Taken by Fire (3 page)

Oh, crap. Very few people knew what she was, even inside Itor. Granted, this guy was wrong, but he was on the right track. This wasn’t a case of multiple personality syndrome. Broken down into the most simple of concepts, this was a case of one egg splitting into two and then being shoved together again in a lab. Melanie and Phoebe really were two very different people fighting for control of the same body.

And unfortunately, Phoebe was a lot stronger, and had been for years.

“I told you, I’m Melanie,” she insisted. “Who are you?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I remember some.” She jerked her head to the side in a futile attempt to break his hold. “But I’d remember a lot better if you took away the knife.”

“Nice try,” he said.

“You can’t expect me to chat while I’m worried about bleeding out.”

One corner of his mouth tipped up in amusement, which pissed her off, because bleeding out wasn’t on her list of funny topics. “And you can’t expect me to hand over the advantage so you can freeze me to death.”

He shifted, and … good God, did he actually have an erection? She squirmed, and yes, there was a definite hard bulge in the front of his pants that was pressing into her belly. How nice that the thought of killing her turned him on.

“I can’t freeze you to death.” She glared at him. “I’m out of power. Used it all up a little while ago, and it takes several hours to recharge.” Took sex to recharge too, but he didn’t need to know that.

One blond eyebrow cocked up. “Now, why don’t I believe you?”

She exhaled slowly and tried to keep her temper in check. “Dunno. Maybe because you’re an asshole?” So much for the temper.

He snorted. “Like I haven’t heard that before.”

“No doubt you have.” She swallowed, winced at the bite of the blade in her skin. “Look, if I could turn you into an ice cube, I’d have done it by now, knife or no knife. So tell me who you are, and let me go.”

There was a long, tense silence, and then he backed off, but he stood a few feet away, coiled like a spring, and she had the feeling he was ready to put her down if she so much as flinched.

“Name’s Stryker. And I’m guessing you remember me.”

“You tried to kill me in some godforsaken jungle. You think I’d forget that?” She raised her chin and met his unnerving gaze head-on. “Are you here to finish the job?”

He considered her question for a long time, which did nothing for her nerves. Finally, he moved toward her. Stalking her.

A fresh jolt of fear spiked through her as she retreated. His prowling gait backed her all the way into the kitchen, where she bumped up against the counter.

“Am I here to kill you?” he asked softly, in a voice that filled her with dread. “Honestly? Yes.”

A ball of terror dropped into the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even move as he inched closer. He could have been a little less honest.

“But I’d really rather kill fire-bitch, so get her for me.”

Okay. Yes, she needed to get Phoebe. This was so beyond Melanie’s ability to handle. Concentrating, she called out to Phoebe in her mind. No response, as expected. For the first couple of hours after Melanie woke up, Phoebe was often next to impossible to summon.

Please, Phoebe, wake up!
Still nothing. Dammit!

“Well?” Stryker’s voice was gravelly with impatience, and Melanie began to sweat.

“I can’t reach her.”

“Too bad for you, then.” The hand holding the wicked-looking knife came up, level with her heart, only a foot away. “Did you enjoy it?” he growled. “Did you like seeing my friend burn?”

Hurt and murder swirled in Stryker’s eyes, and she knew her life could very well end in about five seconds.

“I’m sorry … I didn’t do it … it was horrible.” Stinging tears welled up, but they didn’t drown out the visions of that man dying the way he had.

“You’re sorry.” He bared his teeth and stepped closer, pressing the tip of the knife into her breastbone. “Well, your
sorry
means jack shit.”

She couldn’t help it. She trembled so hard that the blade vibrated, punctured the fabric of her robe, and bit into her skin. His raw curse blistered the air, and he jerked the knife away.

“I’m not doing this with you,” he snapped. “Until Phoebe grows a pair and decides to show her psychotic face, you’re coming with me.”

