Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(46)

Who knew that one Sentinel could create such heat?

Granted, he was a very large Sentinel. And he was cradled tightly behind her as they spooned in the center of the massive bed.

But still . . .

Telling herself it was the heat, not absolute terror, that made her try to scoot away? she hissed in frustration when his arm tightened around her waist.

“Where are you going?” he whispered, his breath brushing her bare shoulder.

She shuddered, arcs of pleasure shooting through her body.

Okay. It wasn’t the heat that was edging her toward panic.

It was the way she savored the scent of Fane that clung to her skin. And how her heart leapt at even his most casual touch. And how she was already besieged by the need to cuddle against his strength and beg him never to leave her.

Dammit.

It was supposed to be sex.

Red hot, mind-blowing, uncomplicated sex.

Not a messy, emotionally charged joining that would leave her broken.

“I need to shower,” she said, her voice ridiculously husky.

He chuckled, nuzzling her neck. “We have time.”

She grimaced at his soft words, her thoughts effectively diverted from her fear of an eventual heartache, to a more basic fear.

Survival.

“Do we?”

His arm instinctively hauled her back until her back was pressed tight against his chest.

“All the time in the world,” he rasped. “That I promise.”

Her lips twisted in a wry smile. Arrogant man.

“You can’t promise.”

He nipped the lobe of her ear. “I just did.”

“So certain of your own powers,” she muttered.

“No, I’m certain of you.” His hand lifted to brush the hair from her still-flushed cheek, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her neck. “If Molly is in St. Louis you’ll find her.”

She pretended her heart didn’t swell beneath his unwavering confidence in her abilities.

Fane’s belief in her had been a primary reason she’d pressed so hard to hone her skills. Idiot that she was, she couldn’t have endured the thought he would be disappointed in her.

“That poor child.” She sternly snapped her thoughts back to the only thing that mattered. Finding Molly before the toxin in her bloodstream put her in the grave. “Why the hell doesn’t Bas just give the kidnappers what they want?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Fane smoothed her hair behind her ear, his voice suspiciously bland. “It has to be something that threatens him more than the loss of his daughter.”

Serra frowned. “Unless he fears the kidnapper intends to kill Molly the minute they get what they want.”

“A reasonable hypothesis,” he readily agreed.

She glanced over her shoulder, meeting his unreadable gaze. “Are you patronizing me?”

“You know better than that,” he softly chided.

And she did.

He could be an infuriating bastard, but he always treated her as an equal.

“But you are hinting at something?”

He gazed deep into her eyes. “You’re a psychic.”

Just for a minute she threatened to drown in the dark, penetrating gaze. This close she could see the exquisite details of the tattooing that emphasized the man’s stark beauty. He was exotic, lethal, and shatteringly male.

Her heart clenched with a dangerous emotion before she was abruptly turning her head back to stare at the opposite wall.

“Yeah, I’ve figured that out, thank you.”

His fingers lightly stroked the line of her stubborn jaw. “What do you think his motives are?”

“How should I know?” She trembled beneath his soft caress. “I can’t read him.”

“He has trained to block your powers, but no shield is impenetrable.”

Serra paused, considering his words. “You think I can penetrate his defenses?”

His thumb rested on the pulse that raced just below her ear. “I think you’ve already learned more than you suspect.”

She jerked in surprise. Dammit. Did he think she hadn’t tried to tap into the mind of the kidnapper?

“Then you think wrong.”

“Easy, Serra,” he murmured, his big, powerful hand splayed on her lower stomach. “Just relax and allow yourself to remember.”

Relax? She stifled a humorless laugh. She was being scorched by his touch, her entire body shimmering with anticipation.

Closing her eyes, she created an empty room in her head and slammed the door on the world around her.

Then, counting backward, she slipped into a light trance.

It was the only way to truly concentrate.

“Remember what?” she demanded.

“What did Bas feel when he spoke of Molly?”

Slowly, methodically, she reconstructed the image of Bas in the empty room in her head.

The pale, ivory skin. The short black hair. His bronze eyes.

She even added the witch mark on the side of his neck with the tattoos that tallied his kills.

Every detail helped to re-create the memory.

Next she added herself, stripping away her emotions as she replayed the conversation, word for word.

With no ability to read his mind, Serra instead concentrated on the expressions that touched his painfully beautiful face. Most of them were so fleeting it was no wonder she’d missed them the first time around.