Psy & Changelings 05 - Hostage to Pleasure

on humans at all, leaving it a strictly Psy scourge. “Council cleanup?”
    “Hard to say. There’s something weird about it—with the Council, one day there’d be ten, the next day zero. Right now, it’s like they take one or two, come back later for another couple.”
    Clay didn’t have a high opinion of junkies—of any race—but if this was another case of a Psy crazy loose on the streets, they needed to know so they could protect those under their care. “Call me if you hear anything concrete, or if there’s any sign of humans or changelings being targeted.” If it was contained to the Psy, the Council would take care of it. Say what you would about them, the Council was efficient at cleaning up its messes—except, of course, when it was one of its sanctioned killers that had escaped.
    After hanging up, he told Tally what Teijan had shared. “Looks like Aleine is safe for now.”
    “I want to see her.” Her lips set in a familiar line as she repeated the demand she’d already made three times this past hour alone. “We might not have saved Jon and Noor without her. I need to say thank you, offer her my help.”
    God, she was stubborn, but he was a protective, possessive cat. “She’s a threat right now.” He growled when she began to argue. “When we’re sure she’s clean, then you can have a tea party with her for all I care. And you are helping her—through Pack.”
    “What about Keenan?”
    “Kid’s probably fast asleep.”
    “Not funny. I meant later.”
    “If Sascha okays a visit, fine. Happy?”
    “No.” She got up, came around the table, and slid into his lap. “You’re such a bully.”
    He felt his lips twitch. “And you’re still a brat.”
     
Ashaya came to consciousness in a single heartbeat. Her telepathic senses flared out at the same instant, an automatic reaction honed from years of living a double life. Her Tp status was weak, but it was enough to tell her she wasn’t alone.
    “You’re awake.” A familiar masculine voice. “I can hear the change in your heartbeat.”
    She turned her head toward him. “You’re lying.”
    A raised eyebrow from the lethally beautiful male who sat in a chair in front of the unlit fireplace, playing a pocketknife over and through his fingers. “Are you sure?”
    No, she wasn’t. Those eyes were piercing in their directness. She could well imagine his senses were acute enough to detect the spike in her heartbeat as she’d woken—a purely physiological reaction she couldn’t control. Now, she focused on bringing it back down to a resting rate. “My leg feels much better.” She tested it, stretching the muscle, but remaining on her stomach. “Mercy is a good medic.”
    Dorian spun the knife on the tip of his finger, a feat of balance and skill that held her absolute attention. One slip and that blade would go through flesh and bone both.
    “Speaking of Mercy,” she said, mesmerized by the incredible grace with which he handled the blade, “where is she?”
    A hard glance out of those pure blue eyes. The knife disappeared so fast, she didn’t even catch a glimpse of where it went. “You’ve been out for a couple of hours. Mercy had things to do.”
    “It’s”—she glanced at the clock on the wall by the fireplace—“one a.m.”
    “That’s when Psy like to attack us.”
    Muscles warming up, she turned to sit up. “I see.”
    “Your eyes are the wrong color.”
    “You saw me once in the dark.”
    “I have the vision of a cat.”
    Instead of responding, she swung her legs off the bed and, after resting a few seconds, tried to stand. Her muscles complained but held. Mercy was indeed good. She wouldn’t be running or winning any endurance contests, but she was no longer dependent on others. Especially not on a leopard who watched over her, but with an edge in his gaze that told her he was barely leashed. “My son,” she said, knowing she chanced giving herself away, but unable to stifle the need to know. “Is he truly alive?”
    He threw her a small cell phone. “Click through to video.”
    She did. And found herself watching a minute-long recording of Keenan curled up in sleep, his breathing steady, his hand pressed to the pillow by his cheek. Her baby boy was safe. A rock lifted off her chest. Still, it took considerable force of will to turn off the recording even after the third repetition, and throw the phone back to Dorian. “Thank you.”
    He caught it with lightning-fast reflexes. “Do you want