Chapter Twenty-Two
White Ravens
Scar
Who the fuck is that handsy motherfucker? Scar frowned. And where is he taking Gage at eight o’clock at night?
Scar braced his hands on his thighs to keep from slamming his fist into the bulletproof window.
He wondered if it made him the worst kind of asshole that he was glad Gage couldn’t see what that guy looked like.
Whoever it was escorting Gage—which, where the hell was Roz?—he was the sort of handsome that a sweet Christian mother would love for her daughter to bring home.
He was tall, lean, with an athletic build as if he ran and swam for discipline rather than for health. His clothes and minimal jewelry were expensive without being showy, indicating he had money but didn’t feel the need to flaunt it.
The kind of man who never reached for or touched anything he didn’t think belonged to him.
And he was touching Gage.
Scar kept his eyes on the taillights of the Mercedes S-Class until it turned out of the underground garage.
His jaw worked, grinding in a way that meant his anger was about to become action.
He clenched and unclenched his fists, resisting the urge to test the durability of his window.
If Meridian noticed his fury flowing in the direction of violence, he didn’t acknowledge it. He simply waited and allowed him to look his fill.
When Gage was out of sight, Meridian told his driver. “Go.”
Scar was in a city he’d never visited, and he’d been too busy trying to swallow his temper to take in his new surroundings.
When they stopped at a red light, he finally glanced around.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To work,” Meridian said.
Already? Good.
Scar wouldn’t mind taking out his frustrations on a bad guy right now. His pulse steadied in an odd way. He liked the idea of having permission to be vicious…to kill.
He leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling through his nose.
Meridian sat beside him, too fucking quiet.
It irritated him more than it should. His silence felt like judgment. As if Meridian were watching his wayward emotions and deciding whether they were useful or pathetic.
He cut his eyes towards the notorious Black Raven—or so he’d been told that’s what he was.
His wardrobe designer, Elias, who he noticed loved to gossip, said Meridian was the greatest of them all.
He was gorgeous in an unsafe, sinful way. Ferocity coiled beneath impressive composure.
He wore black on black on black. A tailored suit with midnight velvet lapels beneath a long trench coat with layered armor stitched into the lining.
Elegant on the surface. Lethal underneath.
He couldn’t stop replaying what he’d seen back in the War Room.
The way Meridian’s partner had walked up to him, tilted his head, and licked his lips in asking.
Meridian answering with a kiss. Not vulgar or sloppy, but chaste and intense.
It looked as if it meant everything to a man he’d heard was incapable of emotions.
Scar didn’t know what to do with that, so he found himself questioning him before he could think better of it.
“So, your partner, Ex. He’s…um…”
The sentence dangled for so long he was beginning to think he’d crossed some invisible line.
Meridian turned, and his full gaze landed on him.
Even in the dark, it hit like a punch to his stomach.
“Xavier,” Meridian said quietly, pausing a long moment before he said simply. “He is.”
Scar waited.
Waited.
…and waited
He blinked. “He is…what?”
Meridian looked back out of the window as if in deep contemplation.
“Xavier is too much…and not enough.”
Scar swallowed. Something in Meridian’s voice compressed the space around them.
“He is a light that pierces darkness. He is life, when I loathe living.” Meridian’s tone grew colder. “He is love, though I’m incapable of emotion. He is the reason I stop killing when the job is done.”
Scar stared.
“Xavier is everything, I can’t explain,” Meridian finished. “So I say he just…is.”
“Holy fuck,” Scar breathed.
A few blocks passed before Meridian spoke again.
“I see how you look at Gage.”
Scar’s instinct was to deflect, scoff, or turn it into a joke. But he did none of those.
“I look at him with pity.” He said. “He’s not cut out for this life. He’s no killer.”
“Is that so?” Meridian deadpanned.
“Yes, it is so,” he said harsher than he meant. “Gage’s mission is to get into heaven, not save the fuckin’ world.”
“History tells us God had the fiercest warriors,” Meridian said. “Michael. Gabriel. The Seraphim. You must not read the Bible?”
