Tall, Dark, and Deadly: Seven Bad Boys of Paranormal Romance

by Laura Kaye

  It would be perfect, so long as she didn’t fall for a poacher in the future. But how could something she resented so much possibly come true? She lifted a hand to her chest. Was she really so weak inside? Her thoughts drifted to Jett and a tremor took over her fingers. She nearly dropped a bottle of wine.

  “Klutz. What are you doing? Thinking about boys?”

  A laugh mingled with a sob at the memory of Jac taunting her years ago.

  “Lex?” Ginger approached, a sack of vegetables in her arms, her shoulder-length, reddish-brown hair framing her face. “Are you all right?”

  “Hey, G, I’m…fine.” Setting the bottle down, Lexine leaned over the counter and pulled her friend into a hug. “How are you holding up? I’m surprised they let you out of the house.”

  Ginger nodded over her shoulder with a tight smile. A group of Guardians spread out in the crowd. “Some girls get roses. I get an escort of a half-dozen homicidal demons. Wren loves me.”

  “Ah, so romantic.” Lexine chuckled and handed the last bottle of wine off to an older demon. She left the counter, setting the cart aside to pick up later, and fell into step next to Ginger. They made their way through the market, more talking than shopping, the Guardian entourage pacing them.

  “The funerals are tomorrow night,” Ginger said, touching Lexine’s arm. “Really, how are you doing?”

  “You know me. I’m keeping busy, trying not to fall apart.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with falling apart for a little while. But I know how you feel. I’m making a dinner tonight that’ll take me hours to prepare, trying to keep my mind off what happened today. Making myself sick with anger won’t help anything, and the twins pick up on it and cry.”

  As Lexine browsed soaps and other toiletries to replace the ones she’d lost in her destroyed apartment, she leaned toward the other woman and murmured, “When things settle down, I hope to spend some time with Jett.”

  “Jett? Does he talk to you?”

  “Yes.” Lexine selected unscented soap. Jett was unconventional, for sure, but most demons hated perfumes that covered an individual’s natural scent, and he certainly didn’t strike her as a lavender-and-rose sort of male.

  “You’re blushing!”

  Lexine nodded.

  “Hmm.” Ginger grinned, pure feminine mischief glinting in her eyes. “Excellent.”

  You have no idea, Lexine thought as she steered them toward the tailor shop.

  …

  Jett turned onto Sanctuary’s access road and pulled over. He got out, tugged off his bloodied shirt, and tore long strips from the unsoiled sleeve. A stream ran along the side of the road. He climbed down, rinsed the blood from his skin, and wrapped the torn cotton around his wounded shoulder. A moderate healing fever would close the injury soon enough.

  “Fucking-A.” Devin came around the vehicle.

  “What? It won’t kill me.”

  “I didn’t realize they tattooed you.”

  Oh, shit. Jett hadn’t thought before pulling off his shirt. He growled and climbed back up to the road, speaking to Devin but keeping a wide distance. “Thornton never missed an opportunity to assert his control over me.” He scowled down at the scattered feathers and bloody knife etched into his arm, the poachers’ signature tattoo. Pale scars transected the image, from when he’d tried to claw the damned thing off. “That’s the reason I wear long sleeves.”

  “And the scars on your back?”

  “That was Lawrence.” Jett willed the memories of the whippings out of his mind. “It’s none of your business.”

  Devin frowned and shook his head, but didn’t speak any words of pity. Smart demon.

  “Should we go after Gwyn?” Jett moved back to the driver’s side door.

  “No. She just texted that Henry disappeared in traffic and she’s on her way back.”

  “Great.” He jerked the door open. Can anything go right?

  They got back in the SUV and continued toward the colony. Devin called Lark and summed up the evening’s events. When he disconnected, he said, “Lark wants to see us as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, goodie. This just keeps getting better.”

  Devin leaned back in his seat and shut his eyes, but his face remained tense. They drove the rest of the way in silence. Jett parked near the town hall, surprised at how much those working on the building had accomplished in only a few hours. Piles of debris burned a safe distance from the building and the trees, and plastic sheeting covered the gaping hole in the second floor.

