Adrian Phoenix - In the Blood

“So…did you prowl through the house? Go through shit? Did you kiss Annie?”

“Yeah,” Dante said, stretching the word out, voice low and mystified. “I kissed her. What’s that got to do with anything?” Then it clicked, and his gaze darkened. He buried his face in his hands and shook his head. “Fuck,” he muttered, and then lowered his hands. He rose to his feet.

“She said you kissed her twice.”

“You fucking kidding me? This is about me kissing your sister?”

“No, this is about you breaking in.” Heather replied, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “But since you mention it, why did you kiss her?”

“It shouldn’t matter,” he said, voice low and wire-taut. “It was just a kiss.”

“She’s my sister, Dante! It matters!”

A muscle in Dante’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing, his smoldering gaze locking onto hers. Dante kissed for many reasons, and in many ways, she reminded herself. Out of friendship, in greeting, in parting, with desire. Maybe he really didn’t get it given the lack of boundaries during his upbringing.

“You know what? You’re right, it shouldn’t matter,” Heather said. “It’s none of my business who you kiss or why.”

His dark eyes searched hers, his expression suddenly unguarded. “T’es sûr?”

She knew a little French, enough to help sometimes with his Cajun. But if she was right, what he just asked confused the hell out of her.

“Did you ask if I’m sure? About it being none of my business?”

Dante trailed a hand through his hair, and he looked almost as confused and unsure as she felt. “Yeah,” he finally said with a tilted smile. “I think I did.”

Heather couldn’t help but return his smile. “I don’t want to fight with you, Dante,” she said, voice soft. “I’m glad to see you, I really am.”

“Me too.”

“But we need to talk,” Heather said. “Seriously talk.”

Something close to relief flashed across Dante’s face. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you too, chérie . You still working for the FBI?”

“For the moment, yes.” She nodded at the dining room table. “Pull up a chair, I’ve got some stuff to show you.”

Dante shrugged off his hoodie and hung it over the back of a chair. He wore a black latex shirt with silver-buckled straps across the chest and black leather pants. His silver belt buckle and the rings on his fingers, thumbs, and on his collar were the only other bits of sharp color amid all the snug-fitting black. He swung the chair around and then straddled it.

Heather felt his watchful gaze on her as she walked the room and closed all the curtains. Going to the front door, she twisted shut both dead bolts. The locks slammed into place with solid thunks. She didn’t know if anyone was actually keeping surveillance on her. She hadn’t spotted any unfamiliar cars or work vans, but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there.

Maybe Dante climbing in through a back window was a good thing, after all.

Heather returned to the table and sat down. She picked up a pile of papers and thumbed through them, looking for the data she’d printed out last night. As she did, she tried to organize her thoughts, shape her suspicions.

“I’m sorry about your mother, by the way,” Dante said. “I didn’t know.”

Heather met his dark gaze and smiled. “How could you? But thanks anyway.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“Almost twelve. My birthday was a couple of weeks later.”

“Aw, chérie, that sucks,” he said, and she could tell he meant it.

Heather glanced over her shoulder toward the hall. Lowering her voice, she said, “My mom’s murder is a cold case, officially, anyway. At the time, her death was attributed to a serial killer known as—”

“The Claw-Hammer Killer, Christopher Higgins,” Dante supplied.

“That’s right.” Heather looked at him for a long moment, impressed. He hadn’t had much time to go over the file while she tended to Annie, so he must’ve scanned it quickly and well.

“The FBI won’t let you go, will they?” Dante said.

Heather shook her head. “I was hoping they’d let me walk if I kept quiet and pretended not to know anything about Bad Seed or what happened at the center after I was shot.”

“But…?” Dante folded his arms along the chair’s back.

“They called me into a meeting today and offered me my boss’s position as SAC.” Heather shook her head. “The offer not only went completely against protocol, I was warned about what would happen if I refused.”

“Tell me.” Dante’s voice was low, razor-edged.

She did, recounting the meeting with Rutgers and Rodriguez, and highlighting the bits that had made it such a special occasion—her father’s unwanted appearance, the intense interest in her medical recovery, the not-so-veiled threats. She also told Dante about the visit to her mother’s murder site accompanied by an honor guard in the tall and lean form of the Portland field office’s SAC.

“They gave me until Monday to make my decision.”

“And if you tell them no, you’ll suddenly go wacko and end up confined in a looney bin or in a morgue after taking a dive from a very tall building. Mother fuckers .”

“Yeah, basically.” Heather leaned back in her chair. “Such a way with words, you sweet-talker you.”

A tilted half-smile tugged at Dante’s lips, but he held her gaze, his own dark and simmering. “So what’s your new boss’s name again?”

Heather’s smile vanished. She straightened. “No, you’re not killing anyone. Don’t even kid about it.”

“Ain’t kidding.”

“That wouldn’t stop it! He has a boss who has a boss who has a boss and so it goes. Killing him wouldn’t solve this.”

Dante suddenly stood. He paced, jaw tight, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. A chill touched Heather’s spine. His anger is closer to the surface. What happens when he can’t control it anymore?

After a moment, Dante stopped and drew in a long, shuddering breath. His hands opened and smoothed against his thighs. Leather squeaked. He turned around to face her. His gaze was calmer, the fire banked, but his body language was just the opposite, tensed and tight, almost vibrating with checked emotion.

“You okay?” Heather asked. “Dante, do you need anything?”

He looked at her, his dark eyes drinking her in, his gaze so heated and intense that Heather felt her pulse pick up speed. “I mean…do you need a…drink?” Say it, she told herself. Say it out loud . “Blood,” she amended.

“Yeah, but it’ll wait,” he said, trailing both hands through his hair, his skin white against his blue-black tresses. “Okay, killing your boss ain’t the answer. So, whatcha wanna do? I’ll help you any way I can.”

“That’s the thing,” Heather said. “I’m worried about you too.”

“Yeah? Pourquoi? I’m okay.”

Eerie announced himself with a soft mew and rubbed up against Heather’s leg. Just as she bent to pet him, he hopped away for the kitchen, mewing as he went, moving as fast on three legs as he had on four.

“Hey, minou, ” Dante said. “ Now you raise the alarm?”

Heather stood and followed Eerie into the kitchen. His dish was empty. “Mommy’s bad,” she said, pouring more kibble into his bowl. “Sorry about that.” Eerie chirped in agreement— yes, Mommy’s bad —or in acceptance of her apology or both. She stroked his head for a moment while he crunched salmon-flavored nuggets.