It was the eye of a snake.
Chapter Sixteen
Striker had expected hysteria. Fainting maybe. He’d had Doc prepare a pressure injector with a sedative in case they needed it—now that Friday had assured them it wouldn’t affect the poison. What he hadn’t been prepared for was, well, nothing. Friday appeared frozen as she stared at him, her face expressionless. There was nothing there at all. She’d completely checked out.
He shot a worried glance at their medic. “Doc?”
The man ran a hand through his sandy hair. “I don’t know. This is a new one. Never seen anybody react like this before.”
“Is she a cyborg?” Mace reached for his coffee. “The Territories fill their people with all sorts of cyber shit. Maybe she’s rebooting.”
“Not helping,” Striker snapped.
What if he’d broken her? What if she couldn’t cope with the secrets he’d shared? No. She was stronger than that. He’d seen her in action. She was sheltered, sure, but braver than most people he knew. He shook her gently. Still no reaction.
Mace stood taking his coffee mug with him. “I’m getting a refill. She’s been like that for fifteen minutes, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to end anytime soon. Might as well get comfy.”
Striker turned to their medic. “Is there anything you can give her to, you know, get her started again?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. An upper?”
“You think I have speed in my med kit?”
“I don’t even think they make speed anymore,” Sandi said. “You guys are about a hundred years out of date when it comes to drugs.”
Striker took Friday’s hand in his and patted it. There was no reaction. She was blinking, but that was about it. “We’ve got to do something. Look at her.”
“Try slapping her,” Sandi said.
He gave her a death glare.
“Bucket of ice water over the head.” Mace sat back down at the table.
Maybe…
“That could shock her into cardiac arrest,” Doc said, killing that idea.
“Kiss her.” It was a grumbled order from Gray Hanson. Their lethal teammate rarely spoke but never missed a thing, which made everyone listen to anything he had to say.
“Kiss her?” A shock went through him at the thought. Find out how she tasted? Know for sure, instead of imagining, and bring her back to him at the same time? “I can do that.”
He cupped her cheeks in his hands. She was so damn small compared to him. Fragile. Easily broken. He needed to remember that. Slowly, softly, he lowered his lips to hers. It was like touching lightning.
Her lips were satin soft and gave easily under his touch. But she didn’t react. Cold fear slid through him, and he fought it back, redoubling his efforts to rouse her. Angling his head, he gently teased her lips with his, staring into her vacant blue eyes, willing her to come back to him. His tongue nipped out to stroke along her lower lip, tasting, teasing. He thought he felt a faint sigh brush against his mouth. His heart raced as he pressed his lips more firmly against hers.
And then her eyelids fluttered closed.
A surge of hope welled up inside him, and he teased the seam of her lips with his tongue. A gasp of breath was his reply. A heartbeat later, her lips moved against his. Striker wrapped his arm around her, pulling her tight against him as he threaded his fingers through her hair. When her tongue snuck out to touch his, he poured his relief into their kiss.
She tasted just as he imagined she would. Of sultry nights spent on the bayou. Of teasing words whispered into the ear of a lover. She tasted of everything he’d thought he’d lost.
She tasted of home.
Slowly, as if coming out of a daze, she pressed her hands to his chest and pushed. Reluctantly, he ended their kiss.
“Why are you kissing me?” She blinked several times before glancing away from him. “And why are you doing it while people watch? We talked about this. No audience. Remember?” Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink.