Savor Me Slowly
Page 23He wondered how much time she’d been forced to spend here, who she’d been forced to stay here with—his rage sparked—and if she even liked the place. Her bedroom boasted a comfortable bed, feminine dressers, and a colorful carpet. Mishka. Bed. Arousal flicked brighter than the rage.
“Jaxon. Dude. Snap out of it.”
Fingers waved in front of his face, and Jaxon blinked. When he focused, he saw that Dallas was standing in front of him. Devyn was beside him, grinning like the madman he probably was. They’d approached him, yet he’d had no idea they’d even moved. Some agent he was.
“What?” he said, defensive.
“You left us.” Dallas.
“You also grew hard.” Devyn. “Didn’t realize you were attracted to me. I’m flattered. Truly. I do prefer women, though. I know, I know. You’re disappointed. No need to say it. I’m very handsome.”
Jaxon’s cheeks burned. He frowned. “Just back the hell off.”
Both men were grinning as they returned to their seats. Jaxon studied them. Even though Dallas was smiling, lines of strain now bracketed his eyes. Jaxon’s frown deepened. “You okay, man?”
“I’m fine. You mentioned a bar a bit ago. You talked to the otherworlder there, yes?”
Jaxon nodded.
“Did you happen to get a recording of his voice?”
“No.” Mishka probably had, but he didn’t mention that. At the moment, he doubted she’d be inclined to help them.
Dallas sighed. “Would have made things easier, but we can still work with what we’ve got.” He stood, slid a thin black tracer from his back pocket, and strode to the coffee table.
There, he knelt and flipped the tracer open so that both ends were flattened against the table’s surface. He pressed his thumb into the center and a bright yellow light scanned his print. A moment later, a keyboard appeared just in front of him. Not solid, but merely as bright a light as the scan.
His fingers flew over it, tapping against the wood. “Name of the bar?”
“Big Bubba’s.”
More tapping. “Date and time you were there?”
He answered. Even more tapping. Then a blue screen crystallized over the black tracer, forming a four-by-four square. A map of the city appeared next, followed by eighteen red dots.
“All right,” Dallas said, hands falling to his sides. “Here’s what we’ve got. At the time you gave me and in the vicinity of the bar, there were twenty-nine alien voices recorded. Eighteen are in the middle of a conversation right now.”
Sometime after a group of aliens had first come to this planet through interworld wormholes, it was discovered that most alien voices acted as human DNA did, leaving otherworlder prints behind. Their voices possessed a frequency human voices did not. That’s why there were voice recorders and amplifiers set up all over the city, constantly documenting the different wavelengths.
Those recorders had come in handy during the human-alien war that had erupted all those years ago, helping track down enemy camps and watch certain locations to ensure aliens never breached them.
Of course, that had not been one hundred percent effective. Predatory aliens had quickly learned to be quiet before, during, and after raids, which hid their location as if they were shrouded in shadows and magic. Magic, he thought. Perfect word, reminding him of the way Nolan had simply disappeared through that wall.
If only more was known about their uninvited visitors. Different species, different powers, all kept as secret as possible. The best defense was a good offense and all that shit.
Devyn crossed his arms over his massive chest. “Wait. There are only fourteen dots now.”
Dallas waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Don’t worry. The other locations were recorded. We’ll search whether they’re there or not. I anticipate lots of frustration and failure, but right now these are the only leads we’ve got.”
Okay, then. That was settled, which meant the time had come to make a decision about Mishka. She’d made it clear they were to part ways in the morning and that’s what she wanted. Or so she’d claimed. Maybe she didn’t want it; maybe it was being forced on her.
If she defied her boss, she would be punished. If Jaxon forced her to go with him, he would be taking yet another decision from her.
Jaxon wanted her with him, though, whether she wanted it or not and whether she could be tracked or not. He wanted to protect her, wanted to find a way to save her. Deep down, she had to crave those things. But as afraid as she was of her boss, he knew he’d have a hard time getting her to admit it.
Still. He had to try.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Release the girl from stun,” he told the Targon.
Devyn frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Dallas said, “No. She stays frozen. And that’s nonnegotiable.”
With a shrug, Devyn said, “You take the fun out of everything, Dallas. It is done. She’s free.”
That easily? Jaxon thought, surprised.
Dallas growled. “You traitor! I told you no. She’s dangerous.”
Jaxon expected Mishka to rush into the living room, guns blazing. She didn’t. In fact, a minute passed in silence and calm, and then another.
“Mishka,” he called while Dallas and Devyn continued to argue. “Mishka!”
Finally, she stepped into the room. Relief poured through his veins. Relief and awe. Her glorious hair was tied back in a ponytail. She wore a black shirt rather than the white one he’d left her in, and black syn-leather pants covered her legs.
Her expression was blank, and her hands were shockingly free of weapons. Her gaze remained locked on him, as if the other two men weren’t even present.
Dallas stopped yelling at the Targon and strode toward her, menace in every step.
Jaxon moved in front of him, blocking his path.
“Don’t ask,” Mishka told him. “I’m not going with you.”
Reading his mind now? A muscle ticked below his eye. No longer did she look like a well-loved woman. She was Marie, an assassin, cold and uncaring, beauty carved in stone.“At least give me a chance to help you,” he pleaded.
“Maybe I won’t disappoint you.”
Slowly she approached him, her strides graceful and fluid like the machine she considered herself to be. When she stopped, she was only a breath away. And when she took that breath, her nipples brushed his chest. Behind him, Dallas tried to push him away. Jaxon shrugged out of his hold, grabbed Mishka’s arm, and dragged her into a corner. He could feel his friend’s narrowed gaze boring into his back.
