Rogue's Passion Page 3

  She was dimly aware that her phone was ringing from somewhere behind her. It was her mother’s distinctive ringtone. With shaking hands, she found her purse. It took three tries to hit the Talk button.

  “Mom?”

  “Liv! Are you all right? Oh my God, I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  At the sound of her mother’s voice, Olivia choked. Rather than anchoring her and giving her strength, it reminded her that she was barely holding herself together. Struggling to get herself under control, she wished she’d have thought to answer her mother via text instead. That would’ve been much easier. The urge to get outside and see if anyone needed her was almost unbearable.

  “A little shaken up. What about you?”

  “Me? I’m fine.” Her mother sounded confused as well. “What are you talking about?”

  “Aren’t you home? Didn’t you feel it?”

  Just then, a man stumbled on the sidewalk in front of the Grape and Bean, his face covered in soot. “Mom, I’ve got to go. It’s chaos around here.”

  “Wait. Don’t go do anything foolish. I’ve seen the video feeds. There are people injured everywhere. Leave things to the first responders.”

  It shouldn’t surprise her that this would be her mother’s reaction. Olivia usually kept a low profile, but she’d messed up when David had discovered her secret. After that, her mother’s admonitions had become routine. Don’t do this. Watch out for that. Like she’d screw up again if her mother weren’t there to remind her. Well, she wouldn’t. A lesson learned the hard way made a bigger dent in future behavior than a lifetime of nagging ever could.

  “But—”

  “I’m serious, Liv. Let them handle things. That’s what they do. You cannot jeopardize yourself and risk them finding out about you.”

  Given that she was twenty-seven years old, she didn’t need her mother to worry about her. “Mom, I’ll be careful.”

  “Careful? Well, you weren’t careful with that fighter guy.” She never called David by name. It was always that fighter guy. “Whatever you’re planning to do, don’t do it, Liv. I’m serious. You can’t ever forget what happened to your brother.”

  Her mother’s voice faded in her ear as Olivia eyed an overturned wine rack on the far side of the tasting room. Was that a shoe lying next to it? Dread soured her stomach like a shot of vinegar. It was Marco’s. At some point, she must’ve ended the call because her phone was now in her pocket as she ran over.

  The heavy wooden wine rack, the one he’d just imported, lay over the upper half of his body, a large pool of blood spreading out from underneath. She couldn’t see his face, but she’d seen enough. She didn’t have to take his hand to tell that he was dead. His essence was gone, untethered from his body, his life energy too far dissipated for her to pull it back together again. No wonder she’d assumed he’d left the store.

  Clapping a hand over her mouth, she scrambled away until she tripped over something and fell to her knees. Marco was a good man. What would his family do without him? Faded images of her father crashed into her head. He hadn’t been ready to die, either, on that fateful day when the army showed up and took her brother.

  Run. She had to run. As far away from the death and destruction as possible. She couldn’t bear to be around it without being able to do anything. If she tried, people would see her and know what she was. Her brother’s fate would be her own.

  A soft scraping noise, different from the pandemonium outside, sounded behind her. She spun on her toes, instinctively getting into a defensive position, legs shoulder-width apart and slightly scissored, the heel of her hand cocked back.

  “Didn’t mean…to startle you.” A man in a leather coat stood in what used to be the doorway. He was tall. And big. At least six-three or four, with broad, powerful shoulders. A once-black T-shirt, now covered in dust, stretched tightly across his well-defined chest. Low-slung jeans with a studded leather belt and chain accentuated his narrow hips. He was dressed like an outlaw from a motorcycle gang.

  He was also favoring one leg and cradling his arm.

  Without thinking of the consequences, she flew to his side and righted an overturned chair. “Here. Sit.”

  When she helped him into the seat, her hand inadvertently brushed his. Before she jerked it away, a visual list of his injuries rolled like movie credits in her head. Concussion but no head trauma, broken clavicle and leg, cracked ribs, torn meniscus, multiple contusions.

