Blood Assassin (The Sentinels #2)(57)

Besides, having her pressed tight against his side provided something more than strength.

It gave him the courage to put one foot in front of the other to enter the elevator, and then to ignore Bas’s mocking gaze as the doors closed and they were rushing to the top floor.

The bastard was well aware that Fane was in agony. He’d been trained by monks, which meant he knew the well-guarded secret among Sentinels that healing was far more painful than the original injury.

Not only more painful, but it took a hell of a lot longer to heal.

The bullet had ripped through his shoulder in a nanosecond, but it would take hours for the muscles and tendons and skin to repair the damage. And several thousand calories to replenish the lost blood.

With a low hiss the elevator doors slid open and he clenched his teeth as he waited for Kaede and Bas to step into the hallway before he moved forward. At his side, Serra sent him a worried glance, her face pale.

He wasn’t the only one who was in pain.

The mind-stunner didn’t just disrupt mental powers. It did physical damage to her brain. She had to be suffering behind her stoic mask.

Not that she was worried about herself, he ruefully acknowledged as she sent him a smile that didn’t reach her shadowed eyes.

“Hang on,” she urged him softly. “Not much farther.”

His fingers lightly brushed her shoulder, offering comfort. “I’ve got it.”

Bas pulled out a key card to unlock the door, bringing a low growl from Fane. The first time Bas opened the door without being invited in while he was inside, the bastard was going to discover a boot shoved up his ass.

The assassin sent him a taunting glance, no doubt reading his mind. Then, shoving open the door, he pointed into the hotel suite.

“The healer is waiting for us.”

Oh hell, no. Fane halted, literally digging in his heels. “I told you . . . no healer.”

Serra frowned at his vehement refusal. “Fane.”

Bas folded his arms over his chest, his gaze more curious than offended. “Do your glyphs interfere with their magic?”

Fane narrowed his gaze. “I don’t trust anyone working for you.”

Serra reached up to place her fingers against his cheek, her expression pleading. “Please, Fane.”

He grabbed her fingers, pressing them to his lips. “I’ll be fine.”

“You were shot.”

He lowered his head, whispering directly into her ear. “Trust me.”

She gave a slow, reluctant nod of her head. “Okay.”

Bas shrugged. “Vicky, it appears your talents are not required.” They waited for the slender woman with red hair pulled into a braid to step out of the room. Her smile was deceptively kind and she was wearing a casual sundress that gave her the appearance of a bohemian. Bas halted the woman’s departure with a hand on her shoulder, his gaze shifting to Serra. “Unless you would like her to get rid of your headache, my dear?”

“No,” Fane snarled.

He had no desire for Serra to be in pain, but there were healers who could use their powers to do more harm than good, even creating diseases in the unwary. Long ago, disreputable healers would heal their client while subtly infecting them with a sickness that would force them back for further care.

The healer offered a nod, continuing toward the elevator.

Fane waited until he was certain she was gone before he allowed Serra to urge him into the suite. Then, moving toward the low couch near the window, he gratefully sank onto the cushions and pointed a finger toward Kaede as he followed Bas into the room.

“He stays outside.”

The enforcer scowled. “No f*cking way—”

“Kaede,” Bas interrupted, giving a wave of his hand.

The man hesitated, clearly wanting to argue before he muttered a foul curse and turned to leave, closing the door with lethal softness behind him.

Serra settled at Fane’s side, their hands instinctively linking as they watched their unwelcome guest move to the center of the floor. But even as Bas opened his mouth to annoy him with questions, the assassin’s phone gave a shrill chirp and he was pulling it from his pocket with a sigh of impatience.

“What?” The bronze eyes flared with fury. “Goddammit. Have you tried a tracker? Keep searching.”

“Your stiffs are missing?” Fane drawled, easily overhearing the frantic voice on the other end of the line.

Bas glowered, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

“Describe your attackers,” he snapped.

“For God’s sake, he’s injured,” Serra said, instantly leaping to his defense.

He hid a weary smile. If he asked Serra if she cared about him, she’d cut out her tongue before she’d admit the truth. But she instinctively did everything in her power to protect him.

“It’s okay, Serra.” He deliberately kept his gaze locked on the assassin’s too-handsome face. “We need to know who the bastards were working for.”

“Agreed.” Bas gave a nod of his head. “What did you notice about them?”

Fane paused, using the technique taught to him by the monks to strip away the emotions attached to his battle with the unknown enemies.

Anger, fear, excitement could all color the memories and distort vital details.

Only when he was certain that he could control the fury of how close Serra had come to being injured, or worse, did he allow the images of his attackers to form.