How long had he been in this place?
How the hell did he get there?
In the back of his mind, he could almost hear his father’s deep voice urging him to hang on, reassuring him that he would be all right.
Impossible, considering Tegan was back in the States with Micah’s mother, Elise, and the rest of the Order. Micah hadn’t seen any of them for some long weeks. Not since he and his unit had deployed to Budapest. The way he felt right now, that black ops assignment could have been years ago.
Micah slowly swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and paused to catch his breath. Someone had been taking care of him, as much as they could, anyway. His combat gear and weapons had been removed at some point. Barefoot and bare-chested, he was dressed only in a pair of loose-fitting gray sweats. His skin had been cleaned of the blistering and the blood and the sweat that clung to him as he’d dragged himself out of the Siberian taiga.
Thanks to his Breed genetics, the worst of his wounds were mending, but too slowly. If he didn’t feed soon, the burns would be the least of his concerns.
His vision still burned, even in the low light of the room. Fever from his thirst painted everything in shades of red. Glancing down at his hands where they rested atop his thighs, he watched the colors of hisdermaglyphschurn and roil in all the shades of hunger.
The deep purples and dark reds edged dangerously close to black—the stage at which he would have little to no control over the ferocity of his need for blood.
By the look of hisglyphsand the gnawing hollowness of his body, he couldn’t be more than a few hours away from that edge.
He had a choice to make.
Lie back down and wait to join his comrades in death, or get up and fight to live.
Live to avenge them, by doing whatever it would take to bring down Selene and all who serve her.
That was enough to live for.
Hell, it was more than enough reason.
Reaching up, he tore the monitoring wires away from his chest. The ones on his arms and hands came off next. He tossed the leads in a tangle on the narrow bed as he pushed himself up to his feet and tested the shaky strength of his legs.
His head swam, his senses whirling as he struggled to hold his balance.
Shit.
He hated feeling out of control. Despised the unfamiliar weakness of his body. His father was a Gen One Breed, which meant Micah’s blood was among the purest of his kind. Yet he rocked on his bare feet as if he were a human toddler just learning to stand.
Fury alone kept him upright.
Fury would carry him out of wherever he was now, and outside to hunt for a vein.
Once he’d fed, once his body had taken enough fresh red cells to heal itself, fury would keep him on the path toward justice for his fallen brethren.
He wasn’t going to rest until he had it.
And he would let no one stand in his way.
CHAPTER 4
“I’m still not sure this is a good idea.” Dressed in a casual, cotton summer dress and flats, Phaedra set her small travel bag down in the grand foyer of the Order’s Rome headquarters to greet her friend. “I’ve never been away from the shelter for as much as a day since I opened it.”
“That’s exactly the point.” Sia arched a platinum brow before pulling Phaedra into a brief embrace. “This little break is long overdue.”
Phaedra sighed, uncertain, as she met her fellow Atlantean’s gaze. “Maybe I should rethink the whole idea. After all, I haven’t been back to the colony in ages.”
It was no exaggeration. The enclave of immortals who had defected from the larger realm of Atlantis millennia ago would always be her people, but it had been nearly a century since Phaedra had left their mist-shrouded island to make a new life for herself among the mortals in Rome.
During those many decades away from her Atlantean people, she had lived fully, loved deeply, and had lost more profoundly than she believed possible. Now, her life was devoted to helping others. All that mattered to her was trying to bring a bit of light to a fragile world that seemed eternally cursed by violence and self-destruction.
For the scores of terrified and abused women and children who’d sheltered in her home over the years, the food and safe haven she provided had often meant the difference between life and death. Sometimes, Phaedra’s efforts weren’t enough to save them. It was those rare few that haunted her sleep. The failures. The circumstances she had been powerless to change.
