Melanie was maybe the worst would-be hostage ever—or the smartest. Begging for death was a brilliant move to throw him off track, except Stryker didn’t think she was kidding. At all.
She appeared genuinely afraid of her alter personality and, having met that Phoebe bitch personally, he could understand.
The forked fish on the counter confirmed that if what Mel told him about how her alter ego tortured her proved true, she was truly living a horror show existence. Having enemies was one thing, but sharing a body with one … well, he could read the fear wafting off Melanie in waves.
If she wasn’t totally shitting him. And while he’d listened in on the ACRO scientists discussing multiple personality disorder—though they’d also called it dissociative identity disorder—he still firmly believed that Phoebe and Melanie were both the same person—and they should be punished.
But he’d get a lot more satisfaction taking it out on that fire-bitch. And the only way to ensure he could take his time and maybe even torture some Itor intel out of terrified Mel before he met Phoebe again was to get her the hell out of here and into the ACRO safe house.
Melanie moved into the bedroom and attempted to shut the door between them.
He slammed a flat palm out, making contact with the door and pushing it wide open. “I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
She started at that, pulled the robe more tightly around her. He conceded her some privacy by angling away from her slightly, so he could still see her in his peripheral vision. She let the robe hang open as she turned to the side and slid on a pair of purple, lacy underwear. He couldn’t miss the curve of her breast, the hint of a nipple, and he wanted to see her with that robe off completely.
Which was odd, considering she’d killed his friend and tried to do the same to him. Usually, he didn’t find that such a turn-on.
Except Melanie … she was different.
In the case of multiple personality disorder within special-ability types, the more timid personality is usually the dominant, the ACRO psychologists had explained to him. If she’s stressed, the stronger personalities will come out to protect her.
Stryker was walking a fine line with that, but so far, the only woman in front of him was Melanie. And he sure planned on stressing her more, and soon.
Finally, she shook the robe off, keeping her gaze averted from his the entire time.
He shifted, his erection nearly to the point of painful, and fuck it all, he would need relief soon. Just because the woman’s ice tantrum was over didn’t mean that the atmospheric shift didn’t fuck with his cock.
And he knew she’d noticed, both earlier and again now when she slid a furtive glance his way and quickly went back to pulling on a pair of tight, dark jeans and a black sweater cut low, with a pair of leather boots that he hoped like hell she could run in, if need be.
“I’m ready,” she said finally.
He looked her over. “Good. Let’s go.”
He motioned for her to walk ahead of him. She hesitated, and then grabbed a jacket hanging off a rack by the front door.
“You’re going to act like you know me,” he instructed, his hand on the knob. “Slip your arm through mine. Smile. Pretend you’re Phoebe.”
They walked down the flights of stairs and out the front door of the building with no problems. The safe house was about half a mile away on foot, a nice stroll through some heavily populated areas, which would be great.
They just had to pass through two residential neighborhoods, the first of which was where he’d stored the gun and Taser, since he knew he’d never get them through Itor’s security at the apartment. And they were there, right behind a Dumpster parked in a narrow alley, and so he tucked the Taser into the side pocket of his cargo pants and the gun in his front pocket.
Stryker felt a tingle of warning and he began to walk faster, even as the passages between the buildings became more narrow, closing in on them as quickly as the footfalls behind them did. Melanie kept up, and for a second he thought maybe they’d be okay, until …
“Hey, Phoebe!” an angry male voice called out, and Stryker and Melanie both turned to see two men stalking toward them.
Too fast.
“Any idea who they are?” he asked.
Melanie looked between them and him. “Maybe … and they don’t look happy.”
They didn’t, were too close for a quick escape—and Stryker knew a fight was in his future.
“Phoebe, we’re here to collect on the money you owe us.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” Melanie told them.
“You lose at poker, you pay a price,” one of them said, his voice level despite clenched fists.
Stryker growled, “Why don’t you just back off?”
Instead of doing that, the taller of the two men heaved a small metal Dumpster into the air with one hand and slammed it back down to the ground with the ease Stryker had come to associate with an excedosapien—humans who possessed either superstrength or superspeed, but never both.
“They’re not Itor,” Melanie said quietly, and yes, Stryker knew that too, had seen the flash of a tattooed palm as the man began his Dumpster toss.
Things never really ever did go as planned, but this time, he knew he could be fucked royally.
