by J. R. Ward
Sarah looked down into her lap as the SUV stopped at the front walkway. The boy had tucked in and fallen asleep, his head a warm weight on her leg, his arms crossed, his hands folded under his chin. She had been tempted to offer him the hazmat suit as a blanket, but the heat was up high, and he’d been out like a light almost as soon as they’d hit the highway.
The fact that she was sublimely uncomfortable because her backpack was still on under the protective gear and the leg he was using as a pillow had gone numb didn’t matter in the slightest. All she cared about was that the child got some rest.
She was worried he had a fever. His skin felt hot.
“He’s sleeping hard,” the commando said softly.
She glanced at the driver. He had twisted around and was staring down at the child with a sadness that made her worry about what he was going to have to tell the boy. She wanted to ask if the mother was indeed dead, but she already knew the answer, and she didn’t want that conversation to be what woke the boy up.
“We need to get him to a doctor,” she whispered.
“We have people we use.”
“When are they coming?” She thought of those scans. “He’s been . . . experimented on.”
God, how had it all happened? Her brain just could not get wrapped around any of it. Had they abducted him? Or . . . had he been sold like a commodity? Born in the lab?
“And I need to use a phone. A landline.”
“Are you calling your mate?” the commando asked.
“Mate?” She shook her head. “Oh, sorry. No, I have no one I need to get in touch with for myself. But I have things the FBI needs to see.”
Except she wasn’t sure the boy was on that list. He had been through so much, and she wasn’t convinced that tossing him into the foster care system was a great plan if the father wasn’t an appropriate custodian. But maybe he had relatives. Nice, normal relatives, like an aunt or uncle, who had a house just like this one.
“Come on,” the commando said as he disembarked, “let’s get you both inside.”
The boy stirred when the man opened their door and cold air burst in. And then Sarah was reluctantly handing her precious load over to the commando because there was no way she could carry him up to that front door with her leg as numb as it was. And then she worried about him catching pneumonia from the cold—
He’d already had pneumonia, she reminded herself grimly. Two years ago.
Cursing to herself, she shuffled out and nearly fell when she put weight on her left foot. Before she could catch herself, the commando threw out a hand and grabbed her arm.
His strength was . . . astonishing. Even with the boy in his arms, he kept her from hitting the snowpack like she weighed nothing at all, his body not even registering the load she represented. He was like a damn oak tree.
She thought of him kicking that steel door in like the thing was part of a dollhouse—as opposed to a reinforced metal panel locked into a jamb with a dead bolt.
Sarah pulled at the collar of the hazmat suit as a flush of warmth went through her. She had only ever dated fellow geeks, her three or four boyfriends conscientious, serious, and arguably ever so slightly on the scrawny side—hey, Mensa members could be hot, okay. But this man? With that . . . body?
Unfamiliar territory.
That had a topography which made her wonder if he were this powerful on the vertical, what the hell could he do to a woman on the horiz—
“Hello?” he demanded urgently. “Hello?”
As if he had been trying to get her attention.
Sarah shook her head. “Sorry, I’m . . .”
Wondering if you’re good in bed, she finished to herself.
The commando’s eyes peeled wide and he recoiled.
“Oh . . . dear God,” she breathed as she winced. “Please tell me I didn’t just say that out loud. Actually—don’t answer that. Forget you know me—you don’t know me, actually. You don’t know my name—I don’t know my name at this point—hey, it’s a party!”
She muttered all of that as she stepped around him and hit the shoveled path like she’d hammered two pints of beer and the only bathroom on the planet was up ahead.
“The door should be unlocked,” the commando said behind her.
“Fantastic, because I’m unhinged.” She pivoted around. “I’m Sarah, by the way. Dr. Sarah Watkins.”
Well, crap. The slow smile that hit that handsome face was more sexual than the best orgasm she’d ever had.
“Should I call you Sarah or Dr. Watkins.”
Call me anytime, she thought.
“Sarah’s fine. Good. I mean, yes. Please.”
Fuck.
Sarah jumped up onto the quaint front porch, and as she tested the door and discovered he was right, the glow from inside the house, the warmth, the homeyness . . . was pretty much the last way she’d expected her night to end.
Not that it was ending here.
It wasn’t like she was staying with the man and his hard-ass friends—although props for decorating, she thought as she looked around. Instead of a bunker for war, the place was kitted out in early Americana: woven rugs on the floor, hanging quilts as wallpaper, and a stuffed sofa that was totally book-nook material.
“Is this your house?” she said as she held the door open.
“No. It’s a friend of mine’s.”
Okay, that made sense, she thought. He would live in a bunker—so was this his girlfriend’s? Wife’s? No, wait, mother’s.
Had to be Mom’s. She could practically smell the apple pie in the oven. And the idea that he liked his momma enough to bring two fugitives home? Well, didn’t that just melt the cockles of the heart.
Certain she was losing it, Sarah closed them in as the man put the child on that sofa and covered him with a blanket. The fact that the boy didn’t stir at all made her paranoid that he was dead—but no, that painfully thin chest was going up and down.
