The glass came back toward Mira's mouth. This time, instead of drinking or turning away, she lunged forward and bit the fleshy base of the rebel's thumb.
The woman shrieked and leapt back, dropping the glass to the floor. It shattered beside the bed, as loud as a crash of cymbals in the quiet of the thick-walled cell.
Mira used the opportunity to fight her restraints again. She bucked and struggled on the bed, managing only to shift the blindfold down from one of her eyes as the open doorway filled with the immense male form of another rebel, responding to the commotion.
This guy was big and menacing, radiating a dangerous heat that made even Mira's breath catch in her throat. She could see only a sliver of him over the top edge of her skewed blindfold. Broad shoulders. Dark, copper-shot brown hair.
As tall and muscular and powerful as any one of the Order's warriors.
A sense of unease - of bone-deep alarm - arrowed through her on that thought.
She levered herself up on the bed for a better look, watching as he went to the female rebel's side and wrapped a protective arm around her.
"Candice, are you all right?" Not Brady as the other men had called her, but a feminine name, spoken with genuine concern, true affection in the deep, low-toned voice. His head was down, most of his face obscured by the wild fall of his shoulder-length hair. "What the hell happened?"
"Nothing, I'm okay. I'm sorry, Bowman. I should've had better control of the situation."
Quiet words, an absolving stroke of the man's large hand over the ebony hair of his comrade. Mira's breath was sawing out of her lungs as she watched the private exchange, all of her senses focused on the deep murmur of the rebel leader's voice.
Something about him - no, in fact, everything about him - began to stir something cold and rusted inside her.
The tendons in her neck pulled tight as she strained to see his face. Angling her head to hear more of that silky, dark voice. His presence drew everything in her to full attention. Her skin went tight and hot and confining. Her pulse pounded like the wings of a caged bird, trapped inside her chest.
Her instincts knew this man. Her heart knew, even if the illogic of it left her mind struggling to catch up with the rest of her.
Curiosity twisted into desperation as the man began to move. Letting his arm fall away from the other woman, he pivoted toward the bed, moving too smoothly, emanating too much raw power for a human.
Because he wasn't human.
All the air left Mira's lungs as he approached the bed where she lay.
"Impossible," she whispered. "No . . . this can't be real."
But it was real - he was real.
Not an angel. Not a ghost, either, but flesh and blood. Alive.
The impossible answer to so many of her hopes and prayers.
"Kellan," she whispered.
Her shock was so profound in that moment, they could have uncuffed her and she would've had no strength to lift her head, let alone prove any kind of threat. And even as she strove to make sense of what she was seeing, a part of her heart was going cold with an awful realization.
If it was he, what was Kellan doing here after all the time he'd been missing? How could he possibly know these people? What did any of them mean to him?
"It is you?" she asked, needing to hear him confirm what her mind still refused to fully believe.
Without answering, without meeting her searching eyes, he glanced down at her. Drew away the blindfold from her face and gently removed it from around her head. All the while, deliberately avoiding her gaze.
"Candice," he murmured. "Bring me the contact lenses."
Of course, Mira thought. Kellan would know about her gift. Kellan knew everything about her. He had been her best friend for most of her life. The only person who truly had known and understood her.
The dark-haired woman handed him a small dish filled with clear liquid, then quietly exited the room. He fished out one of the pair of purple lenses suspended within. Mira could hardly breathe as he took her face in his hands and carefully put the lenses into her eyes.
Once they were in place, her powerful ability muted, he finally lifted his hazel gaze. Oh, God . . . there was no denying that it was he. Under the thick mane of copper-infused hair, his greenish brown eyes were deep set and intense. His cheeks seemed leaner now, razor-cut and strong, his square jaw framed by the trim lines of the goatee that gave his handsome face a darkly mysterious edge. But within that rakish beard, his mouth was grim, unreadable.
He gave her no words of comfort. No explanation for how she'd come to find him here, living among killers, thieves, and traitors. The very enemies he'd been fighting against when he'd been one of the Order.