In the lobby, the blond woman turned to Grace. “Run,” she’d yelled, then blew on a whistle, walking backward, deeper into the foyer and into the open elevator. The shrill piercing sound coaxed the white-robed warriors inside the building to her and then she set the bomb off, bringing the building down around them. Just before the door to the elevator had closed, Grace caught a glimpse of the face of a robed fighter as he took the mask off. She’d been unable to stop herself recoiling from the shock. Their faces were skin pulled tight over bones in shiny, slick masks. As though the flesh wasn’t big enough to fit. Their lips were just a slash below the nostrils, and eyes were slits without lashes or eyebrows. She’d been so afraid, that she hadn’t run like the woman told her to, she’d backed away frightened.
The woman’s face was the last Grace had seen, and when she’d been fighting for her life under tons of rubble, Grace had committed it to memory.
In the moonlight now, her face was one and the same. Except her eyes… dark and bloodshot. Her hair was different. The facial skin appeared so smooth it was almost plastic as though brand new. Like the white-robed warriors, but not so extreme. Like the scars on Grace’s arms.
The other woman crouched into an offensive pose, hands fashioned into claws aimed at Grace.
“Are you feeling okay?” Grace asked.
“Die!”
“What?” Grace barely had time to shield herself as the woman launched into the air, coming straight for her.
“No!” a deep voice bellowed. Something heavy hit the woman’s side and bombarded them to the ground, skidding their bodies across the damp street.
It was Evan. She recognized flashes of his tattoos as his powerful arms struggled to pin the woman down.
“What are you doing, Sara?” he growled, shoving her. “What’s the matter with you?”
Sara. That was the woman’s name.
Sara snarled back at him, then slashed at Evan with something unseen. He hissed and blood oozed down his forearm to stain the cold ground in red hot, steamy blobs.
Instantly, Grace’s medical training kicked in. She needed to get that wound stabilized.
Because she wasn’t thinking about the imminent danger, only of his wound, she had to roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the wrestling pair as they came her way. The woman threw a punch at Evan. He took it in the stomach, doubling over, glancing worriedly in Grace’s direction as he took another hit.
Why was he hesitating?
“Watch out!” Grace shrieked, pointing at the glint in Sara’s hand now moving toward Evan’s head.
Evan threw up an arm to protect his face, then dropped in a twisting maneuver that had his foot lashing out, knocking Sara over. Fresh blood arced across the pavement from Evan’s arm, another new wound, and Grace instantly thought about his shoulder. Perhaps he’d burst his stitches too.
“Run, Doc,” Evan said through clenched teeth, keeping his gaze pinned on the wild woman beneath him. When Grace didn’t move, his gaze whipped her way.
His distraction was the opportunity Sara needed to throw something at Grace, almost like a child throwing a tantrum, lashing out at the thing that took the attention away. It glinted and sliced Grace’s bare shoulder. Glass clattered to the ground beside her.
Her hand clapped over stinging skin.
Sara elbowed Evan in the face, brutally knocking him to the side.
“For God’s sake, run!” Evan shouted as he commando rolled back to his feet.
Grace took off, racing across the street to somewhere dark, somewhere she could hide. Her breath came hard and fast and loud in the quiet night. Next to the car? No, too open. There, in the alley. Behind the stacked crates. She ran. Heels wobbling, clicking too loudly. She kicked them off to muffle her steps. Behind her—she dared not look back—grunts and howls came from the two fighting in the street. Oh God, oh God. What if Sara won? Sara was so strong. So unnaturally strong!
Running down the alley, Grace ducked behind the crates, and pressed her body against the cold brick wall. Through the slats of the wood, she glimpsed the couple fighting.
Evan had her pinned on the ground, but Sara craned her neck upward and said something venomous to him.
An unearthly growl ripped from Evan’s throat, his face contorted in fury and he put his hands around Sara’s neck. But he didn’t strangle her. The growl turned into a frustrated wail as though he unleashed something pent up inside. Some deep seated urge he’d held onto for too long.
Grace had no sane explanation for what she saw next. Blue lightning surged from Evan’s hands into Sara with a crackling, sizzling sound that lit up the street. Sara’s eyes shocked wide, and she convulsed under Evan’s touch, choking and chest bowing high.
Oh God, oh God.
Grace leaned back into the safety of the shadows and squeezed her eyes shut. He’s killing her. Murdering her. Breathe in. Breathe out. What the hell? Was she going mad? Was everyone going mad? Her doctor brain rationally catalogued information while her wild, beating heart kept her frozen to the wall. The woman’s unnatural face. Almost as inhuman as those white-robed warriors from the bombing. Her eyes. That feral growl coming from deep in her throat, and a matching growl in Evan’s. His hands. The iPad malfunction at the hospital. Scorch marks on the mattress. Sparks. It came from him. Somehow it was—
A warm, solid force clamped over Grace’s lips. Her eyes snapped open, a scream bubbling on her tongue. A hard body trapped her against the wall.
“Shh. It’s me. Evan.”
