Kinked

THREE

Quentin held his side as he limped down the hall, cataloguing the damage from the fight and that monstrously powerful kick. He guessed he had three broken ribs, maybe more. Whatever the damage was, it was the size of Dragos’s boot. His left knee was wrenched badly and he couldn’t bend it. The kneecap felt wrong, like it had been dislocated.

He had also done something exceedingly rare for him. When he had landed against the wall, he had been ass over teakettle, completely out of control of his fall. Usually his fast reflexes saved him from that kind of damage, but not this time.

When he added his bruised, throbbing groin and the claw marks on his back to the list, he was actually more hurt now than he had been throughout all of the Sentinel Games, but for a Wyr of his robust health the injuries were minor. He would want to get his ribs wrapped after Dragos yelled at and maybe fired them, but he’d heal just fine.

His gaze slid sideways. Grym walked between him and Aryal, his Glock pointed casually at the floor.

Aryal walked stiffly, her expression grim and mouth tight. One side of her face had already purpled from his punch. As Quentin watched, her gaze slid sideways toward him. The narrow-eyed glance she gave him was filled with pure evil. Then she looked down at Grym’s Glock, and her expression turned unhappy.

“You’re doing a really good job,” Grym told her, his voice mild and encouraging. “I know what you want to ask, so I’ll answer right now and save you the temptation. Dragos told me to shoot you if you said a word, so yes, I would do as he ordered. He didn’t say where to shoot you though.”

Aryal threw up her hands in a silent question.

Grym told her, “I’d probably tag you on your foot.”

Her mouth turned down at the corners. She shook her head and pointed to her forearm, while Quentin scratched the back of his head and stared at them. They were discussing in all seriousness which body part Grym was going to shoot?

“Okay, not your foot,” Grym amended. “I’d tag your arm. Satisfied? And the point is that you would deserve it. You both would. He really lost it with you. You’re lucky he didn’t shatter your spines and put you in traction for a month.”

Quentin took a deep breath. Both Aryal and Grym turned to him. Aryal looked hopeful while Grym just waited. He let the breath out again silently and Aryal’s face fell.

Grym said, “If that was meant as a question—yes, Dragos has put people in traction before.”

This was the most Quentin had ever heard Grym talk before. They made their way through the outer offices into Dragos’s massive corner office.

Quentin had only been in Dragos’s office once before. His lip curled as he looked around.

Compared to the ostentatious luxury throughout the rest of the Tower, the office was almost Spartan. Mostly the room was empty floor space. There was a huge desk and chair, with two more chairs positioned in front of it, a plain mahogany table pushed against one wall, and original multimedia artwork hung on the two interior walls. The two corner walls were floor to ceiling windows, framing one of the most expensive skyline views in the world. French doors led out onto a balcony patio.

Quentin moved to put his back to the one of the interior walls, crossing his arms and leaning against it for support. He watched as Grym shut the door and Aryal limped over to ease back against Dragos’s desk.

Grym registered Quentin’s position with a quirk of his black, straight eyebrows then walked over to Aryal. He still hadn’t holstered his gun.

The harpy was scowling at the floor, her head bent. Grym flattened one hand on the desk by her hip and leaned on it, angling his head to look into Aryal’s face.

Grym said to her in gentle voice, “You make people crazy. You do realize that, don’t you?”

Aryal made a face then winced and fingered her swollen bruise.

“Your wildness is actually one of the reasons why so many people love you in spite of the headaches you cause. Why Dragos loves you, even though I know he’s never said it. Some Wyr are more tame than others, but we all recognize something of our own wildness in you. Did you know that too?”

Quentin’s gaze narrowed, frowning as he listened. Grym talked quietly, the pitch of his voice clearly intended to exclude Quentin. But the other sentinel could also have talked to her telepathically, so he intended for Quentin to witness but not participate.

Aryal looked up at Grym, questions shimmering in her eyes.

Gripped by a compulsion he couldn’t control, Quentin cheated. Don’t worry, he said to her telepathically, you’re still quite rotten and plenty of other people dislike you intensely.

Renewed fury blazed in her face. She started to push away from the desk, but Grym slammed his hand down on her shoulder and held her in place. Then he glared at Quentin suspiciously and pointed his Glock at him.

Quentin didn’t want to laugh. His ribs sent a stabbing pain right through his chest. He couldn’t believe Aryal didn’t return fire telepathically. Perhaps she didn’t trust herself once she got going. He sure as hell didn’t trust her. She was crazypants at the best of times, let alone when she got angry.

He also hated the appearance of intimacy that Grym had created, and the obvious deep affection Grym and Aryal had for each other. Not only did it speak of long years of intimacy between them, but it highlighted qualities in Aryal that Quentin didn’t want to acknowledge might exist.

He wanted to block out Grym’s voice, but he couldn’t, as the other sentinel turned back to Aryal. “I have a point to make here. There’s a reason why Dragos has given you so much free rein. In a way, you’re kindred spirits. Like you, he has his own hellish temper to grapple with and he creates as many problems as he solves. He knows you love him too, and you’re committed to the Wyr demesne with every bit of that considerable passion you carry inside of you. So if Dragos says you’ve used up all the free rein he’s given you, Aryal, you’d better listen to him, because he meant every word he said out in the hall. I really think this could be it for you. Be careful how you act when he gets down here. Okay?”

The harpy’s angular features sobered as she listened. She nodded.

Grym straightened and turned to face Quentin, his expression growing colder. “Now for you,” he said. “Dragos meant every word he said to you too. You haven’t earned any free rein. A lot of people like you, and it’s probably a lot more than who like Aryal. Most of the sentinels like you. I like you. We also all know that she’s been investigating you for a long time. Dragos knows, because she hasn’t held any secrets back. So what the hell are you doing here, Quentin? Why is she getting under your skin so bad, and what are the rest of us supposed to think when you fly off the handle and continue to attack her?”

All vestige of Quentin’s sardonic humor vaporized as Grym’s words hit him like individual blows. Maybe they shouldn’t have hit him so hard. He had known that some people were suspicious of him just because there had been an investigation. In fact, he had been expecting it. But somehow by what Grym said, or in the way he said it, the other sentinel held up a mirror for him to look in and the reflection was pitilessly uncompromising.

What the hell are you doing here, Quentin?

That was the question. That was the heart of every question.

The office door slammed open. A volcano in the shape of the Lord of the Wyr poured into the room. The walls contracted, and suddenly the office was much smaller than it had been a few moments ago.

Clearly Dragos’s self-imposed, ten-minute time-out hadn’t improved his mood very much.

Dragos looked at Grym and jerked his head toward the door. Grym didn’t say another word. Inclining his head respectfully to Dragos, he holstered his gun, and shot one look at Aryal and another one at Quentin as he walked out, easing the door closed behind him as he went. Aryal straightened from the desk and opened her mouth.

“I have not given you leave to speak,” said Dragos before she could start. “You will both remain silent. I don’t care what he did.” Blazing gold eyes speared Quentin as Dragos said, “I don’t care what she did. I. Do. Not. Give a shit.”

Anger churned in Quentin on a fast boil, and he almost didn’t contain it. He had always bristled at Dragos Cuelebre’s particular brand of dominance. The two worst aspects of becoming a sentinel were facing him in this room, and he held himself clenched like a fist, shaking with the desire to spit in their faces and storm out.

What was he doing here?

Hands on his hips, the dragon studied him and waited.

Quentin returned Dragos’s gaze bitterly and shook his head. No you don’t, you arrogant son of a bitch, he thought. You will not drive me away that easily. I’ve won my way into your Tower by your own rules. If I leave, it will be because I choose to do so for my own reasons, and not because you manipulate me into it.

Something strange flickered across Dragos’s face. If Quentin were pressed to describe what he had seen, he would have said that the dragon almost smiled.

Whatever that subtle expression really was, it was gone almost immediately. Dragos strode behind his desk and turned to face them.

Dragos said, “Do you know what I was doing this morning? I was walking Liam so he would fall back asleep and let Pia stay in bed for a little longer. Then I came across you two jokers brawling all over the hall. I should add, brawling in one of the main hallways of the upper floors in the Tower. You had no idea I was there, did you? You were fucking oblivious to everything else outside of your own vendetta. What if I had been someone else babysitting Liam and taking him for a walk—say, Talia, for example?”

Talia Aguilar was a Wyr selkie and the new head of PR for Cuelebre Enterprises. Sleek and delicately rounded, with soulfully large eyes, Talia was gentle to the bone and didn’t have a single fighter reflex in her.

Sourness churned in Quentin’s stomach. As viciously as they had been fighting, they could easily have plowed into someone like Talia and caused major injury, if not death. A quick glance at Aryal’s tight expression told him that she realized it too.

“I’m banishing the two of you from New York,” Dragos said.

Quentin moved sharply while shock bolted over Aryal’s expression.

