“Fuck you, Tad,” Lucian said.
The cleanup crew manifested near the bodies, and Lucian waved them into action. They grabbed the men and disappeared.
“No,” Tad said. “Fuck you, Lucian.” He made a growling noise meant to taunt. “You’re nothing but wolf bait when Adam finds out about this.”
“You’re nothing but trailer trash. You think Adam will allow the likes of you inside his royal circle? My father was a senator, my grandfather, a five-star general. I am the reason we know Red Dart exists. What can you do besides hunt down weak females?” He sneered at him, looking the brawny piece of crap up and down. “You are nothing but one of Adam’s pets. A dog who does tricks.”
Suddenly, the wind shifted, wicked, hot, and wild, a telling sign that Adam approached and that he was angry. Tad’s face transformed from pure anger to gloating arrogance. “We shall see who the ‘dog’ is now.”
Adam appeared dressed in black leather, two wolves at his feet. Much to Lucian’s distress, wind-walking didn’t kill the little bastards. At least not when Adam transported them.
“Why has my evening of pleasure been disturbed?” he growled. Pleasure being a group of humans thrown in a ring and fed to his wolves. Whoever survived would get a dose of the highly in-demand serum. So far, no one had survived.
Tad held up a tranquilizer dart to Adam. “Lucian went and got two of our men killed by Powell and his army.”
Adam arched a brow, his voice low, but tight. A deadly edge curled around the words. “Have you failed me, Lucian?”
The wolves turned on Lucian, growling as if picking up on their master’s anger. Adam did not like to lose GTECHs. Lucian seethed with anger. Those beasts would never have growled at Michael, and it pissed Lucian off they had growled at him. One day soon they would not. One day they would respect him as they had Michael. Lucian held up his blood-tinged fingers.
“It is Tad’s limited tracking abilities that have failed,” he replied, cutting Tad a short, demeaning look. “Michael followed Brock West here, no doubt trying to find out something about Red Dart.”
“In other words,” Tad observed, “Michael now knows your contact Brock West to be a traitor.”
“And that means what?” Lucian challenged. “To expose West to Powell is to expose the Renegades’ knowledge of Red Dart. They don’t want Powell to bury Red Dart someplace impossible to reach any more than we do. Everything is as planned, Adam. West is close to Red Dart. Michael is injured. He’ll be forced to sleep off his injury. By the time he is capable of approaching Cassandra Powell, she will be dead.” And Lucian wasn’t waiting for Brock to kill her. Not after tonight’s close call. He’d do it himself.
Police cars screeched to a nearby halt. Adam’s attention did not waver from Lucian. “Bring me proof she is dead by nightfall tomorrow or suffer the consequences.” He cut Tad a sharp look. “I do not enjoy being interrupted. I suggest you find a way to repay me for lost pleasure before you return to the city.” Adam faded into the wind, not even a leaf ruffling around him.
Lucian and Tad glared at one another, violence rippling between them, before they both wind-walked. One of them would die before this was over, but not before Cassandra Powell.
Chapter 10
She’d be dead right now if Michael hadn’t shown up, and surviving was all that was on her mind as she pulled the rental car into the same spot she’d left, feeling certain that a Wind-walker was going to show up at any moment. Adrenaline raced at high-octane speed through her body as she shoved open the car door and headed for the stairwell, noting the absence of Brock’s car and praying that meant she’d beaten him back to the hotel. She wouldn’t feel certain she’d dodged the proverbial bullet until she was inside her room.
Nerves twisted Cassandra’s stomach in knots as she took the stairs to the main hotel level, trying to avoid the risk of running into Brock. The man wanted to kill her. She didn’t want to run into him in a vacant stairwell. Shoving through the door, she rushed through the sparsely populated lobby and found the elevators, thankful when the doors opened instantly.
Stepping inside the car, she prepared a story to explain where she had been in case of a confrontation with Brock. But thinking was hard, her nerves working her over, clouding her mind. She was terrified over that order Lucian just gave to kill her, but she was also worried over Michael. He was in trouble; she could feel it in every inch of her body and practically taste it in every laden breath she drew. Which was nuts. She was the human with Zodius GTECHs after her. She’d watched his abilities develop and seen the mighty force that was Michael. But this did nothing to calm the worry creating a roller-coaster ride of emotions inside her.
