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"You're unbelievable," she murmured, but there was humor - and no small amount of interest - in her eyes. "You have at least two dozen bullet holes in you, in case you didn't realize that."
He didn't, and, in fact, he hardly felt the bandaged wounds now. All he felt was his Breedmate, his precious Mira, warm and sweet in his arms. He ran his hand down her back, to the firm curve of her behind. He groaned, rejoicing in the feel of her under his hands, and pressed up against the length of him. "One of us has too many clothes on."
He wanted to lighten the moment, and, yeah, he was glad as hell to be alive and breathing again - best of all, to be doing it lying next to the woman with whom he hoped to spend a good long eternity. So glad he could think of no better way to celebrate the occasion than burying himself deep within the haven of Mira's delectable body.
But she was having none of it right now. She levered herself up on one elbow beside him, all serious. Her gaze was sober, her breath shaky as she let out a quiet curse. "I thought I lost you today, Kellan. I watched you die. I felt it." A crease formed between her light brows, eyes lowering as she slowly shook her head. "I wanted to hate you for surrendering yourself back at the Darkhaven in Maine. I think I did hate you for that, just a little. I wanted to make our time together last, and you took that away from me. From both of us."
He caressed her face and silky hair, swallowed on a dry throat. "I didn't mean to hurt you again. I didn't want to see you throw away your past - throw away your family - the way I had done. I didn't want you to face the same kind of impossible decision I did. I didn't want you to make my mistake."
"I know that now," she said, lightly stroking her fingers over his wounded chest. "It took almost losing you for good to understand what you'd done for me that night." She glanced back up at him, mouth twisted wryly. "That doesn't mean I'm not still pissed, by the way."
He arched a brow, let his hand drift down her arm, then along the swell of her breast. "I look forward to making it up to you." Then, tenderly, he lifted her chin and kissed her, unrushed and reverent. "You're mine, Mira. I love you. I should've told you that a hundred times before. I'm not going to blow that chance again. I have a second chance, and I'm going to make it right."
"We do have a second chance," she murmured softly. "But where will we begin? You're dead, Kellan. You and Bowman both. It's been reported all over the country, probably all over the world. The public wanted their vengeance, and the GNC was all too eager to tell them justice had been served."
He considered for a long moment. "Candice and Doc and Nina . . . ?"
"Lucan released them this morning, before you were brought in front of the Council. They would've heard by now that you were shot and killed." She stared at him, a fierce intensity in her eyes. "No one outside the Order can ever know any different, or your life will be in danger all over again. I can't bear that kind of worry. Not ever again."
"I won't ask you to," he said, smoothing away the tension around her pretty mouth. He exhaled sharply, sardonic. "Do you think you can love a ghost?"
"I loved one for eight years."
"So you did. Thank God you did." He caressed her cheek, the desire he felt for her flaring even brighter when he thought of how faithful she'd been to him. Steadfast and strong. She'd been his partner always, in every way. After all they'd been through, he wasn't about to let a little thing like death stand between them and their future together.
And he wasn't about to let anyone hurt Mira or the others he cared about. Which meant his new mission had become doing whatever he had to in order to bring down Benson and uncover the truth behind the name that the corrupt councilman had given in Kellan's final conscious moments at the hearing.
Opus Nostrum.
Kellan sat up, his blood pounding at the sudden recollection of Benson's guilt.
"What's wrong?" Mira asked, rising with him. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and she crawled behind him. "What are you doing?"
"I need to talk to Lucan."
"About what?"
"Benson." He stood up, expecting to feel weak or wobbly, but his legs held strong, bolstered by his Breedmate's blood. Even his wounds felt insignificant. He peeled one of the bandages away and found the bullet hole healed over, puckered and pink but already growing new skin. Kellan unwrapped the rest and tossed the dressings into a nearby trash bin. Someone had left a pair of sweats and a T-shirt on the table beside the bed. Kellan hastily put the pants on. "Lucan needs to hear what I found out from Benson today.">Filthy rich and oily with a born salesman's ready grin, Crowe strolled over in his black tux and white shirt, a slender flute of bubbling champagne caught between the fingers of his left hand. He was tall and fit, carried himself with an air of entitlement - of ownership of all he laid eyes on - that made Lucan want to punch the arrogance out of him on sight. Crowe's thick yellow mane held the golden glint of a Krugerrand, slicked back tonight, making his broad grin seem to take up even more of his Mediterranean-baked face.
"Chairman Thorne," he said, that grin seeming even tighter, far less friendly, up close. "Good evening to you."
Lucan had little choice but to take the offered hand and give it a firm shake of greeting. But he didn't have to curb his glare as Crowe's gaze shifted to Gabrielle. He looked her over from head to toe, stunning in her simple dove gray sheath and delicate heels. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure."
"My mate," Lucan snarled. "Gabrielle."
She gave a polite nod of her head and Crowe's face lit up with appreciation. "Enchanted, to be sure." He bowed slightly, then gestured with his champagne glass. "May I get you a cocktail or some hors d'oeuvres? It would be my pleasure to serve, Lady Thorne."
Gabrielle's smile went a bit strained at the unwanted attention. "No, thank you."
"What do you want, Crowe?"
Crowe swung his head back to Lucan. "Actually, I wanted to commend you on the decision to move forward tonight with the gala. Director Benson would've wanted that, I have to believe. He and the rest of the GNC - yourself included, of course - have done so much to make this summit happen. It would've been a shame to see it fall apart at the last minute."
Lucan grunted in acknowledgment. "Especially after you've obviously invested so much into the event personally."
Everywhere he looked he saw Crowe Industries' stamp on the party: from the security staff to the catering service and video crew broadcasting the reception for the rest of the world. For crissake, even the ten-man orchestra at the back of the lavish hall played under a digital banner bearing Reginald Crowe's smirking image.
And then there was the centerpiece of the man's ego - the crystal sculpture he was to dedicate to the GNC tonight in commemoration of First Dawn and the summit's mission of securing true peace - situated in the center of the grand hall. At least this wasn't a blatant ode to Crowe's arrogance. Not the life-size likeness of the man that Lucan had half expected but a tall obelisk carved of glittering, multifaceted crystal. The ten-foot sculpture tapered at its peak, on top of which sat an orb that gleamed as flawless and cool as a diamond but glowed faintly at its center in palest shades of peach and gold.
