Hostage to Pleasure

“Anything?” He’d never heard of a Psy with that power.

She shook her head. “No, their scope is limited. Some can reset bones, while others can seal wounds—the types of things that might be needed in the field. The healing abilities apparently appeared in children born during the Territorial Wars, though there’s no proof of that. As far as I know, no M-Psy can psychically cure diseases or reverse hereditary conditions. May I continue?” A scientist’s cool question.

He wanted to bite her. “Go on.”

“The scanning you mentioned is the most well-known and prevalent manifestation of the M designation. My ability is a subset of that—I can’t see broken bones or diseased organs, but it’s because my mind sees too deep.”

“How deep?”

“To the DNA level.”

His cat’s attention was momentarily diverted from the seduction of her skin. “No one can do that. It would make you a walking DNA scanner.”

“Yes,” she said, not seeming to realize she’d maintained constant eye contact. “Only a very small percentage of the M designation possesses the ability. Even fewer master it to the level where we become more accurate than the machines.” Her eyes traced his lips and his entire body grew taut with the caress—she might not call it that, but that’s what it was. She was stroking him. Purring inwardly, he didn’t move, didn’t break the spell.

“Because of available equipment,” she continued, “it’s a fairly redundant ability in itself. You have to pair it with study—it was my knack for working with nanotech and implants that made me of interest to the Council. My ability gives me an edge with technology at that level of miniaturization.”

He wondered what she’d do if he gave in to temptation and flicked his tongue along her full lower lip. “How does your gift work?” he asked, curling his hand into a tight fist. “You see me and know my genetic blueprint?”

She shook her head. “Not quite. Depending on what I’m searching for, it can take hours, days, weeks, sometimes months, to tease apart the DNA.”

“Why tell me all this?” He was a leopard sentinel. Even half-insane with this unwanted craving, his brain cells were working just fine. And he knew there had to be a reason for her unusual openness. “What do you want?”

She bit her lower lip.

His blood rushed to his cock. The roaring in his ears was so loud, he almost missed her next words.

“I want your DNA.”





CHAPTER 20


A kiss is a melding of mouths. I’ve considered every aspect of this form of affection since the last perplexing dream, but I still don’t see the point of it.



—From the encrypted personal files of Ashaya Aleine





Surprise hit Dorian hard. “You obviously weren’t this blunt with the Council.”

“I can play political games if necessary.” Cool voice, jittery heartbeat. “It’s not who I am.”

He believed her. “Are you planning to mutate my DNA?” he teased.

“Obviously not.” She straightened out her legs, stretching until her toes touched the clear glass of the French doors.

He looked at her primly cut, unpainted nails and felt another urge to bite. Then she said, “If I planned to get rid of you, I’d do it silently and with such efficiency that everyone would think you’d died a natural death.”

If any other woman had made the threat, he’d probably have grinned and said something about never making her mad. But this wasn’t any other woman. Ashaya was a scientist who’d spent years in the arms of the Psy Council. She was also the only female to have ever threatened his control. “You could try.” It was a soft, lethal threat.

Ashaya hadn’t expected that response, though why, she couldn’t say. It just seemed wrong on a fundamental level. “Would you kill me?”

“No. There are other ways to break a woman.” An answer that told her nothing, but tore a ragged hole in that primitive core Dorian alone seemed to awaken. She staggered under the mental injury, scrambling to regather her defenses.

And in that instant, Amara found her again.

Naughty, naughty, Ashaya. Trying to hide.

Ashaya broke the connection with the frantic speed of experience, knowing she was only patching up the cracks, only delaying the inevitable . . . but she didn’t want to kill her twin. Because no matter what else she’d done, Amara had upheld the bonds of sisterhood—she’d never revealed Ashaya’s secrets.

Feeling psychically battered, she raised her head to find Dorian scowling at her. “Your eyes just bled to pure black,” he said, looking at her with a quiet intensity that reminded her of the predator he was.

“I didn’t expect you to threaten me,” she said, but couldn’t stifle the urge to ask, “Is Keenan still safe? You haven’t had any reports of problems?” She didn’t care what it betrayed, she had to know her baby was okay.