The Psy-Changeling Series, Books 6-10 (26 page)

“Sienna needs a break from the den,” she said point-blank to Hawke. “I’ve offered her a room at the aerie.” It was as well that Lucas had added an extra room once Julian and Roman started sleeping over on a regular basis. “I need you to release her from her duties here.”

“Hell, no!” Hawke slammed a hand on his desk. “She’s a liability. The Council gets any idea she’s alive, they’ll begin hunting the whole family.”

“It’ll only be for a week or two,” Sascha said, “and we can disguise her. She’s agreed to cut her hair, get contacts. She doesn’t even walk like a Psy anymore after almost two years in the den. She’ll fit right in.”

“Cut her hair?” Hawke repeated.

She could understand his shock. Sienna’s hair was incredibly beautiful, a rich, unique shade that burned with inner fire. It had darkened over the past year until it wasn’t truly red. Closer to port, or the dark heart of a ruby. The color was so distinctive that they’d have to bleach it before dyeing it and the process would be easier with short hair. However, Sascha intended to talk the teenager into keeping the length—it would be a psychological anchor, very necessary when everything else was falling apart around her. “You have to let her go,” she told the alpha. “She needs time to rebuild her shields.”

Hawke’s pale eyes glittered. “And why will a change in location help?”

Lucas stirred beside her, but didn’t step in between. “Because,” she said, “you won’t be there.”

Everyone went quiet. Then Hawke swore. “Damn it, Sascha. I haven’t touched her. She’s a kid.”

“I don’t think Sienna has been a child for a very long time.” She looked into his eyes. “And she’s growing up faster every day.”

Another pause fraught with anger. Hawke finally thrust a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath between pursed teeth. His eyes were bleak when he met hers again. “You’re right. Take her and help her. Maybe she’ll get over her crush.”

Sascha didn’t know why she said what she did next. “If she doesn’t?”

White lines bracketed Hawke’s mouth. “Then tell her I can’t give her what she wants.” Unspoken were the words:
Because I’ve already given it to someone else.
Sascha felt a deep sense of loss, of pain, and knew that Hawke had lost his mate.

Lucas touched her lower back. “We’ll protect the girl,” he told the other alpha, one male to another.

Hawke nodded. “Take good care of her. And bring her back in a week or I’ll do the job myself.”

Riley made his way back to the den a little after six. The sweeps had netted nothing, but had served to make the populace aware of a threat in their midst. It would make them more vigilant, watchful. He’d discussed a public broadcast with Mercy—though “discuss” was probably the wrong word for the clipped words they’d exchanged—but they’d decided that with this little information, they risked starting a panic.

Instead, they’d told their people to quietly get the word out to those they trusted. The Alliance had to be finding it increasingly difficult to procure a hiding place—the stress might lead to mistakes. And when it did, the changelings would be waiting. This shift, that responsibility was in Indigo and Nate’s hands.

Deciding he didn’t particularly want to talk to anyone, he parked his vehicle on the very edge of den territory, shifted into wolf form, and loped off into the trees. He caught the scents of several other packmates along the way—Eli’s whole family, including little Sakura; D’Arn with his mate, Sing-Liu; Tai and Judd.

That latter pairing would’ve normally made him grin. Tai thought Judd walked on water. The boy turned up at every training session and followed Judd’s merciless discipline without a single word of complaint. Riley and the other lieutenants, including Judd, all knew Tai had both the mental and physical strength to make lieutenant after he grew up a bit more. Right now, he still had the edges of boyhood on him.

He spied the faint hint of Hawke’s trail and veered off in the opposite direction. The last person he wanted to see right now was one of the very few men who could beat him into submission and make him talk. He didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to consider why he was so angry and frustrated . . . and lost.

But Hawke had other ideas. The alpha wolf moved out in front of him, having muddied his trail through experience and trickery. Riley wasn’t pleased to see him. Baring his teeth, he warned Hawke to get the hell out of his way. Right now, all he wanted to do was brood. Or failing that, draw blood.

Hawke apparently realized that. But instead of leaving, he attacked. And he was
fast
.

Riley didn’t have Hawke’s speed. But he had something his alpha didn’t. A body that could take just about any damage and keep going. Hawke had called him a fucking stone wall on more than one occasion, the reason behind his nickname.

Now he braced for impact and took it hard. Then rolled and rose to his feet, uninjured. Hawke was already coming for a second strike, and since Riley’s aggression had been building ever since that fight with Mercy, he met his alpha in midair. The contact was raw, bloody, no-holds-barred.

Riley was one of the extremely small number of people in the den with whom Hawke didn’t bother to hold back. He was alpha—stronger, faster—but Riley was dogged. He simply wouldn’t go down. That leveled the playing field in a way that left them very well matched. And today, even their anger was well matched—they weren’t fighting with logic. They were fighting like the wolves they were, driven by instinct, by emotion, by the need to savage their opponent.

There was no mercy in either of them.

 

 

Ten minutes later, they were both still standing . . . and bleeding, their sides heaving. They stared at each other, Riley looking into pale, pale eyes that never changed, no matter what form Hawke took. Staying in position, he watched as a mirage of color appeared around the wolf, and split seconds later, a man crouched in its place.

Riley shifted an instant later, touching his hand to his side. He was cut, but even with having fought Joaquin earlier, the injuries would heal fairly fast. “I’m bleeding. So are you. But you have a bruise the size of a cantaloupe on your ribs. That means I win.”

Hawke snarled. “Shut up.” But he winced as he sat down. “Damn wall. I think I broke a hand.” He flexed his fingers.

Riley sat a little ways to the left, where he could keep an eye on Hawke’s face . . . and use the night shadows to disguise his own. “What’s got you so angry?” Easier to be the lieutenant, to make sure his alpha was fully functional, than think about the mess he’d created for himself.

