Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(26)

“Are you going to eat all of that?”

“I’m not only going to eat it, I’m going to savor every bite.”

Cutting a huge bite of the pancakes, she shoved it into her mouth, licking the syrup off her lips with decadent pleasure. Fane swallowed a groan as he took another step backward. Shit. He could vividly imagine pouring that syrup over his body and letting her lick him clean.

Oh . . . Christ.

“Food should be fuel, not sludge,” he said, keeping his tone light.

For now it was enough to tend to her most pressing needs. Everything else could wait.

She wrinkled her nose, pointing her fork toward the small plate with a carrot muffin.

“You eat your horse food and let me enjoy a real breakfast.”

He rolled his eyes. “When we return to Valhalla I’m going to make you a healthy breakfast that will make your mouth water.”

She lowered her gaze to the mound of food, her expression unbearably fragile. “If we return.”

The words hit him like a blow to the gut, blasting the air from his lungs. Dammit. That f*cking assassin had stolen something vital from this woman.

A belief in her own future.

He desperately wanted to smash his fist through the expensive wood of the headboard.

But leashing his surge of murderous fury toward Bas and the toxin flowing through her blood, he kept his expression unreadable. Serra needed him strong, in utter command. Not incapacitated by his emotions.

Just as the monks had taught him.

“There’s not a doubt in my mind we’ll be returning,” he said with stark, unrelenting confidence. Moving forward, he bent down to press a tender kiss on the top of her head. “Finish your breakfast and rest, milaya moya, I’ll keep watch.”

Sensing Serra regretted revealing her inner fears, Fane turned to leave the bedroom. She would feel more comfortable eating without him standing guard over her. And besides, he had a small task to deal with before he could lie down for a few minutes’ rest.

Crossing the sitting room, he held the handgun at his side and moved out of the suite in complete silence. He pulled shut the door, and turned as if he was headed toward the elevator. Then, with a speed few could match, he was across the hall and kicking open the door to the suite that took up the other half of the top floor.

There was a muffled curse as a man rose from the desk where he’d been keeping watch on a monitor, his hand reaching for the weapon holstered at his side.

“Don’t,” Fane warned, his gun already pointed between the man’s eyes.

“Okay.” The man lifted his hands, his expression wary. “Easy.”

Fane studied the stranger, who would have gone unnoticed in a crowd. He was average height, average size, with short clipped brown hair and brown eyes set in an unremarkable face.

The sort of man who blended into the background.

Fane, however, easily sensed he wasn’t just another man.

He was a high-blood.

And a powerful one.

Fane narrowed his gaze. There was no tingle of magic, so the man wasn’t a witch. And his hesitation at reaching for his weapon revealed he hadn’t been trained as a Sentinel. He could be a psychic or a healer, but Fane was betting on a telepath.

The best spies were always readers.

He gave a brief glance around the sitting room that had been stripped of furniture except for the heavy desk and the surveillance equipment that could rival those used by Valhalla. Bas clearly demanded the best. His gaze shifted toward the corner that had been converted to a utilitarian kitchen. On the counter were one coffee mug and one plate with the crumbs from recently eaten toast.

It indicated the man was alone in the suite unless there was someone sleeping in the bedroom.

Returning his attention to the stranger, he kept close enough to the open door so he could make a swift retreat.

“I have a message for your boss,” he said, his cold voice filled with the promise of death.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“You have one opportunity to walk away from this alive, don’t blow it,” Fane interrupted.

The man instantly stiffened, accepting Fane wasn’t bluffing. He would be dead if he didn’t follow Fane’s instructions. To. The. Letter.

“What’s your message?”

“If anyone enters Serra’s rooms without my permission, they’ll die. If anyone tries to plant a listening or camera device in her room, they’ll die. If anyone tries to separate me from her side, they’ll die.” His face was devoid of expression. “Do you have that?”

The man grimaced. “He isn’t going to be happy.”

“Trust me, he’s going to be more than unhappy by the time I’m done with him.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to try.”

A cold smile of anticipation curved Fane’s lips. “No, but I’ll be the first to succeed.”

Chapter Seven

Bas brazenly strolled across the bustling lobby of his hotel, taking covert pleasure in the sleek, clean lines of the blue and silver furnishings and the efficiency of his staff as they dealt with the tedious never-ending demands of the very wealthy.

Not bad for a man born in the sewers of Ragusa, Italy, nearly three hundred years ago.

He wasn’t worried about being recognized as B. D. Cavrilo, the illustrious owner who visited on a weekly schedule. Hell, his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.