Page 129 of The Immortal’s Mark

“He never said someone was working against me,” I rush to correct him, suddenly anxious that he will storm off and confront someone. “He just said he’d be here if I need anything. It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“We will see,” he grits out. “I’ll speak with him in the morning.”

His gaze cuts back to me, firm now. “Until then, I need you to go inside and sleep. I will keep watch outside your door.”

“Is that really necess⁠—”

“Yes,” he cuts me off, “it is. Now, go inside. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Any other day, I might argue.

But tonight? I don’t have the energy.

I nod and slip into my room.

I fling myself onto the bed and drag the covers over my body, staring up at the ceiling while my heart hammers against my ribs, too fast. Too loud.

The reality of the danger the task force faces settles over me in a suffocating wave.

And the worst part?

This fear clawing at my chest, this sick twist in my gut, tells me we haven’t seen anything yet.

Not even close.

31

DARCIE

I sit on the balcony that extends off the second floor of the Virginian safehouse, unease threatening to choke me as I sit under the late-morning sun.

The view of D.C. stretches beyond a line of tall pine trees, the distant skyline framed in deep green. My bare feet are tucked beneath me, and I stare out at the city as if answers will rise from the stone and glass.

The house behind me hums with activity. Footsteps. Doors closing. Low murmurs. The air inside is thick with purpose.

But the one thing stealing all my focus is the prisoner currently in the middle of an interrogation.

Screams of pain echo through the walls. Shouts of agony ring in my ears.

Alex hinted he wouldn’t hesitate to resort to such methods if it meant getting the information he needed.

I just didn’t realize how unnerving it would be to hear it.

So I spend most of the morning outside, trying to convince myself it doesn’t matter what happens to one of Adir’s followers.

What matters is Bella.

The captured stranger is our best shot at finding her. Alex and the others are doing what needs to be done to end this conflict.

Or so I keep telling myself.

The ethical argument circles endlessly in my mind.

The patio doors slide open behind me.

I stiffen and glance over my shoulder.

My mother steps out, closing the door quietly behind her. She walks to the second lounge chair with measured grace, like she’s approaching a wild animal that might bolt.