She’d picked at her cuticles until they were raw.
That had always assured her she was actually a real person.
She looked at her nails.
Damn, her cuticles looked good too. Nice and healthy in ways they hadn’t been when she was a teenager.
What else could she do?
There wasn’t a lot left. After all, there came a point when she had to admit she was either asleep or awake. Surely she would reach that point soon.
If it hurt, it was supposed to be real.
Right?
She could kiss Stygian, some demonic imp suggested silently. Just kiss him hard and deep and see if that mating stuff was true.
If it was, then that would assure her she was alive.
“Liza?” Looking up from where she sat on the comfortable couch in the suite of the hotel the Breeds were pretty much staking claim to, she stared at the cup of coffee Rachel Broen-Wyatt, Jonas Wyatt’s wife, was setting on the table in front of her. “Here’s some coffee. It will help with the shock.”
Shock? They thought she was in shock?
Well, God bless their hearts.
Actually, they had no idea how little things had ever shocked her.
It wasn’t the shock, it was that sense that this simply could not be happening. She couldn’t be a target.
She was an anonymous person.
She was a nobody.
There was no reason in the world that the infamous Genetics Council should want to target her. Not even for information on the underground network she was a part of. Until the day before, the Breeds hadn’t been certain she was part of it.
Liza accepted the coffee. It was creamy and sweet. Strangely enough, just the way she liked it.
“Are you okay?” Rachel knelt beside her, dark eyes filled with abject concern.
“Fine.” She swallowed tightly before lifting the cup to sip at the hot, sweet liquid again.
It was warming her insides.
A little, anyway.
But it wasn’t easing that sense of unreality, and she really wasn’t in the mood to pinch herself again.
Besides, the director’s wife was watching, and that probably wouldn’t look rational in her eyes.
“I’m very sorry about this, Liza,” Rachel said softly, her gaze heavy with guilt. “I hate the danger you’re in now.”
“What do you have to do with it?” It made very little sense that this woman would feel guilt for something she hadn’t orchestrated.
Her husband perhaps, but not her.
“Amber is my child,” Rachel whispered. “She’s the reason we’re so desperate to find Gideon.”
Ah yes, the baby.