“Forgive me for not seeing a problem existed, Rachel,” Callan said softly. “And I do appreciate you bringing this to me, though Merinus will be contacting you soon, I’m certain. We’ll discuss the matter with David before the three of us meet with you and your mate, if that’s acceptable?”
Jonas felt Rachel’s hand brush his. Twining his fingers with her delicate ones, he gave her the support she suddenly seemed to need as she realized the alpha of the Prides was perhaps much more understanding than she had believed.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m certain we can be available whenever you need us.”
Callan glanced at Jonas once more. “Your mate is too good for you,” he stated with an amused twitch to his lips. “And far more intuitive. You should have come to me sooner, Jonas.”
“Don’t blame him.” Rachel shook her head. “He’s stayed quiet at my request, Callan. I wanted to wait. I didn’t want to cause strain at a time when I know other matters are far more important. But, Diane isn’t near so patient I’m afraid. She made me do it.”
Amusement at the almost childish proclamation drew a chuckle from Callan.
“I’ll thank her personally when next I see her,” he promised. “And thank you again.”
Rather than kissing her cheek, shaking her hand, or any other form of touching that could have caused her discomfort, Callan instead lowered his head to hers and rubbed against it briefly.
The acceptance, respect and affection inherent in the gesture wasn’t missed by Jonas or any other occupant in the room. From that day on, Rachel would always be considered a member of Callan’s personal Pride, and his inner circle of family.
“Gentlemen.” She nodded to the others gracefully as Callan stepped back. “I’ll let you return to your meeting now. And if I were all of you, I would prepare for the fallout when they return.”
She didn’t explain the fallout, but she didn’t need to. If they returned with the former Brandenmore victims, then it would be self-explanatory.
Without another word she walked gracefully from the room, nodding to the Breed guard who opened the doors and then closed them behind her.
Jonas turned back to the alphas who had deliberately found something else to watch.
All but Leo, the man biology named his father. Amber eyes watched him thoughtfully, his lips quirked with a hint of knowing amusement.
He’d watched each moment of the exchange and, Jonas suspected, heard far more than either he, Rachel or Callan wished. But his gaze had softened as his expression reflected a respect Jonas rarely saw in the other Breeds’ gaze.
It was then that Leo nodded back at him before stating, in a tone that reflected surprising fondness, “I think she scares me.”
Jonas sighed in resignation though his chest seemed to weaken with his love for her. “Yeah,” he drawled. “I think that makes two of us.”
CHAPTER 8
THREE DAYS LATER
ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
Gideon watched the window of the hotel room carefully through the scope of the rifle. The gold jewelry that Scott had been kind enough to keep in the safe had purchased the sniper rifle and highly sensitive scope from the black market contact he’d made years before, during one of his brief escapes from Brandenmore’s labs.
It was an old-fashioned weapon, one powered by the ammunition loaded into it, rather than the kind that used a laser box for power before each shot.
The soft sizzle of the box powering up the laser rifles were easily detectable to most Breeds if they were within a certain distance. But even easier for them to discern were the two tiny pin lights at the side of the box. Those pin lights could be seen from miles away by a Breed’s sensitive eyes.
This weapon, though, with its dull steel and the shaded glass of the scope, was all but undetectable to Breeds or humans.
Until it was fired.
This weapon, unlike the laser-powered variety, was loud enough to alert even the densest of the human population that violence was being committed.
It couldn’t be powered back to wound rather than kill or to burn rather than pierce. It couldn’t be deflected by the reflector glass or comparable material. There were few things that could stand between a man and a bullet.
Or a woman and a bullet.
At the moment, the woman in question was sitting comfortably in the chair she had moved to the side of the bed, directly in front of the window. The curtains were open and gave him a clear line of fire as she propped slender, jean-clad legs on the low table in front of her. Scuffed boots looked worn and comfortable, as did the faded jeans and the sleeveless, snug camisole she wore.
And she was staring straight back at him, her gaze meeting his in the scope of the rifle, daring him to fire.