Ilona Andrews - White Hot

Antonio froze, petrified.

A boy burst into the room from the right doorway. He ran across and thrust himself in front of Antonio.

“Don’t kill my dad!’

He couldn’t be older than ten.

“John,” Antonio said, his voice breaking. “Go see to your sister.”

“Don’t kill my dad!” The boy stared at Rogan, his face defiant.

Rogan stared back.

The shards flew through the air and shattered harmlessly against a wall.

“We all choose a side,” Rogan told Antonio. “You chose badly.”

He turned and walked out.

The street outside of Antonio’s house was empty, the river of ants speeding around the corner, probably back into the insect mage’s drums. Sirens howled in the distance. Someone had called the cops.

Rogan’s magic roiled around him, an enraged tornado.

“Thank you for not killing him in front of his son,” I said.

“Adults can make a choice to become my enemy or my ally, or to remain as noncombatants. Children are just children, Nevada. That child lost his mother. I wouldn’t take his father from him.” He checked his phone. “This way.”

We began walking to the right, away from the retreating ant army.

“Enemies, allies, or civilians, huh?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

“And if someone helps the enemy, like Antonio?”

“Then he becomes an enemy himself.”

“And enemies have to be eliminated?” I asked.

“If they present a danger, yes.” Rogan’s face was merciless.

The light dawned in my head. I knew what this was. I had gone through it before. “That’s true in a war. We’re not in a war, Rogan.”

“Of course we’re at war.”

“No. We’re in a civilian world. Things are not black and white. They have shades of grey. There are degrees of punishment, depending on the severity of the crime.”

He faced me, his blue eyes hard and clear, without a shadow of doubt. “This isn’t about punishment. This is survival.”

What the hell happened to you in the war, Rogan? What did they do to you to cause this much damage?

“So if someone, let’s say a young woman, is helping one of your enemies, she’s also an enemy. It’s okay to kidnap her off the street, chain her in your basement, and interrogate her by any means necessary.”

His face told me he really didn’t like where I was going.

“Tell me, how close did I come to being murdered?”

“You were never close to being murdered. At the time, I didn’t feel you presented a threat. I just wanted information and if I had obtained it, I would’ve let you go just as I did. I probably wouldn’t have driven you home myself, but asked one of my people to do it.”

I tried again. “You can’t live like this, Rogan. The war is over.”

He stopped and pivoted back, where two bodies lay prone on the ground. “What does that look like to you? Because it looks like combat to me.”

We resumed walking.

And he liked combat. Combat was simple. It was familiar. He knew who his enemies were because they were trying to kill him, and he knew what his mission was: to survive by eliminating every threat he saw. You didn’t fire warning shots in war. You aimed to kill.

But the civilian life was frustrating and complicated. If Rogan went into a bar and a drunk tried to pick a fight with him, they would expect completely different outcomes. The drunk would expect some insults, then some pushing, then possibly a punch or two, followed by grabbing each other’s clothes and tussling on a street until the alcoholic temper tantrum wore off. The drunk would expect to go home afterward. Because that was his normal, the civilian world’s normal. He had no idea that the moment he designated himself as a threat, a mental switch flipped in Rogan’s brain. If the drunk were lucky, Rogan would incapacitate him by choking him out. If he were unlucky or he tried to pull a knife, Rogan would cripple him or even kill him.

He’d been out of the military for years. He’d probably never sought treatment. He probably didn’t know anything was wrong with him.

“How are you sleeping?” I asked him.

“Like a baby,” he said.

“Nightmares?”

“I came to your house to ask you to be with me. You turned me down . . .”

Way to change the subject. “Right now isn’t the best time for this conversation.”

“It’s the perfect time. I asked you on a date. You said no. I waited. There was no counterproposal.”

“A date?” That wasn’t how I remembered it. I waited for the buzz telling me he’d lied, but none came. “Oh please. That’s not what you were offering and you know it!”

“That’s exactly what I was offering.”

True. How was he dodging me on this . . . “Are you telling me that you weren’t offering a sexual relationship?”

He took a second. “No.”

Ha! Got him. To him a date—whatever he meant by it—was a prelude to sex. In his head he did offer me “a date,” so technically he wasn’t lying. I’d have to be cleverer with my questions.

“I’m not a stalker, Nevada,” he said. “I understood no.”

“I didn’t want you to stalk me, Rogan.”

“What did you want?”

“I wanted you to give me a chance to decide if I wanted a relationship with you. You wanted sex. If you’re really hard up for some uncomplicated sex, I hear Harper is single.”

He made a grunt that might have been no, but it was hard to tell with that much disgust saturating it.

My legs shook. I kept moving. If I told him that the stress was getting to me, he’d probably try to do something ridiculous like carry me. I wouldn’t be carried by Mad Rogan, especially not in public.

“I didn’t say I just wanted sex.”

“Let me quote: ‘Do you want seduction, dinners, and gifts? Seduction is a game, and if you pay enough in flattery, money, or attention, you get what you want. I thought you were above the game.’ Did you not say that to me a week before you strolled into my garage to invite me on ‘a date’?”

“Yes. I wanted to skip the bullshit.”

“So what happened? You changed your mind and now you want the bullshit?”

Rogan’s phone chimed. “Yes, I want your bullshit.”

“Well, you don’t get to have any of my bullshit. I’m keeping it.” Okay, and that didn’t sound childish. Not at all.

“Why not?”

“Because you call it bullshit.”

A silver Range Rover slid around the curve of the road and came to a stop in front of us, Troy behind the wheel. I got into the back before Rogan or I said anything else. I really didn’t want to continue this conversation in front of Troy.

Rogan took the front passenger seat. “Home.”

Troy drove out.

“I’m not sure I fully understand the concept of bullshit,” Rogan said, his voice quiet. “Would you care to discuss it, over dinner perhaps? I’d be happy to listen to an explanation of how I erred. A place of your choice.”

No. If I went to dinner with him, I wouldn’t be able to resist reaching out. I would kiss him. I would probably do other things . . . More intimate things . . . I wouldn’t be able to help myself, and I didn’t want to open that door now.

“I would like to go home.”

“Would spending an evening with me be such a terrible thing?” he asked.

The sincerity in his voice stopped me in my tracks. The witty replies died.

“No.”

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

No, I realized. He would never hurt me. I didn’t even know where that belief came from, yet I was absolutely sure that he wouldn’t. His power terrified me, but it was a deep-seated, instinctual kind of fear. I wasn’t afraid of Mad Rogan. I was probably the only person in Houston who wasn’t.