The bell chimed as she arrived on her floor, and she rushed into the hallway, thankful it was vacant. The minute she approached the door to her room she had the sense of Michael being near, but it wasn’t the same vibrant rush of awareness she normally felt. He was hurt—the thought came to her with a clarity she didn’t question.
Anxiously, she swiped her entry card through the lock and was about to enter her room when the door next to hers opened, and Brock appeared.
“I wondered where you were,” he said, walking toward her. “I was worried. I’ve been knocking for a while now.”
A while, her ass. It was a miracle he’d beat her back to the hotel, and she wasn’t exactly sure how he’d managed to do so. “And here I thought only my father worried,” she replied, sarcastically. “I tried to find a twenty-four-hour pharmacy with no success. Looks like I’ll be paying an arm and a leg for a toothbrush at the airport in the morning.” She cringed at the horrible excuse when she could have called room service, but it was out now, and she had to live with it. He sauntered closer, too close. She didn’t turn to face him, but still she could smell his cologne, and his scent turned her stomach—it never had before. This man who would be her killer if she allowed him to be. It was all she could do not to confront him. But she was smart enough to know she needed to think—to process what came next if she wanted to stay alive.
“It’s late to go out alone,” he commented dryly, suspicion in the depths of his eyes.
“I’m a military chick,” she reminded him, trying to jest, but her voice sounded stiff even to her own ears. “We’ll risk life and limb for a toothbrush.”
He studied her a moment, looking none too convinced. But there was that lusty haze to his eyes that had her wanting to kick him right below the belt, especially after what she’d overheard. Did he want to bed her once before he killed her?
“We’re both awake,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb to her room. “Why not share a little nightcap?”
Her fingers curled around the metal knob in her palm a bit more firmly, ready to push her door open and make a fast escape, but found herself forced by his posture to turn and face him. She willed herself to offer a smile. “I’m exhausted, and we leave early,” she said. “We said tomorrow night, if we aren’t too tired. Let’s leave it at that.”
A heavy-lidded inspection followed, along with a thick silence that ended when he finally said, “Lobby at straight one thousand hours, then?”
“Yes,” she said and made a disagreeable face. Ten o’clock was going to feel early tomorrow morning. She waved. “Night.” And she didn’t wait for a reply. She shoved open the door and quickly closed it firmly behind her. Immediately, she flipped the security latch into place.
“I’m going to really enjoy killing that sonofabitch.”
Cassandra’s heart skipped a beat as she whirled around to find Michael propped against the headboard of her bed, his dark hair hanging loose around his face where it had escaped the tie at his neck, long muscular legs stretched out across the bed, and a bloody red towel pressed to his side.
Her chest tightened. “Oh God.” It was clear the towel he was holding against himself was drenched and that he was bleeding horribly. She rushed forward and crawled on the bed to his side.
“Why don’t you have on Zodius body a
rmor?” she asked, removing the bloody towel and trying to inspect his injury, but there was too much blood to see how bad it was, so she reapplied more pressure. “You’re not invincible no matter what you think. You might heal quickly, but you can bleed to death just like the rest of us.”
He tugged his T-shirt upward, displaying the thin suit he wore like a second skin. “Whatever they hit me with wasn’t standard issue ammo.”
Her eyes went wide at the sight of the thin bodysuit, impermeable to bullets, state-of-the-art technology that Adam’s scientific team had somehow managed to manufacture and that her father was dying to get his hands on.
She pressed her hand to his stomach, memories of so many intimate moments shared with this man rushing over her. “How is this possible?” she asked. “My understanding was that no bullet should penetrate your armor. A grenade or rocket launcher, something more powerful, yes, but not a bullet.”
“Clearly the Zodius have a new weapon,” he said. “Once you cut the bullet out of my side, I’ll get it to the Renegades’ lab.”
