by Jade Kerrion
Memories swamped her. Six months earlier, the night had been quiet, the activity on the boat still. She had sat across from Danyael in his cabin on Lucien’s yacht. He had been healthy then, beautiful, but all she saw was a man isolated by power—power he hadn’t asked for and hadn’t wanted.
She had asked quietly, “How much of what I feel is real?”
“I don’t know.” Danyael’s tone matched hers. He averted his gaze.
“You’re the empath. How can you not know?”
He sighed and brought his left hand up to cover part of his face. “I swear I didn’t change your feelings deliberately, but unconsciously?” He let his hand drop, staring out into the distance, away from her. “I don’t know. When I’m not well, I don’t have precise control.”
“Over your needs?”
He nodded. He said nothing else.
As far as she was concerned, it was a confession of guilt. “I want you to take it away.”
“All right.” Quiet pain shimmered in his lowered voice.
How could he give up love so easily? “Are you going to absorb it?”
“Yes. I’ll always have the memory of how you feel inside me, but you don’t have to live a lie anymore.”
“Then I won’t love you?” Damn it. Had she said the “l” word aloud?
“No, you won’t.” Danyael did not appear to have noticed her slip. “In fact, you’ll hate me.” A wry smile curved his lips, but his eyes did not reflect the smile. “You’ll be back in familiar territory. Sit down.”
The mattress shifted slightly with her weight. He held out his hand, but did not otherwise reach for her. He waited.
He was giving her the out she wanted, the one way to end the confusion that kept her up through the night and nagged at her all day, the one way to ensure that the only face she saw in her dreams was Galahad’s perfect one.
Slowly, she reached out and held her hand above his, separated by fractions of an inch. She did not make contact. Something held her back. Perhaps it was the throbbing hurt near her heart or the deliberate blankness in his eyes. “You…” To her shame, her voice caught. She tried again, forcing a strident anger she did not feel into her voice. “You want me to hate you.”
“You want to hate me,” he corrected.
“What do you want?”
Danyael shrugged and looked away. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.
She could not bear seeing him so resigned and defeated. “When are you going to fight for what you want?”
He shook his head, raising his gaze to hers. “A lie isn’t worth fighting for. We’ll never know if what you feel for me is real, or whether I created love where there was none. I’m sorry. Give me your hand, Zara. I can end this for you.”
“And what about you?”
Danyael tilted his head, the gesture mocking, even challenging. “What I feel is my business, not yours.”
“What if it happens again?”
“Stay away from me when I’m not well, and it won’t happen again. Don’t come near me when my shields are down.”
“Do you love me?”
He remained silent for a long time. “What I feel is irrelevant, if what you feel isn’t real.”
Danyael had answered her question. How could she feel sorrow and joy at the same time?
Galahad’s voice cut through her thoughts, yanking her back into the present. “You’re crazy if you think your feelings for him are real.”
Of course, her feelings were not real. Danyael had admitted as much.
But Danyael’s feelings for her were real. Were they enough?
She sucked in a deep breath of air. Who cared if they were enough? Danyael was in prison for life. His feelings were no longer relevant. His life, in fact, was no longer relevant.
Only the present, and the future, mattered. What she had here and now was Galahad, the genetically engineered combination of humanity’s most distinguished bloodlines and compelling traits—the perfect human being.
She stared at Galahad’s flawless profile. At that moment, his usual vivacity subdued, he reminded her of Danyael—emotionally distant, his body language screaming, “Hands off,”—but when he was not arguing with her over Danyael, Galahad was probably a better man than she gave him credit for. For starters, he put up with her.
The problem was she wasn’t feeling particularly generous; she had not been for months. The restlessness and discontent plaguing her finally had a name. She smoothed down the front of her dress. Her hand lingered on her stomach.
The fetus growing within her kicked back.
Zara squeezed her eyes shut before turning her head away from Galahad. She had no answers for herself or for her child—none that made any sense.
The glass-walled, marble-floored ballroom of the National Museum of Women in the Arts welcomed guests with the lively murmur of conversations and music from a string quartet. Partygoers decked in 1920s costumes and modern-day finery mingled around the reception tables as wait staff circulated with trays of wine and hor d’oeuvres.
The chatter faded when Galahad and Zara entered the room. Silk and satin cocktail gowns swished against skin as women turned and stared. The men took their attention off Galahad long enough to assess the flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips of their female companions, before looking back at him with hate-filled eyes.
Jealousy’s rancid scent competed with the fragrance of perfumes and the raw smell of lust from the women.
Just then, Zara recalled why she rarely went out in public with Galahad. The spotlight that obsessively followed him was, to Zara, no more than a means to an end. If she did not need it, she would rather have avoided it. When she was with Galahad, though, avoidance wasn’t an option.
She excused herself and walked away from Galahad. The low murmurs and hushed whispers followed her around the room.
“Why is he with her?”
“She’s not as pretty as everyone says she is.”
“She got her claws into him before he had a chance to really meet or know anyone else.”
“She’s just a socialite. You’d think he’d have higher standards.”
