Talk about complications . . .
He gave a slow shake of his head. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Samuel wasn’t finished. “He also destroyed the surveillance equipment we planted in the room.”
Bas rolled his eyes. Of course the bastard had destroyed equipment that had cost him a small fortune.
Not that it truly mattered. What they did inside the privacy of their suite didn’t interest him.
“Did he or the woman leave the hotel?” he demanded.
The reader shook his head. “No.”
“Any visitors?”
“None.”
It was what Bas had expected. The Sentinel wasn’t stupid. He knew he was being watched and that any attempt to contact Valhalla would put Serra in danger.
Something Fane wouldn’t risk.
The two might not be bonded, but it was obvious they were emotionally entangled.
Which was the only reason Bas wasn’t currently plotting the best means to kill the bastard.
“I want a watch kept on the room at all times,” he informed Samuel. “If anyone so much as lingers in front of the door I want to know.”
Samuel nodded. He was a strong enough telepath to reach Bas even if they were miles apart. Which was why Bas had chosen him to keep guard on the female who was his only hope of saving Molly.
“You got it.”
Turning, Bas moved across the hall, not at all surprised when the door was pulled open before he could knock.
Fane would have sensed his presence the minute he got off the elevator.
He was, however, faintly startled when the tattooed Sentinel wearing nothing more than a white robe recognized him the moment he caught sight of him.
“It’s Bas,” Fane growled, clearly speaking to the woman who was out of sight. “Do you want to speak with him?”
“Do I have a choice?” the female voice demanded, stepping into view wearing a matching robe. She looked deliciously rumpled, as if she’d just crawled out of bed. Then, catching sight of him, her brows drew together. “What the hell?”
“Assassins are masters of illusion,” Fane said, his gaze never wavering from Bas.
The exquisite green eyes narrowed. “And you can see through it?”
Fane nodded. “Yes.”
The female made a sound of annoyance. “Why can’t I?”
“He can block you on a psychic level,” the Sentinel said.
Serra looked offended. Bas was willing to bet she rarely met anyone capable of screwing with her powerful talents.
She sent Fane a frown. “But not you?”
The Sentinel shrugged. “We’ve had the same training.”
His explanation did nothing to ease her annoyance, but with a toss of her glossy raven hair, she turned her attention to Bas.
“What do you want?”
He held up the garment bag. “I brought your clothes.”
Her lips curled in disgust. “I brought my own, thank you very much.”
Ignoring the Sentinel whose very presence was a threat, Bas stepped into the room and crossed to lay the designer bag on the low settee. At the same time he discreetly pocketed the gun. There was enough violence sizzling in the air.
No need to amp it up.
The more willing Serra was to finding Molly, the better for all of them.
“You don’t know what you’ll need,” he calmly pointed out.
“And you do?” Serra arched a brow. “How?”
“I suspect that the . . . person who has taken Molly is one of my former clients,” he confessed. “It’s the only way they could have so much info on me and my people.”
Fane folded his arms over his chest. “It could be one of your psycho band of traitors.”
Bas gave a sharp shake of his head. “No.”
“How can you be so certain?” the Sentinel pressed.
“Because they were thoroughly questioned the second I realized Molly was missing.”
Bas didn’t need to explain that the questioning had not only involved an intrusion into their memories, but extreme torture when he suspected he wasn’t getting the full truth.
“Fine,” Serra muttered with a grimace. “What do you want from me?”
“I intend to have you cross paths with those clients I’ve met in the past month,” he announced. “They won’t travel far from where they’re holding Molly.”
Bas wasn’t surprised when the psychic looked less than impressed. “That’s your plan?”
He shrugged. “It’s that or driving aimlessly around the city.”
She gave a toss of her head, her hair gleaming like polished ebony in the afternoon sunlight.
“Both plans sound like a waste of time,” she said.
Another time and another place, Bas would have been impressed by Serra Vetrov.
He liked aggressive, powerful women.
Now her refusal to be intimidated was a pain in the ass.
Goddammit. Did she think he needed the reminder that his plan was little more than a cross-his-fingers-and-hope-for-a-miracle sort of strategy?
“You’d better hope not,” he growled. “Your time is limited.”
There was a faint breeze, then the Sentinel was standing so close their noses were nearly touching.
“If you want to survive, you won’t mention your spineless method of coercion again,” Fane warned, his soft voice filled with a menace that would make grown men piss their pants.
“You’re right.” Bas forced himself to take a deep, cleansing breath, stepping away from the lethal warrior. Emotions were the enemy. “For now we are all working on the same team. It will be easier if we try to get along.”
Serra’s emerald eyes flashed with fury. “We’re not now, and never will be, on the same team,” she informed him in icy tones. “Just tell me where we’re going.”
“We’re going to a brothel,” Bas said, ignoring her pissy attitude. Who could blame her?
She blinked in shock. “Your client is a whore?”
“A madam.” Bas had decided to start with his latest client first and work his way backward. It seemed the only logical method. “With a very upscale clientele.”
