Psy & Changelings 05 - Hostage to Pleasure

weeks.
    “Don’t worry. We’ll collect.” With those words, he shrugged into the pack and began climbing.
    She couldn’t believe the way he moved. It was so smooth, it appeared effortless. He was ten times faster than she had been, a hundred times more graceful. If she’d had any doubts as to what he was, they would’ve been wiped away by that display. “Changeling,” she said as he jumped back down. “Cat.”
    He raised an eyebrow, his eyes a pitiless blue so true—even in this darkness—that she wondered at its existence. “Meow.”
    Something hidden sparked to life in her mind, and she found herself thinking that the sniper was beautiful. Darkness, she’d always cloaked him in darkness, but he was a golden god. “How did you know I was here?” Her breath came in pants as she managed to get to her feet, one hand braced against the tree trunk. Her palm landed on something sticky. Her own blood, she realized.
    “I’m an F-Psy.” A mocking answer. “You’re going to have to ride on my back. Try not to stab me while you’re at it.” He came to her, turned.
    The instant she put her hands on his shoulders, she froze. She hadn’t had this much close contact with another being for longer than she could remember. Even with Keenan, she’d kept her distance, aware that only Silent coldness would keep him safe. But there was no point of comparison between her weakness where Keenan was concerned and this changeling who seemed to despise her.
    And yet who fascinated her on a level it was madness to even consider.
    This close, she could see that his hair was a blond so pure it was white gold, but that was the lone hint of softness in him. The body under her hands was hard, sleek with muscle. She had the sudden, visceral realization that he could snap her in two without thinking about it. Her stomach clenched in dangerous physical reaction, a reaction she should’ve been able to suppress.
    “You waiting for an engraved invitation?” An almost lazy question, but she could feel his intelligence probing at her.
    “No.” Putting her erratic thoughts down to blood loss, she shifted her weight . . . and almost collapsed. “I can’t jump up.”
    His hands slid around and to the backs of her thighs. “Now.” As he lifted, she tried to push upward with her uninjured leg. Her contribution proved unnecessary—he was so strong, he had her legs wrapped around him with one pull.
    “Hold on.” That was his only warning before he started to run.
    Her arms tightened instinctively. She was vividly conscious that he was moving at a pace equivalent to that of a high-speed vehicle. If they crashed into one of the huge trees looming up ahead, their necks would snap. It would’ve made sense to close her eyes but she couldn’t. She needed to see where they were going, even if there was—
    A sharp stab at her mind, something . . . someone, trying to claw in.
    Amara.
    She reacted almost automatically, relying on years of experience to throw up roadblocks created with the impenetrable chill of Silence. There was no way she could hide the fact of her “resurrection” from Amara, but the other woman couldn’t be allowed to slip into her mind, could never be allowed to learn that Keenan was still alive.
    “You asleep?” The sniper whipped around to look at her, barely avoiding a tree trunk.
    Every muscle in her body locked, and she realized her trainers had lied. It wasn’t possible to suppress any and all physical responses if you had enough strength of will. Ashaya had turned her blood glacial over the years, and still, her body reacted to the threat of pain. “Don’t you think you should watch where you’re going?”
    Laughter that she felt more than heard. It vibrated through the disturbing intimacy of their aligned bodies, threatening her conditioning on a level that could prove deadly. And yet she didn’t ask to be put down—it would betray too much, put her entire plan in jeopardy. She gave in to another compulsion instead, one born of the part of her mind that had awakened at fourteen and never returned to sleep. “What’s your name?”
    He said something that was snatched away by the wind. Deciding to save her questions for another time, but aware he could hear her with her lips so close to his ear, she said, “I think my leg’s bleeding again.”
    He slowed down enough to glance at her. “I can smell it. How bad?”
    She heard something in that tone . . . a subtle edge that resonated with the