“It isn’t about Ruben. I’m sorry. I should have made that clear. Ruben’s pretty much the same—still in ICU. Ida says you’ve got some high-powered healer coming in to see what he can do, but he isn’t there yet. No, this is about the Cobb case. I have to pull you off it.”
“What?”
“The director’s taking too much heat. Political heat. He’s told me to pull you.”
“The Unit isn’t under the—”
“Ruben isn’t. I’m not Ruben. I can’t call up the president and tell him his appointee is making trouble and to please back him off—not when you don’t have clear jurisdiction. Unless you’ve found something to change the picture?”
“No.” She grudged it, but she gave him the truth. “But I do have a confession. One the police weren’t going to get because he wouldn’t talk to them.”
“That’s good. That’s going to help. It will make the director’s concerns about a conflict of interest less—”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“That’s his reason for pulling you. ‘The inherent conflict of interest,’ he said. And you have to see his point. You took Rule with you. I understand why, but I can’t explain, and Rule is—”
“Lupus, yes.” She bit off each word. “So is the suspect. And if Rule were black, would it be considered a conflict of interest if I investigated a case involving a black suspect?”
“Dammit, don’t twist things around! Rule isn’t just any lupus—he’s the Nokolai prince, their spokesman, the big muckety-muck as far as the press and public are concerned. And in this instance, we can’t assume his interests are the same as the Bureau’s—and you’re engaged to him, for God’s sake.”
“If I were engaged to the head of the NAACP, would I be barred from pursuing cases involving African Americans? Or maybe I shouldn’t investigate any crimes involving Asian Americans. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this or not, but I’m Asian, so there’s an inherent conflict of interest with—”
“Enough.” Croft was angry. “You’re off the case. Book a flight home.” He disconnected.
Lily scowled at the phone in her hand. “Son of a bitch.”
She was off the case. Lily was off the case, which meant this might be Rule’s only chance to grant Cobb’s request. She’d be flying back to San Diego. Willy-nilly, he would have to go, too. For the first time he was pissed, royally pissed, about the mate bond’s restrictions.
Blood pounded in Rule’s temples. He was abruptly aware of the tiny room, the locked door. That unease had been present all along, but it exploded in him now, his wolf howling, Out, out, out!
He could signal Cobb to Change right this second, then kill him. It was the honorable action, the decent action. Cobb had killed, but he’d killed due to some terrible defect, not from evil intent. The man wouldn’t survive in any meaningful way, locked up for days and weeks and years, shot full of gado so he couldn’t escape. Death, quick and as near painless as Rule could make it, was his choice—one he had a right to make.
Out, out, out!
But if Rule killed Cobb, it would reverberate on Lily. She’d brought him here. She didn’t have Ruben standing behind her now, and Friar’s people would create a huge stink. She could lose her job. Being a cop—that’s what Lily was. It was a matter of identity, not income or status or achievement.
Honor demanded the one thing he could not do.
Rule shoved to his feet and looked down at Cobb. “I am sorry. I do not refuse your request, but I must delay granting it.” He looked at Lily. “I need out. Now.”
Conflict rode across her face like a crosswind ruffling the water. But she didn’t hesitate. She went to the door, thudded on it with her fist, and called out to the cop on the other side.
The door opened. Rule’s chest was a bony kettledrum for the mallet of his heart. He spoke without looking at her. “I’ll find my own transportation.” He didn’t let himself run, but he walked very quickly—out the door, and down the hall. And kept on walking.
ELEVEN
BACK when she was a homicide cop, Lily had slept in her own bed every night—or as close to it as made no difference, given her stunted social life at the time. As a special agent in the Unit, she slept in lots of beds. The one at the Doubletree was better than most—plenty big, and the mattress didn’t resemble a rock. The room itself was pleasant enough, with honey beige walls and a comfy armchair. But there wasn’t much space for pacing.
Lily did her best. She reached the window, turned, and headed back along the aisle between the bed and the armoire that held the TV. The demon’s-eye-red numerals on the clock watched her from the bedside table.
Ten-oh-seven.
Rule had stalked out of the hospital around seven twenty. She hadn’t seen him since. Or heard from him. She knew roughly where he was—about ten miles southwest of the hotel. He was alive. That was all she knew. She’d tried calling. No answer.
She expected this sort of thing from Cullen. If he got too angry, he took off until he could cool down. That had been necessity for a lone wolf; it was habit now, she supposed. Rule was not a lone wolf. He’d never done this before, taking off without a word. Was he that angry at losing the chance to kill Cobb? Was something else going on?
Lily was pretty sure she could check the “something else” box. But what?
Eight steps to the door. Turn. Head back.
She’d eaten. She couldn’t remember what, but she’d eaten something, assuring herself that Rule wasn’t an idiot. No matter how upset he was, he’d have made sure his wolf was fed.
He was not himself, though, was he? He’d been cooped up too much today—first in an airplane, then in that tiny room at the hospital. That had to part of this. Whatever the hell “this” was. It involved him needing to run. She knew that much because he’d told his guards.
Not her. He hadn’t called her.
Lily stopped just short of the curtain, turned, and paced back toward the door.
When Sjorensen dropped her off at the hotel, Lily had thought Rule might already be in their room. Instead she’d opened the door on LeBron. Jeff had not been in the adjoining room, as she’d immediately assumed. LeBron explained that he’d gone running with Rule.
A quick flash of anger had stiffened her. It hadn’t lasted, but she was glad she’d been angry at first. Better for LeBron to see her angry than worried. There was a lot Lily didn’t understand about lupi dynamics, but she knew it was best if LeBron wasn’t frightened for his Rho.
She’d asked LeBron to guard her from the adjoining room and she’d ordered dinner and she’d Googled Warner Park, because that’s where Rule had gone to run, according to LeBron. It was in an area that ought to have cell service. She’d tried calling again.
Nothing. While waiting for room service, she’d very sensibly started writing her report. The Cobb case might not be hers anymore, but the paperwork was. Dinner arrived and she ate, then called Ida to check on Rubin. Ida said the secretive healer had arrived at the hospital. No word yet on whether he’d be able to help.
That’s when she made the mistake of turning on the news. First she watched a pasty-faced guy ranting about how America was being destroyed by nonhumans who wanted to eat people. His pale eyes brimmed with tears at the idea. That hadn’t done much for her digestion. She’d switched to a channel where another talking head was interviewing Friar.
That’s when she started pacing.
For the first time in nearly a year, Lily felt the loneliness of a hotel room. The emptiness. And if—