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  My only hope was that no one discovered I was the little girl, the powerful Healer, who was killed in the fire along with her Talde ten years ago. It was my only chance to stay hidden from Drake.

  I stood under the hot spray until the trembling stopped then turned off the taps and climbed out of the tub. As I reached for a towel on the hook, I heard footsteps on the hardwood floor outside the door. It was after midnight, and Xamien rarely had guests and if he did, he told me they were coming.

  The steps stopped outside the bathroom door. I expected a knock and Xamien to ask if I was okay. Often he’d come check up on me if I woke in the night screaming; instead, the doorknob turned and the door swung open.

  My breath hitched and I yanked the white towel up in front of me while I staggered back a few steps. A shiver brushed through me as the cool air from the open door hit my wet skin and the humid air dissipated.

  I clutched the towel to my damp skin as I met the hard, grey eyes of a man I’d never seen before. The first thought that came into my head was panther—a deadly panther. Sleek and lean—his muscles defining every inch of him even through his clothing.

  It was as if he was ready and eager to pounce on whatever prey he had in his sights. And at the moment, that was me. What softened his look were the lazy walnut curls that fell in disarray over his head and the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth as if he was . . . amused.

  “Who are you?” Maybe I should’ve asked what the hell he was doing walking into my bathroom in the middle of the night, but I was more concerned as to who he was and what he was capable of. He had to be a Scar because Xamien rarely allowed anyone in his manor except Scars; however, recently, he allowed a vampire-witch to be incarcerated in the attic.

  “Are you a Scar?” My shields around my thoughts to hide my abilities were pretty resilient, but it still made me uneasy meeting new Scars. This guy, with his cocky stance and arrogant expression, looked like he had an overabundance of confidence. I only hoped he didn’t have an ability to match.

  “Sure am. But if you’d rather I be something else, I’m willing to play for a night.”

  Oh, my God. What a dick. “You’re standing in my bathroom in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Oh, I noticed.” His eyes boldly roamed down the length of my body, hesitated on my foot where my disfigured Ink tattoo lay, and then dragged back up to meet my eyes again. His expression remained composed and unconcerned as he casually leaned his shoulder up against the doorframe and crossed his arms.

  “Can you please leave?” I attempted to keep my voice courteous like I always did, but there was grit to it this time and it echoed in the bathroom.

  “A polite little thing, aren’t you,” he replied with a harsh baritone, which held a hint of Scot accompanied with the softening lilt of Irish.

  My blood pumped faster through my veins as the sexy sound vibrated through me. The nightmare had obviously damaged my brain. “If you don’t leave, I’m calling Xamien.”

  The corners of his lips twitched. “I don’t think you will.”

  I glared. “Why not?”

  “Because you like me.”

  I snorted. “I don’t even know you. And I certainly don’t like strange men who come into my bathroom in the middle of the night.” The clip in my hair slipped out and fell to the floor, making a clink as it bounced off the ceramic tiles. My hair tumbled down my back and over my shoulders. His eyes watched the strands until they settled in place then his gaze slid over my skin to linger on my collarbone before dragging up the curve of my neck.

  Goose bumps scattered across my moist skin as his eyes changed from a light charcoal grey to glistening black, like wet pavement in the night. It was utterly captivating . . . and I didn’t like it one bit.

  Scars had much stronger emotions than humans, sometimes, so powerful, it was debilitating, but I’d never had my body react to a man this way. Not that I had much experience.

  The muscles in his arms flexed and my eyes darted to the ink etched into his skin in an intricate pattern from his elbow upward to disappear beneath his plain black t-shirt. I peered closer trying to distinguish if it was his Ink, but it was nearly impossible to tell them from a regular tattoo. My only advantage was I had a connection with Inks. I studied his tattoo, searching for the familiar living being beneath—

  “You see, you like me.”

  My eyes shot back to his and an idle emotion rose inside me—anger. It clawed at my shield as he stood in the doorway as if it was his right to be there. “Are you done having your fun? I’d like to go back to bed.”

