Being Sapphire. Sylvia Ryan

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      Jordan stood outside the circle of light surrounding the border and hid in the shadows, watching intently. The windowed building was a brightly lit fishbowl with every detail of the interior easily visible. Two Guardsmen stood talking next to the row of turnstiles. Neither one was Patrick.

      It was incredibly stupid not to have backup for this meet, but there was something within her that trusted him, and that was a rare occurrence.

      Minutes later, Patrick walked into the building from the Sapphire side of the border. She absorbed every detail about him. He was average weight, average height with brown hair.

      His eyes. They were extraordinary. She remembered flashes of the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. They had startled her the night before. Growing up in Amber, she was accustomed to being surrounded with brown-eyed gazes and hadn’t remembered how startling it was to be regarded with indigo eyes. Having them pointed at her, scrutinizing her, increased her heart rate and shortened her breathing. They were a constant reminder he was forbidden to her. There was no mistaking the flashes of desire or the air of playfulness she’d seen in them the night before. It was as if a tiny devil sat on his shoulder, whispering in his ear, because when he looked at her it was very clear the things running through his head would land them both in Hell.

      He had affected her on some level during their first encounter several months before because a short time later she experienced a jolt of excitement when she thought she’d seen him in a crowd. She was actually changing direction to walk toward him when she realized there were no National Guardsmen living in the Amber Zone. She distinctly remembered a momentary twinge of disappointment at the revelation but never thought of him again after that. Until last night.

      She closed her eyes and mentally put herself back under that desk. Just thinking about his hand running up and down her arm fluttered her insides and made her part her lips so she could take in more air. She swallowed and raised her lids to look again at this man that made her pant just a little bit every time her mind wandered to him.

      In the cluster of four men wearing the same uniforms, she was able to easily identify which was Patrick O’Connor. He was–

      She shook her head, having a hard time putting words to the vibe he gave off. Inviting. It was as close an adjective she could bring to mind. The expression on his face and the way he moved his body was warm, relaxed. He possessed an easy leisure, from his gorgeous narrow-hipped, sweet, tight ass to the slightly off-kilter canter of his words. She felt it even from this distance away.

      He was not like the men she knew in Amber who, because of their life experiences, grew to be stoic and imposing, needing to control everything.

      Jordan frowned into the darkness. She was sure by the way he carried himself that Patrick’s life had been easy. He had no reason to be angry and stoic. She forced herself to remember he was on the wrong side of this fledgling war, and she should be terrified of him. But when he looked at her, she felt the opposite. Somehow this liaison felt right inside.

      She silently regarded the change of shifts and continued to watch while he talked with his partner. A few minutes later, she moved to the alley he’d pulled her into the evening before.

      She walked deep into the shadows between the two buildings and sat against a wall, bringing her knees up underneath her chin. It was a familiar position she felt compelled to assume when she was scared or threatened.

      As a child she’d realized when she tucked her head and covered the back of her neck with her hands, she could easily withstand the most severe of beatings. She was sure reverting to this protective pose was a reaction to losing Dennis, because she hadn’t given in to the compulsion to assume that position in several years. She spent the wait rocking slightly and rebuilding her defenses.

      It seemed to Jordan like several hours had passed before Patrick stepped into the gap and sat on the ground beside her. She hadn’t heard him approach, and she jumped at the sudden shadow man sitting shoulder to shoulder with her.

      She held her breath, waiting for him to make the first move, waiting to find out whether her judgment about him was good or if this folly would ultimately result in her demise.

      He grasped her hand and whispered, “I have to make this short. Tonight hasn’t been a usual night. There’s been a lot of traffic back and forth. Did you talk to your people?”

      “Yes.”

      “And?”

      “We’re a go. For now, you’re on a need-to-know basis with me as your only contact.”

      He nodded. It was an almost imperceptible acknowledgement in the darkness of the night. “I have two messages.” He pushed paper into her palm. “One of them is for your eyes only.”

      “Okay.” She shoved the papers into her pocket.

      “Jordan?”

      She turned her head, trying to meet his gaze. She wanted to get a glimpse of that blue, but, even though they sat shoulder to shoulder, it was too dark. “What?”

      “I know what happened in Circle City tonight. I’m glad you’re okay.”

      She tried to swallow down the swelling lump in her throat but she couldn’t clear it enough to utter her thanks for the sweet sentiment. He leaned into her. “You are okay, aren’t you?” His hands roamed the darkness until they found hers and held them tight. “Jo, what is it?”

      His kindness shattered the thin veneer of normalcy she’d worked so hard at. Before she could stop it, an unexpected sob ripped free.

      “My roommate was killed tonight.” She choked the words through a rough throat.

      “Dennis?”

      She gaped at him. “Yes. How did–”

      “I’m so sorry.” The words whispered to her through the darkness, and the warm air they traveled on wafted past her cheek. He stood and pulled her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her. The small kindness meant so much and was a poignant reminder they were all built the same. Experienced the same emotions, faced the same fears, no matter the designation.

      His warm hands lay flat on her back. Her breasts pressed against the plane of his body. It felt unbelievably good to be comforted by him.

      He was so close. She tilted her head up so they were face-to-face, and his step forward pushed her closer to the wall at her back. There was still a small part of her that remained perched on the brink of panic, waiting for the strike that would kill her. It screamed to be heard. He stroked her tenderly and shushed her before she had the chance to voice an objection. She stayed alert and skeptical of his motives. Nothing this sweet ever happened to her, not without strings or unforeseen ramifications that would surely become apparent to her way too late in the game.

      But as time elapsed in that intimate embrace, the rigid muscles poised to make a fight-or-flight decision, relaxed. And with the realization he wasn’t the enemy and wasn’t going to hurt her, the hug of consolation crumbled her defenses even further. Another partially choked sob shot out of her before she could stop it.

      “Oh God, Jordan, please don’t cry.”

      She straightened her spine and inhaled a big gulp of reality. “I don’t cry, Patrick,” she said between clenched teeth. “Crying is for the weak, and I’m not weak.”

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