CHAPTER TEN
She’d be dead right now if Michael hadn’t shown up, and surviving was all that was on her mind as she pulled the rental car into the same spot she’d left, feeling certain that a Wind-walker was going to show up at any moment. Adrenaline raced at high-octane speed through her body as she shoved open the car door and headed for the stairwell, noting the absence of Brock’s car and praying that meant she’d beaten him back to the hotel. She wouldn’t feel certain she’d dodged the proverbial bullet until she was inside her room.
Nerves twisted Cassandra’s stomach in knots as she took the stairs to the main hotel level, trying to avoid the risk of running into Brock. The man wanted to kill her. She didn’t want to run into him in a vacant stairwell. Shoving through the door, she rushed through the sparsely populated lobby and found the elevators, thankful when the doors opened instantly.
Stepping inside the car, she prepared a story to explain where she had been in case of a confrontation with Brock. But thinking was hard, her nerves working her over, clouding her mind. She was terrified over that order Lucian just gave to kill her, but she was also worried over Michael. He was in trouble; she could feel it in every inch of her body and practically taste it in every laden breath she drew. Which was nuts. She was the human with Zodius GTECHs after her. She’d watched his abilities develop and seen the mighty force that was Michael. But this did nothing to calm the worry creating a roller-coaster ride of emotions inside her.
The bell chimed as she arrived on her floor, and she rushed into the hallway, thankful it was vacant. The minute she approached the door to her room she had the sense of Michael being near, but it wasn’t the same vibrant rush of awareness she normally felt. He was hurt—the thought came to her with a clarity she didn’t question.
Anxiously, she swiped her entry card through the lock and was about to enter her room when the door next to hers opened, and Brock appeared.
“I wondered where you were,” he said, walking toward her. “I was worried. I’ve been knocking for a while now.”
A while, her ass. It was a miracle he’d beat her back to the hotel, and she wasn’t exactly sure how he’d managed to do so. “And here I thought only my father worried,” she replied, sarcastically. “I tried to find a twenty-four-hour pharmacy with no success. Looks like I’ll be paying an arm and a leg for a toothbrush at the airport in the morning.” She cringed at the horrible excuse when she could have called room service, but it was out now, and she had to live with it. He sauntered closer, too close. She didn’t turn to face him, but still she could smell his cologne, and his scent turned her stomach—it never had before. This man who would be her killer if she allowed him to be. It was all she could do not to confront him. But she was smart enough to know she needed to think—to process what came next if she wanted to stay alive.
“It’s late to go out alone,” he commented dryly, suspicion in the depths of his eyes.
“I’m a military chick,” she reminded him, trying to jest, but her voice sounded stiff even to her own ears. “We’ll risk life and limb for a toothbrush.”
He studied her a moment, looking none too convinced. But there was that lusty haze to his eyes that had her wanting to kick him right below the belt, especially after what she’d overheard. Did he want to bed her once before he killed her?
“We’re both awake,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb to her room. “Why not share a little nightcap?”
Her fingers curled around the metal knob in her palm a bit more firmly, ready to push her door open and make a fast escape, but found herself forced by his posture to turn and face him. She willed herself to offer a smile. “I’m exhausted, and we leave early,” she said. “We said tomorrow night, if we aren’t too tired. Let’s leave it at that.”
A heavy-lidded inspection followed, along with a thick silence that ended when he finally said, “Lobby at straight one thousand hours, then?”
“Yes,” she said and made a disagreeable face. Ten o’clock was going to feel early tomorrow morning. She waved. “Night.” And she didn’t wait for a reply. She shoved open the door and quickly closed it firmly behind her. Immediately, she flipped the security latch into place.
“I’m going to really enjoy killing that sonofabitch.”
Cassandra’s heart skipped a beat as she whirled around to find Michael propped against the headboard of her bed, his dark hair hanging loose around his face where it had escaped the tie at his neck, long muscular legs stretched out across the bed, and a bloody red towel pressed to his side.
Her chest tightened. “Oh God.” It was clear the towel he was holding against himself was drenched and that he was bleeding horribly. She rushed forward and crawled on the bed to his side.
“Why don’t you have on Zodius body armor?” she asked, removing the bloody towel and trying to inspect his injury, but there was too much blood to see how bad it was, so she reapplied more pressure. “You’re not invincible no matter what you think. You might heal quickly, but you can bleed to death just like the rest of us.”
