by Zoe Dawson
The calls of the doves overlaid the stillness of late evening, and Solace shrank deeper into the warmth of her jacket, trying not to let the desolation overwhelm her.
“How is your grandmother and grandfather? Is he still quite the character?” The thought of the old man tugged at her heart. “He sends me a Christmas card every year.”
Fast Lane’s feet paused for a brief second as if he were surprised by that news. “Does he? That old codger.”
She smiled. He was a charmer and as spry as they came. “He still working the garage?”
“He is, but my grandmother passed a year after our divorce. She always liked you. Thought you were good for me.”
“Aw, no. Poor Grace.” Regret at her death made Solace’s eyes water. “They were very much in love. It must have been devastating for Lee.”
“It was. He always misses her. They were married for fifty-five years.”
“Something we weren’t able to do.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she had said. She regretted what had happened, and if there was some way to mend the pain between them, she would take it and be at peace.
“No. But not for the lack of trying, Solace. We did try.”
She fought to contain the nearly unbearable ache in her throat. She couldn’t let it run away with her, the awful pressure inside her. The things she had said to him so long ago echoed in her head. You don’t trust me. This is never going to work. You can’t ask me to choose.
There was no way anyone could go back and pick up the pieces, not when something that precious and fragile had been so irrevocably broken. She knew that. But she hadn’t expected it would still hurt so bad. Especially when that horrible secret still sat between them.
She couldn’t seem to move, so she stared at him, wishing he would either hold her or just disappear.
4
Karasu stood naked in the shadows of the curtains that overlooked the patio, her hair a wet ribbon of black down to her waist. The quiet after the storm. The sweepers had been there and gone, taking the bodies of the dead with them. She and Wolf had split up. She’d gone inside the house, and he stayed outside, eliminating any threat to her or the people they came here to guard.
He was out there sitting at the table, drinking hot coffee, the steam coming off it. It seemed he didn’t mind the cold.
Boyce “Preacher” Carmichael.
He was as disciplined as the monks, and she didn’t need to guess from the exquisite angle of his eyes that there was Japanese blood in him somewhere in his lineage. She’d read his file.
She trembled, closing her eyes as she burned.
When she opened them, he caught her gaze and held it. The combination of that gleam, the confidence, and power were downright lethal. Her nipples hardened into aching knots, the place between her legs throbbing, and there were butterflies dancing in her tummy.
Her.
The assassin, the life stealer, the shadow dancer.
Her body tightened under his steady regard. Intense was an understatement with him. Even up close, his eyes were gray, an ever-changing landscape, with a laser-like intensity that bore into hers in a way she’d never encountered before. She’d definitely be wise never to underestimate him, in or out of his element.
He’d bested her. Made her bleed. That turned her on so much she felt it all over again.
His eyes raked over her as if he saw every line, every curve, every breath in her body, every pump of her heart, the soft aching places, the warm erogenous zones. You are graceful and beautiful.
While men looked, she didn’t notice, nor did she care. Except now. Now she cared about a man. She wanted him to see everything.
His skin was incredibly smooth, despite the hint of five o’clock shadow, with such a gorgeous golden tone to it. She imagined it would always be naturally warm to the touch. And yet the angles of his jaw, the hard line of his nose, his chin, the thin white scar that ran lengthwise, just above one eyebrow, all combined to make him more rugged than pretty. Made her want to touch and taste.
The glint in his eyes told her he’d been able to read her every thought. And, thrillingly, it took her over.
Just looking at him made her want to do things she hadn’t thought about doing, much less needed to do, in a long time. Her breath was trapped in her chest.
He pulled his gaze away from her when her fellow CIA operative walked onto the patio with her computer. Karasu liked and admired Chry. She was smart, analytical, and never backed down.
She melted from the window, walked to the bed, and opened her bag. She pulled a hoodie dress with Buddha on the front in a slate blue and slipped on black suede thigh-high boots, leaving her legs bare.
She pulled and twisted her hair up into a high topknot, sticking a jeweled pin into it. It came in handy as a weapon.
The sun was almost up, and she was hungry. She started for the door and a flash interrupted her steps. Sometimes, every now and then, when she least expected it, all the jumbled-up pieces of her past would streak like a bolt of lightning across her brain, frying synapses and circuits, and throwing her into an abyss of chaos.
She willed the flashes away. She had no time to go back. She felt it. There was blood on the wind.
She took a long steady breath, letting it spiral into her body, lazy and gentle, and fill her lungs. Soon there would be death.
Before…before her white time, as she called it. Whitewashed memories to forget. She knew things, the life she’d led complicated and illegal, forced on her by men who thought they could control her.
Portions of her brain she walled off. She could feel the walls, but she refused to climb them.
Another part of her brain had been opened up, unblocked, let loose. She knew things, a stream of things, not always good for anything, but sometimes good for what she needed.
She let her breath out, slow and easy, and softened her gaze. The Bangkok mission had been flawless. She’d been like a shadow in the dark, and before she’d been that shadow slipping over the thief’s walls, she’d felt almost invincible.
She wasn’t a social worker, a bleeding heart, or a mediator. Her missions were black and white, life and death, winning and losing. Anyone who went against the United States was her enemy.
