I parked in a bus zone, grabbed the backpack, then jumped out of the car and ran across the road.
Two stern-faced security men were standing, arms crossed, at the door. "Riley Jensen?" one asked.
When I nodded, he held some sort of portable unit up. "Speak into this."
"We're wasting fucking time, Misha."
The guard didn't crack a smile, just looked at the monitor intently. When it beeped, he nodded at the other guard and the door opened. I wondered if these two men were part of Misha's vaunted security system. If they were, then he wasn't staying in this castle. I could have taken either of them out right at that moment, and had easy access to the building.
One guard followed me inside, and keyed a lift. When the doors opened, he leaned around the corner and pressed the sixth-floor button, then slid a keycard through the slot and gave me a smile. "This will take you straight to his floor. Mr. Rollins's office is the last one on your left."
I nodded my thanks and stepped inside. Once the doors closed, I took off the pack, reassembled the rifle, then put it back. Better safe than sorry.
The lift slid to a stop and the doors opened. I stepped out. The corridor was long, and rife with shadows. The light from the lift splayed across the gloom, flaring slightly, as if the shadows were a thick fog the light could not penetrate.
Down the far end of the hall stood a steel door. No light crept under the edges of that door. Indeed, there almost seemed to be no seam. And the shadows seemed more intense down there.
Unease slithered through me. I reached back and dragged the rifle from the backpack. Maybe it was nerves, maybe it wasn't, but I had the sudden feeling I wasn't alone in this corridor.
Yet I couldn't see anything. Only shadows and my silhouette.
The lift doors began to close, and as that bright patch of light dwindled, my unease increased. Then the light was gone, and I was left to the darkness and whatever it was hiding. Holding the gun toward the floor but ready, I walked toward Misha's office.
The shadows stirred around me. Wisps of night touched my skin, slivers of silky smoke that made my flesh crawl. If ghosts could caress the living, this was probably what it would feel like. But warmer, deadlier. Whatever hid in the shadows wasn't dead in the sense that ghosts were dead, because there was warmth in its touch. Warmth, and a vague sense of threat.
I had a suspicion that vague sense of threat would sharpen, and become deadly, if I so much as flinched the wrong way right now.
"Put the gun away, Riley."
Misha's voice seemed to come from the walls. I looked around, but couldn't see anything resembling a speaker.
"Not until you tell whatever is in this corridor to back off."
"You can see them?" Surprise was evident in his voice.
"No. But I can feel them."
"Interesting."
"I'm not putting the gun away until you tell them to move away." I stopped at the door and waited.
He chuckled. "Tümu, retreat."
The shadows dispersed, and suddenly the corridor was less oppressive, and much brighter. I held up my end of the deal, and shoved the rifle back in the pack. The steel door slid open.
Misha's office was smaller than I'd expected—rather than being the size of a football field, like most executive offices tended to be these days, it was more like a basketball court. Still big, but at least defendable.
His gaze skimmed my body, lingering a little on the bloody nicks evident on my shirt and the leg of my jeans. When his gaze rose to meet mine again, there was a gleam of respect—or maybe even wariness—in his eyes that I hadn't seen before. "You fought the spirit lizard?"
"Fought him and beat him." It couldn't hurt to keep reminding him I was more than just a wolf. Maybe he'd treat me as something more than a broodmare he needed to possess—though somehow, I doubted it. I walked across the room and stared out of the window. I couldn't see anything suspicious, but then, with the long-range rifles they had out these days, the killer could be half a mile or more away.
Of course, standing here so blatantly might be putting myself in danger—but only if the killer knew it was actually me hiding under the brown hair and green contacts.
I moved to the pillar to the left of the arched window, then crossed my arms and leaned back against it. "Why are you surprised?"
He leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Because spirit lizards are the crème de la crème of the lab creations. They are supreme fighters and extremely strong."
"Then the one I fought came from a dodgy mix, because I'm no trained fighter and I brought him down. What is that thing in the corridor?"
"Things," he corrected, amusement touching his thin lips. "And they're my security system."
"I'm certainly glad it's not those two men down at the front door. They wouldn't have a hope of keeping a determined gnat from entering."
"And that is precisely what you are supposed to think." He looked at me for a moment, his expression still that odd mix of amusement and wariness. "The creatures in the corridor are not lab-created, if that is what you're thinking. They are a species known as Fravardin, which means guardian spirits in Persian. I met them a while ago when I was touring the Middle East."
I wondered exactly what he'd been touring the Middle East for. In the time I'd known Misha, he'd shown very little inclination to go beyond Australian shores. If he'd been to the Middle East, it was because he'd been ordered to go. "And were these creatures"—I waved a hand to the door—"what you'd been sent to find?"
He gave a smile. "No."
Meaning, obviously, that what he'd been sent to find was something I didn't need to know. Which was fine—all I really needed was the name of the man behind all this madness.
"Were these things here when Jack and Rhoan raided your office a few months ago?"
"Yes."
"So you'd expected them to investigate, and had allowed them entry?" Meaning he might also have removed vital evidence before the raid.
"It's all part of a bigger plan, Riley."
I raised my eyebrow. "And what might that master plan be? To step into your so called brother's much hated shoes? To take over control of the freak empire?"
He snorted softly. "And here I was thinking you knew me better than that."
"I know you well enough to know that you can be ruthless when you choose to be."
His mouth twitched in amusement. "I don't want control of anyone's empire but my own. I told you the truth when I said all I want is survival—and I think Nasia's demise proves I was right to worry."
If he was at all worried, he certainly had a strange way of showing it. At the very least, he wouldn't be sitting so casually behind his desk, in full view of the windows. "Why would he kill his own sister?"
"Blood is not thicker than water when you are raised like we were. Hell, he'd kill his mother, too, if it meant his own survival."
And so would Misha—only right now he was using the Directorate to do his dirty work. "That being the case, why state that you can keep me safe when it's obvious you can't keep yourself safe?"
He rose and walked toward me, a strange gleam in his silvery eyes. It was the look of a predator on the hunt, a predator who had his prey in sight and no intentions of letting it escape. When that look had been evident in Kellen's eyes, my pulse had skipped with excitement, but in Misha's eyes it only succeeded in raising hackles. Quinn was right—Misha didn't want love, he wanted possession. Wanted to own me, rather than just love me.
But then, given what he was, how he was raised, maybe possession was the only thing he knew and understood. Could someone who has never known love, tenderness, or caring ever really return it in kind?
Watching Misha stalk toward me with that look in his eyes, I doubted it very much.
He braced his hands against the wall on either side of me, and leaned close. I pressed a hand against his chest, not forcefully, but enough to stop him kissing me. Even so, his breath washed warmth across my lips, and his aura wrapped me in heat and desire.