Unleashing the Storm (27 page)

His
breath hitched at the thought of taking her over his knee, and she knew it,
knew she had the power this time, more so even than when she’d held him down on
the ground.

“Mine,”
she whispered in his ear. “All mine. Say it, Tommy.”

“Kira,
I…”

“Say
it. Please, Tommy,” she said, and her pheromones must be getting stronger,
because as hard as he tried he couldn’t resist doing what she asked.

“Yours,
Kira. All yours,” he whispered, put his head back against the headrest in
silent surrender and tried to tell himself that he didn’t fucking mean it. That
it was all part of the goddamned job.

She
pulled her hips back slightly so she could accommodate him in one long, slow
motion that sheathed him fully inside of her, and he forced himself to just
breathe.

He
was sweating and shaking, staring at the road with an intense concentration as
the pleasure coursed through his body. She bit him at the tender place between
neck and collarbone as she arched against him, held his skin between her teeth
as if marking him for life, and he was grateful that this particular stretch of
back road was long and straight and deserted.

She
cried out,
“Tommy,”
as she rocked against him, and the entire car was
shaking from the speed, the floor vibrating beneath his feet, his cock pulsing
inside of her, and fuck, this was one of the most out-of-control things he’d
ever done. And that was saying something.

And
when he spilled inside of her, he eased his foot off the accelerator because
he’d started to see stars as his orgasm wracked his body, stronger than ever.

When
she whispered,
“More,”
in his ear, he pushed down on the petal again,
because, despite the intensity of the orgasm, he was still hard for her, and
dying like this wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

TOM
PULLED INTO THE PARKING LOT of a fast-food burger joint at their next stop, and
Kira’s stomach rolled when they stepped through the front door. The horrific
stench of grilled animal flesh made her taste bile. She should have known not
to try. She’d always hated restaurants, couldn’t even begin to fathom why
people would cook and eat intelligent, sensitive creatures that communicated
every bit as well as humans if they would only listen.

“I’ll,
uh, wait in the car.” She backed toward the door. “Just get me a salad. Hold the
chicken and cheese.”

What
he held was her, with a firm grip on her wrist. “I’m not letting you out of my
sight.”

The
hard edge in his voice reminded her that danger still lurked, and that,
ultimately, she was little more than his prisoner. Which stung, because after
all they’d been through, she felt like they’d become more than that. Partners.
Cohorts. Lovers.

Hello,
Stockholm syndrome.

“Then
we need to go through the drive-thru,” she said curtly, and when he would have
argued, she added a pathetic “Please, Tommy.”

Grumbling
under his breath, he gave in, and after a run through the drive-thru, he pulled
over in a nearby wooded park. Keeping one watchful eye on their surroundings,
he handed her the salad and unwrapped a colossal triple cheeseburger. Once
more, her stomach lurched.

“Want
a bite?” he asked, and immediately shot her an apologetic look. “Sorry, forgot.
Vegan ethics.”

Even
though he hadn’t been snarky, she glared and rolled down the window to let out
some of the cooked-animal odor. “It isn’t entirely about ethics and morals. I
mean, I wouldn’t eat animal flesh even if I could, but I can’t. It’s painful.”

“What,
it upsets your stomach?”

“Worse.
I can’t even touch it. Tasting it…” She shuddered, remembering the agony, the
nausea that brought her to her knees the last time someone at a Christmas party
thought it would be funny to slip chicken into a dish that was supposed to be
vegan. “It’s like how some psychics get impressions by touch.”

As
though he was bored with the conversation, he looked out the side window, all
hooded eyes and lazy grace, but she knew better. The danger scent he threw, as
a cop car rolled slowly past, was a dead giveaway.

“You’re
talking about psychometry,” he said, still focused on the outside.

“I’m
impressed.”

She
eyed him with newfound appreciation that wasn’t really new, because she always
appreciated looking at him. Especially when he turned that hawklike gaze on
her, like he was doing now that the patrol vehicle had disappeared.

“I’ve
dealt with a psychic or two.”

Interesting.
She’d have to ask more about his work. Of course, she’d tried, but he hadn’t
been very forthcoming.

“Well,
it’s like that. When I come into contact with meat I feel—and taste—the
animal’s terror and pain. I experience everything it suffered before and during
its death.” She shuddered again. “Imagine waiting in a chute or a cage you
can’t break out of, and smelling blood and death ahead of you, and knowing
you’re going to die. I feel all of it.”

“That
explains the slaughterhouses that went up in flames,” he said quietly, as he
wrapped up his burger and shoved it back into the bag.

She
fell in love with Tom Knight right then and there. It was too much to hope that
he’d gone veg, but at least he respected her enough to not do something in her
presence that pained her, both physically and emotionally.

“I
wish I could take credit for the slaughterhouses,” she said in a voice tight
with emotion she hoped he didn’t hear, “but doing something like that would
have drawn attention I couldn’t afford.”

He
chowed on a handful of fries and washed it down with his Coke. “If it’s not you
destroying all the research labs and whaling ships and crap, then who?” He
swore and nodded grimly. “Itor.”

“That’s
what I was thinking. Your bad guys were trying to flush me out, or at least get
the authorities to arrest me so they could take me from them.”

“Do
you see why you need to join my agency? You can’t hide from Itor.”

