by Lara Adrian
Hunter’s face was grimly confident. “If he knows, he will tell me.”
She didn’t want to guess how he would go about making sure of that. Nor could she hold his piercing gaze for longer than a moment when he was standing just a couple of feet away from her.
Being this close to him, feeling the palpable weight of his golden stare, only reminded her of how startled she’d been to find him watching her while she’d bathed that afternoon. She’d been more than startled. She had been astonished—utterly shocked by the heat that had smoldered in his otherwise inscrutable stare. A rush of warmth raced through her when she relived it now, all the worse when there was no door to close between them.
She should have been affronted that he’d seen her, if not afraid. Then, like now, Hunter’s gaze unsettled her. Not from the fear she expected she should feel but from her own sense of awareness. The stoic warrior hadn’t looked at her as some object he needed to protect or pity, but as a woman.
At least, until he’d seen her scars.
The outward evidence of what she’d endured was ugly enough, but the more terrible wounds she bore inside. There was still a raw and wounded part of her that hadn’t come out of Dragos’s nightmarish prison, a part of her that might never make it out to the daylight. She’d left so much of herself behind in those dank laboratory cells, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be whole again.
It was that part of her that had seized up at the idea of being shut in such a small space as the hotel room’s tiny bathroom. She’d left only the smallest gap in the door, just enough to reassure herself that she could see beyond the small enclosure, that she had the power to walk out at any time. That she wasn’t locked in or helpless, waiting for her next round of torture by the one who held the key.
Even now, just thinking about confined spaces and barred doors seemed to make the four walls contract inward on her. Pulse quickening, throat clenching up in the rising swell of her anxiety, Corinne turned to face the wide sliding door that looked out over the city from the small balcony. She put her hands out, palms pressed against the cool glass as she simply focused on breathing and tried to will her heart to calm.
It wasn’t enough.
“What’s wrong?” Hunter asked, frowning as she sucked in a couple of quick, hitching breaths. “Are you ill?”
“Air,” she gasped. “I need a … air—”
She fumbled with the mechanism on the glass door, finally yanking it open and all but stumbling out to the balcony. Hunter was right beside her as she clung to the wrought-iron railing and drew in gulp after gulp of the cleansing, open night air. She felt his presence like a wall of heat at her side, the large shape of him looming close, watching her in silent concern.
“I’m okay,” she murmured, everything still spinning around her, lungs still caught in a vise. “It’s nothing …
I’m all right.”
He reached out and took her chin gently in his hand, turning her face toward him in the dark. His scowl was deeper now, those probing golden eyes searching beneath the furrowed line of his brow. “You are not well.”
“I’m fine. I needed some fresh air, that’s all.” She drew back slightly and he let his hand fall away. The warmth of his touch lingered. She could feel the broad lines of his fingers ghosted on her skin as she exhaled a shaky breath.
He stared at her, watching her tremble even though it was barely cold in the sultry New Orleans night. “You’re not well,” he said again. His voice was softer this time, but no less firm. “Your body needs more rest. You need nourishment.”
His gaze went to her mouth as he spoke. It lingered there, putting a new kind of clamor in her veins.
“When was the last time you had a meal, Corinne?”
God, she didn’t even know. Probably more than twenty-four hours by now, since the last thing she’d eaten was at the compound in Boston before they’d left for Detroit. She gave him a vague shrug. She’d long become accustomed to the empty feeling of hunger during her time in captivity. Dragos had fed her and the others only frequently enough to keep them alive. Sometimes, when her rebellion had landed her in solitary confinement, she’d been allowed to eat even less than that.
“I’m okay,” she said, uncomfortable with Hunter’s probing scrutiny and concern. “I just needed to be outside for a little while. All I need is a bit of air.”
