Page 95 of Rapture's Edge (Night Prowler 3)
She sighed, but somehow it seemed unrelated to him.
“A nice rack can topple empires, princess. It’s just the way we’re built.”
Her look was one of pained disbelief. She said simply, “Men.”
He held his hand out. She took it. They looked at each other for a moment in silence while the television droned on softly in the background. It hung on the wall opposite his bed, and he used it as white noise to block all the sounds of sick people coughing and crying and calling for the nurses, for more morphine and better food. A hospital seemed to him one of the most depressing places imaginable. He hated it, but prison—he knew as a fact—would be even worse, so he was milking his stay for all it was worth.
“How are you?” Her gaze dropped to his chest, to the bandage visible above the neck of his blue gown which was changed every twelve hours by the lovely Lily.
“Been better,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’d forgotten how much gunshot wounds hurt.”
Her brows rose. “Forgotten? Am I taking that to mean you’ve been shot before?”
He made a dismissive noise and waved his free hand. “In my line of work, it’s par for the course. Your little friends, though—that was a new one. Can’t say I’d like to see them again anytime soon.”
“I’m sorry.” Her mouth twisted. “Had I known it would all turn out like this—”
“No apologies, princess. My life’s been a wild ride, and one I wouldn’t change a minute of. Including knowing you.” He reconsidered a moment. “Although if you want to buy me a new Ferrari, I wouldn’t object.” His voice soured. “Not that I’ll be needing it in prison.”
“Prison?”
At her look of confusion, he said, “Agent Doe. The German. He came to see me.”
Her fingers beneath his tensed. She whispered, “He’s not dead?”
“He is very much undead,” Gregor confirmed.
“And?”
“And you were right. They know about you. About your kind.”
Her black eyes burned. “How much?”
He considered that. “Enough to be problematic.”
“What did he say? What did he want?”
“He wanted me to fill in the holes in their information. He offered me a deal: squeal and stay out of jail.”
She dropped his hand and sat up rigidly in the chair, which he took to mean she assumed he had filled in the holes in their information. He glowered at her. “Seriously, princess—that’s insulting.”
She stood and began to pace, chewing her thumbnail, throwing worried looks at the door. She pulled the fabric curtain that hung from a rod on the ceiling around his bed, blocking the view of the door. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”
“Come here,” he ordered, pointing at the bed. “Pacing women make me nervous.”
Surprisingly, she complied without comment. Once perched on the edge of the bed, she took his offered hand and stared down at it.
He said quietly, “He—his organization—wants to round you up, confine you. The word zoos was mentioned.”
Her head snapped up with a gasp. Her eyes were wide and horrified. If they grew any larger, they would devour her face.
“He said his organization was above the police, and I heard him call someone. He asked for the chairman, identified himself as Thirteen, of Section Thirty. Does that mean anything to you?”
Pale and trembling, she shook her head.
He squeezed her hand. “I should have given you more guns. I have a feeling you’ll be needing them.”
