The Unwanted (A Novella of the FBI Psychics) by Shiloh Walker Page B

watched as he tugged his shirt back on. “I was unconscious when they pulled me out of there, and stayed that way for three days. When I came out of it, Jones was in the room.”
    Destin bit back the urge to curl her lip. She’d heard of the infamous Taylor Jones. Dickhead of the highest order.
    Behind her, Caleb continued to talk. “He had one of the empaths with him. I’d worked with her before and she’d told me then that she felt a chink in my shields, said I needed to fix it. The reason they were able to get me out when they did was because she also had a touch of foreshadowing and she’d seen something dark coming. Jones was already mobilizing when I went down—he’d tried to contact me, but her warning to him came too late.”
    The knot inside her twisted, almost painful now. “I’m not impressed,” she muttered. “If they’d kept you from being grabbed? Then I’d be more appreciative.”
    A soft laugh escaped him.
    Turning around, she glared at him. He didn’t even notice. Eyes closed, head tipped back, he looked like he was laughing with a couple of friends over a dirty joke or something.
    “This isn’t funny,” she said quietly.
    He rolled his head over to look at her, lifting his lids just enough to study her through his lashes. “It’s just ironic. I fucked up, did the same thing I was always telling you not to do…and I learned a painful lesson. They thought grabbing me would be a distraction and they could get their operation moved before anything else happened, but they underestimated Jones.” Slowly, he sat up, his long, rangy body uncurling from the chair in a graceful motion.
    As he came toward her, he said, “Most people do. He already had another team in place to deal with them. So they went down—that one little group. They’re like an earthworm, though. You cut of bits and pieces and it still moves, still lives.” He passed a hand over his scarred chest, hidden by his shirt. “And they got me out. It took them longer to get to me but they did get me out. Nobody died. For the most part, it was a clean op.”
    Gaping at him, the scars she’d seen so vivid in her mind, she wondered if he’d lost his mind.
    “How can you call that a clean op?”
    “Because my screwup didn’t blow a sixteen-month op down the drain,” he said flatly. “And we were lucky. I figured out fast that I had to find a way to fix things before I hurt somebody other than myself.”
    It was a slap in the face—unintentional, yes. Deserved… oh , yes. But she recoiled from it all the same.
    “Hurt somebody…” she echoed, her voice thick. “You mean like I did.”
    His lashes flickered. “I didn’t say that.”
    “You didn’t have to.” Passing her hand over her mouth, she managed to take the three steps it took to reach the couch and then she sank down onto the cushions. Drawing her knees to her chest, she pressed her face against them and tried to breathe past the pain wracking her.
    “Destin—”
    “I would rather that bastard had killed me than her,” she said quietly.
    Silence stretched out, heavy and oppressive. As seconds ticked away without him saying anything, she finally looked up and met his dark eyes. Resting her cheek on her knees, she swallowed and forced the words out. “It would have been worth it…to me. She didn’t deserve to die because I wasn’t good enough.”
    “Then you understand why I figure it was a clean-enough op.” Closing the distance between them, he sank to the ground by the couch.
    She tensed as he lifted a hand, but all he did was curl it around her ankle, his thumb absently stroking her skin. “But what happened wasn’t your fault,” she said.
    “Yeah, it was.” He continued to stare at her, dark eyes hooded. “I couldn’t let go of that one connection. I lied to myself and said I didn’t know how, that it was just a part of me now. But it was all bullshit. Once I made myself do it, I was able to lock you out. I felt like I’d shattered a