These men weren’t Itor, but they could be just as bad. This was a gang of men and women with superpowers who had formed some kind of rogue upstart agency. Or, more accurately, a terrorist organization. He’d been warned about them thanks to The Aquarius Group, ACRO’s sister agency based in London, whose operatives were on standby to help him with situations like this.
Except he really didn’t have time for a phone call right now.
These men and women didn’t have any loyalty among them. Bonded by anger and the glyphlike ink on their palms, they fought dirty, had no desire to learn to control their strength or channel their powers appropriately.
And it looked like they pretty much wanted Phoebe dead. Unfortunately, Melanie would take the brunt of the action, although by the weary look on her face, she was used to this happening.
“Phoebe, you need to come with us,” Dumpster Guy said, his Italian accent thick with anger, and yeah, Phoebe wasn’t exactly the make-friends-easily type.
“You want me, come get me, assholes,” Melanie called back fiercely, and while Stryker appreciated the sentiment, the invitation she’d tossed out would only make them angrier.
“Now’s not the time to grow a spine,” he muttered. He wanted to tell her to run, but if the guys had backup, they’d catch her. No, she was safer waiting for him, trying to stay out of the way and behind him. “If you want her, you’ll need to go through me.”
Widening his stance, he sank into a defensive position that gave them an eyeful of his pistol. He didn’t want to have to use it, not out in the open like this, but letting these assholes know he had it couldn’t hurt.
Dumpster Guy just grinned. It was the short guy who charged Stryker, slamming him easily to the ground, jarring the pistol loose and sending it clattering across the cobblestone paving. A railroad spike of pain shot up his spine and rattled his skull.
Strength. Definitely strength for both excedos, he thought groggily as he rolled away and shoved to his feet. Shortshit, his eyes glittering with blood thirst, threw a punch. Stryker ducked, felt the whisper of air caress his cheek as the blur of a fist flew by. Hungry for his own shot, he spun, driving his heel into the guy’s sternum, and then he used the momentum of landing to make another sweep with his leg. Shortshit yelped in surprise and pain as Stryker’s foot made contact with his ribs.
A satisfying crunch echoed off the surrounding walls, audible even over the sound of traffic at the ends of the alley, and yeah, it was worth getting the crap kicked out of him every couple of weeks during training with Ender and Trance in order to learn the excedos’ weaknesses.
He wheeled around to avoid an incoming strike from Dumpster and thanked his lucky stars these guys were strong, but not fast. The trick would be avoiding a killing blow while taking them to the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mel, backed against a wall. She held his pistol in shaking hands, and even from here and while ripping kicks at these two guys, he could see that the safety was still engaged.
A glancing blow to the shoulder spun him into Shortshit. Stryker stepped off, but not fast enough to avoid a fist in the gut. With a grunt, he doubled over, used his position to conceal his hand as he palmed the Taser. In a smooth motion, he slammed into Dumpster with a linebacker hit while nailing Shortshit with the Taser. The short guy went down, eyes bulging, body twitching.
“Merda!” Dumpster spat, and jammed the heel of his palm into Stryker’s nose.
Cartilage crunched and pain screamed through his face, and shit was right, because motherfuck that hurt, and he’d be popping his own nose back into place when this was done.
Breathe. Stay calm.
Kind of hard to do when he was getting thrown against a wall by Dumpster Guy.
“Mel—” He broke off as Dumpster’s forearm came down on his throat, and where the hell was she anyway? Gasping for breath, he cranked his head to the side, just barely, but enough to catch sight of her as she turned the corner up the alleyway and he wondered why the hell this asshole wasn’t following her.
A heartbeat later, he had his answer. As suspected, another asshole had been waiting in the wings to grab her. Somehow—with sheer dumb luck, probably—she evaded him by bumping into two restaurant workers hauling garbage bags.
But fuck … where there was one bad guy there were more.
And this shit was about way more than Phoebe owing money from a lost poker game.
Summoning the last of his strength and calling on all his training, he simultaneously jammed his knee into Dumpster’s junk while angling the Taser at his neck. Too late the guy realized what was happening, and he hit the ground with a thud.
Unable to spare the time to kill the guys, Stryker sprinted after Melanie and the guy chasing her. He ran as hard as he could, his body screaming with an aching pain that promised to get worse as he pushed himself to the limit.
A crowd loomed ahead, and he shouldered his way through it, ignoring the angry curses. He scanned the bobbing heads … there. Melanie had crossed the street, was trying to blend in with the herd of pedestrians, but someone had to fucking teach her that a bright pink jacket did shit to help that.
