Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(36)

Enveloped in peace, Fane tightened his grip on Serra’s hand, allowing his tranquility to flow through their bond.

“Relax,” he murmured.

She made a sound of surprise as her muscles eased beneath his soothing touch.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you feel better?”

She sucked in a deep breath. “Yes. I can still touch the minds, but the emotions are—”

“Muted?” He offered the word she was searching for.

He felt her gaze sear over his profile. “How?”

“It’s a gift that Sentinels can share when they’re bonded,” he said. “Protection comes in many forms.”

She hissed in surprise. “But we’re not bonded.”

His lips twisted at her ridiculous words. He might have done his best to pretend he hadn’t given his heart and soul to this female, but he’d never truly fooled himself. Was there any greater bond than that?

Not that he was about to share the disturbing info. Right now she was determined to believe his every effort was made out of some idiotic hero complex.

Instead he gave her fingers another squeeze and gave her an answer she could accept.

“Not formally, but the vow I made to return you safely to Valhalla is just as binding.”

There was a brief pause, as if she sensed he wasn’t being completely honest. Thank God his magically enhanced glyphs prevented her from reading his mind.

“What will happen when you leave for Tibet?”

Foolish female. Did she truly believe he would ever leave her side again?

He shrugged. “Let’s concentrate on getting through today.”

She clicked her tongue, clearly annoyed by his hedging. “Do we have to be touching?”

Nope. Absolutely not.

“Yes,” he said, lifting her hand to press her knuckles to his lips.

He felt her tremble, revealing her vulnerability to his touch as she was hastily trying to disguise her response behind a brisk determination.

“Okay,” she muttered. “Let’s finish this.”

He kept a tight hold on her hand as she returned her attention to the passing houses, doing his best to dampen the impact of the ugly and desperate thoughts that were blasting into her brain.

Circling the block that was marked on the GPS, Fane muttered a curse as he watched the gang of thugs that had been loitering on the corner step into the street, deliberately blocking his path.

They varied in age from sixteen to twenty, dressed in tattered jeans with muscle shirts to show off their various tattoos.

Common street bullies who ruled the neighborhood with brute intimidation.

He could run them over.

Bas was a paranoid freak, which meant that the windows of the car would be bulletproof and the frame reinforced for maximum impact.

Unfortunately even in this neighborhood the death of a half dozen men was bound to attract the notice of the authorities.

Something he preferred to avoid.

“I think we’ve been noticed.”

Serra instantly jerked herself out of her shallow trance, her brows drawing together with concern. “Fane.”

He pressed her fingers to his lips before releasing them and shoving open the car door. “Don’t worry. They won’t hurt me.”

“I’m more worried about them.”

Already stepping out of the car, he glanced back at her with a lift of his brows. “Them?”

“I’ve seen you fight,” she said with a grimace. “I prefer not to witness their blood and guts being spread across the road.”

He shrugged. “We’re just going to have a little chat.”

“A chat?” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“I promise.”

Shutting the door, he turned to walk down the middle of the street, watching the unease that tightened the young faces hardened by a life on the edge.

They might not recognize him as a Sentinel, but they most certainly sensed he was a predator.

Instinctively two of the thugs pulled their handguns and pointed them at Fane. A rookie mistake. The best weapon was the one unseen.

He ignored the blatant threat, instead continuing to walk forward as he watched the covert glances toward the man standing at the center of the road. Obviously the leader of the motley crew.

The lean man had dark hair shaved into a Mohawk and flat, black eyes and a badass attitude that was about to get a painful readjustment.

“Is there a problem?” Fane demanded, coming to a halt far enough away to allow the fools to believe he wasn’t a danger.

The leader puffed out his narrow chest. A typical blowhard who thought a gun made him tough.

“This is our neighborhood.”

“That’s not something I would brag about,” Fane taunted, glancing toward a pile of rotting trash. “It looks like a war zone.”

The man placed a hand behind his back, revealing where he had his gun hidden. Exactly what Fane needed to know.

“We want to know what the hell you’re doing scoping out our territory,” he rasped.

His posture was relaxed, nonthreatening. “Just passing through.”

“I don’t think so. In fact, I—”

The man’s words became a high-pitched squeal as Fane exploded into action, closing the space between them. In one motion he was standing behind the leader, one arm around the man’s throat and his other hand yanking the handgun from the back of his jeans. Then, with a deliberate motion, he pressed the gun to the man’s forehead.