On the Hunt (Sentinel Wars #3.5)(33)
Author: Gena Showalter

Viviana swallowed and collected her wits. "Too much excitement for one night. That’s all."

She started to pull her hand away, but Neal’s grip tightened slightly, holding her hand in his. "Not yet," he said. "I’m not ready to start hurting again."

She blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Let’s get back to the gadget, shall we? You were just about to tell me where it was so we could go get it and save my friend Torr."

"Nice try, but not good enough. You were going to show me your sword."

Viviana was sure she’d seen the intricate vines winding around the hilt. Even as fast as he’d moved, she knew what she saw. And if she was right, his sword was made by the same ancient people as her treasured collection.

Neal lifted a brow. "You want to see my sword?"

"Yes."

"If I show you, will you tell me where the gadget is?"

"Maybe."

His thick chest expanded with a heavy sigh. "Fine."

Slowly, so slowly she could feel his touch over every nerve, he pulled his hand away from hers.

The moment their skin broke contact, his whole body went tense. Sweat broke out over his forehead, and his breathing was fast and shallow.

Worry for him hit her, worming its way so deep it was almost as if she’d known him for years.

"Are you okay?"

"Just give me a minute."

She did. Seconds ticked by, and slowly his body relaxed.

"Damn, that gets worse every time," he said, panting.

"What gets worse?"

He shook his head and pinned her with his glittering gaze. "That’s all part of that long story.

Suffice it to say that when I touch you it feels really good. When I stop, not so much."

She felt the same way. She opened her mouth to tell him to just keep touching her before she realized how it might sound. She didn’t even know the man. She certainly wasn’t going to offer to let him put his hands on her, no matter how lovely the idea was.

He moved and a sword appeared in his hand, as if conjured from thin air. "How did you do that?"

"The sword is invisible when it’s strapped to my body. Keeps the locals from freaking out."

"But . . . how?"

"Magic."

Magic. The word trickled into her, shifting puzzle pieces in her mind. What had been a confusing set of facts before now became a clearer picture. If magic was real—and she was looking at proof that it was—then that explained a lot of things. All those stories she’d read. All those artifacts that seemed to have a purpose, but no one could ever determine what it was. It was all beginning to make sense.

Neal laid the flat of the blade against his forearm, pointing the pommel toward her. She leaned over the piece, enthralled by the power of it. It was beautiful, a thriving, pristine work of art. The detail was incredible. Intricate leaves etched with such precision she could see the veins wove around on a vine, forming the guard. Part of the detail in the hilt had been worn away with use, making her wonder just how old this piece was. "Where did you get it?"

"My father had it made for me when I was born."

Part of her excitement deflated. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five, making the piece a beautiful replica, but nothing more. "Did the metalsmith pattern it off of an antique? Is that why it looks so worn?"

"It looks worn because it is worn."

"It would take decades of hard use to manage that."

"Yeah. It would."

"What? You’re saying that you’ve done that? You can’t have even been using it for more than a decade or two."

"I’m older than I look."

The way he said it gave her pause. She wasn’t sure she should ask, but she really needed to know. "How old?"

"You sure are a curious thing. I think I should stop answering your questions until you start answering mine."

"The only thing you seem to want to know is where the artifact is."

"Now you’re catching on."

"If I tell you, what’s in it for me?"

"How much do you want?"

"I’m not interested in money. I want your sword."

He let out a hard laugh. "Not on your life. This sword in the wrong hands could be dangerous."

"It’s dangerous in the right hands, too."

He gave her a slow wink. "Glad you noticed."

Another shiver coursed along her limbs, and this time it had nothing to do with his touch. All he had to do was give her a wink and she melted.

He sheathed his sword and it faded out of sight. She was dying to get her hands on the sheath to see how he managed it, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate her making greedy, grabby hands, especially near his manlier parts.

Not that she was thinking about his manlier parts. She simply knew they were there. She was not going to look, no matter how much she’d piqued her own curiosity with the thought.

Her eyes slid down his torso, admiring the way the mock turtleneck hugged his muscular contours. She’d almost embarrassed herself by staring at his crotch when his voice jerked her attention back to his face, where it belonged.

"See something you like?" he asked.

She cleared her throat, ignoring his question. "So, if I can’t have your sword, do you have any other items I might be interested in?"

"I don’t know. What kind of things do you collect?"

"Items from a long-dead group of people called the Sentinels."

Neal went still, his eyes glittering in the dark confines of the truck. "Where did you hear about the Sentinels?"

"Books. You should give them a try sometime."

"I’m sorry to break it to you, but those books of yours had at least one thing wrong. They’re not long-dead, sweetheart."

Viviana’s body went numb at those words. "What do you know of them?"

"More than you, I’m sure. I happen to be one."

"Liar," she spat out before she could stop herself. It was easy to say he was one of them, but for all she knew, he’d researched her obsession with the Sentinels in order to win her over so he could get what he wanted from her.

There was one way to test him. "Which race are you?"

His brows lifted in a show of admiration. "You really have done your homework."

"That doesn’t answer my question."

"Theronai," he said, waving the ring on his finger in front of her face. "Though I would have thought the luceria would have given it away."

Luceria. She rolled the word around in her head, letting the sound of it soak into her memory. "I don’t remember any mention of a luceria."