9: Bolt Saga, Book 9 by Angel Payne

Author:Angel Payne
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781642630381
Publisher: Waterhouse Press

Chapter Four

Emma

Three nights after Reece received that friendly but short call from Lawson, beckoning him to the Virage for the let’s-all-get-along-again dinner, we’re in a limousine on the Champs-Élysées, inching through traffic on our way to the stunning V-shaped tower about eight blocks away.

“Damn,” the burly guy behind the wheel mutters. “That thing is impressive.”

He’s reacting, no doubt, to how the setting sun hits a fifty-story-high “waterfall” of crystals, which appears to be “flowing” out of one prong of the gigantic V. As my gaze widens at the sight, I murmur back, “I can’t stand admitting you’re right, but you’re right.”

“I usually am, princess.”

The driver’s chuckling comeback is quashed by Reece’s growl. “Her name is Emmalina, my friend.” I’m certain he uses the honorific purely out of respect to Sawyer and the fact that he—Max Brickham, another “buddy from the old days” Sawyer seems to have in every damn corner of the globe—has cut a Spanish vacation short to be on Team Bolt tonight.

If Max realizes that, he doesn’t let on. The guy even jabs a thumb up from the front seat, nearly knocking free his fancy chauffeur’s cap, before replying, “Heard and acknowledged, buddy.”

Despite the blatant alpha-to-alpha respect, none of the tension leaves Reece’s body. The leather seat beneath us creaks from his discomfited weight shift. He grasps my hand tighter and curls my knuckles against his chest. I don’t attempt an escape, more than aware that he needs the contact of our clutch, though the man could likely use a tequila shot and a dozen deep breaths as well. But I can’t help him with the former and I bite my lip from suggesting the latter, hesitant to highlight the tension he’s already aware of.

Especially as Max drives us nearer to the Virage.

Another block.

Trimmed chestnut trees and happy throngs flow past our windows.

One more.

While we’re stopped at a light, accordion music from a street performer drifts through the air. A smatter of applause follows.

Reece doesn’t seem to hear.

As we roll forward again, he noticeably clenches his jaw—sending a small tine of power beneath his skin, back to the communications bud stuck inside his ear. The device is invisible to anyone looking at him, despite how he’s pomaded his hair into a lush, formal style for tonight. It’s a fashionable match for the charcoal suit he bought off the rack yet still fills out like a movie star in bespoke designer wear. Beneath the jacket, he’s wearing a light-blue shirt with a silver-threaded tie—a special gift shipped express from Wade and Fershan back in LA. With the enthusiasm of twelve-year-olds who’d found a viable way to shoot humans to Mars, the guys had explained that in the right circumstances, the tie could be used as a special “Bolt Jolt” conductor. I’m not sure if Reece believed them, but he smooths the thing now while opening up a radio connection with the rest of the team. I know this because there’s a matching comm bud stuck inside my ear.

“We’re on final approach to the hotel,” he states in a voice as pleasant as a tour guide’s.

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