clamped down on the faint reek of panic. Whatever the circumstance, overreacting was not an option for him. Teeth gritted against his own emotions, Danyael leaned down to look into the car. “Jackson.”
The driver glanced over his shoulder. “Danyael.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you for saving me yesterday.”
“Don’t think I did much, sir.” Jackson turned to look out of the windshield, signaling a clear end to the conversation.
Danyael straightened and glanced at Zara. The light spring breeze tugged at the worn collar of his black leather jacket. Compared to her, he felt ludicrously underdressed. “Where are we going?”
“Get into the car.”
Dread squeezed the breath out of his lungs. “I’ve been on a road trip with you before, Zara. It didn’t end well.”
For an instant, a barest instant, he sensed a flicker of guilt, but he had to have imagined it. Zara didn’t do guilt. “Just get in. Please,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “We’ll talk on the way.”
Danyael stared at her, unable to untangle the dazzling mess of her emotions. What was the point of being an alpha empath if he couldn’t figure out the emotions of the people who mattered most to him?
Their eyes met. Zara breathed a single word. “Please.”
A muscle twitched in Danyael’s cheek. He would listen to what she had to say; he owed it to both of them—and to their daughter. He awkwardly maneuvered himself into the car. Zara took his crutch and put it in the trunk before sliding in beside him. Jackson started off immediately, turning the car into D.C.’s notorious traffic. The buds on the cherry blossom trees were scarcely visible through the heavily tinted glass. Danyael pressed his fingers against the cool surface; the glass was probably bullet-proof too. “Where are you taking me?”
“Away.”
“You know I’m bound to a ten-mile radius of the council headquarters.”
“I’ve already cleared it with Alex.”
“You convinced Alex to let me out of my virtual prison? How did you manage that?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were being hunted?”
Danyael squeezed his eyes shut against the slap of her anger. His exquisite training grounded him against the exhausting windstorm of her fluctuating emotions. “It didn’t matter. The situation was under control.”
“And that’s why you’re sitting here now with a hole drilled through your shoulder. That’s your definition of under control?”
“Why are you so angry?”
“You could have been killed!” She glared at him, violet eyes flashing.
He looked away, his breath catching, his empathic
senses reeling. His left fingers curled into a fist, tightened until his knuckles were white, then slowly relaxed. He groped for his emotional center, but that usual haven of peace was tattered. “How…how is Laura?”
“She’s fine. She’ll be enjoying the company of her nannies for a few weeks while we take a vacation.”
Danyael’s head snapped up. He stared at Zara’s face, searched her emotions, and found no hint of humor, and no sign of a lie. “I can’t go. I have work to do, bills to pay.”
“So, you’d rather stay in D.C. and put Dum at risk?”
“What?”
“The assassin is hunting empaths, and is clearly after you. If you stay, she may decide to go after Dum, just for a change of pace before coming back to you. Dum’s an empath too, right?”
“She?”
“I don’t have a name or a face, but I know that she won’t stop. It’s your choice. Leave D.C., and draw her away from Dum, or stay, and risk Dum getting killed.”
Danyael yanked in a sharp breath. Not Dum. Danyael could not endanger Dum, the young empath he mentored, or Dum’s twin sister, Dee. They were teenagers on the cusp of a better life. Danyael shook his head. “I’m not going to put Dum or Dee at risk.”
“I didn’t think so,” Zara said with a satisfied smile. “Your only option is to leave. With me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to take that assassin down.”
He met her eyes. “With me as bait?”
She shrugged. “Why not? We already know it works.”
“This isn’t your problem, Zara. I’ll handle it.”
“And you’re doing a wonderful job.”
He turned his face away from her brittle sarcasm. Zara was right. Dum had survived his damaged past and turned his empathic talents into musical genius. Dum’s sold-out concert in the largest stadium in Washington, D.C. four months earlier was proof that empathy was not a curse and did not have to be a life sentence in solitary emotional imprisonment.
For Dum’s sake, Danyael had to leave the city.
Perhaps he would survive the assassin’s attempts on his life, but how on Earth was he supposed to survive another road trip with Zara? The last one had ended in a life sentence for him at a supermax prison.
He could not—would not—go down that path again. Not even for Zara. There simply wasn’t enough left in him to survive it.
At the Ronald Reagan Washington International Airport, a smiling attendant checked Danyael and Zara into two first-class seats on British Airways to London, with a subsequent connection to Montenegro. Danyael was not surprised to see that Zara had his clothes packed and his passport in hand. He had not given her a key to his apartment, but Zara was never the kind of person to let keys, or a conscience, stop her.
His shoulder throbbed painfully, but he did not dare swallow additional painkillers. God knew he needed a clear head to deal with Zara.
Exhaustion, however, took that decision out of his hands.
He slept for most of the way to London, and also on the shorter hop to Montenegro. Zara eyed him critically as he entered the limousine waiting for them at Tivat airport, but by then, he was almost too tired to be susceptible to the flick and flare of her volatile emotions.
“Welcome to Montenegro,” the driver, a uniformed young man, said in flawless English. “How was your flight?”
“It was excellent,” Zara cooed, with enough saccharine to come across as nubile instead of sarcastic. “I’m really looking forward to our vacation, aren’t you, darling?”
She laid her hand over his, and her grip tightened.
A warning?
But why?
