Parallel Heat (42 page)

‘‘I-I thought, well, that we . . .’’ Her voice trailed to nothing and, in agitation, she began spreading the edge of his sheet, smoothing it out beneath her palms. Perhaps she didn’t quite realize what an intimate gesture that was, given how he was laying naked right beneath that same sheet, and the thin material was the
only
thing separating her hand from his very bare body.

‘‘That we?’’
he prompted, acutely aware of her physical proximity.

She dropped her head. ‘‘I wanted to apologize.’’

‘‘For what?’’

‘‘It was my fault, what happened the other night—’’

‘‘Hey, now—’’

‘‘Completely my fault,’’ she rushed, talking over him, ‘‘and I almost got you killed. I am so sorry. I should never have been there, and if I hadn’t, then you wouldn’t be here, and—and . . .’’

He said nothing, only watched her, and was surprised when her lovely gray eyes welled with tears. She swallowed hard, wiping at her eyes.

‘‘Are you finished, Harper?’’ The only way to deal with this kind of thing was soldier to soldier, he definitely knew that.

She bowed her head, nodding silently, and returned to smoothing his covers.

‘‘Good,’’ he said. ‘‘Because this is war, Hope Harper. War. You’ve found yourself fighting on our side, and I, for one, happen to appreciate that fact. You were there with me that night because you’d chosen my side.’’

‘‘I’m going blind, Lieutenant.’’

He shook his head dismissively. ‘‘I know about your vision problems.’’

‘‘No, you don’t understand. My vision is eroding . . . very quickly.’’

She continued: ‘‘I should’ve seen those snipers, and could have shot them before they took you out.’’

‘‘I scented them myself, you know.’’ Her blond eyebrows lifted curiously, so he added, ‘‘I can track our enemies for up to a mile with my heightened senses.’’ Understandably, he felt a swell of pride as he shared his natural abilities.

This new information seemed to register, and she rested her palms on his bedside, just thinking in silence. After a moment, she asked, ‘‘Why didn’t you stop them, then?’’

So much for pride, at least with this woman.
‘‘Because too much was going down.’’

‘‘So,’’ she continued, ‘‘if I’d been more help, been able to see, then I would’ve gotten them before they got to you. It
is
my fault, Lieutenant, and you won’t convince me otherwise.’’

Slowly, he inched his right hand toward the edge of the bed, over the crisp sheet until he made contact with
her
hand. He moved slowly; otherwise she would have withdrawn immediately. Yes, he knew that much about Hope Harper.
Stealth attack with a blind woman. Way to go, Dillon
, he chastised himself. Then again, he wouldn’t have held back, not with her. He covered her hand with his, steadying it against the mattress. Odd, but she didn’t pull away, and very cautiously he closed his open palm over hers.

‘‘You saved my life,’’ he told her. ‘‘Get that into your head—you did it. I was dead in the water without you.’’

Awareness shot through his entire body; that their skin was touching, that she wasn’t moving her hand. That his legs hurt like hell, and yet he didn’t give a crap. All of his awareness tuned to only one fact: Hope sat at his bedside, her hand held in his . . . well, almost.

‘‘I-I can’t help blaming myself,’’ she admitted in an anguished voice, and the tears he’d seen in her eyes began to roll down her cheeks. He could not hold back, not now; she needed to understand their shared stakes—and their collective history. There was no room for shame between their two hearts.

‘‘I want to tell you something,’’ he said, wrestling again to sit up in bed. ‘‘I’m not Refarian. I’m an Antousian.’’

Her eyes shot upward, filled with surprise and—Gods forbid—wonder. She swiped at her tears, but said nothing, just waited for him to continue. And so he did.

‘‘Yeah, that’s a pretty ugly secret, isn’t it?’’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘‘My genetic heritage is something I have to live with every day. We all live with things we don’t really like.’’

She said nothing, yet she slowly rotated her hand until their fingers threaded together, palm to palm. He swallowed, continuing, ‘‘I’m human too, you see, at least in a way. And that’s the truly ugly secret.’’

‘‘I don’t understand. You just said you’re Antousian . . . and do you think it’s ugly to
be
human?’’

‘‘I’m a hybrid,’’ he whispered.

