Mercury Striking (The Scorpius Syndrome #1)(8)
Jax stiffened. “Permanent? Meaning no more inoculations?”
“Yes. If we can get the human body to create its own B to slow down the fever and the damage to the center in the brain that controls empathy.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Looks like you’re going through boxes of paper starting tomorrow. For now, who do you want me to kill?” At the question, a new hardness entered his eyes. A look that judged her.
Her eyes stung, but she refused to look away or lower her gaze. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready.” For now, she didn’t know if she could trust him. “Do we have a deal?”
He frowned and rubbed his whiskers. “You know I have your knowledge to demand if I want, right?”
Her chin lifted. “You said you don’t force women.”
“I don’t force women to have sex.” He reached out and tapped her chest above her heart. “I have no problem refusing you food and sleep until you give up everything you know or even suspect about this illness. You should probably have thought of that before coming here.”
She had considered all the consequences, and the risk had seemed worth it. “You won’t torture me.”
“I will.” The softness of his tone was all the more deadly than if he’d yelled, proving his control and absolute conviction. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”
Would he? No wavering, no conflict showed on his hard face. But everything she’d studied, and everything she’d found, indicated he wouldn’t torture a woman. Of course, desperate times and all of that. “This will go easier if we work together,” she said levelly.
His gaze delved deep. “You’re right.” He clasped her hand in his warm one and shook. “You give me what I want, and I’ll protect and even kill for you.” Releasing her, he stood, reached into the dented dresser, and tossed a faded Los Angeles Dodgers T-shirt her way. “Besides the car ride here, when was the last time you slept?”
She caught the worn cotton as well as the scent of soap. Something clean? It was almost too much to hope for. “I, ah, don’t know.”
He lifted his head. “Right. Bathrooms are outside, and they’re not bad. We confiscated new honey buckets from a warehouse, and if you need to go, there’s a guard waiting to escort you. No hot water anywhere here. Do what you need to do, change into the shirt, and the bed is yours for a few hours.”
Her eyes ached they were so tired. “I don’t need to sleep.”
“You’re no use to me if you pass out from exhaustion.” He lifted her to her feet as if she weighed absolutely nothing. “Take a nap—just change your clothing first.”
Her instincts hummed, and she eyed his amazing physique. He obviously trained often. “What kind of fighting forces do you have here, anyway?”
He brushed a strand of hair from her face and then grasped her chin, tilting it up. The switch from gentle to firm was undoubtedly on purpose, and the tactic stopped her short. “Let me be clear on how this will work after your nap. I ask questions. You answer questions. That’s it. No more. Do you understand?”
Heaviness weighed down her limbs, and grit scratched her eyes. Every ounce of spirit she still owned wanted to defy him. To take him on, just for pride. But her intellect and her body won. This time. “I understand.”
“Good.” He released her and stepped back. “Do I have to stay and put you in that bed?”
An image of his hard body in bed shot through her head, weakening her knees. What in the hell was wrong with her? She’d seen good-looking men before. This one took handsomeness to deadly in a way that stirred her blood too much. Although it was nice to feel something other than fear and desperation. Plus, she could certainly rationalize her physical reaction to him.
When death loomed near and survival became everything, biology made a fighter, a soldier, like him desirable. Need easily created lust.
He grasped her arm, yanking her from her thoughts. “Lynne?”
“You can leave.” She sidled out from his hold, and he allowed it. “I could use a couple hours of sleep.”
“Good.” He pivoted and headed toward the door, his broad back remaining to her. “I’ll have guards right outside, just so you know.”
She clutched the shirt to her chest. Her freedom had been bartered the second she’d made the deal. “I know.”
He left, and she quickly changed, her mind too tired to process much beyond the softness of clean clothes. Drawing out her father’s journal, she ran a finger over the imprint of his name. DR. FRANKLIN XAVIER HARMONY, PHILOSOPHIES. God, she missed him. Gently, she tucked the precious journal into the pack and moved toward the mattress.
Pressing one knee on the bed, she peered between rough boards on the window to the dark world outside. Dawn had been covered by a thick mass of black clouds. Just her luck to arrive in Los Angeles during the short but brutal rainy season. She couldn’t see a thing.
Sleep. As a scientist, she understood the value of regenerating during a sleep cycle. Sliding beneath the covers, she inhaled the masculine scent of Jax Mercury.
As she lay in his bed, having met him in person, there was no doubt in her mind that she’d underestimated him. He was much more intelligent, much sharper, than she’d thought. While she’d known of his absolute dedication to Vanguard, she’d figured she’d be able to maneuver around him.