# Sentinels: Leopard Enchanted

Doranna Durgin

Her Sworn Enemy… Or Her Fearless Protector?Spy Ana Dikau is gathering information about technician Ian Scott – a Sentinel who takes the form of a snow leopard. But Ana doesn’t realise that the amulet she carries will slowly kill every Sentinel she comes into contact with – and by the time they realise an epidemic has crept over the Sentinels.Now the only way for Ian to save his people from the deadly epidemic is to form a truce with Ana. But their unlikely partnership is complicated by the fact that Ian cannot help desiring the woman he’s meant to despise…

## Ana froze.

She heard Ian’s unspoken message—the potential that there were things she might want him to do. His eyes told her as much, seeing her absorb the meaning, confirming it—smiling just there at the corner of his mouth.

Run away. Run fast.

Run to safety, where the flush of her awareness wouldn’t expand into a flush of wanting—of wondering what it would be like to be touched by such strength and consideration. As if this man might just give back as much as he received.

Ana took a sharp breath, using it to slap herself back to reality. There would be no running, no matter how smart it would be.

DORANNA DURGIN spent her childhood filling notebooks first with stories and art, and then with novels. She now has over fifteen novels spanning an array of eclectic genres, including paranormal romance, on the shelves. When she’s not writing, Doranna builds web pages, enjoys photography and works with horses and dogs. You can find a complete list of her titles at doranna.net.

Sentinels:

Leopard

Enchanted

Doranna Durgin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Sentinels

Long ago and far away, in Roman/Gaulish days, one woman had a tumultuous life—she fell in love with a druid, by whom she had a son. The man was killed by Romans. She was subsequently taken into the household of a Roman, who fathered her second son. The druid’s son turned out to be a man of many talents, including the occasional ability to shape-shift into a wild boar, albeit at great cost.

The woman’s younger son, who considered himself superior in all ways, had none of these earthly powers and went hunting to find ways to be impressive and acquire power. He justified his various activities by claiming he needed to protect the area from his brother, who had too much power to go unchecked … but in the end, it was his brother’s family who grew into the Vigilia, now known as the Sentinels, while the younger son founded what turned into the vile Atrum Core …

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Legend

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Ana Dikau saw him before anyone else did.

The rest of the Atrum Core team crouched behind a camo blind in the pines uphill of the narrow, rocky trail, watching the camera feeds on a laptop encased in a rugged military shell. The wireless cameras pointed down along the trail, one of the less popular tracts of New Mexico’s high, looming Sangre de Cristo mountains.

But Ana watched the trail itself, and she saw Ian Scott first—a shock of bright silvered hair, long and spiky and pretty much unreal in the perfection of its fall across his forehead. Crazy lean features and cheekbones to match his jaw, a rangy body to match his face, and a way of moving that made her feel quiet and small and very much like prey—a flush of warmth and awareness.

Then again, she had practice at feeling like prey. And she was far too aware of this man’s Sentinel nature. The fact that he was so much more than human.

Snow leopard.

Walking into an Atrum Core trap.

Not to capture him—they knew better than that. There were far too many strictures between the Core septs prince and the Sentinel consul, between their factions as a whole. Direct action meant trouble. Even indirect action such as that they were about to undertake...

It was risky.

So they were hedging their bets. Filming this staged encounter to justify their need for action.

Ana’s new assignment.

She’d long begged for this opportunity, a mission that would prove her worthy of more than her usual personal assistant work for Hollender Lerche, her supervisor since she’d been transferred to active Core duty at the tender age of thirteen.

Ian Scott bounded a few effortless steps uphill to clear a scattering of hard-edged rocks embedded in the trail, and she drew a deep, sharp breath—holding it, all unaware, until her lungs ached. He was beautiful in an uncivilized way, muscle and lean form perfectly evident under a casual shirt and the dark gray cargo pants riding low on his hips, shaping the strong curve of his bottom.

He was the enemy.

The team leader murmured into his field mike, “You’re on.” She didn’t know his name. It didn’t matter; she hadn’t expected the courtesy of an introduction. All that mattered was what came next.

The mountain lion, barely caged just down the trail from their position.

The animal had been caged for days, starved and prodded into a frenzy. The hiker was one of their own, a man familiar to Ana who was working off a disgraceful failure—and he was already scented with blood and mountain lion urine.

Ana wasn’t sure he knew it, though.

The mountain lion knew.

Freed, the beast didn’t hesitate. It charged onto the trail in a snarling blur of tawny motion, claws already reaching to bat the man down.

The big cat screamed and the man screamed with it—a bloodcurdling thing with all the authenticity the team could have wanted. Convincing, because the man hadn’t known these details of his work.

“Here we go,” murmured the team leader. “Watch the bastard.”

Ana watched, all right. Scott didn’t hesitate. He sprinted forward as man, all coiled strength and energy, and then leaped—a dive, as if he intended to take cover in the scrub of the pine-shaded mountainside.

Instead he dove into a blinding roil of lightning and sharded energy, and when he emerged from the thick of it he landed on the two massive front paws of a snow leopard. Lush white fur splashed with black spots, staggering blue eyes, a thick length of tail—Ana held her breath again. He leaped forward almost before he’d fully found his feet in that form—smaller than the mountain lion but never hesitating.

Ana’s handlers had said that the Sentinels looked for any excuse to unleash their violent natures.

He blindsided the mountain lion, latching on with claws and teeth so the two animals rolled off the hiker and right down the steep slope, spitting and snarling and breaking brush along the way. Fierce growls rose from below, and the mountain lion’s angry scream split the air.

Ana strained forward as if she’d be able to see; the team leader’s hand closed around her arm in a harsh and warning grip. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t so stupid as to risk their cover, but she bit her lip and kept her words inside. She couldn’t afford to be blamed for anything that went wrong, even an errant whisper—no matter that this man had already broken their silence.

The hiker rolled to his feet, stunned and unsteady—and marked with fresh blood, but remarkably unharmed in the wake of Scott’s swift reaction. He staggered on up the trail to rendezvous with the other half of the Core team, where they’d dig in out of sight until Ian Scott had moved on, protected with the same silent amulets that hid this camo blind.

The conflict below broke away into a few hissing spits, and then the sound of running retreat—and the quieter sounds of one of the animals returning, his footfalls more deliberate and almost silent. Ana watched the trail, waiting to see which of the big cats would emerge.

Not that there was any doubt. The mountain lion had been weakened, and Ian Scott was more than animal and more than human. Utterly beast, too dangerous to live unfettered.

The leader’s hand closed more tightly around Ana’s arm. “The team will finish recording. He’ll be looking for trouble when he gets back up here.”

She resisted his pull. “This is why I’m here,” she said. “To see this. To see him. So I know what I’m up against.” It was, in fact, the purpose behind this entire operation, although the footage would also be used to study the enemy in a way they’d never accomplished before. “I’m safe, as long as we’re quiet.” None of the Sentinels could detect the perfected silent amulets—not even Ian Scott, the Sentinel bane of many an amulet working.

The man made no effort to soften his derision—at her, at the Sentinel. “You’ve seen enough to know he’s not human—he’s nowhere near human. And we can’t risk you. We don’t have the time to start over with this op.”

Because they didn’t have another woman in place to fill her role. Not because she mattered, personally. It shouldn’t still sting, after all these years.

But it did.

So Ana allowed herself to be led away, doglegging back to pick up the trail in the direction from which the Sentinel had come. Eventually the team leader released her arm, and she forbore to rub away the marks his fingers had made.

She’d wanted to see Ian Scott again. She’d wanted to see more closely the look in his eye when he took himself back to human—to get a glimpse of what lay beneath. Without it, her mind’s eye showed only his instant understanding of the mountain lion’s attack, and his instant response to it. Efficient ferocity. And somehow, she could think only of the warm flush of her reaction, and the fact that if she’d been that hiker, she would have wanted someone coming to her rescue, too.

But then the team took her back to the Santa Fe mansion that served as the local Core installation, and she learned that Ian Scott had returned to the trail and bounded after the Core hiker with only one thing in mind.

To finish what the mountain lion had started.

Chapter 1

“‘Take a vacation,’ he said,” Ian Scott grumbled, lifting free weights as he sat out in the gorgeous landscaping of the gorgeous Santa Fe property under the gorgeous blue skies in the gorgeous fall weather. “‘You’ll like it,’ he said.”

“You could like it.” The woman’s voice from the patio sounded anything but repentant for her eavesdropping.

Ian found her standing on the porch with her arms folded over her motherly shape, her expression a mix of affection and exasperation.

His own face held nothing but exasperation, he was certain of it. “He took away my team. My computer. My tablet. My lab!”

“Pfft.” She made the noise with no sympathy at all. Her name was Fernie, and she ruled this retreat with nothing so overt as an iron fist. An iron spoon, perhaps. With cookie batter on it. “That’s what happens when you work yourself sick.”

Ian’s grumble grew closer to a growl. “Field Sentinels,” he said distinctly, “don’t get sick. And I wasn’t.” He hefted the dumbbell for a quick set of curls, proving the point.

“You,” she said, just as pointedly, “were injured. And Nick Carter knows better than to let his people wear themselves down.”

“Right,” Ian said, switching the weights to his other arm. “Can’t have that. Can’t have people getting tired when there are lives to be saved.”

His angry sarcasm was meant to drive her away. Instead she came down the three porch steps, past the towering, bloom-heavy hollyhocks and into the yard, her body language neither aggressive nor submissive—a woman with an extra touch of empathy who well knew the full-blooded Sentinels with whom she often worked.

Especially the cranky ones.

“Ian,” she said, and the soft lines of her face held understanding, “you can’t do it all. Maybe you can do most of it, but not all.”

Something in his temper snapped; he felt the hard coil of it in his chest. “I don’t have to do it all. I just have to do this one thing! One thing, to keep my friends safe!”

The best amulet tech in Brevis Southwest, and he still hadn’t devised a defense against the Atrum Core’s rarely detectable silent amulets—a failure that had cost them all dearly. Repeatedly. And which had given the Core time to devise other new deadly workings—while also leaving them vulnerable to new third-party interlopers, as of yet undefined in spite of their recent activity in the Southwest.

Fernie stood her ground. “That working is a fearful thing, no doubt. But the man who made it is dead now. You have time. And you’ve only been here a week.”

He glared. “They have stockpiles of silent blanks. Sooner or later, they’ll reproduce his work. And then the rest of us will die.”

“Let it go for this moment,” she said, quite steadily. “Don’t you think that’s why you’re here?”

That hard spring coiled tighter. Ian left the weights on the ground and gave way to his leopard, letting the prowl of it come out in his movement—pacing away to the tall latilla coyote fence and back again, feeling the strength of four legs and solid big cat muscle lurking beneath his skin. Out and back again, thinking that although he could detect any normal amulet within a mile, identify its nature, even trigger it if he wanted, he still didn’t have a thing on the silents.

Until Fernie said, in understanding admonishment, “Ian.”

He snapped a look at her. Her eyes widened; she took a sharp breath. But she held her ground, because that’s what she was here for. “Ian.”

His snarl was as much acquiescence as temper. He paced onward...but tucked the leopard away.

Mostly.

“All right, Fernanda,” he said, pausing by the fence. He found his fingers tapping against the rough, pinto bean bark of the hand-peeled latillas; he stilled them.

