The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(114)

Which was why it was insane that he was doing this now. Dara could die. Noam knew that.

But if he left Dara in here . . .

Dara said he’d rather be dead, and Noam had believed him.

He pinged the security cameras. Lehrer was on the second floor and headed this way. He’d be here in less than ten minutes. He didn’t look pleased.

“We gotta go,” Noam said.

But Dara stayed where he was, pale and twisting his fingers together in front of his stomach. “Listen, Noam,” he started. For one dizzying second Noam was so sure Dara was about to say, I changed my mind—but then: “Lehrer . . . he told me not to leave the apartment.”

It took a second for those words to parse. Then:

“Oh. Right.”

Of course he did.

Noam rubbed his eyes and tried to think. Did Lehrer’s persuasion eventually wear off? Or did that only apply if you had a Faraday shield, like Sacha?

“Dara . . . ,” he started, not sure where he was going with it, but then Dara said:

“Okay. All right. So, when I was ten, Lehrer invited some men over for dinner. I didn’t learn until later that Lehrer had discovered they were Texan spies.”

Noam stared at him, openmouthed. “Dara,” he said, “this isn’t really a good time for personal anecdotes.”

But Dara kept going, barreling on as if he hadn’t heard Noam at all. “They knew about Lehrer’s persuasion, of course. So when Lehrer told one of them to drink from a poisoned cup, the others immediately knocked the glass out of his hand. It shattered. Whisky went everywhere.”

Dara was fevermad. Of course he was. And now he was raving on about his good-old-time adventures with Lehrer from before he decided to hate him.

“And that was it. Without whisky to drink, the spy couldn’t obey Lehrer’s order. The spell broke, and Lehrer had to kill them all the old-fashioned way.”

Dara met Noam’s gaze, unflinching. Noam expected to see madness blazing in his eyes, but Dara was perfectly, horribly sober.

Noam frowned.

“Wait,” he said. “Are you saying . . .”

Only, he knew what Dara was saying.

Dara was telling him, the only way Dara could tell him, that if Noam wanted to get him out of here . . . he was going to have to do it by force.

Blood dripped down Dara’s forearm, pooling on the floor.

Lehrer had made it to the atrium.

Noam started forward, and Dara took a step back.

“I’m really sorry about this,” Noam said.

He lunged for Dara, who ducked. Noam’s hands closed around empty air just in time for Dara to jab a fist into Noam’s solar plexus.

Noam choked, pain bursting like a star beneath his ribs. Thank god for basic, though, and sparring with Lehrer—Noam knew how to ignore pain. It washed overhead, then away. Noam caught Dara’s arm, twisting it up behind his back so Dara had no choice but to stumble forward.

“Get off me,” Dara growled and stomped his heel against Noam’s instep.

Noam hissed but refused to let go. He tightened his grip even as Dara tried to yank away—Lehrer was so close now, and they didn’t have time, they didn’t . . .

He tapped superstrength. Dara cried out as Noam’s fingers dug in, bruisingly hard.

“I’m sorry,” Noam said again, all but pleading with Dara to believe him, but he couldn’t do anything less—he didn’t want to hurt Dara, but he couldn’t waste time fighting fair. Not when Dara had years of training on him.

Dara tried to twist out of his grip, but Noam was too strong now. With magic it was only too easy to grab Dara’s other arm and drive him toward the threshold.

Dara screamed, kicked Noam’s shins, threw his head back in an attempt to crush it against Noam’s brow. Dara fought without concern for his own safety, like he didn’t care if he forced Noam to break bones.

Because, of course. Because Lehrer wouldn’t be so specific.

Lehrer had said, Don’t leave, and right now Dara would rather die than disobey.

Noam manhandled Dara through the doorway, and that last thrust of strength sent Dara toppling onto Lehrer’s lush carpet. He scrambled to get up, but Noam was quicker—he pinned Dara down against the floor, straddling his hips and pressing both hands against Dara’s shoulders.

“Stop fighting,” he said, breathless.

Dara’s short nails scratched at his wrists, Dara’s whole body squirming beneath his weight. “You’re hurting me,” Dara gasped, and Noam, gritting his teeth, said, “I know.”

Fuck, how long would it take? Dara said it would wear off—if Noam just—

But Dara was still struggling, cheeks wet with tears and pupils too large. And Noam hated it, hated himself for the way Dara was looking at him. Like he was afraid.

Afraid of Noam.

He squeezed his eyes shut and hunched forward over Dara, who still writhed. He had to make a decision right now. It would be quick, over in a moment. The lamp he sensed on Lehrer’s desk was heavy enough. Noam wouldn’t even have to let go of Dara; he could use his power to bash the metal base against Dara’s temple. He’d have to drag Dara’s unconscious body out of the government complex, but that would be easier than managing a Dara determined to fight him every step of the way.

But he’d just reached out with his power when Dara went abruptly still between his thighs.