  The corners of his lips curved upward and I caught a glimpse of his perfect white teeth. “Don’t think I’ll be done for a while.” The word done came out as a drawl that lingered in the air between us.

  For years, I’d kept my emotions contained, yet within one minute, this guy was charging it like a wild boar. I had the urge to walk up to him, smack him in the face then slam the door on him. It was an urge that surprised me. I hadn’t thought of reacting to anyone in a long time. I was calm, patient and disconnected, but all of those were teetering on a tightrope. What I didn’t like was the strange whirl in my stomach as if I was nervous.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “None of your business.” Scars were immortal and aged until thirty-two, so it was hard for me to guess how long he’d been around. I was only twenty, and for a Scar that was really young.

  “Oh, baby, right now, you are my business.”

  A splattering of sensations peppered through me and begged to come out and play. I couldn’t let them. I wouldn’t let him unhinge me with a few looks and a couple words. I was stronger than that. But there was something about him that put me on edge.

  God, why was he just staring at me as if he could see right through my towel? Why wasn’t I calling Xamien? He was close enough to speak telepathically, but I hadn’t used that form of communication since I was ten.

  Fine. If he wasn’t going to leave, then I was. I leaned over to reach for another towel to cover my shoulders, but I kept my eyes on him. I wasn’t stupid and suspected if I took my eyes off him, he’d take advantage. I didn’t know how yet, but I wasn’t taking any chances with this asshole. But my mistake was I should’ve been paying attention to what I was doing.

  It happened fast. I leaned too far. The heel of my foot slipped in the puddle of water beneath my feet and I lost my balance. I scrambled to grab hold of something . . . that something was the towel rack. But even my one-hundred and fifteen pounds was too much for it and the metal rod snapped out of the holder and clanged to the floor.

  A weird strangled cry emerged from my throat as I landed sitting on the toilet with the bundle of towels now on the floor at my feet—including the one I’d been using.

  My cheeks burned as I grabbed one and pulled it up in front of me then jumped back to my feet. Our gazes clashed and I noticed the quick change in his expression from lowered brows over his annoyed charcoal eyes to amusement again.

  He grinned and half-snorted. “Impressive.”

  Momentarily speechless, I had no idea how to respond. The polite response would be a shy, embarrassed smile; my gut response was ‘get the fuck out!’ Instead, I kept my thoughts to myself. It was safer that way. I had to stay safe.

  No confrontation. Simple. Yet there was nothing simple about this man. I could see it hidden in the depths of his eyes—dark, hard. And he’d changed expressions so quickly as if not wanting me to witness the dark parts of him.

  He crossed his ankles, appearing casual and comfortable, and I ground my teeth together. “So, do you normally shower in the middle of the night?”

  “So, are you normally rude?”

  He laughed and a soft curl fell in front of his eyes. He casually pushed it back behind his ear. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

  No. And I didn’t care.

  “Jasper Kyelin.”

  Kyelin. Then it clicked. The rogue Scar. The mercenary or assassin
—both. He’d stayed here briefly a few times, but I’d never met him. When I’d been attacked a couple days ago by the witch-vampire, he’d been there, but I was in so much pain I hadn’t looked at him.

  “And your name, sunshine?”

  Sunshine? God, I hate endearments. They were degrading. I wanted to tell him to take his sunshine and shove it up his ass where the sun didn’t shine, but I wouldn’t play his game and from his cocky amused attitude, this was a game and I was the play piece. “My name is Max, not ‘Sunshine,’ although I suspect you already know that,” I replied.

  He shrugged.

  Yeah, he had. God, his asshole meter was rising by the second. “You’re Xamien’s little pet.”

  The meter shot off the scale and exploded. I met his eyes and held them, glaring. Bastard. I had no intention on having any further conversation with him and he was quickly proving my theory that people rarely listened, and if they did, they didn’t give a shit. It was all pretenses to get something from you for their own benefit. The question was . . . what did Jasper want from me?

