“I agree, but that doesn’t explain how he knows I’m even alive, let alone here.”
“I’ve been thinking about that all evening, actually, and I keep coming back to one theory.” Lark sheathed his blade. “Will you hold still for a moment?”
“Why?”
“So I can find out if you’re as free as you think you are.”
Jett froze.
Lark pulled a small electronic device that resembled a credit card out of his pocket. He held it an inch above Jett’s skin and moved it over his body, starting at his forehead and working his way down and around to his back. He paused, staring at the tattoo for a moment before moving on. At least he spared Jett any commentary on the damned thing.
“What the hell are you—” A series of high-pitched beeps cut off Jett’s words.
Devin cursed.
Lark pressed his fingers into Jett’s skin below his right shoulder blade. He leaned forward and met Jett’s stare. “You have a computer chip of some sort, probably a tracking device.”
Jett went ridged. “Take it out.”
“Do you want to go to the town hall to get some local anesthetic and a proper doctor?”
“Get the fucking thing out, now!”
“Fine.” Lark extracted a blade and dug into Jett’s back with the tip. Jett fisted his hands at his sides, a growl ripping from his throat, the pain dull in comparison to the realization of what Lawrence had done. A moment later, Lark pressed a cloth against Jett’s skin and held out a blood-covered electronic chip the size of a penny.
“Here’s how he knew,” the Guardian said.
Jett reached for the scanner. “I need to check Bryce. He was alone with them for hours.”
Silent, Lark handed over the device and stepped out of the way. Jett sprinted down the path.
Chapter Ten
Lexine hummed to herself as she arranged her things in the spare bedroom of her parents’ apartment. Jett’s voice carried from the front of the dwelling and she jumped. She hurried down the hall.
In the kitchen, her parents and Jett knelt around Bryce. Jett held a small, black cell phone-like device in his hand and swept it over Bryce’s back, his arms, and legs. Her mother sniffled and her father’s mouth was set in a thin line, but Bryce stared up at Jett with a faint grin.
“What’s going on?” Lexine focused on Jett.
A bandage made of a torn shirt covered Jett’s shoulder, just above a tattoo and a series of scars that covered his upper arm. Her breath deserted her.
She stood, frozen, staring at the poachers’ insignia and the scars that crossed it like claw scratches, the unique markings on the man in her dream. The man she’d assumed was human, considering no demon had ever worn that accursed symbol. In the dream, the man’s face had always been in shadow, but the tattoo and scars had been as clear as day. Her ears rang, and it wasn’t until her mother’s face filled her line of vision that she realized someone had spoken.
“Lexi?” Her mother’s hands gripped her arms. “Don’t worry. Bryce is fine. Are you all right? You’re so pale.”
Lexine eased into a kitchen chair, her fisted hands in her lap. “What’s going on?”
Jett mussed Bryce’s hair and stood. “A tracking device was found under my skin. I had to be sure Lawrence’s men hadn’t implanted one on Bryce.”
“Oh.” She nodded at her mother. “I’m fine.” She got to her feet. “Jett, I need to speak with you for a moment.”
Leading him into the living room, she rubbed her hands together, racking her mind for the right words.
“You’re shaking.” Jett stopped near the fireplace. Covered in a sheen of sweat and sporting the stained, makeshift bandage, he contrasted with the cozy decor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
She reached toward his scarred and inked arm, but stopped an inch from touching him.
“Shit, I didn’t think.” He jerked away. “Right. I should have found a new shirt. This was not something I ever asked for, I promise you.” He lifted his opposite hand to the tattoo. His fingers lined up with the clawlike scars.
She forced her mind and mouth to work. “Lawrence did that to you?”
“Thornton.”
“And the scars?”
“I was knocked unconscious. When I woke up, anger and perhaps the lingering effects of the drugs, overrode my reason and I tried to scratch the thing off.” He traced the scars. “I’ve been through worse things. This is just the most visual.”
She got to her feet, her lips parted to tell him she’d seen the scarred tattoo before and where she’d seen it. But his words from that afternoon ghosted through her mind:
“Now that I’m out of that hell, I will never be a slave again, in any form. Nor will I tolerate seeing anyone else stripped of their free will,” he’d said.
She’d told him she doubted she could change her future, even though she wanted to, and he’d likened that to the deprivation of freedom he’d experienced in the hands of his captors. Her lack of choice had drawn a stronger reaction from him than the fact that it was a poacher she faced—or thought she’d faced.
Being the destined mate in her dreams would not go over well with him. He was right: there were right and wrong reasons to be with someone, and believing she had no choice in the matter was definitely a wrong reason. But she wanted to see where things would go between them. She’d wanted to get to know Jett before she saw that tattoo. The tattoo didn’t change that, but unless she chose her words with extreme care when she explained, he’d bolt.
“You’re bleeding.” She stepped closer. He’d turned away from her, revealing blood dripping down his back from a fresh cut below his shoulder blade. She gently took his wrist. “Come with me.”
In silence, he offered no resistance as she guided him to the bathroom, but he watched her. His unrelenting gaze tracked her as she soaked a washcloth in warm water. As she used the cloth to wipe away the blood that had dripped down his back, he continued to stare at her in the mirror.
“What are you doing?”
At the raw shock in his voice, she paused, the cooling cloth pressed against the wound. “Has no one taken care of you before?”
He pulled away, but she gripped his arm.
“Hold still.”
“It’ll heal soon,” he said, his tone full of typical macho dismissal. “You don’t need to—”
“I want to. It’ll leave less of a scar this way.” She rinsed the cloth. So many scars covered him already, his back marred from what had to have been whippings. Many whippings. One more tiny mark would make no difference, but maybe a little tenderness would.
She applied cream and an adhesive bandage to the cut, then began to unravel the strips of cotton from his shoulder.
“Lexine—”
“Jett.” Leaving no room for argument in her tone, she held his gaze in the mirror.
He shook his head, but she ignored him and kept going, cleaning and medicating the gash across the front of his shoulder. She applied a real bandage. Instead of setting the tense male free, she soaked the washcloth again.
She pressed the cloth between his shoulders. He shuddered. Tending to the older wounds, she treated them with gentle care, as if the whip had sliced his skin only yesterday. His hands trembled a second before he curled his fingers around the edge of the sink.
Biting her lower lip, she moved to his sides and stomach, where the marks were thinner and strategically located. Surgical scars. An inner fire filled her. She would have ripped out Lawrence’s throat herself had the miserable excuse for a man been in the room.
Clusters of faint scars marked the back of his hand and inside of his wrists. She ran a fingertip over them. “What caused this?”