Chapter 3

ANITA

I'm not dead.

That's my first thought when I wake up. The second is wishing that I was when the aches and pains in my body make themselves known. I groan, then freak the fuck out when I feel something touch my arm.

With a yelp, I jerk wide fucking awake and start swinging, even before my eyes open. Just as my fist connects, my gaze locks on the most gorgeous man I've ever seen in my life.

The man grunts when my fist lands, but my blow doesn't even rock his head to the side.

"Ouch," I mutter, glaring at the big dude as I cradle my abused hand to my chest. "Are you made out of rock or something?"

"Or something," he says, not missing a beat, completely unfazed by my attack. His concerned gaze drops to my hand, then he grabs hold of it, ignoring me when I try to pull away. My skin tingles at his touch, unused to much physical contact.

We play tug-of-war for a few seconds before I huff and give up. If I'm honest with myself, something about the feel of his callused hands on my skin makes me want to throw myself into his arms. Ignoring that disturbing thought, I take stock of my surroundings—we're in a small room that contains a cot, a chair the big man is sitting on next to my bed, and a small end table with a glass of water on top.

The room is dim, almost comforting, but I don't make the mistake of relaxing.

I'm wearing little more than a sheet, a tiny camisole that barely covers my tits…and I wince when I realize that it's granny panties day.

While I don't care that they've practically seen me naked, I tug up the sheets a little, not liking the vulnerable sensation crawling up my neck.

I hate being vulnerable around…well, everyone.

I should be desperate to get away, I absolutely hate having anyone touch me, but something about his nearness is calming. In my family, touch usually means a pain. Oddly enough, the stranger radiates comfort and warmth, the alien sensation making me want to linger. I sit docilely, taking my time to study him, not protesting as he carefully wiggles each finger.

Even sitting, the man is big.

No, not just huge.

He's fucking massive.

His thumb practically spans my wrist alone. Heat radiates from him, but I don't sense that he's a mage like me. He avoids my gaze, as if he's trying to evade detection, which is hilarious given how much space he takes up in the tiny room. His hair is shaved in the back and up the sides, but the strands on top of his head are thick and wild. His red hair is so dark, it resembles a deep mahogany that makes me want to reach out and weave my fingers into the messy waves, the dark streaks of red and blond reminding me of flames.

When I catch him peeking at me from the corner of his eye, I notice his eyes are black—like, completely black. The only thing that breaks up the color is a tiny ring of molten silver around the outer edges that almost seems to swirl under my gaze.

I'm so distracted by watching him, I don't notice that he's basically stroking my hand. "Nothing is broken."

His voice is so dark and growly that it contains a thread of menace to it. Instead of reacting like a normal person, all my girlie bits sit up and take notice. When he turns my hand over and runs his thumb up the underside of my arm, I can't stop my full body shiver, and damn if my nipples don't tighten, begging for his touch.

"I'm not sure if these will scar or not. They are already fading a bit." He rubs his thumb over the silvery lines that branch their way up my arms. This time, I know he did it on purpose, those dark eyes of his cataloging every reaction as he does it. "Cassius will know more."

The lines he mentions go all the way up to my shoulder, but they grow lighter as they go. There is a thick band of what looks like bruises around my wrists, and I suddenly remember everything.

The arrest.

The threat to send me to prison for a crime I didn't commit.

Then losing my temper.

I close my eyes and mentally sigh. "Yeah, that wasn't one of my better moments. That dickhead just pissed me off. If I was going to prison, then it might as well be for something I'm guilty of doing, right?"

"So you're saying that you didn't blow up that building?" a harsh voice speaks from the doorway, and I guiltily jerk away from the big man seated before me, not even realizing that I've been leaning toward him.

The big man's eyes drop at my retreat, and I shiver at the distance between us, which has nothing to do with the lack of warmth. Without his eyes on me, I feel like I lost something precious, as if an invisible barrier has been placed between us.

I glare at the asshole who disturbed us, not the least bit intimidated by the dark-haired man who—I tilt my head to the side—resembles a scruffier version of Idris Elba. Instead of dark eyes, his are a combination of orange and yellow. His dark skin makes his irises appear so bright that they seem to be lit from within. I mentally sort through a list of different types of shifters, but nothing jogs my memory.

Then I remember where I saw him last—the man from the basement. Only this time, he's wearing a shirt. I can't stop a little moue of disappointment.

What a pity.

He's much more palatable half naked.

I don't wilt under his scowl, having been subjected to much more frightening ones from my family. I only lift my chin and roll my eyes. "Anyone with half a brain would be able to track the spell. Not my spell, not my crime."