Another time, she might have been amused, but at that moment, the social scene seemed absurdly trite in view of Danyael’s—everything else, she corrected mentally, happening in the world.
A woman holding a full glass of red wine walked toward Zara. The woman’s toned shoulders were taut; her grip was clawlike around her glass. Her muscles tensed; the scarcely perceptible motion betrayed intent.
Zara’s instincts recognized the threat and her body reacted even before her brain had fully processed it. She flicked her fingers against the rim of the woman’s glass as it tipped toward her. Instead of sloshing forward onto Zara, the wine sloshed back. Crimson droplets splattered over the woman’s cream satin sheath.
The astonished look on the woman’s face was almost worth the price of entry to the Great Gatsby Ball.
Galahad appeared at Zara’s side. His dark-eyed glance flicked over the woman as a deep flush raced into her cheeks. The woman’s stricken eyes met his before she turned and fled gracelessly, pushing her way through the gawking crowd.
“Another one?” He chuckled, although Zara did not hear humor in that sound.
She shrugged. “She chose her target poorly.”
Several people around her shifted their weight, taking tiny steps back, emptying the space around her. Galahad offered his hand and whisked her into a dance. “These parties always seem great,” he murmured. “Until we arrive.”
She agreed. “Reality is fatiguing.”
However tiresome the murmurs about her, the whispers about Galahad were worse. The people who revered Galahad as the perfect human being were far outnumbered by those who considered him a genetic abomination, and it appeared that a disproportionately large number of the latter had chosen to attend the ball that evening.
They sent her highly attuned threat awareness into overdrive.
Tension knotted th
e muscles in her shoulders and upper back—tension that would have been alleviated by a gentle squeeze on a handgun trigger. She had plenty of potential targets, but none was sanctioned at that moment. She stifled a sigh. The paperwork associated with unauthorized kills was not worth the momentary stress relief.
The sigh eased into an ironic chuckle. Did the former senator from Oregon—the one who had spent the entire evening damning every facet of Galahad’s existence—know that it was only her abhorrence of paperwork that kept him alive? Small mercies. Irritation rankled, nonetheless, and she wasn’t gracious enough to let it pass. If she could provoke him into striking first—
“Excuse me,” she murmured to Galahad as she eased away from him. “I’m going to dance with someone else.”
His grip tightened around her waist. “You’re practically purring.”
Her eyes narrowed. Of course he knew her well enough to check her killer instincts.
He looked down at the floor. “Blood stains marble.”
A smile curved her lips. “Stains add character.”
Galahad chuckled, and for a split second, she caught a glimpse of Danyael in Galahad’s amused resignation. Notwithstanding his annoying compulsion to save lives, Danyael would have laughed too. She and Danyael could not have been more different—the assassin and the healer—but he accepted her talent for death as an intrinsic part of her.
She did not understand it. She had never been—could never be—as accepting of him.
Her stomach fluttered, and Zara sucked in a sharp breath. Force of will curled her hands into fists, defying the reflexive instinct to press against the ticklish sensation. She stepped out of Galahad’s possessive grip, resentment lodging like a knot in the middle of her chest. Her voice cooled into professional business tones. “I have to go. I have an early appointment tomorrow.”
To terminate my pregnancy.
4
The clinical examination room was the same one that Zara visited every year. Ten months earlier, she had glanced with disinterest at the posters depicting the changing body of a pregnant woman. She deliberately avoided staring at them now. Willpower alone kept Zara from gripping the edges of the inclined chair as Dr. Maria Hill layered the ultrasound gel against her flat abdomen.
Maria must have sensed her apprehension. She smiled as she held up the ultrasound probe. “Let’s take a look and see how big the fetus is, shall we?”
Zara held her breath. Please don’t let it be what I think it is.
A three-dimensional image projected from the probe and hovered in midair, almost real enough to touch.
Maria released her breath in a rush of air. “Oh…”
The pea-sized blob that Zara had hoped to see was instead exactly what Zara had feared she would see—a fully developed fetus with a thumb in its mouth. Its cheeks moved with each suckling motion. “I—”
“Let me get some measurements and a fetal blood sample, and then I’ll answer all your questions.” Maria’s motions were hasty as she moved the probe over Zara’s stomach. Occasionally, she tapped the touch-sensitive ultrasound screen, entering notes.
The minutes ticked slowly by. Zara dug her fingers into the cushioned seat to keep herself from reaching out to touch that breathtakingly realistic image of the wriggling, squirming fetus. A tiny hand punched out in response to the pressure of the ultrasound probe and the encroaching needle.
Zara’s stomach fluttered.
So that was what it was.
Finally, Maria turned to Zara. “It’s hard to be precise about fetal age at this stage, but my best guess is that you’re about twenty-seven, twenty-eight weeks pregnant.” She shook her head. “Any idea what might have happened in late December, early January that might have caused your birth control to fail? Were you sick then? Were you on antibiotics?”
“Not sick, but I had been exposed to tuberculosis a few weeks earlier. The clinic prescribed rifampin as a preventative measure.”
Maria grimaced. “Well, rifampin would have knocked out your hormonal birth control. I know your cycles have always been irregular, but this is a bit much. Didn’t you notice anything? Nausea? Morning sickness?”
