Till Abandon (8 page)

That was the only reason she hadn't gutted Aimee for that suicidal stunt. The
nerve
. Now she had to let Blake know Czion might be the one who had killed his best friend. A task requiring a stiff drink.

The wolf surged close to Blake's skin. Voltaire felt its restless worry and tried to ease it.

I'm fine.
She grabbed his hand and brought it to her lips. “I need my cell phone—it's upstairs."

The tension around Blake's mouth eased a little. The wolf quieted. “Do you want me to get it?"

"Yes.” She nodded. “Thank you."

His gaze lingered on her face, then he brushed her lips with his. Her eyelids fluttered as she returned his kiss. After a moment, he broke the kiss and sauntered away. Voltaire kept her attention on his gorgeous, retreating ass until he disappeared from view, then she closed her eyes and called up the mind link only elite PSC agents had. It was their special in-house communication, accessible only by the best of the best, and known only to a select few insiders.

Czion wasn't too hard to find. He was out hunting, alone. Behind her closed eyelids, Voltaire saw him in jaguar form, sleek and powerfully built, black as night—a rare colour in jaguars—running through the woods. She waited until Czion's jaguar was ready to pounce on a deer and seized control of the animal's mind, freezing its body in mid-flight.

Trapped inside the jaguar's body, Czion struggled fiercely, putting up a brave fight, trying to sniff out the danger around him. But while Czion remained a powerful being in his own right, he was no match for the Death Bringer. She knew the instant he sensed her presence—he ceased all fight.

What are you doing, V?
Inside the jaguar, his voice was a rumble.

I could ask the same of you. You've been fucking with what's mine, and that's unacceptable.
She searched out the jaguar's heart and tightened a fist around it, mentally squeezing.

Czion panted around the pain.
What the hell are you talking about?
The jaguar growled and snapped its jaws at the empty air—it could move no other part of its body.

You killed Marcus van Treble. I want to know why. Didn't you think I'd find you?

A red haze covered the jaguar's vision. Rage and confusion. Genuine.
What are you talking about? I didn't kill van Treble. I haven't killed—except to eat—in a long time. I promised—
He cleared his throat, from pain, or discomfort she couldn't say.
I promised Remi I wouldn't, and I haven't.

She frowned.
You really have a hard-on for her, don't you?
Mentally, she shook her head. Those two were a mess.
Marcus van Treble was killed with the
mind death
, and only a very few of us know how to administer it. I felt the presence of a PSC
agent around his dead body and now I see you've tampered with the mind of Blake's ex. What should I think, Czion?"

Come on, V.
His pride sounded hurt.
For one, you should know I have more sense than to fuck around where you lay. And second, I'm not amateur enough to leave evidence of my handiwork lying around where you can find it.

She tightened her fist, adding pressure to the heart she held in her mind's grasp.
Does this mean your shit is well hidden?

Czion coughed.
I'm saying that right now I have bigger things on my mind than war with the wolves.

Remi?

Voltaire felt his grimace.
Among other things.

If Czion was innocent—and she was beginning to think he was—then the killer appeared to be better at this than she'd first thought. His abilities weren't limited. They still had no clue who he was.

Now more than ever, I'm positive the killer is from PSC
.
And he's from our inner circle, to be able to mimic your psychic trail so well. He knows us intimately, Czion, and you might well be next

Czion grunted.
I'll be waiting. I'm spoiling for a fight. Would've taken you, but you know I don't hit girls.

As if you could.
She released her hold on him and watched the big cat stretch its powerful muscles.

A touch, whisper-soft, feathered over her lips and chin.

Blake.

Watch your back, Czion. And stay out of my way.
She severed the mental connection and took a deep breath before opening her eyes.

Blake's green gaze bored into her, concern heavily written on his tanned face.

"What's wrong?” He cupped her chin. “Are you okay?"

"I'm fine.” Voltaire moistened her lips and granted him a small smile—a precursor to the bad news to come. “I'm perfect."

His features tightened. “I couldn't find your phone anywhere upstairs."

