Blood Assassin Page 13

  “This is sex,” she muttered. “Don’t try to charm me.”

  “I can’t help myself.” His hands followed the curve of her waist, ripping off her satin panties. “I’m a charming guy.”

  She made a sound of disbelief at his claim.

  “You’re a pain in the ass, is what you are,” she muttered. “But I can’t seem to resist you.”

  Fane sucked in a sharp breath as Serra used the tip of her tongue to trace the tattoos that were etched over his chest, her hips rocking against his erection. Irresistible?

  He was a taciturn Sentinel who knew fifty ways to kill a man, but zero ways to win friends and influence people.

  But hell, if she wanted to think that he was irresistible, then he wasn’t going to argue.

  In this moment he would have agreed he was the fucking king of England if it would convince Serra to put him out of his misery.

  “Serra.”

  His plea was cut short as she swirled her tongue around his sensitive nipples before exploring ever lower.

  Fane clenched his teeth and clutched the comforter beneath him. This was clearly his punishment for having denied the hunger that raged between them.

  Unaware of how close he was to the edge, or more likely relishing her power over him, Serra continued to torment him, her lips sending sparks of bliss through his body. Then without warning, her seeking mouth closed over the tip of his cock, the moist heat nearly making him come on impact.

  “Holy shit.” He reached to grasp her arms, yanking her upward to kiss her with savage force. “Do you want me to beg?”

  She tossed her dark hair over one shoulder, her smile smug. “I thought Sentinels were trained to last for . . .” Her eyes widened with shock as Fane arched his hips upward and with one smooth motion had impaled himself in her damp heat. “Oh, God.”

  Grasping her hips, Fane sucked the tip of her breast between his lips, delighting in her shocked groan of pleasure. She was tight around him, clenching his cock like a glove. Trembling from the effort, he waited until she relaxed.

  “Are you okay?” he rasped.

  “I’ll let you know later,” she murmured, lifting herself on her knees so she could draw him out to the tip of his cock before slowly sinking back down, burying him deep inside her. “Much later.”

  Fane choked back a curse, his grip tightening on her hips as he battled back his looming orgasm.

  Dammit. She was right. Sentinels were infamous for pleasuring a woman for hours before claiming their own release. But this wasn’t a woman.

  This was Serra.

  His woman.

  Holding her gaze, he allowed himself to become mesmerized by the beauty of her pale emerald eyes. For once they were unguarded, darkened with passion as she quickened her pace.

  His hips lifted to meet her downward strokes, his moan of pleasure echoing through the air as she planted her hands on his chest for better leverage.

  The air was spiced with the erotic scent of sex, her slender body tensing above him as she closed her eyes and lost herself in the pleasure.

  “More?” he demanded, bewitched by the soft flush staining her cheeks.

  “Yes,” she whispered, giving a moan of bliss, as Fane took command, pumping deep into her at a ruthless pace. “Don’t stop.”

  “I’m yours to command, Serra,” he swore, abruptly sitting up so he could grab the back of her head and claim her lips in a savage kiss. “Whatever you need from me.”

  Their tongues battled, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony. As if they were specifically created for this mating dance.

  Then, as Fane felt the glorious rush toward his climax, Serra at last stiffened in completion, her cry of pleasure muffled against his lips.

  Threading his fingers in her hair, Fane hissed as her pulsing orgasm milked his cock, his hips slamming upward, unleashing his desperate hunger.

  Gasping in stunned pleasure, Fane felt his seed burst from his cock, the shock waves of pleasure radiating through his entire body.

  Serra.

  Valhalla

  Nine levels beneath the public rooms of Valhalla were the headquarters of the Sentinels.

  The long communal room was a stainless steel masterpiece filled with state of the art computer systems and monitors directly linked into their personal satellites as well as a few owned by the government. The heavy wooden furniture was spaced to give the techs a sense of privacy and yet allowed them to share information with ease.