  They traveled down the path to the archangel house and found Lark pacing near the edge of the lake.

  Jett ground his teeth and approached the Guardian, positioning himself so that neither of the other demons blocked him from leaving if he chose to. “I take full responsibility for what happened tonight, but I don’t answer to you and I won’t tolerate a lecture.”

  “You’re under the impression I intend to scold you?”

  Jett arched an eyebrow.

  “It was a damn good idea and stood a better chance of getting us precious information than anything else the three of you could have done,” Lark said. “But clearly, Lawrence has made your new loyalties public knowledge. From now on, we can’t assume there are any in his circles who don’t know.”

  “But how did Lawrence find out?” Devin folded his arms and leaned against a tree. “Have you spoken with anyone since the day you escaped?”

  “I’ve spoken to no one,” Jett said.

  “I didn’t think so. What the hell?”

  Lark drew a blade from a sheath at his hip, tossed it in the air and caught it by the hilt. Toss. Catch. “Lawrence is a scientist, so he is very observant and pays attention to the smallest of details.” He met Jett’s gaze, still catching the blade with ease. “He never completely broke you, and I’m sure he knows it. After the Guardians showed up at Thornton’s and you disappeared, he must have assumed you were brought back into the fold.”

  “That’s possible, but there must be more to it,” Jett said. “Anything could have happened to me after that day. I could have died with the others. I could have gone elsewhere. He wouldn’t have written me into his plan to weaken the colony’s defenses unless he was damn certain.”

  “Yes.” Lark frowned. Toss. Catch. “However, I think it was more a test than a crucial part of his plan. He couldn’t have seriously believed all or most of the Guardians would have left the entire colony for one child. I bet he simply wanted to see what you would do. He’s been studying you your whole life, after all.”

  “I agree, but that doesn’t explain how he knows I’m even alive, let alone here.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that all evening, actually, and I keep coming back to one theory.” Lark sheathed his blade. “Will you hold still for a moment?”

  “Why?”

  “So I can find out if you’re as free as you think you are.”

  Jett froze.

  Lark pulled a small electronic device that resembled a credit card out of his pocket. He held it an inch above Jett’s skin and moved it over his body, starting at his forehead and working his way down and around to his back. He paused, staring at the tattoo for a moment before moving on. At least he spared Jett any commentary on the damned thing.

  “What the hell are you—” A series of high-pitched beeps cut off Jett’s words.

  Devin cursed.

  Lark pressed his fingers into Jett’s skin below his right shoulder blade. He leaned forward and met Jett’s stare. “You have a computer chip of some sort, probably a tracking device.”

  Jett went ridged. “Take it out.”

  “Do you want to go to the town hall to get some local anesthetic and a proper doctor?”

  “Get the fucking thing out, now!”

  “Fine.” Lark extracted a blade and dug into Jett’s back with the tip. Jett fisted his hands at his sides, a growl ripping from his throat, the pain dull in comparison to the realization of what Lawrence had done. A moment later, L
ark pressed a cloth against Jett’s skin and held out a blood-covered electronic chip the size of a penny.

  “Here’s how he knew,” the Guardian said.

  Jett reached for the scanner. “I need to check Bryce. He was alone with them for hours.”

  Silent, Lark handed over the device and stepped out of the way. Jett sprinted down the path.

  Chapter Ten

  Lexine hummed to herself as she arranged her things in the spare bedroom of her parents’ apartment. Jett’s voice carried from the front of the dwelling and she jumped. She hurried down the hall.

  In the kitchen, her parents and Jett knelt around Bryce. Jett held a small, black cell phone-like device in his hand and swept it over Bryce’s back, his arms, and legs. Her mother sniffled and her father’s mouth was set in a thin line, but Bryce stared up at Jett with a faint grin.

  “What’s going on?” Lexine focused on Jett.

  A bandage made of a torn shirt covered Jett’s shoulder, just above a tattoo and a series of scars that covered his upper arm. Her breath deserted her.