“Sienna’s gone to stay with Lucas and Sascha for a while.”

“Good.” Sascha might be able to help the girl as she’d helped Brenna after his sister had been violated, her mind close to broken. Riley would take a bullet for the empath without blinking—some debts could never be repaid. “But why does it matter to your wolf?”

“She’s a juvenile,” Hawke said. “My instincts tell me to protect her, that’s all.”

“Okay.”

That only seemed to irritate Hawke. “You piss me off, Riley.”

“Yeah?”

“All grounded and practical and shit.”

“That’s what she says.”

“Ah.” Hawke’s face relaxed a fraction. “So Ms. Mercy’s the reason you were out here sulking.”

“I brood. You sulk.”

Hawke bared his teeth. “I’m your alpha. Show some respect.”

Riley snorted, though he was anything but relaxed. “I saw you puke your guts out after you stuffed yourself on chocolate cake. Respect’s not coming easy.”

“I was seven. And I seem to recall you threw up first.”

“You have a faulty memory.”

Hawke’s eyes were wintry pale when he glanced over. “Enough dancing, Riley. You think I trailed you and got myself beaten up because I want to shoot the breeze over old times?”

Riley shrugged.

“You and the cat—something happened.” It wasn’t a question.

Riley blew out a breath. “She won’t let me look after her.” And after his devastating failure in protecting his sister, he desperately needed to take care of the woman who’d become so much more than just his lover.

“Mercy’s not the kind of woman who needs looking after.”

“Thanks.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Mr. Stick-in-the-Mud.”

Riley turned to stare at a grinning Hawke. “How the fuck do you know about that?”

“I have big ears.” He flicked an ear currently hidden behind messy strands of thick silver-gold hair.

“Then stop fucking listening.” He stared out at the cool black of night in the Sierra, the early stars diamond pinpricks in the sky, the firs pointed silhouettes against a backdrop of mountain and rock. “I don’t know if I can accept that.”

“Then you’ll lose her.” Serious words. “She won’t accept restrictions.”

“Brenna did.”

“Brenna humored you for a while because you’re her big brother and she adores you. Mercy’s probably not in the adoring stage, and even if she was, I can’t exactly see her being happy to give up her duties as a sentinel to darn your socks.”

“Darn my socks?” Riley shook his head. “Where do you get this stuff?” In spite of the light words, he couldn’t stop thinking about the painful intensity of his emotions for Mercy. At first, it had been lust. Bright, sharp, changeling in its wildness. There was nothing wrong with lust—especially when she’d been in lust, too.

But now, other things had invaded, taking a clawhold on his soul—including this gut-wrenching need to protect. Then there was the simple but visceral need to see her, hold her, have her accept him into her world. “I don’t want to cage her,” he said. “I just can’t stand the thought of anything happening to her.” It was a deep-rooted fear, one that twisted around his gut like razor wire.

“Then walk away.” Quiet words. “Walk away while you can still do it as friends.”

“Too late,” he muttered. “She’s barely talking to me.” He told Hawke what he’d done.

Hawke stared at him. “I thought you were smart, Riley.”

“Obviously not.”

“She’s right,” Hawke said. “You two don’t have the luxury of acting as if your actions matter only to you. You’re critical parts of your packs—what you did today came very close to breaching our agreement to share intel.”

“Lucas isn’t going to get into a pissing contest with you over that.”

“No, he’ll leave it to Mercy to sort out. Like I’ll leave it to you.”

“I can’t just treat her as a sentinel now.” It was impossible. He saw her as a woman first—an intelligent, beautiful, strong woman.

Hawke thrust a hand through his hair. “Then I need to assign someone else as liaison.”

“Do it and I’ll rip your throat out.”

“Think for a second,” Hawke said, tone granite-hard. “I chose you as liaison because I knew you weren’t hotheaded. I need someone who isn’t going to jeopardize this alliance.”

If there was one thing Riley had never been accused of being, it was hotheaded. “I’ll work it out with Mercy.”

“She really gets to you.” Hawke’s voice was contemplative. “As the SnowDancer alpha, I want to tell you to back off before things get even more messed up.”

Riley waited.

“But as your friend, I say go for it . . . Women who get to you that deep don’t come along more than once in a lifetime.”

Riley caught something in that statement, was ready to follow it, but the truth when it came to him wasn’t soft, wasn’t gradual. It was a head-ringing mental slap that left him stunned. “I’m so blind.”

“Talking to yourself?” Hawke rubbed at his jaw. “Want me to leave you alone?”

Riley barely heard him, and when, ten minutes later, Hawke followed through on his offer, he hardly noticed. Because—“I never figured it’d be her.” And he’d known her for a long time. Had respected her strength even as she drove him insane. Hell, he’d admired the lithe sexiness of her body more than once—he
was
male, after all. But why had he never known it was her?

It didn’t matter. Because now he did . . . and there was no way he was ever letting her go.

CHAPTER 35

Councilor Nikita Duncan stared at the book sitting in the center of her desk, bound in leather that was stained and marked with coffee rings, the edges curling, and asked herself why she’d tracked down a copy of this very rare, very out-of-print volume. It had cost her a considerable amount of cash to acquire.

She could, of course, have infected the bookseller’s mind with a mental virus and simply taken it, but she’d wanted to do this without attracting any attention whatsoever. So she’d created a false identity, that of an eccentric human collector. Because the bookseller would never
ever
have knowingly let this volume fall into Psy hands.

She’d patiently ensured his security checks came back to the same rich human identity. And then she’d paid the exorbitant price for this stained, browned book. The pages were moth-eaten at the edges, but the words . . . the words were visible. That was why it had been so expensive. Nothing was missing, nothing had been torn out.