Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(54)

Fuck.

“Serra,” he rasped. “Are you hurt?”

“I’ve been mind-stunned,” she said between clenched teeth.

Fane hissed in disbelief. A mind-stunner was a weapon developed by the human scientists when they discovered the true power of psychics. Idiotically they’d feared the high-bloods could take command of the leaders of government and force them to obey like mindless robots.

Once it was obvious that such a covert overthrow of the political system wasn’t possible, the weapons had been confiscated by the Army and supposedly locked away for safekeeping.

So who the hell was toting one around?

Continuing forward, Fane was abruptly halted as a man leaped off the roof of the pool house and landed directly in front of them, a gun pointed at the female in his arms.

With a speed that was too swift for the human to follow, Fane was turning to block Serra with his large body.

Intending to sprint in the opposite direction, he was stymied by the sight of another male approaching

“Fane,” Serra cried out, easily realizing they were caught between a rock and a hard place.

Thank God she didn’t realize he’d been wounded and was losing blood at an alarming rate.

“I’ve got them,” he soothed, setting her down before he surged into action with a blinding speed.

Serra instinctively fell to her knees and curled into a small ball.

Her brain was still scrambled from the mind-stunner, the pain so intense she could barely breathe. Even worse, her powers were temporarily offline.

Dammit.

Which meant that she was nothing more than a liability to Fane.

The best thing she could do was stay out of the line of fire so the Sentinel didn’t have to worry about her.

Cautiously lifting her head, she felt her breath tangle in her throat as she watched Fane in glorious action.

Despite having seen him in training, she still marveled at his sheer beauty as he leaped forward to wrench the gun from the nearest attacker’s hand, using the butt to smash in the man’s forehead with a sickening thud.

He was raw power, liquid speed, and ruthless, deadly skill.

The perfect weapon.

By then the second attacker was closing in, his gun pointed at Serra.

Once again Fane was placing himself in front of her, protecting her with his solid body. Her heart clenched as she caught the unmistakable scent of blood. He’d taken a bullet and was bleeding out.

The realization had barely crossed her mind when the second attacker fired off his shot, the bullet whizzing past her ear.

“Stay down,” Fane commanded as he charged forward, ramming into the man with the force of a cement truck.

Both men hit the ground and Serra desperately tried to battle through the haze in her mind, seeking her powers.

She hated feeling helpless.

Especially when Fane was in danger.

Fane gave a soft grunt as the man slid from his grasp and managed to give him a vicious kick to the head as he jumped upright. Serra shoved a hand over her mouth to avoid drawing attention to herself. Even the smallest distraction could leave Fane open to attack.

With a blinding speed, Fane was upright, his arm raised to block the second kick aimed at his head. At the same time he landed a solid punch to the man’s midsection.

The man bent over, but as Fane threw a punch toward his head, the man jerked to the side, his movements a smooth flow that made him look like he was dancing. Fane stepped back, giving himself the space to adjust to the enemy’s fluid style.

The man slid a hand behind his back, yanking free a dagger he sliced toward Fane’s neck. Serra swallowed a scream. Unnecessary, of course.

Fane dodged the blow, managing to wrap his fingers around the attacker’s wrist. With a fierce tug he had his enemy close enough that he could grab him by the throat, lifting him three inches off the ground.

With a low growl, the man kicked out, striking Fane in the knee. It was a blow that would have busted the leg of a normal man. But Fane barely flinched as he dug his fingers into the man’s throat, crushing his windpipe.

There was one more weak kick before the man went limp in Fane’s grip, as dead as his companion.

Fane tossed him aside with a gesture of contempt, and Serra rose shakily to her feet, too relieved that Fane was alive to take much notice of their attackers.

Not when she already had a good idea who was responsible.

Glad she’d ditched her cumbersome high heels, Serra hurried toward the first attacker. She had to make sure he was dead. They’d managed to avoid what looked to be certain death. This wasn’t any time to get sloppy.

Convinced the creep wasn’t going to wake up and shoot them in the back, Serra returned her attention to Fane, her heart squeezing with fear as she watched him lean heavily against the pool house.

Shit.

Despite the darkness, she could see his face had gone pale beneath his tattoos and his broad shoulders were slumped in weariness.

The rapid loss of blood was taking its toll on the warrior.

Leaving them both dangerously vulnerable.

They had to get out of there.

Now.

Moving to his side, she slipped beneath his arm, arranging it across her shoulder. Fane muttered a protest, but, too weak to actually stand on his own, he had no choice but to allow her to help him across the wide yard and through a gate that led to a narrow pathway.

She hesitated, trying to decide the fastest means of getting Fane away from the estate without alerting Bas. The bastard could easily track them down, but she wasn’t letting him near Fane until he’d managed to regain at least part of his strength.