Scar snorted. “Yeah, sure. My gang had Bible study every Wednesday night, but I never made it since I had choir rehearsal.”
Meridian glared as if he didn’t know what a sense of humor was. “Don’t underestimate what a soldier of God is capable of. Especially when defending the weak.”
Scar frowned. He didn’t care what any of them said. Gage wasn’t built for this.
And he didn’t need a partner anyway. He worked best alone. Always had, always would.
“I’m more shocked you’ve read the Bible. You don’t seem the spiritual type,” he said
Meridian smirked. “Lucifer was in heaven before he was damned to hell.”
The restaurant was the kind of expensive he never thought he’d dine in.
There was no loud music, neon signs, or sticky shit on the floor.
It was all soft lighting, heavy fabric tablecloths, high-backed booths, and fancy place settings that reflected the lights of the chandeliers.
Scar walked inside and immediately wanted to turn around, but Meridian settled right in as if he belonged.
He ordered a drink that Scar had never heard of. It arrived in a short, thick crystal glass with a single cube of ice that appeared hand-cut.
Scar asked for a Blue Moon beer on draft, and the waitress blinked, mouth turned down in disgust, as if he’d asked her for a table dance.
Meridian didn’t save him. Didn’t smooth it over or even glance up from his menu.
Scar cleared his throat, annoyed. “Imported lager.”
When she left, Scar shifted in the booth.
He looked around, cataloging, because it’s what he did when he was in a foreign environment.
Fifteen minutes passed, and Scar’s patience thinned to a wire.
“I thought you said I was working.”
Meridian sipped from his glass.
“You are.”
Scar leaned forward. “Do I have a mark or something?”
“Or something.”
“Come on, man.”
Meridian’s gaze finally met his.
“An assassin without tolerance has already failed,” Meridian said. “The field rewards restraint, and punishes impatience.”
Scar swallowed his frustration. “So we’re just sitting here.”
“We’re working,” Meridian corrected.
Scar opened his mouth to argue, but Meridian didn’t give him a chance as he began to fire off questions.
“What were the hostesses’ names?”
Scar didn’t hesitate. “Lena and Marci.”
“What were they wearing, and one other detail?”
“Black dresses. Lena had gold hoop earrings and Marci wore diamond studs.”
“How many were waiting to be seated when we came in?”
“Seven.”
“Break it down.”
“Four men. Three women.”
“Bartender’s dominant hand.”
Scar paused a beat, closed his eyes, and pictured the sexy bartender who’d just poured the man at the bar more dark liquor.
Dammit.
That was a hard one. But he had a fifty/fifty chance of getting it right.
“Right.”
“Next time, don’t guess.”
Shit.
“Which table has the server been to three times, but they still haven’t ordered?”
“Corner booth. The guy with a military posture whose date looks like a yoga instructor and can’t decide on the watercress salad or the tofu paturi— Whatever the fuck that vegan meal was.”
Meridian’s mouth didn’t curve, but something in his eyes reflected approval.
“Not bad, but you’re still not one hundred percent focused.”
Scar’s huffed.
Meridian was right. Part of his mind kept pulling toward Gage like a magnet. Wondering where he was. What he was doing. Whether Adrian had touched him again.
Meridian’s lowered his voice to that harsh grit.
“Disassociate, Scar. Care for your partner can sharpen your instincts, but fixation will dull them, and that’s when you’re either made or dead.”
Scar exhaled roughly. “I’m trying.”
“Fuckin’ try harder.”
Scar pushed Gage as far back as his mind would allow.
“I want you to go to the bar and get the bartender’s first and last name, how long she’s worked here, what she does in her spare time, her birthday, where she grew up, if she has any siblings, if she lives alone or with someone, and if she has pets.”
Scar hummed under his breath, looking at the mostly empty bar. “I can do that.”
“You got ten minutes,” Meridian added.
“What the hell?” he gaped. “How am I supposed to—”
Meridian looked at his expensive watch. “Now you have nine minutes and fifty-four seconds.”
Scar hurried and pushed out of the booth.