Page 20 of Warrior

I can’t make out his words, but he disappears around the bar and out of sight a second later.

Gabriel takes his place. He seems fine—physically untouched anyway. No bruising, no circles under his eyes. He isn’t addicted to anything except vengeance, I’d bet. His dark hair is growing out a little, and his blue eyes are as clear as ever.

He’s beautiful, and as bad as it is, I can see exactly why the people at Terror held on to him so tightly. In that regard, he reminds me of Kade. Similar bone structure in the face, high cheekbones. The only difference, of course, are their frames. Where Gabriel is tall and lean, Kade is a boulder.

I should not think about Kade Laurent anymore.

We stare at each other, and he cracks a smile. His face comes alive with it, an utter transformation, and I dig my nails into my thighs.

“You’re looking… alive,” he comments.

“Wasn’t that the point?”

“No.” He leans on the bar, propping his chin up on his hand. “No, stabbing you was kind of a gamble. And Antonio… did Kade get to him in time? He was so disappointed in me.”

I narrow my eyes, but I don’t mention Saint and Reese. I heard that both were there, although I think I passed out before they arrived.

It wasn’t until I woke up in the hospital two days ago that I even learned Antonio survived.

“You had a nurse drugging me, and you don’t know if Antonio made it?”

He grins. “Oh! You caught me. Yes, my little birdies are all over the city. They sing the most delicious songs to me…”

From his pocket, he withdraws a syringe. It’s capped, the liquid already filled in the chamber. He holds it up, pretending to examine it.

My attention on it sharpens. I can’t help it—there’s a physical reaction inside me. Like something being yanked just behind my navel.

“What is that?” I ask carefully.

“Heroin,” he replies.

Sweat breaks out across my back.

“You knew that, though, tricky Artemis.” He holds out his hand, flat on the bar top with his palm up. “Give me your hand.”

I don’t want to.

But there’s a promise of relief if I do.

“Time is running out,” he murmurs. “How long do you think the sheriff will keep Saint busy?”

I start, leaning back. How the fuck does he know that?

“Now, now, I just told you.” His expression becomes ambivalent. “Little birdies everywhere.”

That’s not good. I glower at him, but his fingers just wiggle on the bar. Waiting for my hand. The syringe is still in the other. My head is splitting open. Everything is beginning to hurt, pain creeping back in all over me the longer I sit on this stool.

I give him my hand.

His fingers slide down, wrapping around my wrist, and he puts the syringe sideways in his mouth. He uses his now-free hand to shove the sleeve of my sweatshirt up, exposing the gauze tape covering where the IV was inserted.

He runs his thumb over it, then peels up the tape. Just one side. There’s a dark-red spot from the previous needle.

When I try to withdraw, he holds fast. “You need this,” he says. “I know you don’t think so, but I want to help you take away your pain.”

“Answer something for me.” My voice wobbles, but I push ahead. “Shouldn’t you be anti-drugs?”

He bites the cap off. Quicker than anticipated, and with easy practice, he slides it into my skin. He pulls the plunger back a fraction, satisfied when drops of blood enter the chamber with the heroin.

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