Something had changed since the “episode”—that was how they referred to her abduction. Anstice was leery, refused to talk about what had happened and seemed withdrawn. Could it be possible Anstice was having trouble dealing with it? Did Keir dislike her? No, Anstice wouldn’t put up with that. But the timing was the same; Keir had met Anstice a week or so before the abduction. Something had changed in that time period. But what?
Mostly, Danielle felt disappointed with herself. She had always been free-spirited and devil-may-care. Now she was trapped in a hellish past. The funny thing was she didn’t even recall the two days she’d been held in captivity. The doctors said it was normal, a way to protect her mind from something so traumatic. But her mind was snowed under with flashes of sounds and scents that reminded her of the horror she’d survived.
After the episode, her friends had given up on her. Six months of ignoring their calls and emails tended to lead to desertion. Except for Anstice, of course. She kept calling, kept coming over, kept inviting her out. She was like a badger attached to her bloody leg. No matter how much Danielle tried to shake her off, Anstice refused to let go. Guess you find out who your real friends are. So why then did she think their relationship was different? Anstice had stood by her through the past two God-awful years.
Gregg, a guy she dated before the abduction, had visited her in the hospital. He tried to start things up again. She royally screwed that up by screaming at him to get the fuck away from her the first time his fingers caressed her neck . . . well, needless to say he vamoosed. Her flings became nonexistent; besides, touching made her recoil and her stomach started a full out riot.
She shuddered, running her hands up and down her arms. Always cold. This bizarre feeling as if she’d been in sub-zero temperatures, constantly shivering, her body unable to provide warmth.
God, two years had gone by since she’d been intimate with anyone, and the funny thing was she didn’t even give a crap. Just thinking about a man touching her brought a dark ominous cloud over her mind. No more wild sexual encounters like with Kevin in the restaurant washroom or in Vee’s hall closet with Kevin’s foot in the mop bucket. Actually, the time in the elevator with Gavin had been the most erotic and daring. Six months in his arms had been feral and when she ended it, like she did with every guy, she’d felt a longing, a tickle of wanting to take the relationship to the next level. But the reminder of her father’s brains splattered all over his desk was vivid enough to end any attachment before it ever got to the point of loving.
She’d had no qualms about approaching a guy she found attractive, whether in a grocery store, pub, park or even the bank. If she thought a guy was cute, she’d ask him out.
Rejection came with the territory, but it never bothered her. So they said no, whoopee. It wasn’t as if they disliked her or found her unattractive. She took it as either no chemistry or they were taken, the faithful kind.
These days, if she saw a man she was attracted to, she walked the other way. Inside she was a tornado of emotions—tearing, pushing and pulling in every direction.
After she was released from the hospital, the dreams had begun with the obsession over the man in her paintings. It was as if he was begging her to discover who he was. She thought painting him would get him out of her system—instead it intensified, the urgency to paint him again and again. Desperation was strongest after the sun set, keeping her awake to stare at his portrait hanging over her bed. Some nights she sat on the floor cross-legged, staring at him as if waiting for him to say something. Like that would ever happen.
She grabbed a new canvas from her closet and propped it up on her easel. She pressed Play on her stereo and Hinder’s “Lips of An Angel” blasted. Pulling the pencil from her hair, she began sketching. Her hand moved with precision, knowing what it was drawing, having done it repeatedly. She ignored the red paint drying on the floor, the ruined canvases scattered in every direction and the promise to stop thinking of him. The buzzing began singing its familiar song.
She was so immersed in her drawing that she failed to notice the male figure standing in the shadows, his vivid green eyes flashing.
STEP (The Senses Book 2)
Chapter 1
Rayne huddled on the bathroom floor, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them. The footsteps drew closer. Fear tore through her insides like a helicopter blade. She rocked back and forth, tears streaking her cheeks.
The steps stopped.
She raised her head and gasped.
“Fuck, babe,” Chocolate Eyes said, stepping forward. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet off the tiled floor. “You look like crap . . . worse, actually.” He wiped her tears with the calloused pad of his thumb. “You want to get out of this pisshole or not?”