No one knew her past, except the man who led them. He knew all their secrets and kept them like a locked vault. Shadowguards were not encumbered by anything.
Sometimes she didn’t like herself very much, but she got over it. She wasn’t sure the woman she’d been before the Shadowguards would have made the same choices. Or maybe the will to live that beat so strongly in her heart had always been there, the bone-deep conviction that she would do anything—anything—to fulfill her mission. She’d already died once. That was enough.
The only man in her life had been Uncle Sam.
She moved down the stairs without making a sound. Old habits die hard. Grabbing a charcoal gray, boiled wool coat, she slipped into its warmth. The door to the patio opened silently. It was chilly when she stepped out onto the flagstones.
She approached the table, slipping past Preacher. Absorbing the warmth from him, she could almost feel his chi, almost see the blue aura of his essence.
Taking one of the chairs across from him, she ignored the man she wanted with every fiber of her being. She said, “What decision have you come to, Chry?”
Chry didn’t smile or beat around the bush. “I’m hunting the mole that threatens my fiancé’s team and the US. Zasha has someone inside. I know it.”
“Sounds like a sound plan.” Volk walked onto the patio with 2-Stroke and the boy…Alek. He was a good-looking kid with a shock of dark hair and sharp eyes. It was clear to her that the SEAL cared deeply for the youth.
“Our friend Dodger is sending us a hacker. He’s an MI-6 watcher. He will be an immense help. He’s already been involved with crushing a five-pronged plot to attack the West. His name is Vlastislav Mach, but he goes by Mouse.”
“You do your thing,
and Volk and I will do ours.” She rose, needing to get something to eat. “Kitchen?”
“I’ll show her,” Preacher said, pushing back his chair and grabbing his empty mug.
She had no problem following his backside and broad shoulders through the house. He entered the kitchen, rinsed his mug out in the sink, then set it into the dishwasher. Karasu moved past him, brushing against him as she went to the fridge.
He stilled until she passed, then turned to look at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. She grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter and opened the fridge doors. Grabbing a bottle of water off the rack along with a container of yogurt, she closed the door and leaned against it.
He flipped her a spoon from the sink strainer, and she caught it deftly with one hand. He folded his arms across his wide chest. The man was sleeker than Volk, less muscled, but she bet he wasn’t at all weaker.
“We don’t need two assassins to guard a young boy. 2-Stroke, Chry, and I have this covered.” He stared at her stonily.
She stiffened. The way he said the word assassins was derogatory as if he was getting his hands dirty just talking to her. It was clear he resented her being there, and that nettled her; she was doing the job she had been directed to do. “That’s too damn bad. Volk and I don’t take orders from you.”
“I’m not without connections,” he snapped, his chin stuck out a mile.
Karasu had never come up against this type of resistance before. Anyone who needed to be guarded didn’t protest, as their lives were in grave danger and the people she was sent to kill didn’t have a say in the matter. “Good for you. We don’t work in the usual chain of command. You won’t be able to get rid of us.”
“We’ll see about that,” he said stubbornly.
Karasu was beginning to get annoyed, and she placed her breakfast down on the counter, her own chin lifting. “You’re being unreasonable. The boy and his cousin need protection. 2-Stroke and Chry have already been brutalized by Zasha. They are traumatized. We are staying. Period.” She picked up the apple and took a bite, muttering under her breath, “Stupid military a-hole.”
The expression on his face was even and blank, but she ignored it and opened her yogurt, dipping her spoon in and clearing the creamy concoction off the utensil. She could tell he was just itching to give her supreme hell.
Alpha male. It was in every line of his body, and it was clear he was not only used to giving orders but having them followed.
Before he could respond, 2-Stroke stuck his head in the door and said, “Come on, man. Work out.”
He pushed off the counter. The way the man moved danced through her with the power of his will, and she had the sudden urge to touch him, to feel the texture of his skin, the warmth of his body, and the pulse of his spirit. Her body heated as she caught a glimpse of his aura again, now a stormy blue. It washed over her like cool water, making goosebumps rise on her arms and legs, her nipples harden, and that unmistakable delicious sensation pulse in her core, making her wet.
Preacher glared at her, then he turned and gave 2-Stroke a slicing look and strode out the door. 2-Stroke raised his eyebrows in a baffled expression, but Karasu only shrugged, feeling more than a little baffled herself.
She was detached and cool by nature, suited for a job that required her to ignore her conscience at times. She didn’t allow herself to get interested in men on any level, not even sexually—unless she was using manipulation to get her job done. It was a hazard to drop her guard…ever. But with Preacher, everything she felt was completely involuntary, as if her brain and body had been hijacked.
She didn’t need to go over to the dark side…she was the dark side.
She ate the rest of her breakfast, and when her phone chimed, she answered. Her handler let her know that Preacher had reached out to his connections, but he was clear that their orders had not changed. He told her that the SEALs were too close to the situation and backup was nonnegotiable.
Part of her was hoping they would be reassigned. Proximity to this man was making her nervous. She didn’t like to feel as if she were out of her element, but it would be a cold day in hell when she would let a man intimidate her.
