It was everything he remembered about her. Except now she was clearly in distress, her skin too pale, her eyes too wide, her hand shaking as she raised it to her throat as if to protect herself.
His fighting palm actually reached forward for her, as if there was something he could do to relieve her suffering, as if he could help her in some way.
It was a gesture that would have to remain forever in the shadows. She knew he was here, and that was probably why they were taking her away.
And she was scared of him now. Likely because she knew he was her enemy.
The two males packed in with her, the taller one getting behind the wheel, the one he'd fought slipping in beside her in the back.
Without his being aware of it, his palm sneaked inside his jacket, and found his gun. The temptation to flash into the path of that vehicle, kill the two males, and take what he wanted was so great, he actually shifted his position down the street.
But he could not do that to her. He was not his fath - he was not the Bloodletter. He would not torture her conscience for the rest of her days with such violence - because surely she would extrapolate and blame herself for the deaths.
No, if he ever had her, it would be because she came unto him of her free will. Which was an impossibility, of course.
And so. . . he let her go. He stepped not into the path of the motorcar to put a bullet through the forehead of the driver. He did not then rush forth, shoot the one in the backseat, and turn about to kill the female soldier who was, as of this moment, directly behind him by about half a block. He did not infiltrate the vehicle, lock the Chosen in and drive her off to somewhere warm and safe.
Whereupon he would take those dreadful human dressings from her skin. . . and replace them with his naked body.
Dropping his head, he closed his eyes and recalibrated his thoughts, reining them in, steering them away from the fantasy. Indeed, he would not even use her as a way to find the Brothers: that would be signing her death warrant sure as if he could actually write his own name.
No, he would not use her as a tool in this war. He had already compromised her too much.
Pivoting in the snow, he faced the direction of the one who was behind him. That the soldiers had left with the Chosen instead of fighting with him was logical. A female such as she was a highly valuable commodity, and they'd likely called in many reinforcements for the trip to wherever they were going.
Interesting that the one they had picked to stay behind was of the fairer sex. They must have assumed he'd give chase.
"I sense you clear as day, female," he called out.
To her credit, she stepped into the light of a doorway down the alley. With short hair and a tight, powerful build that was encased in leather, she was definitely a female fighter.
Well, wasn't this a night for surprises: If she was associated with the Brotherhood, he had to assume she was dangerous so this could be fun.
And yet, as she confronted him, she took out no weapons. She was prepared, though - indeed, her stance told him she was ready to do what she must. But she was not on the offensive.
Xcor narrowed his eyes. "Too ladylike to fight?"
"You are not mine to take. "
"So whose am I. " When she didn't reply, he knew there was a game afoot. The question was, what kind. "Nothing to say, female?"
He took a step toward her. And another. Just to test where the boundaries were. Sure enough, she didn't retreat, but instead slowly unzipped the front of her jacket as if she were ready to get at her guns.
Standing in that pool of light, with the snow falling around her and her boots planted on the white, fluffy ground, her black figure cut quite a picture. He wasn't attracted to her, however - mayhap it would be easier if he was. Someone with her intrinsic harshness might fare better in the face of his. . . face, as it were.
"You appear rather aggressive, female. "
"If you force me to kill you, I will. "
"Ah. Well, I shall keep that mind. Tell me, do you tarry here for the pleasure of my company?"
"I doubt there'd be much pleasure in it. "
"Right you are. I am not known for my social graces. "
She was tracking him, he thought. That was the reason she was here. In fact, he had had the sense since the earlier part of the night that there had been a shadow on him.
"I'm afraid I shall have to be going," he drawled. "I have a feeling our paths shall cross again, however. "