Born of Night

  "Syn . . ."

  He ignored Nykyrian's warning. "Don't worry, princess. We've been living that way our entire lives. There's nothing they got that'll touch us. If they did, we'd already be dead."

  Nykyrian inclined his head to Syn. "I was born fighting and we've wired your place to such an extent that we'll know if an uninvited cockroach visits a flat ten stories down. Not to mention we have exit strategies for any and all scenarios. They won't get you without getting us and believe me, we're not about to make our enemies happy and die here."

  Syn laughed. "Damn straight. We have too many people to continue pissing off."

  She frowned at him. "You're really not afraid?"

  "No," Nykyrian answered honestly.

  Syn inclined his head to Nykyrian. "Death is just a new beginning . . . at least in my religion. And extreme inebriation seriously helps."

  Kiara wasn't amused by his quip. "Mine, too, well, the religion part, not the alcohol, but I'm in no hurry to meet my maker." She let out a tired breath. "I don't see how you guys live the life you do."

  Syn shrugged. "There's an old Ritadarion saying. You're never more alive than when you walk hand in hand with death."

  "Or crawl inside a bottle and stay there."

  He met Nykyrian's gaze. "Yeah, well, it's not my death that bothers me."

  Nykyrian clenched his teeth as he felt his friend's pain. No, it was the brutal loss of his family that haunted him and for that Nykyrian couldn't fault him at all. Syn had been put through a meat grinder by life. The fact that man could still get up and make it through a day without blowing his brains out amazed him. It was a call he waited daily to receive and he had more respect for Syn's continued survival than he'd ever had for anything else.

  He glanced to Kiara and by her face he could tell she understood Syn's tone and had the decency not to question him about it.

  She swallowed as she fidgeted with the ring on her finger. "I'm really sorry about the way I overreacted to the shields. I just don't like feeling trapped and to not be able to see outside . . . You have no idea how many times I've been barricaded inside a box in my life. I know it's for my protection. But that doesn't mean I have to like it." She glanced up at Nykyrian. "I promise it won't happen again--I'll be more cooperative in the future."

  Syn pushed the glass aside and started drinking straight out of his flask. "Don't worry about it. We're used to being told to go screw ourselves. And that's from the people who actually like us. You should hear what our enemies say."

  Nykyrian didn't comment. There was no need to. He understood why Kiara had overreacted. According to her file, she'd been kidnapped at age eight and held in an underground container for twelve days with her mother while her mother had been brutally tortured in front of her. Once her father had paid off her abductors, they'd killed her mother and put three burns into Kiara before they'd left her for dead. The file had said that she still couldn't stand to be in total darkness.

  Funny how internal scars never healed. They were the souvenirs of the past. But then he knew that better than anyone. And it wasn't like he didn't have enough quirks of his own. He wasn't about to fault her for hers.

  He handed a plate to Syn. "Put something in your stomach to absorb the alcohol before you spontaneously combust from the fumes."

  Syn laughed. "Yeah, it'd be a damn shame to blow my internal organs all over your new shirt."

  "Wouldn't be the first time that happened."

  Kiara was amazed that they could joke about such horrible things. "You know, that's really not funny."

  Syn snorted. "Baby, it's either laugh or cry and crying takes way too much energy. If you can't find humor in the shit life heaps on you, you really will grow miserable."

  Nykyrian clinked his glass against Syn's flask in a silent salute.

  Kiara took her plate and wondered if she'd ever be able to find the peace during chaos that these two seemed to have found. The fact that they could come to terms with it . . . She could only pray for a time when she might be so fortunate. "So I take it you guys are going to stay inside my flat and not out in the hallway like my father's guards?"

  Syn scoffed. "You know that's the most pathetic way to guard someone." In a falsetto he added. "Please protect my life by being outside so that when they come in and kill me you can't hear it." He shook his head. "You want to live, right?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Then we're where you are, bathroom breaks being the only exception--unless you're in public, and then we get to risk additional arrest records."

