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encrypted personal files of Ashaya Aleine
The clock had just ticked past eleven p.m. when Mercy finished with Ashaya’s leg and said, “She’ll be fine.”
Dorian looked at Ashaya’s unconscious figure, the grinding tension in his body slamming into a wave of raw protectiveness. “That normal?” She looked so damn defenseless.
“You wouldn’t have gone out. Neither would I,” Mercy said as she cleaned up. “But she’s not a soldier. And I think her body had another hit recently. Some of the readings I got from her blood”—she waved a gadget she’d pulled out from the emergency medical kit—“are off.”
The protectiveness spiked. “Dangerous? Infectious?” He breathed in her scent, but found no taint but the familiar chill of Silence. His leopard opened its mouth in a soundless snarl—he hated Silence with a viciousness even Sascha hadn’t been able to temper.
“No, nothing like that.” Washing off her hands, Mercy came back to stand beside him. “It’s reading as some kind of poison. I’m guessing her body is slowly working it out of her system. Sascha or Tammy would probably be able to tell more.”
Dorian forced himself to look at Mercy rather than giving in to the compulsion to touch Ashaya. To make sure she was okay. “What the hell was that—slipping up with Sascha’s name?”
Mercy’s cheeks heated. “She’s not stupid, and neither of us is exactly low profile.” Her tone was low, harsh. “For crissakes, you’re the frickin’ poster boy for DarkRiver with your ‘Gee, shucks, I’m harmless’ act.”
Dorian was used to being ribbed about his looks. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he looked more like a surfer hanging out for the right wave than a blooded DarkRiver sentinel. “Look who’s talking, Miss Bikini Babe 2067.” Even as he teased Mercy, he found himself alert to the steady rhythm of Ashaya’s breathing.
Mercy’s face grew black with fury. “Never, ever mention that. You understand me?”
He smirked. “I especially liked you in the polka-dot—Jesus, that hurt.” He rubbed the spot on his ribs where her elbow had hit home, grateful for the distraction provided by the stab of pain.
“It’s just the start. I plan to kill you in your sleep,” Mercy said conversationally. “And stuff that damn polka-dot biki—” She paused, glanced at the door. “Did you—?”
“I think it’s Vaughn.” He nodded at her to answer. “I’ll cover the Psy.”
Mercy gave him an odd look. “She has a name. You should know, given your teensy obsession.”
“Preparation, not obsession.” Dorian had made it his business to learn the name and address of every powerful Psy in the area. He’d torn Santano Enrique’s heart out with his bare hands, but it hadn’t been enough, not when he knew the evil that had spawned the Psy serial killer continued to exist and grow. He intended to chop off the head of the beast, and if it grew back, he’d damn well do it again. And again. And again. As many times as it took.
Perhaps then his sister’s ghost would stop haunting him.
Kylie’s blood had still been warm when he reached her. The cuts that Santano had made . . . they had destroyed her beauty, turned her from his mischievous, barely grown-up baby sister, to a piece of torn flesh and blood. No matter how many Psy he killed, he couldn’t change that, couldn’t bring Kylie back from the grave. But he could make damn sure no other brother lost what he had, no mother cried as his had, no father screamed.
His parents had coped by leaning on Pack . . . and going roaming. Anytime the memories got too bad, they turned leopard and left. Dorian couldn’t deny them their escape, but he couldn’t follow either. Not only did he lack the ability to go leopard, he was a DarkRiver sentinel and they were at war, even if it was a quiet, stealthy one most people didn’t know was happening. Lucas had allowed Dorian’s parents their grief. He’d given Dorian his shoulder, but
The clock had just ticked past eleven p.m. when Mercy finished with Ashaya’s leg and said, “She’ll be fine.”
Dorian looked at Ashaya’s unconscious figure, the grinding tension in his body slamming into a wave of raw protectiveness. “That normal?” She looked so damn defenseless.
“You wouldn’t have gone out. Neither would I,” Mercy said as she cleaned up. “But she’s not a soldier. And I think her body had another hit recently. Some of the readings I got from her blood”—she waved a gadget she’d pulled out from the emergency medical kit—“are off.”
The protectiveness spiked. “Dangerous? Infectious?” He breathed in her scent, but found no taint but the familiar chill of Silence. His leopard opened its mouth in a soundless snarl—he hated Silence with a viciousness even Sascha hadn’t been able to temper.
“No, nothing like that.” Washing off her hands, Mercy came back to stand beside him. “It’s reading as some kind of poison. I’m guessing her body is slowly working it out of her system. Sascha or Tammy would probably be able to tell more.”
Dorian forced himself to look at Mercy rather than giving in to the compulsion to touch Ashaya. To make sure she was okay. “What the hell was that—slipping up with Sascha’s name?”
Mercy’s cheeks heated. “She’s not stupid, and neither of us is exactly low profile.” Her tone was low, harsh. “For crissakes, you’re the frickin’ poster boy for DarkRiver with your ‘Gee, shucks, I’m harmless’ act.”
Dorian was used to being ribbed about his looks. With his blond hair and blue eyes, he looked more like a surfer hanging out for the right wave than a blooded DarkRiver sentinel. “Look who’s talking, Miss Bikini Babe 2067.” Even as he teased Mercy, he found himself alert to the steady rhythm of Ashaya’s breathing.
Mercy’s face grew black with fury. “Never, ever mention that. You understand me?”
He smirked. “I especially liked you in the polka-dot—Jesus, that hurt.” He rubbed the spot on his ribs where her elbow had hit home, grateful for the distraction provided by the stab of pain.
“It’s just the start. I plan to kill you in your sleep,” Mercy said conversationally. “And stuff that damn polka-dot biki—” She paused, glanced at the door. “Did you—?”
“I think it’s Vaughn.” He nodded at her to answer. “I’ll cover the Psy.”
Mercy gave him an odd look. “She has a name. You should know, given your teensy obsession.”
“Preparation, not obsession.” Dorian had made it his business to learn the name and address of every powerful Psy in the area. He’d torn Santano Enrique’s heart out with his bare hands, but it hadn’t been enough, not when he knew the evil that had spawned the Psy serial killer continued to exist and grow. He intended to chop off the head of the beast, and if it grew back, he’d damn well do it again. And again. And again. As many times as it took.
Perhaps then his sister’s ghost would stop haunting him.
Kylie’s blood had still been warm when he reached her. The cuts that Santano had made . . . they had destroyed her beauty, turned her from his mischievous, barely grown-up baby sister, to a piece of torn flesh and blood. No matter how many Psy he killed, he couldn’t change that, couldn’t bring Kylie back from the grave. But he could make damn sure no other brother lost what he had, no mother cried as his had, no father screamed.
His parents had coped by leaning on Pack . . . and going roaming. Anytime the memories got too bad, they turned leopard and left. Dorian couldn’t deny them their escape, but he couldn’t follow either. Not only did he lack the ability to go leopard, he was a DarkRiver sentinel and they were at war, even if it was a quiet, stealthy one most people didn’t know was happening. Lucas had allowed Dorian’s parents their grief. He’d given Dorian his shoulder, but
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