To his left, a dark-haired man had zeroed in on Melanie as well, his gaze sharp with predatory intent. Adrenaline surging, Stryker jogged across the street, dodging cars and wildly swerving bicyclists. Suddenly, angry shouts rose up over the sounds of honking vehicles, and he turned to see two men, one of them Dumpster Guy, charging at Melanie.
Shit! He darted down the walk, nearly colliding with a woman stepping out of a boutique, arms laden with shopping bags. Cursing, he targeted Melanie once more, as she wove her way between some café tables ahead. Stryker gave chase. A toddler waddled into his path, and he lunged to the side, leaping over an empty four-top and sending chairs tumbling. The startled screams of the patrons had Mel looking over her shoulder as she ran, her eyes wide when she saw both him and the pissed-off excedo barreling through the tables with as much grace as a bull in a china shop.
“Mel!” He caught her by the wrist and tugged her toward the thickest of the throng in an attempt to lose both the massive man hot on their tail and the two smaller men who had come from freaking nowhere.
Not good. Still running, he took in the area, every window, doorway … hell, if he could steal a car he would. He spotted a shop that backed up to an alley, which meant a rear exit.
“This way!” He dragged Mel through the front door of what turned out to be a curio shop. Halfway in he stripped the damned jacket off her and threw it to the floor before leading her back outside and along the cobblestone streets.
They were attracting attention—far too much for his liking, because the last thing he wanted was the local authorities involved. That would take hours of questioning and God knew what Mel would tell them about him.
No, he had to do this on his own.
They traversed the streets and alleys, taking shortcuts through shops and then slowing to walk casually through a crowded piazza. They paused next to a fountain to catch their breath and gain their bearings, and so far, so good. No sign of the enemy, but he didn’t want to assume they’d lost them.
Still holding her hand, he maneuvered her down another busy street, in the opposite direction of the safe house.
The safe house was out for now. Too far away, and he didn’t want to risk leading the enemy to it. A hotel would have to do, and almost as though she’d read his mind, Mel pointed to the west and said, “That way.”
They cut through the kitchen of a restaurant, earning scowls from patrons and scoldings from the chef, but they saved time.
“There’s a block of hotels over here.” She tugged at his arm. “I’ve woken up in them a few times.”
They bypassed the first one—too exposed, with large windows and not enough people. The second, sandwiched between a corner grocer and a shoe shop, was perfect. It was your basic shithole tourist trap, but for now, it would work.
He stopped before they went through the street entrance. “Try to catch your breath. Keep looking at me, head down, like we’re lovers who can’t wait to get back to our room.”
Thankfully, the lobby was crowded, and they managed to walk through and grab the elevator up to the second floor. Better than the first, and still they could escape easily out the window if they needed to.
He stopped next to a door, knocked, and when no one answered, he used his breaking-and-entering skills to open the door. Suitcases lined the floor. Occupied. Dammit.
Keeping her close, he tried the next three rooms until he found an empty one.
Undetected. So far, so good. As soon as they were inside, door closed, he rounded on Melanie. “Now, let’s talk about you running while I was saving your ass.”
She shrugged. “Looked like you were going to lose. Had to save myself.”
He grabbed her arm, pulled her close, his voice a low growl. “You’re fucking with me, Melanie. And I don’t like it. Running was a really stupid move.”
“Yeah? I thought it was pretty damned smart,” she spat as she struggled uselessly against his grip.
He noted red marks on her cheek that were beginning to bruise. She had blood on a pouty lower lip and he found himself wanting to reach out and wipe her face. She was pretty. Really delicate features that softened the ice blue eyes and blond hair.
He yanked his thoughts away from her injuries and his sudden need to wrap her up and keep her safe and thought about the plan. It would have to include backup, but Mel didn’t need to know that. Yet. He released her, grabbed a tissue to wipe his bloody nose as he stalked to the window.
“Those guys aren’t going to stay away for long. They’ll find us and they’ll bring backup. We’ve got to be ready. Have a plan of action. Another escape route. You said earlier that you couldn’t use your powers if you wanted to.”
“Right.”
“Why?”
“I drained them on my balcony.”
“And is there a way besides time that will restore them?”
“Yes.” She licked her bottom lip nervously. “But it’s complicated.”
He peered out the window and then looked back at her. “Break it down and bottom-line it—we may not have a lot of time.”
“You’d have to have sex with me.”
