Operation Hydra (13 page)

His long middle finger slipped between her folds and found a place so exquisitely sensitive Krysta cried out. Her eyes flew open and met his gleaming black gaze. Something was wrong. His eyes were wrong! They looked as they had always looked, and yet she knew they were wrong.

“Trey.”
She forced his name past the dryness in her throat, embarrassed by the way it cracked. “I can’t do this.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and his head rolled back, thudding against the wall. She stepped back, but his hand closed around her skirt, preventing her escape. “I’ll slow down. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Tugging her skirt out of his light grasp, she moved farther away. He looked at her, his black gaze unsettling her all the more. “I can’t.”

“Why?” His voice rasped harsh with frustration. “Are you going to try and convince me you don’t want me?”

“No. I want you very much. But sometimes wanting isn’t enough.”

He muttered several words she couldn’t understand. “I wish to the gods of the day moon I was this brigand you call me.”

He stomped toward the bathroom and she braced for the door slam. He didn’t disappoint. She hadn’t called him a
brigand,
she’d said his disguise made him look like a brigand. But why had his eyes seemed hollow and cold? She needed to see warmth and passion, but all she’d seen was the same unchanging black gleam.

Covering her face with her hands, she willed the tension within her to ease. That hadn’t ended well at all. She hadn’t meant to make him angry — again. But something about him seemed wrong and she couldn’t just keep her eyes closed and pretend. Maybe she could make him understand. Maybe if she explained what she was feeling, he’d confess what he was hiding.

Quickly fastening the front of her gown, she tapped on the bathroom door. No response. She knocked a bit louder.
Silence.
Concerned now, she tried the handle. It rotated smoothly in her hand and she slipped into the bathroom.

Trey stood in the shower stall, his arms braced against the
wall,
head bowed as water saturated his soapy hair and rolled in rivulets down his muscular body. The bottom half of the stall was frosted, but the sculpted perfection of his back, shoulders and arms would keep her dreaming for months.

“Get naked and get in here or get the hell out,” he groused without turning around.

Not a good start. “I want to explain why I got upset. I didn’t mean to make you angry, but —”

“I thought I made your options clear.” His fingers flexed against the tiles. He shifted his weight restlessly. “You want to talk, fine. But you do it naked and in here with me.”

He didn’t think she’d do it.
Silly man.
Half of her hesitation had been caused by the change in his appearance. His hair was again its multi-colored glory. She wasn’t afraid of Trey dar Aune. She loosened the laces and stepped out of the gown, hanging it on the large hook beside the towel rack. Pulling open the door, she stumbled awkwardly into the shower; too busy gawking to notice she needed to step over the threshold.

His broad, corded back narrowed dramatically to lean, solid hips. The bunch and flex of his tight buttocks fascinated her as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Long, thickly muscled legs supported the whole perfect body and Krysta wanted to start with his toes and work her way up — slowly.

“Lady, I’ve tried to be honorable. I’ve tried to be kind. You’re about to meet the brigand face to face.”

Krysta’s heart pounded with resounding applause. He flipped his hair out of his face, sending water everywhere. Stumbling back, she shivered as her back touched the slick shower stall.

He turned slowly, menacingly. She stood straighter, her toes digging into the softly giving floor. Her eyes met his and she gasped. Like pools of swirling honey, shot through with molten gold, his thick-lashed amber eyes met her gaze and held. On the peak of his sharp cheekbone rested a thin piece of some black substance. She snatched the convex film from his skin and examined it for a second, before flicking it from her fingertip.

“They usually stay on in the shower. This has more water pressure than I’m accustomed to.”

He hadn’t meant to show her. He’d meant to allow her to continue doubting her gift, her very sanity for the sake of… what? What did he gain by keeping this from her?

This was the final insult. Widening her stance, she let the familiar twist of fury take her, welcomed its icy grasp. She tightly clenched her fist and waited until his gaze drifted back to hers.

“You cowardly son of a bitch!” she yelled, and punched him right in his swirling amber eye.

