He studies me a long moment, not responding right away. My heart thunders in my chest as I wait for an explanation. I lower my hand and demand hoarsely, “Tell me. Please.”
My “please” does it. The rigid line of his shoulders seems to relax. “No. You’re in the US.” He snorts and drags a hand through his hair, sending the dark strands tumbling wildly. “And you think you can make it out there. You don’t even know what country you’re in.”
This hits its mark. “You’d be surprised just what I’m capable of.”
His gaze slides from my face to my neck and back again. “I bet.”
“I was almost there,” I continue, leaning back against the cave wall, suddenly unable to stand without some support. I just need a minute. I drag in a breath. “But then I got shot. Apparently I washed back ashore on the American side.”
“Apparently.” He nods. “You’re still in the good old US of A. If I’d been leading you, you would have made it.” My irrational brain interprets this as a slight against Sean. Sean, who might be dead. Annoyance flashes through me.
I stab the knife in his direction. “You’ll never lead me anywhere.”
He motions behind me, presumably to where the outside world waits. “Fine. Then go.” His voice drops lower. And he’s speaking slower. Or it just seems like it. Like he’s talking to me from somewhere far away. I squint, focusing on his lips. “I predict you’ll be picked up in half an hour. Unless you pass out. Then the coyotes will find you and have a feast. Is that what you want, girl?”
I flex my hand around the knife, trying to let the solid feel of it reassure me. “I’ll take my chances. And don’t call me ‘girl.’ I have a name.”
He unfolds himself slowly until he’s standing. My neck angles back to hold his gaze. He’s not as brawny as Sean but he’s taller. Lean and rangy like a wolf. I blink once, hard, shaking off the comparison even though I suppose it’s natural to compare every carrier I meet to Sean . . . Sean who has filled my world for the last several months. Sean who I killed for. Sean who is gone. Lost to me.
He holds up both hands, long fingers splayed wide. He waves them like I’m some wild animal he’s trying to soothe and tame. “And what’s that?” he asks gently.
I frown. The circular motion begins to make me dizzy. I focus back on his face, trying to get my gaze off the flurry of his hands. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it does. Tell me your name.”
He has a nice face, I think, and then blink, trying to snap back to myself and rein in my thoughts.
Is it just me or has he moved closer? I jab the knife in his direction. “Stay back.” I cringe at the sluggish sound of my voice and press my other hand against my face. “Ahhh.” I inhale a hissing breath against the heat of my skin and the sudden spin of my world.
My legs give out. I cry as I fall, tumbling in a graceless heap. The fall jars my shoulder and I moan. Boots loom over me. Squatting, he plucks the knife from my hand with embarrassing ease. Like taking candy from a baby.
“That. Hurt.” I get the words out, each one punctuated with a pained exhale.
“How are you not dead?” he asks in a maddeningly even voice, but there’s a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “You’re a mess.”
I laugh, the sound brittle and a little crazy even to my ears. My head spins. “Oh, but I’m special,” I mock, not really knowing what I’m saying. I don’t think my words through. They just fall from my lips. It’s like being drunk with no filter. “One moment I was planning my dorm room at Juilliard, and then this . . .” I wave at my neck. “And then they wanted me . . .”
Closing my eyes, I search for the dark never that sheltered me earlier. Even a ghost couldn’t find me there. I can feel it close, so very near, like warm breath at my neck.
“Who wanted you?”
His voice is insistent, like a buzzing gnat around my cotton-filled head. I crack open my eyes. Whatever flash of humor I thought I saw in his gaze is gone. I watch as he slips my knife away. It disappears beneath his poncho. He took it from me like I’m nothing. Definitely not someone to inspire fear. Even if I do have this stupid imprint on my neck.
I slowly roll my head side to side. “Funny, huh? They were training me to be a really good killer. And I kind of suck at it.” My head dips to the side. My bangs fall in my eyes. “Don’t I look like a deadly assassin to you?”
“Who was training you?” His hand is there, brushing the hair back. The contact is almost tender, and I resist leaning into that touch, into the callused fingertips that graze my forehead. They feel so cool on my overheated flesh. At least I tell myself that’s the reason behind the compulsion. He’s not tender in any way. He can’t be. He’s just trying to see my face as I ramble incoherently. Even in my condition I know that.
“Who?” he repeats, capturing my gaze, those flame-colored eyes drilling me for information.
“Same people who put that mark on your neck,” I murmur, waving at him like I can see his imprint. I’m practically under him. I can’t see anything. “The Agency.” I say this last bit slowly, dragging out the words. “They put me in a special camp . . . promised I could have my imprint removed.”
“That so?”
“Believe it, baby.” I laugh at this, highly amused with myself.