He tugged his T-shirt upward, displaying the thin suit he wore like a second skin. “Whatever they hit me with wasn’t standard issue ammo.”
Her eyes went wide at the sight of the thin bodysuit, impermeable to bullets, state-of-the-art technology that Adam’s scientific team had somehow managed to manufacture and that her father was dying to get his hands on.
She pressed her hand to his stomach, memories of so many intimate moments shared with this man rushing over her. “How is this possible?” she asked. “My understanding was that no bullet should penetrate your armor. A grenade or rocket launcher, something more powerful, yes, but not a bullet.”
“Clearly the Zodius have a new weapon,” he said. “Once you cut the bullet out of my side, I’ll get it to the Renegades’ lab.”
Her heart tripped. “The bullet is still inside you? Are you sure?”
Strain etched his handsome features. “Believe me,” he said. “It’s in there, and the sooner you get it out, the sooner I can go wipe the ground with Brock’s ‘nightcap’ ass.”
“You heard that?” she asked, shocked, recognizing that no normal person could have heard clearly through that door from the bed. It was an ability he hadn’t possessed two years before.
“I heard everything,” he said, shackling her arm with his free hand. The next thing she knew, he’d pulled her on top of him, pressed to that long, hard body. “Including the order to kill you.”
Their eyes locked and held, and for just a moment, she forgot everything but how much this man had once meant to her. How safe and right he had felt. And she desperately needed to feel safe right now.
“Let me go before you hurt yourself,” she protested way too late and far too weakly, her hand flexed on the solid wall of his chest. Adam had ordered her murdered; she was scared, and Michael’s lips were close, so very close.
“You could have been killed out there tonight,” he countered, his voice darn near a growl.
“But I wasn’t,” she whispered. “And I needed to follow him. I needed to know who I could trust.”
“Because you don’t trust me,” he challenged and didn’t wait for a reply—they both knew he’d nailed the truth. “I did what I did that day at Area 51 to protect innocent lives, yours included.”
“This isn’t about one day,” she amended. “Two years, Michael. Two years of silence. You could have talked to me.” She pushed up on his chest, trying to escape, but he held her firmly. “Let me up before you bleed to death.” Seconds ticked by, his eyes were blazing, his jaw hard. And her heart—well, it hurt. Desperately, she whispered, “Please. Let go, Michael.”
He released her, and she scrambled off him and to the edge of the bed, feeling like a doe-in-headlights that had barely escaped a head-on collision. Looking into his eyes always did her in. She felt a connection, felt she knew him. Yet, really—how much had she really known about Michael?
She reached for the phone to call the front desk. Without turning, she said, “I’m going to order some supplies.”
Michael lay on that bed only moments from holding Cassandra in his arms and listened to her phone conversation with the front desk operator. And he heard the quaver in her voice, the emotion that he knew he’d created. He wanted to protect her, but it seemed he knew only how to hurt her.
He blinked against the spots forming in his vision. Damn it, he could not pass out. Not until this bullet was out.
With all his will, Michael forced himself to move and somehow managed to remove the weapons strapped to various parts of his body, setting them on the nightstand. He took the utility knife from one of the straps around his thigh and laid it on the edge of the bed, deciding it was the best bet at removing the bullet. Then, with supreme effort, he heaved himself past the pain to a sitting position to remove his shirt. Somehow, he had to get out of this worthless armor.
Hanging up the phone, Cassandra turned to him and gasped, “Are you crazy? You’re gushing blood. Stop moving around.” She scrambled to his side, her hand on his chest.
Their eyes locked, collided with the impact of a concrete slab right in his chest. Memories. Desire. She swallowed, and he watched that delicate little throat move. No amount of pain or blood loss could stop him from thinking of kissing it, of kissing her.
“Lie down, Michael,” she ordered, her voice cracking, defying the steadiness of her stare.
“I need to get this shirt off,” he said, his voice not much stronger than hers. He was powerful—a man people feared—yet what he feared most was this woman judging him unworthy. God, he never wanted to face that day. He wouldn’t face that day. Damn. He’d left her so he wouldn’t have to.
“Let me do it,” she said quietly, a plea lacing the words. “Put aside everything between us right now and let me do this. Michael. Please.”