Too much color on those cheeks, she thought as she reached out and put her hand on his forehead.
Sarah shook her head as she straightened. “We really need to take him to a hospital. He’s got a temperature.”
“I’ll call someone in.”
On cue, the couple that had been with him at the lab came down from upstairs. The man and woman had just showered, going by their wet hair, and they wore clothes either the same or identical to what they’d had on before.
They both still sported guns at their waists, too.
“I’ll text Jane,” the woman said. “She’ll come right away.”
“Is she a fully trained doctor?” Sarah asked sharply. “An internist?”
The woman nodded. “She treats all of us. She’s a surgeon, actually.”
“Look, this child has been deliberately infected with—”
“I know,” came the terse reply. “They did the same thing to me.”
Sarah blanched and glanced at the boy. Then she stared at the woman in alarm. But there was no eye contact to be had there. The female commando was stepping away into the kitchen, and her boyfriend/husband/partner went with her.
“You’re awake.”
She refocused on the child as the man spoke. Those eyes were opening slowly, the boy’s thin limbs stirring under the blanket.
“Where’s my mahmen?”
The man looked over at Sarah. “Can you give me a minute with him?”
A powerful impulse to stay right where she was—or, even better, take the poor child into her lap again—hit her like a message from God. But something in the way the pair of them stared at her suggested they had a history.
“Are you his family?” she asked the commando.
“Yes,” he said. “In all the ways that matter right now.”
Sarah nodded and backed her way into the hall. She went all the way down to the archway of the kitchen, and then could go no further. Leaning against the wall, she crossed her arms over her chest and felt like her heart was breaking as she watched the two of them from
afar.
She couldn’t hear anything that was said as the man rubbed his face, cracked his knuckles . . . and then sat down on the sofa to look the child right in the eye.
The man’s mouth moved again, and the expression on the boy’s face tightened into a mask. The boy asked something. The man answered.
There was another question.
Another answer.
The boy looked down at the quilt that had been pulled over his little body. As he began to cry, the man seemed exactly as heartbroken as Sarah felt.
The commando took the child into his strong arms and held him.
As those oddly glowing eyes lifted to Sarah over the boy’s dark head, she put her hand over her mouth. And wondered exactly how much more anyone that young could take.
Hell, most adults couldn’t handle half of what he’d lived through already. It was so unfair for anything to be added to his burdens.
“—about to go through the change. So we need to get a Chosen here before day breaks just in case.”
Sarah frowned and glanced over her shoulder. The female commando was talking urgently into a cell phone.
Change? Sarah thought.
When the Brotherhood’s physician arrived ten minutes later, Murhder retreated to the kitchen so that “Doc Jane,” as the female was called, could sit with the young privately.
Dr. Sarah Watkins was alone at the table, the blue bag of that hazmat suit halfway off of her, a backpack set off to the side. She had a cup of coffee in front of her, her stare floating somewhere above the mug. As he entered the room, however, she looked up at him.
And kept looking.
Had she really wondered what he was like in bed? Holy shit, that was hot. And what do you know, his libido was demanding he take this opportunity to show her firsthand that yes, he’d always been good at sex, current two-decades-long mostly dry spell notwithstanding.
But instead of wading into naked waters, he said, “How you doing?”
“I can’t seem to get my brain to work,” she murmured. “It’s the strangest thing.”
He sat down across from her, and fought the urge to try to pull her into his lap so he could hold her. They were, after all, strangers.
“Totally understandable.” He attempted to make sure his tone was gentle because sometimes you could hug someone without touching them, right? “You’re not used to anything like tonight.”
“I’m just a scientist.” She leaned to the side, as if she were checking on the young in the front room. Then she looked back at the mug. “Or I used to be. After this, I don’t think anyone’s going to be hiring me. The whole breaking and entering thing, stealing information, going to the authorities—it’s kind of frowned upon on any résumé to Big Pharma.”
“No one is going to know about this.”
Her eyes shot back up. “Are you kidding me? Kraiten will cover up that secret lab and call the police.”
“No, he won’t.”
“No offense, but don’t be naïve. And besides, I’m going to turn everything over to the Feds. As soon as I finish this coffee, I’m calling the agent who came to see me two days ago.”
“Kraiten’s not going to be a problem anymore.”
“Exactly. Because I have proof of what was being done in that lab of his.” She shook her head. “And if I’m finished in my field, it’s fine. I’d lost my passion for the work anyway. Time for me to find something else to do with my life.”
He traced her face with his eyes. She had a little mole on her cheek. And flecks of green in those pale brown eyes. She had taken her hair out of its ponytail, and the naturally highlighted weight was spilling onto her shoulders.
She smelled like a summer meadow to him, and her voice was hypnotic. He literally could spend an entire night just watching her mouth enunciate random syllables, his ears full with the sounds she made, his skin prickling with sensual awareness of every minute move she made.
“What exactly do you do?” he blurted, aware he’d been silent for too long.