She thrashed and bucked, but he held her firm with his body. His hair hung in stringy, wet lines down his forehead, but the shadows of the alley masked whether it was sweat, water, or blood. Then she remembered the sparks, the electricity coming from his hands. Did he kill that woman? Those hands were now on her face. They were hot. She tried to scream.
“Quiet, Grace,” he hissed. “She’s still out there.”
She whimpered and forced the panic down, eyes wide over his fingers, unsure who was the lesser of two evils—him or Sara.
A frown flickered between his brows and he raked his gaze up and down her body.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I could never do that,” he whispered. “But she shouldn’t be awake, and she is. She’s dangerous. Unpredictable. You need to stay quiet. Just a minute longer. Can you do that?”
Grace forced her mind to calm and practically assess the situation. His firm body pressed into hers, but it was a light pressure. He yielded slightly every time she moved or twitched, as though he were afraid to hurt her, and just held her in place. She sensed that if she really wanted, he’d let her go. He wasn’t the danger. That woman out there was the murderer. In fact, he was injured. And he’d saved her.
She nodded.
Evan’s hand slipped from her mouth, fingers bumping over her lips and down her chin. The light drag of his touch slid along her jaw to cup her nape with a firm grip. That touch meant everything. Control. Comfort. Protection. She relaxed further and kept her eyes locked on him. He cocked his head, ear angled back to the street, listening.
Grace could only look at him in the shadowed moonlight. It was an odd moment of closeness. His body pressed along hers. His hand warming her neck. Unafraid, he kept watch through the gaps in the crate with a face hard like steel. Determination kept his focus sharp, and his posture alert. It led Grace to believe he’d been in this sort of situation before, and he excelled in it.
There was definitely more to the tattooed, brooding man than he led people to believe.
Grace followed his gaze, straining to hear what he did.
Sara, still alive, canvased the area. Her footsteps echoed in the empty street. Her shadow moved toward their hiding place and Grace’s throat constricted. Then a siren rent the silent night. Sara’s silhouette dipped to collect something from the ground and then she ran, disappearing into the dark haven of the city.
They waited until the bright blue and red flashing lights heralded a series of police cars pulling up to t
he gallery.
Evan stepped back, eyes still focused in the direction Sara ran, then he turned to Grace. “Are you hurt?”
He tested parts of her body, checking for himself with swift, light motions.
His concern illuminated something inside of Grace, something she’d erected a long time ago; a dark wall of protection so high and thick that had surrounded her since her parents’ deaths. Only now with Evan’s gentle touch, was she able to see what she’d been missing out on.
“Your arm,” he said, shifting it into the light.
“It’s okay,” Grace breathed, inspecting her wound. “Superficial. Probably why it stings so much. What about you? I saw blood. Your stitches.” Her fingers lifted to his torn collar, intending to inspect his shoulder, but he flinched back.
“I’m fine.”
Once again, Grace felt as though this entire situation was her fault. But she knew wounds. She knew doctoring. Nobody would tell her otherwise. “You’re cut all over, Evan. It needs to be checked out.”
“Superficial.”
Frustration bit at her insides.
“Sara shouldn’t have recovered,” he said, more to himself.
But the words reminded Grace of what he’d done. Of his hands around Sara’s throat, squeezing. That electricity arcing through the air. His intention had been clear. “You tried to kill her,” Grace whispered.
He frowned. “She tried to kill you first.”
“But… I saw you. Your hands were around her neck.” She didn’t know what to think. She hated the woman. She wanted her dead. Didn’t she?
“Grace. She’s a bad woman. The things she’s done. The lives she’s ruined. She’s killed so many people.”
“You mean the bombing downtown two years ago.”
A flicker of doubt crossed his face. “How did you know?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to talk to you about. I was there.” Grace held up her scarred arms. “She’s the one who set the bomb off two years ago. It wasn’t the Deadly Seven like the media portrayed. Nobody believed me after it happened, but I’ve been trying to prove it for the past two years. Families of the victims are living on the streets, or struggling to feed themselves. They need compensation and the insurance company won’t pay out as long as they think an act of vigilantism was to blame. So I’m trying to prove it wasn’t. It was clearly some sort of arson or terrorist attack.”
Wonder entered his eyes, and he looked at her as though she were a life raft and he’d been drowning. He stepped toward her, hands lifting to cup her face.
“You… saw her set off a bomb?”
“Yes, I—”
“And you’re trying to prove it to help the families who lived there?”
“Yes, and—”
“Then you know how evil she is. Death would be too kind.” He frowned and dropped his hands.
“Will you just let me finish?” Grace shook her head. “It’s not up to us to decide who lives or dies. I… God I hate her, and I’ve never said that about anyone before, but she needs to be alive. Not only because it’s wrong to kill, but we need her alive to confess, so that the people—those lives she ruined—can be compensated. It’s worth more than some private vendetta you might have. Promise me you won’t do that, don’t kill her.”
Evan’s eyes narrowed until menace shone through. “She’s pure evil.”
“So will you lower yourself to her level? Look, I know I’ve only just met you, Evan, but I don’t think you’re a murderer.” Not like her.