Maybe a run. Better than a hike up in the Sangre de Cristo trails, at least until he was certain the previous week’s activity hadn’t roused any interest. Strange that an aggressive mountain lion hadn’t been reported.

The narrow Santa Fe River Park ran east-west before them, a riverbed greenway full of cottonwoods and trails. He drifted to the front of the compact yard, through the groomed pines to the thick old adobe wall—four feet near the open gate, stepped up to five feet and then six to meet the tall latilla poles at the corner; another group of stout blooming hollyhocks festooned the transition from adobe to the old fashioned poles. The rest of the fencing was just as idiosyncratic, done in stages to include a high adobe corner in the back and token rail fencing along the property line. Typical of these old Santa Fe properties, where bits and pieces had been added over time.

A dirt road stretched out before them, defining this barely developed privacy in the middle of Santa Fe. The Sangre de Cristo mountains loomed to the east, marching northward to Taos and Colorado—over fourteen thousand feet high, full of bear and cougar and pristine air, tall pines and craggy outcrops. Perfect for a snow leopard.

That had pretty much been the whole point. Nick Carter, Southwest Brevis Consul and definitely the boss of Ian, could have sent him to any one of the Sentinel retreats, from oceanside to low desert scrub. Instead he’d sent Ian from their Tucson base of operations into the high cool mountains for his snow leopard to love.

Ian had simply been too preoccupied with what he’d left behind to truly walk away from it.

Atrum Core bastards.

Two thousand years earlier, the strictures of their cold war with the Core hadn’t been so important—not when druids held sway and Romans were trying to beat them down. Then, the Sentinels hadn’t tried too terribly hard to hide their developing nature, their mandate to protect the Earth—and the Core hadn’t even considered hiding their intent to gather power, ostensibly to make sure the Sentinels didn’t get out of hand.

Mostly it had been seen as a power struggle between two half brothers—and maybe, mostly at the start it was.

But the Core turned to dark ways and corrupted energies to achieve its goal, and the Sentinels honed their skills—and the world changed around them until both factions were in agreement over the need to remain undetected. Their conflict went underground, a worldwide détente with certain understandings: no direct offensives, no breaking cover. Theirs would be a cold war.

Until the Core’s most recent Southwest drozhar had gone rogue. Thanks to his silent amulets, too many Sentinels had been killed or wounded—especially the full-blooded field Sentinels. Those who took the shape of the other within.

Like Ian.

Atrum Core bastards.

“Go take a run,” Fernie said, startling him. “You think I can’t tell that you’ve gone off inside your head again?”

He growled at her.

She waved it away. “Go,” she said. “Run. Think about something else.” And she left him in the yard, returning to tend the cause of the yeasty sweetness wafting out into the yard.

What good was it to have a great growl when people ignored it? Ian propped his foot against the wall and retied his laces. All right, Fernie. A run.

But if he was distracted, he wasn’t oblivious. He saw well enough that he was no longer quite alone. Never mind the male cyclist at the end of the road...the woman coming his way deserved plenty of attention.

She walked along the edge of the dirt and gravel with a green cloth shopping bag tucked over one shoulder and a small leather shoulder bag over the other, wearing a lightweight blazer over a creamy shirt that shimmered with her movement and set off the olive tones of her skin. Her tidy jeans were more smart than casual, and they highlighted her every move. Even from here, he found his gaze drawn to the delicate set of Eurasian features, from the distinct tilt of her eyes to the defined elegance of her nose.

She hesitated several properties away, eyeing the typical adobe wall, gravel driveway and gate—and then, rejecting it, looked ahead to the next property. And finally to this one, where Ian leaned against the wall, watching her. She picked up her pace, walking with more purpose—no longer looking at house numbers, but at him.

All right, Fernie. First her, then a run.

* * *

Ana knew better than to assume anything about this man. She’d seen what he could do. She’d heard what he’d done.

The Core soldier playing the part of a hapless hiker on the mountain hadn’t deserved to die. She’d known him. He’d been only moderately skilled and not as hard-edged as most, taking his punishments without complaint. He hadn’t been nice to her, but he hadn’t been cruel, either.

She approached Ian Scott with one hand hooked into the grocery bag strap and the other in her purse and on her pepper spray—and even so, she hesitated.

She thought she’d known what to expect. Not just from the week before, but because she’d seen head shots—the faintly lengthened nature of his canines in that often rueful smile, the pale and unruly nature of his hair, silver by nature and smudged with faint streaks of black. She should have been prepared for the impact of those pale gray eyes rimmed with black, and for the striking contrast of dark brows and dark lashes. The snow leopard, coming through. Not all of the Sentinels showed their other so strongly, but this man...

Even standing there, he had a physical grace. Even not as tall as some of the Core posse members, even not as brawny.

She thought she’d known.

But she hadn’t been this close to him on the trail. So she hadn’t really known at all.

It took everything she had to offer him a steady smile. “Hi,” she said, taking advantage of an opportunity she hadn’t expected when she’d set out to survey this Sentinel retreat in person. “I’m so embarrassed, but when I left my rental this morning I didn’t realize how similar these yards are—”

“And they aren’t well numbered,” he finished for her, as polite as any man should be, but his eyes...never to be mistaken for anything but a predator’s eyes. His muscles ran strong and well-defined beneath a bright red sport shirt, his shoulders wide and body lean. Just as it had the week before, her body flushed with the awareness of what he was.

She swallowed her reaction, nodding to the drive beyond this one. “It might be that one. I’d recognize it if I went back for a look. But I don’t want to intrude.”

“I’ll come with you, if you’d like,” he said. “As long as you don’t taze me.” Those eyes flicked to her purse.

She lifted her hand from it. “Pepper spray,” she said without apology.

“Of course, pepper spray.” He said it amiably enough. “I wouldn’t worry too much about intruding. That driveway goes to a cluster of rentals. You won’t be the first person to look around.”

It was, she realized with surprise, his way of politely giving her space to move along on her own. For that instant, it flummoxed her; she was unused to such courtesy. Something fluttered in her chest, and she thought it might have been regret.

But in the next moment she jerked back, stumbling as his expression changed entirely—turning feral and predatory and triggering the fear that not only came of knowing what he was, but of seeing it in him. Oh, God he’s going to—

And he did, planting his hands on the wall to leap over it in one smooth—

The blow came from behind, so suddenly she had no warning—just the impact, the wrenching twist of her shoulder, and her instinctive grab at her purse. She scraped against the adobe, losing the purse after all—and only then seeing the cyclist behind her.

Ian came over the wall feet first. The cyclist went flying, the bike went flying, the purse went flying...

Ian landed on his feet.

The cyclist scrambled up and away and somehow thought he would make it. Even Ana knew better, dazed and clinging to the wall—and stunned all over again by Ian’s speed as he pounced. She winced in anticipation as he landed on the man, poised for a fierce blow—and then slowly relaxed as he drew himself up short, one knee on the man’s chest, his knuckles resting at the man’s throat in an aborted strike that would have been fatal.

“Bad move,” he told the man. If he was breathing hard, Ana couldn’t see it.

But she could see the man’s face. And she knew him.

The shock of it piled on to the shock of the attack and kept her pinned to the wall, struggling to understand.

He was Core, she was sure of it. She couldn’t fathom it. Why would Lerche seek to sabotage the assignment he’d given her?

She came back to her wits as Ian Scott scooped her purse from the ground. Her attacker pedaled wildly away, not quite steady on the bike.

“What—?” she said, far too nonsensically.

“You okay?” Ian said, and held out the purse.

“Yes, I—” She rubbed her arm, taking the purse to fumble for her phone. “I should call the police—” Not because she truly thought it best, but because she thought it was the thing to say.

He sidestepped the matter—no surprise. Sentinels eschewed official notice as much as the Core. “I’d rather offer to see you home again. You have any idea why that guy would be targeting you?”

For the moment, she forgot her script. “What do you mean, targeting me?”

“He’s been lurking at the end of the street, watching you.”

Ah. She understood now. Someone hadn’t trusted her to get this job done on her own...and then hadn’t trusted her enough to let her in on the plan. She groped for words that would ring true. “I can’t imagine it was personal.”

“Didn’t smell like coincidence,” he said, his fingers tapping lightly against the wall. Surely the man sat still every once in a while. “It smelled like—” He stopped himself.

She had the sudden understanding that he spoke literally, and she remembered again who this man was—no matter his charismatic presence or his beautiful eyes. He was Sentinel, and he was the Southwest’s best amulet specialist. If the Core had sent out a posse member who carried amulets...

Even Ana could sometimes perceive the regular amulets, like a stain in the air. Many Core members couldn’t, and it wasn’t considered a necessary skill. But of course he’d know, and far better than she would. And of course he’d want to avoid the cops. The Sentinels and the Core kept their encounters off the books.

“You’re probably right,” he said, making an obvious choice to relinquish control of the conversation. “Coincidence.” He bent to pick up her groceries, scattered as they were from the encounter, and appropriated the bag so he could reload them. “You’re all scraped up. Come on inside, we’ll get you fixed up.”

She hesitated a moment too long. He added, “Fernie is inside, too. She’ll slap my hands if I do anything you don’t want me to.”

For that moment, she froze. She heard the unspoken message there—the potential that there were things she might want him to do. His eyes told her as much, seeing her absorb the meaning, confirming it—smiling just there at the corner of his mouth.

Run away. Run fast.

Run to safety, where the flush of her awareness wouldn’t expand into a flush of wanting—of wondering what it would be like to be touched by such strength and consideration. As if this man might just give back as much as he received.

She took a sharp breath, using it to slap herself back to reality. There would be no running, no matter how smart it would be. Because getting inside the house had been part of her assignment all along.

Get inside the house. Plant the silent amulet.

And maybe, finally, she would gain not only the respect and belonging she longed for, but also the safety that came with it.

Chapter 2

Hollender Lerche hated adobe.

He hated flat roofs and stucco and chunky viga pine columns and pretentious entry arches, and he hated a high altitude climate that thought it could be desert and yet still had far too much snow in the winter.

Still, he should be grateful. Many from Tucson had died during the illicit attack on the Sentinels; others had acted too publicly and paid the price at the hands of the worldwide septs prince.

In the wake of that attack, Lerche had merely been assigned to this small city—an annoyingly artsy place that had persistently remained the region’s capital city. He didn’t have to be told that his future rested on his quiet success. The septs prince would turn a blind eye to certain events as long as they brought results—but not for an instant if they brought more embarrassment.

For now, results meant taking out Ian Scott.

A man who had so conveniently ambled into Lerche’s new territory, leading him straight to the quaint little retreat property—and to opportunity.

Lerche looked out onto the rolling piñon and juniper foothills of the Sangre de Cristo mountains and narrowed his eyes as if that spearing glare could blast the high grasslands into something more palatable. When someone rapped politely on the sliding glass door behind him, he ignored them. This second-story patio was his Do Not Disturb zone.

But eventually he left the squintingly bright sunshine of the morning and returned to the oppressive gloom of thick textured walls. The man inside greeted him with an unusual combination of resentment and defiance.

“Mr. Budian,” Lerche said, which meant many things at once—a greeting, a demand for a report...a demand for explanation.

