Sentinels: Leopard Enchanted

His.

“Not a morning person?” she asked, draping the towel over one shoulder. Her hair was mussed in a way he wished he’d done, her cheeks flushed with the shower and her eyes bright with...amusement?

He realized he’d frozen in that ready-to-pounce yet totally hungover fashion, and looked down at himself. Wearing his boxers, tangled in her sheets, thoroughly unable to get his thoughts together. Nothing to do but shrug. “Generally I’m an everything person,” he said. “Clearly that doesn’t apply to today.” With effort, he clambered out of the bed, straightening himself joint by joint, and reached for the tea. Irish black, oh, thank you.

The first sip finished waking him. When he lifted his head and caught a glimpse of the bathrobe hitting the floor, he went beyond awake and straight to alert. Attentive.

Ana reached into a drawer to extract a bra—faintly pink, like her nails, an underwire thing that would support the beauty he’d seen the night before. Modest in size but perfectly shaped, just ready for his hand or mouth. She gave a meaningful glance at his groin, where the boxers hid nothing. “I’d wondered if I wore you out, but I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Not when I’m with you,” he said, somewhat fervently. Another Sentinel blessing, that recovery time—but he couldn’t talk to her about Sentinels. Only the think tank aspect of his work.

“Leftovers from whatever got into you last night, then,” she suggested, stepping into panties with faint pink stripes.

Oh, hell. Yes. Exactly so. And not just him. No one had been feeling quite right at the retreat when he’d left. Ian floundered, caught completely behind in his own thoughts. Thoughts he would normally have worked on in pieces through the night, rising to wakefulness long enough to chew on them and then, if he was lucky, falling back to sleep. Either way, awakening in the morning with his thoughts spread out before him, ready for the day.

Not this day.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, gulping half the remaining tea in one swallow and setting the mug aside. His pants must be here somewhere, right? “I need to check on Fernie. And the others.”

She cocked her head, a stretchy bit of ribbed camisole in hand and her expression gone careful. Very, very careful. “Is this you running away?”

Because of course, he could call the retreat. Or he could assume that a house full of adults could manage minor illness without panic. She had no way of knowing that these particular adults were, like him, not used to managing illness at all. Or that anyone with even modestly strong blood did better with a Sentinel healer than they ever would with the average urgent care clinic.

“This is me taking care of my people,” he assured her, spotting the neat stack of his shirt and pants where she’d smoothed and folded them. He scooped them up, pulling them on in record time—and then stopped to regard her, scrubbing one hand through his thoroughly disheveled hair, across the scrape of his beard.

She’d tugged the camisole into place and now looked back at him with evident doubt, and he had to face the brutal truth of his off-balance morning. “Yeah,” he said. “I can use some space while I’m at it. But not because I’m running away. Because...”

Because I wasn’t expecting this. To be affected.

Oh, face it. To be reeling in the wake of her.

She’d put on a mask—the same face she’d worn when he’d first seen her. Unapproachable. Distant.

And, he now understood, self-protective.

She held her ground when he stepped up to her, and when he put a finger under her chin—lifting it slightly so the bruises along her jaw were beyond evident, and careful of them—careful of her. Biting back on fury to see them and knowing he’d find out what they were about when all was said and done, but that this moment wasn’t the right one.

“Because,” he said, “sometimes when you follow the feeling, you get far more than you ever expected. And if you want to do right by that, it takes a little space.”

Something in that stiff expression eased, allowing him back in. “Yes,” she said. “Okay. I can see that. I guess I can even feel some of it, this morning.” She caught his gaze, held it—a hint of honey in the brown of her eye. “Just promise this—when it’s time for you to walk away from us, be straight with me. Tell me you’re going. Don’t leave me wondering. Don’t leave me hopeful.”

The anger bubbled up again on her behalf. “Someone, somewhere, has done very badly by you.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Look, I may not always know what I’m doing. I might mess up. But I’ll do it honestly. And we’ll figure this out. By which I mean—” and he couldn’t help but grin as he bent to kiss her “—this.”

Her mouth was just as soft as it had been the night before, just as responsive. And so was he, immediately slipping into a possessive, claiming frame of mind, the strength of which only swelled once he noticed it.