He closed his eyes, the familiar, putrid shame welling within him—but he
wanted
Hope Harper to know everything—wanted her to realize that she had nothing to blame herself for, not when it came to his life, and not when it came to dirty secrets.

He continued, ‘‘Thirty years ago a deadly virus swept Refaria. We Antousians lived there, in peace with the Refarians, at least as much as a warring species such as my own could ever live in peace with anyone. There were collectives of industry and art and science. It was a time of great development and cooperation between our two species. But the virus came, and everything ended after that. Nothing—nothing at all—could ever be the same. My kind couldn’t survive in their own bodies, so they did what they had to do. All the Antousians did, in order to survive. . . . They shape-shifted rather than die of the virus.’’

Her hand tightened around his. Encouraging, demanding, conceding. ‘‘Shape-shifted into that transparent form? The one those soldiers assumed on the base?’’

‘‘We shifted into nothing, Hope—and it left us nowhere to go.’’

‘‘I don’t understand.’’

‘‘Our people were shape-shifters, but they also possessed a unique gift.’’ He paused, staring at her pointedly, and although she couldn’t see, she gave an encouraging nod, so he pressed onward. ‘‘They could take many forms—and could shape into ether, the air about us, assuming a kind of formless state, just like you saw on the base. When the plague came millions of my . . . my
people
. . . were without bodies. Drifting, like ghosts. There was nothing to shift back to.’’

‘‘That’s horrible.’’

‘‘Yes,’’ he agreed solemnly, ‘‘it was. But not nearly as horrible as what we did to
your
people after. Genetically we were very similar, you see, and so humans were a compatible match. The Refarians had been coming here for ages, and we knew how similar your kind were to our own. And . . . so . . . our people began to seize hosts, to harvest them, using their bodies for our own salvation.’’

‘‘They took them.’’

Ignoring the pain, he wrestled upright. ‘‘They had no
thought
for the lives they stole, Hope. They did not care!’’

Here it was—all of it—laid bare to this one, frail human woman who had given him everything. Gods, she had to understand; he needed her to comprehend the depth of his sin.

Her face remained passive. ‘‘Is that what this war is really about?’’

‘‘Jareshk is protecting Earth. Fighting to prevent the harvesting of more of the humans . . . by my kind.’’

‘‘You want me to hate you,’’ she answered with surprising calm.

‘‘No, Hope. I want you to understand that no sin could possibly outweigh my own.’’

‘‘You didn’t take this body . . . of yours? Did you?’’

‘‘No, never.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t care if you had. It wouldn’t change things.’’ Things? What things? Feelings . . . survival . . . emotion? What sort of stakes was this woman invoking?

‘‘No, I didn’t steal this body. But my parents harvested their hosts—and I am their son.’’

She gave his hand another encouraging squeeze. ‘‘But that wasn’t your choice, it was your parents’.’’

Ah, she had him there. And it hadn’t even been his parents’ choice, not really—they’d been scientists at a time of great plague, fighting time to solve the Great Death. They had never wanted to accept harvested forms, but only because they believed they could save many lives had they ever agreed to do so. That offered Scott little comfort; he only thought of the lives his mother and father had ended.

‘‘My parents were good people,’’ he conceded. ‘‘But it doesn’t make their crimes any less ugly.’’

‘‘Why are you telling me this?’’

He had no easy answer there. ‘‘You’re heroic, a true soldier. You should exonerate yourself for the other night.’’

She wrestled her hand free from his then, rising abruptly to her feet. ‘‘I guess we each bear our own blame, don’t we? I should go. Get well, Lieutenant, and please let me know if I can do anything for you.’’

With his left hand he fumbled with the drawer to his side table and, never taking his eyes off his angel, he retrieved her eyeglasses from where he’d kept them for her since the other night. ‘‘Here,’’ he said, holding them out to her. ‘‘These belong to you.’’

She squinted in the direction of his hand so he took her hand, and placed the glasses within it. They were still streaked with his blood, but he doubted she could even see that.

‘‘Thanks. They don’t do a lot of good anymore,’’ she admitted, still sounding upset.

‘‘But they help some?’’