  He shoved away from the doorframe and casually strolled across the tiled floor toward me. Confident. Self-assured. Not a trace of unease.

  “What are you doing?” My voice quivered and he grinned. Jesus, get your shit together, Max.

  He crouched in front of me and my eyes followed his agile movement as he picked up my hairclip. He slowly stood again and took another step forward. He was so close to me his breath brushed across my face when he exhaled.

  My chest tightened as his scent drifted into me. It was fresh soil mixed with a hint of dry cedar—sensual. I tried to ignore it, but when I breathed in, it settled in my lungs and caused a wave of heat to spread across my skin. I quickly lowered my gaze, intending to ignore him; instead, my eyes trailed down his long, muscular thighs.

  I swallowed and curled my fingers into the edges of the towel pulling it tighter to my body. I kept my eyes glued to the floor, attempting to ignore the new sensations raging through me.

  “Standing right here, best look at me, babe.” His finger came under my chin and I clamped my jaw as he tilted my head up so our eyes met. “And I’m not one for repeating myself.” He held my clip out in his opposite hand.

  I didn’t move until his brows lowered. I snatched my clip from his palm and curled it in my hand.

  He watched me with such intensity I was unsure of what he was doing. And that I didn’t like. He was a Scar and I didn’t know what type and some Reflectors were really good at breaking through shields. There was slight heaviness in my head and it was him attempting to read my thoughts, but I knew from the pressure he wasn’t strong enough. Fortunately, it was one advantage I’d gained from my captivity, a concrete wall around my thoughts. It took several years before I managed it, and even Xamien, who was almost as powerful as the North American Taldeburu, Waleron, was incapable of reading my mind.

  “A Scar with unreadable thoughts.” His brows rose and the corners of his lips curved up. “But . . .” His thumb caressed my chin. “There’s something more to you than that.”

  I stiffened, eyes widening then I yanked my head to the side, dislodging his hand. How did he read that? Oh, God, he couldn’t know just from touching me could he?

  “Sunshine, I don’t give a shit what you’re hiding.” He boldly looked me up and down then drawled, “Except perhaps what’s under that towel.”

  I bit my lower lip—hard. So hard I tasted blood. I released the pressure then flicked out my tongue to caress the damaged surface.

  “Liking the tongue action, but best keep it locked away or you’ll be losing that towel. Morals rarely cross my mind.” I yanked my tongue back inside my mouth. He grinned, but it didn’t match the piercing look in his eyes.

  “Just get out of here.”

  He tsked. “Not the way to treat a guy who was concerned for your . . . safety.”

  “Safety?” Was he crazy? I wasn’t in any danger.

  “I’m a Sounder, babe. Heard your thrashing from my bedroom.” He hesitated as if he was deciding what to say. “I realize some erotic dreams can be rather . . . vivid, but you might want to keep them under wraps while I’m here. Or . . .” he grinned. “I’ll be tempted to make them real.”

  I tried to blanket the desire that suffocated me, but he was messing up all my control and I was spiraling into unknown territory.

  “Unless of course you and Xamien are fucking one another?”

  My mouth dropped open. Bastard. First of all, it was none of his business and second of all . . . it was none of his fucking business. I clamped down on my retort which was going to be my fist belting him across the face, but instead used the response Drake had enforced in me. No confrontation meant I stayed protected.

  “No, sir,” I ground out and looked down at my feet.

  Suddenly, I found myself shoved back against the wall, his hands gripping my hips with a fierce bite. I gasped, my eyes flashing to his. Gone was any sort of teasing humor as his eyes narrowed in on me, brows low, mouth tight.

  “Sir? Not your fuckin’ sir. Anything but a sir—best you remember that.”

  Just as sudden as it came, the violence in his expression disappeared and the corners of his mouth curved upward and sparkling warmth invaded his eyes. His hands left my hips only to slowly move up my sides until his thumbs were resting just below my breasts. “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

  He pushed away from me, and for a brief second, I wished he hadn’t.

  Then I wished I’d nailed him in the groin.