  “No. I…can’t.” He had a strange accent. One she’d never heard before. “Need to…find my dog.”

  She blinked once, confused, and then she remembered the dog outside. “He’s yours?”

  The man brightened. “Is he here?”

  “No, I saw him a few minutes before all this happened.”

  His face fell and he started to push himself up.

  “Hold on,” she said. “What are you doing?”

  “Got…to…find…him.”

  It was strange to see such a man looking so vulnerable. Because his injuries weren’t life-threatening, she’d be able to heal them fairly quickly, though. “You’re not going anywhere like this. Not until I can—”

  As soon as she bent down to kneel in front of him, her mother’s admonitions rang in her head. What the hell am I doing? She pulled her hands back as if she’d just burned them. She couldn’t let anyone, especially a stranger, know what she was capable of. It wasn’t like he was dying, she reasoned. It would be a different story if he were. “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  He was studying her a little too intently, and she got the distinct impression it wasn’t because he didn’t believe what she’d said about his dog.

  “Wait here,” she ordered, standing up quickly. “I’ll let someone know you need an ambulance.”

  “No,” he said vehemently. “No ambulances.” He sure didn’t sound confused anymore.

  Unruly dark hair, which included a few thin braids, hung over his brow, reminding her of the wild stallions in the horse books she’d read as a kid. His features were chiseled, his jaw square and strong. His nose, though straight, had a bump on the bridge as if it had been broken once or twice. Not tonight, but earlier. And his eyes…God, those eyes.

  They were almost otherworldly.

  Framed with thick lashes a girl would kill for, the steely-gray of his irises glimmered in the glare of the aid cars’ lights as if they were backlit. Even though he was hurt, she found him rugged, powerful, and utterly beautiful.

  “I saw you here…earlier.”

  He had to be confused, because if he’d been in, she’d have remembered him. He wasn’t the sort of man she’d ever forget. “Oh really?” she asked, humoring him.

  “You gave him…water. Thank you.”

  “You did see me,” she said, a little startled. She narrowed her eyes, trying to think of where he could’ve been. “Were you…?”

  “Across the street,” he finished. “At the club.” His voice had a rough, hardened edge, which she found oddly soothing. “Are you okay?” he asked, looking around the rubble of the wine shop.

  No, she wasn’t okay. She was shaken up, freaked out, and really, really scared. But she was alive. And unlike him, she wasn’t hurt.

  “I was trapped downstairs in the wine cellar when it happened. I just got out. The only thing I saw was—” She pointed to Marco. “That’s the owner. He’s dead.”

  He glanced over and his expression hardened. He cursed in a language she didn’t recognize. “And you? You’re not injured, lass?”

  Lass? Is he visiting from Scotland or something?

  His concern for her despite the fact that he was in much worse shape struck an unexpected chord. “I’m…I’m fine. Really. Please, let me get you some help.”

  “No. No help for me,” he repeated. “But my dog…”

  She glanced around the destroyed tasting room as if the animal would magically walk out from under the debris. “Dogs have a sense for these things. He probably took off right before it happened
. I’m sure he’ll turn up. Maybe he’s nearby and looking for you.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” He grabbed the back of the chair and tried to push himself to a standing position.

  “Hold on.” She held up her hands but didn’t touch him. She didn’t want to see another laundry list of his injuries again. And once she made contact with an injured person, it was hard not to heal them. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere. What’s your name?” she asked, trying to distract him.

  “Asher,” he groaned. “But I really must leave.”

  “Well, Asher, I’m Olivia, and you really need to take it easy. You’ve got a list of injuries a mile long. And…I mean…” She tried to backpedal. “You seem like you’re hurt pretty badly. You know, just from how you look.” Oh man, she needed to just stop talking or she was going to dig herself into a deeper hole. Of course he looked injured. Any regular person without a Talent could see that. She didn’t need to be acting so guilty.

  He opened his mouth, probably to protest, but just then, a man in a reflective orange vest appeared in the doorway.