Her heart tripped. “The bullet is still inside you? Are you sure?”
Strain etched his handsome features. “Believe me,” he said. “It’s in there, and the sooner you get it out, the sooner I can go wipe the ground with Brock’s ‘nightcap’ ass.”
“You heard that?” she asked, shocked, recognizing that no normal person could have heard clearly through that door from the bed. It was an ability he hadn’t possessed two years before.
“I heard everything,” he said, shackling her arm with his free hand. The next thing she knew, he’d pulled her on top of him, pressed to that long, hard body. “Including the order to kill you.”
Their eyes locked and held, and for just a moment, she forgot everything but how much this man had once meant to her. How safe and right he had felt. And she desperately needed to feel safe right now.
“Let me go before you hurt yourself,” she protested way too late and far too weakly, her hand flexed on the solid wall of his chest. Adam had ordered her murdered; she was scared, and Michael’s lips were close, so very close.
“You could have been killed out there tonight,” he countered, his voice darn near a growl.
“But I wasn’t,” she whispered. “And I needed to follow him. I needed to know who I could trust.”
“Because you don’t trust me,” he challenged and didn’t wait for a reply—they both knew he’d nailed the truth. “I did what I did that day at Area 51 to protect innocent lives, yours included.”
“This isn’t about one day,” she amended. “Two years, Michael. Two years of silence. You could have talked to me.” She pushed up on his chest, trying to escape, but he held her firmly. “Let me up before you bleed to death.” Seconds ticked by, his eyes were blazing, his jaw hard. And her heart—well, it hurt. Desperately, she whispered, “Please. Let go, Michael.”
He released her, and she scrambled off him and to the edge of the bed, feeling like a doe-in-headlights that had barely escaped a head-on collision. Looking into his eyes always did her in. She felt a connection, felt she knew him. Yet, really—how much had she really known about Michael?
She reached for the phone to call the front desk. Without turning, she said, “I’m going to order some supplies.”
***
Michael lay on that bed only moments from holding Cassandra in his arms and listened to her phone conversation with the front desk operator. And he heard the quaver in her voice, the emotion that he knew he’d created. He wanted to protect her, but it seemed he knew only how to hurt her.
He blinked against the spots forming in his vision. Damn it, he could not pass out. Not until this bullet was out.
With all his will, Michael forced himself to move and somehow managed to remove the weapons strapped to various parts of his body, setting them on the nightstand. He took the utility knife from one of the straps around his thigh and laid it on the edge of the bed, deciding it was the best bet at removing the bullet. Then, with supreme effort, he heaved himself past the pain to a sitting position to remove his shirt. Somehow, he had to get out of this worthless armor.
Hanging up the phone, Cassandra turned to him and gasped, “Are you crazy? You’re gushing blood. Stop moving around.” She scrambled to his side, her hand on his chest.
Their eyes locked, collided with the impact of a concrete slab right in his chest. Memories. Desire. She swallowed, and he watched that delicate little throat move. No amount of pain or blood loss could stop him from thinking of kissing it, of kissing her.
“Lie down, Michael,” she ordered, her voice cracking, defying the steadiness of her stare.
“I need to get this shirt off,” he said, his voice not much stronger than hers. He was powerful—a man people feared—yet what he feared most was this woman judging him unworthy. God, he never wanted to face that day. He wouldn’t face that day. Damn. He’d left her so he wouldn’t have to.
“Let me do it,” she said quietly, a plea lacing the words. “Put aside everything between us right now, and let me do this. Michael. Please.”
How many times had Michael wished to hear his name on her lips again and thought he never would? He longed to pull her back down on top of him—he didn’t care that it was the wrong choice—that it would be dangerous to his ability to walk away. He didn’t want to hurt her again, knew that was where this was going if he wasn’t careful—if he didn’t ensure that she stayed angry and distant. Despite this, raw possessiveness rose inside him. He had to make love to her one more time. And he would—soon, very soon. Maybe that made him selfish, but he didn’t care anymore. He needed that one more time to survive a lifetime without her.