She waved a hand. “That's okay—I had it the whole time.” Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she pulled out the pre-paid cell phone. Blake's eyes darkened, the wolf went eerily quiet, and she realised her error.

He stepped away from her, hands falling to his sides. “You're lying to me. Why?” Confusion and hurt clouded his features.

Fucking wolves and their overly-dramatic senses. She'd forgotten about that and now her mate knew she was lying to him. Sheesh.

"I'm sorry. I was talking to Czion."

Blake narrowed his eyes. The air around him stilled. “Why were you talking to Czion?
How
were you?"

God.
He really had no idea what being in the PSC entailed. She'd have to be the one to school him. “PSC elite agents have a psychic link where we can talk to each other, find each other's location. Anywhere, any time. Call it our own personal GPS. “

Fists clenched, jaw ticking, Blake paced in front of her. “Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"I didn't think about it because I don't really use it—haven't in a long time. The link was created so we can stay in touch on our missions."

She brushed his mind with hers. Black shadows crept in, hovering on the horizon of his mind. Doubt, questioning his fragile faith in her. Voltaire bit her lip.

"But I don't get why you had to talk to Czion, what you didn't think you could tell me.” He stopped pacing and faced her head-on. “What's the secret you can tell Czion but not your mate?"

Voltaire got off the bar-stool and approached Blake with hesitant steps. She needed to reassure her mate.

"I saw—felt—something and it led me to Czion.” Taking his hand in hers, Voltaire caressed his knuckles. “It wasn't my intention to hide anything from you, I just—I don't want to hurt you more than I already have."

He wrenched his hand away and shook his head. “But you did,” he accused. “You hurt me—and us—by hiding and covering like you're doing now. Just tell me, Voltaire.” He growled the last four words through his clenched jaw.

She stared at him, teeth worrying her bottom lip. It wasn't
should she tell him
, because she would. The question was what bad news to tell first. Finally, she bit the bullet and blurted, “Aimee's brain has been tampered with."

His features morphed into granite. “What the fuck are you talking about?” The words were almost garbled, evidence of the wolf being close to the surface, intent on taking over. She reached a hand out to soothe him—them—but Blake flinched away from her touch.

Wow. That hurt in parts of her heart she hadn't known existed.

She gritted her teeth and spoke. “When I had her pinned on the counter, I touched Aimee's mind. The evidence of interference was right there—the intruder didn't make any attempts to hide it.” Voltaire looked away from the censure in Blake's eyes. “I followed the familiar trail and it led me to visions of someone poking and prodding Aimee into confronting you and me. Into making a scene—or maybe they hoped I'd kill her.” She shrugged. “I don't know."

"Who did you see?"

Her gaze snapped to his as he forced the words out. Anger and rage coloured his features, his eyes were narrowed and his jaw flexed.

"Um, he didn't—"

"Who, Voltaire?"

Voltaire squeezed her eyes shut at the shouted words, then opened them with a sigh. “The trail was made to look like Czion's.” Blake's jaw hung open and she rushed to clarify. “But it wasn't his, only a really good replica made by someone we both know intimately."

"Do you really believe that?” Blake's voice was pitched dangerously low. Voltaire worried for only a second before she nodded.

"Yes. Czion didn't kill Marcus."

A look of betrayal—so harsh and raw it took her breath away—crossed his face. Tears stung her eyes as he stared at her, unblinking. Voltaire didn't have to touch his mind to know what her mate felt. It was etched on his face for her to see. The hurt, betrayal, and anger. Violence simmered in the air around him, thick enough to slice through.

She felt his retreat and shook her head. “No. Don't do it.” Throwing her hands out, she pushed into his brain, ready to do something, anything to keep him from leaving. Blake let out an awesome growl, the sound almost shaking the building and bringing goose bumps to her skin. The hairs on the back of her neck stood in surrender.

"If you try any of that shit on me, I will never forgive you.” His words rumbled deep in his chest as he turned from her and headed out the door.

"Blake, don't walk away. Please. Please.” She grabbed hold of the bar, fingers digging into the wood as her knees gave out and she crumpled to the floor.
"Blake."

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For a few minutes, Voltaire sat on the floor, letting the tears stream down her face, indulging in her misery.