He stared at her. She blushed, and hey, well, he’d asked for it in the simplest terms.
And at least now he knew exactly how to keep both fire and ice at bay.
* * *
God, Melanie couldn’t believe she’d just blurted it out like that. Then again, she was sorely lacking in social skills.
Stryker was still looking at her with a distinct, are-you-fucking-kidding-me expression on his face, and she just wanted to throw up.
Phoebe was going to freak out, would no doubt blame Mel for this crazy situation they were in, even though Stryker was here for Phoebe, and the insane men who’d attacked them were too.
“Forget I said anything,” she said, sinking down onto the too soft bed that spoke of age, worn springs, and way too many couplings. The ancient comforter was a tacky blend of reds and golds, like nearly everything else in the room, from the oil painting on the wall to the vase full of fake flowers on the tiny sitting table, and she fought the urge to shudder. Phoebe had landed them in some horrible places over the years, but this was the first time Mel had.
“Forget you just said that if I fuck you, you get your powers back? You told me at your apartment that it takes time. How much time?”
She scrubbed a hand over her face, wincing at the twinge of pain as her palm brushed the swelling flesh around her right eye. For a moment she considered lying, but she was too tired and too rattled to think right now. So the truth it was. “Sex gets it back immediately. Otherwise it takes between twenty-four and forty-eight hours for a full charge.”
“If you’re telling the truth, that’s pretty damned inconvenient.”
“You have no idea,” she sighed.
He tugged back the age- and cigarette-smoke-yellowed curtain and peeked outside again. Sunlight streaked across his face, bathing his handsome profile in a golden glow. The harsh line of his jaw tightened as his gaze scanned the narrow side street, but after a moment he turned back to her. “I’m not fucking you, so I guess we wait.”
Thank God. The man wanted to kill her; she doubted he’d be all that considerate with her body during sex. “Well, we can’t just sit here. I need to eat.”
He gave her another one of those looks of utter disbelief. “Yeah, let’s just waltz down to the corner café and see if we get grabbed.”
“We’ve got to do something.” She came to her feet. “If Phoebe comes out with an empty stomach, she’ll be pissed.” Well, that was true enough, but the real truth about why she wanted to eat wasn’t something she was prepared to share.
“She’ll deal.”
Fear knotted in her empty stomach. He wasn’t going to budge, was he? “Please … you have to promise me one thing.”
He folded his arms across his broad chest. “You haven’t figured out by now that I don’t have to promise you shit?”
She raised her chin and tried hard not to let desperation bleed into her voice. “This is easy enough. When Phoebe comes out, tell her I fought you. Tell her it was you who injured me instead of those thugs.”
“I already said I’d make it clear that you didn’t cooperate with me.” His eyes narrowed, as though he suspected a trick. He watched her with that intense, intelligent gaze for a long time before saying, “Something here isn’t making sense. If you want anything from me, I want the truth.”
“That works both ways, you know.”
“Not when you’re the one who’s not in charge. Keep in mind that killing you would be a lot easier than keeping you alive.”
Good point. “Can you at least tell me who you are? Who you work for?”
“You don’t know?” When she shook her head, he said, “Ever heard of ACRO?”
Several times, actually. People who worked for Itor seemed to constantly be at odds with whatever this ACRO was. “I have, but I don’t know what it is, exactly. I know Itor doesn’t think well of them.”
“That’s because my agency opposes everything Itor stands for. We’re the good guys.”
“That’s funny,” she said quietly, “because I didn’t think good guys kill innocent people.”
“You aren’t innocent.”
“I wasn’t responsible for what happened to your friend.”
Instantly, she regretted bringing up the dead man, because everything about Stryker went cold, from his gaze to his voice. “Fuck you,” he snarled. “I’m not buying your multiple personality bullshit. You might have a bunch of alters, but deep down, it’s all the same person. So here’s the thing. I want to know why Phoebe would do things to hurt you, because that doesn’t make sense. Which personality is dominant?”
She didn’t want to tell him anything, but really, what would it hurt? She held no loyalty to Itor or Phoebe. Besides, if he knew the truth, maybe he would be a little more hesitant about killing her. “I used to be dominant, when we were kids. But now Phoebe is,” she admitted, eyeing him warily, because he still looked ready to throttle her for killing his friend. “But she’s not a personality. I’m not an alter.”
He snorted. “Is that what some quack psychiatrist told you?”