  “Hey, if you’re not hurt, I could really use your help out here.”

  She looked at Asher. “I’m not, but he needs—”

  Asher’s eyes turned concrete gray. There was a tiny, yet deliberate shake of his head. I’m fine, he mouthed.

  Okay. That’s bizarre.

  He clearly didn’t want any medical treatment, but given how hurt she knew he was, it didn’t make sense. Maybe he had an aversion to needles or something. If the tables were turned and she was the one with all those injuries, she’d totally go and— No, wait. She wouldn’t be excited to go to the hospital, either. The authorities might find out about her.

  She chewed on her bottom lip. Part of her wanted to go out and help, but the rest of her wanted to get as far away as possible. Out there, she’d be surrounded by injured and suffering people. She didn’t know if she’d be able to resist using her abilities. And if someone were dying…

  The aid worker clapped his hands. “Come on. Let’s go. You’re wasting time.”

  Asher looked at her, a curious expression on his face. “If you’re concerned about me, I’m fine. Just a little shaken up.”

  She had no idea why he was lying about being hurt or why he didn’t want any help, but one thing was certain. This handsome stranger was hiding a few secrets of his own.

  * * *

  When Asher had stumbled to the wine shop a few minutes ago, his only goal had been to find his dog and get the hell out of the city. But that was before he’d realized just how messed up he was. Every inch of his body felt bruised. Broken.

  From where he sat, he looked out through the shattered window and scanned the mayhem for any sign of Conry. Huge, portable spotlights had been erected at the intersections, illuminating much of the area. How strange. He must’ve been unconscious longer than he’d thought. Vehicles, aid cars, and fire trucks, their flashing lights reflecting off the buildings, were everywhere. Uniformed first responders were pushing stretchers toward waiting ambulances while others were covering bodies with sheets. People sat on the curbs in groups of two and three, crying and comforting each other.

  He tried whistling for Conry, but when he did, a sharp pain speared through his torso and stopped him cold. Bloody hell. He couldn’t even call his dog without feeling like he was falling apart.

  A crew from one of the media outlets was interviewing a distraught man, their camera and microphone just inches from his face.

  What would they do if he marched out there and told them that their own military had done this to them? They so desperately wanted to perpetuate the lie that Cascadians were the bad guys because it served their interests if everyone feared them. Had people over here forgotten about the Obsidian Wars, in which the worlds had been divided in the first place? Did they not teach this history to their children, tell them these old stories when they tucked them into bed at night?

  He shifted slightly and grimaced, but when he spotted Olivia leaning over someone on a nearby stretcher, he forgot about his pain for a moment. Her reddish-brown hair fell like a curtain between them. The aid worker must’ve left her, because she was tending to the injured person on her own.

  As he watched, she gently brushed something from her patient’s face. The woman’s skirt had ridden up, baring her skimpy undergarments to the world. Olivia thoughtfully covered her legs with a sheet.

  He found himself mesmerized by the way she moved. Almost like a butterfly. Soft. Fleeting. Gentle. He wouldn’t have been able to tear his gaze from her even if he’d wanted to.

  She tucked her hair behind an ear, exposing the side of her face to him. Her nose turned up slightly at the end, her neck long and graceful. Her lips were moving, and at first, he thought she and her patient were talking. Although she wasn’t far away, there was too much commotion around them to hear what they were saying. But then he noticed the woman’s arm dangling bonelessly off the edge of the stretcher and the slack in her jaw. What could Olivia be saying to an unconscious woman who looked as though she were dead?

  A strange knot formed in his gut as he imagined what it would be like if she were paying that much attention to him. He recalled the sensation her fingers had made on his skin when she’d helped him into the chair. Her touch, though brief, had sent a soothing shot of energy through his body, numbing his pain and easing his discomfort for just a moment. He’d wanted more, hadn’t wanted her to stop.