How many times had Michael wished to hear his name on her lips again and thought he never would? He longed to pull her back down on top of him—he didn’t care that it was the wrong choice—that it would be dangerous to his ability to walk away. He didn’t want to hurt her again, knew that was where this was going if he wasn’t careful—if he didn’t ensure that she stayed angry and distant. Despite this, raw possessiveness rose inside him. He had to make love to her one more time. And hewould—soon, very soon. Maybe that made him selfish, but he didn’t care anymore. He needed that one more time to survive a lifetime without her.
“Hold the towel on the wound,” he said, his voice as tight as every muscle in his body. “Once I get the shirt off, you’ll have to unzip the armor. You’ll never get the bullet out as long as I have it on.”
She nodded and quickly applied pressure to his wound. Michael yanked the shirt over his good arm and then over his head, letting it dangle off the shoulder near his injury. Cassandra helped him inch it down his arm and then tossed it to the floor. He reached down and held the bloody towel against his wound.
Cassandra winced at the blood running down his side. “You’re bleeding way too much. We need to get this done. Hold on.”
She reached forward, and their hands connected. A combination of pain and arousal rocketed through his body as she softly said, “I can’t reach the zipper.” It was the only warning he got before she climbed across his lap, using his shoulders to steady herself.
Again, his eyes held hers—emotions, past and present, thick with implications and unspoken words. “And here I thought you were pissed at me,” he commented in a low voice.
She cut her gaze, but not before he saw the sadness crossing her lovely face. “I got over being pissed a long time ago,” she whispered.
“You seemed pretty angry at the gazebo,” he commented.
She glanced at him, and then back down. “Maybe I’m still a little angry.” She focused on working the zippers lining the top of his shoulders and his healthy left side. His armor fell free, connected only along his injured side, which he held in place with the towel, using what little energy he still had. His head was spinning, the blood loss taking a toll.
Cassandra eased her weight off his legs and took the armor and the bloody towel with her, quickly throwing it aside and shoving another towel onto his wound before applying pressure with both hands.
“Where the heck is housekeeping with those damn supplies?” she murmured.
His eyes were heavy. “We can’t wait,” he said. “The bullet has to come out now.”
“We have nothing for pain,” she fretted. “Nothing to sew you up with. No bandages. They’re bringing everything. And I don’t want to get started and then have them show up.”
A knock sounded on the door, and she let out a sigh of relief. He willed himself to move, to grab a gun. Cassandra stared down at the gun, but said nothing, scooting off the bed and rushing toward the door.
“Just a minute,” she yelled, stopping long enough to shrug off her soiled jacket and wipe off her hands before pulling on a clean shirt and tossing the dirty one aside. She grabbed her purse and the cash inside before discreetly cracking the door. He heard the attendant ask if she was okay, heard her murmur about falling and a make-believe trip to the ER to explain the bandages. A few seconds later, she’d gotten rid of the attendant and wheeled a tray inside. He set the gun down—it seemed suddenly heavier than normal.
Cassandra crawled to his side and handed him a bottle of vodka. “It’s not much of a pain reliever, especially not with your metabolism, but it’s something. Drink it down while I get some hot water. I know alcohol doesn’t have much of an effect on you, but, well, maybe if you drink a lot and fast, it’ll help some. It’s worth a try.”
He accepted the bottle of vodka as she scurried away despite his distaste for it.
With a low curse, he downed several long gulps, the clear liquor burning a path down his throat, the irony of Cassandra’s unknowing choice of the vodka not going without notice. It was as if his father were laughing from his grave, reminding Michael that no matter what he did, where he went, he was still born of his father’s blood, still of his birthright.
Cassandra returned and set the water on the night table, next to the supplies she’d laid out moments before. She drew a breath.
He sensed her hesitation and headed it off. “The sooner we do this,” he commented, “the sooner I can start healing.”
“I know,” she said heavily. “I know.”
He downed another long swallow of vodka, capped the bottle and handed it to her. There was no need to sterilize his wound; he didn’t get infections. “Did I ever tell you how much my father loved a good vodka martini?”
A look of shock crossed her face. “You never spoke about your father.”
Or the mother who hated his guts. Not that she’d said she hated him, but she didn’t write, didn’t call, didn’t give a damn where he was or what he did. Sounded like hate to him. Michael offered her the knife, and she reached for it, but he didn’t let go. Part of him wanted to try and explain why, but it wouldn’t change who, or what, he was. He released the knife and turned onto his side, somehow keeping the towel in place. “I talked about my father,” he said. “I remember precisely telling you he was a bastard.”