“I
told you I’d check it out, but you might as well prepare yourself for the fact
that I’m most likely not going to join. I won’t be kept or used by anyone. I
certainly won’t train animals to fight in wars or whatever idiotic thing the
government wants to do with them.”

“But
you will give it a chance, right?” If anyone else had used the desperate tone
he had, she’d have thought they were pleading with her. Tommy was probably just
suffering from hunger pangs.

“I
said I would. But don’t expect anything more.”

“Fair
enough.” He rolled down his window and tossed the bag of food into a garbage
can. “Let’s get this done.”

SUNDAY
NIGHT

It
hadn’t been easy trying to sleep with Oz being one floor above him, but Dev’s
exhaustion took over.

He
was so tired of fighting.

“Stop
fighting me. I’ve got to get you out of here.” The man’s voice was a low growl.
Tense. Rough. Dev smelled fear and wasn’t sure if it came off of him or the man
dragging him out of the wrecked C-130.

“Monty.”
Dev flailed to reach his copilot, but the man’s grip was stronger.

“He’s
gone. They’re all gone.” The man grabbed him and ran, until Dev heard the
explosion and the man covered his body with his own.

Dev
wasn’t sure how long he lay with his face to the gravel, the ground still
vibrating, the air ripe with smoke, flooding his lungs, his eyes tearing. But
when he could sit up, he stared into the face of the man who’d saved him. And
then he rubbed his eyes and stared some more.

The
man in front of him wore a suit of armor, a sword at his hip. His blue eyes
were fierce, his features chiseled and strong, his body curiously free of the
debris and blood that covered Dev.

The
man in front of him was a warrior. A divine champion of justice, a paladin. And
just as suddenly, the picture changed and the warrior morphed into a half man,
half animal—a man with a cheetah’s eyes and fur—

“Who
are you?” Dev heard himself ask.

“No
one,” the man said.

Dev
blinked again, and for a second, the world went black. He put out his arms
frantically, panicked and blinded. The same man came into view once more,
dressed in fatigues, covered in black soot and cammy paint. His eyes were
haunted, but he was no less a warrior.

“I
don’t know what’s happening to me,” he remembered saying.

“I
don’t know what’s happening to me,” Dev shouted, waking himself up.

“That’s
not true.”

The
voice belonged to Oz, not Ender, the warrior who’d saved his life that day. It
had taken him months to figure out that his second sight allowed him to see the
soul within his special operatives, but part of his gift was being able to spot
them. To save them. To know that the person the rest of the world saw was not
the truth. So Ender saved him and now Dev saved others.

And
Oz had also saved Dev’s life in too many ways to count.

“Another
nightmare, Dev?”

He
found his voice, but it didn’t sound like his. “Yes. I’m fine now. I’m fine.”
Like if he said it enough, it would be true. “I don’t need your help. Never
fucking did,” he muttered, feeling punch-drunk. He tried to CRV his room and
Oz, but nothing. Just total blackness, and a ball formed in the pit of his
stomach.

“Dev,
breathe, all right?”

“I
am.”

“No,
you’re not. Shit, your lips are practically blue. Breathe, dammit,” Oz
commanded, put a strong hand on his bare back where the comforter had slipped
down.

“Is
the writing still there? Fuck, Oz, I can’t see.”

“You
haven’t been able to see for ten years.”

“You
know what I mean.” He tried to stand, but Oz caught him, and for a second, held
him tight. “Is the writing gone? What does it say?”

“Let
me check you. Please,” Oz said, and Dev was too tired to argue anymore, let
Oz’s hands run over him. “There’s no writing there.”

Suddenly
Dev’s mind flashed to the two of them sitting together, his own naked body
curved into Oz’s T-shirt and shorts-clad one.

“You’re
a fucking liar,” he whispered, felt Oz smile against his neck.

“At
least your second sight’s coming back.”

“Yeah,”
he said.

“You
can’t go on like this,” Oz said, and for once, Dev agreed with him. “You’ve got
to let me send it back.”

He
wanted to tell Oz that he didn’t need his protection, his walking-dead routine,
but he was tired of lying. So damned tired. “Not yet.”

And
then Oz spoke, his voice a notch below pure rage. “You never listen. Cocky
fucking asshole, taking everything on yourself.”

“Look
who’s talking,” Dev said softly. “What? Did I take the job you wanted?”

“You
still believe I wanted ACRO, don’t you? You know I try not to deal with humans,
Dev. I deal in souls. I was never interested in saving the world.”

“Maybe
because the dead are the only ones who can stand you,” Dev said, wanting to
strike the killing blow. But Oz didn’t give an inch, and Dev suddenly didn’t
want to play this game of who-hurt-who-most anymore.

“The
dead aren’t the only ones who can stand me,” Oz said in his ear. “And that’s
probably what kills you the most.”

“Fuck
you,” Dev whispered, sounding desperate, even to his own ears. And he was still
in Oz’s arms.

“I
missed you,” Oz whispered back, his voice gentle, soothing. “I didn’t want to,
but fuck…”

Dev
swallowed, hard, but he couldn’t get the words out. Instead, he just reached a
hand out to Oz, gripped the front of his shirt hard and hoped the other man
knew what he meant.

“You’ve
got to let me send this thing away. For good. Shit, you promised me last time,
Dev.”

“I
know. But I need the ghost. You have to make it help me.”