Awareness kindled inside him.
“We both knew this couldn’t last,” she said casually.
So dismissive. Blood roared savagely in his ears. “I did not consider you a coward until just now.”
A flicker of outrage darkened her eyes, but it was quickly extinguished. “Tell yourself that we’re over because I’m a coward if that makes you feel better. But the truth is, I’m not trying to make it work because I’m done with you. You served your purpose. I have no more need for you.”
Though he didn’t believe her, her words still managed to cut deep. But he was used to difficult opponents and refused to back down. For some reason, this battle seemed more important than any he’d ever faced before. “You like me more than you should. You’re scared, probably even think you’re protecting me by walking away from me.”
She laughed, and it was not a pretty sound.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed both Dallas and Devyn closing in on his sides. He held out his hands to ward them off. “No.”
Mishka reached up and caressed a fingertip over his cheekbone, down his scar, and along the column of his neck. Where she touched, he tingled.
“Good-bye, Jaxon,” she said sadly.
He didn’t have time to reply. Something sharp dug into his vein.
His eyes widened as realization set in. Furious and shocked, he slapped her hand away. “Mishka.”
“You’ll thank me one day.”
“Goddamn it! You drugged me again.” The words were slurred, far away.
“You should have believed me when I told you I was bad for you.”
A black web began to fall over his vision. Thickening, connecting. His muscles weakened and dizziness assaulted him in increasingly intense waves. He swayed. “Stay with me,” he managed. Even to his own ears, the plea was little more than a whisper. “Don’t go.”
“Get him out of here,” Mishka said coldly, just before his world crumbled to nothingness.
CHAPTER 15
A week later
Three more infected women had been found and were currently the residents of sector twelve at A.I.R. headquarters. Despite Jaxon’s warnings to Jack to wait, those women were being studied and tested in hopes of finding a cure or, at the very least, a vaccine.
Jaxon cared, but not as much as he should have.
Jaxon cared, but again, not enough.
Actually, the doctors acted ignorant about everything. The Schön, the virus, the effects of both. Jaxon was surprised they knew how to dress in the morning and feed themselves throughout the day. They said they were there to “gather samples” and had no concrete conclusions about anything.
How was that for working together?
So far, Jaxon had talked to two of the women. He’d learned nothing new.
So far, he knew of two planets that had been destroyed by the Schön: Delenseana and Raka. Was Earth to be the third? What’s more, would testing those infected women begin a chain reaction of sickness and demise that couldn’t be stopped as he suspected?
He was afraid of the answers, but he still couldn’t bring himself to care as he should.
As an agent, a paid hunter, a night stalker, he’d seen terrible things. Children slaughtered, women beaten, men raped. Bodies drained of blood, organs stolen and sold on the black market, death in every incarnation.
He’d eliminated those responsible to the best of his ability, sometimes forgoing food and sleep, always killing when needed. As Mishka had once said, weapons could be a man’s best friend, and his best friends helped keep the world safe. But how was he to fight an insidious monster that struck silently and without warning? How was he to fight a virus? Doctors and scientists could, perhaps, find a cure as they hoped.
But how many would die in the process?
Countless, most likely, but once again Jaxon just didn’t care enough.
He sighed. Right now he sat at his desk, elbows propped up, head in his upraised hands. Upon his return to the real world he had been debriefed, examined, sent to a shrink, and reactivated for duty. Not that it had done him any good. Nolan had not contacted him, and his search for the Schön had failed.
The worst, though, was that Mishka had not contacted him, either, and she’d removed the tracking device from her phone so he could no longer pinpoint her exact location. That was where most of his concern lay. Mishka’s absence.
He’d searched for her, called every government contact he had. Nothing. He was tormented with questions. What was she doing? Who was she with? What were they doing together?
Then he’d begun to think she was in danger of being ordered to fight the Schön as long as the virus-carrying bastards were out there, so he’d stopped looking, was now concentrating on the aliens. But not looking for her was killing him.
Jaxon hungered for her, dreamed of her, had to have her again. Couldn’t think about his job the way he should and didn’t consider the victims—past, present, or future—the way a good agent needed to do. She was his biggest concern. He needed her back in his arms. He needed to be inside her again. He needed to know she was safe, not rotting somewhere in pain and punishment.
He just flat needed.
Mine. Every instinct in his body screamed it. True or not, he could not function much longer without her. She’d knocked him out, yes. She’d sent him away as though she didn’t want him, yes. Deep down, he knew she’d done it to protect herself and him. That, he understood. Might have even done it himself were the situations reversed. But that didn’t mean he was going to let her get away with it.
“This what Jack pays you for? Meditating?”
Jerked from his torturous musings, Jaxon glanced up. Mia Snow stood in his doorway, lovely as always. Her black-as-night hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her ballerina features glowed healthily. A tiny thing, she radiated an I-could-break-at-any-moment aura. Funny thing was, she could snap a man’s neck with a simple twist of her wrist.
Kind of like Mishka.
Frowning, he rubbed his chest to tamp down the sudden ache. Would he see her again? His jaw clenched. He’d see her again; he’d make damn sure of it, one part of him vowed.
Forget her, the other part of him beseeched. Truly, he didn’t need her in his life. He had friends who didn’t delight in drugging him into a stupor. Friends who didn’t lie to him, who definitely wouldn’t shank him in the jugular if ordered. Of course, those friends hadn’t given him the greatest orgasm of his life. Those friends didn’t look at him as if he were part hero, part villain and their life hinged on his touch. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">