she said. “You look—” and then stopped herself. She’d learned that mentioning someone else’s condition tended to draw scrutiny to herself, and she didn’t want that.
Besides, “You look terrible” didn’t seem like a great opening for the evening.
But Ian just laughed, low as it was. “I do look terrible,” he said. “I’m not one for headaches, but—” He shook his head, most gingerly.
She relieved him of the sandwiches. “Are you sure you want to do this? We can do lunch tomorrow, if you’d like. Or dinner tomorrow evening.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Distracted as he was, his gaze still pinned her—an intense stare peering out from beneath a civilized veneer. “I can forget about the headache if you can.”
She gestured him into the little rental house. “I’ll draw the blinds—maybe we can find an old movie.”
“Bogart?” Ian said, head tipped with interest. Even not at the top of his game, he exuded intelligent energy and restlessness—at least until he tripped over the threshold as he entered the house. “Whoa,” he said. “Smooth.”
“You’re sure—”
“I’m sure,” he told her. “Let’s eat that food while it’s fresh.”
She took the bag to the table, pulling out cartons and filling the room with the yeasty scent of fresh bread and savory herbals. He wandered in after her as she set ice water before his place and closed the blinds a bit more, feeling more secure about her ability to hide the bruises as they settled in for the meal, full of the small talk of such moments. Plain old normal small talk from a man who wasn’t quite normal at all, while Ana thought about the amulet in her pocket. The one she’d been commanded to invoke.
Ian clearly wasn’t quite focused. He fumbled his fork in the salad, nearly knocked over the salad dressing, and seemed to find his thick, layered deli sandwich as much by feel as by sight.
“Have you considered seeing a doctor?” Only in retrospect did she realize that of course he wouldn’t, because Sentinels never did go to mundane doctors—not the strong-blooded Sentinels, at any rate. They wouldn’t be able to hide enough of their true nature.
“If things don’t get better.” Ian ran a thumb up and down the ice water as if, even now, he couldn’t find a way to be still. “I don’t get sick often. I’m probably not much of a patient.”
Compared to the Core posse members who demanded that she wait on their every need even when they weren’t sick, she thought he was doing just fine. But it interested her to see how close he skirted to telling her the full truth of his nature—that, in fact, he’d not come right out and lied to her. Of course a strong-blooded Sentinel wasn’t used to being sick. Given the unnatural rate at which they healed, it would be a wonder if they ever were.
Ana herself had been blessed with a naturally quick rate of healing—or cursed with it, rather. It was one reason Lerche felt free to leave his mark on her. But she got sick as often as anyone else, with the same clusters of cold and flu and a stomach that could be touchy. She made sure she was always a very good patient, requiring as little from the Core physicians as she could. But she said merely, “If things don’t get better, you probably should.”
Ian caught himself rubbing his temple and gave a rueful laugh, if not much of one. “It’s probably something going around.” He didn’t look convinced, and she wasn’t surprised. Field Sentinels like Ian Scott didn’t catch such things, even if the light-bloods did. “Fernie wasn’t looking well this afternoon, either. I spent the afternoon in the kitchen, helping her clean up after one of her bake-fests.”
Her fork hovered in midair as she tried to imagine it...and found that she could. Found that she could easily see this sharp-edged man putting aside his work to help the retreat manager on a tough afternoon.
She couldn’t say the same for Hollender Lerche.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” he said, mistaking her hesitation. “If it’s catching—”
She laughed and speared the fork into her salad. If he noticed how carefully she’d been chewing, he didn’t mention it. “If it’s catching, then I think I’ve already got it, don’t you?”
He grinned. “There’s something to that.” And then they talked quietly of favorite old movies while she pulled her laptop open and rented them a Bogart flick—Key Largo, of course—and Ian demonstrated that whatever the state of his headache, his casual mastery of tech also included hooking a laptop up to the house TV so they could watch on the larger screen. By the time they finished the last forkful of their cheesecake dessert, they shared the couch as if they’d always done so.
Only when Ana was fully nestled in under Ian’s arm, her legs curled beneath her while he stretched the length of his out on to the kitchen chair he’d appropriated for that purpose, did she realize she hadn’t yet invoked the second amulet—and that she didn’t dare do it now, for fear he would sense it, no matter its silent nature.
It didn’t matter. Surely Hollander Lerche wasn’t interested in murmured chitchat over a classic movie. Surely he couldn’t expect her to delve into a conversation of more substance until Ian was more comfortable with her—more confident with her.
Although he was, most obviously, comfortable and confident enough to fall asleep on her couch.
She realized it as the film credits began to roll. She drew back from beneath his arm to consider him in the flickering light of the television, pulling her feet up on the couch to wrap her arms around her legs and rest her chin on her knees. Knowing that she ought to be curled up on the other end of this couch, trembling in fear. And that she ought to trigger the amulet, shortening the time she was exposed to Ian and his entitled, arrogant ways.
He was, after all, a man who represented everything about a race of people who considered themselves more than and better than and quite evidently above the law altogether.
But Ian’s touch had given her choice. Brought her pleasure. Inspired her napping dreams. Protected her from a mugger.
It startled her to realize that Lerche’s man had known Ian would leap to her side when the cyclist grabbed at her—that he’d counted on it. She frowned, thinking that one through—or trying to. Instead, she found herself distracted by the way dark lashes swept a shadow across Ian’s high, strong cheek. And by the way his mouth, in repose, relaxed to show the definition of lips that pleased her—their shape, the little hint of a curve at one side that revealed his habitual dry humor. The faint cleft in his chin, the unlikely perfection of the way silvered bangs scattered across his forehead, the equally unlikely short, dark hairs that defined his hairline at sideburns, nape and even buried beneath the lighter strands.
The movie credits ended and the sudden silence alerted him; she saw the glimmer of his awakening gaze and smiled. She felt the promise of that look and of his interest in her. She felt her body warming to awareness—not of the Sentinel, but of the man.
Then again, the Core had always considered her to be weak of heart and mind, hadn’t they?
“Hey,” she said, and even her quiet voice seemed loud in the house. “Feel better?”
He stretched—an indulgent thing, right down to his fingers—and relaxed utterly again. “Hey,” he said. “Much