David Budian stood before him not in the neat suit of an active posse member or the dark slacks and shirt also allowed those working strenuous field positions. Nor was he the usual stature of such field agents—the classic deep olive skin and black hair, set off by silver studs and rings. Budian was a man of middling complexion, middling height, middling features.

None of that came as a surprise—the man’s appearance was why Lerche assigned him to particular activities with particular anonymity. Even Ana, as naive as she was, would spot a man of brawn and classic full-blooded complexion.

But it surprised him to see Budian in torn clothes and bruises.

Lerche said, “Have you compromised us, Mr. Budian?”

Budian looked as alarmed as he should. “Drozhar—”

“Don’t suck up.” Drozhar was a term held by regional princes, as well as the world septs Prince. Not a posse leader. Not even when the posse was as large as the one Lerche now commanded here in Santa Fe. “I want to know what’s happened!”

“I observed Ana as ordered. She was dawdling, so I provided an opportunity for her.” Budian’s self-satisfaction made it to his face in a way he likely didn’t realize. “You know how those Sentinels are, sir. If they see a chance to meddle, they’ll take it.”

Lerche sat at his massive desk, relaxing into the padded chair. He brushed his hand across the black gleam of the surface, displacing invisible dust motes. “True enough. Did you achieve results?”

“I gave him a chance to play the hero and he took it. If that little dirt-bred bitch can’t make something of it, then she’s as hopeless as I think she is.”

“Mind your tongue, Mr. Budian.” Lerche’s words held no heat; it went against everyone’s instincts to use a woman in an important field operation. But Ana was everything they needed—petite, beautiful with an elegant delicacy and utterly determined to prove her worth to them...without the faintest idea that she never could. “She knows nothing of that thin Sentinel heritage, and I want it to stay that way.”

“Until it’s too late, you mean,” Budian suggested.

Lerche smiled. “Exactly so, Mr. Budian.” And then he would be free of her. “Just exactly so.”

* * *

Ana found herself sitting in cool Santa Fe comfort—saltillo floors and kitchen counters, hand-painted Talavera tiles set in the walls around the light switches and along the counter backsplash, gauzy curtains under shaded windows. The air was redolent of spices and oils and the scent of something baking. Something good.

Ian had introduced himself, and Fernie—Fernanda—and had handed her a damp washcloth, disappearing with “Be right back.”

Ana waited on a spindle-backed stool at the breakfast bar and patted the cool cloth against the road rash beneath her elbow, near to dizzy with the conflicting experiences of being in such a homey welcoming atmosphere while within the grasp of the enemy.

Especially an enemy who kept her on edge in every way.

Ian—the enemy—returned to the kitchen in a billow of what seemed to be his usual energy, dropping a tub of salve on the counter. “This stuff will speed the healing.”

Fernie put a hot tray of muffins on the sideboard and sent Ian a disapproving frown. “A gentleman would help her take care of such awkward injuries.”

“Oh,” Ana protested. “You can hardly call them injuries. A few scrapes and bruises—fewer than that cyclist had, I’m sure.”

Ian stepped back. “A gentleman respects the boundaries a lady sets.” But his gaze met hers with amusement, as if they were somehow in this together.

She understood why. Fernie obviously ruled this house—a so-called corporate retreat—with an iron pot holder. Of medium stature, with a plump figure and shining strands of gray in her black hair, Fernie’s Latina and Native heritage came through in both her features and the gentle roll of her words. Given Fernie’s position here in the house, Ana guessed that she wasn’t a full-blooded field Sentinel—one of those with roots deep enough to reach to their lurking other within.

Looking at Ian, Ana would never doubt it of him. Even if she hadn’t actually seen his snow leopard the week before.

But field Sentinel or not, Fernie was obviously formidable and just as obviously possessed of an uncanny ability to read beneath the emotional surface of those around her. She cleared her throat at Ian as she tapped the previous tray of muffins loose from the cups.

Ana pressed her lips together in a smile. “Well,” she said, and offered Ian the washcloth, “maybe under the circumstances...”

“All right, then.” He stopped tapping to whatever rhythm ran in his head to take the cloth. The same hands that had taken down the cyclist became surprisingly gentle as he turned her arm to see the scrape.

“Don’t you ever sit still?” she asked, not truly having meant to say it.

Fernie laughed, placing a selection of muffins on a plate and sliding it within reach along with butter, a knife and napkins. “Not that anyone’s observed so far. What brings you to Santa Fe, Ana?”

Oh, nothing of importance. Just spying on you.

“A quiet vacation,” she said, in spite of the fact that she’d lived here for months now, along with the rest of Lerche’s posse. They’d had no idea the retreat existed until Lerche had tracked Ian to it. “The Georgia O’Keeffe museum, the plaza, the pueblos, the Indian Market... I meant to come with a friend, but family issues cropped up.” She shrugged, comfortable with the amiable cover story Lerche had given her. “It’s a little strange to be here without a travel companion, I admit.”

Fernie sent Ian a pointed glance. “You see? You could be doing something other than fretting. See the sights with this woman!”

Ian glared at Fernie, not Ana. “I do not fret,” he said, even as he dabbed her arm. “And I don’t need mothering.”

Fernie ran a trickle of water into the sink, briskly rinsing dishes before stashing them in the dishwasher. Ana only got a glimpse, but she was pretty sure the other woman smiled behind her noncommittal noise of response. And Ian, with his mix of annoyance and affection...

He wasn’t what she’d expected. Even beyond what she’d seen and what she’d read.

She knew he’d been badly hurt in early spring but had healed well and quickly, as Sentinels did. She knew he’d had several skirmishes with the Core before that. She knew, most of all, that the Sentinels counted on him to solve the mystery of the silent amulets, and the Core therefore needed to find out everything they could about his progress—here, away from protected Southwest Brevis headquarters.

That was her job. To plant the spy amulet—to connect with him and absorb what she could of him in person.

“You’re staring,” he said, keeping his voice low—although Fernie had left to clatter around in the dining room, laying out silverware and dishes. He held her arm as he dipped into the herbal unguent and spread it lightly over her skin.

She shivered at the touch, bemused at her own sensitivity—at her sudden extreme awareness of his fingers against her skin. “I was thinking,” she said—but stopped, caught by his eyes—the contrast of those pale irises with the dark rims, the dark lashes and glinting silver hair, mussed with the casual authority of a bad boy model even though she doubted he paid much attention to it at all. “Your eyes—”

His brows shot up; she looked away, profoundly embarrassed. She wasn’t cut out for deception. The Core should have known better.

She’d never understood why they’d chosen her for this—she knew only that she was desperate for acceptance and that this had seemed like her chance. She decided on the truth, after all. For the moment. “They’re striking,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Or me. Maybe I hit that wall harder than I thought.”

“Maybe,” he said, applying a transparent film bandage of a size that few households would carry as a matter of course. “Or maybe it would just be nice to see this city with a companion.” He smoothed the bandage into place, stroking her arm with a confident touch.

Maybe I should run.

She was in so far over her head.

She should plant the amulet under the counter edge, make her excuses and run. She should tell Lerche that Ian was so much more than she’d expected—much more than she could handle, a Sentinel force of nature. They expected her to fail; they’d always expected her to fail. It would come as no surprise to them if she did. She’d simply be sent back to the personal assistant work she found so very stifling.

But she hesitated there at the breakfast bar with his hand still closed over her arm, full of warmth and a very personal touch—and she noticed, to her surprise, that he stood perfectly still. He didn’t vibrate; he didn’t shift his weight or bump his knuckles against the granite counter.

He only watched her.

And she didn’t want to run from that.

He grinned, an unrepentant expression on an irrepressible face. “Georgia O’Keeffe. Tomorrow, if you’d like. Now. How about we go figure out where you’re staying?”

Ana smiled back at him. And when he turned away to toss the bandage wrappings and rinse the washcloth, she pressed the tiny silent spy amulet into place, activated it with the faintest twist of will, and told herself she was only doing what she had to do.

* * *

Ian paced the yard perimeter, rubbing a restless thumb across the sample amulet in his hand—a simple thing of rough making, and a thing with which he was already deeply familiar, even if he hadn’t cracked the secrets of its silence.

That breakthrough wasn’t likely to happen now, with his thoughts so scattered. Ana might have left the retreat the day before, but she’d definitely lingered in his thoughts.

Soft skin beneath his fingers, the gleam of honey beneath the brown of her eyes when she’d been caught staring, the faintest of blushes over cheek and neck when she’d realized it. The way she’d owned up to it, seeming surprised at herself while she was at it.

There was something about her matter-of-fact acceptance of her injuries that bothered him; he hadn’t quite put his finger on it. They weren’t serious, but they must have stung like the dickens. A little ow! wouldn’t have been out of place.

Ian glanced down the road and decided he wasn’t quite as bad as a kid with a schoolyard crush, no matter what Fernie had said. He’d dressed in the best of the casual clothes he’d brought, been glad for the lightweight hiking boots, and wandered out to the yard thirty minutes early for his meeting with Ana.

He’d figured it would take that long to settle his mind over the working he thought he’d detected that morning. Now he knew himself to have been optimistic, and he paced the yard perimeter with impatience.

Just as well that he wasn’t one of those Sentinels who could reach out to mind-tap Annorah, their brevis-wide communication hub. Or to anyone, for that matter, though he could hear well enough if someone else initiated a tap on his shoulder. No doubt he’d be driving her just as crazy as he was driving himself, checking in to see how things were going with his AmTech assistants—if they had what they needed, if they’d stumbled over any faint clue he might build on...

No doubt she’d be ignoring him by now.

The working on this crude amulet was innocuous enough—easily identified as such by the lanyard. Simple identifying knots, rough leather...nothing worth the silence that had been stamped on it. But this particular amulet had been recovered at Fabron Gausto’s evil little hideout in Tucson, where Nick Carter had almost died in the attempt to stop Core D’oíche.

The thing’s value lay not in its function but in its silent nature. Only the rare Sentinel tracker had any chance of perceiving this one.

Ian couldn’t. In spite of his expertise, his ability to find and identify amulets at a distance, it was nothing but a disk of crudely inscribed bronze. No matter how tightly he focused his attention, nor how finely he sliced the bands of his perception.

He prowled back over into the shade. This morning in the house he’d thought he’d felt something from this amulet, but he wasn’t the only one in occupancy, and that meant interruptions and noise. He shared the retreat and its half-dozen cozy little rooms with a light-blood couple from Kachina Valley, Arizona, a strong-blood courier from Senoita who quite obviously took the cheetah, a tech of some sort from Tucson Brevis and a mid-teen youth who couldn’t more obviously be in retreat from the mundane world while he grew accustomed to his burgeoning Sentinel gifts.

The accumulated effect left him far, far from the buffered and isolated conditions of his lab. Trying to pin down the subtleties of what he’d felt had only served to trigger a headache, driving him outside to wait while he ignored Fernie’s reminder that the whole point of his presence here was to take a break from such things.

The faintest sound of a footfall on sandy grit lifted his head from those inner thoughts. When Ana appeared over the wall some moments later, he was waiting, his mood lifted by an anticipation he hadn’t expected. She caught sight of him and turned to rest her elbows on the wall. “Surely I’m not that late?”

“Not late at all,” he told her, resolutely stuffing the amulet away. “But I’m not much good at sitting still.”

