Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(23)

“Yes.” Fane’s face hardened until it looked like it’d been carved from granite. Which meant he’d been emotionally attached to the dead monk. The deeper Fane’s feelings, the harder he tried to hide them. “Two days after the assassin arrived, the cook was left on the altar minus his head.”

Yikes.

Killing was one thing. Cutting off a head was another.

Of course, it did leave a potent message.

“Do you know why the cook had murdered the monk?”

“The documents left with the body proved the cook was selling info on the monastery to Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria-Hungary.” There was an edge of his disgusted resignation in his words. Those in power had been trying to control, manipulate, abuse, or even eliminate high-bloods since the beginning of time. “The monk must’ve stumbled across his betrayal and the cook killed him to silence him.”

Serra frowned. “A brutal way to die, but it was in the name of justice,” she said. “Isn’t that what hunter Sentinels do?”

Fane shook his head. “Hunters are trained to deal with high-bloods that prove to be dangerous.” A barely leashed anger smoldered in his dark eyes. “They aren’t stripped of their emotions and turned into cold-blooded killers who are willing to deal out death to whoever is their latest hit. And no hunter would ever take money to kill. Not ever.”

“Cold-blooded.” Serra grimaced, brutally reminded of Bas’s willingness to choose the threat of death as his first option. God forbid that he actually came to her and simply asked for her assistance. “Bas is certainly that. The snake.”

Fane went rigid, his muscles bulging as he battled to maintain his composure. Serra knew it went beyond his anger that she was being threatened. Fane had a pathological need to be in control of events.

That’s why he trained so hard, and why he constantly scoured the world for ancient knowledge or obscure spells that might give him the edge in a fight, and why he focused his entire life on his job.

If he was the biggest, baddest, smartest man around then he could always be in the superior position.

The fact that the toxin coursing through her body was beyond his ability to fix had to be making him nuts.

Of course, he wasn’t about to admit his feeling of helplessness. Oh no. Not Fane.

He’d rather cut out his tongue.

“He does, however, care for his daughter,” Fane said, his voice predictably calm. “We can use that to our advantage.”

Serra frowned. At this point she was willing to latch on to any hope.

“How?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Great.” She rolled her eyes, heading toward the bathroom. “Until you do I want to have a hot shower.”

“And breakfast,” he informed her. “I’ll order room service.”

She halted, turning with a shake of her head. “Oh no. I’ll order my own breakfast, thank you very much.”

His brows snapped together. “Serra, we have to work together if you’re going to survive.”

“This has nothing to do with working together,” she muttered, moving toward the phone set on a smoke glass table. “If I have ninety-six hours left to live I’m not eating horse food.”

Fane looked genuinely confused. “Horse food?”

“Oatmeal, dry wheat toast, blah blah blah.” She shuddered. Unlike Fane, she wasn’t a follower of the philosophy “whole body/whole mind.” Her mind needed chocolate. Lifting the receiver of the phone to her ear, she pressed the number for room service. With admirable speed she was being asked what she wanted. “Yes, could you send up a Denver omelet with extra cheese, a stack of blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, hash browns, and a side of bacon?” She sent Fane a taunting smile. “Oh, and a carrot muffin, no butter. Bill it to the room.”

Fane shook his head as she replaced the receiver. “You never eat bacon.”

“Today I’m eating bacon.”

With a toss of her head, Serra turned and continued her trek into the bathroom, firmly closing the door behind her.

Fane was determined to give Serra the space she obviously needed.

As much as he might want to bully her into accepting his support, he knew that he risked driving an even greater wedge between them. He’d hurt her too many times and the female was stubborn enough to put herself in danger rather than lower her guard.

Which meant he’d have to respect her barriers until he’d earned back her trust.

He stood in the center of the room, silently repeating the stern warning as he heard the rush of water as Serra turned on the shower. He even managed to convince himself that the closed door between them wasn’t making him twitch.

Then he heard a faint, barely perceptible sniffle and all his good intentions were forgotten.

He’d be damned if he was going to let Serra cry alone.

Pausing to remove the handgun holstered across his chest and the other hidden at his lower back, Fane wrenched off his boots. He was removing his T-shirt and khakis as he entered the bathroom and by the time he’d crossed the tiled floor he was completely naked. Stepping into the shower it took him a second to find Serra. The marble stall was large enough to fit a dozen Sentinels with room to spare. But once his gaze adjusted to the jasmine-scented fog, he spotted her leaning against the marble tiles, her shoulders bent as the hot water cascaded over her slender body.