She worried her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. The cut was healing, but the memory of her shock that he had laid a hand on her was still fresh.
Workout? She wondered if he’d gotten in a lucky shot.
It didn’t take her long to change into stretchy black shorts and a crop top. She ruthlessly pulled her hair back, braided it tight, then wrapped it in a bun on top of her head, making sure it was fastened tight. She looked like she was going into battle.
The minute she entered the room, the tension ramped up. Preacher hung on a bar, 2-Stroke beneath him, spotting him. He hauled himself up over and over again, his biceps thickening and bulging with each repetition, the black t-shirt he wore soaked from his exertions.
Karasu started to stretch, watching the big man out of the corner of her eye. She slid down into a split, feeling the pleasant tug of her muscles. When he was finished, he turned to look at her.
She’d read his file. He was of Japanese descent and born in Los Angeles, California. His great-grandmother and grandfather had been part of the one hundred and twenty-seven thousand Japanese Americans who had been sent to a remote internment camp in 1942 after the attack on Pearl Harbor. His father had owned a bakery and was listed as deceased, his mom now ran the bakery. He entered the SEALs at eighteen and served for five years before he went to Green Team to train as a Tier 1 operator. He’d received numerous distinguished service awards, including Top Frog at Team 5 for best combat diver, Silver Star, Bronze Star with Combat V, Purple Heart, and many others. With virtually unlimited resources, DEVGRU trained and deployed hard, elite alpha males, and Preacher was no exception.
Too bad he didn’t have the pull to get rid of her.
She turned her head to meet his gaze. It was almost as if he were reading her mind. He smirked. “So, my connections aren’t as good as your bosses,” he said.
She shrugged. “Win some, lose some.”
He nodded and 2-Stroke looked between them with interest.
“You don’t like losing.” It was a statement of fact. A fission of heat traveled through her.
“No. I don’t.” She worried her lip again, and he watched the movement. “Care to prove that it wasn’t a lucky shot?”
Preacher pulled the black t-shirt over his head, his torso slick with sweat. He walked onto the mats.
Well-defined pectoral muscles delineated his upper body, the flat disk of his nipples dark against his tanned skin. The hard lines of his abdomen made her want to rake her nails over each curve. A trail of dark hair disappeared into the loose-fitting black pants he wore. Karasu had to stop thinking of him as a man and start thinking of him as an opponent.
She studied him as she circled. He kept her in his sight, his attention completely narrowed down to her. She loved his laser focus. “I’m warning you. I don’t play by the rules.”
Preacher moved his head to keep her in his sight. “I don’t make judgments or assume anything. My brothers keep me grounded.”
“The famous brotherhood. I usually work alone. A team has too many working parts.”
Preacher’s eyes narrowed but instead of getting tenser, he relaxed more. She had to admit, he made her a tiny bit apprehensive. It was a new thing for her.
“You shouldn’t speak about things you don’t understand.”
“I understand myself. Do you?” Karasu taunted.
“I’m a work in progress.”
“Preach,” 2-Stroke said. “You’re twice her size. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”
“Don’t worry about your buddy,” Karasu cooed. “Preacher will have to hold his own.”
Preacher smiled. It wasn’t sweet or sour. “Size and strength don’t matter.”
Karasu attacked as soon as Preacher finished talking, but he was ready for her and flipped her onto her back with such
a calm, controlled move, Karasu was astonished and impressed.
Before he moved away, he sent his hand over Karasu’s shoulder and down her arm. “You have soft skin, sweetheart.”
Karasu stood and laughed. “Not bad, not bad. You can stop calling me sweetheart. It’s distracting while I kick your ass.”
She came in low and with one smooth move, grabbed his fingers and had him down to the mat. He whirled his body, broke her hold and was easily on his feet, but not before his hand gently grabbed her bun and unraveled it, the strands of her dark hair filtering through his fingers. “Now we’re even.” Preacher said softly.
Karasu gave Preacher a flat look, the desire for this man increasing by the moment. She wanted him. She loved the challenge and the fact that he may be just a bit better than she was, making her work harder. Karasu attacked again. They grappled, no one giving any quarter; two hard, slick bodies battling for control. When Karasu got the upper hand, she didn’t hesitate. She brought him down. When she had him on the mat, she bent down and kissed him full on the mouth. “How was that, sweetheart?”
Karasu was sweating. It took a lot to make her sweat.
Preacher looked so hot there on his back, his chest heaving from his exertions, the delineation of muscle and smooth skin covered in a sheen of sweat. He looked lethal and dangerous. His dark eyes held secrets of the orient, promises of both pleasure and pain.
Karasu felt it in her breathing and in her eyes as she stared down at him for a moment. He was her match, and that made her skin tingle.
With a move that only a pretzel could do, Preacher rose and threw Karasu off. When she came at him again, he manhandled her like a master, his hands all over her until she was swearing and growling like a beast.
Preacher went in low, and with a smooth move, threw Karasu.
She landed hard, the air knocked out of her. She had no time to recover. He was after her. She rolled to her feet, flipping backward several times. But like a freight train, he didn’t relent. She grabbed the bar, swung around avoiding his grip, then landing behind him.