He uncurled her loose fist, only to place something hard and round, cold and sleek, in her palm. Of course. The roll of packing tape.
“Go back to where you belong now, Jordana.” He drew away from her at last, leaving her standing in a chilled, confused state of arousal and rejection. “Get out,” he said, a warning in the curt command.
Jordana held the tape to her chest and could hardly scramble for the door fast enough.
As she started to rush for the corridor, he added, “That kiss was a mistake, Jordana—for both of us. But don’t expect me to believe you’re any more sorry than I am that it happened.”
6
IF HIS MORNING HAD STARTED OFF IN A BAD WAY, BY AFTERNOON it hadn’t improved a bit. After his encounter with Jordana, as much as Nathan craved an outlet for his tightly leashed aggression, he didn’t want to risk killing any of his teammates if he joined them in the day’s combat exercises in the weapons room.
Instead, he’d spent the bulk of the day in the command center’s technology lab, digging into public records—and some not so public—in his search for intel on Cassian Gray.
All he’d discovered was that the man was proving to be as elusive on paper as he was in person. For all the lack of information, it was as if Cass had been taking careful steps to cover his tracks from the moment he first surfaced in Boston twenty-some years ago.
As if he’d been planning all along for the day he’d need to vanish.
Nathan downloaded what little he had on Cass to a mission intel file, then shut down the computer and left the lab. With sundown just a few hours away, he had time to get in some solo training and prep his weapons for the night’s patrol with his team.
His body was still tense, aggression still riding him, and he knew damn well it had less to do with frustration over a stymied mission than it did a certain platinum-haired, Darkhaven beauty he had no right to desire.
An unschooled virgin besides.
Fuck.
Never mind the fact that she was Carys Chase’s best friend—as of today, her roommate besides—and the darling of Boston’s high society, Breed and human alike. Never mind that she had all but promised herself to another male, out of obligation or naivete, it didn’t matter.
No, Jordana Gates was off limits for many reasons, but most of all this: Because she was pure. She was innocent.
He wouldn’t be the one to take that from her.
He couldn’t take that from anyone, not the way his hungers ran.
He hadn’t been merely trying to scare Jordana when he told her that he was the last man she’d want in her bed. It had been a warning. One he hoped to hell she took to heart, because God help her if she trusted him to be the hero.
On a curse, Nathan stalked into the vacant armory of the Order’s weapons room. He stripped off his black T-shirt and powered himself through a punishing hour of solo exercise with a pair of long daggers. The exertion woke up his muscles and bones, reminded his body of what it was trained to do.
More important, it woke up his Hunter’s mind, put his thoughts in ruthless focus on executing the patrol ahead of him in the city tonight.
Elsewhere, in the main arena of the weapons facility, he could hear Rafe, Eli, and Jax still running one another through the paces of mock combat. A fourth voice—Aric must have joined them at some point—whooped as blades clanked and sawed together, steel meeting steel.
Nathan finished his solo maneuvers and hit the shower. He hoped to be in and gone before the other warriors wrapped up their work in the adjacent room, but no sooner had he stepped under the hot spray than footsteps falling heavy on tile and lighthearted insults sounded in the locker area outside.
Elijah’s low drawl echoed over the rest of the men. “Damn, someone tell me why I thought that fifth round of hand-to-hand and blade work was a good idea.” A moment later, the brown-haired vampire swaggered na**d into the showers, slanting Nathan a casual nod of greeting.
Eli took his place across from Nathan and turned on the spray, groaning as the hot water coursed over him. Blood ran in thin, diluted rivulets down Eli’s dermaglyph-covered arms and legs from wounds he’d sustained in the practice, but already the lacerations were beginning to heal.
Minor injuries were of no consequence to their kind. Cuts and contusions vanished in minutes, sometimes less time than that.
“Don’t be such a sore loser,” Aric Chase taunted. Grinning, he strode in and took a spot two down from Elijah. Rafe and Jax followed him inside, briefly acknowledging Nathan before going to separate corners of the showers. “What’s the matter, Eli,” Aric pressed, “don’t want to admit you got trounced by a trainee?”
“Trainee,” he said, smirking as he glanced at the younger warrior and sluiced water off his face. “Daywalking, smartass punk, more like it. You’re good with a weapon, I’ll give you that. But don’t think I didn’t notice you waited to take me on until after I’d already gone four rounds with two warriors who actually know how to fight.”
Aric chuckled as he soaped up and shot a look at Rafe across the room. “You know, for a Texan, he’s sure got a fragile ego. Must be that weaker, late-generation Breed blood in him.”
“The hell you say.” Eli snorted, his drawl thicker now. “Ain’t nothin’ fragile about me. Next time you ask me to spar, I’m gonna drop you on your daywalker ass before I kick it from here to the Alamo.”
Aric laughed and rinsed off the suds. “Tell you what. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll give you a handicap next time.”