The green eyes narrowed. “Did you kill someone for her?”
His hand lifted to touch the side of his neck where a mark of each of his kills was etched into his skin. His illusion might cover the physical evidence of his brutality, but each of the deaths was written on his soul.
“No, she discovered that one of her girls had the poor taste to set up a camera and was secretly blackmailing several of the customers.” Bas currently had the photos locked in his safe. You never knew when you might need a picture of a local congressman having sex with a whore dressed like a nun. “As you can imagine it wasn’t particularly good for business.”
“What did you do?”
“I had my psychic spend a few hours at the brothel,” he said, taking a wry pleasure in watching her eyes widen in disbelief. “It was quickly determined which of the girls were responsible.”
“You have a psychic willing to sell her gifts for money?”
“His gifts and yes, he’s quite happy to receive monetary rewards in exchange for his services.” Bas held her accusing gaze. This female had been born a freak, but she’d spent her life surrounded by people who loved and protected her from the scorn of the world. She had no idea of the cruelty that many high-bloods were forced to endure. Or sacrifices they made just to survive. “There’s nothing shameful in that.”
She curled her lips in disdain. “According to you.”
Bas gave a soft chuckle. How could he possibly resist tweaking her arrogant little nose?
“Of course, on this occasion he accepted a reward that was rather more personal than money,” he murmured. “He returned home a very happy psychic.”
A startling blush touched her cheeks and Bas felt a twinge of envy. For all Serra’s sensuality, she was still an innocent at heart.
Bas was fairly certain
he’d lost that kind of innocence before the age of ten.
“Whatever,” she muttered.
Fane took a protective step closer to the psychic, his face as hard as granite. Clearly the Sentinel wasn’t amused by their banter.
All the more reason to continue it.
“They’ll be suspicious if Serra just shows up,” Fane snapped.
Bas smiled. “I’ve thought of a cover.”
Serra slapped her hands on her hips. “Don’t even suggest that I pretend to be a prostitute.”
“You could be looking for your guardian,” Bas offered.
“No,” Serra snarled.
“So fierce.” Bas lifted a hand to halt her angry protest. “You can say you are looking for a runaway high-blood. If they believe you’re here on official business no one will stand in your way.”
The emerald eyes flared with the urge to tell him to shove his suggestion up his ass, but with an obvious effort, Serra pointed her finger toward the door.
“Go wait in the lobby, I have to change.”
It’d been well over a century since anyone had been foolish enough to try to tell him what to do.
He gave the orders.
End of story.
But he needed this psychic. And if she wanted to pretend she had some control over him . . . hell, he’d let her hold on to the fantasy.
Until he had Molly.
After that there would be no doubt who was boss.
Serra ignored Fane’s steady gaze as she took the garment bag into the bedroom and began pulling out the various clothes. She knew it was a stupid waste of energy to taunt Bas. The man had her flattened between a rock and a hard place and mouthing off was only going to get her squished tighter.
But she’d never been able to play the obedient soldier.
Callie had been the good girl. Never in trouble. Never causing waves.
Serra had been the wild child. The hell-raiser who never met a dare she wouldn’t meet.
And keeping her mouth shut was about as likely as hell freezing over.
Tossing the clothes on the bed, she grimaced. She wasn’t surprised that they were all obscenely expensive. A smug bastard like Bas was hardly going to shop at some cheap second-hand store. But how the hell had he known her size?
She shook her head, digging through the lacy underwear and bras, refusing to dwell on the realization that Bas had such intimate knowledge of her.
That was the least of her concern.
Tugging on a pair of designer jeans that melded perfectly to her lush curves, she matched them with a cream sleeveless sweater and Gucci leather sandals with a three-inch heel. Then, in deference to the steamy July day, she pulled her thick hair into a high ponytail.
She didn’t know the dress code for a whorehouse, and she didn’t really care. No one was going to give her a second glance with Fane at her side.
He commanded attention by just . . . being.
A fact that was reinforced when she returned to the sitting room to discover him standing near the glass wall, his gaze trained on the city below.
Her heart did its familiar stutter-stop-stutter routine at the sight of him outlined by the golden rays of summer sunlight. God. He looked like he’d been carved by the hand of an artist, the intricate tattoos only emphasizing the sheer power of his muscular form.
His beauty was almost too perfect to be real.
But it wasn’t just his flawless features and buff body that made her heart jump and her knees weak.
He might be stern and aloof, and occasionally unsociable, but at his heart he was a champion.
One of the rare good guys who devoted his life to protecting the weak.
How was a poor woman supposed to resist?
Swallowing a sigh, she squared her shoulders and wiped the yearning from her face. She needed his help, but she’d be damned if she accepted his pity.
“I’m ready.”
He turned with a slow purpose, his expression stark with concern. “Are you sure?”
She shrugged. “As ready as I’m going to be.”
He stepped toward her, his movement fluid despite the rigid tension of his body. “I could contact the Mave. She might—”
“No,” she said, nipping the dangerous suggestion in the bud. Valhalla was still recovering from the disastrous battle against the crazed necromancer. “Bas wouldn’t be satisfied just killing me if his daughter dies. I don’t want to risk putting our people in danger so soon after we lost so many Sentinels.”