  Along one wall were several doors that were closed and heavily monitored to protect the weapons as well as the more sensitive secrets of Valhalla. And at the far end was the Office of the Tagos.

  The private room reflected the current leader of the Sentinels.

  The office was sparsely furnished with a large walnut desk and two black leather chairs. Its wooden floor was left bare and the ivory painted walls decorated with a collection of priceless samurai swords.

  It was stark. Efficient. And uncompromisingly male.

  Seated at his desk, Wolfe was sorting through a stack of bills when he sensed an approaching visitor. Oh, thank God. He tossed down his pen and rolled his stiff shoulders.

  Shit. He hated paperwork.

  Duty rotations. Inventory. Accounts.

  He was supposed to be a warrior, not a damned pencil pusher.

  But leadership wasn’t just about giving orders. Keeping the Sentinels properly trained, armed with the latest high-tech weapons, and rotated throughout the world was as important as picking up a gun and fighting at their side.

  That didn’t mean, however, that he had to like it, he ruefully acknowledged, watching as the hunter Sentinel filled the doorway.

  Arel was the current favorite of the young women of Valhalla. With features that were just a breath from pretty, he had honey highlights in his light brown hair and eyes that were the color of molten gold.

  It was easy to dismiss him as a playboy with more charm than skill, but Wolfe was well aware Arel was a ruthless opponent who could kill without mercy.

  His angelic beauty only made him more dangerous.

  “What do you have for me?” he demanded.

  Arel held up a file folder. “I’ve got the info on Hull Insurance.”

  The younger Sentinel was dressed like Wolfe in worn jeans and a casual tee, but while Wolfe preferred heavy boots that he could use to kick ass, Arel wore running shoes that allowed him to move in silence.

  “Close the door.” Wolfe waited for Arel to shut the door before pointing toward the chair nearest his heavy desk. He’d taken the younger Sentinel off his current research into the Brotherhood to investigate the St. Louis company. “Sit.”

  The Sentinel crossed to take the leather seat, tossing the file onto the desk.

  “On the surface it’s a legit company that’s been in business for the past thirty years.” Opening the folder, Arel pulled out a black and white photo of a middle-aged man who was only remarkable for being so unremarkable. “This is Hull. No one’s seen any sons.”

  Wolfe frowned, baffled by Fane’s text to investigate the business. “Any connection to Cavrilo International?”

  “None. In fact they don’t have a connection to anyone.”

  “Explain.”

  “Hull and Sons have all the necessary paperwork for their business and they even have a secretary who shows up every day at the office, but the home address listed for Mr. Hull is bogus as is his private telephone number.”

  Wolfe tapped his finger on the polished surface of the desk, sorting through Arel’s succinct report.

  “So it’s a shell corporation?”

  “Yes.”

  Shit. That meant unraveling the truth of Hull and Sons just became ten times more difficult.

  “Have the offices watched.”

  Arel flashed a grin that had been melting female hearts since he was in his cradle. “Already on it.”

  Wolfe hid his burst of satisfaction. Arel was young, but already he showed the type of initiati
ve that would one day make him a leader. Most warriors were happy to follow commands, which made them perfectly suited for the field. He needed men and women who could carry out his orders without question.

  Arel was always thinking a step ahead, like a master chess player using strategy to stay ahead of the enemy.

  Which was why Wolfe had already started the junior Sentinel’s training.

  Not that Arel realized he was being molded by a subtle hand. He was still young enough to relish the thrill of the battle. He would rebel at the mere suggestion that he should be anywhere but at the front line.

  “And?” Wolfe pressed.

  “And I had Marco follow the secretary home,” Arel revealed with satisfaction.

  “So at least one of them has a real home.”

  “Not really,” Arel corrected as he leaned forward, shuffling through the file to pull out the photo of a three-story brick building surrounded by an acre of closely tended grass framed by a high fence. At one side of the building was a cement parking lot and on the other was a white grotto and marble fountain.

