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Dorian tilts his head, staring into space a moment. “The woman is no longer in the garage,” he relays, clearly using his ability to read the recent events that have occurred within an energy source.
“Can you find her, Dorian?” I ask, never underestimating my son. Though the woman has not been marked with a psychic imprint that a Tracker would need to follow a target, my son is far more advanced.
Dorian stares blankly into space as he often does when accessing new skills. “No, but they removed the tracking device here in this garage. It left a certain energy.” He tilts his head again. “Interesting. I can reach the part of her mind that feels pain, Father. Would you like me to make her feel pain for betraying you?”
“You can make her feel pain from a distance?”
“Yes,” he assures me. “But it must be from this location, where that energy is strongest.”
I’m pleased. “Could you cause her enough pain to kill her?”
A slow smile slides onto Dorian’s lips. “I do believe I would enjoy trying.”
Chapter fifteen
Layla
Jensen leads me into what looks to be a typical sterile, well-equipped lab. I scan the room—several tables, microscopes, and the appropriate high-tech machinery.
I cut Jensen a sideways look, intent on asking him a question that I’ve completely forgotten. He’s leaning lazily on the doorjamb, his T-shirt torn from where he made my bandage, rippling abdominals exposed. My mouth waters as I think of touching all that taut hard muscle, and I drag my gaze from the deliciously tempting sight to find him watching me, heat in his eyes. As if he knows what I’m thinking.
I watch him too, unwilling to shy away. I’ve had a few lessons lately on embracing life while I have it, and I’m not going to waste it being embarrassed. And Jensen is just plain hot—indeed, I think once again—a man my fantasies are made of. Tall and blond, hard in all the right places, he’s a stud muffin like I’ve never seen the likes of. I do want him. What woman in her right mind would not?
That he wants me only makes me hotter. That he doesn’t take me when he knows darn well I can’t resist him…that only makes me want him more. His concern about creating a psychic imprint builds trust, no matter how much I hate the restriction—if a girl has to die, let her die in pleasure.
I delicately clear my throat. “I assume you evacuated any staff for fear I might cause them injury?”
“We don’t keep a scientific staff here anyway.”
“Point for you for being good at avoiding questions,” I observe, making sure he knows I’m not accepting that response and will ask again later. For now, I move to stand in front of a cabinet filled with supplies and remove two items I need to draw my own blood. “I assume your people want my blood.” I sit down on a stool. “And so do I. How about drawing it for me? I can do it, but I’ve never been fond of sticking myself.”
“What makes you think I know how?”
“Aside from the exceptional T-shirt tourniquet you made? I know the GTECHs are all ex-Special Forces. That means trained medics. Not to mention you sliced my arm up like a pro.”
He pushes off the door and saunters to stand in front of me. My gaze slides over those long legs hugged by black fatigues, but not before I grab one more inspection of those abs.
“What I did to your arm had nothing to do with medic training and everything to do with necessity,” he assures me, reaching for the needle and syringe. “I had to get that device out of your arm before the Zs found us.”
“Zs?” I ask. “Right. Got it. Zs are the Zodius.” I wrap a rubber band around my upper arm. The good one. “As for my arm, as painful as slicing it open was, I’m glad you did it. You were protecting me. So far, if I have to be a prisoner—I’d rather be one here.”
He stills, the syringe midway to my arm, his gaze snagging mine. “We don’t want to keep you a prisoner, Layla.” He’s standing close. So close. Too close. Not close enough. “It’s about keeping everyone safe,” he adds, “you included.”
“I know.” I study him—the square jaw, high cheekbones, full lips. He’s a beautiful man. Before I can stop myself, I reach up and touch his cheek. He doesn’t move, but I can feel the instant awareness in him, see the darkening of his pupils, feel the heat radiate off his body. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for me, or stop me.
I allow my fingers to glide over the stubble forming on his jaw, my gaze following the movement, amazed at how the contrast between my softness and the roughness of those whiskers arouses me. Someone once told me that when you taste death, life finds new texture. Perhaps it’s true.
I swallow hard. Death. It always has a way of shaking me right back into reality. I pull my hand back and force myself to remember what we’d been talking about. I’m a prisoner. And he’s my captor but claims he doesn’t want to be. He has no choice. I get that. Really, I even understand it.
“You don’t have a choice but to keep me prisoner,” I state. “I put everyone to sleep, and even if I didn’t, Julian is coming for me. So either way, I’m confined. I get that.” I hold out my arm for the blood draw. “Let’s get this over with. I’m ready to have at least an hour or two without needles and knives. Draw five vials,” I tell him. “But I get three. Your people can have two. And before you argue, it’s my blood. I decide.”
He hesitates an instant, as if he wants to say more, but then doesn’t. He does what I said and draws my blood. I rather like ordering Jensen around and having him actually comply. That he does, well, that’s another point for trust. No one inside Zodius would have let me order them around.
“My people can be your people too.” He finishes his task, and then presses a piece of cotton on my arm, folding my elbow to hold it there.
“I need to know the Renegades are really who you say they are before that can happen. I need proof.”
He stares at me, his eyes piercing mine, delving so deeply I feel they’re touching my soul. All the while his thumb strokes a lazy pattern over my wrist. Warmth spreads across my skin, up my arm, over my neck.
