“I don’t either, but I’m telling you, we went to bed and she had nothing with her, but when she woke up, she had the hair and tooth. I can’t explain it. I just know it happened.”
Gill didn’t say anything. There wasn’t much to say. He had been there, had seen her reaction, her terror when she opened her hand. And when she passed out, Gill had been the one who thought she needed to go to the ER. It wasn’t until she woke ten minutes later, teeth chattering from cold—just like Lathan told him she would—that Gill left the room. That was when the shift happened for Gill, when he started to believe.
“What I do is nearly impossible to explain. That’s why we keep it so secret. What if she’s got some weird thing like me?” Part of him felt sorry for her having to go through what she did, but part of him felt less alone too. Like he wasn’t the only person with a freakish ability.
“I’ve been thinking the same thing. Have you ever heard of…?” Gill typed the letters in his phone and handed it to him.
O N E I R O L O G Y. Oh-nay-ruh-ology
“Say it five times in a sentence.” Lathan put his hand on Gill’s throat to feel the vibrations of the word.
“Oneirology is the scientific study of dreams. Oneirology is the scientific study of dreams…”
Lathan memorized the pattern of Gill’s lips moving over the word, the way his mouth opened and closed, the length of the movement, and the vibrations under his fingers.
He put his hand to his throat and tried to form the word, looking to Gill for his accuracy.
“Close enough. Get this. There’s an Institute of Oneirology just outside Sundew. Doesn’t that seem bizarrely coincidental?”
“I wonder if she’s been in contact with them.” The knot in Lathan’s chest clenched. He thumped on it with his fist.
Gill noticed his action but didn’t say anything. “I’m wondering that too. While you were doing your thing with the evidence, I checked them out. Eric says they’ve got serious pull with Homeland Security, but couldn’t find anything else.”
“Why is a place that studies dreams involved with Homeland Security?”
“That’s what I want to know too. I’m thinking we make an appointment for Evanee and ask them all our questions.”
“I’ll ask her about it when she wakes up.”
“She’s not here.”
“What?” Surely he didn’t understand that right.
“She asked me to take her to work.”
The lump of pain in Lathan’s chest felt like it was going to explode. He grabbed his keys off the counter. “Junior’s out there. The Strategist too. And the simple fact that she is somehow connected to his cases puts her danger. If anything has happened to her—”
He ran out of the house to his bike before he could think how to finish his sentence.
Chapter 8
Lathan blasted through the diner’s door. Stopped. Scanned the place. No Honey. But he smelled her scent mixing with greasy food and the musky stench of male desire.
The whisper of last night’s memories wrapped around his brain and squeezed. Junior on top of her sucking at her face like a vampiric demon. Her, so small and fragile in the shower.
His heart fell out of his chest and landed in his boots. He was supposed to keep her safe. That was his compulsion, his duty, his obsession. And he feared he’d failed. Again.
She emerged from underneath the counter, placing a bottle of Tabasco on her tray next to a platter of food.
His heart slingshotted out of his boots and lodged back in his chest. Seeing her safe just wasn’t enough. Touching her was the only way to wash away the stain of panic that still colored the fringes of his world. Before he was even aware of it, he was halfway to her.
Honey delivered the food to a pumpkin-round man who stared at her chest like he was sitting at pervert’s row in a strip club. He wasn’t the only one. That musky stink Lathan had noticed when he walked in… All of it was for her.
He fisted his hands, gripping them so tight his knuckles popped. Oh, how satisfying it would be to rampage down the row of booths, systematically plucking out the eyes of every asshole that ogled her.
She turned. Surprise flared in her eyes at seeing him, and then she smiled a smile so radiant, it rivaled a sunrise. And that smile was aimed directly at him. A gift to him alone.
“Are you all right?” He stopped in front of her, looking her over. She looked safe. Whole. Healthy. Even her bruises from the night before had faded to mere shadows.
“I’m fine. I didn’t mean to worry you, but I had to be at work at four.”
Not knowing her work schedule was a mistake he wouldn’t make again.
She grabbed his hand and led him down the row of booths. He should’ve taken his gloves off. He needed to feel her skin sliding against his.
She stopped at the last booth in the back. He slid in but didn’t let go of her hand.
“What would you like?”
What would he like? He hadn’t been in a restaurant since he was a small child. He couldn’t eat food other people touched. Their scents affected the taste. He could smell every person who had sipped from a coffee mug or used a utensil. Could practically taste their mouths. His stomach rolled end over end.
“If you’ve got a paper cup, I’ll have a coffee.” The roasting process usually eliminated all traces of human touch from the beans. Usually.
“Be right back.”
He hated to let her go, but he forced his hand open to allow her to walk away. That’s when he became mesmerized by her skyscraper legs, by the perfectly rounded globes of her ass, by the sensuous sway of her hips in those hooker sexy shoes. No wonder every man lusted for her. She was sizzle-your-innards hot.
He tore the gloves from his hands. A desperate need rode him. He craved her skin against his like a crack addict craved white rocks.
She returned to his table with a Styrofoam cup, a lid, and the pot of coffee. “Black, right?”
He nodded, his voice buried far beneath the urge to touch her.