  “What is this?”

  Arel shrugged. “This is where she went.”

  Wolfe grabbed the photo, holding it close enough to decipher the sign posted on the locked gate.

  “CENTURY LAB,” he read out loud. Lifting his head, he met Arel’s steady gaze. “What do you know?”

  “The tax returns list it as a research facility.”

  “What kind of research?”

  The younger man grimaced. “I’m checking, but Marco claims the place is locked down tighter than Valhalla.”

  Wolfe was on instant alert. There were only a handful of reasons a business would go to such an effort to protect their secrets.

  Few of them good.

  “A government facility?” he said, suggesting the one acceptable reason for high security.

  Arel shook his head, his expression suddenly somber. “Marco suspects high-blood. He counted three Sentinels patrolling the grounds around the building and at least one telepath monitoring the entrance.”

  With a hiss Wolfe was swiveling toward his computer, typing in the name Century Lab. No surprise it wasn’t listed in his database. Which meant any high-bloods working there had lied about their place of employment, since all high-bloods were supposed to keep Valhalla updated on their addresses and work history if they chose not to live at one of the numerous compounds spread around the world.

  Or they were rogues.

  Both possibilities pissed him off.

  “An insurance company that’s not an insurance company. An unsanctioned facility being guarded by high-bloods,” he snarled. “What the hell is going on?”

  Arel’s expression tightened with an anticipation he couldn’t disguise. “Send me to St. Louis and I’ll find out.”

  “No.” Wolfe nipped the suggestion in the bud. Arel would still have plenty of opportunities to risk his fool neck. Right now it was more important that he use his skill at sifting through puzzle pieces to see the full picture. “I need you working your magic on the computer.”

  Not surprisingly, Arel wasn’t pleased. “You have an entire staff of geeks to work computer magic,” he protested. “I’m a Sentinel, I need to be in the field.”

  “Not this time.”

  Arel clenched his teeth. “Why?”

  Wolfe didn’t have to make up an excuse. Even if he wasn’t trying to train Arel to occasionally use his brain instead of his brawn, he wouldn’t allow the young man anywhere near Serra.

  “Because if you show up in St. Louis Fane will kill you.”

  Arel scowled at the blunt explanation. “He could try.”

  Wolfe resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Arel would someday make a great leader, but he was no match for Fane’s brute strength. Hell, no one could match Fane in a head to head matchup.

  And when it came to Serra being in danger . . .

  He shuddered at the mere thought of anyone stupid enough to try to come between Fane and the woman who’d captured his heart years before.

  “Don’t press it,” Wolfe warned.

  Arel clenched his hands, refusing to let it drop. Understandable. The younger man had been Serra’s lover in the past.

  “Why not?” he demanded. “Fane was the one who walked away from Serra.”

  Wolfe flattened his lips. He was probably the only one who truly knew the price Fane had paid to try to do the right thing for the beautiful, unbearably young psychic.

  “He had his reasons.”

  Arel narrowed his golden eyes. “She deserves better. Much better.”

  Wolfe stilled at the unexpected edge in the Sentinel’s voice. Christ. Did Arel feel more than affection for his previous lover?

  That was a ticking time bomb he didn’t need.

  It’d only been a matter of time before Fane gave in to his primal need to claim Serra as his own.

  “You think you would be better for her?”

  “I care about her, I always have,” Arel said. “Which is more than Fane can say.”

  Wolfe released his breath. Arel was protective of Serra, but his feelings didn’t seem to go deeper than affection.

  “You couldn’t be more wrong,” Wolfe informed his companion. “I just hope he hasn’t realized the truth when it’s too late.”

  There was a faint prickle of electricity in the air before a hidden elevator door behind Wolfe’s desk silently slid open.

  “Too late for what?” a low, mesmerizing voice demanded.

