“Does he know about my connection to the necklace?”
“I told him nothing more than what you did in the car, which is part of the reason he’s pissed, but I wanted you to decide what to share.”
Kayden gives respect, and thus he receives it. It’s only one of the many reasons he’s such a good leader. “Thank you, and I’m not going to hold back. You were right. He should know the truth.”
His eyes narrow slightly, a hint of approval in their depths before he gives me a barely perceivable nod, but when I expect him to release me, when I think he intends to in fact, he does not. Instead, he studies me, searching my face, probing, looking for something, I don’t know what, but I hide nothing. I let him see the emotions I feel. The regret, the fear, the love. But too soon it seems, and without any palpable reaction, he releases me. “He’s waiting.”
My arm tingles where his touch was, a sensation I carry with me as I give him a nod of my own. As I turn away from him, moving across the room, I am hyperaware of him behind me, close enough that when I would open the door his arm stretches around me, his hand on the knob. His big body encases mine, the scent of him, all masculine spice and dominance, teasing my nostrils.
He leans in and says, “He’s going to attack.”
“I can handle it.”
“Of that, sweetheart, I am certain.”
There is a hint of something in his words that I don’t like, an implication that he’s certain of this, but not
of me or of himself, but I never get the chance to reply, not that this is the right time anyway. He opens the door and sidesteps to allow its movement, exiting into the hallway. Almost instantly the door shuts again behind us. We walk down the hallway, and I can almost feel The Hawk take over, the sense of focus on that part of him rising to the surface. In unison, we cut left under the archway and into the living area, where the fireplace is burning in the far corner, just beyond the leather couch and chairs, its warmth stealing the chill that extends beyond the nearly century-old stone walls to the kitchen to our right.
We cross the room and step under yet another archway to pause in the entryway of the kitchen, where Adriel stands behind the island, his dark, wavy hair a bit in disarray, his leather jacket gone. He’s wearing a shoulder holster and not one but two firearms over his skull T-shirt, its deadly undertone rather appropriate considering how hard and cold his stare is right now.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands, pressing his hands to the granite surface, that deep scar down his cheek giving his voice an even harder impact. “What the fuck are you, and what the hell were you doing with Garner Neuville?”
“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about an awkward silence,” Kayden says dryly.
I almost laugh, and probably would if there wasn’t a throbbing vein at Adriel’s temple I’m pretty sure would burst if I did. “CIA is a good guess,” I say, giving him a direct answer, crossing to stand on the opposite side of the island.
He scowls. “A good guess? How do you make a ‘good guess’ you’re in the fucking CIA?”
“I still have amnesia, Adriel. That isn’t fake.”
“Start at the beginning,” Kayden says, appearing at the end of the island between us, “back in San Francisco. With David.”
“The man you were traveling with that we can’t locate,” Adriel clarifies.
“Yes,” I confirm, “but I’m not sure David is where this originated. The PI who visited us today revealed what I had already started to piece together. My father was a CIA agent and somehow, in some way, I believe that’s relevant to all of this.”
“Not just an agent,” Kayden supplies. “A high-level, top-secret operative.”
“How do you think he’s involved?” Adriel asks.
“Relevant,” I correct. “Not involved. He was assassinated when I was a teenager.”
“Assassinated is a powerful word,” Adriel states. “It implies a hit.”
“It was a hit,” I say, “complete with men in black and guns, though the agency never officially called it that or gave us an answer.”
“It happened at Ella’s family home while she was there,” Kayden supplies. “Ella killed them before they escaped.”
Adriel looks at him and then gives me a skeptical look. “Didn’t you just say you were a teenager then? And since we’re talking CIA, I assume they were professional assassins?”
“I was already an expert marksman, which I doubt they expected from a teenager,” I explain. “And it was my father’s last wish.”
“For you to kill them,” Adriel says, sounding a little incredulous. “As a teenager.”
“Yes. He lay there in his own blood and told me to kill them, and he knew I could. He’d been training me since I was old enough to hold a gun and fight.”
Adriel’s eyes narrow on me. “Was he grooming you to be an agent?”