Mercury Striking (The Scorpius Syndrome #1)(2)

“Not even close.” A silent overpass loomed a few yards to the north, and her voice echoed off the concrete. The piercing light assaulted her, spinning the background thick and dark. Her temples pounded, and her hollow stomach ached. Wearily, she reached down and grabbed her shirt, shrugging it back on. She figured the “take me to your leader” line would get her shot. “Do you want to live or not?”

He met her gaze, his scarred upper lip twisting. “Yes.”

It was the most sincere sound she’d heard in months. “We’re running out of time.” Time had deserted them long ago, but she needed to get a move on. “Please.” The sound shocked her, the civility of it, a word she’d forgotten how to use. The slightest of hopes warmed that blue organ in her chest, reminding her of who she used to be. Who she’d lost.

Another figure stepped forward, this one big and silent. Deadly power vibrated in the shift of muscle as light illuminated him from behind, shrouding his features. “I didn’t tell you to put your shirt back on.” No emotion, no hint of humanity echoed in the deep rumble.

His lack of emotion twittered anxiety through her empty abdomen. Without missing a beat, she secured each button, keeping the movements slow and sure. “I take it you’re Mercury.” Regardless of his name, there was no doubt the guy was in charge.

“If I am?” Soft, his voice promised death.

A promise she’d make him keep. Someday. The breeze picked up, tumbling weeds across the lonely 405 to halt against a Buick stripped to its rims. She quelled a shiver. Any weakness shown might get her killed. “You know who I am,” she whispered.

“I know who you say you are.” His overwhelming form blocked out the light, reminding her of her smaller size. “Take off your shirt.”

Something about his command gave her pause. Before, she hadn’t cared. But with him so close she could smell male, an awareness of her femininity brought fresh fear. Nevertheless, she again unbuttoned her shirt.

This time, her hands trembled.

Straightening her spine, she squared her shoulders and left the shirt on, the worn material gaping in front.

He waited.

She lifted her chin, trying to meet his eyes although she couldn’t see them. The men around them remained silent, yet alertness carried on the oxygen. How many guns were trained on her? She wanted to tell them it would only take one. Though she’d been through hell, she’d never really learned to fight.

The wind whipped into action, lifting her long hair away from her face. Her arms tightened against her rib cage. Goose bumps rose over her skin. She was accustomed to being vulnerable, and she was used to feeling alone. But she’d learned to skirt danger.

There was no doubt the man in front of her was all danger.

She shivered again.

Swearing quietly, he stepped in, long, tapered fingers drawing her shirt apart. He shifted to the side, allowing light to blast her front. Neon blue glowed along her flesh.

“Jesus.” He pressed his palm against her breastbone—directly above her heart.

Shock tightened her muscles, and that heart ripped into a gallop. Her nipples pebbled from the breeze. Warmth cascaded from his hand when he spread his fingers over the odd blue of her skin, easily spanning her upper chest. When was the last time someone had touched her gently?

And gentle, he was.

The contact had her looking down at his damaged hand. Faded white scars slashed across his knuckles, above the veins, past his wrist. The bizarre glow from her heart filtered through his fingers. Her entire chest was aqua from within, those veins closest to her heart, which glowed neon blue, shining strong enough to be seen through her ribs and sternum.

He exhaled softly, removing his touch.

An odd sense of loss filtered down her spine. Then surprise came as he quickly buttoned her shirt to the top.

He clasped her by the elbow. “Cut the light.” His voice didn’t rise, but instantly, the light was extinguished. “I’m Mercury. What do you want?”

What a question. What she wanted, nobody could provide. Yet she struggled to find the right words. Night after night, fleeing under darkness to reach him, she’d planned for this moment. But the words wouldn’t come. She wanted to breathe. To rest. To hide. “Help. I need your help.” The truth tumbled out too fast to stop.

He stiffened and tightened his hold. “That, darlin’, you’re gonna have to earn.”

Jax eyed the brunette sitting in the backseat of the battered Subaru after rifling through her backpack. Water, leather bound journal, and granola bars. No weapons, and he’d frisked her, finding one little knife by her calf, which he’d let her keep. She was at the wrong angle to harm him, and if she struck with the blade, he could easily take it.

He forced his body to release necessary tension and tried to relax into the worn seat. He’d stolen the vehicle from a home in Beverly Hills during the riots for food and supplies. The gardener who’d owned it no longer needed it, considering his dead body had joined the neighborhood burn pile after he lost his battle with the Scorpius bacterium.

The luxury SUV sitting so close to the Subaru had tempted Jax, but the older car would last longer and use less gas, which was almost depleted, anyway. Everything they had was almost depleted. From medical supplies to fuel to books to hope. How the hell did he refill everybody with hope when he could barely remember the sensation and needed his energy focused on shoring up his defenses?