"It will take about fourteen hours by car," Gideon said. "That's a couple of days total, since we're talking about night travel only. If you left right now, you could put in about a hundred miles before the sun starts to rise. Or I could have one of our corporate planes fueled up and ready to go at sundown. A couple hours of flight time and you're there."
Lucan stared hard at him, then gave a nod. "The quicker, the better. I'm gonna need you back on patrol tomorrow night."
"Consider it done," Hunter replied.
Chapter Four
Chase sat in the dark alone, hunkered down on his haunches in a shadow-filled corner of the compound's small chapel.
He didn't know why his boots had carried him in here, to the quiet, candlelit sanctuary instead of his personal quarters farther down the corridor. He'd never been one to seek counsel or forgiveness from a higher power, and God knew he was likely too far gone for prayer anyway. He sure as hell wasn't holding out any hope of absolution. Not from above, and not from Lucan or his other brethren of the Order either. Not even from himself. Instead he nursed his fury. He welcomed the agony of his wounds, the fiery kiss of deep pain that made him feel alive. Just about the only thing that gave him any feeling at all. And, like a junkie, he pursued that feeling with reckless, desperate abandon. Better than the alternative.
Pain was the dark, wicked high that kept him from craving another, more dangerous mistress.
Without pain, all he would have was hunger.
He knew where that would end, of course.
His intellect wasn't as lost as his body or his soul; reason told him that one day this ugly itch of his would kill him. There were some nights - more and more, lately - that he simply no longer cared.
"Sterling, are you in here?"
The feminine voice made his head jerk up, commanding his full attention just as it had in the corridor outside the elevator a few minutes ago. He cocked his head and listened for her movements, even as the addict in him craved the isolation of the shadows that concealed him from her sight.
He drew upon those shadows, reaching deep into the well of his personal Breed talent to gather the gloom around him. It was a struggle to summon his gift; harder still to hold it in place. He let go not even a moment later, hissing a rough curse as even the shadows abandoned him.
"Sterling?" Elise called softly into chapel.
Her footsteps were careful as she entered, as though she didn't feel entirely safe with him. Smart woman. But still, she didn't pause to back away and leave as he would have liked.
"I've just been to your quarters, so I know you didn't go there." She exhaled, her sigh sounding confused and not a little sad. "You can hide from my sight, but I feel your presence in here. Why won't you answer?"
"Because I have nothing to say to you."
Harsh words. And wholly undeserved, particularly by the female who was Tegan's Breedmate of the past year, and, long before that, the mourning widow of Chase's own brother. Quentin Chase had been blessed immeasurably when Elise chose him for her mate - and he'd had no idea that his younger brother had harbored a secret, shameful lust for the happiness Quent and Elise had known.
At least he no longer had to contend with that unwanted desire.
He'd weaned himself of his fixation. There was a tarnished nobility in him that wanted to believe he'd been able to let his want of Elise go because she had given her heart to another of his brothers - a brother-in-arms who would kill for her, die for her, just as she would for him. Tegan and Elise's love was unbreakable, and although Chase had never lowered himself to test it, the simpler truth was, his thirst for pain had since replaced Elise as the primary object of his obsession.
Yet he still found himself holding his breath as she drifted farther into the chapel and found him hunched in its back corner, his spine wedged into the angle of the stone walls. Silent, she walked the short distance between the two columns of wooden pews. At the one closest to where he crouched on the floor, she seated herself on the edge and merely stared at him. He didn't have to look over at her to know that her pretty face would be etched with disappointment. Probably pity as well.
"Maybe you didn't understand me," he said, little better than a snarl. "I don't want to talk to you, Elise. You should leave now."
"Why?" she asked, staying right where she sat. "So you can sulk in private? Quentin would be appalled to see you like this. He would be ashamed."
Chase grunted. "My brother is dead."
"Yes, Sterling. Killed in the line of duty for the Enforcement Agency. He died nobly, doing his best to make this world a safer place. Can you honestly say that's what you're doing?"
"I am not Quent."
"No," she said. "You're not. He was an extraordinary man, a courageous man. You could have been even better than him, Sterling. You could have been so much more than what I see before me right now. You know, I've heard how you are on missions lately. I've seen you come in like this too many times, torn up and volatile. So full of rage."
Chase stood up and stalked away from her a few paces, more than ready to be finished with the conversation. "What I do is my own business. It's none of your concern, nor am I."
"I see," she replied. She rose from the pew to approach him. She scowled, slender arms crossed over the front of her. "You'd rather everyone who cares about you simply left you to bleed alone, is that it? You want me and everyone else to just let you sit in a dark corner somewhere and feel sorry for yourself."
He scoffed and swung a hard glare on her. "Do I look like I'm feeling sorry for myself?"