  She stood, frozen, staring at the poachers’ insignia and the scars that crossed it like claw scratches, the unique markings on the man in her dream. The man she’d assumed was human, considering no demon had ever worn that accursed symbol. In the dream, the man’s face had always been in shadow, but the tattoo and scars had been as clear as day. Her ears rang, and it wasn’t until her mother’s face filled her line of vision that she realized someone had spoken.

  “Lexi?” Her mother’s hands gripped her arms. “Don’t worry. Bryce is fine. Are you all right? You’re so pale.”

  Lexine eased into a kitchen chair, her fisted hands in her lap. “What’s going on?”

  Jett mussed Bryce’s hair and stood. “A tracking device was found under my skin. I had to be sure Lawrence’s men hadn’t implanted one on Bryce.”

  “Oh.” She nodded at her mother. “I’m fine.” She got to her feet. “Jett, I need to speak with you for a moment.”

  Leading him into the living room, she rubbed her hands together, racking her mind for the right words.

  “You’re shaking.” Jett stopped near the fireplace. Covered in a sheen of sweat and sporting the stained, makeshift bandage, he contrasted with the cozy decor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  She reached toward his scarred and inked arm, but stopped an inch from touching him.

  “Shit, I didn’t think.” He jerked away. “Right. I should have found a new shirt. This was not something I ever asked for, I promise you.” He lifted his opposite hand to the tattoo. His fingers lined up with the clawlike scars.

  She forced her mind and mouth to work. “Lawrence did that to you?”

  “Thornton.”

  “And the scars?”

  “I was knocked unconscious. When I woke up, anger and perhaps the lingering effects of the drugs, overrode my reason and I tried to scratch the thing off.” He traced the scars. “I’ve been through worse things. This is just the most visual.”

  She got to her feet, her lips parted to tell him she’d seen the scarred tattoo before and where she’d seen it. But his words from that afternoon ghosted through her mind:

  “Now that I’m out of that hell, I will never be a slave again, in any form. Nor will I tolerate seeing anyone else stripped of their free will,” he’d said.

  She’d told him she doubted she could change her future, even though she wanted to, and he’d likened that to the deprivation of freedom he’d experienced in the hands of his captors. Her lack of choice had drawn a stronger reaction from him than the fact that it was a poacher she faced—or thought she’d faced.

  Being the destined mate in her dreams would not go over well with him. He was right: there were right and wrong reasons to be with someone, and believing she had no choice in the matter was definitely a wrong reason. But she wanted to see where things would go between them. She’d wanted to get to know Jett before she saw that tattoo. The tattoo didn’t change that, but unless she chose her words with extreme care when she explained, he’d bolt.

  “You’re bleeding.” She stepped closer. He’d turned away from her, revealing blood dripping down his back from a fresh cut below his shoulder blade. She gently took his wrist. “Come with me.”

  In silence, he offered no resistance as she guided him to the bathroom, but he watched her. His unrelenting gaze tracked her as she soaked a washcloth in warm water. As she used the cloth to wipe away the blood that had dripped down his back, he continued to stare at her in the mirror.

  “What are you doing?”

  At the raw shock in his voice, she paused, the cooling cloth pressed against the wound. “Has no one taken care of you before?”

  He pulled away, but she gripped his arm.

  “Hold still.”

  “It’ll heal soon,” he said, his tone full of typical macho dismissal. “You don’t need to—”

  “I want to. It’ll leave less of a scar this way.” She rinsed the cloth. So many scars covered him already, his back marred from what had to have been whippings. Many whippings. One more tiny mark would make no difference, but maybe a little tenderness would.

  She applied cream and an adhesive bandage to the cut, then began to unravel the strips of cotton from his shoulder.

  “Lexine—”

  “Jett.” Leaving no room for argument in her tone, she held his gaze in the mirror.

  He shook his head, but she ignored him and kept going, cleaning and medicating the gash across the front of his shoulder. She applied a real bandage. Instead of setting the tense male free, she soaked the washcloth again.