“No.” A muscle twitched in Zara’s cheek. Damn it, how could she have missed it? Her food preferences over the past few months had changed slightly, but not enough to trigger a mental alarm.
Late December…
No, not Danyael. It couldn’t possibly be Danyael; it had only been that one time—that unfortunate encounter when, disoriented by exposure to isoflurane and halothane, she had seduced him. And, the next morning, I accused him of rape—the final nail in the coffin of our fragile friendship. He never touched me again.
Galahad. Of course, it had to be Galahad. They had been regular sexual partners since December. The fetus had to be Galahad’s.
Maria’s voice recalled Zara to the present. “You’re lucky you didn’t have to deal with pregnancy symptoms.” She gestured at Zara’s stomach. “And of course you’re not showing yet. You’re tall, so there’s lots of room for the baby to grow inside you without pushing out. You’re also extremely fit, and your stomach muscles are doing a good job of holding it all in. Besides, first pregnancies take awhile to show.”
“Can I get an abortion?”
Maria’s mouth dropped open. “Zara, you’re…you’re almost into your third trimester.”
“So?”
“The law won’t permit abortions after twenty weeks.”
To hell with the law. She broke it several times a day. Once more would hardly matter in the grand scheme of things. Zara turned her face away from the image of the fetus hovering in front of her. “The father would be a grossly unsuitable parent, and you know me; I’m no better.”
“Look, nobody ever feels ready—”
“This isn’t about feeling ready. I can’t parent a child; neither can he.”
“Zara, it’s…it’s crazy.” Maria waved her hand at the ultrasound image. Inside the uterus, the baby yawned. Moments later, it started to hiccup. Its tiny brow furrowed in irritation.
Maria laughed, the sound low and despairing. “Oh, if only you could see yourself. You’re both wearing the same expression right now.”
Zara refused to be swayed. She would not allow herself to be coaxed into looking at the fetus. “You know what I do for a living, Maria. Would you really subject a baby to that kind of environment?”
“But the father—”
“Galahad is the father.”
Maria’s eyes widened. “The perfect human? But—”
“Only a fraction of the people he meets thinks so. Most consider him a genetic abomination. Just think of all that public scrutiny. What kind of life will it live?”
“What kind of life will she live,” Maria corrected. “Your baby’s a girl.”
“I want an abortion, Maria. How soon can it be done? Today?”
“Today? No—”
“Maria.”
Maria’s shoulders sagged. Her throat worked as she swallowed hard. “You’ll have to check into the hospital—”
“I’m leaving the country this evening.”
“You can’t just jump on a plane after an abortion.”
“I have to. The ass-kicking has already been scheduled.”
Maria shook her head. “I don’t think you understand. A late-stage abortion is a major medical procedure. I’ll have to euthanize the baby in utero by injecting a drug into her heart, and then induce labor so that you can deliver a stillborn child. You’ll need an overnight stay in the hospital—maybe more—and recovery time too.”
Zara ground her teeth. “Next week, then?”
Maria sighed. “Yeah.” Her voice quavered. “Call me when you get back in town. Meanwhile, I’ll get the fetal blood work done. The results should be ready by then.” She turned off the ultrasound machine and wiped the gel off Zara’s stomach. She looked deflated, the energy sucked out of her. Maria started toward the door, but before she walked out, she paused and looked over h
er shoulder. “Is there anything I can say or do—?”
“No.”
Maria nodded. The door closed behind her, leaving Zara alone with her unwanted child.
5
Discipline and focus shunted the fetus into an afterthought by the time Zara arrived at Langley Air Force Base later that afternoon. She ignored the narrow-eyed stares aimed in her direction as she strode through the main entrance. The hem of her loose-fitting, long-sleeved tunic brushed against her knees. Her pants, like her tunic, were made of dark purple silk with silver trim, and a headscarf of the same color draped over her hair.
Behind the security checkpoint, Admiral Falcón stood next to a team of eight men in khaki fatigues. He stepped away from them and walked up to the checkpoint. “Zara. I didn’t expect to see you dress the part.”
“It takes awhile to shift mindsets.” Her inflections had already adopted the accents of a non-native English speaker.
He nodded. “Come on through security. I want you to meet the team.”
The metal detector freaked out the moment she walked through it. With a sigh, she reached into her clothing. From various places of concealment, she pulled out four daggers, two loaded handguns, and several eighteen-round magazines.
Zara looked at her uncle and shrugged. “You did say I could bring my own weapons.”
“Weapons, sure, but not your entire armory.”
Her chuckle was low and amused. “This is a fraction of it.”
One of the Navy SEALs, a tall and muscular African-American man, walked over and picked up her handgun. “CZ ACCU Shadow Custom?” In contrast to his intimidating appearance, his quiet and cultured voice reminded Zara of her art history college professor.
Zara nodded.
“I bet you reload your own ammo too.”
Her faint smile confirmed his assumption.
He glanced over his shoulder at the base security guards as they searched her two pieces of luggage—a bag with a week’s worth of clothing and a case containing her British-made L115A3 sniper rifle.