“I got that impression.” Her smile softened those dry words, lighting features that had seemed just a little too somber before she’d seen him. A delicately angular jaw, a sweet curve of a mouth, dark eyes that dominated her face...they lent her an air of mystery, the impression of strength and vulnerability that wasn’t the least offset by the way the breeze teased her hair—short enough to reveal the peek of earlobe and the graceful sweep of her neck, long enough to tousle and beguile.

But he’d looked too long, for the smile faltered. Not so much uncertain as just a little too serious. “You know, I never asked. I thought at first this place was your home, and Fernie your housekeeper. But as I was leaving yesterday—”

“Jack came out.” Lured by Fernie’s muffins, no doubt, given how much the kid could eat.

“And I heard laughter from the lower level, so I gather you’re not alone. Family?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Ian told her the truth easily enough, if not the entirety of it. “This place is a retreat. Sometimes it’s a think tank, and sometimes it’s just a place our people come when they want the same thing you’re here for—a quiet vacation.”

She looked at the house a moment longer, a faint furrow between her brows. “Your people?”

“The group I work for.” It was close enough. He laced his fingers between hers over the top of the wall and his thoughts stumbled, his equilibrium lost. For an instant he knew the stunning peace of having one focus and one focus only. Ana.

“Are you all right?” She let him keep her hand, but not without concern. “You look...distracted. Something’s wrong?”

“The opposite,” he told her, and captured that hand, too—did it without second thought, as though he had every right. Even the headache had lifted. “You ready to take in some Georgia O’Keeffe? It’s a twenty-minute walk from here.”

She didn’t hide her bemusement. “Something tells me you’ll enjoy that twenty minutes of motion more than the museum itself.”

“I’ll enjoy the company,” he said, surprising himself by just how much he meant it. And she surprised him back, squeezing his hands in an unspoken response.

She might just have surprised herself, to judge by the look on her face—a little bit uncertain, a little bit amused. She glanced down the greenway path. “Would you like to just...walk?”

“I’ve got a better idea.” He looked east toward the mountains—not thinking of the trail where he’d encountered the mountain lion, but a little south of it, where the scenic byway wound upward to Vista Grande through splashes of aspen gold. “If you don’t mind a motorcycle, that is.”

Her eyes widened faintly, pleasure behind them. Ian grinned at her, for the moment, not thinking of the silent amulets at all.

“I’ve never been on one,” she warned him.

“It’s a touring bike,” he assured her, and then laughed when she only looked blankly in response. “It’s comfortable. You’ll feel secure. Though the retreat has a car—we can take that, if you’d prefer.”

She lifted a brow. “What kind of car?”

He nodded at the side of the house, where the bright blue Smart car just barely peeked out. She eyed it and then leaned over the wall to also ostentatiously eye the length of his leg. “Maybe not.”

Ian laughed. “Maybe not,” he agreed. “Come on around. We’ve got a jacket you can use. It’ll be cool up on the mountain.”

The retreat had plenty of such little extras, and if the leather jacket was a little big on her, the sleeves shoved back well enough—and the biking gloves fit perfectly. He showed her how to secure the motorcycle helmet, threading the double-D rings and snapping the trailing strap, then stowed her purse in the saddlebags. A quick primer on mounting, the foot pegs, the muffler placement and how to be a neutral passenger, and they were ready to go.

By then Fernie had emerged from the kitchen, an unusual flush to her features and her smile looking a bit determined. She proffered a packed lunch, and while Ian tucked it away and grabbed his own jacket, all black leather and zippers and snaps, Fernie leaned close to Ana as if Ian didn’t have the ears of a Sentinel to hear every word. “You hang on tight, now.”

Ana laughed—a faint uncertainty to it, but a low musical note, too, and one that tickled his ears.

Only once, after he’d mounted the bike and held it steady for her to settle in behind him, did she hesitate—and then, only just for a moment. Long enough to touch the pocket of her dark slacks, and he guessed she had her phone there—although reception on the mountain road would be touch and go at best. Then she climbed on, placing herself precisely on the seat and her feet on the passenger pegs, her legs barely brushing the outside of his hips and her hands resting loosely just above them.

“The trick is not to think too hard about it,” he told her, briefly resting a hand on the side of her lower leg. “And just nudge my shoulder if you need anything. I’ll pull over.”

“What are you waiting for?” she demanded.

He laughed and started the bike—and if she clutched tightly at him on the first turn and made him fight to keep the bike on line at the second turn, by the time they eased out of town and through the expensive foothills real estate, she’d started to relax. By the time they’d climbed through the piñon-juniper to the ponderosa, swooping gently through the curves and ever climbing upward, her hands rested around his waist as though they’d always been there, her knees snug at his hips without tension.

She shifted only slightly, never interfering with their balance, as he pointed out the things he spotted along the ride—the ferruginous hawk perched off the side of the road, the amazing tower of an ancient pine. He slowed down for the scatter of elk in the trees, giving her a good look and grinning when her hands tightened in the thrill of spotting them.

And along the way, he found himself just as relaxed as she was—just as willing to go along with the moment, without the constant nag of activity in his mind.

Huh.

Sixteen miles later he pulled over at the Vista Grande overlook, bracing the bike while she dismounted, her hands suddenly self-conscious as she steadied herself on his shoulder. He felt the distance like a cold chill, the descent of cares and the weighty awareness of...

Everything.

She fumbled at the helmet strap but managed it, pulling the helmet off to fluff up her hair. Then she got a good look at the view and faltered, her eyes widening.

“The Jemez Mountains,” he said, hooking his helmet over a handlebar as he dismounted and moving up behind her to point out the distant range, his arm over her shoulder where it felt like it belonged. “The Rio Grande Valley. Albuquerque, if you squint.” Not to mention the swatches of golden aspen against the dark green of the predominant ponderosa pines, Sangre de Cristo fall drama in all its glory.

She leaned back into him; maybe she didn’t even realize it.

Ian realized it. Boy, did he realize it. He cleared his throat. “There are a handful of trails leading out from this overlook—including one that goes into the Pecos wilderness.” He nodded eastward, and her hair tickled his chin. “If you’d like—if you have some hiking shoes—we can come again, and hike out into the aspens.”

A car drove past, slowing for the overlook...not stopping. When the sound of its motor no longer hummed among the trees, Ana pulled away from him—turning to face him, her hand touching her pocket as if it steadied her...her expression a little wary.

“Why?” she said.

He grew still inside, understanding the danger of taking this question lightly. “Because it’s beautiful, and I’d like to share it with you.”

She turned away, looking out over the sprawling vista of forest and valley and distant ranges rising anew.

Ian tapped a pattern against his thigh. “Hey,” he said, resisting the impulse to close the space between them. “If I misread the situation, no worries. We drive back down the mountain, you head off to the rest of your vacation, and we still had a good ride together in amazing country.”

He could hardly believe himself. Not when he wanted to—

Except it didn’t matter what he wanted, if she didn’t. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t have work to do, no matter his orders and Fernie looking over his shoulder. Until he cracked the secret of the silents, they were all at risk. High risk.

He hadn’t come near to convincing himself when she said it again. “Why?”

This time, he realized what she was asking—but not before she turned to look at him, searching his expression as she added, “You don’t even know me.”

He suddenly felt off balance. “That’s how it usually starts,” he said. “By meeting. And liking. And wanting more.” Who could not? And not just because of her delicate beauty, or the natural color of her lips against the glow of her complexion, or the way she wore that ill-fitting jacket that made it perfectly clear what curves lurked beneath—although his body responded to those things readily enough.

No, it was more about the complexity waiting behind her eyes, calling out the puzzle lover in Ian. One moment laughing, the next turned inward, and always—always—a shine of vulnerability. As if she simply waited for someone who could figure her out.

It was the way she made him feel. Moments of peace and inner quiet.

She must have seen something on his face. Her expression turned suddenly fierce. “I don’t need saving from being alone, if that’s what you think.”

Ian made an impatient sound. “That’s not what this is about.” He closed the distance between them then, reaching out to cradle her head and thread his fingers through her hair—holding but not constraining, and watching her eyes go wide while her body stiffened inside the ridiculously large jacket.

But then she relaxed, those eyes still huge and not so much wary as uncertain—waiting. Learning, he would have said, as he leaned down to her. Her hands rose to brush against his forearms as if they didn’t know what else to do, but her mouth...it rose to meet his. And when he kissed her, she kissed him back—a gentle thing, as uncertain as the rest of her could be.

He wooed her with that kiss, making it light and teasing, just a touch of tongue along her lips and a touch of nibbling tooth. Keeping it light in spite of the instant fire licking along his skin and settling heavily in his groin.

Maybe he trembled faintly—maybe it was just the breeze stirring her hair. Either way, Ian knew his limits, no matter how it surprised him to hit them so soon. He stroked the fine line of her cheekbones with his thumbs and lifted his mouth from hers, unbending himself into his full height.

Another car drove past, slowing dramatically until it moved past the vista. Ana closed her hands around his wrists, holding his hands where they cupped her head, and lifted her gaze to his—luminescent brown eyes that caught him as securely as the warmth of her fingers. “But how do you know this is what you want?”

He instantly sensed this wasn’t about fishing for compliments. He hunted for truth.

“For sure?” he said. “You don’t. You just believe. You feel, and you follow it. The rest either comes or it doesn’t.” He slid one hand around to the back of her neck and lifted slightly, changing her balance just enough so she stepped forward, bringing them together in the most unmistakable way. His other hand slid down to the small of her back, absorbing every inch of the curves along the way and stopping just above the round swell of her bottom.

No way would she miss all the evidence of his response to her, from the tension in his body to the distinct erection so uncomfortably trapped by his jeans.

She drew a sharp breath, and her hands tightened on his arms—at least until he laughed, just a short huff of amusement. “Breathe,” he advised her, and brushed his cheek against hers. “If you faint, I’ll never figure this out.”

At that, she stepped back, brushing her hand over the pocket he’d decided held her phone. “Figure what out?”

“Whether you want me, too,” he said as matter-of-factly as anyone could. “Because I don’t want yes. I want hell, yes.”

Finally, she laughed. “Either way, we’re not getting back on that motorcycle until you’re a little more relaxed, are we?”

“No,” he said, and grinned. “We certainly are not.”

She scraped windblown hair from her face. “You don’t doubt yourself much, do you?”

He shrugged, his peripheral vision catching yet another car on approach. “All the time,” he told her. “But I don’t fear the doubt.”

Failure was another story. He could sell her nightmares about failure.

“You know,” she said, “you’re right. You knew it, didn’t you? Meeting. Liking. Wanting more. Yes, I’d love to go on a hike with you while I’m here. Yes, I feel...and I want to follow it.”

This grin came along with a slow burn of warmth—a spot inside himself that made itself quiet long enough for him to feel the simple pleasure of the moment.

But damn, it didn’t do a thing for his ability to hop back on that bike.

The approaching car slowed enough so he thought it might stop, then moved on. Gawkers, he decided, fully aware of the moment they’d interrupted.

At least, he thought it right up until he felt the unmistakable taint of a Core working. He turned sharply from Ana, eyes narrowing, body readying—for attack, for defense, for the challenge of identifying the working just as quickly as he could even if he had very little means to protect from it. His shields were only moderate and, without laboratory conditions and warding to enhance them, of only minimal use against a direct working.

