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14
She fell asleep in the car, her PPC falling out of her limp hand onto her lap. Reaching over, Roarke slid it into her pocket, then lowered her seat back.
She worried him. No matter how completely he understood she did what she had to, pushed herself and others because she had no choice, she worried him.
He knew how thin her defenses were when she worked herself into exhaustion.
At least she’d get a few hours’ sleep in her own bed, he thought as he drove them through the gates. And he’d see she ate a decent breakfast in the morning.
He, too, did what he must, and the most important must for him was Eve.
He would have carried her in, and straight up to bed, but she stirred.
“I’m okay,” she mumbled as she pushed herself up to sitting. “I’ve got it.”
“Sleep,” he said as he slid an arm around her on the way to the door.
“Yeah, I’m mostly already there. I need to be up at six. No, five-thirty’s better. I want to clear some things, go into Central, and be ready when they transport Mackie.”
“Five-thirty it is then.”
“I can count on you for that.” She leaned her head toward his shoulder, realized she could have slept standing up. “Does it have to be oatmeal? You’re already thinking about what you’re going to feed me in the morning.”
“Pancakes.” Swamped in love, he brushed a kiss over her hair. “And bacon and berries.”
“And lots and lots of coffee.”
He ended up carrying her the rest of the way, pulling off her boots as she dragged off her coat. Together they got her undressed. She managed a “Thanks” as she burrowed under, and was dead asleep before he slipped in beside her, wrapped an arm around her.
And let himself join her.
—
Eve stood on the circle of white ice with its spreading pools of blood. The wind cut like razors. In the deep, dark night, the blood read black against the white, and the bodies it flowed from were a pale and sickly gray.
She faced the girl, the girl with smooth skin and black dreads and bold green eyes.
And what she felt in that moment, looking into those bold green eyes, was a kind of pity. One she had to shove away, even in dreams.
“I’m better than you,” Willow said with a glinting smile.
“At killing unarmed civilians? Sure, I’ll give you that.”
“Better than you all the way. I know what I am. I like what I am. And I’m the best at what I am. But you? You pretend to be what you’re not.”
“I’m a cop. I don’t have to pretend.”
“You’re a killer, same as me.”
“We’re not even close to the same.” Yet something shuddered through her at the words—Willow’s, her own. “You kill for sport, for jollies. You kill the defenseless and the innocent. Because you can—until I stop you.”
“It’s the kill that counts, and I already have more racked up than you. Reasons don’t matter.”
“Yeah, they do. Who’s running and hiding? Not me.”
“I’m right here.” As the wind whipped, Willow opened her arms. “And you hide every day, run and hide every day from who you are, deep down.”
In the dark night, the red light began to pulse, washing over the white ice. “You did that to your own father.”
