“Is it a specific place?” Strike asked.
“I’m sure it is, or was.” The winikin tipped his palms up. “Not one we know about, though.”
“Well, that’s something.” Strike turned to Michael. Waved him off. “Go. You’re looking too ragged for my peace of mind.”
Michael nodded and left, but he didn’t head for the firing range or the ball court. He headed in the direction Sasha had taken when she’d slipped from the meeting a couple of minutes earlier, toward the residential wings. He was nearly there when Tomas stepped in front of him, scowling. “You should’ve told me, you young idiot.”
Michael felt the old, familiar tightness stiffen his neck and shoulders. “When you say it like that, I can’t imagine why I didn’t.”
“I could have—”
“You could have done lots of things,” Michael interrupted. He was suddenly sick and tired of the friction and random jabs. His priorities had shifted; he just couldn’t waste his energy fighting with Tomas anymore. “And so could I. How about we agree that we both screwed up, give each other a pass on the last six years or so, and move on already?”
That brought the winikin’s chin down a notch. “You’d do that?”
“Consider it done.”
They stood there for a moment, stuck somewhere between a standoff and reconciliation. When a hug—or even really a handshake—didn’t seem to make much sense, Michael gave a stiff nod, moved around his winikin, and headed for the residential wing.
He hesitated at the closed door to Sasha’s suite, but what could he possibly say to make things right at this point? He’d pushed her away twice, and even though the danger she brought out in him was blocked—for the time being, at least—the underlying issues remained. More, although his status as a Mictlan explained a shit-load of what he’d been going through, it gave him a pretty crappy choice of actions, that between bad and worse. What right did he have to go to her now?
Thing was, he couldn’t make himself give a shit. With the overt danger defused, he was through being noble, through being the better man. With the Other locked away and the anger banked, desire blazed that much higher, threatening to take him over. And this time, he intended to let it. If she didn’t want him, he would go. But she was going to have to be the one to turn him away this time.
He knocked perfunctorily and, before she could answer, pushed through into her suite.
She stood in the kitchen, a mug frozen halfway to her lips. The odor of hot chocolate enriched the air, calling to something inside him, linking the scent and the woman until the two became intertwined in his sensory memory. Slowly, she lowered the mug to the counter, setting it down with a decisive click. “Michael. Did you want something?”
“We should talk.”
Her eyes sparked with irritation. “Is that why you barged in here? To talk?”
“Not really, but I thought we should probably start there.” He paused, steeling himself. “Or do you want me to turn around and go?”
“Why would I want that?”
“Because I’m a murderer.” He put it right out there.
“You’re a warrior. Warriors kill.”
“It wasn’t all in battle.”
“It was all in war.” But although she defended him staunchly, she didn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Then it’s not a problem for you?” he pushed, knowing they needed to get through this if they were going to go forward. Part of him said not to push, to give her more time, but what if they didn’t have time? He couldn’t believe it was a coincidence that his Mictlan powers had come online as they neared the triad threshold. Iago certainly hadn’t thought so.
She sighed softly. “I’m trying to make it not be. Intellectually, I understand that killing is a part of war, whether it’s a war on drugs, terror, or the Banol Kax. And I’m trying to accept that inwardly, as well. But I’m just not sure I’m cut out to be a warrior. The idea of killing someone—anyone, regardless of what they’ve done or what they might do in the future . . . in my heart of hearts, I’m not sure I can condone it.” She paused. “And I don’t know how I feel about what you’ve done . . . but whatever it is I’m feeling, it’s something.”
“I can accept that.” He was going to have to. “I’ll give you whatever time you need.”
She cocked her head. Lifted her mug. Sipped. “Who said I needed time?”
His head came up, heat firing in his gut. “Don’t you?”
“Yes and no. If we’re talking about something long-term, then yeah, I would need time, and not just because of the Mictlan stuff. But that’s not how this is going to work, is it?” Her eyes were a little too bright, her words a little too quick, but he didn’t interrupt because he couldn’t really argue the point.
He was in transition, his life changing what felt like daily. Until he knew who he was, how could he offer himself up for any sort of relationship? After a short pause, she nodded. “Thought so.” But she didn’t look surprised, or even upset. “Then, if we’re talking about something day-to-day, enjoying each other in the moment, so to speak, then I don’t need time.” A smile touched her lips. “Not after that kiss this morning. If that’s the man you are right now, and the man you’re going to be for tonight, then I don’t need any time at all.”
He didn’t know if he understood all of what she was thinking, but he definitely did feel like the hunter she’d once accused him of being as he stalked across the sitting room, skirted the breakfast bar, and joined her in the small kitchen, which was barely big enough for one mage, never mind two. The scent of fresh herbs joined that of the rich hot chocolate. “About that kiss . . .”
“Yes?” she asked, regarding him steadily, standing her ground and not giving him an inch.
He didn’t say anything more, simply closed the last small space between them, crowding her back against the counter. He slid his arms around her, caught her up against his body, and kissed her like he’d done that morning, like he’d been thinking about doing just about every second since.
She purred in the back of her throat—the sexy sound that had haunted him ever since they’d been together that first night—and returned his kiss, nipping at his lower lip and then laving the spot with her tongue. The move brought heat spearing through him, but not anger, not darkness, and the relief of that confirmation had him groaning aloud.
When he did, she planted both hands on his chest and levered herself away to hop up on the counter.
The move offered him a heavenly spot to move into, between her parted legs. It also gave her leverage to block the move. “Nope. Your turn. I’ve told you what I’ve been thinking. Where is your head? It’s not every day a guy has to come clean about something like your Other.”
She didn’t sound all that unglued about it, though. Thank the gods. And for the first time in the almost month he’d known her in person, he was able to answer with complete honesty. “I’m okay. I think I’m finally starting to accept that I’m not in control of what’s going on here.”
“This is news?”
“I’m slow sometimes. Sue me.” He brushed a lock of dark, flyaway hair from her face, tucking it behind one of her delicately rounded ears. “The thing is, I can control my own actions, and I can do my damnedest to get ahead of Iago, and fight like a warrior. I can act with honor, or I can push the limits, depending. Sometimes, I can just say fuck the rules; I’m doing what I want. But the big stuff . .