Looking none too convinced, he cast a measuring glance over the balcony to the street below. Sounds drifted up on the pleasant night breeze: people talking and laughing as they strolled by, vehicles rumbling over cobblestones on the adjacent avenue, the musician on the nearby corner segueing from one soulful tune to another. The aromas of roasting meats and spicy sauces put a traitorous growl in Corinne’s stomach.
Hunter looked back at her then, his head cocked in question.
“Okay,” she said. “I could eat something, I suppose.”
“Then come with me,” he replied, already stalking back toward the room.
Corinne followed, part of her simply eager to be down on the vibrant street outside, back among the living. A more cautious part of her understood that if she was to put her plan in motion tonight—seeking a way to contact Henry Vachon on her own—then she had better fill her stomach and gird herself for the desperate mission that lay ahead of her.
They ended up at a small restaurant a few blocks from the hotel and away from most of the tourist traffic.
It didn’t look like much to Hunter. A dark cave of a place with no more than twenty tables corraled on the opposite side of a modest, rough-hewn stage and postage-stamp-size dance floor. The trio onstage was playing something slow and sultry, the female singer pausing to nod appreciatively at the man on the piano and another who blew a string of mournful notes from a short brass trumpet.
The air was clouded with the mingled odors of greasy food and strange spices, grill smoke and perfume, and far too many human bodies for his liking. But Corinne seemed more than pleased to be there. As soon as she’d heard the music pouring out into the street, she had homed in like a missile and insisted it was where she wanted to eat.
Hunter had no stake in the matter. As it was her body that required sustenance, he’d been more than willing to let her decide where they would go.
As for his own needs, it had been a few days since he’d fed. He’d gone longer, but it was unwise to push his Gen One metabolism much closer to a week without sating its thirst. He felt the twinges of that thirst quirking in his veins as he sat at the corner table with Corinne, his back to the nearby wall, his gaze perusing the crowd of humans who filled the cavernous old establishment.
He wasn’t the only Breed male visually sifting the throng of Homo sapiens. He’d spotted the pair of vampires as soon as he and Corinne had walked in. They posed no threat at all, just a couple of Darkhaven civilians idly evaluating potential Hosts the same way he was. As soon as they noticed him watching them from across the way, they retreated into the hazy shadows like a couple of minnows that had just gotten a whiff of a shark in their pool.
After the young males disappeared, he glanced across the little table at Corinne.
“Is your meal sufficient?” he asked.
“Incredible.” She set down her drink—some kind of clear, alcohol-based concoction that had been poured over ice cubes and a fat wedge of lime. “Everything is or, rather, was delicious.”
He’d hardly needed to ask, based on how quickly—and enthusiastically—she’d attacked the plate of almond-crusted fish and steamed vegetables. And that had been after she’d already had a bowl of spicy soup and two crusty rolls from the basket perched at the edge of the table.
Even though she clearly enjoyed the food, she seemed to grow quiet, pensive, the longer they sat there. He watched her run her fingertip along the rim of the short cocktail glass. When her gaze met his across the candlelit table, he found himself snared in her exotic dark eyes. The glow of the small flame played with their color, darkening their usual greenish blue to deep forest green. There was a haunted
ness to Corinne Bishop’s eyes, her most painful secrets walled behind an impenetrable thicket of changeable green.
He didn’t think she would tell him her thoughts. And as much as he found himself curious, he didn’t think it his place to ask. Instead he sat in silence as she closed her eyes and swayed with the music coming from the stage. Above the din of voices and serving clatter, he heard Corinne humming softly along with the singer’s sorrow-filled words.
After a long moment, her lids lifted and she found him looking at her. “This is an old Bessie Smith song,” she said, regarding him expectantly, as though he should know the name. “It’s one of her best.”
He listened, trying to understand what Corinne enjoyed about it. The sound was pleasant enough, a lazy stroll of a song, but the lyrics seemed mundane, almost nonsensical. He shrugged. “Humans write songs about strange things. This singer seems overly affectionate toward her new kitchen appliance.”
