L.L. Foster - The Acceptance

Boredom was her newest enemy, and since running off from Luther—make that Detective Luther Cross—she’d been bored more than not.

Until now, she hadn’t realized how much . . . excitement he’d brought to her life. You’d think a paladin would have her hands full enough that a nosy cop bent on seduction would have been mostly an annoyance, perhaps even a threat.

Instead, he’d been fucking wonderful. The most wonderful thing to ever happen in her miserable, cursed life.

Shit. Gaby walked along the broken concrete walkway in front of the aged, blackened building until that bored her too, then she leaned back against the rough brick, trying to ease her mind, her body.

Her soul.

Hanging out with hookers was a distraction, but it just didn’t fill the space the way he had.

She needed something to happen, anything, to keep her from . . . Whoa . Just then, her instinct kicked and she felt the presence of evil, in her bones, in her guts. Her throat burned, she looked up—and she saw him.

A kid.

Clean-cut and unafraid.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

The defenses screaming silently throughout her body said that he was the wrong person, in the wrong place—and there could be nothing right about his presence here tonight. Pickled with immorality, riddled with holes of depravity, his black aura clung to him like a wet cloak.

He sickened Gaby.

He challenged her.

And it didn’t matter to her if he was ten or fifty.

Evil was evil.

Tonight, her boredom would end.

Standing deep in the shadows of a tall brick building to avoid the glow of a streetlamp, Detective Luther Cross clenched his teeth together. Off duty, but determined, he stared down the sidewalk a good ten yards ahead. His eyes burned and his fury built. Even from that distance, with the moon high in the sky casting eerie shadows over the bleak surroundings, he recognized her.

Gabrielle Cody.

The bane of his existence.

The source of nightmares—and scorching-hot erotic dreams.

Her long thin legs, sleek and toned with muscles, showed beneath a denim miniskirt. Black leather ankle boots replaced her familiar flip-flop sandals, and a loose tank top revealed the outline of the sheath at her back.

Her short dark hair now had vivid purple streaks throughout.

She’d disguised herself in her idea of a whore’s garb, but Luther would know that stance, feel that cocky attitude, no matter her outward appearance.

For weeks he’d hunted her, lost sleep over her, worried and ruminated and raged . . . and there she stood, appearing as aloof and untouchable as ever.

Alone.

Deliberately distant.

Taunting him without even trying.

Unsure exactly what he’d say or do, Luther started forward. With her keen perception of her surroundings, Gaby might have picked up on his approach. Very little ever got by her.

But at that moment, a young, lanky boy, maybe twelve or thirteen years of age, came out of an alley. Blond hair showed from beneath a pristine ball cap. Dressed in clean jeans and a button-up shirt, a school-type backpack hooked over his thin shoulders, he bore no resemblance to the homeless or desperate runaways that often choked the crowded streets.

He didn’t appear the least shy or reserved about being out of place in the area.

Gaze unflinching, he perused the crumbling building that Gaby protected, sizing it up for some purpose that Luther couldn’t fathom.

Gaby focused on the boy.

And when Gaby focused, it was something awesome to witness.

She went rigid, her long bones gathering in defense as she straightened away from the building, then immediately relaxed in the deceptive way appropriate to natural-born combatants.

Not a good sign.

Gaby could attack without warning or mercy, fight with a frighteningly lethal skill, and her motives remained more elusive than a whispery phantom.

Luther knew this, and accepted it.

But why did the boy interest her?

Forgoing his own disgruntlement for the moment, Luther picked up his pace to reach her, to protect the kid from whatever Gaby had planned for him—but not in enough time.

The boy saw Luther and, for reasons of his own, bolted.

Like an animal of prey, Gaby saw his retreat as just cause to launch a pursuit.

Shit.

They darted around a dark corner, disappeared into the blackness of the night, and Luther, not being a complete idiot, slowed and pulled his gun.

He wouldn’t shoot Gaby.

But then again, he wouldn’t walk into a trap either.

He wanted her, but he didn’t trust her. Not anymore.

Maybe he never had.

Using necessary caution, he slunk into the narrow, muculent alley, closing his mind to the festering odors and willing his eyes to adjust to the extreme lack of light.

At the far end, he saw movement and slipped farther inside. Finally, with careful scrutiny, he spied Gaby. That long, lethal blade of hers was held tightly in her hand as she slowly pushed open a broken door.

Heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, Luther steadied his hands and his thoughts. “Not another step, Gaby.”

Other than a slight stiffening of her tender neck, she made no acknowledgment of him.

All her fervid scrutiny remained intent on whatever she saw beyond that door. Even from the back, in the murky gloom of the odorous alley, Luther noted the changes in her face, the tightening and subtle reshaping of her features that signaled her sense of threat.

He also noted the choker around her slender throat. The choker he’d given her.

No. He would not go down this road with her again—not without some explanations, not without him being in control.

He tightened his mouth, his heart, and deliberately attempted to breech her concentration. “Gaby.”

He wasn’t surprised that she didn’t look toward him; knowing her as he did, he wasn’t even certain if she’d heard him. In the past, during a rainstorm and times of danger, he’d witnessed Gaby going into a zone, oblivious to everyone and everything around her until an almost trancelike state enclosed her.

Unwilling to lose her again, even emotionally, he caught his breath, inched closer, and said in a harder, deeper voice, “Gaby, you will listen to me.”

By minute degrees, she exposed her awareness of him. It showed in the faint relaxing of her strong, proud shoulders, the ebbing of her immense tension.

Without altering her attention, she warned, “It’s not a good time, Luther.”

Not a good time. Ha! But just hearing her voice reassured and pleased him. Despite the current situation, his pulse slowed, calmed. “That’s too bad.” He flexed his fingers around the gun, pleased to feel somewhat in control. “Put the knife down—and your arms up.”

As she mulled over his order, her jaw worked. She must have decided to give in to him, because she eased back the tiniest bit—

Something shattered inside the abandoned structure, and Gaby, realizing her prey had found an alternate way out, slammed the door with absurd force.

“Son of a bitch.” In a rage ripened by frustration, she rounded on Luther. “You let him get away!”

Somewhat used to her and her odd manners and coarse language, Luther feigned a negligent attitude and asked, “Him who?”

Now that she faced him, Luther saw that some anomalous emotion had manifested itself in her physical appearance. She looked like Gaby, but then again, she didn’t.

He’d seen the odd transformation with her before. Like a quick slithering chameleon, she changed and shifted, her appearance altered subtly, almost imperceptibly. Luther had always been so strangely attuned to her that he picked up on it when, perhaps, others didn’t.