Panic wrapped around Mel, squeezing until her breath was coming in shallow pants. She wasn’t stupid; she might not be safe right this minute, but at least she was in an apartment she knew, in a building owned by Itor. If she left with him, her chances for survival plummeted. “I can’t. I can’t leave. Phoebe will be mad. I have laundry to do, and I have to eat, and …” God, she was babbling, but at this point, she didn’t care.

Stryker looked at her like she was nuts. “Phoebe will be fine.” He reached for her, but she wheeled away, knocking dishes off the counter.

He cornered her near the pantry, and terror ripped through her. “Please don’t. Please don’t make me go. I can help you—”

“This isn’t up for debate, and begging has no effect on me.”

Her gaze darted around the kitchen. A weapon. She needed a weapon. Anything. But there was nothing. He was going to take her, and she was going to die. Abruptly, defeat closed in on her like a shroud. Years of living only half a life collided with the knowledge that the only glimmer of hope she’d had—finding Itor’s enemies—turned out to be a letdown. Itor’s enemies wanted her dead, and now she could do nothing but pray for mercy, something that had never, ever worked before.

“The thing with the knife,” she rasped. “In my brain. Would it hurt?”

“What?” He blinked, clearly thrown by the question. “I guess I could make it hurt. Why?”

“Would you do it so it won’t?”

“Look, if you cooperate—”

“I’m not going to cooperate,” she said. “So just do it. But … I don’t want it to hurt.” She couldn’t believe she was asking her murderer for a favor. She really had lost it.

Stryker looked completely dumbfounded, but at least he’d lost that homicidal glaze in his eyes. He stared. Scrubbed his hand over his face. Took a step back, even. As if maybe her crazy was contagious. After a long moment, he made the knife disappear into his leather jacket.

“What’s your game?” he said gruffly. “Phoebe isn’t going to hurt you. I did a little research into your condition, and from what I learned, alters are formed to protect. Not hurt. At least, not hurt each other.”

Laughing bitterly, she gestured to the fork-impaled fish near the coffeemaker. “That was punishment for leaving her with no coffee. You don’t want to know what she did to my parakeet.”

“Well, there don’t appear to be any other pets she can kill, so what else can she do to you?”

“You can’t even begin to imagine.” She wrapped her arms around her body, mainly to hold herself up. “I mean, I give as good as I get, but she has her creepy colleagues on her side.” Mel didn’t have anyone, and hadn’t since her mother died.

His gaze sharpened. “Her colleagues? You work for Itor too, don’t you?”

“Only Phoebe works for them,” she said tiredly. “I don’t really know what they do.”

There was skepticism in his voice when he said, “So you’re saying you have no idea what was going on in the Amazon when you were there?”

She shook her head. “The last thing I remember before coming to in the jungle was being on a plane with Itor people who wouldn’t say a word to me. And then I was in the jungle and there was that man … and you were trying to kill me.”

“Yeah, well, your buddy Phoebe and her Itor henchmen were planning to murder three dozen people, all to gain a powerful weapon.” He paused as though expecting her to deny his accusation, but she knew her sister and father well enough to know that what Stryker was saying was no doubt true. When she said nothing, he continued. “Her team managed to slaughter some innocent people as well as kill my friend, and I’m here to make sure Phoebe answers for what she did.” He gestured at her robe. “So get dressed, and come with me.” When she stood there, paralyzed by indecision, he cocked his head, asked her softly, “Why did you ask me for help?”

Her heart nearly stopped. She’d forgotten how, in her confusion over what had happened in the jungle, her shock at the death and destruction, she’d whispered a terrified “Help me” to Stryker, even though he’d clearly rather have killed her.

“Because I was afraid.” She’d been desperate, terrified, and grasping at the first glimmer of hope she’d seen in years. Itor’s enemy could help her, right?

But then reality had set in at the murder in his eyes, and she’d cut her losses and run.