  Wolfe knew who would be standing in the doorway before he ever swiveled his chair around. Only one person could make Arel jump from his chair and stand at rigid attention.

  And certainly only one person could make him feel as if he’d been struck by lightning just by stepping into the room.

  Besides, there were only two keys to the private elevator. And he had one.

  Bringing the chair to a halt, he watched as the current leader of the high-bloods stepped out of the elevator.

  No one knew the precise age of the current Mave, but her classically beautiful face was unmarred by time and framed by a smooth curtain of black hair that was currently left free to spill over her shoulders. Her eyes were a stunning gray, not the placid dove gray of most people, but a stormy, gunmetal gray that was at complete odds with her dignified composure.

  He hid a smile of self-derision as his gaze slid down her tall, slender body, perfectly revealed by her casual jeans and her jade green sweater, cut low enough to reveal the birthmark on the upper curve of her breast.

  The small mark in the shape of an eye proved that she was a born witch, and the brilliance of the shimmering emerald color revealed the thunderous depths of her powers.

  The darker the color, the greater her magic.

  Not that his gaze was lingering on the soft swell of her breasts because he was fascinated by her witch mark, he wryly acknowledged.

  He’d long ago given up the effort to slam shut his awareness of this female.

  She might be the Mave, his esteemed leader, but she was also an exquisite woman who called to him on a deep, primal level.

  A damned shame since nothing could come of his fascination but frustrated nights and long, brutally cold showers.

  The Mave was supposed to be a fair and impartial judge to her people. Which meant she avoided any intimate relationships, whether it was with family, friends, or lovers.

  She’d even given up her own name, Lana Mayfield, to cut all ties with her past.

  A lonely existence, but one she’d chosen with her eyes wide open.

  And one he had no choice but to respect.

  Of course, that didn’t keep him from being plagued by a savage urge to pounce and devour her delectable body.

  Potent need blasted through him, leaving him gutted in its wake.

  He wanted her pressed against the wall, those impossibly long legs wrapped around his waist. Or spread over his desk, her hands threaded in his hair as he went to his knees and tasted her most
intimate magic.

  Those infuriating, unstoppable images were a constant source of annoyance, which might explain why he was more of an ass than usual when she was near.

  Slowly he rose to his feet. “Mave.”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  His lips twisted at the polite words. Unlike the previous Maves, this female preferred to lead with the pretense of civility. Not that anyone was fooled.

  She would crush any opposition with a brutal swiftness.

  “Would it matter?”

  She regarded him with a lift of her brows, cool as a fucking cucumber. “It’s a simple question.”

  Wolfe glanced toward Arel who was inching backward, as if afraid of getting caught in the crossfire.

  Smart Sentinel.

  “Anything you wanted to add, Arel?”

  “Nope. Nada. Not a thing,” he muttered, glancing toward the Mave with obvious unease.

  Wolfe gave a resigned shake of his head. “Get back to your research.”

  “Great.” Arel heaved a relieved sigh, giving a small nod of his head. “Mave.”

  “Arel,” she murmured, his name barely leaving her lips before Arel was headed out of the office and shutting the door firmly behind him.

  Wolfe perched on the edge of his desk. “I’ve asked you not to terrify my warriors.”

  “If I could truly terrify one of your warriors I wouldn’t have to come to you and beg for information on what the hell is going on.”

  He forced his lips into a smile even as his gut clenched at the erotic thought at having this female begging.

  On her knees . . .

  “Hmm. That’s an intriguing possibility.”

  She frowned. “What’s intriguing?”

  “You.” His gaze lowered to the soft curve of her lips. “Begging.”

  The flare of emotion in the gray eyes was so fleeting no one but Wolfe would have seen it.

  And only then, because he’d trained himself to watch for it.

  Petty, of course. But occasionally he felt the overwhelming need to force her to remember she was still Lana Mayfield, a flesh and blood woman, beneath her role of Mave.

  She stiffened at his less than subtle teasing. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”