  Could she have a bit of the Healer’s Talent? Back home on the far side of the portal, those gifted with such Talents generally became village healers, midwives, and herbalists. But this beautiful young woman worked in a coffee and wine shop. Which were healing agents to some, he supposed.

  Closing his eyes, he could almost smell a faint floral scent lingering in the air around him. It reminded him of the clusters of delicate white flowers that grew wild in the Cascadia forests.

  He cradled his bad arm to his chest and tried to keep his breathing shallow. Even though he desperately wanted to fill his lungs with her scent to replace the chalky, sooty cloud he’d inhaled, it hurt too much. Every breath was painful and every cough felt as though his insides were being ripped apart.

  Damn the Fates. He didn’t need this.

  What he did need was to report back to the others. The Iron Guild had long suspected the army was behind the bombings in New Seattle, and now he’d seen it with his own eyes. But he was going to have trouble walking five steps, let alone getting back to his car parked several blocks away. Broken ribs notwithstanding, given how screwed up his knee was and the fact that he must’ve broken his collarbone too, driving a car was going to be next to impossible.

  Opening his eyes, he noticed it had started raining again. Everyone on the street was getting drenched. Bloody hell. On top of everything else, he was going to have to deal with the weather now, too. Could his predicament get any worse?

  Then he remembered Olivia’s employer near the back wall. Yes, things could be worse. Much worse.

  Someone had draped an oversized jacket over Olivia’s shoulders. It fell to her knees, almost to the tops of her cowboy boots. The woman on the stretcher was moving and from where he sat, Asher had a better view of her now.

  Bloody hell. Was Olivia’s patient the woman from the club? Monique? He narrowed his eyes and saw her red hair and blue sequined top. Yes, it had to be her. But hadn’t she been in the back when the explosion happened? She must’ve followed him outside, hoping to change his mind about leaving. An all-too-familiar feeling clawed and twisted at his insides that he might be responsible for the woman being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “Don’t stop.” Monique’s voice carried through the din. He strained to hear more, but as soon as he shifted forward in his seat, he was again met by a sharp, stabbing pain.

  Chewing on her bottom lip, Olivia glanced up and seemed to be searching the chaos around her. Looking for what? She turned back to the stretcher, rubbed her fingertips
with her thumbs and touched the woman’s arm. With closed eyes, Monique smiled thinly. If the setting were different, he would’ve thought she was getting the world’s best massage. Olivia kept her fingertips on the woman’s forearm, and every few seconds, she’d slant a glance to the left and right, reminding him of a prey animal on the lookout for predators.

  Why was she so nervous? Clearly, she was helping the injured woman. Healing her. Unless… And then it dawned on him.

  She didn’t want anyone to know what she was doing.

  It wasn’t just nerves he was reading in her expression. It was fear. Like she was afraid of being caught.

  Suddenly, an aid worker in an orange vest appeared and Olivia jerked her hands away, confirming his suspicions. She’d done that when she’d touched him, too.

  The man shouted into the walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder as he unlocked the brakes on the stretcher. “I don’t know,” he said. “Someone triaged her wrong, thinking her sitch was hopeless.” He paused for a moment, holding the device to his ear. “Well, she’s not dead, so get me a fucking ambulance.”

  The aid worker quickly pushed Monique’s stretcher away, disappearing behind a parked car. Olivia rolled up the sleeves of the coat. Was she going to look for someone else who needed her help?

  He was the one who needed her.

  A plan began to form in his mind—a cruel one, yes, but honorable men, particularly those who were desperate, often had to make difficult choices.

  Olivia turned just as he pushed himself up to a standing position, and their eyes met. She had a wild desperation to her expression, and for a moment, he thought she might shrug out of that huge coat and run like hell.

  He held his breath. If she bolted, he was as good as dead. He didn’t know how long he could continue to refuse medical treatment, but he sure as hell couldn’t get out of here under his own power. At some point, someone would take pity and force him to go to the hospital. And if that happened, they’d do a background check and discover his papers were bogus. It would be only a matter of time until they discovered he wasn’t from this world.