He thought about it, but said nothing, instead flicking a glance the way Sara fled.
“Evan. Promise me. Don’t go after her with the intention of killing her.”
“Fine. For a price.”
“What?”
“A kiss.” Hot lips met her mouth.
The kiss lasted an eternal, breathless second, and then he pulled away.
Too dazed to say anything, Grace nodded, belatedly giving her permission.
Still feeling the pressure of his mouth on hers, she couldn’t think straight. His lips were softer than she’d thought, velvety and smooth. Salty. Wet. That tiny taste of him was divine. She wanted more.
His gaze turned dark, as though just noticing his hands on her cheeks, and his body pressed against hers. Grace felt his every muscle contract and tense.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, hands slipping away. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Before she knew what she was doing, she pulled his hands back to her face. “Yes, you should have. Kiss me again.”
Shock hit his eyes. Then a carnal gleam that made Grace squirm.
Grace’s words echoed in Evan’s ears: Kiss me again.
In their dark hideaway, away from the street, Evan stood dumb with his hands on the face of the beautiful woman. All he had to do was lean forward and put his lips on hers, but he was frozen to the spot, cataloguing her details in case it was all a dream and he was about to wake. If it was, he needed those details—needed them like he needed air—so he could sketch her and pin the portrait to his wall.
Her lashes were long and cast crescent shadows like wings on her cheekbones. Her freckled small nose was pink from the cold. Her square jaw made her eternally proud and confident. Her face had been dappled by the mist falling from the night sky, leaving little diamonds sparkling over her skin. But best of all, she looked up at him with eyes filled with want.
She’d just seen the real him. No layers of his alter-ego, but the pure, violent, impulsive and now, electrical him. He’d wanted to end Sara, and she’d seen the murder in his eyes, but she hadn’t shied away. Instead, she saw his potential. Not a murderer, but… maybe a savior.
Kiss me again.
He pressed his lips to hers, this time slowly and with reverence.
She had no idea yet, but he wasn’t going to let her go, and it had nothing to do with his body’s strange biological response pushing them together, but everything to do with the way she looked at him.
His tongue darted past her lips, testing, until hers dueled with his. Sighing on a breath, her soft body sank into him, and his blood sang in response. Nerve receptors electrified. Waves of hot desire rolled through him, setting off his biological alarm that screamed. This is your mate. Catch her, keep her. Sweat broke out and his pores leaked pheromones. He knew it was wrong to influence her so, but for a short moment, he didn’t care. He kissed harder, fingers smoothing around her face to take hold of her silky ponytail.
She responded to his passion with her own, lips, teeth and tongue fighting back. She tugged him closer by the belt, grinding into his painfully hard erection. Sparks in his body increased, building a sensation that wasn’t entirely natural. He recognized the reaction barely in time to thrust away and punch the wall beside her head, grunting in agony as pent up electricity crackled through his body. Power surged from his hands and thundered into the wall, showering them in sparks and debris.
He sheltered her with his body.
Grace yelped.
Fuck!
Even held his position over her until the last of the debris cleared, then he pulled back, agape, testing her once again for injury. He’d almost hurt her but, even though his mind knew he had to rein in the power rolling inside him, he couldn’t. It was too new. His muscles contracted and released in waves, like an ocean in turmoil. Shit. What if he couldn’t control himself around her? What if he never could?
“Grace,” he grit out. It was one word, but it meant so much more. An apology. A prayer.
“Evan!” a deep voice boomed from the gallery. Parker.
Evan shoved away.
The sense of envy in the neighborhood slammed into him with staggering force.
She hugged herself with trembling arms.
Dark, envious thoughts whispered through his mind.
She’s afraid of you. She’ll never love you, a frightful freak of nature. Not like she could love someone else. Someone normal.
Don’t go there.
Not w
hen Sara was out there, in that dark place where nightmares became reality. He had to be strong. No matter what she thought of him, he had to be strong for her. For his family.
The family relied on him. Mary had been right; he was the only one left fighting for the truth to come to light. The only one fighting to restore their name. Mary said he had to choose this life, and he never wanted Grace to look at him like that again. The next time they saw each other, he wanted pride, not fear in her eyes.
Wishing to be someone else would never help him. He had to be better.
His hands flexed at his side, biceps pumping. A deep breath later, and he calmed himself. She hadn’t run. She’d remained. A tiny kernel of hope flared in his chest.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“I agree.” She watched him warily.
“Not now”—he glanced at the gallery, at Parker looking for him—“Later. Tomorrow. Let’s exchange numbers.”
With her expectant eyes on him, he fished in his pockets and pulled out gum, a permanent marker, a folded program from the exhibition, and a rubber band. Dammit, he’d lost the broken pencil he’d kept on his ear. Out of everything that disappointed him the most. He fumbled with the items.
“Uh… I don’t have a card,” he said. “And my phone is inside. Here.”
With a trembling grip, he unplugged the lid from the marker and poised the tip over his tattoo free wrist. He forced his words to come out steady. “What’s your number?”
Envy (The Deadly Seven Book 1) Page 6
