Cyan Seye wept in the corner of the dank cave. She wasn't sure, but thought she could hear a strange music--like flutes--coming out from somewhere beyond the rocks. Or maybe it was in her head.

Not certain how she'd come to be here, no clue how she would eventually leave, she leaned into the cold stone and resigned herself to one thing--no matter what, she had to trust Devin McCrae. Even if it was the most difficult thing she'd ever do in her life.

Fear had been a part of her life since she was born. It was almost as much a part of her as breathing. Running. And fear gripped her every time McCrae looked deep into her eyes. Blue, he called her. For her eyes.

The past month had been worse than any of her twenty-four years. But he was the only person who could save her now. Protect her. If anything was certain, it was that. She shivered, uncertain of whether it was from the cold, or her plight.

Both, probably.

McCrae was her unlikely savior. She knew not from where he'd come. Wasn't certain who had sent him. All she really knew was that her father had feared him for years. But she'd always wondered, why him? When there were so many others to fear?

But then she had seen it for herself.

First hand.

The day McCrae had killed her father.

Cyan hugged herself and tried to stop her chattering teeth. Tried to clear her mind. Go to some other place. Free herself for a while.

Just so wet. Cold.

McCrae didn't want a fire. Smoke. Flames. They would give away their hiding place, he'd said. Then he'd left her. Left her to go watch the night. Eyes searching the storm-silenced sky. Listening. Watching.

Waiting for them.

Protecting her. It was his only purpose in life now.

So, he guarded the entrance. The one way into the cave. Guarded her. And for some insane reason, Cyan felt safe. Even with him.

For now.

She'd learned long ago that when she felt safe, she needed to sleep. Because good sleep rarely came when you were on the run. When you were looking over your shoulder. When you had no clue what the next hour would bring.

Did McCrae ever sleep?

Her eyelids were sandpaper. Heavy.

They closed. Gritty.

Trust him.

Her father's last words. His eyes had spoken the words as much as his breathless voice had said them. Right before McCrae had killed him.

She woke with a warped heaviness hanging over her that she couldn't quite grasp. Sleep. Deep sleep had come in the night. Blessed sleep. And she was ever so grateful.

But the heaviness that encircled her came from something more than a sleep-of-the-dead night. It came from something warm and secure and safe; all-encompassing.

All consuming.

And it smelled like a man.

Cyan fluttered her gritty eyes, focusing her gaze across the cave. Yes. Still in the cave. Facing the opening. But she was tucked back into a cranny, slightly shielded from view.

She could only see the top half of the cave opening, and knew that it was daylight. Bright sun pierced the depths of the cave for about five feet inward. Beyond that, it was dark. Dark around her. Dark around them.

Them.

For what shielded her from view was McCrae's arm lying protectively across her face.

She was on her side, halfway on her stomach, her right cheek resting against the cave's dirt floor. McCrae was nearly on top of her, his bare arm draped over her from behind. His body wrapped protectively around hers. His weapon was in his hand.

Poised. Pointed outward.

Nothing was getting to her unless it got to him first.

Drawn to his dark skin--much darker than hers--she almost lifted a finger to smooth it over his forearm. Touch him. Run the pads of her fingertips over the dark, coarse hairs of his arm.

But no. Not a good idea.

She had no doubt that should the slightest movement, the slightest sound alert him, waken him, he would be up and shooting within a millisecond. She wouldn't risk touching him. Even though she was intrigued; fascinated by the tone, texture and color of his skin. He was Mulatto. A novelty for her, as much as she was a novelty for him.

Something to explore another time.

Mulatto. The term, she'd read and heard from her parents, was once derogatory to Blacks and others in their country. In some cultures it was accepted, in the U.S. not as much. But now, on the cusp of the 22nd century, it was a common term worldwide. Mulatto. It was the norm, rather than the exception.

Just as she was now the exception, rather than the norm.

But for now, he slept. And she would let him.

He needed to rest for whatever came next.

They needed rest.

It was okay. Her pursuers were far away. Off track. Off course. Frustrated.

She knew it. Sensed it. Her sight became so much clearer when she was rested. Calm. Safe. And she trusted her sight more than anything.

McCrae's head lay lax against the side of her cheek. She could feel the steadiness of his inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale as he lay across her. The stubble of his whiskers against her temple. The pound of his heart against her back. She could feel it. Somehow the drone of it calmed her. A slight snore escaped his lips. His breath sifted soft and moist across her cheek. Warm.

Hot.

Damn it.

Lying so damned protectively across her.

Something stirred in her gut. Zinged throughout her body. Her chest.

No! Forget it. Not him.

Not now.

Trust him.

No, damn it. Not in that way. Not with her heart. With her body? Maybe. That might solve at least one immediate problem. But she would never give her heart.

There was no one she could trust with her heart.

Ever.