Blinded by the pain ricocheting through his head, Trey staggered back, colliding with the cold, slick wall of the shower. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he shouted.

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a hero,” Krysta snapped in return.

He heard her palm slap the door panel and a sudden rush of cold air told him where she went. His eye burned and his cheekbone throbbed, but he stumbled after her.

“Krysta!”

It was past time they put this pretence behind them. He wrapped a towel around his hips and hurried into the outer room. She stood in front of one massive viewport, staring out at the Earth below. An occasional cloud sped by, obscuring her view, but he doubted she saw any of it.

She’d donned a pink robe bearing the hotel’s logo. Reflected on the surface of the viewport, he could see her face as she mechanically dragged a brush through her damp hair. Anger still burned in her swirling gaze, but the faint trembling of her lips revealed her vulnerability.

“You’re like me.” She didn’t turn around, but her gaze shifted, meeting his. “How can you play Hydran’s games when you’re one of us?”

“It’s because I’m one of you that I’m forced to play Hydran’s games. I came here to —”

“How has he forced you to do anything?” She spun to face him. “You’ve been his willing accomplice. You’ve —”

“You don’t know enough about me to cast judgment. All you know is that I’ve disguised the appearance of my eyes.” He snatched the brush out of her hand. Her temper could ignite like a solar flare.

She clutched the front of the robe and glared at him, her swirling purple gaze searching his face. “Why did you lie to me?”

“If there is even the possibility that Hydran could find out what you know, then it was safer for you to believe the masquerade was real.”

“Safer for whom?”

“Safer for everyone.”
He tightened the towel. He should have grabbed a robe or at least his pants. This was an awkward outfit for an argument. “Hydran might be able to access your memory. You don’t know what’s going on in ward D, and neither do I. How many of the occupants are empathic? Do you think you can hide your excitement from all of them?”

She combed her fingers through her hair,
then
crossed her arms over her chest. “I saw you in my vision. I saw you vanquish the Hydra, triumphant and heroic. Your hair flew all around your face, and at one point, I saw your eyes. I saw your real eyes.”

Her voice sounded hollow, desolate. He tried to touch her face, to let her know she wasn’t alone. She turned away.

“He told us the same genetic
abnormality
that gives us our powers causes our eyes to appear this way. Every person I’ve ever known who has unusual abilities also has these
abnormal
eyes.”

Unable to ignore the pain in her beautiful Ontarian eyes, Trey moved closer. His need to touch her was surpassed only by his need to pummel Hydran. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re not abnormal; you’re Ontarian.”

“Just like you,” she whispered.

She covered her face with her hands and Trey couldn’t stand it any longer. If she punched him again, so be it; he had to touch her, attempt to comfort her. Slowly, stealthily, he slipped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest.

Krysta rested her forehead on his shoulder and tried to keep her body from trembling. She wouldn’t cry! Tears were a futile waste of time. She shifted her hands to his warm chest and set her teeth against the temptation to cuddle closer. She had to stay strong, remain focused on the only thing that mattered — destroying Hydran.

But an insidious wave of weariness swept over her, leaving her achy and longing for things she didn’t understand. How could she trust him when he’d lied so many times? And she needed to trust someone right now, needed to know someone had her back.

He’s the hero,
a little voice inside her nagged,
you have to trust him.

Pushing against his chest, she raised her gaze to his face. “I thought I was losing my mind. I thought I’d subconsciously controlled the vision. Once that happens, the prophecies are useless.”

He stroked her face, tracing the high arch of her cheekbone with his thumb. “I want to understand what that means. And I want to explain how and why I came to Earth, but I’m dripping all over the carpeting.”

He punctuated the reminder with a charming smile and heat curled deep in Krysta’s belly. She couldn’t let him know how off-balanced he made her feel, how vulnerable.

“So give me your towel and I’ll dry your hair,” she said with a shaky little smile.

His brow shot up at her taunt, but he shook his head. “You’re asking for trouble.”

“A common state of affairs.
I’ll tell one of the crewmembers to bring us something to eat.”

