“Now you’re joining in? Ugh. Whatever. That’s not the point. The point is, there’s nothing wrong with my hair.” God, men were so stupid.
“No offense, Sloanie, but you could do with a bit of a…” Evan waved his big hand around Sloan’s face.
She gasped, shocked. She was perfectly fine. What did they know about personal presentation? Evan had black lines all over his body. He wore frickin’ flip-flops, and Wyatt… Wyatt… well, he wore black all the time. Boring.
“Is this what you think, too?” Sloan asked Wyatt.
He made an awkward face. “Maybe just a little.”
“Mama?” Sloan shouted to get Mary’s attention in the workshop. “Pops?”
Flint ducked his head, clearly not wanting any say in the matter, but Mary’s eyes softened and she held up a finger and thumb, pinching. “You could do with a small haircut, mija.”
Oh sure. Pick on the slothful one.
Emotion hit her in the throat. It tightened. Burned. Was she so terrible?
She swallowed it all down.
Don’t be a pansy. Just go look at yourself in the mirror.
Sloan walked to where tall glass cabinets housed Deadly Seven battle suits on mannequins. Behind each suit was a mirror. She’d brushed her hair today, but the truth was, they were right. Her hair was split, ragged and down to her waist. It was a weakness in battle. Their Art of War sensei had taught them better than this.
There was power in appearance. The ancient Spartans terrorized their foes by dressing dramatically and with intimidation. This tactic ensured their enemy’s knees buckled before any battle began. It was one of the reasons why the Deadly Seven had a uniform. They wanted criminals to cower when they saw her brothers and sisters coming for them. Saved a hell of a lot of pain when the criminal simply turned himself in rather than face the terror of the Deadly Seven.
Right now, Sloan’s appearance said, Walk all over me. I’m useless.
A ball of anxiety grew in her stomach.
It was entirely possible her last haircut was a home job using manicure scissors in her bathroom. A glance toward the gym. Max hadn’t let himself go at all. He’d buffed up. If anything, he looked better.
Screw him.
She could look better, too.
But she had no idea where to go. Sloan wasn’t a girly-girl. She was a Tom boy. The very thought of having to go into a salon made her heart palpitate. Just imagine, hairdressers swooping in to force opinions on her. Oh, yes, sweetheart. Those bangs look lovely on you.
She almost threw up in her mouth.
As if hearing her thoughts, Wyatt suggested, “Why don’t you ask Misha to take you to her salon? She loves all that—” He waved around his face with a perplexed look.
Sloan chewed her lip. “You think she wouldn’t mind?”
“Not in the least. But you’ll have to let Max or myself come along for protection. I won’t let Misha head out on her own, not in her condition.”
“She’s not an invalid. She’s pregnant.”
“With a Lazarus child. Who’s saying what kind of DNA secrets the baby will give the Syndicate if they take it. Considering when we were children they wanted to cut off our limbs to test our regeneration, I’m not taking the chance.”
Sloans anger swiftly morphed to defense. “You don’t think I have what it takes to protect her?”
A slow arch of Wyatt’s brow.
Evan tried not to laugh. “I’m not touching this one with a ten foot lightning rod. See you two later.” And then the coward left.
“Wyatt?” she prompted. “I can look after Misha. I helped at The Kremlin when you needed me. I did good.” Okay. Maybe she didn’t do good. The Kremlin was the nightclub Misha used to work in. Her boss was an A grade Bratva psycho who worked with the Syndicate, and Wyatt had needed Sloan’s help to save his woman from henchmen. The Faithful were as fanatical as their leaders. Worse. They believed they had nothing to lose.
Thinking back on the battle, Sloan knew her words were a lie. She didn’t do good. Maybe Mary did all the work while Sloan hid under a dead body, but she had fired a few good arrows from her bow. It was months ago, but damn her if she let Max or Wyatt watch while she went in for a makeover. No fucking way.
Wyatt sighed and looked to the workshop for help, but both Mary and Flint kept their heads down, pretending not to hear. “Look,” he said. “I’ll tell you what, how about if you can get one over me on the mat, I’ll let you go on your own with Misha.”