The man saunters into the room, not once breaking his gaze. "MID agents are many things, but they are not idiots. You don't think they checked?"

I pause at his absolute conviction. "What? That makes absolutely no sense. There should be some residual magic. If they didn't find any, then they need to look harder."

My answer seems to give him pause. "And you're saying that it won't match yours?"

"Of course not." I look up at him like he's the idiot. "Either someone royally fucked up or?—"

"You did it." He smirks, but it's not a pleasant expression.

The death stare I shoot his way would wilt most men, and I let out an unsatisfied, "Humph," when he remains unfazed. "Or I'm being set up."

His eyebrows shoot up, and his tone turns mocking. "So you're saying they duplicated your spell signature?"

"Of all the idiotic, stupid…" I blow out a heavy breath, wishing the asshole were close enough to smack his smug expression off his face. My tone is waspish when I continue. "No one can duplicate a caster's signature. There are always traces that remain behind that tell the truth."

He cocks his head curiously, his superior expression melting away. "You're saying someone managed it?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose, searching for patience. It's only when I feel a gentle touch on my knee from the big guy pushing closer that I release a heavy breath. "Fuck no. What I'm saying is it can't be me. I don't need to cast spells to use my magic."

"That's not possible," he snaps back, not stopping his advance until he's towering over me. "We have proof that it matches your intake signature."

I gaze up at him like he's the moron, my laughter bitter, and I'm unable to resist taunting him. "That would be impossible unless someone altered my records. You have proof of it downstairs. Go look if you don't believe me. The proof is literally on the walls."

I lean back with a smirk, but his expression doesn't give anything away. After nearly a minute, he gives an abrupt nod, then steps back. "Soren, go check out the basement."

The big man grudgingly lumbers to his feet, and I frown, barely able to stop myself from leaning forward and grabbing his arm to keep him from leaving. Soren drags his feet to the door, as if he's reluctant to leave me alone with the other guy. I stiffen at his hesitation, wondering if this is some sort of trap.

I reach for my magic, then hiss in a breath when it feels like touching acid. While I usually run hot, the heat doesn't typically harm me. I worry that I somehow hurt my connection to my magic when I used it while wearing those stupid cuffs.

I'm so distracted that I jump when the asshole speaks again. "Find Darby. If the files have been altered, then he'll be able to tell."

Then the big guy is gone.

As much as I don't want to talk to my captor, I can't contain my worry. "What's wrong with my magic?"

The dark man leans against the wall, his unsettling eyes pinning me in place. When I don't flinch, a flicker of curiosity and, dare I say, respect flashes through them. His eyes drop to my wrists, and he shakes his head like I'm a child. "The cuffs are meant to stop magic. They are pretty foolproof. Most people stop when something hurts, not double down."

"Yeah, well, I'm not most people." I clench and unclench my hands. Though I don't have much magic, the thought of losing what little I have sends me into a panic. "Again, what's wrong with my magic?"

Just when I'm ready to smack him, a shadow fills the doorway, and I automatically turn to see a tall man standing in the hallway. He's six-three, lean but shredded, if the way his clothes mold to his form is any indication. Even indoors, he's wearing sunglasses. He has thick, broad shoulders that make him appear as if he could take on the world. There is a stillness to him that tells me he is an apex predator, but I can't help but notice the tension in his frame.

Could this intimidating man with gorgeous brown hair cut in a stylish fade be intimidated by little ole me?

"Your magic was overtaxed," he murmurs, his husky voice carrying a little lisp…or slither? "I would suggest you not use it for a few days. Give it time to heal, and it should be back to normal."

I wilt with relief and flash him a grateful smile. "You can be my new favorite for the day."

I expect him to recoil or roll his eyes, so I'm surprised when he actually stands up a little straighter. He ventures another step into the room, his body moving sinuously, and I can't help but lick my lips as images of him naked in bed, ready to do my every bidding, bombard me. A man like him would know his way around a woman's body, and I shiver at the mental picture.

The asshole against the wall huffs and crosses his arms, almost like he could read my fantasies. A massive scowl twists his face, as if he's unable to contain his annoyance any longer. "If what you said is true, then why would anyone want to set you up?"

He looks me up and down, his gaze critical, and if the little sneer of disgust is any indication, he clearly finds me lacking. More and more, I'm tempted to smack him…or maybe light him on fire.