She put a hand on his chest—not pushing, but enough to remind him what they’d been about. What he’d been about. When he pulled back, she’d regained the hint of a smile he’d already learned to look for. “Okay,” she said. “Check in with your mother ship. And today, the museum.”

“Come at noon and I’ll feed you first.” Ian held her chin a moment longer, bringing his thumb up to run along her lower lip where it shone damp with the attention he’d just given it.

Feed you, and find out who put their hands on you, and make sure it never happens again.

But first he had to make sure his people were all right.

* * *

Hollender Lerche found himself annoyingly aware of intrusion. He barely needed to glance at his office doorway to know that David Budian hesitated—no, hovered, in a most irritating way—outside his domain. But glance he did, looking up from the two receiver amulets on the otherwise empty desk, his very attention a demand for explanation.

This day, Budian dressed in natty slacks and short-sleeved dress shirt, a touring cap on his head and glasses he didn’t need over his nose. From this Lerche surmised that the man intended to again trail Ana Dikau. It was a precaution made necessary because she had only recently invoked the second amulet—and it, unlike the first, remained silent.

Not that the first had provided any useful information—although the primary working was as successful as they could have hoped, and the occupants of the house had definitely sickened.

Unfortunately, Ian Scott didn’t seem to be one of them.

Budian asked, “Anything?”

“Not of import,” Lerche told him. “The feeble-blooded Sentinels at the retreat are sickening, but Scott didn’t spend the night there.” Anger flickered to life at Ana’s defiance—her delay in invoking the second amulet, her whorish behavior with the Sentinel.

“So my man reported,” Budian said. “Scott left her rental a few moments ago—she wore him out, no doubt about that. I’ll pick her up if she leaves—or let you know if he returns. I’ve also planted a tracker on his motorcycle.” He took a breath on new words, hesitating there.

“What is it?” Lerche snapped.

Budian found the necessary mix of cautious respect. “Her face,” he said. “She came outside to say her goodbyes, and the bruises were visible. I must counsel caution when it comes to disciplining her, no matter that she deserves it.”

The anger flickered higher. “She should take better care with her makeup.”

“Agreed. But these Sentinels are notoriously possessive—that’s been the problem with them all along, hasn’t it? Possessive of the earth, possessive of whatever they deem to be theirs. It will complicate our task if this one goes looking for whoever left those bruises.”

“She knows better than to talk. And she heals more quickly than most.” Not that she knew it, or had any understanding of the taint her blood carried. She puzzled over her lack of acceptance within the Core ranks, but that was her problem. Lerche shook his head. “She is mine to discipline as necessary. But I’ll take your words into consideration.”

“Thank you,” Budian said, as well he might. “I’ll keep you apprised.”

Lerche nodded in dismissal, turning his attention back to the spy amulets. One still offered a mutter of occasional conversation and clattering kitchen noises, and the other briefly provided a muffled and unidentified sound.

Ana Dikau was a problem. Had always been a problem. Too eager for acceptance, never seeing that she wasn’t worthy, never understanding why—and yet constantly defying even the simplest edict. Never understanding that how little her value to him, she was still his.

She’d slept with the Sentinel.

Anger surged—and then slowly ebbed into satisfaction.

After all, she had invoked the amulet. She was spending time with Scott. He might sicken first, but ultimately she faced death right along with him. And she had no idea it would come at her own hand.

* * *

“Aspirin, yes. Ibuprofen or acetaminophen, no.” Ruger’s deep voice rumbled over Ian’s phone. Southwest Brevis’s skilled, no-nonsense healer was a man who took the bear in his other form—bigger than most, rumblier than most. “Keep ’em drinking—and put a drop of lemon oil in their water. Not the stuff under the sink for the furniture.”

“Not the furniture polish,” Ian repeated, amused in spite of the circumstances. He rounded the breakfast bar where he’d been taking notes, and opened Fernie’s remedy cabinet.

“You’d be surprised,” Ruger muttered. “Look, every once in a while something like this comes along—it sweeps through a bunch of us and goes on its way, showing up mainly in the light-bloods. Stick with common sense, and in a few days it’ll be history. Besides, it’ll take your mind off those silent amulets.”