He was the Vor.

And soon he would have the power to destroy cities, sweep everything before him in his revenge against the world.

Everything was possible with Katya by his side.

Parker’s Ridge

November 19

Nick woke up in heaven, or at least that’s what it sounded like. Soft harp music played somewhere, as gentle and harmonious as he’d imagined music in heaven would be, not that he’d ever imagined actually making it up to the Big Op in the Sky.

It felt like heaven, too, with a soft down comforter with big cabbage roses resting lightly over his naked body, his head cushioned on an even softer down pillow.

God, it even smelled like heaven. Roses and lavender. The scent of clean sheets and furniture polish, freshly baked cinnamon buns, and something light and flowery, utterly feminine. And over it all, the smell of sex. Oh yeah. If there was a heaven, there’d definitely be sex, just like he’d had all night. Exactly like that.

Nick smiled, swept his hand over the mattress, and opened his eyes when his hand encountered nothing but smooth sheet. Well, almost heaven. Something was missing. Someone.

He threw back the lavender-scented comforter and sat up, looking around him. Last night he’d been too blasted by lust to notice, but how had he missed the beauty of the bedroom when he’d come in on his recon prowl through the house?

It looked like something out of a magazine, only a place where people lived, not an empty stage. Polished hardwood floor. Big high bed with an antique carved wooden headboard, antique chest of drawers polished to a high gloss, two tea-rose-colored small armchairs with a pie crust table between them. Pretty, feminine knickknacks, small rosebuds in a blue vase, some fabulous landscape watercolors, a bookshelf full of books, all neatly arranged.

Still Life of Lady’s Bedroom.

He glanced outside the window. It had snowed all night and there was at least a foot of snow. A big maple tree outside in her garden looked like a big fluffy cloud. Well, of course.

Heaven.

Nick rolled out of bed, lifted up on the balls of his feet and stretched, feeling refreshed, revved even. It wasn’t just the fabulous sex, though there was nothing guaranteed to fire the system like it. Unlike the horrifying sex he’d had with Consuelo, which left him feeling drained and depleted. Sex with Charity was like being inside a rocket, going off.

Plus, he’d slept. Really slept, for the first time in what felt like forever. A deep sleep that wiped out all traces of the grainy fatigue that had been gumming up his head for the past year.

He’d never slept the entire night through in his time undercover with the Gonzalez clan. Each second that passed could bring something that would blow Nick’s cover, something completely out of his control. If Gonzalez decided to come after him, he’d do it at night.

Nick forced himself to nap instead of sleep, and to wake up at regular intervals, scan his surroundings for danger signals, then allow himself to fall back into a sleep so shallow he could become combat ready in a second.

It was the way soldiers slept in the field, under fire. In combat, shallow sleep could save your life. In danger, you’re operational in a matter of seconds. As a way of life, though, it pumped the body full of cortisol, the by-product of stress, sure to waste the kidneys if it went on too long. In Nick’s case it had been going on for a long time—in Afghanistan and the year with Gonzalez. His kidneys were probably shot.

He was going to die young, anyway. It was something he knew deep down, in his bones and blood. He’d always known it. It was what had made him so fearless as a soldier. Might as well go down fighting.

So the sleep he’d had had been like a little gift of life. He knew why he’d slept so deeply and so well, besides the delightful sex. Deep down in his blood and his bones, the part of him that told him to duck a millisecond before the bullet whistled by, that whispered to him to recheck his weapon for the tenth time and to recheck his parachute, told him there was no danger in Charity’s home to him. None at all.

Nothing here to harm him, so unlike the Land of Bad Things where he’d spent most of his life.

At ease, soldier, he told himself. Though it wasn’t necessary to think the words. His body had told him already. He knew from the lack of muscle tension that he was in a safe environment. Safe and beautiful and welcoming.

No one knew where he was. He hadn’t been tailed, he’d made sure of it. And while Di Stefano and Alexei might suspect he’d seduced the pretty librarian, they couldn’t be certain. So no one knew where he was, and there was no danger to him in this house.

No danger at all. Not even sharp edges. Only soft furniture in pastel colors, pretty music, nice smells, and one hell of a pretty woman. Speaking of which…

Nick eyed his clothes on the floor. He had zero desire to put on his formal clothes. Suit pants, dress shirt, jacket, ack. He had jeans and a sweater in a bag in the trunk of the car; he’d wear those today. But right now, he wanted Charity.

A little clatter of noise from the kitchen told him where she was. He padded naked across the living room and stopped at the kitchen door, watching her. She kept her back to him, humming softly.

Nick had been trained in hard places to move silently. Charity had no clue that he was there, so he was able to look his fill.

The CD had changed to a medley of Celtic music. Nick recognized the song that was playing, though he didn’t know the title. Something about green fields and coming home, which was more or less like every Irish song he’d ever heard. The Irish weren’t big on love songs. The music celebrated survival and comradeship, the basic elements of Nick’s life so far.

Charity knew the words and was singing softly under her breath. She had on a pink track suit that hugged her slender curves, her dark-blond hair shifting on her shoulders as she waggled her head to the music. That pretty ass swayed, too, as she fussed in her kitchen.

The kitchen was as pretty as she was. Cream and peach tiles, a line of thriving herbs in cream-colored pots along the windowsill, light-colored curtains at the window. Big ceramic canisters along the counter against the backsplash.

And the smells—almost better than the smells in the bedroom. The surprisingly rich smell of tea threaded in among the smells of something with cinnamon baking in the oven. A small pinewood table was set for two, with slices of bread, butter, an array of jams and jellies, and slices of apple. Nick could see a fantastic breakfast in his immediate future.

He watched her swaying gently to the beat of the music, listened to her singing. Though her voice was soft, it was surprisingly true.

Everything about the scene was delightful.

Beautiful woman. Beautiful music. Beautiful room. Sheer delight.

Nick felt something odd move inside him, something he didn’t recognize. It rolled right through him, and whatever it was, it left peace and contentment in its wake.

He stood there, mulling that over. Peace and contentment. They weren’t things he’d felt often in his life. He’d never sought them, never even wanted them. His life was one long mission and he did what it took to get the mission accomplished. Peace and contentment simply didn’t factor in.

His mission in the orphanage and then in sometimes brutal foster homes had been survival, for him and Jake. Then as a Delta operator, accomplishing the op, whatever it was. Usually the op meant danger in hellholes. And now, since he’d joined the Unit, the mission was putting away bad guys.

So what was this? Leaning against a doorframe, watching a woman fiddle at the stove? What was it? The mission? An op?

It felt like more. No, it felt like something else entirely. Nick wasn’t completely comfortable with all these…things going on inside himself. He was comfortable in his skin. He knew what he wanted in life and he usually went after it like a bullet to the bull’s eye. This felt…different.