The man would. The compulsion in Asher’s voice was too great for a mere human to resist. It wasn’t something Asher did too often, as it was easy to go too far, to push too much. But it was called for now.

“Yes. Of course,” the man said, hanging up.

The idea that a human had any control over him or his men was laughable. His men were handpicked and superior soldiers. That being said, they did tend to bend or break about every rule set before them. It was simply the way of their personalities and he actually found that to be an asset.

“They are chips off the ole block,” he said softly, thinking of how he too had issues following commands when given by fools. He tucked his phone back into his jacket pocket. His men thought they were the only ones within the I-Ops organization who were supernatural.

They were not.

Asher was hardly ordinary or human. But he’d not worn his paranormal abilities on his sleeve for all to see. He kept them close to the vest, knowing better than to shout from the mountaintops about who he was—and more importantly, what he was.

That was a whole bag of shit he didn’t want opened. Things were good with his working relationship. He was the one “human” the men listened to. Though, he had to wonder if they ever suspected there was more to him than he let on. He’d seen the way Jon, one of his men, watched him of late. And he had a feeling Jon might be onto him same as Lukian was.

“I’m getting way too old for this shit,” he said softly, meaning every word of it.

He wouldn’t trade what he did now for anything. He was paying back the supernatural community. Sure, they weren’t aware of it, and yes, he was paying off a debt that wasn’t actually his own, but he needed to do this for his own peace of mind.

His phone buzzed, indicating he had an email. He already knew without looking that it was to alert him that his preliminary reports that Eadan and Duke had given regarding their involvement in matters in Seattle had been passed up the chain, signed off and all.

He laughed.

The men who believed themselves in control actually held little in the way of power. They were simply figureheads. Tools to be manipulated as the others saw fit. Asher was one of the people who viewed them in this light.

Once, long ago, he’d broken the rules. Bent them more than broke, really. The results had been catastrophic. He still carried the guilt of it all to this day.

With a slow measured breath, Asher took in the sights around him as he ran his hands through his now shorter black hair. Once he’d worn it to his waist, as most of his family and brethren did. In an attempt to blend in with his current job and surroundings, he adopted a more modern, clean-cut-male look, even going so far as to magikally sprinkle in some white hairs on his temples to show aging, where no other aging signs could be found. If he kept on as colonel he’d need to use his magik to create some laugh lines around his eyes or something to help the others believe he wasn’t immortal.

Or, you could break the rules and tell them the truth.

No.

The warehouse had been the scene of one hell of a throw-down. Dead bodies still littered the area and the battle itself had taken place the night prior. It was easy enough to keep humans at bay. A few well-placed spells and the humans felt no need to be in the area—in fact, they wanted to stay as far from it as they could. The heavy lifting in the spell department had been done by Helmuth’s magiks, not Asher’s.

The magik, while old and powerful, seemed a bit more like child’s play to him. Then again, he had run with a very different crowd the majority of his life.

While the warehouse area was bloody, Asher had seen worse.

Much worse.

Truth was, this was hardly a drop in the bucket for him. At least he could still acknowledge the brutality around him. Many like him had lost that ability to be sensitive to the deaths of others. There had been a time, not long ago, that he too was in danger of losing the skills needed to relate to those thought to be lesser.

He had been put in his place and had his eyes opened wide.

He began to shake slightly as his mind threatened to take him back to the events of old—to remind him of what had been his turning point. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t mentally return to it all. He was a broken man now because of it. His self-imposed punishment didn’t seem like enough.

It would never be enough.

The entire dock area smelled like a mix of death and fish. Neither were great on their own. Combined they were nauseating. He avoided any further deep breaths as he surveyed the situation. The mess should have already been cleaned. He could have done it much faster than the current cleanup teams, but there were rules in place for a reason, and exposing himself to those around him wasn’t allowed.

No one had seen Asher arrive. They never did. It was how it should be. He needed to be someone the supernaturals he worked with trusted fully without fearing or questioning his loyalty. Besides, he was forbidden from telling them the truth of himself. The pact between the remaining members of his kind included secrecy. That was fine by Asher. He’d stopped claiming to be one of them long before they’d decided it was best to allow everyone, including supernaturals, to believe them nothing more than mythology. It was for the best. They did not need the insanity he and his kind brought to the table.

His allegiances were his own and not up for debate with the group or the organization. When he’d been brought into the Immortal Ops program, it had not been lightly. The people who thought they had control of it were wrong.

Dead wrong.

Controlling immortal soldiers wasn’t something that could be done easily. Making sure the scientists involved in it all didn’t change sides was apparently even harder—as had already happened.

Bad decisions had been made. Good people had lost their lives.

He checked his watch. The current cleanup crew should have already been done with the warehouse and the pier. That spoke to just how big of a cleanup issue they were dealing with.

Your men all returned alive. You can’t ask for anything better.

He could ask that the violence stop—period, but that would never happen. Since the dawn of time good had been pitted against evil. It would continue to be until the end of it all. There was no changing it.

He knew.

He’d tried.

Asher approached the cleanup crew and then stood among them. They had yet to notice his arrival. He’d have a talk with them later about that. They should always be on the alert. They may not be the most skilled fighters the organization had, but they were trained to protect themselves and their surroundings.

This was hardly a secure location.

“Speed it up,” he barked. The two men nearest him nearly jumped out of their skin.

They needed to get their shit together and clear out soon. He wouldn’t risk any of them learning personal information about him. He’d been alive too long and seen too many turncoats to trust anyone with what he held precious.

Or rather who.

You should probably start by telling her you have the hots for her, he thought to himself.

Coward.

With as many years as he’d lived and as many battles as he’d fought, he thought himself a strong man. Not when it came to one tall redhead with curves in all the right places.

She had a way of making him feel weak and vulnerable, something Asher wasn’t used to at all. He’d tried rather unsuccessfully to keep his distance from her, to ignore her pull, but clearly the Fates had other thoughts on the matter.

Damn Fates.

Always butting in where they didn’t belong.

Family did that.

Soon enough he’d see Jinx again and everything would be right in his world once more. Or, as right as it got in his world. A slow smile found its way to his face and he had to control his expression around the cleanup team. They didn’t need to know he was excited to see a woman.