She started pacing, doing her best to contain her nervous energy. “I’m not suffering from multiple personality disorder, and don’t give me that look. I’m telling you the truth, and no, I’m not delusional.” Reaching deep for some elusive sense of calm, she continued. “Phoebe and I are the result of laboratory experimentation. One egg was fertilized, and it split. We should have been born identical twins, but scientists forced the eggs back together. Sort of how sometimes you hear some freaky story about how one twin absorbs the other in the womb. Except this was more of a joining than an absorption.”
Stryker’s expression was contemplative now. “So you’re saying that you really are two different people. Each with your own soul.”
“Yes. Doctors determined that while we share the body, we each have our own separate area of the brain. She controls a portion of the logical left and I control a region in the creative right.”
“Okay, let’s say I believe you,” he said in a tone that made it clear he didn’t. “Who performed this experiment, and why?”
“It was Itor. I don’t know exactly what their goal was. No one tells me anything. I asked my mom once, and my dad, and Phoebe—”
“Wait. How did you ask Phoebe?”
“We communicate in a few ways. Notes taped to the bathroom mirror, text messages left for each other on the phone, and sometimes a handheld voice recorder or video camera on the computer.” She shrugged. “So anyway, she said they were hoping to create the perfect spy. Someone who could be anything in any situation because they were two different people. The problem is that they wanted both of us to be aware of what was going on when the other was in control. Turns out that when Phoebe is in control, I know nothing about what happens during the time she has the body, and vice versa.”
What she’d just told Stryker wasn’t entirely true, but he didn’t need to know about the nightmares that often turned out to be true slices of Phoebe’s life.
“So the experiment was a failure.” He spoke while peering out the window once more, his sharp gaze taking in everything outside. He might scare the crap out of her, but she couldn’t help but appreciate how alert he was, how confident he was in his abilities.
“No. I was the failure according to Itor.”
He frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“I’m the weak one,” she said. “The one who couldn’t learn all the spy stuff. I can’t fight very well, and I suck at lying.”
The light in the room dimmed as he let the curtains fall back into place. His frown deepened, putting lines in the corners of his lush mouth. An insane question popped into her head, one that asked if he could kiss as well as she suspected. “So Itor created you,” he mused, “but how were you raised? And where?”
Tired of the pacing, she sank back down on the bed and drew her knees up to her chest. “All over, really. Our mother was a powerful elemental telekinetic. She could manipulate both fire and air, which she said was really rare.”
Stryker whistled, long and low. “No shit. I’ve never even heard of anyone with a double element talent. Not until you.”
“Well, not me. Not technically. I can’t manipulate fire, and Phoebe can’t manipulate temperature and water vapor. But still, my mom figured she was the source of our differing gifts. She lost hers during pregnancy and never got them back, so she was useless to Itor after that, except as a mother to us.” A mother who had been protective and kind, if distant, as though something inside her had broken when she lost her powers. Mel didn’t remember a lot about her, except that she’d always seemed nervous when their father paid an unexpected visit, hovering, as though she was worried he’d take Mel and Phoebe with him.
Stryker drifted toward her, and she wondered if he even realized he was doing it. “So where did you grow up?”
“For the first five years, Australia. Itor poked and prodded, tested and made us come out and retreat. Then my mom’s brother got sick, and she took us to live with him in Japan for a couple of years.” Melanie still didn’t know why her father allowed it, but then, he didn’t seem to care all that much about her or Phoebe on a personal level. As long as their mother kept up their education and training, he seemed content to let them live with her. “While we were there, an earthquake struck. Phoebe was in control at the time, and she was trapped beneath some rubble when a building came down. Mom was killed.”
Realization dawned in Stryker’s remarkable eyes, and for the first time, she saw a true softening in his expression. He sat down next to her, not touching, but close enough that she could feel his heat. “And that’s why Phoebe retreated in the jungle, isn’t it? The earthquake.”
Mel nodded. “She’s terrified of them. It’s the only thing she’s afraid of, and she’s practically phobic.”
“What happened after that?”
“My father came for us.” She took a deep, calming breath, because it was at that point in her life when everything went to hell. She’d awakened after the earthquake to find herself in the hospital, recovering from a broken leg and several broken ribs. Her father had arrived shortly after that, cold as a robot and just as efficient as he had her whisked from the hospital to a waiting plane staffed with a medical team. He’d barely spoken to her, had been more concerned for her special abilities than her health or emotional well-being.
“He took you back to Australia?”