I reach for my magic without conscious thought, the action so instinctual that my body automatically does it. When my insides feel like they're being scrubbed by the sandpaper-like scales of a leviathan, I hunch over with a shudder and curl my hands into fists, not even noticing when my nails bite into my palms and draw blood.

I grit my teeth and breathe through the pain. My bones feel brittle, and I detest feeling so fragile and exposed, especially in front of others. "Maybe they just needed a fall guy. Very few people know about my abilities. Those who know what I can do assume that I'm weak. They probably expected me to die in the blast."

The more I think about it, the more I suspect I wasn't chosen by chance.

Someone knows the truth and just painted a big fucking target on my back.

Jackass pushes away from the wall, leaning in close until I'm forced to lean back to keep him out of my space. The scent of warm rum and old books fills my senses, but it's his eyes that capture me.

The orange and yellow glow brighter and brighter, almost seeming to flash in some sort of sequence. My head feels tight, like he's trying to ram a railroad spike through my skull. Without thought, I give into the impulse that's been riding me since I first met him and lash out with my fist.

It connects with his nose with a satisfying crunch, and the vise around my head vanishes.

"What the fuck?" I snarl. It doesn't take a genius to figure out he was trying to get into my head.

"Stop being a bully." I glare up at him as I shake out my hand, my knuckles hurting like a bitch. "I swear to the gods, if you broke my hand, I'm going to break your nuts."

The pain is almost worth the shock on his face.

The man lurches back and clutches his nose, his curses muffled. He glares at me, but I do nothing but smirk when blood drips between his fingers.

"Here, let me." Cassius saunters forward, slaps the man's hands away, then probes the area. With a quick jerk, the nose snaps into place, and the man curses all over again.

Cassius only smirks and shrugs, ignoring the glare aimed his way. "What? You deserved it, Porter, and you know it."

Porter…so that's his name.

Kind of stern.

A little unusual.

It suits him.

Porter swipes the back of his arm across the lower half of his face, smearing the blood around. "If we're sticking our necks out for her, then we deserve to know what kind of trouble she brings."

They both turn toward me at the same time, and I sit up straighter, suddenly suspicious of their intent. I refuse to wilt under their stares and trade them glare for glare.

"Tell me, little rabbit, what secrets are you hiding?" Cassius asks, the cadence of his voice soothing, a slight rattle that slows my heart and makes me want to tell him all my secrets. A low buzz fills my ears, and I shake my head to clear my fuzzy thoughts.

Before he realizes my intent, I lean forward and flick him on his forehead. "Shame on you. If you want to know something, just ask. Don't use your mojo shit on me."

Cassius rears back and stiffens.

He's so still that I'm not even sure he's breathing.

It's almost like he's waiting for something, and I narrow my eyes on him.

When nothing happens, he rubs his forehead, more confused than offended. "You don't want to tell me?"

He genuinely seems perplexed, sounding like a confused child, and I roll my eyes. "Why would I want to share my secrets with a total stranger? Would you want to share yours with me?"

He adjusts his sunglasses, more of a nervous gesture, and my fingers twitch with the need to lean over and remove them. I want to see what his eyes look like, wishing I could tell if he's fucking with me or not.

"No?" Though he answers my question, he doesn't sound sure.

He's gazing down at me like I'm something special, like he's seeing me for the first time. My insides turn to goo under the attention, and I struggle to harden myself against his sexy wiles.

If I've learned anything during my short life, it's that men are tricky fuckers. They dickmatize women, making us do shit we wouldn't normally do.

Though he might look like a fun ride to climb, I'm not falling for that ploy.

I'm smarter than that.

Right?

But I can't help noticing his broad shoulders and thick, muscular chest, not to mention the scent of thunderstorms on a hot desert morning that seems to rise from his skin.

Something about him is just beautiful to watch.

"You were looking for me?" Another man stands in the doorway, scanning the room. His gaze briefly pauses on Cassius and Porter, then comes to a stop when he spots me.

"Holy fuck, what do they put in the food in this place?" I mutter to myself, ignoring the guys when they give me startled looks. The men here are muscular and built like giants. Though this guy is the leanest of the four of them, he's still impressive and could bench-press me with one arm.

He has a nerdy look to him that is more sexy than cringey. His features are slightly feminine, giving him a pretty boy appearance that makes me want to lean forward and lick him. His honey blond hair is styled and wavy, begging for fingers to mess up the strands. Gorgeous, robin's-egg blue eyes pierce my soul, the teal color filled with specks of white that lure you into their depths.

Then I remember they are MID agents, and I stop eye fucking him.

