Thea leapt over the seat that separated them, straddling Marco. "You tell us who you are," she shouted, digging the barrel of her weapon into his back. "Right now!"
"My name is Marco McKinley," he stated calmly, feeling her tight thighs flex around his body. "Personal protector and guardian to the king. J'Areshkadau Bnet D'Aravni is my sovereign, same as he is yours."
Silence hung heavy in the vehicle's interior, with only the sound of Thea's rapid breaths punctuating the quiet. At last she asked in a much quieter voice, "Then who is Marek Sheakai? Why did I hear that name in the bar?" Thea cocked her pistol, shoving it between his shoulder blades.
For a moment he concentrated on her, on the feel of her lithe, compact body atop his rangy one, on her scent filling his nostrils, nearly intoxicating him. Gods, she was an amazing woman—but completely off-limits to someone like him.
When he failed to answer, she drew in an unsteady breath. "Tell. Me. Why," she demanded, accenting each word with a jab of her pistol.
Finally he answered her question, in a voice so low only she would hear. "I have no idea why you heard his name, Lieutenant," he said softly. "But trust me when I tell you that he's dead, and he hardly matters tonight."
"He matters to me," she breathed.
"A dead man," he repeated. "Let's leave it at that, but you may call me Marco. And I am your protector too, my lady. I serve all the royal families."
"You said you served Jared—that you're his personal protector."
"That's true," he murmured against the seat. "But if you know the Madjin, you know we serve you all."
"Prove it," she said, pressing her palm into the small of his back. Every cell within his body reacted, a cascade of heat showering to his extremities. "You prove it now, before we get to Jared."
He could think of nothing except the feel of her fingers splayed against his body. His simple flannel shirt seemed nothing more than a ridiculously thin membrane, a flimsy barrier between their two flushed bodies. He swallowed hard, his eyes drifting shut. He knew what she wanted to hear; it was a sort of first-level proof to any of the royals they served, something no one outside the Madjin Circle could possibly know.
He would give Thea Haven the proof she wanted. "R'thasme siet falne," he murmured reverentially. He'd not uttered those words since the day they'd inducted him into the Circle, and the hair on the nape of his neck bristled at his own quiet pronouncement. For a moment, she said nothing at all, though he sensed a kind of tension release from her body.
"In All's name," she finally muttered. "You've been telling us the truth. You're exactly what you claim to be."
"Unless I'm lying," he teased in a low, growling voice. "And then we're all damned to hell."
"Marco McKinley, I still have a gun.” She pushed the barrel into his shoulders again. "Madjin or not, you've got a lot of questions to answer."
"At your service, Lieutenant Haven. Completely at your service."
If only he didn't wish to service her in such wicked, impossible ways, he thought with a miserable sigh—and if only he could rid himself of his raging, painfully obvious hard-on before they arrived at the compound.