His gaze dropped toward the front pocket of her jeans. It would be nice to think he was enthralled by the soft curve of her hips; it was why most men ogled her, after all. But she knew enough about Fane to realize he’d somehow guessed she had the picture of a silver-haired child with a magical smile tucked in her pocket.
“And you want to find the girl?”
She turned away, heading for the door. She hated that he could read her so easily while his thoughts remained a constant mystery.
“I want to be done with this.”
With a dizzying speed he was standing directly in front of her, his hands lightly gripping her shoulders.
“Serra, don’t let your tender heart overrule your common sense.”
She snorted, meeting his piercing gaze. “What if it were you?”
“It’s not.”
“If it was, you’d find the girl.”
“But it’s you . . .” he growled, his fingers tightening on her shoulders. “And I’ll destroy anyone or anything that threatens you.”
The dark intensity in his voice sent a renegade thrill of pleasure inching down her spine. Worse, it made her want to collapse against that wide, powerful chest and allow him to wrap her in the comfort of his arms.
A weakness she couldn’t afford.
With an effort she pulled away from his touch and continued toward the door. “We need to go.”
“Stubborn.” She heard him mutter from behind her.
They traveled down to the lobby in silence, joining Bas who led them to a black Mercedes with dark-tinted windows waiting in front of the hotel.
The silence continued as she crawled into the backseat, sinking into the plush leather as Fane settled beside her. Bas took his own place behind the steering wheel and allowed the illusion to fade, revealing his stunning male splendor.
Putting the car into gear, he swiftly had them headed north.
Serra tapped an impatient finger on her knee, trying to ignore the tension that throbbed in the air.
Not that she was successful.
Fane might look stoic, but his smoldering temper was choking the air with heat and Bas wasn’t helping with his mocking glances in the rearview mirror. She wanted to leap out of the car and find the nearest bar to drown her sorrows.
“Where is this brothel?” she at last demanded, needing a distraction.
“It’s not far,” Bas murmured.
Serra rolled her eyes. Could the assassin ever give a straight answer?
Fane appeared equally annoyed by the lack of specifics. “Tell me about the security,” he commanded.
Bas arched a brow, turning down a narrow side street. “Why? You don’t have to sneak in.”
Fane leaned forward, meeting Bas’s gaze in the mirror. “I’m not letting Serra walk into a situation I can’t get her out of. That’s nonnegotiable.”
Bas, visibly annoyed at being given an ultimatum, tightened his hands on the steering wheel. But clearly accustomed to dealing with Sentinels, he wasn’t stupid enough to think that Fane was bluffing.
If Fane didn’t think he could keep Serra safe, she wasn’t going into the brothel.
End of story.
“There are guards on the front and back entrances,” Bas grudgingly offered.
“Norms?”
“Yes, but they’re armed.”
Serra frowned. Armed guards at a brothel? Were they protecting the girls, or keeping them prisoner?
Fane remained laser-focused on the potential dang
er. “Video?”
“Yes, but it’s controlled by Madame Wagner not the guards.”
“The locks?”
“Garden variety.”
Which meant that Fane could bust through them with his bare hands.
“A basement?” the Sentinel continued his interrogation.
Bas shook his head. “No, but I know there are secret passages and hidden rooms.”
Fane leaned back, processing the information and formulating a plan of action. Serra, on the other hand, peered out the window, growing confused as they entered a gracefully aging neighborhood with well-tended homes surrounded by yards and picket fences.
Her confusion only deepened as Bas turned the car into a drive that circled a three-storied Victorian house with a covered porch complete with potted plants and rocking chairs. On the large pane-glass window was gold lettering:
LEWIS AND CLARK BED-AND-BREAKFAST
“Here?” she muttered, as they reached the back of the house and pulled to a halt in a parking lot surrounded by a high hedge.
“What did you expect?” Bas asked.
She studied the structure that was painted white with cheery yellow shutters and matching trim. There was a small cupola on top of the slanted roof that overlooked the nearby river and lacy curtains in the window.
“Not a bed-and-breakfast,” she admitted.
Bas turned so he could study her dubious expression. “It’s within easy driving distance of the business district, it’s isolated from its neighbors, and the parking lot offers privacy for the guests.”
“It also looks like my aunt Edith should be crocheting doilies on the front porch.” She wrinkled her nose. She loved her aunt Edith, but the thought of the softly rounded, gray-haired woman being paid for sex was enough to turn her stomach. “Not very sexy.”
A mysterious smile curved Bas’s lips. “You’d be surprised what some men find sexy.”
She grimaced. “Ew.”
Fane was not amused. “Shut the fuck up.”
Bas sent Fane a taunting glance. “Ah. That’s one thing I don’t miss. Sentinels and their sour temperament.”
Violence prickled in the air and Serra heaved a sigh.
These pissing matches were going to get real old, real quick.
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