His eyes look a different shade, a brighter blue, and I want to ask him what he’s thinking—about his words the night before. His jaw clenches and I think maybe he’ll say it—speak the truth--but he licks his lip and then licks mine.
I squirm beneath the weight of his body, loving the feel, loving this brief moment in the wake of war.
“Dylan,” I say, successfully pulling away from him. “Do you really think we can beat her?”
“Yes. And we’ll get them back.”
My stomach knots, snuffing out the flicker of hope. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
His hand clenches around my wrist. “I never do, Morgan.”
I brush my thumb over his lip and again the heat and intensity boils between us, the kind that fuels my powe
r and makes me stronger. I’m realizing that I’ll need all the strength I can get when the doorbell echoes up the marble floors and wooden stairway.
Dylan frowns. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No.”
He groans and rolls over, taking the heat with him. “Then we probably need to go see who it is.”
Chapter 8
Dylan
Professor Christensen stands in the foyer, looking every bit the part of University faculty. His suede jacket is only missing the patches on the elbows, and a pipe would make an excellent prop. His gray hair makes him appear distinguished as well as trustworthy.
I’m never exactly sure if he is either one.
“Dylan,” he says as I walk down the stairs. I straighten the wrists of my shirt. “It’s good to see you. I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“Good to see you, too. If you’re looking for good news, sadly we don’t have much.” I do tell him about Sam’s camera and my attempt to recover the photos. “I haven’t been able to access them yet but hopefully later today.”
Christensen lowers his head and asks in a soft voice, “How is she handling all of this?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Twelve hours ago she was on the brink of a breakdown. Paranoia, rage, regret. She feels guilty and lost. She’s overwhelmed by the loss of the other guardians. But we’re working through it. I think we made some progress last night.”
“She needs to be strong.”
“I know. She does, too. She’ll be ready.”
We both look up when we hear footsteps on the stairs. Morgan slowly walks down, dressed for the day in jeans and a fuzzy blue sweater. Her hair is twisted in a knot behind her head. She’s wearing boots, ones I know have a sheath next to her ankle for a small blade Damien gave her. Her cheeks carry a reddish blush, and pride swells in my chest knowing I helped put it there.
She’s the opposite of the Goddess of War, yet just as lethal. I’m learning that. Heat makes her grow. It makes her strong, and I’ll do my part to stoke the flames, but we’ve got to get the others back.
“Professor,” she says, reaching the final step. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I got your message about your, uh, guest downstairs. Thought maybe I’d take a crack at her.”
“You can try,” she says, glancing at me.
“I’m going to get to work on the camera.” I turn and head for the stairs. “You two have fun.”
Morgan rolls her eyes. “Yeah, like talking to a psychotic bitch is going to be fun.”
Christensen holds out his arm, offering to escort Morgan to the dungeons. It’s a ridiculous pose, knowing what’s downstairs and what we’re dealing with. Morgan accepts and links her elbow to his. They’ve just rounded the corner when I hear him say, “I suspect this may be more entertaining than you may realize.”
Chapter 9