Dragos was still speaking in a rapid-fire staccato. It took a few moments for the words to sink in. “… and you are going to work your shit out somewhere else way the fuck away from here. I don’t want to have anything to do with you until then, and let me tell you, nobody else does either. I’m going to give you an assignment. You have to work together on it, or you both lose your sentinel positions. You cannot return before two weeks are up. You cannot stay away longer than a month. That’s your time frame. When you return to New York, you will somehow have made peace with each other, or you both lose your sentinel positions. After the Games, we now have a detailed list of current runners up. It won’t be hard if we have to make that transition.”

He paused to study Aryal’s bone white face and Quentin’s rigid posture.

“You have continued to put extra strain on everybody else, right when they could have used a break,” he said. “So if you make it back successfully and you manage to hold on to your jobs, you are going to work double time until all the other sentinels have had a vacation. That’s how you’re going to make this up to them. For today, you’re going to pack light. Get your affairs in order. Tend to your wounds. Return here at five o’clock for your assignment. Maybe by then I’ll be able to tolerate the sound of your voices. Now, get out of here.”

Seething with reaction, Quentin managed to keep his clenched face turned away as he limped toward the door and Aryal followed.

Not less than two weeks. Not more than a month.

Banished.

With the hellion. Maybe he should just hang himself and be done with it, except he would not give the bitch that kind of satisfaction.

I’ll win this game, he thought. Just like I’ve won every other game I’ve played in my life. Besides, with any luck, the assignment will be dangerous; she’ll get herself killed and save everybody a world of hurt.

Then his eyebrows rose.

He cocked his head.

Of course if that happened, it would have to be obvious to everybody that either her death was accidental, or somebody else had killed her.

There might be some merit to pursuing this train of thought.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Dragos said.

They jerked to a pause and swiveled to stare at him.

In a blast of heat and Power that knocked them back against the wall, the dragon roared, “DO NOT FIGHT AGAIN TODAY OR YOU BOTH LOSE YOUR SENTINEL POSITIONS.”

You know, some days things went wrong in all the right ways.

As soon as she and Caeravorn hit the hall, they shot apart in two different directions. Neither one of them could get away from the other fast enough.

Banishment, with Caeravorn. On some sort of assignment.

With any luck, it would be a really nasty, dangerous assignment.

How horrible. How peeeerrrrfect.

She couldn’t wait to find out what terrible fate Dragos had in store for them, because when would she ever get a chance like this again? Caeravorn was going to be a tough bastard to kill, but she was really good at improvising.

She just had to be absolutely sure his death occurred in some way that allowed her to say with perfect honesty that she didn’t do it, because when she returned to New York either with his (preferably mangled) corpse or alone, those with truthsense were going to be all over her asking questions.

Ugh, her body ached all over. Dragos had purposely stomped down hard when he planted his boot in the middle of her back, and it hurt to breathe. The side of her face was so swollen she could see her cheek out of the corner of her eye. It wouldn’t do to go on assignment already injured, so as soon as she could, she needed to find a healer.

But first, she had something else she needed to do. She went to find Graydon.

He was in the cafeteria, eating breakfast with Sebastian Ortiz, the Wyr wolf who had managed the Games. Ortiz was retired army but still active in civilian work, and he managed security for the parking garage underneath the Tower.

The cafeteria had grown crowded with the breakfast rush. One of the many perks of being a sentinel was an automatic pass to the head of any line, since sentinel business was often urgent and their mealtimes cut short.

Even though she was starving, this time Aryal bypassed the food lines to grab a cup of coffee. When she approached Graydon and Ortiz’s table, Ortiz gave her a civil nod, said a quick good-bye to Graydon and rose from the table. Aryal slid into the seat he had vacated.

Graydon sat back in his seat and shoved his half-full plate of food away. He looked at her bruised cheek, the expression on his craggy face cool and shuttered.

She bit her lip then said, “I’m sorry.”

He crossed his arms and remained silent. Her stomach clenched and her shoulders sagged. He never used to look at her like that.

“Okay, I’m really sorry,” she said softly. She turned her coffee cup in circles. “Did Grym tell you what happened?”

“He told me what he saw,” said Graydon, his voice flat. “You guys had met on the roof, and you were going to get some breakfast when Quentin appeared and went after you like the wrath of God. No talking, no escalation. Boom. So you and I both know that’s not everything that happened. You did something to set him off. Of course you did.”

She didn’t bother to dispute it. She didn’t actually know what had set Caeravorn off, but she didn’t doubt that she had done something. Much as she hated him, she had to concede, he didn’t randomly attack people he disliked.