Ana whirled to follow his attention, cuing from his body language—shrinking back, but also readying herself—a shift of balance, a grab for the jacket pocket where he’d be damned if she hadn’t probably stashed that pepper spray. “What—?”

Late model midsize SUV, a dark metallic green. Driver, passenger and enough tint to the windows so he couldn’t say anything else of them.

And then it was gone, and the car accelerated away just as any other sightseer might have done.

“Ian?”

He tried to stand down; he tried to convince himself he hadn’t felt the working—a thing that had passed too quickly to identify it as anything other than a detection amulet. His fingers drummed a pattern against the side of his leg. He hadn’t quite found the right words, his mind too full of their vulnerable position here on the mountainside, the ramifications of Core presence, the phone calls he should be making—when she rested a hand on his arm.

Silence.

He turned to her, startled by it—not quite able to respond to it.

“Are you all right?” Nothing uncertain in those brown eyes now, just concern, her arching eyebrows raised in question.

“I’m—” he said, and shook his head. “It’s nothing.” And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was just as simple as sightseeing posse members with an alert working—one that would warn against Sentinel presence simply because some Core members were no more prepared to deal with Sentinels than a light-blood support tech wanted to deal directly with Core.

No wonder they had sped away, if that had been the case.

“Nothing,” he told her again. “And I’ve got an idea. You, me, takeout of your choice and a movie at your place tonight.” Not that he wouldn’t gladly spend the whole day with her, hitting the Railyard artisans or Old Town or even the O’Keeffe museum—but he had the sudden impulse to check in with the lab and see if they’d made any progress without him, and to check in on Fernie, who in spite of her cheerful send-off, hadn’t seemed quite herself today.

“Me, you, takeout and a movie at my place,” she agreed. “And then... I guess we see.”

Dammit. It was going to take forever before he could get on that motorcycle again.

Chapter 3

Ana closed the door behind Ian Scott and leaned against it with a sigh, still fully feeling the movement of his mouth over hers and the way it woke everything inside her. Pounding heart, warmth pooling in intimate places, the frisson of those faintly pointed canine teeth on her skin, her breath coming just a little bit fast.

Until reality hit, a blow that momentarily took her breath away altogether.

She wasn’t here to feel. She was here to plant two amulets and gather information. Tonight, when he came back with takeout and his unsuspecting, habitually wry hint of a smile.

He is snow leopard, Ana Dikau. He is beast.

She slipped a hand into her front pocket, running her fingers over the tiny listening amulet she hadn’t yet planted.

Because I’m doing well so far. Because I don’t want to risk blowing the operation if he finds it. Because he’s more sensitive to such things than his dossier indicated he would be. The amulet-tainted car along the overlook road had told her that much.

It was all true. But she didn’t know if such reasons would convince Hollender Lerche, a man with little patience for underperformance. And she did know that this was her one and only chance to prove herself to the organization that had never quite found her of value. Certainly never treated her as though she was of value.

If she could just do this one thing for them...

“Ana.”

She jerked her hand out of her pocket with a guilty start. “Mr. Lerche! What are you doing here? Ian might have come inside—”

He emerged not from the great room of this modest vacation rental, but from her bedroom—dressed in his usual suit, heavy silver flashing at his ear and wrist and fingers, his skin a darker shade than hers and his features heavier. She flushed, a furious heat on her cheeks, but the look on his face silenced her, and then so did his words. “Surely not into the bedroom, Ana. Woo him, dearest. Don’t fuck him.”

She knew better than to respond. He didn’t want her; he wanted only to claim and control her. To distress her, because it made him feel more than he was.

The problem was, knowing those things didn’t change his status with regard to hers—and it didn’t change his effect on her. The dread in her stomach, cold and hard and a little bit sick. The way she felt smaller and weaker. And the way just once, she wanted to feel as though she belonged in this society to which she’d been born.

Maybe if she tried harder. Maybe if she was stronger. Maybe if she didn’t let her sentimental tendencies get in the way, as they always had. Then again, few women rose in the ranks, preferring the anonymity and protection of an early marriage. No man in the Atrum Core would touch another’s spouse.

Now and then it occurred to Ana that it should be enough that a woman simply didn’t want to be touched. But experience proved otherwise.

Certainly Hollender Lerche felt free enough to touch her—as he did now, grasping her jaw in a hard grip and then tightening his blunt fingers even further, bringing a sting of involuntary tears to Ana’s eyes. “We need to talk, Ana.”

“He’ll be back in this evening for dinner.” Desperate words, barely intelligible. And that’s all she said, because suggesting that he not leave a mark would only invite him to hurt her in ways that wouldn’t.

His grip didn’t ease. “I’m not concerned about an hour from now. I’m concerned about now. And why you haven’t activated the second amulet. The one that should be planted on your friend Ian Scott.”

“How—” But Ana didn’t finish the question. She squeezed her eyes closed in understanding. “The car. The working Ian felt. That was someone checking up on me?”

“An entirely necessary precaution, it would seem,” he said, and gave her a little shake before releasing her with a disdainful flick of his fingers. He turned away, withdrawing a folded handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his fingers.

“But he’s an AmTech. He felt it. He knows we’re here—”

“That was always a risk.” Lerche snapped the words. The modicum of security she’d gained at his distance evaporated. “Entirely on your shoulders, Ana dear. If you were trustworthy, we wouldn’t have risked exposure. As it is, it seems we had good reason.”

“I just need a little more time!” she cried, trying and failing to soften the resentment threading her plea. She scrambled to find the right words, hoping to distract him. “He’s more sensitive about amulets than we thought—and besides, if I plant it on the wrong item of clothing, the amulet could sit in a closet for days.”

“You’re cozy enough with him,” Lerche said, tucking the handkerchief away and squaring the lapels of his suit. “Carry the activated amulet on your person until you can make that decision.”

But I—

This time she managed to keep the words to herself—a protest at her loss of privacy would not be well received. It might even make him realize that such concern had caused her to delay in the first place.

She’d wanted to talk to Ian Scott without being overheard. She’d wanted to connect with him her own way.

Although she’d never expected to connect with him at all. Or to relax behind him on the motorcycle, clasping his hips as if such closeness was a familiar thing, or to respond so strongly to his presence.

To his touch.

Snow leopard.

Surely she should have been frightened. More than just nervous and unfamiliar, but downright terrified of what he was and of what she’d seen him do.

Snow leopard.

And yet he’d been gentle with her. He’d been respectful. He’d been careful. And he’d allowed every decision to be hers.

Not that she’d truly had a choice. The Core demanded of her to do this thing—to get close to him, to plant spy amulets on him, to learn of him what she could.

You could have said no. In her heart, she knew that. No, don’t kiss me. No, don’t touch me that way.

If she’d wanted.

Lerche’s voice was a silky thing, all the more dangerous for it. “What are you thinking, my little Ana?”

“About the best way to do what you’ve asked.” As if there was any other answer.

His hand flashed out to pat her cheek—nigh on close to a slap, and enough to rock her head, jarring her vision. “You betray yourself, Ana. I haven’t asked you to do anything. I’ve told you what you’ll do.”

She covered her burning cheek. “Of course,” she said, and hated that her voice wasn’t quite steady. “I misspoke.”

He eyed her coldly enough so she knew she wouldn’t be forgiven that easily. “It’s fortunate for you that we don’t have the time to bring someone else up to speed on this operation. See that you do better this evening. Wear the amulet yourself until you have the opportunity to plant it to our advantage.”

“Yes,” she said, forcing herself to drop her hand and stand straight but not facing him directly. Not a hint of confrontational body language. “Of course I will.”

He smiled in tight satisfaction. The kind of smile that said he knew he was better than she was, that he was entitled to more respect than she was, that he was in control of his own destiny in ways she would never be. “I’ll be watching.”

Only after he’d gone did she allow herself to explore her hot cheek and tender jaw, and wonder whether he’d gone so far that bruises would bloom beyond what she could hide with casual makeup.

First step, an ice pack. She dumped ice into a zipper storage bag and wrapped it in a thin towel, curling up on the couch while she did the things that would calm her—thinking only of the cool relief of the ice and soft cushions of the couch and the quiet of this place. Reminding herself what the Sentinels were and why she did this—and of how much of that Sentinel other she could see in Ian at any given time.

Of how easily he’d killed a man the week before.

But somehow, as she dozed off, her thoughts wandered back to the forest that week earlier when Ian had heard the hiker’s peril. The way he’d bounded forward without hesitation. The way he’d flowed from one form to another, surrounded by a cloud of stunningly beautiful energies. How he’d done it for a stranger—and what would he do for one of his own?

What would it be like to be with someone who cared that much?

She didn’t heed Lerche’s voice in her head, so scornful that she’d already forgotten Ian’s true reasons for what hadn’t been a rescue at all—the excuse to turn loose his beast, a thing so fearsome that it had turned on the man he should have been saving.

She thought instead of being allowed choices, and of respect, and of how deeply he’d responded to her without the hint of a harsh touch.

She didn’t mean to fall so completely asleep with Ian on her thoughts, but she did. She woke an hour later with her jaw stiff and her body humming in memory of gentle hands and skillful mouth. She froze, making sure of herself—am I still alone?

Silence. A clock ticking. A brief flurry of birds outside.

No, Lerche hadn’t returned. Nor had anyone else made themselves at home here. Slowly, she unwound from her dreams, from the sensations.

From the fantasy of being loved.

And then she drew herself up and headed to the kitchen, dumping the bag of melted ice in the sink and heading to the bathroom to freshen up. Her cheek was no longer red, and she thought it wouldn’t bruise at all. Her jaw was a different story—pale impressions from Lerche’s fingers with the bruising coming up between them.

She pulled out her makeup bag.

* * *

Ana had an hour before Ian arrived. It was long enough to ply her skills with powder and brush, and to dim the bright reflected sunshine of a late afternoon in the fall—angling the blinds, drawing the shades. She set the table so the remaining light would fall on his face and not hers, placing a half-full glass of iced tea as a casual claim to the correct seat.

She might not have worried at all. When she opened the door to him, take-out bags in hand, she found an entirely different man than the one with whom she’d spent the morning. This one looked worn and pale and pained, and just a little bit baffled. She instantly forgot her concerns about hiding her bruises. She even forgot her mixed feelings about putting herself in the hands of a Sentinel for the evening—one who had been perfectly appropriate during their very public afternoon ride, but who might now reveal another side of himself.

“Ian!” she said. “You look—” and then stopped herself. She’d learned that mentioning someone else’s condition tended to draw scrutiny to herself, and she didn’t want that.

Besides, “You look terrible” didn’t seem like a great opening for the evening.

But Ian just laughed, low as it was. “I do look terrible,” he said. “I’m not one for headaches, but—” He shook his head, most gingerly.

She relieved him of the sandwiches. “Are you sure you want to do this? We can do lunch tomorrow, if you’d like. Or dinner tomorrow evening.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Distracted as he was, his gaze still pinned her—an intense stare peering out from beneath a civilized veneer. “I can forget about the headache if you can.”

She gestured him into the little rental house. “I’ll draw the blinds—maybe we can find an old movie.”

