Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(15)

Just as striking was the glossy dark hair that brushed his shoulders with a startling streak of silver that started at his right temple. It was rumored that he’d been touched by the devil when he was in the cradle. Something he never bothered to deny.

Hanging back until he’d continued his ill-tempered stomping in the opposite direction, Serra headed into the gym. She might be fearless, but no one crossed paths with a rabid Wolfe.

Bypassing the mats and the boxing ring, she entered the weight room, honing in on her prey with practiced skill.

Too practiced, she wryly conceded, catching sight of Fane bench-pressing enough weight to crush most men.

How long had she been stalking this stoic, aloof Sentinel?

It seemed like an eternity.

Halting next to the stack of weights, she admired the ripple of muscle as Fane seamlessly lifted the massive weights in a smooth rhythm.

God Almighty. He was a masterpiece.

From the top of his bald head to the tip of his bare toes he was hard, chiseled perfection. As if he’d been created by the hand of Michelangelo. Was it any wonder he’d managed to capture her jaded interest?

And there was the added bonus of his sacred tattooing. The powerful spells made it impossible for her to read his mind, even by accident.

A necessary barrier for any psychic. Nothing like being in the moment and realizing your partner was fantasizing about another woman.

Yeah ... real turn-off.

Of course, the whole lack of high-def peekaboos into his mind wasn’t all good.

The man kept his emotions locked down as if they were some precious commodity that could only be doled out in sparse measure.

His conversations were just as meager. A yes. A no. And an occasional grunt if she was lucky.

There’d been times when she would have given her favorite Fendi boots just for a glimpse of what was going on behind the grim visage.

“I just saw Wolfe stomping off,” she said as Fane continued with his self-imposed task, ignoring her arrival despite the fact he would have sensed her presence the minute she entered the gym.

Aggravating ass**le.

Good thing he was so edible.

“He’s not happy that I’ve been forbidden to answer his questions,” Fane said, at least speaking to her.

Sometimes he went into a deep trance that allowed him to block out everything but what he wanted to concentrate on.

A trick he was taught by the monks. As well as how to kill a man in three seconds flat.

“I’m hoping he doesn’t plan on confronting the Mave in his current mood,” she murmured. The only person not afraid of Wolfe when he was on the warpath was the Mave.

She might turn him into a toad if he went charging into her office half cocked.

“Wolfe doesn’t always choose the path of wisdom,” Fane pointed out.

She grimaced. “Few of us do.” No answer. Okay, new subject. “How’s Callie?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to ask her that question?”

“I went by her apartment but she wasn’t there.”

Clank. The weights were slammed onto the rack behind his head. Flowing to his feet, Fane grabbed a towel to wipe his bare chest, clearly determined to go in search of his missing chick. “Dammit.”

Serra felt the familiar irritation scour through her body. She adored Callie. They were, in fact, as close as sisters.

But the knowledge that this man was bound to the beautiful diviner on a level so deep it could never be broken was a constant source of frustration.

“You aren’t her babysitter, Fane,” she said in sour tones. “She’s allowed to travel around Valhalla without asking your permission.”

The dark eyes held an unspoken censor. “She’s mine to protect.”

“Yours to protect or just yours?”

“Now isn’t the time for this conversation.”

She shouldn’t press. She didn’t need to be a psychic to know something was going on. Something bad. And that Fane would be hypercrazy—well, even more hypercrazy than usual—with his need to keep Callie safe.

But she was a female. Which meant she was allowed to be completely illogical when it came to the man she wanted.

Hell, it was her duty.

“When will be the time?”

His forbidding expression never altered. “I don’t know.”

“And if I decide not to wait?”

“I’ve never lied to you, Serra.”

The soft, unyielding response stole her thunder.

Dammit. Why couldn’t he at least get mad like any normal man? A good shouting match was just what she needed to release the resentment that had reached a boiling level.

Instead she ran face first into a wall of truth. Never fun.

“No, you’ve always been brutally honest,” she admitted, her lips twisting in a self-derisive smile.

He frowned, tossing aside the towel. “You can have any man you desire.”

Her gaze compulsively slid over the broad chest, then down to the six-pack that begged to be licked.

“Obviously not any man,” she muttered.

“Serra—”

“Don’t.” She held up a pleading hand. “It’s so ... f**king tragic.” Taking a step back, she folded her arms over her stomach in an unconsciously defensive gesture. “At least tell me that Callie is okay.”