But she'd be damned if she'd wallow any longer. No way would that shifter of hers be allowed to think he had her shaken. Sure, she'd messed up, but he had to give her a chance to fix it.

He had to.

She got to her feet and walked around the bar to pour herself a drink—whisky to settle the nerves she'd always considered to be encased in iron. Damn shifter was turning her into a pile of something soft and needy. Tilting her head back, she poured the amber liquid down her throat and blinked away moisture. She couldn't tell if the sudden leaking of her eyes was from the liquor burn or the fear of losing Blake.

She did know the last time she'd cried had been the day she was taken in by the Council—her sixteenth birthday. Back then, she'd felt alone, helpless against her fate. Unable to make the moves necessary to change the trajectory of her life.

Not the case this time. Her shifter, her mate, would be made to see her regret and contrition for keeping things from him. He'd see she'd never intended to betray him—her main goal was to find his friend's killer, which would keep his people—his pack—safe.

Blake would see she'd rather die than hurt him. Her mate, her other half. Her love.

She loved him. Had been in love with him since those first images of his green eyes in her dreams so long ago. And it was time he knew. Time he understood what loving him meant for her.

And for him.

Blake's wolf took over the instant he left Voltaire's presence. Now the animal ran through the dark woods, blades of grass and twigs lashing his muzzle. The wolf remained on alert, tuned to the sounds, natural and not, around him. Deep inside the animal, Blake's heart was heavy—he couldn't believe his mate thought she could lie to him.

She'd protected the jaguar, believing him innocent. The same jaguar who had tried—on several occasions—to force a takeover of Blake's territory by ambushing members of his pack.

A rustle to the left caught the wolf's ear. A rabbit. The tiny creature froze, focused on his sound, and scented the air. The wolf opened his jaws in what could very well be considered a grin and waited. It wasn't long before the little furry creature dashed out from its hiding place and the wolf pounced, powerful jaws catching the rabbit by the neck, sharp canines tearing flesh.

The wolf sat on its haunches and devoured the rabbit, though it remained on alert for any movement or disturbance. Inside the animal, Blake savoured the taste and thrill of the hunt, and tried not to think about his mate, waiting for him back at the bar.

Would Voltaire be waiting? And had he made the right move, walking away from her? He'd been so hurt that she'd lied to him, sought to keep information from him. But most damning was this bond she had with Czion, his enemy, the man gunning for Blake's territory. Those two had a history and Blake just knew he wouldn't like the details.

He'd never thought Voltaire would lie to him and, now that he'd calmed down, had a little rabbit to munch on, he wondered if he'd been hasty. She'd said someone had messed with Aimee's mind, got her riled enough to confront Blake and Voltaire in the hopes Voltaire would kill her, but what would that accomplish? Was he then supposed to turn on his mate for killing one of his pack?

She'd claimed she'd followed the killer's psychic trail and it wasn't Czion. Why had he doubted her? Voltaire was the one familiar with those things, and if she said no, it should be no—right? So why the hell had he walked away? He'd been blinded by fury as she'd tried to explain why she'd lied to him, sent him away so she could communicate with a man who was essentially his sworn enemy, and he'd reacted accordingly.

The wolf finished with dinner and flicked its tongue out to wipe the blood off his muzzle. A breeze rustled the low-hanging trees nearby and he caught the scent of lilacs before her magic wrapped around him like a soft, down blanket. She stepped into the wolf's line of vision.

Blake stood on all fours, ready to shift back, but Voltaire dropped to her knees before him and wrapped her arms around the wolf's neck.

"Finally I get to see you like this. I've missed you in my dreams,” she murmured to the wolf. She tightened her fingers in his fur and silver tears slid down her cheeks. The wolf whined and licked them off—he didn't like the heavy aura of sadness clinging to his mate.

"I messed up,” she confessed. “You wanted me to be his other half, his mate, but in trying to protect him, I hurt him.” Her bottom lip quivered. “I love him and he might never forgive me."

The salt of her tears melted on his tongue and Blake shifted.

He wrapped his naked arms around her and pulled her to him. “Voltaire."