He came back? For her? This had to be an aftereffect of the drugs her husband forced her to take. A hallucination. Chocolate Eyes had escaped the compound with his friend Ryker weeks ago.
He grabbed her chin and forced her eyes to meet his. “Are you hurt?”
She stared, transfixed, heart pounding so violently she feared it would break through her ribcage. His fingers dug into her flesh and he gave her a shake, eyes glaring and fierce.
“Answer me,” he growled. “Do I need to carry you, damn it?”
“You came back,” she whispered.
He ignored her statement. “Listen, woman, I don’t feel like becoming some guy’s lab rat, so goddamn answer me?”
“I . . . no . . . I can walk,” she said. Just dizzy, weak and scared as a guppy in a tank with a piranha. Anton always said she was pathetic.
“You still want out of here? Cause if you don’t, damn well tell me now.”
“I . . . I hate him,” she blurted. Why did she say that? He didn’t ask her that.
His grip on her chin eased while his eyes flashed darker, if that were possible. “Yeah, figured that. And I’ll take that as a yes.” He grabbed her sweatshirt draped on the sink and pulled it over her head. “It’s cold out,” he muttered. His gaze roamed from her head down to her feet and back up again. “Walking won’t cut it, can you run?”
Could she? She had no idea. Her legs felt like uncooked spaghetti ready to crack in half at the slightest push. Her heart pitter-pattered erratically having to work hard to keep her body functioning. She was falling apart, so probably the truth would be a firm no, but she nodded anyway.
Their eyes met and he paused and then nodded as if satisfied that, regardless of her lie, he thought she’d be able to at least keep up. He straightened and strode out of the bathroom, knife in one hand and a gun holstered to his right hip.
He opened the door to her room and she wondered how he managed to get past the code box. How had he even known where she was in this place? Had he wrestled the information out of Ben? Or Anton? Were they dead? Please let them be dead.
“Keep close,” he ordered in a low gravelly voice. “Lag behind and I’m not coming back for you. Understand?”
She nodded. She didn’t dare believe they’d escape. No, she’d go because if Chocolate Eyes managed to get her outside, she’d at least have the chance to feel the wind in her hair, the rain or sun on her skin. That was worth anything. Being locked up in a windowless room for weeks felt as if she was suffocating beneath a blanket of soil.
His eyes watched her for a moment as if sizing her up, wondering if he’d just made the stupidest mistake of his life. He muttered something incoherent, then stepped out into the corridor.
He grabbed her hand, hot rough skin enclosing her fragile bones in a tight grip, and tugged her forward. They ran down the sterile hallway, hesitating at every intersecting corridor—there were three of them—as he watched the cameras up in the corners. She followed him like a loyal puppy on a leash, uncertain where or how they were going to get out of this place, but trailing behind regardless.
Taking the elevator would be out of the question as it was a deathtrap on cables, and the south stairs led into the main living quarters. The guy
had done his homework—triple marks on the intelligence scale—as getting into or out of the sub-basement was no easy task.
He stopped dead and she collided with his broad back. Something cold was pressed into her hand—knife. He glared at her as if to say shut up and just do as I say, and then opened the door to the stairwell. He waited a few seconds listening for footsteps, and a few could be heard from the two floors below them. She began to back out when he grabbed her arm without turning around.
He nodded to the camera up in the corner that was slowly turning in their direction. “It hits us in five seconds and then all hell is going to break loose. We can’t go back the way I came. There is no other way. We haul ass. Don’t stop no matter what you hear or see. Get outside and run to the north wall—that’s on the far right of the gate—someone will be there to help you.”
Climbing over the wall was impossible. She knew from experience. Even with a rope to haul her up the twelve feet it would take too long, considering Anton’s buffalo guards would be hunting them like dogs. A bullet could travel fast and far.
