Before their eyes, her chest sealed shut. A deep breath lifted her breast, and then, with a shudder of her slight frame, the crystal key was expelled from the tiny slot in the golden teeth that held her chest closed.
Jack grabbed it, lest it fall, and Lucien quirked a brow. Jack ignored him and pocketed the key. Hell if he was letting Lucien touch Mary’s br**sts again. The bloom of health was spreading along Mary’s skin. Jack’s shoulders slumped, and he took what felt like his first real breath in over an hour. All he wanted to do was let his head fall to her breast and hold her tight. But she’d be waking soon.
Letting her go was hard. But he did, and with careful hands pulled the ragged edges of her chemise over her nakedness. “She’ll believe that I did this,” he said to Lucien.
Surprisingly, the GIM did not ask if it was true. Instead he studied Jack with those unnerving light-green eyes. “Then it’s best if you stay.” Lucien gave a pointed look to Jack’s stance.
Jack hadn’t realized it, but he was poised for flight, his arse already halfway off the bed. He plunked back down, and Lucien grinned outright. “That way she won’t have to hunt you down before she tears you apart.”
Jack sneered, but at that moment Mary’s eyes snapped open. Her golden gaze focused on him in terror and rage. He opened his mouth to explain, but she lurched forward. Slim hands slapped against his chest. A jolt struck him hard, resounding though his flesh and bones before hooking onto his soul with such ferocity that he felt as though it’d be ripped to shreds. Then the world simply stopped.
Jack hit the floor with a hearty thud and lay there, prone. Mary did not know how long she’d been out, only that her body was sluggish and cold. And it was that bastard’s fault. He’d hit her, hurt her. The memory of white light flashing before her gaze confused her. He’d done something more to her. With a growl she surged forward, wanting to finish him. His soul had been in her hands for one moment before the man sitting beside Mary had separated them. Struggling to move, she realized that the same man now held her back from leaping on Jack and delivering the killing blow.
“Hold, Mary. Hold!”
Lucien. She stopped, looking around with wild fear. Lucien’s room. How?
His breath was on her cheek, the familiar scent of him calming yet confusing her more. Why was she here?
“He’s down,” Lucien said. “Now let him live, for pity’s sake.” There was laughter in his voice, and she wrenched free to glare at him.
She did not expect to see the quiet fear in Lucien’s eyes. “He saved you.” Lucien glanced at Jack on the floor. “Your heart had completely stopped. You would have died if he hadn’t brought you here.”
“He did this to me,” she rasped. A draft shivered over her skin, and she looked down to see her br**sts bared. Blushing, she yanked her torn chemise closed. Although Lucien wouldn’t care; he’d never so much as bothered to look at her undressed.
Proving her point, Lucien kept his eyes on her face, studying in his unblinking way, plotting, most likely. “He said you’d believe that.”
“How can I not?” she snapped. “He attacked me.”
A rough, deep voice answered her. “It was not me.”
Mary froze at the sound of Jack’s voice coming from below. A groan rang from his broad chest as he heaved to sit. Rubbing his head and glaring at her in weariness, Jack continued to speak. “You pack a devil of a punch, angel.”
Clutching her chemise tighter, she drew her legs under her, getting farther away from the edge of the bed, and from him. Logically, she could understand that if Jack had brought her to Lucien, he could not be the one who had hurt her. Viscerally, however, her body only remembered the utter betrayal of seeing him grin as he struck her. Jack eyed the movement and snorted. She expected one of his snide comments but he merely looked at her, his body so still that she wondered if she’d addled him with her attack.
With a sigh he leaned back on his hands as if too weak to do anything further. “He took on my appearance.” Jack’s dark brows met. “Likely to unnerve you, and hurt me.”
His expression grew stark, and a tremor racked his frame. “I thought I’d lost…” With a scowl, his mouth snapped shut, and he leapt to his feet. Such a graceful move, and one that had her flinching, despite herself. The scowl grew when he saw her reaction. “What happened?”