  "Great," she said, feeling weirded out by that. "No more privacy."

  Nykyrian set his drink aside. "Don't worry. We won't bother you. Just pretend we're not here."

  Looking up at his huge, gorgeous body, she realized that was much easier said than done. He and his crew tended to take up a lot of space and she wasn't used to having someone in her flat. This was her sanctuary away from the world and she liked having it to herself.

  But as her father would say, life was about making adjustments. And her life had just been seriously altered.

  Kiara was talking to her father over the secure telelink when Syn took his leave. Nykyrian listened to her soft voice, which was punctuated by occasional light laughs, drifting from her room. Her silken, dulcet tones pierced him. Used to the deadpan voices of assassins or the deep baritones of men, he'd never realized until this moment what a typical female voice sounded like in conversation.

  No, not entirely true. There had been a handful of females he'd listened to when he was younger. And Jayne, but her voice was unnaturally deep like a man's. It'd been decades since he'd heard a typical woman talk to someone. It was different than the rehearsed conversations on vid broadcasts or even interviews. This was natural. A voice filled with true, spontaneous emotion.

  And she was just in the next room . . .

  Like that matters to you.

  Get your head in the game, chiran.

  Because if he didn't, she would die. They both would.

  With that thought foremost in his mind, he retrieved his laptop from the bag Hauk had left for him on the floor.

  Nykyrian took a seat on the couch. Kiara's laugh rippled again, distracting him. She had the most amazing laugh. Light and soft.

  Get to work, dick.

  Shaking his head, he turned his computer on and focused on what he was supposed to be doing. His thoughts back on his job, he pulled his glove off to scan his fingerprints and allow it to boot up.

  And again, her soft voice caught his attention and made him instantly hard.

  Shoot me . . .

  Maybe he should have assigned Syn watch duty tonight. If only Syn hadn't made plans with Caillan. But since he seldom took time off, Nykyrian had given him the night. Not to mention, Syn was using the night for his "other" company.

  Damn, this mission.

  He'd spent the entire dinner wanting her, feeling her presence next to him. If only he hadn't allowed her to touch him at the theater, he might have been able to focus better. Having felt her touch, it was hard to get it out of his mind.

  No one hugged him. Ever. And it was now seared in his memory like a stinging brand.

  Nykyrian scoffed at himself. Who was he trying to fool? It didn't matter that she'd touched him. Since the first performance he'd seen her in three years ago, she'd haunted his dreams like a stalking phantom out to steal his rotting soul.

  No matter where he was, she was never too far from his thoughts.

  The logistics of this just sucked more than normal since he really couldn't escape seeing and hearing her.

  Smelling the sweet scent of her body.

  He sighed heavily, wishing he could think of some way to clear his head that didn't involve removing body parts.

  After a few minutes she finished her call and entered the front room with a warm smile on her face as she looked in his direction.

  Kill me . . .

  Nykyrian's blood heated in response to her gentle expressio
n. No one had ever looked at him like that.

  Like she was glad to see him.

  She glanced around the room with a frown. "Is Syn gone?"

  "Yes."

  That didn't seem to please her. "I thought there'd be more than one of you to guard me. Isn't that standard protocol?"

  Yeah, for a normal person.

  He wasn't normal in any sense of the word. "Believe me, I'm more than enough to keep you safe." There was no arrogance in those words. It was just a simple statement of fact.

  Kiara paused at her favorite chair, across from Nykyrian and his rigid pose. He'd finally removed his long coat and draped it right where she'd planned to sit. How strange that he seemed even more formidable without it.

  Not an easy thing to do . . .

  Maybe he was right about not needing anyone else. He looked more than capable of single-handedly bringing down an entire army.

  Now she could finally see the full, ripped outline of his body . . . and the presence of more weapons.