“Yes. He figured we were old enough to do without a mom, so we were raised on the Itor compound. We had tutors and trainers, and our existence was all about becoming effective tools for Itor.” She rubbed her eyes again, too late remembering the blow she’d taken from one of the attackers, and she hissed in a breath at the throbbing pain that exploded in her face when her palm struck the bruise over her right cheekbone.
Stryker’s fingers closed on her hand and pulled it away. “We need to get ice on that,” he said, his voice soft—soothing, even. Lightly, he feathered his fingers over her cheek, and a strange tingling sensation replaced the pain. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched her out of … concern?
No, that couldn’t be it. The man wanted to kill her. She jerked away from him, but he caught her chin, holding her immobile. “Hey,” he murmured. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see how bad your injuries are.”
“O-okay.” Okay? She could hardly breathe as his gaze roamed her face and his fingers probed the edges of her injury. He leaned in, so his massive chest brushed her arm, and a lightning strike of awareness shot through her.
Dear God, was she getting … turned on … by this?
He seemed to know she had frozen like a deer facing an oncoming vehicle, and he drew back, but it didn’t matter. She still felt the shadow of his touch on her skin. “So who is your father anyway?”
She swallowed to bring moisture back to her mouth. “Alek Kharkov. He’s—”
“The head of Itor.” Stryker’s voice had gone deadly flat, like his expression, and she got the feeling she’d just given him the wrong answer. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
“Closer to Antichrist,” she muttered, and suddenly, she found herself pinned to the mattress, Stryker’s big body holding her down. “What did I do now?” The words came out in a breathless rush.
His face was a mask of fury. “You’re the fucking daughter of Itor, and you expect me to believe that anything you just told me was the truth?”
“Y-yes. It’s the truth. All of it. I swear.”
“Why?” he snapped. “Why help your father’s enemy?”
“I’m not helping anyone.” She struggled beneath him, but he only pressed down harder, his legs locked down on hers, his chest a dead weight. Panting with exertion, she finally gave up, figuring she should conserve her strength in case she needed to surprise him later. Besides, the struggle seemed to have aroused him, and as his erection ground against the juncture between her legs, something inside her stirred.
“Then what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to keep myself safe,” she snapped back at him, not bothering to hide her irritation at being held down against her will, and her greater irritation at the fact that she was just a little turned on by the physicality of it. Maybe Phoebe had conditioned their body to respond this way. Or maybe she was more like Phoebe than she’d thought. “And right now, you look better than the alternative.”
“So you’re saying that if conditions change and you think someone else can keep you safe, you’ll switch sides?”
Say no, say no … “Yes.” She couldn’t lie for shit. Phoebe seemed to have gotten all of that particular talent.
Stryker stiffened, seeming perplexed, as if he couldn’t believe she’d told the truth, so therefore it must be a lie. But if it was a lie, then it meant she wouldn’t change sides, which meant he could trust her. Yep, she’d just trapped him in a web of his own skepticism.
“Fuck.” He rolled off her and lay beside her, staring up at the ceiling. “This would have been so much easier if Phoebe had been in the apartment instead of you.”
“So sorry I ruined your homicide party.” She sat up and shook out her arm, which had fallen asleep when it had been pinned awkwardly between her hip and the mattress.
With a snarl, he shoved away from the bed and stalked to the window. “When will Phoebe make her appearance?”
“Around two in the afternoon.”
“Can you stop her?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I thought you wanted to see her.”
“Oh, I’m dying to see her,” he said in a dark, ominous voice. “But not until I’m ready.”
Okay, so she needed to stay in control as long as possible. “If we go back to my place, there’s a way. A drug Itor developed to help Phoebe stay in control at critical times on missions. If I take it, it will keep her suppressed for a few extra hours.”
“Fine. We head back to your place.”
“But won’t that be dangerous? With those guys after us? Maybe we should … you know …”
“I already told you, it’s not going to happen.”
“I swear, I won’t use my powers on you.”
“That’s not my issue.”
“My issue is that I’d rather face a battle than fuck the woman who killed my best friend.” His gaze raked her from head to toe, and then, with a sneer, he said, “Besides, if I’d wanted you, I’d have had my chance a minute ago.”
How crazy was it that what he’d just said actually stung? She should be happy he didn’t want her. “Guess the fact that you’re a good guy saved me, huh?” She shoved to her feet. “It’s a really good thing you told me you were ACRO instead of Itor, because right now I’m having a hard time telling them apart.”
With that, she slammed into the bathroom.