She pressed her hand over the towel. “I’ve got it. And yes, now that you mention it, I do remember the bastard description rather clearly.” She shifted to the matter at hand. “Okay. Let’s do this. I’m going to try to see the bullet first.” She lifted the towel for her inspection, and he felt her wiping and wiping at the wound, clearly trying to get a good visual. She let out a shaky breath, then, “I have to pull back the skin.”
“Do what you have to.” She didn’t wait for another invitation, and he jerked and grunted as the bullet scraped his rib.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “It’s deep, Michael. I can’t get to it. Not without cutting you.” She pressed the towel down on the wound and leaned over him, staring at him, desperation in her face. “Call for help. We need a doctor. You have to have a painkiller, Michael. I’m insisting.”
Using the last bit of energy he possessed, Michael reached up and laced his fingers through her hair, pulling her across his body. “Listen to me,” he said, locking eyes with her. “You have to do this. There is no one else.”
“A doctor—”
“The Renegades have only human doctors. Meaning they can’t wind-walk, and I can’t wait for them to take a plane. I need you to do this.”
She inhaled and shook her head, her bottom lip trembling. “I hate this so much.”
That made two of them, he thought, as he let her go and lay back down. His lashes lowered, his eyes heavy, the room suddenly spinning. He’d lost too much blood. How he’d kept going this long he didn’t know. He swallowed against the nausea threatening to overcome him.
“Ready?” she asked.
Grinding his teeth, Michael willed his stomach to calm. “Yes.”
She didn’t give him time to change his answer. Steel cut through his flesh, the acid burn of radiating pain following. He was stiff. Sweat gathered on his back, his face, his entire body. In a distant corner of his mind, he knew Cassandra was crying, but still she worked, still she did what had to be done. And he knew the second she hit the bullet; his body jerked despite his best efforts to remain still, and he barely contained a scream as pain splintered through nerve endings.
“I’m sorry,” Cassandra whispered a minute before he felt the blade slicing through his skin again and her finger digging inside him. Little pulses of light spread before his eyes, into his head, into his limbs, a moment before darkness pressed down on him. Panic formed—he never panicked. In his mind, he clawed through the darkness. If he died now, who would protect Cassandra? But it was too late—everything simply went black.
Hours after completing Michael’s surgery, Cassandra sat on the edge of the bed, holding a cool rag to his head, scared for him, unsure what to do. She’d seen the GTECH healing process many times, which ranged from tingling skin for a small cut, to violent muscle spasms for more intense injuries. But never, ever, had she seen the kind of torture Michael’s body was putting him through. He was burning up with fever, his muscles jerking and spasming. She could see them pulsing beneath his skin.
She rested her head on his chest, overwhelmed with worry. How much more could his heart endure of this kind of pain? What if the bullet had been poisonous?
She had to call for help, and the only person she knew to call was Caleb. Cell phone, she thought. Michael had to have one. Maybe it would have Caleb’s number in it. She ran her hand over his pockets, and sure enough, another super slim phone was in his front pocket.
“Yes,” she whispered, retrieving the phone and quickly tabbing through the saved numbers, her heart stopping as she saw one noted as “Adam.” Her stomach clenched at that name, and unable to stop herself she thumbed through his call log. Her stomach rolled this time. He’d called Adam recently. Her mind raced as she saw the date and time. Oh my God. He’d called him the night he’d visited her in that Washington restroom. He’d told her he had already left Zodius that night. Who had she talked to on the phone? Caleb or Adam?
Suddenly, Michael sat up, and Cassandra gasped at this unexpected action, certain he was about to grab the phone. Instead, he was on his feet and headed toward the bathroom, hunched over—sick, she realized. She raced after him.
She found him hugging the toilet, throwing up. Cassandra grabbed the doorjamb, forced herself not to go to him, despite the instincts that told her to.
She held the phone, considering a call to Caleb again. Call for help or wait it out? She watched as Michael threw up over and over, so sick—too sick. Her mind raced, fear twisting her in knots. She’d heard Lucian clearly state that Michael was no longer with Zodius, but what if it was a setup? What if he hadn’t left at all? That should make her more ready than ever to call Caleb, but Lord help her, it didn’t. Because what would Caleb do to Michael if he were Zodius? And more importantly, why did she care?