Mary glanced at Lucien. “A moment, if you please.”
“But of course, chère.” He gave her a small bow. “See me before you leave, eh?”
Jack sniffed as if something foul had been shoved under his nose, and he eyed Lucien as the man made his way out. As soon as the door clicked shut, he turned his attention back to Mary.
Awkward silence choked the air between them. Mary crossed her arms over her br**sts, and Jack’s gaze stayed purposely away from her undressed state. An action that only served to emphasize it. Gathering her strength, she slowly stood, wobbling a bit as sensation rushed back into her legs.
He made an abortive move to help, but she held him off with a warning look. Jack snapped back into his guarded stance, his eyes wary as she made her way to Lucien’s wardrobe and helped herself to a dressing gown. Aware that her familiarity with Lucien’s room and his things only served to exacerbate the long-standing strain between her and Jack, she quickly tied the robe and assumed a professional manner.
“He looked just like you.” Obvious, and it sounded too much like an accusation, but she was struggling to get past the horror that she’d felt when she’d thought Jack had hit her. Part of her wanted to go to him now and simply feel his skin, just to reassure herself. She didn’t need to, though. His eyes, those lovely green eyes that shone like holly in the mellow glow of the room, were proof enough.
“Yes,” he said.
She took a breath. “That is why he got to me. I wasn’t expecting the attack.”
“I am so sorry, Mary.” His brow furrowed as he ran a tired hand along the back of his thick neck, and his shirt strained against his bicep. For the first time, Mary took in his odd attire, the too-tight shirt and too-short pants. Lucien’s clothes. Her lips twitched. Following her gaze, he swore under his breath. “I shifted to fight the bastard,” he said. “I’d have killed him if I could. For touching you.”
“You’ve no reason to be sorry, you know. It wasn’t you who attacked me.” She could acknowledge the truth now that her head had cleared. His eyes had been wrong, his voice missing the essential ingredient that made him Jack.
He shrugged absently, as if he disagreed but would let it go, then glanced at her, his gaze sharp. “Why were you there?”
Mary nibbled on her bottom lip, considering.
“Chase.” A warning.
“An agent from the Nex was in my house when I came home tonight.”
He swallowed several times before sighing. He did not appear to find the notion threatening. If anything, he appeared resigned.
“If the SOS were to find out that you were Nex, you’d be banished, Jack.” And his family would be devastated.
His fists curled and pressed into his narrow h*ps as he stared blindly at the corner of the room.
“Worse,” she said, “is that you’ve declared war on the Nex, and they have taken up the gauntlet.”
Jack’s expression grew fierce, lit from within by anger and frustration. “Good. There are more of them out there. The ones who… Hell.”
Any regrets she’d held about killing Moore fled. “You’re giving that man your blood. Why?”
Pale now, he stood before her, unable or unwilling to move, or answer.
“What goes on between you?”
Jack ran a hand over his face. “Will Thorne is an agent for the Nex. As a favor to me, he supplied me with the names. But he could only go so far. That night at the railroads, the man we chased offered me the rest of the names in exchange for blood.” Jack’s cheeks went dull red, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I’m stuck in it now. I’ve been stuck since he gave me the name of another who’d…” His lips pressed together. “Mercer Dawn.”
“Mercer?” Mary straightened. “Jack, his body was in that restaurant.”
Jack grew still and watchful. “I didn’t place it there. Hell, I wanted to kill Mercer,” he said. “I almost did a few nights ago. Then I couldn’t.”
“Why not?” she asked quietly.
His dark eyes were haunted. “It was close, so bloody close,” he whispered. “Then I thought of Ian, of Daisy, of how they call me their family. And I thought of…” He turned away. “How could I keep facing… everybody, knowing what I’ve done?”
For the first time in her life, she felt impossibly old. “Are you going to use those ill-gotten names now?”
He scrubbed his face again, but did not answer her.
“Why do you continue to give that man your blood?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow.
“Jack,” she insisted when he would not look at her. “What hold does he have over you?”