“Are you afraid now?” His voice was so deceptively quiet.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said, as he shoved her toward the bedroom. “At least you’re smart. Get dressed.”

That she was out of options was now obvious. She’d have to go with him and either convince him to help her, or leave their fate to Phoebe. She brushed past him. “Don’t want to kill me while I’m in my pajamas, huh?” Her gallows humor came out in a thin voice that only emphasized the danger of her situation.

“Behave, and maybe I won’t need to kill you at all. At least, not right away.”

She stumbled to a halt at the bedroom doorway. “What do you mean?”

“I might have other uses for you,” he said, sounding almost disappointed, as though he really wanted to kill her, but a smarter though less appealing option had come to mind. “Now stop talking and start dressing.”

His tone said there was no room to argue, and really, when it came right down to it, Stryker couldn’t do anything to her that hadn’t been done before. And if he wanted to kill her, she’d die. If he was some sort of good guy, she’d probably end up in a mental ward somewhere, and Phoebe wouldn’t have the freedom to torment her.

So … a mental ward or death.

Yep, things were looking up.

Melanie was maybe the worst would-be hostage ever—or the smartest. Begging for death was a brilliant move to throw him off track, except Stryker didn’t think she was kidding. At all.

She appeared genuinely afraid of her alter personality and, having met that Phoebe bitch personally, he could understand.

The forked fish on the counter confirmed that if what Mel told him about how her alter ego tortured her proved true, she was truly living a horror show existence. Having enemies was one thing, but sharing a body with one … well, he could read the fear wafting off Melanie in waves.

If she wasn’t totally shitting him. And while he’d listened in on the ACRO scientists discussing multiple personality disorder—though they’d also called it dissociative identity disorder—he still firmly believed that Phoebe and Melanie were both the same person—and they should be punished.

But he’d get a lot more satisfaction taking it out on that fire-bitch. And the only way to ensure he could take his time and maybe even torture some Itor intel out of terrified Mel before he
met Phoebe again was to get her the hell out of here and into the ACRO safe house.

Melanie moved into the bedroom and attempted to shut the door between them.

He slammed a flat palm out, making contact with the door and pushing it wide open. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

She started at that, pulled the robe more tightly around her. He conceded her some privacy by angling away from her slightly, so he could still see her in his peripheral vision. She let the robe hang open as she turned to the side and slid on a pair of purple, lacy underwear. He couldn’t miss the curve of her breast, the hint of a nipple, and he wanted to see her with that robe off completely.

Which was odd, considering she’d killed his friend and tried to do the same to him. Usually, he didn’t find that such a turn-on.

Except Melanie … she was different.

In the case of multiple personality disorder within special-ability types, the more timid personality is usually the dominant
, the ACRO psychologists had explained to him.
If she’s stressed, the stronger personalities will come out to protect her
.

Stryker was walking a fine line with that, but so far, the only woman in front of him was Melanie. And he sure planned on stressing her more, and soon.

Finally, she shook the robe off, keeping her gaze averted from his the entire time.

He shifted, his erection nearly to the point of painful, and fuck it all, he would need relief soon. Just because the woman’s ice tantrum was over didn’t mean that the atmospheric shift didn’t fuck with his cock.

And he knew she’d noticed, both earlier and again now when she slid a furtive glance his way and quickly went back to pulling on a pair of tight, dark jeans and a black sweater cut low, with a pair of leather boots that he hoped like hell she could run in, if need be.

“I’m ready,” she said finally.

He looked her over. “Good. Let’s go.”

He motioned for her to walk ahead of him. She hesitated, and then grabbed a jacket hanging off a rack by the front door.

“You’re going to act like you know me,” he instructed, his hand on the knob. “Slip your arm through mine. Smile. Pretend you’re Phoebe.”

They walked down the flights of stairs and out the front door of the building with no problems. The safe house was about half a mile away on foot, a nice stroll through some heavily populated areas, which would be great.