highly trained fighter, and his words suggested that he’d come to rescue her. Yet he didn’t wear a logo of any sort—not FBI or SWAT, or whatever the hell other group would be involved in a kidnapping or cult raid. Was he a mercenary?
“Who are you?” she blurted. “What’s happening? Where are we?”
“Explanations later,” he said as he dodged them down a side corridor, keeping his attention on their surroundings. “We’ve got to haul ass.”
She started to nod, but froze midmotion when she caught sight of his right inner forearm, where he wore two glyph tattoos, both done in black, both images she recognized from childhood lessons: the stone bloodline and the warrior’s talent. They were the marks of a mage. A so-called Nightkeeper.
He was one of them, damn it. A role-player. Sasha knew she shouldn’t be surprised. More, she shouldn’t be disappointed. Because she was both, she stopped dead and yanked away from him, anger giving her strength.
He spun back, brows snapping together over those fierce green eyes as he looked fully at her for the first time. “What the hell?”
“You think you’re a goddamn Nightkeeper!”
He leaned in, giving her a close-up of his square, shadowed jaw and the burning intensity of his gaze. “Correction,” he grated, the word seeming to vibrate beneath her skin, “I am a goddamn Nightkeeper. And right now, I’m your best chance of getting the hell out of here alive. So are you going to move your ass, or am I going to have to carry you?”
“I don’t—” she began, but didn’t get any further than that.
He muttered a sharp expletive under his breath and scooped her up against his chest as though she weighed nothing. Outraged and terrified, Sasha drew breath to scream—
And the world went gray-green, then black.
As Michael hustled down the tunnel cradling Sasha’s warm, curvy body against him, guilt pinched that he’d used a sleep spell on her. She wasn’t all the way under, which argued for her being a mage of some sort. But she’d gone far enough under that he could pick her up and get going.
We’ve gotta move, not argue , he rationalized. But really, that had been only part of the decision—the other part was that he’d needed a moment to regroup. As in, a moment without her conscious and pushing his buttons, threatening his control.
When Lucius had led the Nightkeepers into the Xibalban ambush, the magi had swung into plan B: Strike, Leah, Nate, and Alexis had dug in to return the enemy fire, while the others had scattered to search the compound, each assigned to a block of high-priority rooms. Michael had started to head for his assigned rooms, but halfway there his warrior’s talent had stopped him dead, turned his ass around, and sent him in the entirely opposite direction. He’d radioed his change of plans; to his surprise, Strike hadn’t argued. Instead, the king had muttered something about there being no such thing as coincidences, and got Sven and Patience to check his assigned rooms. Ignoring Strike’s reference to the writs and the will of the gods, Michael had followed his instincts—or whatever the hell it was—all the way across the labyrinth in the direction of the main mansion. There, he’d practically tripped over Sasha.
He’d imagined rescuing her more times than he wanted to admit, and the scene had usually involved him kicking in a door—or some Xibalban ass—in the process of getting her free. But there hadn’t been a door, and she’d gotten at least partway free on her own. With nothing to kick, he’d been off his stride. And that first sight of her in person, where before she’d existed for him solely in the PI’s notes and pictures, had done the kicking, with him as the target.
As in the photos, her cheekbones were wide set, her nose slightly tipped up at the end, her mouth lush and bow-shaped, her eyes a deep, rich brown. Her dark hair surrounded her face in a halo of waves and looping curves with no
“Who are you?” she blurted. “What’s happening? Where are we?”
“Explanations later,” he said as he dodged them down a side corridor, keeping his attention on their surroundings. “We’ve got to haul ass.”
She started to nod, but froze midmotion when she caught sight of his right inner forearm, where he wore two glyph tattoos, both done in black, both images she recognized from childhood lessons: the stone bloodline and the warrior’s talent. They were the marks of a mage. A so-called Nightkeeper.
He was one of them, damn it. A role-player. Sasha knew she shouldn’t be surprised. More, she shouldn’t be disappointed. Because she was both, she stopped dead and yanked away from him, anger giving her strength.
He spun back, brows snapping together over those fierce green eyes as he looked fully at her for the first time. “What the hell?”
“You think you’re a goddamn Nightkeeper!”
He leaned in, giving her a close-up of his square, shadowed jaw and the burning intensity of his gaze. “Correction,” he grated, the word seeming to vibrate beneath her skin, “I am a goddamn Nightkeeper. And right now, I’m your best chance of getting the hell out of here alive. So are you going to move your ass, or am I going to have to carry you?”
“I don’t—” she began, but didn’t get any further than that.
He muttered a sharp expletive under his breath and scooped her up against his chest as though she weighed nothing. Outraged and terrified, Sasha drew breath to scream—
And the world went gray-green, then black.
As Michael hustled down the tunnel cradling Sasha’s warm, curvy body against him, guilt pinched that he’d used a sleep spell on her. She wasn’t all the way under, which argued for her being a mage of some sort. But she’d gone far enough under that he could pick her up and get going.
We’ve gotta move, not argue , he rationalized. But really, that had been only part of the decision—the other part was that he’d needed a moment to regroup. As in, a moment without her conscious and pushing his buttons, threatening his control.
When Lucius had led the Nightkeepers into the Xibalban ambush, the magi had swung into plan B: Strike, Leah, Nate, and Alexis had dug in to return the enemy fire, while the others had scattered to search the compound, each assigned to a block of high-priority rooms. Michael had started to head for his assigned rooms, but halfway there his warrior’s talent had stopped him dead, turned his ass around, and sent him in the entirely opposite direction. He’d radioed his change of plans; to his surprise, Strike hadn’t argued. Instead, the king had muttered something about there being no such thing as coincidences, and got Sven and Patience to check his assigned rooms. Ignoring Strike’s reference to the writs and the will of the gods, Michael had followed his instincts—or whatever the hell it was—all the way across the labyrinth in the direction of the main mansion. There, he’d practically tripped over Sasha.
He’d imagined rescuing her more times than he wanted to admit, and the scene had usually involved him kicking in a door—or some Xibalban ass—in the process of getting her free. But there hadn’t been a door, and she’d gotten at least partway free on her own. With nothing to kick, he’d been off his stride. And that first sight of her in person, where before she’d existed for him solely in the PI’s notes and pictures, had done the kicking, with him as the target.
As in the photos, her cheekbones were wide set, her nose slightly tipped up at the end, her mouth lush and bow-shaped, her eyes a deep, rich brown. Her dark hair surrounded her face in a halo of waves and looping curves with no
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