Dreams of a Dark Warrior

TWENTY-EIGHT

Declan arrived back at the base at six in the morning, limping, bleary-eyed with exhaustion, his fatigues blood-splattered.

Returning “home” from battle, like in that dream of Aidan’s.

When the berserker had washed off the blood and gore, he’d found the Valkyrie waiting for him, needing him. Gazing up at him like he was a hero.

—Her face lights up when I come into view.—

Now, God help him, Declan’s feet wanted to take him to her cell. Oh, aye, Dekko. So maybe she can try to finish you.

Instead, he forced himself to stagger to his solitary, grim quarters. He just needed some sleep. Then he’d think more clearly.

He gazed around his room—why had he never realized this was his own cell? A soulless hollow space. Just like his life.

Here he had no sweet kiss and soft woman waiting for him. No family. Just emptiness.

These goddamned detrus had more of a life than he did.

He sank down in front of the console, fighting the overriding urge to see Regin. It’d been a week. Just a glimpse …

He pulled up the feed of her cell. She was asleep, curled on her side. She wore only her T-shirt and panties, with her hair spread over her shoulder.

Achingly beautiful.

He was expected to hate this female as much as the creatures he’d just hunted? To equate her kind with theirs? Impossible.

He exhaled. Numbing drugs or not, his emotionless existence was clearly over. He did feel, and all too strongly.

I want her so much. Even while she wants me dead.

Why wouldn’t she? How many times had he told her he would execute her, or that he took pleasure in hurting her?

He couldn’t begrudge her actions—she’d taken him at his word and attempted to protect herself, doing whatever it took not to be on the “roll call of dead immortals.”

All’s fair in war. Best not take things personally. He was a big boy; if he could dish out the pain, he’d better be prepared to take it.

No, if he was honest, he’d admit he’d been infuriated by his reaction: disappointment so deep it’d been like a physical blow.

Declan wanted whatever he’d believed he could find with her. Craved it more than a full needle.

A knock sounded on his door. Probably Dixon this early. Speaking of needles. Better have what I need, Doctor.

He flipped off the screen, buzzed her in. She carried a case. Very good.

When she saw him, her eyes widened behind her glasses. “Those hunts really take it out of you. No sleep?”

“None.” He’d been too busy searching—and too desperate not to dream of Regin.

“I see. I’m sure you’ve had a lot on your mind as well.”

Maybe he was paranoid, but Dixon seemed to be acting strangely around him, more reserved. Probably figured out what had happened with Declan and the Valkyrie. If Fegley had, then Dixon sure as hell would.

“I’ll catch up on some sleep now,” Declan told her, his eyes riveted to the case.

“You’ll need to. Webb scheduled you for Slaine’s interrogation.”

“It hasn’t been done?” Perhaps his commander’s confidence wasn’t totally gone.

“Slaine was too injured from Fegley’s ham-handed capture. The subject’s been recovering for days.”

Declan had been at the capture, had seen the terrible power that demon had wielded. Though he’d never admit it to another, Declan couldn’t have brought in Slaine uninjured either. “When is it scheduled?”

“Eighteen hundred. Gives you twelve hours to rest up.” She held up the case. “Your new, improved formulation should help. As you ordered, it’s much stronger—you can go every other day at least.”

As soon as he had the case in hand, he parted his lips to dismiss her, but she merely said, “Get some rest,” and left.

Alone, he turned the monitor back on, staring at the Valkyrie. What wouldn’t he give to sink down behind her, draw her close, and sleep like the dead?

A dangerous thought. A nearly undeniable pull. I’ll be taking my dose now, before I do something even more stupid.

He opened the case, filled a syringe. His chest ached for something intangible; his vein swelled greedily. He gave in to at least that need, plunging his syringe.

Ah, fuck me, that’s strong. Like the old days.

He collapsed back on the bed, the needle still in his arm. Chemicals rushed through his brain, his thoughts clouding. But his wasted mind remembered something he’d been too enraged to recall before.

Right before Declan had tried to kiss Regin, she’d told him she couldn’t do it. …

Blackness swallowed him.

When Regin awoke that morning, the grapevine had news. Chase had just come back from some mission after disappearing for days.

And she didn’t know how she felt about his return.

All week she’d been consumed by guilt, conflicted over her loyalties, pacing that cursed cell. Every time she railed at herself for not kissing Chase, she would remember the excitement of being with him, the pure sexual charge of his game. That night, for such a brief window, Regin had liked him.

Until Webb had crashed the party.

The man was obviously close to Chase, had called him son. In turn, Chase had gazed at the man with clear respect.

But after Webb’s interruption, Chase had been disgusted with Regin and so ashamed of what he’d done with her. She couldn’t stop recalling the pain in his voice, the hurt in his blazing eyes.

Now she awaited her “examination,” knowing her time drew near. Chase had been enraged—he would never stall for her.

Altered …

Every hour that passed was grueling. Natalya was regaling her with tales of old battles to keep her distracted, but time pressed heavily on Regin. She was continually lost in her own thoughts.

One spot of good news in this ordeal? Carrow had somehow survived Oblivion and lured her target, Malkom Slaine, into the Order’s trap. On the day of his arrival, Regin had seen the vampiric demon—arguably the biggest, meanest looking brute she’d ever beheld—dragged half-dead down the ward.

Yet after all the witch had risked to meet her end of the bargain and save Ruby, Chase had broken his word; he hadn’t freed them.

And he’d called the witches treacherous? Bastard.

But as far as Regin knew, Thad and MacRieve hadn’t been singled out again—

Gas hissed from above, clouds of it beginning to diffuse from the ceiling. Though she’d expected exactly this at any second, Regin stared up in disbelief.

Natalya murmured, “I’m so sorry, Valkyrie.”

Regin shrieked with frustration, pounding the glass of her cell. She held her breath as long as she could. Fight it!

Vision growing hazy, lids so heavy … Both she and Natalya collapsed to the floor.

When Regin woke, she was strapped to a table with bindings she couldn’t break. Her claws were like razors, but she couldn’t wield them.

An IV snaked from Regin’s arm; electrodes covered her skin. She craned her head around, saw Dixon and other scientists in white lab coats. In the corner, Fegley stood smirking.

Chase wasn’t here? Regin spied the camera above. Probably watching it from the comfort of his room. She refused to give him the show he expected, wouldn’t scream or cry.

He’d once told her that she would beg for mercy, but she’d be damned before she did. She was Reginleit the Radiant, an ageless daughter of gods.

“Shall we get started?” Dixon asked the others, her eyes glittering above her mask as if with fascination. “We have a lot to cover in a short amount of time.”

Bone saws and scalpels were lined up on a table. When Regin saw the shining metal of a chest cracker, her bravado faltered. She turned to the camera. “Chase, you have to remember me! You’ll regret the living hell out of this if you let it happen!”

One of the scientists casually remarked, “Commander Webb has expressed a particular interest in this one.”

Regin shrieked, “I’m going to eat Commander Webb’s heart!” Her stress made the lights flare. All the technicians hunched down, their eyes darting.

“Dr. Dixon, her pulse is two fifty and climbing.”

When Dixon raised a scalpel, Regin gazed at the camera. “I can withstand this, Chase. But can you?”