Blood Assassin

  Fane’s heart clenched at the sight of her down-bent head and the hands that covered her face as she cried.

  The realization that this magnificent female felt the need to hide in the shower to release her emotions tore him apart. Christ, had he forced her to this? He’d wanted to protect her. Not drive her away.

  But even as he cursed his past arrogance, he couldn’t deny a pang of relief that Serra at least had shaken off her shock.

  Her stoic lethargy had been far more worrisome than her tears.

  Knowing he was taking his life in his hands, Fane moved forward in silence, managing to haul her shivering body into his arms before she could realize she was no longer alone.

  Instantly she stiffened, her head jerking back to glare at him in frustration. “Have you ever heard of privacy?”

  His arms tightened, the warm water flowing over them. “You don’t have to do this alone, Serra.”

  “Fane.”

  “Lean on me, you stubborn female.” He cupped the back of her head, gently pressing her cheek to his chest. “Just for a minute. Then you can return to spitting fury.”

  “I’m not stubborn,” she muttered, but to his intense relief she allowed her muscles to relax, pressing herself against him.

  His fingers lightly skimmed up and down her spine, his head lowering so he could press his lips against her temple.

  “Whatever you say.”

  There was a long silence as she permitted the last of her tears to stream down her damp face, allowing the crippling fear to flow through her before she determinedly regained command of her battered emotions.

  Serra might not be a Sentinel, but she was a warrior.

  She needed to release the anger and frustration, and outright terror, so she could consider her situation with a clear head.

  Laying his cheek on the top of her head, he tugged her so they weren’t directly beneath the deluge of water.

  “Do you feel better?”

  She gave a last, defiant sniffle. “Don’t patronize me.”

  His lips followed her hairline before tracing the damp shell of her ear, his determination to offer her comfort swiftly transforming into something far more intoxicating....

  Dangerous.

  “God forbid,” he murmured, allowing his hands to slide back to her hips so he could urge her against his hardening erection.

  She sucked in a startled breath, her hands lifting to grasp his shoulders. “And don’t do that!”

  He nipped the lobe of her ear, relishing the taste of her warm satin skin. A groan was wrenched from his throat. How many nights had he tormented himself with thoughts of what she would taste like?

  Now he knew. . . .

  Chamomile.

  Mmm. He could easily become addicted.

  “Do what?” he asked.

  She shivered, her nails digging into his skin. “Nibble at me.”

  The thickening thrust of his erection pressed into her lower stomach. This time she groaned.

  “Is that what I’m doing?” he asked.

  “You know it is.”

  He smiled as her words came out as a breathy whisper. “Actually that was nuzzling.” To prove his point, Fane used his teeth to nip a path down her throat. “This is nibbling.”

  He actually felt the jump of her heart. “Fane.”

  Fane smiled, unable to resist the temptation of the warm, wet woman in his arms.

  No . . . not just a woman.

  Serra.

  His precious, splendid, always forbidden female.

  “This is fondling,” he assured her, his hand gliding up her side, circling to cup one lush breast.

  His breath abruptly hissed through clenched teeth. Holy shit. She fit perfectly in his hand. Soft, but firm with a dark nipple that was already furled with anticipation.

  Pleasure exploded through his body.

  He was barely touching her and he was already on the edge of climax.

  What would happen if he actually bent down and sucked that tempting nipple between his lips? If he yanked her higher so he could wrap her impossibly long legs around his waist and leave her open and ready for the penetration of his rock-hard cock?

  Desire, as sharp as a razor, sliced through him.

  “I told you that you could help me.” Serra’s husky voice broke into his enticing fantasy, “but no . . .”

  “Fondling?” he helpfully supplied, his thumb teasing the hardened tip of her nipple.

  “Exactly.”

  Her breath brushed over his chest, making his teeth clench in actual pain. My God, this wanting, aching need . . .

  “What about nuzzling?” he rasped, his lips following the sleek line of her shoulder.

  She tilted her head back, her eyes darkened with passion. “You’re just trying to distract me.”

  He gave a low, throaty chuckle. This was the most intensely erotic distraction he’d ever enjoyed.

  “Is it working?”

  She trembled, but always stubborn, she shook her head. “No.”

  With a slow, deliberate motion he lowered his head to lick the very tip of her nipple. “Are you sure?”

  Her nails cut into the skin of his shoulder. “Oh, hell.”

  He groaned, allowing his tongue to explore the sensitive peak. The taste of her was addictive.

  “It feels like it’s working,” he said softly.

  “Fane,” she breathed.

  He very nearly missed the faint tremble in her voice. His acute senses were homed in on the feel of her slick satin wet skin, and the scent of chamomile that clouded his mind with the promise of sweet paradise.

  But even as his fingers began to lower so he could cup her soft ass, he gave a low hiss and lifted his head.

  What was he doing?

  He’d come into the shower to offer her his strength. And more than that, to convince her that she wasn’t in this alone.

  Not to seduce her when she was weak and tired and at the mercy of her stressed emotions.