“Bogart?” Ian said, head tipped with interest. Even not at the top of his game, he exuded intelligent energy and restlessness—at least until he tripped over the threshold as he entered the house. “Whoa,” he said. “Smooth.”

“You’re sure—”

“I’m sure,” he told her. “Let’s eat that food while it’s fresh.”

She took the bag to the table, pulling out cartons and filling the room with the yeasty scent of fresh bread and savory herbals. He wandered in after her as she set ice water before his place and closed the blinds a bit more, feeling more secure about her ability to hide the bruises as they settled in for the meal, full of the small talk of such moments. Plain old normal small talk from a man who wasn’t quite normal at all, while Ana thought about the amulet in her pocket. The one she’d been commanded to invoke.

Ian clearly wasn’t quite focused. He fumbled his fork in the salad, nearly knocked over the salad dressing, and seemed to find his thick, layered deli sandwich as much by feel as by sight.

“Have you considered seeing a doctor?” Only in retrospect did she realize that of course he wouldn’t, because Sentinels never did go to mundane doctors—not the strong-blooded Sentinels, at any rate. They wouldn’t be able to hide enough of their true nature.

“If things don’t get better.” Ian ran a thumb up and down the ice water as if, even now, he couldn’t find a way to be still. “I don’t get sick often. I’m probably not much of a patient.”

Compared to the Core posse members who demanded that she wait on their every need even when they weren’t sick, she thought he was doing just fine. But it interested her to see how close he skirted to telling her the full truth of his nature—that, in fact, he’d not come right out and lied to her. Of course a strong-blooded Sentinel wasn’t used to being sick. Given the unnatural rate at which they healed, it would be a wonder if they ever were.

Ana herself had been blessed with a naturally quick rate of healing—or cursed with it, rather. It was one reason Lerche felt free to leave his mark on her. But she got sick as often as anyone else, with the same clusters of cold and flu and a stomach that could be touchy. She made sure she was always a very good patient, requiring as little from the Core physicians as she could. But she said merely, “If things don’t get better, you probably should.”

Ian caught himself rubbing his temple and gave a rueful laugh, if not much of one. “It’s probably something going around.” He didn’t look convinced, and she wasn’t surprised. Field Sentinels like Ian Scott didn’t catch such things, even if the light-bloods did. “Fernie wasn’t looking well this afternoon, either. I spent the afternoon in the kitchen, helping her clean up after one of her bake-fests.”

Her fork hovered in midair as she tried to imagine it...and found that she could. Found that she could easily see this sharp-edged man putting aside his work to help the retreat manager on a tough afternoon.

She couldn’t say the same for Hollender Lerche.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” he said, mistaking her hesitation. “If it’s catching—”

She laughed and speared the fork into her salad. If he noticed how carefully she’d been chewing, he didn’t mention it. “If it’s catching, then I think I’ve already got it, don’t you?”

He grinned. “There’s something to that.” And then they talked quietly of favorite old movies while she pulled her laptop open and rented them a Bogart flick—Key Largo, of course—and Ian demonstrated that whatever the state of his headache, his casual mastery of tech also included hooking a laptop up to the house TV so they could watch on the larger screen. By the time they finished the last forkful of their cheesecake dessert, they shared the couch as if they’d always done so.

Only when Ana was fully nestled in under Ian’s arm, her legs curled beneath her while he stretched the length of his out on to the kitchen chair he’d appropriated for that purpose, did she realize she hadn’t yet invoked the second amulet—and that she didn’t dare do it now, for fear he would sense it, no matter its silent nature.

It didn’t matter. Surely Hollander Lerche wasn’t interested in murmured chitchat over a classic movie. Surely he couldn’t expect her to delve into a conversation of more substance until Ian was more comfortable with her—more confident with her.

Although he was, most obviously, comfortable and confident enough to fall asleep on her couch.

She realized it as the film credits began to roll. She drew back from beneath his arm to consider him in the flickering light of the television, pulling her feet up on the couch to wrap her arms around her legs and rest her chin on her knees. Knowing that she ought to be curled up on the other end of this couch, trembling in fear. And that she ought to trigger the amulet, shortening the time she was exposed to Ian and his entitled, arrogant ways.

He was, after all, a man who represented everything about a race of people who considered themselves more than and better than and quite evidently above the law altogether.

But Ian’s touch had given her choice. Brought her pleasure. Inspired her napping dreams. Protected her from a mugger.

It startled her to realize that Lerche’s man had known Ian would leap to her side when the cyclist grabbed at her—that he’d counted on it. She frowned, thinking that one through—or trying to. Instead, she found herself distracted by the way dark lashes swept a shadow across Ian’s high, strong cheek. And by the way his mouth, in repose, relaxed to show the definition of lips that pleased her—their shape, the little hint of a curve at one side that revealed his habitual dry humor. The faint cleft in his chin, the unlikely perfection of the way silvered bangs scattered across his forehead, the equally unlikely short, dark hairs that defined his hairline at sideburns, nape and even buried beneath the lighter strands.

The movie credits ended and the sudden silence alerted him; she saw the glimmer of his awakening gaze and smiled. She felt the promise of that look and of his interest in her. She felt her body warming to awareness—not of the Sentinel, but of the man.

Then again, the Core had always considered her to be weak of heart and mind, hadn’t they?

“Hey,” she said, and even her quiet voice seemed loud in the house. “Feel better?”

He stretched—an indulgent thing, right down to his fingers—and relaxed utterly again. “Hey,” he said. “Much better.” But then his eyes narrowed, and for an instant she felt pinned by his gaze—she felt all the fluttering uncertainty she’d told herself she ought to. “Ana...are those bruises?”

“Bruises?” she said, sounding as stupid as she felt. How could he...darkness had fallen, and she hadn’t turned on any lights. Only what came from the TV, where the bubbles from her laptop screen saver drifted over the surface. Between the makeup and the darkness, she should have been safe from questions about the marks Lerche had left.

“You didn’t have those this morning.” He no longer reclined, relaxed, but now sat straighter, tension filling his shoulders. He tapped a quick pattern against his leg and nodded at her jaw. “I should have seen them earlier, but that headache...”

Of course. Right. Because Sentinels had that vaunted night vision—a spillover from the beast they carried within. What had Lerche been thinking?

But Ana knew the answer to that question. He hadn’t cared.

“Are they that bad?” She touched her jaw, and a wince gave her the answer. Still, she addressed the bigger elephant in the room. “I can’t believe you can see them in this light.”

“Just one of those things,” he said, making no attempt to explain it—but not making anything up, either. “Ana, who—”

“I’m here alone,” she told him, and realized with those words that she was the one who lied to him, who had lied to him from the moment they’d crossed paths. “It was just one of those stupid things.”

He searched her face as if he might find the truth there.

Well, it was one of those stupid things. She knew better than to show disrespect to Hollender Lerche. That was on her, that she’d done so. But she also knew that sometimes Lerche’s mood meant there was no avoiding his temper. That was on him.

Ian let it pass, in a way she thought meant he wasn’t actually going to forget it. He rose to his feet, so fluidly she couldn’t believe he’d been deeply ensconced in the couch an instant earlier, and prowled to the window—looking out into the darkness and seeing who knew what.

“You are feeling better,” she said. “And I guess I have the answer to my question.”

He turned his head just enough to offer a puzzled frown. “Which question is that?”

“The one where I wondered if you ever sat still,” she said drily.

He laughed, short as it was. “No,” he said. “Not often. When I sleep. And...” He gave her a thoughtful look, and quite obviously didn’t finish the sentence.

“Oh, come on,” she said, unclasping her hands from around her legs and letting her feet slide to the floor. “Now you’ve got to tell me. Even if it’s embarrassing. Especially if.”

He padded back to the couch; somewhere along the way he’d lost his shoes, and the barefoot movement only added to the prowl in his walk.

He killed a man. I should be frightened.

But she wasn’t.

She was alive.

Her fingers tingled as he reached down to offer his hand. She took it; her body pulsed as he drew her to her feet. Warmth suffused her, instilling just a hint of weakness in her knees—a delightfully liquid sensation.

“And now,” he said, pulling her closer—not with so much strength she couldn’t hold her own, but with enough ease to demonstrate the strength still lurking. He touched her face; he skimmed his fingers along her jaw so lightly that she felt only their presence and not the pain of the bruises beneath. “Now,” he said, and kissed one eyelid, and then the next. “Now,” he added, and brought his mouth down on hers, kissing her with a gentle assertion—and kissing her, and kissing her, until she threaded her fingers through his hair and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him back, so caught up in the firm sensation of his lips, the tease of tongue and teeth, the impression of being...not taken, but worshiped.

He bent over her and she trusted. He dipped her as if they were in a dance, and she gave herself up to his strength. He settled her perfectly over the cushions of the couch, and she never stopped reaching for him.

She had no idea how much time passed before he groaned and drew back—and said, with no little wonder, “Now. I can’t explain it... I never—”

She silenced him with boldness, slipping her hand inside his shirt to caress skin and feel it flutter beneath her fingertips, a sensitive flinch that came with a grin. She suggested, “Just feel...and follow it?”

He searched her eyes. For once she didn’t feel like the vulnerable one—not with the uncertainty she saw there, or his eyes gone so dark with what she’d done to him. Or for him. Definitely not with the hard tremble of his arms and body—a tremble that in no way came from weakness. “Is that what you want?”

Yes. Because what she felt right now was safe and enclosed and accepted. As if, in that moment, she was everything she needed to be.

How could she do anything other than follow that feeling?

“Yes,” she said, surprised by the husky sound of her own voice. “Yes, please. Let’s.”

“Let’s,” he agreed, and laughed just a little—in relief, she thought. Not that she had much time to think about it. He lowered himself over her only enough so she could wrap her legs around him, ruing the impediment of clothing—and then surprised her when he slipped his hands more firmly beneath her and pivoted to sit, putting her squarely in his lap. Squarely against him and his quite obviously already straining erection.

Pleasure speared through her, startling her into a cry—one she’d not heard herself make before. And then when he moved against her, another, this one echoed by the faint snarl of Ian’s expression—just as surprised as she was, his fingers clamping down on her hips.

Such a pure, hot lightning, striking so deeply within... Her fingers dug into his shoulders, gathering the material of his shirt—but only briefly, because the more she felt, the more she wanted to touch him. Fumbling at buttons, pushing the shirt back to expose the planes of his chest—a lean man’s muscled body, layered in strength without bulk, crisp pale hair scattered to tease her fingers and fade across his abs to reappear in a narrow line above his belt.

As it had before, his skin twitched, more sensitive than she’d imagined. When she spread her fingers across his belly and went seeking beneath the belt, he made a disbelieving sort of sound, half laugh and half gasp, and rolled them over again. The soft couch cushions enveloped her just as he found her mouth. He kissed her with fiercely thorough attention, his fingers at her blouse buttons and then tangling with hers. He moved his mouth to her neck, nipping, as she reached for his belt, and he reached for her slacks button. She tugged his pants over his hips; he deftly yanked hers out from beneath her, his mouth still on her neck, on her collarbones, dipping lower to ignore her bra and find one nipple right through the soft material.

She bucked up against him and reveled in it—reveled in watching herself and her response to him. No man had evoked such response in her...no man had ever tried.