He grabbed her hand and tightened it on the hilt of the knife. “Use it. Don’t hesitate, for fuck sake. Jugular.” He pointed to the scar on his throat where someone had obviously tried to do the same thing.
Just the thought of slicing the knife across the throat of another human being made her stomach lurch. Could she end a life? She’d done it once before and swore never to do it again, but if it meant escape? Freedom from her husband and what he had in store for her?
Chocolate Eyes glanced up at the camera for a few seconds then shoved her ahead of him. “Go!”
She ran as hard and fast as she could. Her legs shook, knees wobbled, and her lungs cried for more oxygen as the panic ate it up. She tripped on a stair and began to fall forward when his hand grabbed her elbow. His momentum kept them going as he half dragged her up the stairs.
She stopped at the door leading into the hallway of the ground floor. A piercing alarm sounded. Running. From all directions. The place would go into lockdown.
One more hallway. Steps away from feeling the sun or the rain beating down on her again. All she needed was a minute of freedom; sixty seconds of breathing fresh air; feel the wind caress her skin like a gentle hand.
“I . . . I don’t have the code,” she said. Anton had changed them after the escape of the Senses, and this time, he hadn’t given them to her.
He gave a curt nod. “Figured that. This doesn’t always work with security systems, but it did on your cell. If it doesn’t, get ready for one hell of a fight.”
He called it a cell. Cold, sterile with nothing personal. Since she was four years old, her bedroom had been four walls, a bed and a bathroom. Once, Roarke had given her a book—Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. She’d read it a hundred and fifty-two times and would have again if her husband hadn’t found it beneath her mattress.
He let go of her elbow and stood in front of the code box. His face became a mask of concentration. Lips pressed into a thin line, jaw tense, eyes focused.
Shouts. Running. Alarm blazing.
Chocolate Eyes stood calm and composed, staring at the code box. What was he doing?
She gasped as his eyes began to change, melting away the chocolate until they were solid gold with a red dot in the center. Her eyes darted back and forth from the code box to him.
Footsteps running up from the basement.
Shouts.
The buffalos were going to be on them within seconds.
The box began to burn with intense heat like an element on a stove. The numbers disappeared under bright orange heat, and smoke billowed up from the back of it. A click sounded, and the door unlocked.
Oh my God. Could Senses do that? How could he do that? What had his eyes done?
He yanked her through the door, down the hallway and then pushed her ahead of him. “Go,” he ordered.
She hesitated, seeing him pull his gun from his holster and aiming it at the deserted hallway behind them. What was he doing? There was no one there. Suddenly, two men came barreling around the corner, and he fired off two shots. Both went down in quick succession. She stumbled forward.
He’d killed them. Blood. There was blood on the floor and . . .
“Go!”
She ran, her stomach heaving, her mind screaming.
She looked over her shoulder. He had his back to her with his gun aimed at the stairwell they’d just vacated. The door opened, and the gun went off again.
Don’t look. Keep going. Just keep moving your feet.
Almost there.
“Stop,” Chocolate Eyes shouted.
But it was too late. She rounded the corner into the foyer and slammed into a rock-solid chest. Arms locked around her, and her heart sank as her eyes met the cold unrelenting stare of Ben.
No, her mind screamed. No. She was so close. Too close. Not now! Her grip tightened on the cold hard handle of the knife. She closed her eyes and raised her arm. Go for the jugular, he’d said.
Ben grabbed her wrist and chuckled. “I don’t think so.” He twisted her arm until the knife clattered to the floor.
“Let her go, Neanderthal,” Chocolate Eyes said, gun pointed at them.
Ben raised his brows and gave a half grin as if he enjoyed every second of this. And he did. He was sick inside that massive bullhead of his. He obeyed no one except Anton. He’d rape, kill, torture, anything Anton asked of him, and he’d enjoy doing it.
Ben turned her around so her back was up against his chest, placed his gun to her temple and cocked it.
“You won’t kill her,” Chocolate Eyes said. “Her husband will have your balls in a vise if you do. So I’d advise letting her go before I kill her myself. No sweat off my back.” Chocolate Eyes readjusted his aim and pointed at her head. “I live. She dies.”
