Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(44)

“If I could truly terrify one of your warriors I wouldn’t have to come to you and beg for information on what the hell is going on.”

He forced his lips into a smile even as his gut clenched at the erotic thought at having this female begging.

On her knees . . .

“Hmm. That’s an intriguing possibility.”

She frowned. “What’s intriguing?”

“You.” His gaze lowered to the soft curve of her lips. “Begging.”

The flare of emotion in the gray eyes was so fleeting no one but Wolfe would have seen it.

And only then, because he’d trained himself to watch for it.

Petty, of course. But occasionally he felt the overwhelming need to force her to remember she was still Lana Mayfield, a flesh and blood woman, beneath her role of Mave.

She stiffened at his less than subtle teasing. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

He folded his arms over his chest, his gaze lingering on the lush mouth that promised paradise.

“I might. Given the right incentive.”

“Wolfe.”

A blast of desire made his gut clench at the thought of hearing her breathe his name in pleasure instead of frustration.

“Lana.”

Her frown deepened as the heat from his body filled the office. Sentinels always ran hotter than norms, but he didn’t usually allow his powers to brush over his companion like a physical caress.

“Would you just answer the question?” She tilted her chin, her voice nerve-scrapingly calm. “We’re both too old for this nonsense.”

His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “Are we?”

“Enough, Wolfe.”

The edge in her voice warned Wolfe he was treading close to the edge of her patience. He swallowed a thwarted growl and forced himself into his role of the Tagos.

She was right.

He was too damned old to be acting like a hormonal-crazed idiot.

“I haven’t come to you quite simply because I don’t know what’s going on,” he admitted, his voice crisp.

Her expression remained impassive, but he could physically feel her relief.

Someday . . .

He grimaced.

But not today.

“Tell me what you do know.”

“Last night Serra left Valhalla without a word to anyone, including Inhera.”

“That’s not like her,” Lana said, concern turning her eyes to smoke. This female might be a hard-as-nails leader, but she genuinely cared about her people. “Serra is headstrong, but she would never cause unnecessary worry.”

“Exactly. Fane was concerned and tracked her to St. Louis.”

The Mave blinked in astonishment. Fane and Serra’s—complicated—relationship wasn’t a secret at Valhalla.

“You sent Fane after her?”

“He made the decision.”

“Ah.” She grimaced. “Is he with her?”

Wolfe resisted the urge to point out a nuclear bomb couldn’t separate Fane from Serra.

“Yes, he sent word that they were together and everything was fine.”

It was the carefully constructed answer he was giving to everyone who asked about Serra’s abrupt departure.

But Lana Mayfield wasn’t just everyone.

She studied him for a long minute, her clever mind instantly latching on to the pertinent question.

“If he’s with Serra and everything is fine then why is Valhalla missing a half a dozen Sentinels?”

“Because he didn’t tell me to withdraw the Sentinels.”

“He knew that you sent them?”

“Yes. He called when he first tracked Serra to St. Louis. I told him then I was sending backup.”

“Maybe he forgot.”

Wolfe gave a sharp laugh. His most fearsome warrior had never forgotten a thing in his life.

All Sentinels were more than human. But Fane was more than most.

“Fane better than anyone realizes the price the Sentinels paid during our battle with the necromancer, he would never allow them to be away from more important duties unless he needed them,” he assured his companion.

“But he hasn’t made contact with them?”

“No, but after his call he sent me a text requesting information.” He nodded toward the file spread across his desk. “I’m in the process of trying to untangle what the hell is going on.”

He watched the gray gaze shift toward the desk, jerking in shock as she was abruptly lunging forward to snatch the picture at the top of the pile.

“What’s this?”

Wolfe pushed off the edge of the desk, his brows snapping together at the sight of the soft flush that touched her pale cheeks.

What the hell?

He could count on one hand how many times he’d seen Lana rattled. And each time they’d been facing certain death.

“The owner of Hull and Sons Insurance in St. Louis,” he said, his narrowed gaze taking in the tightening of her pale, beautiful features as she studied the photo.

“No. Not Hull,” she said softly.

“You recognize him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.” She brushed a slender finger over the face of the man in the picture, her formidable composure cracking at the edges. “When I knew him, he went by the name of Bas.” She slowly shook her head. “How is this possible?”