  She pressed the cloth between his shoulders. He shuddered. Tending to the older wounds, she treated them with gentle care, as if the whip had sliced his skin only yesterday. His hands trembled a second before he curled his fingers around the edge of the sink.

  Biting her lower lip, she moved to his sides and stomach, where the marks were thinner and strategically located. Surgical scars. An inner fire filled her. She would have ripped out Lawrence’s throat herself had the miserable excuse for a man been in the room.

  Clusters of faint scars marked the back of his hand and inside of his wrists. She ran a fingertip over them. “What caused this?”

  He answered in an even, controlled tone. “Needles and IVs.”

  She swallowed against a rush of nausea.

  Pulling his hand away, he sighed. He lifted his fingers to his face. She noticed for the first time a line of tiny needle scars on his cheeks, right over the venom glands. A whimper escaped her lips—heavens, considering the nerves associated with the venom system, needles must have caused him so much pain, comparable even to the whippings.

  His eyes widened and he dropped his hand, as if just realizing he was touching his face. He cleared his throat and spoke, his voice thick and haunted. “There was a lab assistant who tried to be more humane about it, once. Against Lawrence’s instructions, she tried to take venom directly from my fangs, using a film-covered cup, like they do with snakes. But, I bit her. I was young and I didn’t understand it would kill her.”

  Lexine ignited flames and pressed herself against his chest. “Biting when threatened is instinctive. The reaction is especially strong in children. Even in the best of circumstances, humans should never handle demon young.”

  He tensed under her hold and took a step back, but she tightened her arms. She refused to let him distance himself, not at this moment. Perhaps no one had held him since his kidnapping, but he was so close to letting his guard down, she could sense it—she felt it in the slight tremor of his arms. If she let him run now, would they ever get to this place again, or would he build his walls even stronger and higher?

  He sighed.

  He wrapped his arms round her.

  He slumped.

  Lexine almost had to hold him up.

  “I know.” He sighed, his warm breath on her forehead. “But of all the people I’ve killed in my lifetime, she’s the
only one I regret.”

  He settled his hand on her jawline and coaxed her to lift her face.

  A voice in her mind persisted that Jett wasn’t interested in her romantically and would never be. He might only be interested in helping her salvage her ability to choose her own mate. However, now that she knew he was the mate in her dream, that fear dwindled and courage rose in its place. She straightened and parted her lips as Jett dug his fingers into her hair.

  She wasn’t about to risk scaring him off before she had the chance to see if the spark between them could indeed be something more. If he developed feelings for her before she told him about the tattoo and scars in her dream, maybe he wouldn’t view her announcement as a leash and collar to be slipped at all costs.

  And if he left, anyway? Or if nothing grew between them? Well, then she’d have proved choice remained despite the dream, after all. Either way, she no longer had to fear a future of sharing a bed with a poacher, forsaking everyone she knew and loved. She would never have walked that path.

  She wanted to dance and laugh her throat sore. But all thought faded as his mouth covered hers, leaving only awareness of his lips, his heavy arms, and his heady scent of tea and honey. He broke the kiss, but lingered close.

  “You’re grieving. Now is not the time to try all the things I want to try with you.”

  Breath deserted her.

  “You have my cell number. Call me for anything.” He stepped back, but held her gaze before turning for the door. “Good night, Lexine.”

  She stared after him, certain she’d just seen a side of him no one else had ever witnessed, the male he would have been if he’d never been kidnapped—who he still was, buried beneath his antisocial armor. “’Night, Jett. Stay safe.”

  …

  Jett stalked through the woods, unable to calm his breathing.

  He desired that female more than he’d realized.

  Such a foreign thing, desire. Sexual desire, and the desire for company and companionship. His guarded friendship with the archangel in the basement prison took years to develop, and the dedication that resulted from that relationship still possessed him as strongly as his own need to survive. He didn’t feel any particular need to spend time with Raphael—he did so in the prison only to ease the archangel’s anguish. Lexine, though, Jett longed to stretch out at her side and bury his face in her hair, to walk with her in the morning for the simple joy of the shared moment with another person.