Ian laughed again, this time with a growl in the background. He lifted his head to capture her gaze, and she stilled under the impact of it—bright intensity, heated desire...

“Please,” she told him, understanding the question behind that look. “Yes. Most definitely yes.”

He drew a sharp breath—relief or fettered passion, she wasn’t sure. But then she didn’t want to wait any longer. She kicked her pants aside, shoving her panties off with them, and then went after his boxers. In a moment they were both free, both already warm and wet with the wanting, and she didn’t think twice. She wrapped her legs around his hips and reveled in his unrestrained grunt of pleasure as flesh met flesh.

And then Ian surprised her all over again, flattening himself on her, muttering—grasping for his pants while the couch all but swallowed them both. He made a sound of triumph and emerged with a condom. She shared his breathless victory with a grin, and between the two of them they got the thing unwrapped and in place, and then he was in place again, and with a single nudge of adjustment, they slipped together.

Ana stopping thinking. She stopped being able to think. She barely realized it when Ian swung her upright again, thrusting upward as her knees sank into the couch cushions. Pure hot lightning... Ana reached for more of it, finding a rhythm with him, barely aware of her own cries. She shot straight through that pleasure to sensations she’d never even imagined, and found herself with a sudden new awareness.

His response to her. His gasps and his expression, cords of muscle straining in his neck and his face flushed, his eyes widening with the same sort of startled recognition that suffused her own body. An utter vulnerability that he seemed to fight against and lose to with every thrust, with every breath.

“Ian,” she breathed, and it was a kind of plea, an understanding that she was in an unfamiliar place and didn’t know where to go from there. His hand slid from her waist to cover her pubic hair, thumb sliding downward to touch her just so.

Lightning struck. She cried out in abandon and lost herself to it, a flood of sensation that tugged at her toes and filled her from the inside out, every muscle clenched or throbbing in the best possible way. She dimly heard Ian’s shout, feeling the pulse of his release in a way that had never mattered before but now suddenly did. She opened her eyes just soon enough to see it on his face—ecstasy ripping right through him, laying him as bare as it had laid her.

That’s when she understood, even as the final throb of pleasure ebbed through her body, leaving her limp in its wake.

Being with Ian wasn’t just about seeing where things went or following along in an adventure or feeling, even pulling the most possible pleasure from it all.

It was about doing those things together.

Chapter 4

Ian gulped for air, reveling in the sensation of Ana’s body draped over his. Not to mention the pulses of lingering pleasure and the distinct memory of her expression as orgasm had washed over her. His breathing steadied; his mind steadied.

Quiet. Replete.

A completely unfamiliar inner silence.

He floundered in it, uncertain—looking for some mental handhold, even if it brought him back to the plague of internal noise he couldn’t remember being without.

She stirred, pushing off his chest to look at him with her face still flushed and now blushing on top of it, her hair a delightful disarray. “Oh, my God,” she said, putting a hand over her mouth. “I... I screamed.”

He smiled, finding his anchor in her expression. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”

“I never—” She stopped herself. “I...never...”

It caught his attention. There was more here than the aftermath of great sex. Stupendously great sex. Even he knew that much, still floating in the physical satisfaction and silence. “What?”

“No, I—” She shook her head, looking around—bringing herself back to the details of what had happened. He knew what she’d see—scattered clothes, scattered couch cushions and a man she hadn’t known all that long still lying beneath her.

He stopped her just before she would have removed herself from it all, his hands over her thighs—enough to encompass, not enough to force compliance—and asked it again. “What?”

She covered her face, only briefly, and then flipped her hair back. “I’ve never come with anyone before.”

He frowned. “At the same time? Because technically, you beat me to that finish line.”

She laughed, but it sounded sad. “No, I mean...when I’ve been with someone. Ever.” She took a breath as he tried to absorb this. “I’m ‘too hard to please.’”

He half sat, his hold on her legs keeping them just as together as they’d been. “Who said that? Because—” Then he stopped, suddenly aware of the depth of his reaction, his protective response. “Never mind. That’s not what I want to say. But just so you know, whoever said that is obviously fucking nuts. Pardon me.”

She laughed again, this time sounding as if, just possibly, she’d been freed from something. But she quickly turned uncertain. “Ian,” she said. “Seriously. Is this how it should always be?”

“Babe,” he told her, still awash in the aftermath of silence within himself, “this is how we always wish it would be. But it should always be good. A man makes certain of that.”

Blessed, blessed silence...

She said, “I’ll have to think about that.”

“Don’t,” he said, and was a little hard pressed to explain when she raised a brow at him. “Think, I mean. Just stay here with me a little while longer. Not thinking.”

“Look who’s talking. I got the impression that you never actually do stop thinking. I bet you run calculations in your sleep.” But she smiled, relaxing the fraction that told him she’d stay. She made another attempt to tame her hair back and gave up on it, instead turning her attention to his chest—chasing whorls of hair with her fingertips and the edges of short, practical nails painted something faintly pink. His skin pebbled in response, all the way down to his balls; he twitched faintly inside her. She laughed, disbelief at the edge of it.

“Hey,” he said, though he couldn’t help but grin back at her. “It is what it is.” Then, as she scraped the outside edge of a nipple, he shifted with a less lighthearted purpose. “But be merciful, if you would. I only brought the one condom.”

She withdrew her hands entirely. “Oh. Well. In that case—” and then she laughed again at his dramatic groan. “Not everything requires a condom, I hear. And there are some things I’ve always wanted to try—”

Of course his body fairly leaped to attention, squirming here and stiffening there, and this time she laughed right out loud—and then laughed again at his ruefully self-aware expression. “That felt to me like you might just be interested.”

“C’mere, babe,” he growled, an exaggerated version of manly prowess. “I’ll show you interested.”

And she had the audacity to stretch—right there, still sitting on top of him and surrounding him, the faint light painting the lines and curves of her body, all beauty and delicate grace. “Okay,” she said, and her tone had changed. More than confident. Eager.

He could do eager. With this woman? God, yes, he could do eager. And in that moment, and in the next, and the one to follow, he barely even noticed the silence in his mind at all.

* * *

Morning brought bright sunshine and the faintest taste of a hangover.

Or what Ian thought a hangover might be. Given the speed at which a strong-blooded Sentinel metabolized alcohol, it took a concerted effort to feel the effects—both during and after. Ian had done the usual youthful experiment and then ceased to bother.

But he was pretty sure this would be it. The underlying throb encompassing his eyes, the uncertainty in his stomach. Leftovers from whatever had struck him the day before.

And that deserved some thought. Ian wasn’t good at being sick because Sentinels generally weren’t. So what had he gotten into, or what had gotten into him?

He stared at the back of his eyelids a moment longer, taking in the unfamiliar sounds and scents of his surroundings, and especially the unfamiliar light. A different window, east-facing, than the one he’d taken here at the retreat. And Fernie’s kitchen smelled of sausage and egg in the morning, not just tea and toast.

Because this is Ana’s place.

Whoa.

Since when did he fall asleep so soundly in a strange place? Since when did he actually sleep the night through in any place? He finished waking in a burst of motion, rolling up to his knees, tangling in covers, and altogether ready for anything.

A cup of tea awaited him by the side of the bed, still steaming. He scowled at it, instantly aware of the significance—that Ana had not only left without waking him, she’d come and gone again with the tea.

And here she was again—padding out from the bathroom in a minuscule robe, scrubbing a towel over her hair. Damp and fresh and smelling... He inhaled deeply in spite of himself. Smelling like woman. Smelling like...

His.

“Not a morning person?” she asked, draping the towel over one shoulder. Her hair was mussed in a way he wished he’d done, her cheeks flushed with the shower and her eyes bright with...amusement?

He realized he’d frozen in that ready-to-pounce yet totally hungover fashion, and looked down at himself. Wearing his boxers, tangled in her sheets, thoroughly unable to get his thoughts together. Nothing to do but shrug. “Generally I’m an everything person,” he said. “Clearly that doesn’t apply to today.” With effort, he clambered out of the bed, straightening himself joint by joint, and reached for the tea. Irish black, oh, thank you.

The first sip finished waking him. When he lifted his head and caught a glimpse of the bathrobe hitting the floor, he went beyond awake and straight to alert. Attentive.

Ana reached into a drawer to extract a bra—faintly pink, like her nails, an underwire thing that would support the beauty he’d seen the night before. Modest in size but perfectly shaped, just ready for his hand or mouth. She gave a meaningful glance at his groin, where the boxers hid nothing. “I’d wondered if I wore you out, but I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Not when I’m with you,” he said, somewhat fervently. Another Sentinel blessing, that recovery time—but he couldn’t talk to her about Sentinels. Only the think tank aspect of his work.

“Leftovers from whatever got into you last night, then,” she suggested, stepping into panties with faint pink stripes.

Oh, hell. Yes. Exactly so. And not just him. No one had been feeling quite right at the retreat when he’d left. Ian floundered, caught completely behind in his own thoughts. Thoughts he would normally have worked on in pieces through the night, rising to wakefulness long enough to chew on them and then, if he was lucky, falling back to sleep. Either way, awakening in the morning with his thoughts spread out before him, ready for the day.

Not this day.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, gulping half the remaining tea in one swallow and setting the mug aside. His pants must be here somewhere, right? “I need to check on Fernie. And the others.”

She cocked her head, a stretchy bit of ribbed camisole in hand and her expression gone careful. Very, very careful. “Is this you running away?”

Because of course, he could call the retreat. Or he could assume that a house full of adults could manage minor illness without panic. She had no way of knowing that these particular adults were, like him, not used to managing illness at all. Or that anyone with even modestly strong blood did better with a Sentinel healer than they ever would with the average urgent care clinic.

“This is me taking care of my people,” he assured her, spotting the neat stack of his shirt and pants where she’d smoothed and folded them. He scooped them up, pulling them on in record time—and then stopped to regard her, scrubbing one hand through his thoroughly disheveled hair, across the scrape of his beard.

She’d tugged the camisole into place and now looked back at him with evident doubt, and he had to face the brutal truth of his off-balance morning. “Yeah,” he said. “I can use some space while I’m at it. But not because I’m running away. Because...”

Because I wasn’t expecting this. To be affected.

Oh, face it. To be reeling in the wake of her.

She’d put on a mask—the same face she’d worn when he’d first seen her. Unapproachable. Distant.

And, he now understood, self-protective.

She held her ground when he stepped up to her, and when he put a finger under her chin—lifting it slightly so the bruises along her jaw were beyond evident, and careful of them—careful of her. Biting back on fury to see them and knowing he’d find out what they were about when all was said and done, but that this moment wasn’t the right one.

“Because,” he said, “sometimes when you follow the feeling, you get far more than you ever expected. And if you want to do right by that, it takes a little space.”

Something in that stiff expression eased, allowing him back in. “Yes,” she said. “Okay. I can see that. I guess I can even feel some of it, this morning.” She caught his gaze, held it—a hint of honey in the brown of her eye. “Just promise this—when it’s time for you to walk away from us, be straight with me. Tell me you’re going. Don’t leave me wondering. Don’t leave me hopeful.”

The anger bubbled up again on her behalf. “Someone, somewhere, has done very badly by you.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Look, I may not always know what I’m doing. I might mess up. But I’ll do it honestly. And we’ll figure this out. By which I mean—” and he couldn’t help but grin as he bent to kiss her “—this.”