  Daggers and knives were cradled in sheaths from hipbone to hipbone around his back. More sheaths were attached to his wrists and biceps, front and back, along with the two blasters. No doubt there were more weapons in his pants and boots. And he seemed oblivious to all of them.

  A shiver went over her.

  As she tried to pick up his coat, she frowned at the unbelievable weight of it. How did he manage to wear it so flawlessly? She could barely lift one sleeve. It had to be lined with armor, and the flash of silver said there were even more weapons hidden within its folds.

  Nykyrian stood up and took it from her with one hand before he laid it down beside him on the couch. That, too, was impressive.

  She arched a brow at the clinking sound the coat had made. "Just out of curiosity, how many weapons are in that thing?"

  "Enough to make me happy."

  Kiara was unamused by his curt reply. "So is there any part of you that's not a lethal weapon?"

  He sat back down before he answered. "No. Even my wits are sharpened."

  Rolling her eyes at his dry sarcasm, Kiara was a little more respectful of him and his strength as she took her chair. Her father's dire words echoed in her ears. He'd warned her of The Sentella's ferocity, telling her to stay alert and call for him if she had any suspicions toward them at all. While he knew they were the best at protecting her, he still didn't fully trust them and he'd left his own guards all over the street outside and patrolling the inside of her building.

  Just in case.

  And who could really blame him for being paranoid? In spite of what Nykyrian had said earlier, they were all mercenaries whose only loyalty was to currency.

  Watching Nykyrian closely, she tried to read his thoughts. Would he sell her out? Or kill her himself? Could he be that cold-blooded?

  Of course he could.

  And yet she wanted to believe he was better than that. That he had some form of moral fiber hidden underneath that icy facade and mountain of weapons.

  Nykyrian's own words drifted through her mind. Emotions are bred out of us during training. Still, she refused to believe he was completely without feelings. Were that true, he wouldn't have comforted her while she cried. He wouldn't have cared enough to even bother.

  His gloved fingers flew over the touch keypads while he worked with only a whisper of light tapping.

  A wicked smile curved her lips as she studied the gorgeous body and profile of the man who seemed oblivious to her presence. She'd been around many men who constantly worked to improve their physical appearance, but none of them had ever appealed to her as much as he did.

  A man who should repulse her.

  Yet there was something about him that called out to her like a hurt child needing comfort. Kiara almost laughed aloud at the thought. She studied Nykyrian, his jaw tense, his features blank. The epitome of fierce soldier and lethal killer.

  No, there didn't appear to be anything about him even close to hurting or needy.

  So why did she feel this way?

  "What are you working on?" she finally asked.

  He growled a low warning in his throat that made her a bit uneasy. "I have a lot of work to finish. I'm not here to be sociable. I'm here only to protect you. Ignore me and go about your business as if I'm not even in the room."

  She arched a brow at that ridiculous comment. "Have you any idea how much space you take up? In case it's escaped your notice, you're not exactly small or easy to ignore."

  She could have sworn she saw one corner of his mouth twitch as if he'd almost smiled. But he said nothing in response.

  Kiara folded her arms around her leg and rested her chin on her knee. She watched his flying fingers, amazed he could type and talk at the same time. "But since you're here . . ."

  His fingers stopped moving, the sudden silence echoed around her, increasing her discomfort.

  "I just thought you might as well tell me something about yourself. We could end up spending days together, weeks even, and I for--"

  "Fine," he snapped, cutting her off.

  Kiara hid her triumphant smile behind her knee, but she was sure her eyes glowed in mischief.

  Nykyrian sat back and defensively crossed his arms over his chest. "If it will solace your mind, I will allow you to ask me eight questions. After that, you'll never again ask me another thing about my past, or my colleagues, and you'll remain quiet and let me finish what I'm doing."

  The sharp, clipped words irked her. She stared at him, trying to think of things that would give her a working knowledge of what kind of person he was. "Okay," she said as she thought of the first one. "What's your surname?"

  "One, Quiakides."

