In the Crossfire (Bloodhaven) (12 page)

Liam made no answer. His sharp, piercing gaze was already on Isobel, sweeping her intently from head to toe, missing nothing. He got to his feet, never taking his eyes off her.

Naley sniffed and glanced over her shoulder. “Aunt Iz! Lemme get you a bowl.” She banged open one of the cabinets.

Isobel stood still as Liam silently approached her. His wide shoulders blocked out most of the kitchen from sight as he stood in front of her, tall enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. This time, he made eye contact without shying away.

“All right?” he asked, voice pitched too low for Naley to hear.

Isobel nodded. Nothing in Liam’s expression said he believed her, but he didn’t push the matter. He stepped back to let her cross into the kitchen.

Naley rifled noisily through the cutlery drawer before plunking down a bowl of chili in front of Isobel. “Just in time. Liam was gonna eat it all.”

“That’s what you get when you feed a wolf.” Isobel kept her smile firmly in place. “Always coming back for more.”

“You should’ve seen him when he came to pick me up from school. It was so weird seeing him out of his natural environment. Where there’re people.
In public.
”

Liam narrowed his eyes at the girl, but Naley only grinned. He took his seat beside Isobel, and she felt the warmth and proximity of his strong, solid body chase away the numbness surrounding her.

She looked down at her chili, at the chunky bits of tomatoes and beans, and tried not to think of how she’d scrubbed Rupert Ogden’s brains out from underneath her fingernails earlier.

Liam slid a glass of water over. She didn’t know why until she brought a spoonful to her mouth and nearly choked. She gulped down the water, keeping her composure as best she could.

“Tweaked the recipe, cub?” she managed to ask, eyes blinking furiously.

“Just a bit more cayenne.” Naley grabbed Liam’s bowl and headed for the stove. “Liam said he likes spicy. You can finish the rest, Liam.”

Brave man,
she mouthed at him. He returned a look of droll resignation.

Naley returned with his chili and sat across from Isobel. “He showed me the store that sells his stuff. They sell other things too, but his stuff is way better. I looked for the kind of rocking chair you wanted and they were selling one for twelve hundred dollars. Twelve hundred, Aunt Iz! Who pays twelve hundred for a rocking chair?”

“You got me there, cub.” Isobel braved another careful mouthful of chili, then pushed the bowl away.

“Not hungry, Aunt Iz?”

“Guess I’m more tired than I thought.” She forced a smile. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to turn in a bit early tonight.”

“I should go.” Liam rose from the counter, then glanced down at Isobel. “Can we . . . talk?”

She nodded. Both of them were quiet as they walked down the hall and through the foyer. Isobel made sure Liam entered his code again at the front entrance panel so that the security system knew he was signing out. She closed the door behind them so that Naley couldn’t hear them through the soundproofing. Remembering the girl’s eavesdropping on her conversation with Kaya, Isobel double-checked that the door was fully closed before turning to Liam.

“Thank you for staying tonight,” she said softly. “It took longer than I expected.”

It hadn’t even been the transportation of Jamal and Rex to the infirmary that had taken up so much time. Nor had it been the processing of the scene—including the retrieval of the dead agents’ bodies—or the dispatching of another team in pursuit of Pierry Ogden, who was likely out of Bloodhaven’s jurisdiction by now.

No, it had been the never-ending series of inquiries and interrogations by various department officials that had consumed the past several hours. Isobel and Malcolm had to repeat their stories several times—in separate rooms to make sure the reports corresponded—to different boards and panels who wanted to know what the hell had happened out there.

Assuming Jamal and Rex made it out of this, they too would be subjected to similar inquiries to justify their actions. Their interrogations, however, would be even more severe and prolonged, due to the melee stemming from what had happened on their watch.

Malcolm had been incensed by the time he and Isobel were finally released from questioning. He’d turned to her with angry heat in his eyes, square jaw clenched as he arched an eyebrow at her.

She’d known what he was asking. He wasn’t the first agent to crave sex following a mission gone wrong. Sex, drink, violence—take your pick. Anything to chase away the rage, adrenaline, and frustration still coursing through them.

All Isobel had been able to see, however, was the urgent look on Rex’s face as he’d told her to go, and the fierce gush of blood from Jamal’s wrist as it coated her hands.

“Have fun,” Isobel had told Malcolm, and turned around and walked away.

Now the familiar, restless edginess was twisting up her spine, and Isobel wondered if she should’ve rethought her decision not to seek out someone from her list tonight. It was either that or punch something, and that was frowned upon among the agents. They all knew how deadly they could be if they gave in to that urge for violence. It was why they typically took out their frustrations in bed.

She should’ve stayed back at HQ. Gone a few rounds in the gym. But it had been late, and Naley had been home waiting for her. Besides, Isobel had a feeling that if she started hitting something, she wouldn’t have been able to stop.

Liam’s brows furrowed as he gazed down at her. The front porch light limned one side of his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and painting craggy shadows over his spiderweb markings.

“What happened?” he asked softly.

Isobel shook her head. “You know I can’t tell you, Liam.”

He knew. She could see it in his eyes. Yet he continued to watch her, waiting.

She looked away. “It was bad.”

After a moment, she sat down on the front steps. Another moment later, he joined her. His body settled next to hers, not touching, the masculine scent of sun-roasted cedar somehow reassuring.

They sat there in silence, staring up at the inky sky peppered with defiantly bright stars. The contrariness of spring revealed itself in an abruptly brisk breeze, curling around them like insidious vines. The temperature didn’t bother them much, though—one of the benefits of shifter biology. Crickets chirruped in the distance, and far away, past the stone walls, something slithered through the bushes.