He glared at her then. “I cannot stop this, Mary, so do not ask me to.”
On a sigh, Mary pressed the tips of her fingers against her sore eyes. “The first thing I did after becoming a GIM was to hunt down each piece of filth who raped me.” At Jack’s harsh breath, she let her hand fall. “I gutted them. And each time, I returned home and threw up until there was nothing left inside of me. It was as if they raped me all over again.” A hard, choked laugh left her. “You’ve thought me a cold fish, a heartless creature.”
“No—”
“You were right. I am. I’ve spent a decade learning to feel nothing.”
Jack’s crestfallen face gave her pause, but she had to finish. “I looked the other way for you, and will keep on looking, because I know, Jack. I’ve been there too.” He made to speak, and she lifted a hand. “Just as I know that if you keep this course, there will be nothing left inside of you either.”
Haunted eyes of dark green searched her face, and when he spoke, it was in a clear, quiet voice. “It’s too late to stop that, angel.”
“Jack.” Her vision misted, and she blinked hard. “If you have any care for… well, for the people who love you, end your association with that man.”
His mouth tilted, but it was far from a smile. “And who might those people be?”
She wanted to let what he’d done to her go, but the years of strife between them, the wasted years of petty insults that were all for nothing, swelled within her. And her jaw locked, refusing to open.
Which was clearly answer enough for Jack. “Right.” Ducking his head, he strode across the room.
Mary’s nerves leapt as he came near, but he merely walked past her.
“Where are you going?” Her voice was woebegone, and she cursed herself for a fool.
He halted at the door. His knuckles whitened as he clutched the doorframe, but he did not face her. “Home. You need rest.”
“I do not. I am fine.” Lie. Nothing felt fine. He’d turned her world on its ear.
He gave a half-laugh. “Well, then I need mine.” His fingers spread over the glossy wood. “I—” He drew in a stiff breath, and it seemed as though he would go, but he hesitated. His eyes, when he turned to her, burned with emotion that left her oddly breathless. Jack’s low voice rolled over her. “I’m glad you are well, Chase.”
Chase. As if they had gone back to the beginning.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
This time, when Jack stormed into Will’s lair, the bastard was ready for him. He had barely opened the door when a fist slammed into his face. Jack staggered back into the open doorframe.
Will grinned at him through a red haze. Grunting, Jack glanced at Will’s fist. “You bloody f**k. Throwing punches with iron knuckles?” He launched forward, catching Will about the neck. They slammed down, splintering a wood chair on impact. Jack’s fist smashed into Will’s smug face. Twice.
Will merely laughed through the blood. Then he jabbed Jack in the gut. It sent a raw shard of agony straight down Jack’s spine. With a snarl he grabbed Will’s head and bashed his forehead into Will’s thin nose. The bony protuberance crunched, metallic scented blood pouring out. Jack leapt back, distancing himself before he did the man further violence.
His chest sawed up and down, anger and the fight still coursing through him. Will lurched to a sitting position and yanked a handkerchief out of his pocket. A crack rang out as he reset his nose and then glared up at Jack. “Jesus, Jack, you’re a pain in my arse.”
“Rather thought you’d say nose.” Jack was tempted to hit it again. Years of experience had taught him the nose was a man’s true weak spot. And Will’s aristocratic snout made an excellent target.
One shining black eye narrowed behind a hank of limp pale hair. “Rotter.” Will hauled himself up and righted one of the remaining chairs before sitting in it, his long legs sprawled. Wiping the blood away, he smiled grimly. “I simply wanted to slow you down before you threw another knife at me.”
“I never threw gold, nor Christ’s-thorn,” Jack pointed out bitterly. They were two materials that sanguis demons found intolerable, as they would burn through the demon’s system and cause great pain, even death if used properly. Just as iron did to a shifter. Jack rubbed his jaw gingerly. “A low move, Will.”
Will shrugged. “Never claimed to be a saint.” He tossed the bloody linen on the table. “What is it now?”