She watched him cross the room, enjoying the loose-limbed grace of his stride. How had he managed to defuse her anger so easily?
Because you knew he was lying all along.
Because you’re relieved to have the pretense behind you.
Well, her mistrust was another matter entirely. He may be able to flash his rakish smile and melt her anger, but it would take far more to earn her trust.

* * * * *

Krysta sat at the small round table, bathed in candlelight. Two crewmembers had silently readied the room, but Trey had yet to emerge from the bathroom. The table had been spread with crisp linen and dishes carefully placed, a large covered tray sat in the middle of the table, and a bottle of wine awaited in a cooling-stand. It felt cozy, soothing.

Trey returned, dressed once more in his sleek, austere uniform. The solid white material of his shirt moved with him, following every cord and ripple of his impressive torso, and the perfectly fitted black pants were no less flattering.

He’d touched her, but he hadn’t let her touch him… and she wanted to touch him, to finish what he’d started.

“Are you hungry?” The caress in his amber gaze assured her he intended the double entendre. He joined her at the table. “What did they bring for us?”

“Bread and honey, some sort of roasted fowl, apples, cheese, and a bottle of wine.”
She poured a small amount of the beverage into a cup and took a sip. The crisp, faintly fruity taste rolled across her tongue and warmed her belly. She drank more deeply.

“It’s to your liking?”

“I’ve never had wine before.” She set the cup aside. “I’ve read about many things we were not allowed to experience. Shall we try the bird?”

“Would you prefer a juicy leg or a plump tender breast?”

He made it sound salacious and she couldn’t help but smile. She was tired. Her nerves had been stretched to the breaking point by the mercurial events of the past few days. She just wanted to have a normal, informative conversation.

“Enough with your games, all right?
Can we just talk?”

“Probably not.
You’re not any better at behaving around me than I am around you.”

“Then you’re welcome to finish anything I start.”

“Agreed,” he said much too quickly. “Tell me about your prophecies. How many have you had?”

She folded her hands on the tabletop, almost embarrassed to admit the true scope of her ability. “They started when I was thirteen. I began logging them five years ago.”

He carved several thick slices off the bird’s breast and placed them on her plate. “How have you kept a log without Hydran finding it?”

“I’ll have to show it to you, but at a glance it looks like an ordinary journal. I write how much I hate Hydran, and how frustrating I find life in the Center, on the outer pages, but the outer pages peel back to reveal inner pages. On the inner pages, I log the prophecies. Surveillance reported that I kept a journal and when the orderlies searched for it, all they found was an ordinary looking journal.”

“He allowed you to keep it?”

“Why not?
I make no secret of my feelings for Hydran. Corra actually said it helps me channel some of my hostilities to put them down on paper.”

He paused. “Corra is Hydran’s daughter.”

“Yes.”

“Do each of your prophecies follow the same… format?”

“The Mystic trance isn’t always so obvious, and many have come upon me during the night, but yes, they’re always spoken out loud and always accompanied by a vision.”

“Have you ever spoken a prophecy in any language other than Earthish?” He quickly made a sandwich as he waited for her response.

“Yes. It’s always the same language, but I’ve been unable to identify it. Why do you ask?”

“You spoke Earthish on the recording Hydran showed me, but your voice suddenly had a distinct Ontarian accent. Does anyone at the Center speak Ontarian?”

She shook her head.
“Not that I know of.”

“Did your mother speak any languages other than Earthish?”

His tone was casual, but she sensed a greater importance in the question. Was he trying to trick her into admitting something… she had to stop second-guessing him or they would never get beyond this fragile
truce.

“Where would she have learned Ontarian? That’s what you’re getting at, isn’t it?”

“From her guardians.
Your mother was sent to Earth as an infant in the care of two adult guardians. Do you know what happened to them?”

Again she shook her head, but her mind was inundated with questions. Sent by whom?
Why?
How had her mother ended up in the hands of a lunatic like Hydran? Why had it taken forty-seven years for her mother’s disappearance to be investigated?