Blood Lust - Alexandra Ivy Page 0,78

the memory of the woman who’d been willing to sacrifice everything for him. She’d been a poor, uneducated peasant who’d been beaten by her husband and browbeaten by the local priest. Who would have blamed her if she’d simply given in to their claim that her child was a demon?

Instead she risked everything to save him.

“And the locket?” he asked.

“It belonged to her daughter,” Myst said. “She wanted me to have it. She said it would remind me that there was someone out there who cared.” She tilted back her head to reveal her wistful expression. “She was the first person who ever said that to me.”

His palm gently cupped her cheek. How was it possible that a female who’d been neglected and abused could still be so capable of such love and devotion?

“Did you ever go back?”

“No.” Her nose wrinkled with regret. “She was too intelligent not to notice I hadn’t aged.”

Ah. She hadn’t wanted the older woman to realize she was a high-blood. No doubt a smart decision. If Ella had started blabbing about having a freak in her home it might very well have attracted the attention of the Brotherhood.

Still, Bas didn’t believe for a minute that Myst had just walked away without trying to do something to keep in contact with the woman who’d offered her such kindness.

“But?” he prodded.

Her eyes narrowed, before she gave a reluctant laugh, accepting he knew her better than she expected.

“But I send her a Christmas card each year with a little money,” she admitted. “Ella wanted to hire a private investigator to find her daughter but they charged more than she could afford.”

Bas blinked, struggling to focus on Myst’s face. Dammit. His body was failing in his efforts to heal his injuries. Soon he would lose consciousness.

He struggled to make his lips move. “Myst.”

“Bas?” Her eyes widened as she caught sight of his grim expression. Abruptly she sat upright. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fading,” he said, his words slurred. “If I don’t wake within an hour promise me you’ll leave me and go to Valhalla.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Dammit. I . . .”

His words failed, his lashes drooping as the darkness rose up to claim him. He was going under. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

He thought he felt Myst move, her lips brushing gently over his cheek before she was whispering in his ear.

“I’m sorry.”

But then again, it could easily have been nothing more than a hallucination. God knew he’d conjured up enough fantasies about Myst over the years.

* * *

Lana used her private elevator to travel the nine levels beneath the public rooms of Valhalla to the headquarters of the Sentinels.

She bypassed the long communal room that was made of stainless steel and lined with high-tech computer systems and monitors directly linked in to a variety of satellites that kept constant surveillance.

Instead, she directly entered the Office of the Tagos.

Not surprisingly, the private room was a precise reflection of the current leader of the Sentinels.

Sleek. Sparse. Ruthlessly male.

Stepping out of the elevator, her gaze skimmed over the large walnut desk and two black leather chairs, and the ivory-painted walls decorated with a collection of priceless samurai swords.

Wolfe might have taken on the role of leader, but he’d always be a warrior at heart.

Her gaze shifted to the dark-haired male who was wearing a casual T-shirt and black jeans. Relief jolted through her as she relished the knowledge he was unharmed.

She’d understood his need to take charge of the assault on the Brotherhood compound, but that hadn’t made the waiting any easier.

Now she allowed herself a rare moment just to appreciate the sight of his lean, chiseled body and stunningly beautiful face.

At last sensing her entrance, Wolfe turned his attention from the bank of monitors he was arranging on a narrow table shoved against the far wall.

“Lana,” he murmured, watching as she crossed the wooden floor to stand at his side.

Instantly she was enfolded in his sizzling heat, the scent of raw male power teasing at her senses. Dear . . . heavens. With an effort, she forced herself to concentrate on the screens that displayed images of their prisoners who now filled the dungeons of Valhalla.

“Any casualties?” she asked, pretending she didn’t notice Wolfe’s lingering gaze that took in her jade sweater with a deeply scooped neckline and black leggings that clung faithfully to her slender curves.

How else could she deny the fact that she’d deliberately chosen the clothes to attract his attention?

“No Sentinels