“Elaborate.”
“We spar. You get me down, submitting, you get to go with Misha on your own. You can’t, I win. You take a security detail.”
“You’re powered. That’s not fair.” Clearly he was at an advantage. The dude could punch through a wall. She was strong, but not that strong.
He took a deep breath, raked his hand through his black hair and stared intently in the direction of the gym. “Okay. How about this, you get Max down.”
“No.” Her hand cut through the air. “I’m not fighting him. I don’t want him anywhere near me.”
“All the more reason he’s a good pick to test your skill. Unless you want to go against Mary, that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
Seriously considering their mother at that point, Sloan looked over to her. The petite, black-haired woman was insanely lethal. Trained as an assassin for the Hildegard Sisterhood, Mary could kill you before you knew she was there. And, while she passed on many secrets to them, she was the master. Mary didn’t care that Sloan was a woman. She gave no quarter. Sloan was certain there had been a broken bone or two over the years. Definitely a nose. She rubbed it when the phantom pain of the past echoed.
Max wouldn’t be used to fighting a woman. He might hesitate before hitting her. She could use their history to her advantage. He also didn’t know that her advanced physiology made her stronger than a normal man. That was one secret she’d never confided. It had always made her feel less of a woman. She shouldn’t feel bad for being stronger than her lovers, but she did. It always made things awkward in the bedroom. In a fight it could be advantageous.
She could take Max, no problems. She would also get to kick his ass.
A slow, devilish smile lifted her lips. “Okay. Deal. I’ll fight Max.”
Mirth sparkled in Wyatt’s blue eyes. “Good. Let’s go find him.”
Together, they left the operations room and entered the gym. Sloan’s attention went straight to Max on the treadmill. Dressed in baggy black basketball shorts and a gray muscle shirt, it was hard not to be impressed with his physique. Long legs moved with graceful, fluid strides. Blood pumped in his veins, shaping his body into sharp relief. Sun-bleached hair darkened with sweat. He ran that treadmill with a single-minded focus. If he screwed like he ran… Feminine places in her body clenched with desire.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
Too late. Wyatt already stood before the man, asking him to slow down. Shit. Sloan huddled by the door, watching their interaction. Stopping his machine, Max’s brown eyes darted her way then went back to Wyatt with a nod. He slipped his towel from the treadmill and wiped his face. Yep. This was happening.
It’s fine, Sloan. Kick his pasty Aussie ass. Now she had images of his ass in her mind. Crap. Definitely not pasty. Tanned and tawny as fuck. He also had two dimples on the cheeks. She knew because he’d teased her once over a private video chat—shaking that derriere like he just didn’t care.
Heat inundated her body and sweat prickled her skin.
Nerves. Just nerves.
Sloan toed her shoes off, rolled her shoulders and then walked to the plastic covered foam mat at the center of the gym. She flexed her arms, pulling back, popping her chest out—hoping to distract him with her feminine wiles. I got wiles that last for days, jackass.
Max and Wyatt met her there. Max’s chest rose and fell as he caught his breath, but he looked inspired. Not distracted. Her confidence faltered.
I got this.
Her atoms
came alight as he drew closer. Heart rate pounded. Hairs on her arms lifted. His coconut scent mingled with his sweat and she caught a full breath of heady masculinity. This was the first time in months, hell, the first time ever she’d been so close to him. All those years they’d spent conversing over online video, all those years she’d spent yearning for his touch to be real, and now it was too late.
Because he’d fucked up.
Don’t forget that, Sloan. He was the one who came to meet up with her, to take their relationship to the next level, and then bailed without a word. He was the one who believed the hype in the news about the Deadly Seven being terrorists. She had no time for a man who had little faith in her. He didn’t deserve a second chance.
“You understand the drill, Sloan?” Wyatt asked. “Just get him down. That’s it.”
Perhaps Wyatt had caught the murder in Sloan’s gaze as she eyed Max. She shot Wyatt a mischievous smile. She’d damn well do what she wanted, bras.