Pricked by exhaustion, half-thoughts formed and faded, uncompleted. Danyael turned to stare out the window as the limousine sped through the outskirts of Budva. It could have been any medieval European city—Danyael had seen so many of them when he once traveled with Lucien, a long time ago when he and Lucien had been friends instead of enemies.
It’s in the past. Don’t go there. Danyael closed his eyes and fought the temptation to press his hand against his forehead. He already knew the fever was raging. Attempting to figure out how high it was would only draw Zara’s attention. He didn’t need any more of Zara’s attention. Hell, he didn’t even know what to do with the attention he did have—and didn’t want.
The driver turned the limousine on to a causeway, toward an island framed against the backdrop of the endless ocean and equally endless sky. From a craggy, rocky base, gray-bricked walls rose to surround a renaissance-styled town, the stern gray brick exteriors made charming by white-framed windows and red roofs. “Welcome to Aman Sveti Stefan. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us, Ms. Itani, Mr. Sabre.”
Danyael gritted his teeth. Damn. His fever made it difficult to focus his thoughts. What was Zara doing here? Why would she use an expensive holiday resort as a base for hunting down an assassin? Why would she even— His thoughts skittered before he could frame an answer; the effort of thinking was too much for his mind and body.
The hotel staff were quick to react to the fact that he had his right arm in a cast and his limping left leg supported by a crutch. Danyael and Zara were whisked through check-in, and their minimal luggage carried to a large suite.
Danyael stared at the white stone walls, their edges chipped off in an artfully 15th-century style. The suite’s almost austere furniture, off-white cushions set against polished brown wood, allowed the focus to remain on the outstanding ocean views. He turned around in time to see Zara tip the hotel staff and close the door on them.
Zara approached him, and there was something in her eyes he could not quite make out. Her emotions were a compelling tangle, but he could not dredge up the mental or emotional energy to decipher them. She took his arm and led him to one of the bedrooms. “You have to rest. You’re burning up.”
She helped him to bed and closed the windows against the glare of the sun, but it was only when his eyes closed, as he drifted off to sleep that he wondered, why did she care?
4
Zara cursed under her breath. Danyael was burning up, and more than burning up. His forehead was almost scalding to the touch, and no amount of shaking seemed to rouse him. Obviously, putting him to bed eight hours earlier and hoping he would sleep it off had been a terrible idea.
The wrenching ache in her chest might have made other women cry, but it only made her grumpy. Hunting an assassin would be problematic if her bait was dead.
And Danyael—
It was easier to be ruthlessly practical than honest, but in that moment, she forced herself to acknowledge the truth without flinching.
She had lost Danyael too many times. She could not lose him again.
“Danyael, wake up.” She slapped his face lightly until his eyes flicked open. He looked in her direction, but his gaze was so unfocused she was certain he couldn’t see anything. “Come with me.” She slipped her arm under her shoulders and dragged him upright. He was less heavy than she had expected, and that fact alone intensified the ache in her chest. She led him into the shower stall. It was the fastest way to bring down his fever.
She leaned him against the tiled wall, stepped out of the stall, and turned on the cold water.
A jet of water pierced Danyael. He screamed.
His fear-stricken cry did not even sound human.
He collapsed, curling into a fetal position. His trembling fingers clenched around his neck, as if trying to rip off a collar—
Shit.
Zara rushed into the shower. The spray of water hit her back instead of Danyael. She grabbed him by his shoulders. His eyes were wide, unfocused, and so filled with terror, they could have been the eyes of a trapped, dying animal.
Which he was.
And she had forgotten.
She had hurled him into his worst nightmares. Back into his memories.
Her voice caught. “Shhh…it’s all right. You had a fever. I was just trying to bring it down. You’re safe. You’re
not at ADX. You’re safe.” She cursed and twisted around to turn off the water. “Danyael, it’s all right. You’re here. You’re with me.”
Words could not easily reach him where he was, trapped in memories. Half-breaths heaved in his chest, rapid and unsteady. He remained curled, his shoulders shaking.
Brutal torture could unmake any man. Mind-suppressing drugs and extreme torture had once stripped Danyael of his humanity and turned him into an animal.
Humanity took a long time to return.
In fact, she was not certain it had fully found its way back to Danyael.
Zara did not know how long she sat across from Danyael in the shower stall, both of them fully clothed and drenched. His dark-eyed gaze slowly refocused. Their eyes met—for a split second—before he looked away. He could not hold her gaze. A muscle ticked in his smooth cheek.
She stood. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes before you add a cold to your other problems.”
“A chill.” Danyael’s voice was a hoarse, cracked whisper.
“What?”
He swallowed once or twice before continuing, his voice a little steadier. “A cold from a bacterial or viral infection. A chill from getting wet.”
“All right, Dr. Sabre. I’ll defer to your superior medical knowledge.” She leaned down to help him, but he shook his head.
“I can…I can manage.”
Could he? With a crippled leg and a crippled arm? Doubt furrowed her brow.
“I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
She did not move.
Danyael’s left hand clenched into a fist. His voice shook slightly. “Please, Zara. I’m fine.”
Indecision flicked through her, but she strode out of the shower and returned to her room to change her wet clothes. Alone, the guilt overwhelmed her, tightening around her chest, leaving her breathless. She had wanted only to bring his fever down. Why hadn’t she thought through the consequences of her actions?