And mostly succeed.

"Pull up her records again," Porter orders, his voice harsh. "Look for any signs of tampering."

Then it clicks. This must be the Darby they mentioned. The man lifts a tablet I didn't notice earlier, his knuckles whitening before he finally pulls his attention away from me. He does something on the screen when I notice a slight blue glow around his fingers and the way his eyes seem to light up from within.

"A fucking mage." I can't keep the derision from my voice. "Are you sure you can trust him?"

I almost feel bad when all emotions vanish from his face, but he doesn't look up from his task. "I'm a tech wizard, not a mage."

That shuts me up fast.

A wizard is a title for a mage who reaches level ten. While I can respect the amount of power it takes to reach that level, my unease only increases.

Wizards are fucking rare.

Very few people gain that title without earning it, meaning he could squash me to bits if he wanted.

Added to the fact that he's a tech wizard, I'm curious, despite knowing better than to draw more attention to myself. I scan his form, looking for additions or morphs, but he looks completely human, and I can't keep my suspicions quiet. "You don't look like a tech'er. I don't see any tech or bio-hacks."

It's unusual.

By the time they are done altering their forms, tech'ers are more machine than human in the end. The technology they put in their bodies allows them to connect to machinery without having to touch anything. Tech'ers are rare, since many of them end up losing themselves in the digital world before the age of twenty-five.

Or they are forced to plug into the tech by people who want to use their abilities for their own. Many companies purchase them from families when their abilities emerge and use them as cutting-edge computers. The rush of having answers at your fingertips with just a thought is addicting.

They sell for millions.

His gaze barely flicks in my direction, but I can practically see streams of computer code and weird symbols flickering in his eyes, and my breath catches. There is a beauty to him as he works his magic, that single-minded focus sexy as fuck.

"You have no tech because you need none," I say, answering my own question, unable to keep the awe from my voice.

A true wizard.

I'm torn between terror and curiosity.

When he suddenly scowls at the screen, I choose terror.

"Her file is locked," he murmurs, his voice distracted. "Give me a second."

I can't imagine what kind of security MID must have if it stumps him. I glance at the others with concern. "That can't be good."

It takes another five minutes before the furrow in Darby's brows smooths out. "Got it."

He scans the screen, his eyes barely moving as he scrolls through the data in seconds, then he blinks, and his head pops up. "She's right—someone altered the file. It's good. If I hadn't been looking for it, I wouldn't have even noticed the change in the code."

Porter scowls, stepping forward to look down at the tablet, suspicion darkening his eyes to a burnt orange. "You're sure?"

"Positive." Darby squints, then leans closer to the screen. "Shit."

His fingers dance over the surface, a blue glow lighting up the digits, then the screen goes dark, and a sinister cackle fills the room. The ominous laugh brings back horrible memories from my time with my family, and I barely swallow back the bile that burns my throat.

Jackal has found me.

He's a minion that my family uses and a fellow tech'er who loves to make my life hell.

If he knows I'm here, then it won't be long before my family storms the gates and demands my return.

Darby looks down at the blank tablet as if he's unsure what just happened. He yanks a smartphone from his back pocket, then taps on it so hard, it's like he's trying to punch through the screen.

"What the fuck?" He glances at Porter, looking a little lost. "It's gone."

"What's gone?" Porter glances at the phone, then back to Darby, a fierce scowl darkening his face. That's when I notice the room is actually darkening.

What the fuck?!

"Her file is gone. Someone hacked the system and inserted a virus to erase every mention of her if the alteration was detected." Darby lowers the phone, as if it disappointed him for the first time. "I tried to trace the hack, but they crashed my system before I could locate the source. Everything is gone."

When all three males look at me like it's my fault, I throw my hands up in exasperation. "Don't look at me. I've been sitting here the whole time."

To my surprise, Darby comes to my rescue…in a backhanded insult. "Only another tech'er would have the skills to outrun me."

Before anyone else can throw about any other accusations, Soren bursts into the room. "It's gone. Death row has been scrubbed, and any evidence of her stay has been erased. Fresh spells overlay everything. The cell has been walled off like it never existed. There's nothing to find."

Everyone looks at me once more, and I feel very much like a pixie under a glass—a magical oddity forced to perform for an audience. Since pixies are vicious, carnivorous little buggers, I kind of like the comparison—small but deadly.

Porter stalks forward until he towers over me. "Why would someone go through so much effort for you?"

"Ouch," I mutter, hurt despite knowing better than to get close to any of them, and I frown up at the asshole. "Rude much?"