Max’s brows lifted at her attire. “You’re going to fight in that? I can wait if you want to change.”
“O ye, of little faith.” She wore jeans and a stretch camisole with a sports bra underneath. This outfit was a walk in the park compared to what they’d all fought in before. Full heavy combat gear, sometimes underwater.
So has he.
Shut up, inner voice. I got this.
Max shrugged. “Just don’t crack the shits when your movement is impeded.”
Both Wyatt and Sloan gave him a blank look.
“I meant, don’t get angry.” He grinned, flashing a dimple that probably made most ladies swoon.
Dimple. Dimples everywhere. Damn it.
“You Australians talk about poop a lot.”
Max snort-laughed.
It wasn’t supposed to be funny. Sloan circled Max, eyes narrowing. “The only person ‘cracking the shits’ around here will be you. So… I hope you’re wearing a diaper because you’re about to go down.”
“You know my thoughts about going down, Sloan.” He winked salaciously.
Grr. He was trying to rile her up, and it worked. A blush hit her cheeks so hard her eyes blurred.
It wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t be having fun. It was supposed to be him faltering over her wiles, not the other way around. The heat riding Sloan’s circulatory system increased. For a moment, she thought she’d somehow messed with the thermostat in the gym by mistake, but no one else was affected. She shook her arms out and then held her fists in front of her face, boxer style.
“Bring it, Maxi-Pad.”
A flicker of—something—behind his eyes, then it was gone. Max bounced deftly on his toes, fists hanging loosely at his side. The smug asshole wasn’t nervous in the least. Probably thought those bulging biceps were going to save him. Ha! Even if Sloan was a little out of form, she’d been trained by Mary—a small, fiery, un-powered assassin who was still the deadliest person Sloan had ever met.
Wyatt harrumphed and moved to lean a shoulder on the concrete wall, as far as he could get from the mat.
Just as well, Sloan didn’t hesitate. She took two steps forward and jabbed relentlessly, driving for Max’s face.
He bounced back each time, darting out of reach. “That all you got?”
A frustrated sound came from the base of her throat.
Mary always said, when fighting someone bigger, go for the vulnerables. Eyes. Groin. Throat. Incapacitate him from the word go. He was bigger so supplied the energy. She’d have to be smarter and control the force. All she needed was to get Max down on the mat and she was sorted, but you’d have to excuse her for wanting to make this last. She had a broken heart to defend.
Circling, she jabbed a few more times and took note of his reactions, cataloging each twitch, flinch, step, breath. They danced around each other, feinting, but never connecting.
“Come on, Sloanie. Show me some of that skill you’ve always bragged about,” he teased, but she only gave him a secretive smile.
When she was sure she knew his tells, she dropped her fists as a decoy. She intended to confuse him, to surprise him with a feint, and then go in for an uppercut—
Max rushed her. Shit.
He jack-hammered strikes to her head. She jumped back, arms out, blocking his fists with her palms before they hit her face. Damn that man, trying to use brute force against her. Trying to intimidate her. She knew how he played. She knew his battle strategy. They didn’t get to become one of the leading Call of Duty teams without learning how each other’s minds worked. He was a smash and grab guy. She preferred to use her brain. Anger spiked, turning her defense to offense. Spotting an opening, she planted her hind foot, bounced back, cut under his arm, pivoted and roundhouse kicked him in the face.
Max’s head snapped back from the force, a spray of saliva or sweat bursting in the air.
Agony!
Pain in her face, so sharp, she could barely draw breath.
Every muscle locked rigid. Suffering became her world and all she could think was, That’s not right. Why am I hurting when he was kicked? Then the pain became so intense, she couldn’t think.
Max didn’t get the memo.
He reset and came at her again. He grappled. Without control of her body, she went down hard, screaming from the blinding torment emanating from her nose to hammer behind her eyes and temples.
This isn’t right.
Something is wrong.
Max wrestled her down with a joked, “Looks like I’m on top.”
She curled into a ball, clutching her head. “Hurts.”
“Sloan?”
Hurts so bad. Like someone reached into her brain and squeezed with an iron fist. Even her nose screamed in pain. “Oh my God, it hurts.”
