humans figured they could turn her loose and expect to get away with it.
“You know who I am,” Mira said, not a question.
“Yes,” the woman replied quietly. “I know who you are.”
“Then you have to know that I will find you and the rest of your criminal friends, and I won’t be alone when I do.” Mira wished she could see the rebel’s face and gauge the fear that must surely be there. No one took on the Order without a good deal of trepidation or stupidity, and this woman didn’t strike Mira as anything close to an idiot. “You need to tell your pals that if any of you think I’m leaving this place without Ackmeyer, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“It’s not up to me to decide,” she said. “Now, please. Take some water.”
The glass came back toward Mira’s mouth. This time, instead of drinking or turning away, she lunged forward and bit the fleshy base of the rebel’s thumb.
The woman shrieked and leapt back, dropping the glass to the floor. It shattered beside the bed, as loud as a crash of cymbals in the quiet of the thick-walled cell.
Mira used the opportunity to fight her restraints again. She bucked and struggled on the bed, managing only to shift the blindfold down from one of her eyes as the open doorway filled with the immense male form of another rebel, responding to the commotion.
This guy was big and menacing, radiating a dangerous heat that made even Mira’s breath catch in her throat. She could see only a sliver of him over the top edge of her skewed blindfold. Broad shoulders. Dark, copper-shot brown hair.
As tall and muscular and powerful as any one of the Order’s warriors.
A sense of unease—of bone-deep alarm—arrowed through her on that thought.
She levered herself up on the bed for a better look, watching as he went to the female rebel’s side and wrapped a protective arm around her.
“Candice, are you all right?” Not Brady as the other men had called her, but a feminine name, spoken with genuine concern, true affection in the deep, low-toned voice. His head was down, most of his face obscured by the wild fall of his shoulder-length hair. “What the hell happened?”
“Nothing, I’m okay. I’m sorry, Bowman. I should’ve had better control of the situation.”
Quiet words, an absolving stroke of the man’s large hand over the ebony hair of his comrade. Mira’s breath was sawing out of her lungs as she watched the private exchange, all of her senses focused on the deep murmur of the rebel leader’s voice.
Something about him—no, in fact, everything about him—began to stir something cold and rusted inside her.
The tendons in her neck pulled tight as she strained to see his face. Angling her head to hear more of that silky, dark voice. His presence drew everything in her to full attention. Her skin went tight and hot and confining. Her pulse pounded like the wings of a caged bird, trapped inside her chest.
Her instincts knew this man. Her heart knew, even if the illogic of it left her mind struggling to catch up with the rest of her.
Curiosity twisted into desperation as the man began to move. Letting his arm fall away from the other woman, he pivoted toward the bed, moving too smoothly, emanating too much raw power for a human.
Because he wasn’t human.
All the air left Mira’s lungs as he approached the bed where she lay.
“Impossible,” she whispered. “No . . . this can’t be real.”
But it was real— he was real.
Not an angel. Not a ghost, either, but flesh and blood. Alive.
The impossible answer to so many of her hopes and prayers.
“Kellan,” she whispered.
Her shock was so profound in that moment, they could have uncuffed her and she would’ve had no strength to lift her head, let alone prove any kind of threat. And even as she strove to make sense of what she was seeing, a part of her heart was going cold with an awful realization.
If it was he, what was Kellan doing here after all the time he’d been missing?
“You know who I am,” Mira said, not a question.
“Yes,” the woman replied quietly. “I know who you are.”
“Then you have to know that I will find you and the rest of your criminal friends, and I won’t be alone when I do.” Mira wished she could see the rebel’s face and gauge the fear that must surely be there. No one took on the Order without a good deal of trepidation or stupidity, and this woman didn’t strike Mira as anything close to an idiot. “You need to tell your pals that if any of you think I’m leaving this place without Ackmeyer, you’ve got another thing coming.”
“It’s not up to me to decide,” she said. “Now, please. Take some water.”
The glass came back toward Mira’s mouth. This time, instead of drinking or turning away, she lunged forward and bit the fleshy base of the rebel’s thumb.
The woman shrieked and leapt back, dropping the glass to the floor. It shattered beside the bed, as loud as a crash of cymbals in the quiet of the thick-walled cell.
Mira used the opportunity to fight her restraints again. She bucked and struggled on the bed, managing only to shift the blindfold down from one of her eyes as the open doorway filled with the immense male form of another rebel, responding to the commotion.
This guy was big and menacing, radiating a dangerous heat that made even Mira’s breath catch in her throat. She could see only a sliver of him over the top edge of her skewed blindfold. Broad shoulders. Dark, copper-shot brown hair.
As tall and muscular and powerful as any one of the Order’s warriors.
A sense of unease—of bone-deep alarm—arrowed through her on that thought.
She levered herself up on the bed for a better look, watching as he went to the female rebel’s side and wrapped a protective arm around her.
“Candice, are you all right?” Not Brady as the other men had called her, but a feminine name, spoken with genuine concern, true affection in the deep, low-toned voice. His head was down, most of his face obscured by the wild fall of his shoulder-length hair. “What the hell happened?”
“Nothing, I’m okay. I’m sorry, Bowman. I should’ve had better control of the situation.”
Quiet words, an absolving stroke of the man’s large hand over the ebony hair of his comrade. Mira’s breath was sawing out of her lungs as she watched the private exchange, all of her senses focused on the deep murmur of the rebel leader’s voice.
Something about him—no, in fact, everything about him—began to stir something cold and rusted inside her.
The tendons in her neck pulled tight as she strained to see his face. Angling her head to hear more of that silky, dark voice. His presence drew everything in her to full attention. Her skin went tight and hot and confining. Her pulse pounded like the wings of a caged bird, trapped inside her chest.
Her instincts knew this man. Her heart knew, even if the illogic of it left her mind struggling to catch up with the rest of her.
Curiosity twisted into desperation as the man began to move. Letting his arm fall away from the other woman, he pivoted toward the bed, moving too smoothly, emanating too much raw power for a human.
Because he wasn’t human.
All the air left Mira’s lungs as he approached the bed where she lay.
“Impossible,” she whispered. “No . . . this can’t be real.”
But it was real— he was real.
Not an angel. Not a ghost, either, but flesh and blood. Alive.
The impossible answer to so many of her hopes and prayers.
“Kellan,” she whispered.
Her shock was so profound in that moment, they could have uncuffed her and she would’ve had no strength to lift her head, let alone prove any kind of threat. And even as she strove to make sense of what she was seeing, a part of her heart was going cold with an awful realization.
If it was he, what was Kellan doing here after all the time he’d been missing?
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