  Pressing a rueful kiss on her forehead, Fane reached over to shut off the water. Serra shivered and he swiftly opened the shower door and grabbed a towel off the heated rail.

  “Hold on, milaya,” he murmured.

  Her brows lifted. “Milaya?”

  He ignored her reaction to the Russian endearment. It’s how he’d always thought of her in his mind even if he’d refused to allow the word to slip past his rigid guard.

  “Let me help,” he insisted, using the towel to dry off the droplets of water, before wrapping it around her damp hair. Then, taking her hand he urged her from the stall. “Come.”

  She allowed him to lead her out of the bathroom and into the nearest bedroom with a wary frown. Not that Fane was stupid enough to think for a second she’d accepted his driving need to become her guardian. No. Nothing could be that simple with Serra.

  She was merely too weary to continue the fight.

  Without him asking, she crawled beneath the covers of the king-size bed that was covered in a black and gold satin comforter, snuggling against the mound of pillows. Fane took just a second to appreciate the sight of her as she reached up to remove the towel around her head.

  She was every man’s fantasy with her satin fall of dark hair and pale, ivory skin. Her light green eyes shimmered with the wicked enticement of a vixen and the stubborn set of her chin dared a male to try and earn her elusive attention.

  She was beauty and intelligence and a sexual challenge in one lush package.

  It was no wonder that every male at Valhalla had tried at one time or another to earn their place at her side.

  Pain sliced through his heart at the thought of her with another man. It was a familiar ache. One he’d endured for years. But today it was . . . unbearable.

  Was it because he’d finally given in to his combustible need to touch her? Kiss her?

  Or was it because for the first time ever he’d been forced to consider a world without her?

  Whatever the explanation, he knew beyond a
shadow of a doubt that no other man was ever going to try to take this woman away from him.

  His hands balled into fists, the urgent need to crawl onto the bed and drag her into his arms pulsing through him.

  Thankfully, his sensitive hearing picked up the sound of the elevator opening before he could give in to the impulse. He’d already discovered the danger of trying to offer comfort when they were both wet and naked.

  She was never going to get the rest she needed if he touched her again.

  With a low growl, he was crossing to the nearest closet to find a white robe and yanking it on. Then, unable to meet her wary gaze, he left the bedroom, picking up one of his handguns before moving to open the front door.

  This was why most guardians tried to avoid becoming lovers with those they bonded with. It turned a highly trained, perfectly logical warrior into a seething mass of insanity.

  Opening the door just far enough to reveal the muzzle of his gun, he pressed himself against the wall, allowing his senses to determine the threat.

  He picked up the sound of approaching footsteps. The pace was light, quick. So a female. And she was pushing a cart. He heard the squeak of a wheel and caught the heavy scent of food.

  There was no hiss of a blade being unsheathed, and no odor of gunpowder. Nothing to indicate she was armed, but Fane wasn’t in the mood to take chances.

  “Leave the cart and return to the elevator,” he commanded.

  There was a momentary silence, as if he’d caught the woman off guard. Then, with a last push to arrange the cart in front of the door, he heard the sound of her swiftly rushing back to the elevator.

  He waited until the elevator closed before he inched open the door, glancing up and down the corridor before grabbing the cart and pulling it into the suite.

  It wasn’t fear for Serra that made him cautious. For now, Bas needed her. Besides, he’d already turned her into a ticking time bomb. The rat bastard.

  But he didn’t doubt that the assassin would be happy to get rid of anyone who would try to protect her from his manipulations.

  And Bas damned sure understood that once the toxin had been removed from Serra’s body, Fane was going to kill him.

  Locking the door, Fane wheeled the cart into the bedroom, his lips twisting as he realized Serra had found a matching robe to slip on. A pity, but no doubt for the best.

  His body remained hard and aching, his control on a hair trigger.

  Another glimpse of her naked body and he wouldn’t remember she was in desperate need of food and rest.

  He’d have her flat on her back and finishing what he’d started in the shower.

  Arranging the cart next to the bed, Fane stepped back to watch as she pulled the silver covers off the food and placed the tray on her lap.

  He folded his arms over his chest, his brows rising as she poured the maple syrup over the huge stack of pancakes.

  “Are you going to eat all of that?”

  “I’m not only going to eat it, I’m going to savor every bite.”

  Cutting a huge bite of the pancakes, she shoved it into her mouth, licking the syrup off her lips with decadent pleasure. Fane swallowed a groan as he took another step backward. Shit. He could vividly imagine pouring that syrup over his body and letting her lick him clean.

  Oh . . . Christ.

  “Food should be fuel, not sludge,” he said, keeping his tone light.

  For now it was enough to tend to her most pressing needs. Everything else could wait.

  She wrinkled her nose, pointing her fork toward the small plate with a carrot muffin.

  “You eat your horse food and let me enjoy a real breakfast.”

  He rolled his eyes. “When we return to Valhalla I’m going to make you a healthy breakfast that will make your mouth water.”

  She lowered her gaze to the mound of food, her expression unbearably fragile. “If we return.”