Corinne had her glass to her lips, in the midst of finishing the last swallow of her drink. She stared at him for a long moment before a smile broke over her lips. “She’s not singing about a kitchen appliance.”
“She is,” he countered, certain he hadn’t misheard the lines. He studied the singer now, then gave Corinne an affirming nod when the lyric came around again. “Right there. She says after her man left her, she went out and bought the best coffee grinder she could find. She says it more than once, in fact.” He scowled, unable to find logic in any of the words. “Now she’s moved on to some apparent affection for a deep-sea diver.”
Corinne’s smile widened, then she laughed out loud. “I know what the lyrics say, but that’s not what they mean. Not at all.” Her eyes still dancing with amusement, she cocked her head at him in question. Studying him now. “What kind of music do you like, Hunter?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer. He’d heard some of the stuff the other warriors played at the compound, but he had no particular affinity toward any of it. He’d never thought about music one way or the other, never paused to consider if any of it appealed to him. What would be the point in that?
Now he looked at lovely Corinne Bishop, sitting just an arm’s length across from him, bathed in candlelight and holding him in her beautiful, smiling gaze. He swallowed hard, struck by just how exquisite she truly was.
“I like … this,” he replied, unable to drag his gaze away from her.
She was the first to break eye contact, looking down as she took the crisp white napkin from her lap and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a wonderful meal like this. And blues music, of course. I used to listen to this kind of music all the time … before.”
“Before you were taken,” he said, seeing her expression grow reflective, haunted. He knew she’d been very young when Dragos had abducted her. He’d heard she had been full of life, always laughing and ready for adventure. He could see traces of that in her now, as she unconsciously swayed with the more lively tune that was coming from the stage, her foot tapping out a quiet beat beneath the table. “Brock has mentioned to me that he used to accompany you out to dance clubs when he knew you in Detroit.”
“Accompany me?” When Corinne’s head came up, she wore a wry half-smile. “If that’s what he told you, he was just being polite. I was an insufferable pest when Brock bodyguarded for me. I used to drag him out to every jazz club in a fifty-mile radius of the city. He didn’t approve, but I think he knew that if he refused to take me, I’d find a way to go on my own. I’m sure there were many times he must have hated having to watch over me.”
Hunter shook his head. “He cared for you. He still does.”
Her answering smile was soft, reassured. “I was very glad to see that he is happy. I’m glad he’s found a mate in Jenna. Brock deserves all the good in life.”
She went quiet as the waitress came by to clear the dishes and remove the empty cocktail glass. “Bring ya ’nother vodka gimlet, shugah?”
Corinne gave a dismissing wave of her hand. “I’d better not. This one already seems to be going straight to my head.”
Hunter declined as well, his glass of beer sitting untouched, ordered only for appearances’ sake when they’d first arrived. After the server left them alone, Corinne glanced across at him in the wobbling glow of the candlelight. Her pupils were dark pools, mesmerizing and endless. When she spoke, her voice was husky and soft, tentative somehow. “What about you, Hunter? What were you like growing up? Somehow, I don’t think you were the wild, impulsive type.”
“I was neither of those things,” he agreed, recalling his grim beginnings. He was serious and disciplined for as long as he could remember. He had to be; failure in any area of his upbringing would have meant his death.
She was still looking at him, still trying to puzzle him out. “I know you said you don’t have family, but have you always lived in Boston?”
“No,” he replied. “I came there when I joined the Order this past summer.”
“Oh.” She appeared surprised by that, and not entirely pleased. “You’ve only been with them for a short while.” She glanced back down at the table and brushed at some errant bread crumbs. “How long were you in service to Dragos?”
Now he was the one caught by surprise.
“That first night, at Claire and Andreas’s Darkhaven,” she explained. “Someone heard them talking about you. About the fact that you used to be allied with Dragos.” She watched him closely, carefully. “Is it true?”