  He turned and walked out, leaving the bathroom door ajar.

  I collapsed onto the toilet seat and put my head in my hands.

  What the hell just happened? I’d lost my calm. My control. He’d broken through my shield and had my emotions sparking off like fireworks. He was dangerous to me and what I was hiding.

  I crawled back in bed, but failed to sleep. Instead, images of Jasper inundated my mind causing me to toss and turn.

  The next morning, according to Xamien, Jasper was gone before the sun rose. I should’ve been relieved; instead, I found myself thinking of him and it wasn’t just that day. It became days afterward.

  Then a week later, I woke in the night and smelled his scent in my room. I leapt out of bed, turned on the light expecting to see him, but Jasper wasn’t there. Day after day for weeks, I sensed him near me, but Jasper hadn’t returned.

  I became obsessed with him. Thinking about him all the time and then constantly berating myself for it.

  And the worst was, my nightmares reminding me to stay hidden and safe became riddled with erotic dreams of Jasper.

  But the feeling of him being near me was never consistent. It was as if he was there and then . . . he was gone. I couldn’t understand it and after several months, I gave up trying. What I did know was when I didn’t sense him around, I felt . . . alone.

  I ROLLED OVER MOANING AS the deep roar of a bike’s muffler sounded outside my bedroom window. I put the pillow over my head as it skidded in the gravel and then the engine revved before it shut down.

  I flicked an eye open and glanced at the red digital number on the clock sitting on my nightstand—one fifteen. What was Xamien—?

  The front door slammed shut and I bolted upright.

  Xamien was in Toronto with Waleron.

  Xamien didn’t have a motorcycle.

  Darts of fear speckled my skin as I heard the footsteps downstairs. My heart slammed against my chest and I threw back the covers, jumped out of bed then knelt on the floor and felt around until I found the slightly raised tile. I dug my fingernails underneath and pried it loose then slid it aside.

  I reached in the hole, pulled out my handgun and quickly checked it was still loaded, although I always left it that way. I never assumed I was safe even after years of being free of the monster. Nor did I pretend to believe the feeling would ever go away.

  A gun wouldn’t stop him though. Nothing would if he found me.

  I clutched
the gun, finger curved around the trigger as the booted feet took the stairs two at a time. Two at a time . . . Drake would never take the stairs like that. He’d do it calmly, quiet and with grace. Complete control. Dignified.

  I quickly glanced at my hands . . . they were normal, no heat. After years of healing Drake’s lungs week after week, my hands used to automatically heat up whenever he was near. It became my warning sign he’d arrived . . . home. Despite what happened there, it still had become my home for six years. I had nothing else. I had no one. He’d made sure of that.

  My heart beat steadied and the trembling in my body stopped as I realized it couldn’t be Drake. I may no longer be afraid to die, but I was smart enough to be scared of Drake and going back to him. Of what he’d do to me if he ever found out what I’d been hiding from him all those years I’d lived with him.

  My one strength was that I’d learned to be numb. To shut off the inner coil of emotions. It was my way to not feel the pain. To stop my abilities. To stop everything.

  Until him. Jasper.

  I tried to ignore the spark igniting inside me at the thought of him, but for months, I imagined the touch of his fingers on my hips when he pressed me up against the wall. I smelled his scent on the breeze that drifted through the window at night as I lay in bed. And those times, I swear he was watching me . . . that he was in my room when I was sleeping. It unleashed a craving for him that refused to be dulled.

  And I hated him for it. I hated how he awakened something inside me. He was like a maggot burrowing deep in my skin that I couldn’t get rid of.

  While he’d so easily controlled his emotions, mine had been all over the place like butterflies in a wind storm.

  Steps strode confidently down the hallway and I quickly tiptoed behind my bedroom door and pressed my back against the wall.

  I held the gun with both hands in front of me, my finger firm on the trigger as I waited for my door to open. I glanced at my window and thought of running, but I didn’t want to run. I’d spent four years learning how to handle weapons and I was good at it.