  The words hit him like a blow to the gut, blasting the air from his lungs. Dammit. That fucking assassin had stolen something vital from this woman.

  A belief in her own future.

  He desperately wanted to smash his fist through the expensive wood of the headboard.

  But leashing his surge of murderous fury toward Bas and the toxin flowing through her blood, he kept his expression unreadable. Serra needed him strong, in utter command. Not incapacitated by his emotions.

  Just as the monks had taught him.

  “There’s not a doubt in my mind we’ll be returning,” he said with stark, unrelenting confidence. Moving forward, he bent down to press a tender kiss on the top of her head. “Finish your breakfast and rest, milaya moya, I’ll keep watch.”

  Sensing Serra regretted revealing her inner fears, Fane turned to leave the bedroom. She would feel more comfortable eating without him standing guard over her. And besides, he had a small task to deal with before he could lie down for a few minutes’ rest.

  Crossing the sitting room, he held the handgun at his side and moved out of the suite in complete silence. He pulled shut the door, and turned as if he was headed toward the elevator. Then, with a speed few could match, he was across the hall and kicking open the door to the suite that took up the other half of the top floor.

  There was a muffled curse as a man rose from the desk where he’d been keeping watch on a monitor, his hand reaching for the weapon holstered at his side.

  “Don’t,” Fane warned, his gun already pointed between the man’s eyes.

  “Okay.” The man lifted his hands, his expression wary. “Easy.”

  Fane studied the stranger, who would have gone unnoticed in a crowd. He was average height, average size, with short clipped brown hair and brown eyes set in an unremarkable face.

  The sort of man who blended into the background.

  Fane, however, easily sensed he wasn’t just another man.

  He was a high-blood.

  And a powerful one.

  Fane narrowed his gaze. There was no tingle of magic, so the man wasn’t a witch. And his hesitation at reaching for his weapon revealed he hadn’t been trained as a Sentinel. He could be a psychic or a healer, but Fane was betting on a telepath.

  The best spies were always readers.

  He gave a brief glance around the sitting room that had been stripped of furniture except for the heavy desk and the surveillance equipment that could rival those used by Valhalla. Bas clearly demanded the best. His gaze shifted toward the corner that had been converted to a utilitarian kitchen. On the counter were one coffee mug and one plate with the crumbs from recently eaten toast.

  It indicated the man was alone in the suite unless there was someone sleeping in the bedroom.

  Returning his attention to the stranger, he kept close enough to the open door so he could make a swift retreat.

  “I have a message for your boss,” he said, his cold voice filled with the promise of death.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  “You have one opportunity to walk away from this alive, don’t blow it,” Fane interrupted.

  The man instantly stiffened, accepting Fane wasn’t bluffing. He would be dead if he didn’t follow Fane’s instructions. To. The. Letter.

  “What’s your message?”

  “If anyone enters Serra’s rooms without my permission, they’ll die. If anyone tries to plant a listening or camera device in her room, they’ll die. If anyone tries to separate me from her side, they’ll die.” His face was devoid of expression. “Do you have that?”

  The man grimaced. “He isn’t going to be happy.”

  “Trust me, he’s going to be more than unhappy by the time I’m done with him.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first to try.”

  A cold smile of anticipation curved Fane’s lips. “No, but I’ll be the first to succeed.”

  Chapter Seven

  Bas brazenly strolled across the bustling lobby of his hotel, taking covert pleasure in the sleek, clean lines of the blue and silver furni
shings and the efficiency of his staff as they dealt with the tedious never-ending demands of the very wealthy.

  Not bad for a man born in the sewers of Ragusa, Italy, nearly three hundred years ago.

  He wasn’t worried about being recognized as B. D. Cavrilo, the illustrious owner who visited on a weekly schedule. Hell, his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.

  It was more than the starched, black chauffeur’s uniform with matching hat he was currently wearing. Or even his practiced air of deference that made him practically invisible.

  The training he had received as an assassin meant he could create a magical illusion that was impossible to penetrate.

  Today the illusion included making him six inches shorter, fifty pounds heavier with a round face and pale blue eyes.

  Heading straight for the elevators, he arranged the heavy garment bag over his arm and waited until he’d reached the top before pulling the card key from beneath his jacket. It wasn’t until he stepped into the hall that he realized the key wasn’t going to be necessary.

  Instead, he pulled the gun from his pocket as he headed toward the door that had obviously been kicked off its hinges.

  “Samuel?”

  There was the sound of footsteps before his most trusted reader appeared in the empty doorjamb.

  “I’m here.”

  Bas narrowed his gaze. The man looked unharmed, which meant he’d been caught by surprise.

  A rare occurrence.

  “Troubles?”

  The man jerked his head toward the door across the hall. “The Sentinel already made me.”

  Bas swallowed a curse. Goddammit. Maybe his plan to force the psychic to St. Louis had been slapped together in haste, but he’d tried to eliminate as many complications as possible, hadn’t he?

  It’s what made him such a successful leader.

  And yet, for all his efforts, he now had a rabid, fully trained Sentinel howling for his blood.