‘‘Nothing helps all that much anymore, Scott,’’ she said, pocketing them. ‘‘Be well, Lieutenant.’’ She turned on her heel and quickly left the room. He wondered how he could ever convince her that she hadn’t caused his injuries. And he also wondered why her sudden absence made his heart ache inside his chest.

Chapter Twenty-six

By the next nightfall, Marco and Thea had been sealed to one another, married in front of only Jared, Kelsey, and Sabrina in a hushed, private ceremony. Thea proclaimed her willingness to bear Marco’s Madjin seal as he professed his eagerness to serve as her husband, mate, and her Madjin. At the moment of Thea’s sealing, when his brand was placed on her left wrist, he felt the jolting spasm of pain in his own wrist, as if he were the one who’d been burned.

Even now, he continued to feel the aching pain of it, the skin prickling as if it had been set on fire. The sensations were identical to what he’d felt on the day he’d taken his vows and been branded for life as personal protector to the king. He saw no regrets in his soulmate’s eyes, not at the moment of sparking pain, and not now that they’d arrived at the stone guesthouse. A secluded, romantic location, it would serve as their wedding chamber.

All that remained was the joining of their souls for eternity. Marco circled Thea, literally tasting the yearning and heat between them. His uniform felt unbearably tight, the pants straining with his hardened erection. It jutted outward, creating an obvious bulge that he didn’t work to hide as he had the other times with her. There were no more secrets between them anymore, not even between their bodies. Gritting his teeth together, he battled the onslaught of sexual urges that pulsed through his system. Since Sabrina’s revelations about his dual nature—about his true, natural self—it was as if his body had begun the transformation process she’d predicted. He had become more primal in his unashamed lust for his near-mate. He’d become more forceful in his intent to take her. They’d spent far too long tamping down their frantic hunger.

‘‘Let your hair fall loose,’’ he commanded, clamping his hands at his sides. Nothing turned him on like Thea’s beautiful cascade of golden curls. Well, almost nothing . . . there was her natural self. And her curving Refarian body.

She licked her lips, standing before the fire. Her bare shoulders gleamed in the golden light. With slow, determined gestures, he unbuttoned his uniform jacket, allowing it to fall open loosely about his waist. Her gaze skittered downward to his abdomen, then lower still to his groin. Her pale eyes widened slightly at his protruding arousal, then her gaze lifted upward, locking with his.

‘‘I said to loosen your hair,’’ he half growled, and she nodded compliantly, swallowing.

With a single flick of her wrist, the thick golden mane tumbled across her shoulders, spilling down her back.

She started toward him and he shook his head, extending his palm. ‘‘Not yet.’’

‘‘Marco, this is—’’

‘‘I have a plan, wife,’’ he said with a dangerous smile. He
felt
as wolfish as he had to appear—all Changeling and filled with unsatisfied craving. After almost thirty years of holding back his body—for all intents and purposes having saved himself—well, he had determined ideas about how his mating night would go. And most especially for the love of his life, standing before him like one of the goddesses from
Saravaitska
.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he dipped his fingers beneath his waistband, easing his undershirt loose. That white T-shirt pulled and stretched across his lean abdomen and strong back. He made a determined show of his body for his mate, reaching with his arms in a way that would cause his triceps and biceps to ripple and flex. She gasped slightly, her gaze raking over his body.

‘‘Now,’’ he said slowly, ‘‘unfasten the shoulder straps of your dress and allow it to slide to the floor.’’

She clutched at her throat, trembling visibly, so he added, ‘‘Do it, Thea. I’m begging you.’’

She nodded, reaching unsteady fingers to the left strap of her gown. He ached to touch her, to do the job and skim his fingers across her creamy-smooth skin. But he would spend his life stroking her and holding her: Tonight he had a very specific seduction plan in mind, and part of it revolved around being her prince. Commanding her—she who had so often been in the role of commanding others. He knew she craved his control in the bedroom, he’d sensed it mounting in her every time they came so close together.

Taking hold of his own undershirt, he drew it over his head until he stood before her in nothing more than his uniform pants and boots. ‘‘I can’t get this hook unfastened,’’ she explained in a husky voice, working at it with her hand. He nearly despaired that his entire strategy would go awry, when she cried, ‘‘I have it!’’ and the pearly-blue gown slipped to the floor.