Page 32 of Silent Lucidity

The masterkey’s screen flashed green, and the door slid open, its rumbling disturbing the nearby dust to create a cloud in the air. Tenthil waved the dust away as the lights inside the room—yellowed and dim but functional nonetheless—flickered on.

After returning the masterkey to his belt pouch, Tenthil took hold of Abella’s hand and led her across the threshold.

The room they entered could only have been considered clean in comparison to the rest of the building; there were no vermin droppings on the floor, at least, and the dust was minimal, but the wear of time had dulled everything.

A large, banged-up desk had been pushed against the far wall, its narrower sides wedged between the tall, dilapidated shelving units that ran along the same wall in both directions. The computer terminal, a projection screen built into the top of the desk, was dark and cracked. A sagging couch rested against the left wall, its fabric tattered, cushions flat, and frame buckling in the center. A pallet fashioned of numerous blankets and a couple cushions from the couch lay in the right corner. The sliding door toward the back, which led into a bathroom of questionable functionality, was stuck two-thirds open at a slanting angle.

Tenthil glanced down at the dark stain at the center of the floor.

He’d removed the ilthurii’s body after his contract’s completion but hadn’t bothered cleaning the blood; the Eternal Guard rarely ventured into the Bowels and weren’t likely to take any interest in the murder of a known criminal, even had they found this evidence.

Twisting around, he pressed the interior button, and the entrance door rumbled shut. It sealed with a metallic clang that likely echoed through the whole building, alerting anyone and anything inside that this door had just been used.

“Thank God,” Abella said as she released his hand and walked toward the couch.

Tenthil’s hand twitched; he barely resisted the urge to reach for her again.

She collapsed upon the only remaining cushion on the couch and drew her legs up, curling into a ball. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply—her nose wrinkling endearingly as though she’d caught scent of something foul—and released the breath in a heavy, relieved sigh.

Tenthil’s gaze lingered on her, roving over the battle suit and the way it molded to her legs and ass. He forced his eyes away after a few seconds.

Priorities. Food, water, rest. Then plan.

He slipped the backpack off his shoulders, set it on the desk, and opened it to rummage through its contents. Fortunately, he’d thought to grab a few of the easily transportable, ready-to-eat meals that had been stored in the safehouse equipment room. He tore one open and sorted through its individually packaged contents as he walked toward Abella.

“Eat,” he said, the word like molten metal rising from his ragged throat.

She didn’t respond, didn’t move.

“Abella?” Her name seemed to be the one thing he could say without pain, and he didn’t think he would ever tire of hearing it.

He stopped in front of the couch and stared down at Abella, studying her relaxed features and the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He brushed the back of one of his claws over her cheek, caught a strand of her dark hair, and tucked it behind her ear. He tilted his head and traced the top of her rounded ear with the same claw.

Arousal stirred in his belly; it had never truly faded since the moment he’d first seen her, despite the numerous distractions of the last day. Something about Abella had triggered something powerful within Tenthil. He didn’t understand it, didn’t have a name for it, but he knew it could not be reversed. He craved this little terran—hislittle terran.

Tenthil returned to the desk and leaned against it as he ate. The meal was bland, just like most food the Order supplied its acolytes—it was meant for nutrition, not enjoyment. He folded the empty packages and stuffed them into the outer bag when he was done, placing the garbage on the desk’s surface. After brushing his hands off, he walked to the bedding in the corner and sorted through it, separating pillows and cushions from ratty blankets. He selected the few in the best condition and brought them to the couch.

He dropped the bedding on the floor, keeping only the nicest blanket in his hands, and leaned forward to cover Abella, but paused before doing so. The blanket’s fabric bore many smells, most of them subtle but unpleasant. Instinct drove him to raise the blanket and rub it over his cheek and at the corner of his mouth, where venom seeped from his fangs, adding his scent to the mix, marking it—markingher—as his. He draped it over her carefully before turning to arrange a makeshift pallet for himself on the floor in front of her.

He couldn’t help but feel foolish for succumbing to the instinct as he lay down on his side and rested his head on his arm.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the sound of her breathing, on her scent, letting the latter overpower the other smells in the air until it was the all he perceived. His weariness made itself known, pressing in at the edges of his consciousness. He made no effort to resist; he drifted to sleep within moments.

His dreams were shadowy, indistinct, and instilled with an ominous energy, but they dissipated, leaving only a feeling of unease in their wake, when nearby movement woke him. He slitted his eyes open and watched as Abella carefully stepped over him. Her bare feet were silent against the floor, and even her smallest motions conveyed the controlled grace of a skilled dancer. It wasn’t until she was a few paces away that he noticed her boots dangling from her left hand.

His internal clock told him it hadn’t been more than an hour since he’d fallen asleep. Had she woken so soon by chance, or had she fooled him? He smiled; either way, she was a spirited female, and that only strengthened his desire for her.

Abella stopped at the desk, gently set her boots atop it, and glanced back at him; he kept his body still and his eyes slitted, hoping the poor lighting would mask his wakefulness. After a few seconds, she turned her head forward and opened the backpack.

She withdrew the extra blaster—the one he’d taken from her was still tucked away in Tenthil’s belt—and slipped it into the holster on her hip. She opened the bag wider and peered inside. Her tongue slipped out and wet her pink lips; despite everything, it only made him yearn to taste her again.

After closing the bag, she glanced toward him again, slowly looped the straps over her shoulders, and picked up her footwear. She crept toward the door, only pausing to pull on her boots when she stood immediately in front of it.

Tenthil guessed this wasn’t the first time she’d attempted an escape.

She shifted her attention to the control button beside the door and lifted her left hand. It was there she hesitated; she knew the door was loud, knew it would wake him, and was likely building her nerve for the inevitable chase. Her other hand fell to grasp the blaster.

He couldn’t allow this to go any further. Rolling onto his front, he flattened his hands on the floor and pushed himself up, silently getting his feet beneath him. He stalked toward her. Even now, he couldn’t help admiring her lithe figure, her dark hair, her smooth skin.

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