“Hold the towel on the wound,” he said, his voice as tight as every muscle in his body. “Once I get the shirt off, you’ll have to unzip the armor. You’ll never get the bullet out as long as I have it on.”
She nodded and quickly applied pressure to his wound. Michael yanked the shirt over his good arm and then over his head, letting it dangle off the shoulder near his injury. Cassandra helped him inch it down his arm and then tossed it to the floor. He reached down and held the bloody towel against his wound.
Cassandra winced at the blood running down his side. “You’re bleeding way too much. We need to get this done. Hold on.”
She reached forward, and their hands connected. A combination of pain and arousal rocketed through his body as she softly said, “I can’t reach the zipper.” It was the only warning he got before she climbed across his lap, using his shoulders to steady herself.
Again his eyes held hers—emotions, past and present, thick with implications and unspoken words. “And here I thought you were pissed at me,” he commented in a low voice.
She cut her gaze, but not before he saw the sadness crossing her lovely face. “I got over being pissed a long time ago,” she whispered.
“You seemed pretty angry at the gazebo,” he commented.
She glanced at him, and then back down. “Maybe I’m still a little angry.” She focused on working the zippers lining the top of his shoulders and his healthy left side. His armor fell free, connected only along his injured side, which he held in place with the towel, using what little energy he still had. His head was spinning, the blood loss taking a toll.
Cassandra eased her weight off his legs and took the armor and the bloody towel with her, quickly throwing it aside and shoving another towel onto his wound before applying pressure with both hands.
“Where the heck is housekeeping with those damn supplies?” she murmured.
His eyes were heavy. “We can’t wait,” he said. “The bullet has to come out now.”
“We have nothing for pain,” she fretted. “Nothing to sew you up with. No bandages. They’re bringing everything. And I don’t want to get started and then have them show up.”
A knock sounded on the door, and she let out a sigh of relief. He willed himself to move, to grab a gun. Cassandra stared down at the gun, but said no
thing, scooting off the bed and rushing toward the door.
“Just a minute,” she yelled, stopping long enough to shrug off her soiled jacket and wipe off her hands before pulling on a clean shirt and tossing the dirty one aside. She grabbed her purse and the cash inside before discreetly cracking the door. He heard the attendant ask if she was okay, heard her murmur about falling and a make-believe trip to the ER to explain the bandages. A few seconds later, she’d gotten rid of the attendant and wheeled a tray inside. He set the gun down—it seemed suddenly heavier than normal.
Cassandra crawled to his side and handed him a bottle of vodka. “It’s not much of a pain reliever, especially not with your metabolism, but it’s something. Drink it down while I get some hot water. I know alcohol doesn’t have much of an effect on you, but, well, maybe if you drink a lot and fast, it’ll help some. It’s worth a try.”
He accepted the bottle of vodka as she scurried away despite his distaste for it.
With a low curse, he downed several long gulps, the clear liquor burning a path down his throat, the irony of Cassandra’s unknowing choice of the vodka not going without notice. It was as if his father were laughing from his grave, reminding Michael that no matter what he did, where he went, he was still born of his father’s blood, still of his birthright.
Cassandra returned and set the water on the night table, next to the supplies she’d laid out moments before. She drew a breath.
He sensed her hesitation and headed it off. “The sooner we do this,” he commented, “the sooner I can start healing.”
“I know,” she said heavily. “I know.”
He downed another long swallow of vodka, capped the bottle and handed it to her. There was no need to sterilize his wound; he didn’t get infections. “Did I ever tell you how much my father loved a good vodka martini?”
A look of shock crossed her face. “You never spoke about your father.”
Or the mother who hated his guts. Not that she’d said she hated him, but she didn’t write, didn’t call, didn’t give a damn where he was or what he did. Sounded like hate to him. Michael offered her the knife, and she reached for it, but he didn’t let go. Part of him wanted to try and explain why, but it wouldn’t change who, or what, he was. He released the knife and turned onto his side, somehow keeping the towel in place. “I talked about my father,” he said. “I remember precisely telling you he was a bastard.”