  She choked in surprise over the last name she'd expected to hear. She wouldn't have been more surprised to find out he was a royal prince. "As in the universally famed and acclaimed Commander Huwin Quiakides?" In The League, that name carried more prestige than all the presidents and royal families of all the United Systems combined. The late commander was a legend revered by all.

  "Two, yes."

  "Was he your father?"

  She thought she noticed his teeth clench before he answered, "Three, yes."

  Kiara gave an unladylike snort. "That doesn't count. You should have said that when I asked the second question."

  He shrugged in an aggravating manner of disinterest. "Be specific. Anything counts."

  Oh, that little booger . . .

  But arguing with him was pointless. The one thing she did know about him--he was stubborn to a fault.

  Kiara sat for a minute, thinking over what little information Mira had given her while she'd been in The Sentella's base. "If he was your father, why did you leave The League?"

  This time, she definitely saw the angry tic in his jaw as his features hardened. "What makes you so sure I was in The League?"

  Kiara gulped at the harsh, deadly tone. At that moment, she could easily imagine him tearing someone into pieces and she had no desire for that someone to be either her or Mira. "I saw part of the tattoo on your wrist. It is true, isn't it? You were a League assassin?"

  Some of the tenseness left his lips, and she wondered why. "Four, yes."

  Kiara was getting tired of him numbering his answers. "You know, you could try and be a little friendlier."

  "I'm not paid to be nice. I'm paid to kill."

  A lump of dread closed her throat at the thought. "Do you like to kill?" she asked, her throat growing tighter by the heartbeat.

  Kiara witnessed the first truly visible, emotional response from him--he went completely rigid and tense. There was no mistaking the anger, even though he held it in well. He closed the computer with a sharp snap and tossed it aside.

  Without a word, he left the room.

  Kiara sat in her chair for several minutes, wondering about his reaction. Since he brought the subject of his killings up so often, why would her question bother him?

  She went to find out.

  He stood in front of the bl
ast shields in her studio. She watched him from the doorway as he slid his hand over the plastic panels as if looking for a hole. He appeared ambivalent again.

  "You said you would answer my questions."

  He dropped his hand. "I didn't expect you to ask that one."

  "Why not?"

  Nykyrian crossed the room with that powerful, commanding gait to stand before her. For a moment, she thought he might actually touch her, but he remained less than a foot from her--just close enough to warm her with his body heat, with an intangible wall so thick around him, she didn't dare reach out and touch him or even step closer.

  "Why would you care how anything makes me feel?" His low tone seemed somehow searching.

  "I don't know, I just do."

  He turned around and changed the topic. "Do you practice in here?"

  Kiara frowned at the unexpected question, curious about what had prompted it. "Yes."

  He walked over to the mirrors and touched her favorite spot on the stretching bar. She'd used it so much there was a slight dip in the wood from her ankle and a permanent stain there from the oils in her skin. "Do you enjoy what you do?"

  "Of course."

  He shook his head. "That was a well rehearsed response. Tell me, honestly, do you enjoy the grind of what you do? The discipline, the hours and hours of rehearsal, the promoters who make demands, the fittings, the other dancers who envy you, the media who criticizes every move you make, and all the bullshit that goes along with each performance? Do you really enjoy what you do?"

  Kiara looked away. No, she hated all of that. She couldn't even eat what she wanted to for fear of gaining any weight . . . or just as bad, losing it. Once the costumes had been created, they were fined heavily if they gained or lost more than two pounds.

  And she was weighed every single day.

  Everything she did out in public was scrutinized. Everything that happened in private was fodder for the public gristmill.

  Then there were all the blisters and sore muscles. The cramps and pulls. The doubts and fears. Worst of all, the backbiting and two-faced friends.

  She hated every bit of that. But she wasn't about to let this stranger know about her private hell. So she answered with the truth. "Dancing was all I ever wanted to do."

  His grip tightened on the bar. "Really? Or do you do it because someone expected you to? Because it's what they trained you for?"