Her mouth was just as soft as it had been the night before, just as responsive. And so was he, immediately slipping into a possessive, claiming frame of mind, the strength of which only swelled once he noticed it.

She put a hand on his chest—not pushing, but enough to remind him what they’d been about. What he’d been about. When he pulled back, she’d regained the hint of a smile he’d already learned to look for. “Okay,” she said. “Check in with your mother ship. And today, the museum.”

“Come at noon and I’ll feed you first.” Ian held her chin a moment longer, bringing his thumb up to run along her lower lip where it shone damp with the attention he’d just given it.

Feed you, and find out who put their hands on you, and make sure it never happens again.

But first he had to make sure his people were all right.

* * *

Hollender Lerche found himself annoyingly aware of intrusion. He barely needed to glance at his office doorway to know that David Budian hesitated—no, hovered, in a most irritating way—outside his domain. But glance he did, looking up from the two receiver amulets on the otherwise empty desk, his very attention a demand for explanation.

This day, Budian dressed in natty slacks and short-sleeved dress shirt, a touring cap on his head and glasses he didn’t need over his nose. From this Lerche surmised that the man intended to again trail Ana Dikau. It was a precaution made necessary because she had only recently invoked the second amulet—and it, unlike the first, remained silent.

Not that the first had provided any useful information—although the primary working was as successful as they could have hoped, and the occupants of the house had definitely sickened.

Unfortunately, Ian Scott didn’t seem to be one of them.

Budian asked, “Anything?”

“Not of import,” Lerche told him. “The feeble-blooded Sentinels at the retreat are sickening, but Scott didn’t spend the night there.” Anger flickered to life at Ana’s defiance—her delay in invoking the second amulet, her whorish behavior with the Sentinel.

“So my man reported,” Budian said. “Scott left her rental a few moments ago—she wore him out, no doubt about that. I’ll pick her up if she leaves—or let you know if he returns. I’ve also planted a tracker on his motorcycle.” He took a breath on new words, hesitating there.

“What is it?” Lerche snapped.

Budian found the necessary mix of cautious respect. “Her face,” he said. “She came outside to say her goodbyes, and the bruises were visible. I must counsel caution when it comes to disciplining her, no matter that she deserves it.”

The anger flickered higher. “She should take better care with her makeup.”

“Agreed. But these Sentinels are notoriously possessive—that’s been the problem with them all along, hasn’t it? Possessive of the earth, possessive of whatever they deem to be theirs. It will complicate our task if this one goes looking for whoever left those bruises.”

“She knows better than to talk. And she heals more quickly than most.” Not that she knew it, or had any understanding of the taint her blood carried. She puzzled over her lack of acceptance within the Core ranks, but that was her problem. Lerche shook his head. “She is mine to discipline as necessary. But I’ll take your words into consideration.”

“Thank you,” Budian said, as well he might. “I’ll keep you apprised.”

Lerche nodded in dismissal, turning his attention back to the spy amulets. One still offered a mutter of occasional conversation and clattering kitchen noises, and the other briefly provided a muffled and unidentified sound.

Ana Dikau was a problem. Had always been a problem. Too eager for acceptance, never seeing that she wasn’t worthy, never understanding why—and yet constantly defying even the simplest edict. Never understanding that how little her value to him, she was still his.

She’d slept with the Sentinel.

Anger surged—and then slowly ebbed into satisfaction.

After all, she had invoked the amulet. She was spending time with Scott. He might sicken first, but ultimately she faced death right along with him. And she had no idea it would come at her own hand.

* * *

“Aspirin, yes. Ibuprofen or acetaminophen, no.” Ruger’s deep voice rumbled over Ian’s phone. Southwest Brevis’s skilled, no-nonsense healer was a man who took the bear in his other form—bigger than most, rumblier than most. “Keep ’em drinking—and put a drop of lemon oil in their water. Not the stuff under the sink for the furniture.”

“Not the furniture polish,” Ian repeated, amused in spite of the circumstances. He rounded the breakfast bar where he’d been taking notes, and opened Fernie’s remedy cabinet.

“You’d be surprised,” Ruger muttered. “Look, every once in a while something like this comes along—it sweeps through a bunch of us and goes on its way, showing up mainly in the light-bloods. Stick with common sense, and in a few days it’ll be history. Besides, it’ll take your mind off those silent amulets.”

“Does everyone know I’ve been sent up here to turn my brain off?”

Ruger made a rumbling noise of amusement. “Who do you suppose talked to Nick about prying you out of that laboratory for a while, little leopard?”

Ian made his own throat noise, and it wasn’t amusement.

Ruger laughed outright. “Never mind. We’ll talk about that later. Meanwhile, you’re not affected by this thing?”

Ian hesitated, thinking of the previous evening, not quite ready to admit vulnerability when he’d spent so much effort of late telling everyone he was fine, dammit. But then he’d hesitated too long, so he shrugged as he reached into the cabinet for the lemon oil. “Last night,” he said, tapping the little bottle against the counter in a clinking percussive accompaniment. “Helluva headache. Today, a little...yeah, hungover. Nothing more.”

“Sounds about right,” Ruger said. “Take the aspirin. Drink the fluids. Don’t get in over your head with activities.”

Ian snorted. “Now you sound like Fernie.”

“And,” Ruger said as if Ian hadn’t spoken, “call me if things don’t get better over the next day.”

Ian heard the serious note behind that directive. “Got it.”

“In fact, just call me. Tomorrow. I want to know how this thing is going, in case you’re not the only ones.” When Ian hesitated again, Ruger offered no leeway. “You’re not up there to get distracted by your work. Call me.”

Ian didn’t quite mean to mutter, “It’s not work that’s distracting me.”

Ruger laughed again. “Well, then,” he said. “Tell her hello, and look no further for the source of your little virus.”

“I only met her two days ago,” Ian grumbled. “Hardly even that.”

“That’s all it takes, with the right virus.” Ruger sounded altogether too cheerful. “It happens, you know. Even with us.” He gave Ian a quick list of other remedies they might find useful and that Fernie was likely to have on hand, including a recent batch of Ruger’s own tonic. “But don’t pull that one out unless things are getting bad. You’ll have the whole house bouncing off the walls. Of course,” he added, humor back in his voice, “you do that as a matter of course, so who’s to tell the difference.”

“Ha,” Ian said. “And ha.” And managed to mutter a promise to make that update call before he hung up.

But when he turned to face the kitchen, he couldn’t be quite as sanguine as Ruger—a man who had good reason to be cheerful, with his love Mariska newly pregnant. Another reason not to draw him up here. Mariska was also bear, small and fierce, and floundering a little in her new role as pending mother.

But Ian had arrived to find the place cluttered with an unprecedented number of dishes and no other evidence of the other retreat residents. A quick look around had revealed them all to be sleeping, and he’d left them that way, choosing to clean up and call Ruger before he disturbed Fernie.

Now he brewed her a quick cup of her favorite soother tea and added the lemon to it...and then hesitated and made one for himself, gulping an aspirin before he rummaged up one of yesterday’s muffins to add to her tray.

Unlike Ian’s room—a bedroom off the back of this quirky, open air home with its half-basement warren of little rooms and its common spaces—Fernie lived in a tiny little casita attached to the home but separate of it, just barely within the enclosed courtyard. Her own tiny kitchen, bathroom and bedroom—and a place into which Ian had never ventured, because it was quite obviously Fernie’s territory. Full of Southwest color and wrought iron and photos of a family grown and scattered across three brevis regions.

But he’d stood in the doorway, and that’s what he did now—knocking on the door until he heard the rustle of sheets and a sound of quiet dismay through a window that habitually remained cracked during the cold nights and warming days.

“It’s me, Fernie,” he said, cracking the door open. “I brought some tea. And one of your muffins. And I’ve talked to Ruger. So that means either I come in there with this tea or you come out, because...you know. Ruger said.”

“Come in,” she said, her voice a little ragged but perfectly alert. And then, practically before he’d crossed the threshold, “How are you? What about the others?”

He entered the bedroom bearing the tray like an offering, relieved to see that although he’d clearly woken her, her gaze was sharp enough and her expression alert. “I haven’t checked yet. I’m triaging, and you’re the important one.”

“And you?” she said, tucking the covers around her plump waist so he could settle the tray into place. Her graying hair hung over her shoulder in a long, simple braid, and age had settled into her plain, welcoming features overnight. “You didn’t look good last night, and you don’t look good now—and of all of us, you must stay well.”

“I’m—” He started to say he was fine, but didn’t finish. He wasn’t. The headache had returned, settling in behind his eyes. “Ruger says this should pass quickly—just some atypical virus. He didn’t sound concerned. I took notes about the remedies that might help.”

She’d taken a sip of her tea, and nodded. “The lemon is always good. But I need to know that you heard me. We’re counting on you.”

A stab of pain caught him behind one eye, and he winced, rubbing it. Fernie didn’t fail to note it. “And if this isn’t just some virus?”

He stared at her as if he’d suddenly forgotten how to think. Maybe he had.

“Ian,” she said, buttering her muffin with quick, impatient movement, “I’ve been managing this retreat since my Manny passed. He had no Sentinel blood at all, you know. So I know what a virus looks like, and I also know what it looks like when we light-bloods get hit with one. You think this would be the first time?”

Ian pulled her robe off the back of a wooden chair and draped it over her footboard so he could flip the chair around and straddle it. “And this doesn’t look right to you?”

She lifted one shoulder, sipping tea. “It doesn’t look familiar. Even here, we don’t take things for granted.”

He thought about the working he’d felt at the overlook, the mere ripple of corruption in the air. It hadn’t been a thing of significance—a passive detection spell, unless he missed his mark, and he wasn’t that far off his game. And members of the Core were everywhere, just as the Sentinels were. Clustered, yes, but always with plenty of individuals moving freely between.

“I see I’ve got you considering it, at least.”

“I’ll take a look around,” he said, tapping absently on the back of the chair. Slowly, to reflect the speed of his thoughts. “Once I’ve checked on the rest of us.”

“Leave that to me.” She pushed a strand of graying hair from her face. “I feel much better. If the others are anything like me, they simply went to bed last night and decided against getting up. It’s more of a tiresome thing than anything else.”

Ian rubbed the spot between his eyes. “Damned headache,” he said. But the aspirin must have been kicking in, because it seemed to be easing. “Okay. I’ll check outside. If I find anything...well, I don’t have my gear, but we can improvise. A kitchen isn’t so much different from a lab, when all is said and done.” He gave her a meaningful look. “But you’ll call me if you need help.”

“If it makes you feel better about going out there, then, yes.” She reached for another piece of the muffin. “But you, Ian—I hope you felt well enough to enjoy your time with Ana yesterday evening.”

He grinned. “Now you’re just prying,” he said, standing back from the chair. “Let’s just say I felt better when I was with her. And,” he added, before she could ask, “she’s coming over around lunchtime.”

“Because if this is a virus, she’s been well and exposed to it.” Fernie looked decidedly better now, that twinkle back in her eye.

“Now you are prying,” Ian said. He put the chair back where it had been and bent over to kiss her cheek, ignoring her surprise. “You’re right. We won’t take it for granted. I’ll check in after I take a quick look around, and then go back out for a second sweep.”