Phaedra kept her hold on the light until Nathan stepped over to her with Jordana and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. “Thank you,” he said soberly. “It’s time to get you and Jordana out of here now.”
She glanced past him to where Micah and Jax were carefully collecting the fallen snipers’ weapons and ammunition. On Nathan’s nod, she lowered her hand and the alley plunged into darkness.
CHAPTER 13
There was no talk of Eli’s death when they returned. The anguishing news had already reached the Order’s headquarters from Nathan’s call in the alley. The women’s faces were drawn with shock and grief, but Lucan and the rest of the warriors greeted the returning team with a solemn, yet determined, urgency.
“Let’s get to work,” he announced gravely. “Daybreak will be here soon. We’ve got roughly twelve hours to prepare for nightfall and the pain we’re going to send back to Opus for what they did tonight.”
Phaedra had never felt so helpless or bereft as she did watching Micah and his comrades file soberly into their war room together with the Order elders and Zael, then quietly close the door behind them.
Micah hadn’t uttered a word the entire drive back to the mansion. Phaedra knew Eli’s death was a void that couldn’t be filled, not with conversation or sorrow. But the stoic response he’d shown in the alley had hardened into a stony withdrawal by the time they arrived at headquarters.
He’d retreated to a dark place, and the look in his eyes chilled her to her marrow.
It was the same bleakness she’d seen in his gaze when he spoke to her about his psychic ability to hear the worst of mankind’s thoughts and sins. The same bleakness that seemed to live somewhere inside him, and made her worry that if he sank any deeper into that abyss, eventually, he might not come back.
Was the fear she felt for him just part of the soul bond that neither of them wanted to acknowledge? Did that explain how she could be coming to care for him so deeply after only a couple days’ time?
In truth, he’d been seared into her consciousness—into her heart—from the moment they came face-to-face in the Deadlands more than a week ago. She had worried for him, mourned him when she believed he’d been killed along with his men.
She hadn’t wanted to feel anything for the angry, violent man she’d encountered in the Rome command center, but destiny, and her heart, had given her little choice.
Concern for Micah stayed with her for the next couple of hours. Although Jordana, Jenna, Gabrielle, and the rest of the women had tried to make her feel welcome by inviting her to sit and talk with them in the tranquil setting of the residence’s library, she had been too restless to stay for long.
Instead, she wandered the corridors of the massive command center, torn between wishing she had never left her quiet life in Rome and dreading the dwindling hours before she would have to leave to return.
One thing she knew for certain was she couldn’t go without seeing Micah, whether he wanted her company or not.
The warriors’ meeting had broken up several minutes ago. She’d heard the rumble of deep voices in one of the labyrinthine corridors as she paced an aimless path up one hallway to the next. She didn’t know where to look for Micah in the maze of the compound, or even if she were permitted to be there.
Rounding a corner, she nearly collided with the big, muscled frame of Darion Thorne.
“Oh. I’m sorry, I was just—”
He frowned as she gaped up at him. His gaze was too knowing, and filled with warning. “He’s not in a good place right now. You probably don’t want to be near him.”
She let go of the breath she was holding. “No, probably not. Do you know where he is?”
Darion’s mouth softened, though not by much. He gestured to the empty corridor behind him. “I saw him in the weapons room a few minutes ago. Halfway down, can’t miss it. And Phaedra,” he added, as she started to walk past him. “Thank you for what you did tonight. If Micah won’t say the words, just know that all of us—the entire Order—is in your debt.”
She gave him a sad smile, wishing she’d been able to help Eli too. “Thank you, Darion.”
He nodded, his innate honor and confident bearing so much like his formidable father’s.
“Just be careful,” he said, then continued up the corridor.
Phaedra headed in the direction he’d indicated, her feet slowing as she reached an open doorway of a room stocked with enough weapons and ammunition to outfit the army of a small country. Guns, blades, chains . . . even a wall lined with a dozen swords of various lengths.
As she stepped inside, she saw there was an adjacent room set up for target practice. Cold fluorescent lights bathed the long, windowless rectangular space in a harsh, clinical glow.
And there, standing opposite of the targets at the back of the range, was Micah.
On one of the tables behind him were the large pistols he’d used earlier tonight, now cleaned and disassembled. On another table lay an array of terrible-looking blades. He was still dressed in his black combat gear, the scent of smoke and ash hanging thinly in the air.
Without acknowledging she was there, he picked up one of the daggers and threw it at the target dummy at the far end of the range. It struck dead-on in the center of the dummy’s chest, sinking all the way to the hilt.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
