Branded by Fire

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.

Nikita knew she should destroy it and reclaim the cost from the Council coffers. None of her fellow Councilors would blink an eyelash - this was a legitimate expense. But she hadn't bought it to destroy it, though if anyone did ever track the sale back to her, that was what she'd tell them.

She picked up the book, redid the packaging, and put it in a simple brown waterproof envelope. Then she wrote the name of the recipient on the top: Sascha Duncan.

Again, she asked herself why she was doing this. "Power," she told herself. That was why she did anything.

Chapter 36

Mercy had just walked into her cabin after working late when the comm panel flashed an incoming call. She answered audio-only. "Hi, Gran."

"Don't 'hi, Gran' me," Isabella snapped back. "What's this I hear about you and a wolf?"

"I'm going to kill Eduardo and Joaquin." They had to have caught an airjet to get home so fast.

"Those two didn't say a word except to tell me anyone else I send up had better be prepared to come back sans body parts."

"Then how do you know anything about my life?"

"I have ears. I use them." An impatient sound. "Put me on the viewscreen so I can see your face."

Blowing out a breath, Mercy did as ordered. An instant later, her maternal grandmother's face appeared on-screen, beautiful, determined, and dangerously intelligent. Isabella was on oddity in her part of the world, with pale cream skin and hair that had been a rich dark gold before it turned a stunning white, traits she'd bequeathed her daughter, Lia - Mercy's mom. Family legend said some bandido way back when had stolen away with the daughter of a French admiral, and now, every so often, the genetics kicked up an unexpected blonde. Mercy didn't know if that was true, but Isabella was certainly regal. She'd undoubtedly look as haughty at a hundred and thirty.

"A wolf?" Isabella repeated.

"No."

Isabella narrowed her dark brown eyes. "Lying to your grandmother is a mortal sin."

"It's not a lie. He's an ass."

"I could've told you that." A sniff. "I know wolves can be attractive, but seriou - "

"Back up." Mercy held up a hand. "How do you know?"

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