real family amongst the vampires was one of Nayara’s pet projects.
Ryan wasn’t sure if Nayara or Brenden was the oldest vampire in the Agency, because Nayara had never revealed her real birthdate. Ryan only suspected she might be older than anyone guessed. But if she was the oldest, then it seemed fitting that she supervise the care of the youngest among them.
“They’re fine, Ryan,” she said, her voice soft and gentle with a warmth he rarely heard. The warmth, the caring, made him mentally catch his breath. He forced himself to remain casual and not react to it. The caring was not directed toward him, he knew that. He curled his fingers in so they bit into the reinforced plasma steel of the wall beneath the ledge he was leaning against.
“Something about the station?” he prompted. This systematic probing was an old game for them. Nayara’s memories and responsibilities stretched so far and her mind could make such nebulous connections, that forcing those far-flung connections to the surface sometimes took concerted, organized effort. Ryan had learned never to ignore Nayara when she was troubled. It was not simply a mood or a passing moment. Nayara meant exactly what she said: something deep in her subconscious was tickling, trying to speak to her and she needed help to pull the offending matter out into the open.
It was a game that only the two of them knew about. To everyone else, Nayara was always placid and optimistic, as she dealt with the myriad responsibilities of the station with what looked like little concern or trouble.
Ryan suspected that perhaps only two people still living had ever seen Nayara lose her cool. He was one of them and he suspected Brenden may be another. If there was anyone else alive who had seen Nayara’s white hot temper let loose, they were as silent about it as Brenden was.
“It’s not the station,” Nayara said slowly. “Not exactly.”
“Indirectly, then,” Ryan said. “Something outside the station that is affecting us? Well, that’s a long and distinguished list, these days.”
Nayara gave him a ghost of a smile. Her eyes, so exotically big and slightly almond shaped, were simply beautiful. Especially with the thick fringe of lashes that bordered them. The kohl enhanced them in a way that made them very hard to ignore.
In the space of a heartbeat, but for what felt like much longer, memories crashed through into the forefront of his consciousness. Memories that he usually managed to keep locked safely away. Forbidden memories, of Nayara’s eyes locked on his as he made love to her, driving into her as Nayara begged him for more, harder, faster, in a strained, desperate voice.
So many moments of love and sex. Tender ones. Raw, lusty ones.
Nayara’s gaze catching his across a hundred rooms, a thousand spaces, over hundreds of years, her expression varying from amusement, to horror, to warning of imminent danger...to the one he remembered best: open love.
Ryan realized he was staring at her and yanked his gaze away. “Something to do with the station?” he repeated, as he stared at the floor and worked to contain his heart rate and bring it back to a quieter mode.
“I’m not sure,” Nayara replied. Her shoulders lifted a little, shifting the gauzy mantle. “Perhaps if I leave it alone, it will come to me.”
“When it’s too late, perhaps,” Ryan replied. “Tell me what you’ve been doing these last two days. Maybe something you’ve done, or someone you’ve spoken to has triggered an internal alarm for you.”
Nayara tilted her head and turned to look at him, smiling properly. “You won’t give up now, will you?”
Ryan found himself smiling back. “No.”
Nayara gave a small laugh. “Very well then. I consulted with Fahmido and Natália on the six week review of Jack and—”
“’Jack’?” Ryan repeated.
Nayara’s smile widened even more. “It’s a perfectly fine name, Ryan.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t aware they’d