“Yes.” Simple. Honest. A fact she apparently already knew. So, why did he feel the sudden want to bite the word back? Why did he have the impulse to reassure her that though he might have served Dragos, he posed no threat to her?
He couldn’t tell her that. Because in the pit of his gut, he wondered if it was true.
Did he pose no threat to her?
Mira’s precognition seemed to indicate otherwise. Since leaving the Detroit Darkhaven, he’d been trying to dismiss the vision as having already played out—albeit altered, the prophesied outcome thwarted—during his confrontation with Victor Bishop.
But something wasn’t right about that.
Nothing had ever altered the child seer’s visions before. He would be a fool to think it should happen now, just because he was finding himself intrigued with darkly beautiful, damaged Corinne.
He heard her quick but subtle exhalation as she absorbed his frank admission. Instead of leaning forward on the small table, he noticed she was now gradually inching away, physically retreating until her spine came up against the back of her chair. For a long moment, she remained silent, staring through the dim light and thin haze that hung in the room.
“How long did you serve him?” she asked, guarded now.
“For as long as I can remember.”
“But not anymore,” she said, studying his face as she spoke. Searching, he guessed, for some sign in his expression that she could trust him.
He kept his features schooled, deliberately neutral, as he tried to decide if it was she who had something to conceal from him. “Now I do for the Order what I used to do for Dragos.”
Her eyes held his, bleak with understanding. “Death,” she said.
Hunter tilted his chin in acknowledgment. “I want him and all who serve him destroyed. If I have to hunt him and every last one of his followers down, one by one, I will see it done.”
He was only stating fact, but Corinne looked at him with a strange softness in her wary expression. There was a question in her gaze, too tender for his liking. “What did he do to you, Hunter? How did Dragos hurt you?”
To his own astonishment, Hunter found he could not speak the words. He’d never been reluctant to admit the isolation and discipline of his upbringing. He had never cared enough about himself or anyone else to feel any inkling of humiliation for having been raised no better than an animal—worse than that.
He’d never been ashamed of his Gen One origins before—sired by an Ancient, the last surviving other-w
orlder who, along with his alien brethren, had fathered the entire Breed race on Earth. Dragos had secretly kept the powerful vampire drugged and incarcerated inside his laboratory for some long decades. That same savage creature had been unleashed by Dragos on countless captive Breedmates, like Corinne and the other recently freed females.
Like the unknown Breedmate who had given birth to Hunter while imprisoned in those fetid cells.
He had no idea what might have happened to her, had no memory of her whatsoever. But seeing Corinne Bishop, having seen the evidence on her delicate back of the many tortures she had endured, Hunter knew a sudden, deep shame that made him want to deny any link to Dragos or the horrors of his labs.
A tendon twitching in his jaw, he replied, “You don’t need to concern yourself with what happened to me. None of it was any worse than what Dragos did to you.”
Her frown deepened with disapproval. Even in the dark, he could see color rising into her cheeks. No doubt, she knew he was referring to her scars. Scars he wouldn’t have seen if he hadn’t been spying on her in her bath.
He waited for her to get angry at the reminder; she had the right, he supposed. He wouldn’t have denied that he’d looked. He probably wouldn’t have denied that he’d admired what he saw. All night, he’d been trying to forget the thought of her naked in the hotel room bath. The memory came back vividly now, insistent, despite his effort to banish it from his mind.
As for the scars, they’d been shocking, but they hadn’t dimmed her beauty. Not in his eyes.
It stunned him how tempted he was to tell her that, whether or not she’d want to hear it.
Corinne stared at him for too long, then she scooted her chair back and started to rise. “I’m going to find the restroom,” she murmured.
He stood up with her, his eyes scanning the crowd. “I will go with you.”
“To the ladies’ room?” She gave him a dismissing look. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Short of tailing her across the restaurant, she gave him little choice but to cool his heels at the table. He watched her retreat toward the lighted sign marked “Femmes,” then she disappeared through the dark, swinging door.