The weight on top of her suddenly disappeared, and a crash shook the room.
“What the fuck did you do to her?” Wyatt bellowed.
Sounds. Fists. Crashes. All in her periphery, beyond the veil of pain blinding her.
Wyatt was hurting Max.
“Stop,” she tried to say. “It’s not his fault.”
Her pain had come before Max had hit her.
It came… when she touched him for the first time. When she hit him.
She gasped. What could that mean? What…
Whimpering, she peeled her eyes open. Wyatt had Max checked against the wall, fists at his collar… and Max, he was horrified. Wide brown eyes full of regret and hurt and worry speared her way.
“I didn’t…” he said, blood dripping from his nose. Had she made him bleed?
“Not his fault,” she grit out. The pain was subsiding. “It’s not his hit that caused my pain.”
How could it be?
Wyatt shoved away from Max and came to Sloan. “Then why is your nose bleeding?”
“I’m what?” A nose wipe came away wet. Red liquid stained her fingers. “I’m bleeding.”
Why was she bleeding?
Max stepped toward Sloan. Wyatt gave a warning growl.
“Pipe down, Wyatt. It’s not his—” she hissed as pain stabbed her brain again and she clutched her head. “I’ve got a headache. That’s all.” Headache, and nose ache. Weird.
The sound of feet pounding down the hall got louder. It reverberated in her head. She winced. Mary rushed inside, Flint not far behind her. Now everyone knew. Everyone knew she couldn’t handle herself against an ordinary human.
“What happened?”
“Jeez, you’re all acting like I’m a baby. I’m fine.” Fuck, this was embarrassing.
“I’m sorry.” Max crouched and touched her foot. The instant he connected, lightning flashed in her head and she cried out. Something was happening to her brain.
“Just get out of here,” Wyatt snapped at Max. “I’ll contact you if we need you.”
Max worked his jaw, clearly wanting to retaliate with a retort, but he bit it back. He gathered his duffel bag and went for the door. Just before he left, he turned, shot a ferocious look at Wyatt, then said to Sloan, “
I’ll check in later.”
Flint walked him out, speaking soft words, but Sloan missed what they said. She was too busy coming to terms with the fact that her headache was linked to Max. The further he went, the more her pain abated until it was gone all together.
“You don’t get headaches, Sloan.” Mary looked down at her, shrewd eyes picking up what Wyatt had not; Sloan’s Yin-Yang tattoo had moved from its unbalanced marker to complete equal parts black and white. The only time any of their tattoos moved so swiftly back into balance was when one of them met their lifemate—a person who embodied their sin’s opposing virtue.
Was Max… was Max her mate?
Four
Sloan kept her revelation to herself for two days. Two days of hiding out in her room, staying away from people, and dealing with the odd flash of pain in her head. Something had happened to her brain after connecting with Max. Whether it was TV, or in real life, any time she watched someone get hurt or receive pleasure, she felt it in her own body. If this was her power manifesting, what kind of fucked up one was it?
Evan could control electricity. Griffin could manipulate metal. Wyatt was invulnerable. And Sloan? She could get a fucking headache when her enemy went down. Whoopdie-doo.
She wanted to cry.
Instead, she hid out in her room, working out using stupid things like Thigh-masters and Sit-up machines, or hiding under her covers until Thursday came around and a loud knock banged at her door. When the pounding failed to abate, anxiety crept into her system and she lifted her covers higher on up her body. She’d deliberately ignored all text messages and phone calls. What happened with Max shook her to the core.
The black cat at the foot of her bed released a low warning growl.
“My thoughts exactly, Luna.” They could go away.
The door clicked, and Sloan swore. They must have the master key. A surge of panic and fury washed through Sloan as the door opened. “Go away!”
Luna lifted on her paws, back arching with a hiss.
Sloan sat up. The cat never got aggressive. Sure, she made the odd growling rumble from time to time, but she looked down right murderous and ready to pounce at whoever walked through the apartment door. It was almost as if the cat felt Sloan’s emotions—or vice versa.
Sloth Page 4