“I am sorry for the extra strain this has been on everybody, and I will fix it. I swear it, Gray. There’s going to be a rotation of vacation time, and all the sentinels are going to get a break.” She braced herself. “But first Dragos is going to send Caeravorn and me on assignment, and we can’t come back to New York until we work shit out between us.”

At least one way or another.

Inwardly wincing, she waited for an explosion of swearing or at least some kind of expression of disgust. Nothing happened. Graydon didn’t even look surprised.

Her eyebrows rose. “You knew already?”

“I was the one who suggested it,” Graydon said. “Dragos called me to talk over ideas when he put the baby down. His ideas involved more broken bones and bloodshed. At least this way, the conflict is going to get resolved one way or another—you will both work it out, or you’ll be out. We can’t have the sentinels at war with each other, Aryal.”

She blew out a gusty sigh. He echoed her thoughts from earlier almost perfectly. “No,” she said. “I know.”

Finally his cool demeanor warmed. He sat forward and crossed his arms on the table. I’m glad you told me, he said telepathically. Did Dragos just get finished with you?

She dragged her hands through her hair. Yeah.

Graydon smiled at her. And you came straightaway to find me.

She lifted a shoulder and nodded.

He put a massive hand on her forearm and squeezed gently. He told her, You’ve got to come to peace somehow with the fact that no matter how much you hate each other, you’re both sentinels and you have to work together. You have to, Aryal. Nobody wants to lose you.

She muttered, That’s good to know.

They just need the vendetta to stop. Make peace with your dead-end investigation. Graydon leaned forward farther to deepen eye contact with her. His eyes were a darker gray than hers, the color of aged pewter, and the expression in his gaze was hard, the set of his mouth ruthless. Either that or confirm his guilt. I know what Dragos told you. He said to work it out somehow, and he genuinely doesn’t care how. He’s got enough on his plate trying to figure out how to be a new father. I’m the one who’s telling you—you have one more month. Bring home hard evidence and we’ll use it together as nails in Quentin’s coffin. But one way or another, you need to finish this.

I know, she said. I will.

After that, the rest of her day was almost anticlimactic. The next stop on her agenda was to see a healer who eased the pain in her chest and reduced the stiffness and swelling in her face. Then she went to her office to delegate cases, blast through the most urgent of her emails, and make a half-assed attempt at organizing her desk in case someone needed to find something while she was gone.

As soon as she had accomplished all of that, she went back to her apartment, showered and washed her hair and packed (a fifteen-minute task, as she shoved weapons, credit cards, a few changes of clothes and travel toiletries, several candy bars and her e-reader into a backpack).

Then she ate a sandwich and fell into bed to sleep away the afternoon. She was not about to head out on some kind of assignment to unknown places with Caeravorn when she was exhausted. While she was not averse to taking risks, that just seemed like the height of stupidity.

At 4:55 P.M., dressed in lace-up boots, jeans, a black turtleneck and a leather jacket, and carrying her backpack on one shoulder, she walked into Dragos’s offices, which were thrumming with activity. Cuelebre Enterprises never closed at five. She waved at Kristoff, Dragos’s senior assistant, who waved back from his cubicle.

Dragos’s door was shut. There was no sign of Caeravorn. She waited, not very well, tapping one foot. It was probably too much to hope that Caeravorn had seen the error of his ways and quit.

Unbidden, her mind flashed back to their fight from that morning. His body had been heavy and hard as he pinned her to the floor, his muscles like iron. He was strikingly good-looking even when his lips were pulled back in a snarl.

And when their hips had come into alignment, she had felt his cock stiffen. That beautiful penis of his, unmistakably hard and lying flush against her. She knew just what it looked like.

Her breath shortened, and hunger flashed through her body.

“You just say good-bye to your boyfriend?” Caeravorn said from behind her. His tone was as insolent as ever. “You should have probably taken a little more time with that. I don’t sense that you got any real … fulfillment.”

He could smell her arousal. Her mind whited out. Gods, she wanted to claw at him. She whirled to face him just as Dragos’s door opened.

Her gaze clashed with Caeravorn’s. His blue eyes were narrowed, catlike on her. He had dressed all in black. Black jeans, black T-shirt, and a worn, black leather bomber jacket; and like her, he carried a backpack.

“Come in,” said Dragos.

Somehow, Aryal made herself obey, maneuvering her own body around as though it were a marionette. Every nerve ending on her skin was aware of Caeravorn gliding bonelessly into the room behind her.

Once they were inside, Dragos shut the door.

He turned to face them and said, without preamble, “I’m going to send you to Numenlaur.”