A click of sound.
She snapped up her head to see the driver’s-side door sliding back. Dev got in, his tall, muscular body taking up what felt like every inch of spare space. “Here.”
Accepting the take-out drink container he held out, she frowned. “This is heavy for juice.”
“Milk shake,” he said, unscrewing the lid on a bottle of water and putting a spare bottle in the holder between them. “That’s for you, too.”
“Thank you.” The cold of the milk shake seeped through the insulated container, a small thing, but she luxuriated in it, in the reminder that she was no longer in the dark.
“I made a call while I was in there,” Dev said, surprising her. “The panther? It’s a real memory.”
“Oh.” A slow bloom of hope unfurled. “Are you certain?”
A quick nod that sent his hair sliding across his forehead, drawing her eye. Pushing it back, he looked at the container she held. “Drink.”
Aware she’d likely never tasted such a thing before, she took a cautious sip. Nothing came up. “The straw’s defective.”
Dev shot her a quick grin. It altered his face, turning him strikingly beautiful. But that wasn’t the odd part. The odd part was that seeing him smile made her heart change its rhythm. She lifted her hand a fraction, compelled to trace the curve of his lips, the crease in his cheek. Would he let her, she thought, this man who moved with the liquid grace of a soldier . . . or a beast of prey?
“Did I say milk shake?” he said, withheld laughter in his voice. “I meant ice cream smoothie—with enough fresh fruit blended into it to turn it solid.” Glancing at her when she didn’t move, he raised an eyebrow.
She felt a wave of heat across her face, and the sensation was so strange, it broke through her fascination. Looking down, she took off the lid after removing the straw and stared at the swirls of pink and white that dominated the delicious-smelling concoction. Intrigued, she poked at it with the tip of her straw. “I can see pieces of strawberry, and what’s that?” She looked more closely at the pink-coated black seeds. “Passion fruit?”
“Try it and see.” Handing her his water bottle, he started the car and got them on their way.
“How would I know?” She put his water in the holder next to the unopened bottle. “And I need a spoon for this.”
Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a plastic-wrapped piece of cutlery. “Here.”
“You did that on purpose,” she accused. “Did you want to see how hard I’d try to suck the mixture up?”
Another smile, this one a bare shadow. “Would I do that?”
It startled her to realize he was teasing her. Devraj Santos, she thought, wasn’t supposed to have a sense of humor. That was something she just knew. And, it was wrong.
That meant the shadow-man didn’t know everything, that he wasn’t omnipotent.
A cascade of bubbles sparkled through her veins, bright and effervescent. “I think you’re capable of almost anything.” Dipping in the spoon, she brought the decadent mixture to her lips.
Oh!
The crisp sting of ice, the cream rich and sweet, the fruit a tart burst of sensation. It was impossible not to take a second bite. And a third.
Though he kept his eyes on the road, Dev was acutely conscious of Katya eating up the smoothie. She was concentrating so hard on the treat she appeared to have forgotten all about him. The clawing protectiveness in him relaxed—he’d found something she’d eat. And if he had to feed her those things for the next month, she would put on weight.
She was of enemy blood. It would be in his best interests to keep her weak.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. That ruthless voice was as much a part of him as the protectiveness, no getting around that—but these days, it dominated more and more. On the flip side, he thought, the Santos family tree was also lucky enough to contain an empath, a woman gifted with the ability to heal emotional wounds—maybe his great-grandmother’s blood would save him from becoming a complete and utter bastard. That was what she’d predicted the last time he’d seen her.
“So much iron in your heart, boy,” Maya had said. “I touch you and I taste metal.”
“It’s part of who I am.”
“You think it makes you strong.”
He hadn’t argued.
“This isn’t why my parents left the Net,” she’d said, a scowl marring her delicate features. “They fought for our right—your right—to feel, to live as you wanted. Instead, you’re becoming so cold you might as well be Psy.”
His great-grandmother had been a child at the time of the defection, and, as with the others of her generation, it had been the defining moment of her life. What the old ones didn’t understand was that the war had never ended, that iron-hard choices were all that kept the Forgotten from extinction.
And Dev wasn’t yet bastard enough to shatter the heart of an empath.