“I’m a molecular geneticist. I work on curing cancer using the body’s own immune system.” Her eyes swung back to him. “We need to tell that doctor what they did to him. And I have scan results and information on the protocols—granted, they’re from two years ago. But after I go to the Feds, I’m sure they can get the most recent studies. There must be records—I mean, I’m assuming they didn’t stop. They gave him terrible diseases and—”
“The doctor knows what they did to him.”
Dr. Watkins—Sarah—blinked. “Does she know about the woman fighter, too?” When he didn’t reply, she prompted, “She said they’d done it to her as well.”
“The doctor knows everything.”
“Is there any chance Kraiten’s illicit program is doing that to anybody else, somewhere else?”
Murhder thought about what he’d seen when he’d tapped into that CEO’s mind. “The young was the last one he had left. He’s been trying to get more but has failed.”
The woman tilted her head. “You have the strangest way of saying things. And that accent of yours. It’s not French, it’s not . . . well, I know it’s not German. What part of Europe are you from? My fiancé was from Hamburg.”
Murhder stiffened in his chair. “Fiancé? You’re engaged?”
Sorrow suffused her face. “Was. He passed.”
The fact that he was relieved made him feel like a total asshole.
“I offer my sincerest condolences at your loss.” He eased the tension in his body. “May I inquire what happened?”
She sat back in the chair. Pivoted to the side again to check on the young. “Where did the couple go?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The man and the woman who were here with you?”
Footsteps sounded overhead and Murhder looked up. “I guess they are settling in for the night.”
“Oh.” She put her hand on the backpack and went to stand up. “I need to make that call and get those files to the FBI.”
That cannot happen, he thought.
Murhder reached out and put his hand on hers. Instantly, a bolt of electricity rode up his arm . . . and continued on to places that had not been awake in a very, very long time.
“The doctor isn’t done yet,” he pointed out as he shifted in his own seat. “Let’s hold on until she’s finished in case she needs to ask us anything.”
The woman retracted her hand. Rubbed it on her thigh. Clearly, she had felt the connection, too: Her arousal scent flared, and it was heavenly in his nose, an erotic combination of bergamot and ginseng.
He wanted more of it. He wanted it all over his naked skin, as he entered her sex and felt her claw into his back—
Murhder ducked one hand under the table and discreetly rearranged the sudden and very inappropriate erection that had punched his cock into the fly of his pants.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked.
Because I didn’t know the damn thing still worked, he thought.
“I’m sorry.” He pushed his heavy hair back. “It’s nothing.”
“God, don’t apologize.” She sat down again. “I could use a good joke, that’s all. This has been a rough couple of days.”
Even though there was so much more to worry about, he found himself needing to know what was under the baggy blue plastic suit she had on. What her hair would look like fanned out over his bare chest. How she would sound as he pleasured her.
Crazy, all of it.
Because she needed to go back to her world, without any memory of ever having met him.
First, however, he had to get those files she was talking about.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was hard to pinpoint exactly when Sarah’s brain began to send out warning signals that all was not as it appeared—or exactly what tripped up her suspicions.
But as she leaned to the side for a third time, and looked down the hall to the front room, she knew something was way off. As she watched the doctor take a bog standard
stethoscope out of an old-fashioned physician’s bag and place it on the young boy’s chest . . . as his blood pressure was taken with a proper juvenile cuff . . . as the woman in scrubs checked his pupils with a penlight and looked into his ears . . . none of it felt right.
The doctor and patient talked the whole time, their voices so quiet, Sarah couldn’t hear what they were saying. And she could not find fault with the attentiveness of the clinician. The woman was solely focused on the boy, her face grim, her body turned to him.
But this just was not right.
Sarah shifted her eyes to her commando—the commando, she corrected. “An ambulance is coming, right? They’re taking him to a hospital.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Which one?”
“It’s a private clinic.”
Sarah frowned and shook her head. “Okay, you need to get real with me. What the hell is going on here.”
The commando shrugged his powerful shoulders. “As you see, he’s getting checked out by a doctor.”
She thought of the six-chambered heart. The bizarre CBC readings. The test results that indicated profound disease resistance even in an immunocompromised state.
One of the things they taught residents in medical school was that when you heard hoofbeats, don’t think zebras. In other words, don’t immediately assume a bump was malignant, flu-like symptoms were Ebola, a cough was the Black Death.
For the most part, it was good advice. Right up until the symptoms you were presented with turned out to be cancer or the plague.
She leaned into the table. “That child should be dead right now. He should have died two years ago, assuming that the files I found were his scans, his reports. None of this is adding up.”
At that moment, the doctor came into the kitchen. She was a good-looking woman, with short blond hair and deep green eyes, and you had to appreciate the gravity with which she seemed to be taking the situation. But there was something . . . well, off about her.
Like she had a different energy source or—
“He’s been through a lot,” the physician announced. “But he’s in physically fine shape. Other than . . .” She glanced at Sarah. “Anyway, I’d like to bring him in for further testing—”