Oh God.
****
“Just one taste, my sweetness. That is all I ask. A drop to ease my suffering.”
Delara rolled her eyes, laughing. “Your self-control is that of an ant at a picnic. One taste and you’ll be back for more, and I’ll become a dried-up piece of beef jerky.” One taste and she’d be breaking a law of her kind—thou shall not willingly allow a vamp to drink thy blood. Vice versa was a bigger no-no. Balen knew that firsthand. Actually, sleeping with the enemy was no better, Delara thought.
“Mmmm, I like beef jerky,” Liam said as he slid his hand down her inner thigh and back up again. “And I like you.”
He liked that she was a Senses and against the rules. Blood—her nickname for Liam—might be on a sort of truce with the Senses, but he was a vamp and could never be trusted.
“A lot,” he continued, while his fingers trailed to the V he just minutes ago had sunk into with mad furious passion. Shit, she needed to get up and out before he coerced her into staying another five hours in bed. “Stay the night,” he said, lowering his lips to her neck, his velvet tongue sweeping across her heated skin.
So not happening. Staying the night spelled, in big bold letters, Relationship. She caught his hand in a vise-like grip. “Can’t. Have CWOs to hunt. Short-staffed tonight and it’ll be noticed if I don’t report in.” The Center World Others were being pests lately, and the newspapers were filled with missing persons and gravesites robbed of bodies . . . go figure.
“To Waleron?” He raised his thin dark brows as he leaned over and met her eyes. And what magnetic eyes—brilliant charcoal gray that curved downwards in the outer corners, like a sad puppy dog in a window. Deceptive, she thought. And irresistible when accompanied with the smooth delectable skin of his face. “Manipulator of the century,” Liam drawled.
Maybe Waleron was, but coming from a vamp’s mouth it pissed her off. “God, Blood, way to ruin good sex.” She threw back the sheet and coldness sank into her bones. “And turn up the heat next time I come over.”
He grabbed her hand before she could vault out of bed. Strength impeded her from going anywhere, a benefit of the vamps. Rough handling s
he was accustomed to, but it didn’t mean she took to it well. “Hands off, Blood.”
The corner of his lips curved upwards, and the flash of battle flared in his eyes. Crap, he was itching for a fight, and she didn’t have time for his bull. “He has you wrapped around his little finger. A whisper of a word from him and you come running. I beg you to come to me more often, and you fluff me off like a pesky fly.”
“He’s our Taldeburu, Blood. Don’t put pressure on what’s between us. Sex. No strings. That’s all I will ever give. You knew this in the beginning.”
“But I didn’t know how much I’d like you,” he said, and with a sharp tug pulled her beneath him and trapped her with his arms on either side of her head, his weight on her midsection.
She sighed. She liked him too . . . in a round-about-sort-of way. Sexy. Hot. Dangerous. Bonus was she didn’t need condoms, as vamps didn’t carry diseases or impregnate, something she didn’t need happening ever again. And, well . . . he was against the rules. “Jedrik will be wondering why I never checked in.”
“Since when do you check in with anyone? And Jedrik’s a pansy.”
“Sharpshooter with an arrow and has a hate-on for vamps."
“He also went out of the city tonight,” Liam said with a smile.
Shit, he knew everything that went on in this city, and it pissed her off. His contacts stretched further than the Senses’. “Got me,” Delara said.
“Not yet, my sweetness. Perhaps one day I will.”
Yeah, right. That would be the same day she and Waleron tied the knot.
Time to get him off and her out the door. It wasn’t a chore; he was great in bed and looked after her needs more than his own. She raised her arm and hooked the back of his neck, dragging him downward. “You drive me crazy.” Well, he did with his body, and yeah he had the charisma—sexy, alluring and charming all rolled into one big package. Problem was she always hated herself after she left his place, hated that she did this to ease another kind of suffering.
FALL (The Senses) Page 32