Liam tipped his head slightly as he listened.

“Grass snake,” he murmured.

His voice was quiet and steady. Like the mountains, Isobel thought, casting a look at the massive shadows blotting out the sky behind the house. Giants of the earth, fast asleep, but no less powerful.

“I’m not really tired,” she admitted into the silence. “Just . . . on edge. Usually happens after a mission.”

“I know.”

She supposed he did, having served in the war. “You’d have thought I’d be used to it by now.”

“Don’t,” Liam cut in. “Don’t ever get used to it.”

She glanced at him. There’d been something in his voice. He shrugged and looked away.

Then he regarded her out of the corner of his eye. “Do you want to be left alone?”

She thought about it, but shook her head. It was hard enough not being able to talk about a day’s work with anyone other than her fellow agents. Hard, but it came with the job. They all knew it. What was even harder was coming back and pretending everything was all right, so that Naley would continue smiling, would never be afraid, would never doubt that her aunt would always come back home to her.

Perhaps, in that light, it was no surprise that Isobel found herself speaking aloud what she wouldn’t be able to once she reentered the house.

“We lost some good agents today. Two survived but are critically injured.” That was a detail safe enough to confide. “One of them might not make it through the night. The other lost his hand.”

They’d found the mangled remains of Jamal’s hand twelve miles away. One more insult heaped onto an ever-growing mountain of helpless rage.

The Council’s tech division had immediately revoked all file permissions when it’d heard of the dismemberment. Even now, it was going through its logs to see if Pierry Ogden had attempted to access information and services using Jamal’s prints while in possession of his hand. Isobel doubted they’d find any evidence of that, though; Ogden hadn’t had it for long, and he’d need a Council computer or phone in order to use it anyway. Not to mention from what she’d heard, there hadn’t been much of Jamal’s hand remaining by the time Ogden had been through with it.

She clenched her fists and focused on a cluster of stars huddled defensively against the blue-black sky.

Liam was grim. “The suspects?”

“One of them escaped.” She shouldn’t have revealed that. The Council wouldn’t have approved. She flexed her fingers. “The other I killed.”

“You regret it?”

She shook her head. “We should’ve killed them both on sight,” she said flatly. “Forget about taking them in. Would’ve saved us the trouble.”
Saved us the grief.

As Malcolm had put it mid-snarl while waiting for their third round of questioning: “They were destined for the slaughterhouse anyway.”

She wanted to kill Rupert Ogden all over again. She wanted to kill his son now.

This,
this
was the reason she would be put on mandatory leave starting tomorrow. After turning in her report and scheduling an appointment with the staff psychologist, she would be off-duty for the next two weeks. All part of protocol. The Council knew better than to send agents clouded by rage on fresh new assignments, with thoughts of vengeance still pumping through their veins.

A shifter on edge was dangerous enough. A shifter on edge who was authorized to use six levels of brute force? A disaster waiting to happen.

She hated leaving loose ends untied, missions unfinished, and now here she was, forced to sit on her hands and cool off while the bastard Pierry Ogden was on the loose.

She didn’t realize she was digging her nails into her palms until Liam reached over and enclosed her hands with his.

She glanced up at him, startled. He didn’t meet her eyes, simply stared down at their joined hands. The rough pads of his thumbs slowly brushed across her fingers, over her nails, sliding back and forth where they met her palms until he finally persuaded her grip to relax enough to open. He found the indentations left behind by her nails and soothed them away.

All throughout, he didn’t say a word. Somehow Isobel found that more comforting than if he’d spouted superficial consolations that wouldn’t change a thing.

He’d shifted his weight when reaching for her hands, and that had brought his face closer to hers. She could see his profile gilded in moonlight, the long, straight edge of his nose right above a wide, hard mouth. Stubble dusted along his jaw, and she was tempted to lean forward so that she could feel them scrape across her cheeks.

She could kiss him. Could soften that hard mouth.

Instead, she diverted her attention to where their hands were joined—trying not to think of other ways their bodies could join. He had long, callused fingers, broad palms easily encompassing hers. The backs of them were lightly dusted with hair turned gold from hours under the sun. They were also shadowed by the dark rust of his scars.

Not for the first time, she wondered about the secrets this man carried. And not for the first time, she bit her tongue before the questions could stream forth from her mouth. She didn’t want to lose this fragile peace they’d carved out in this small moment in time, a small moment that was too fleeting for its own good.

And so she just sat there, taking in the quiet, letting the warmth of his touch imbue her through that little bit of contact. Trying not to think about how it made her heart beat the tiniest bit faster.

* * *

Liam had to force himself to release her.

He let her go and sat back, eyes fixed unseeingly on the stars. The very fact that Isobel hadn’t objected to his touch told him she wasn’t herself. Then again, her distractedness had made that clear already. One look at her face and clenched fists, and he hadn’t been able to resist reaching out for her. Whatever she was going through, he would’ve taken for her, until he realized he was very close to crossing a line and taking advantage of her situation.

He shouldn’t have touched her. Shouldn’t have reached out and crossed that distance between them, because now he wanted to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her closer. He wanted to inhale her sultry winter-smoke scent, let his mouth drift from behind her ear to trace her jawline and slowly, slowly make its way to her mouth.

His gut clenched tight with need. Not just sexual need, for which his state of lust was a constant hum in his blood, but the need for intimacy as well. A longing to just hold someone, without the fear that he’d lash out at them when the buzzing in his ears got too loud. Without the fear that this broken shell of his would cut them both to shreds.

Stop it. It’s not about you.

He closed his eyes and willed away the darkness that tasted so bitter on his tongue.