Evolution- Awakening

by Hope Anika

  “Six?” Wylie repeated, dumbfounded.

  “He’s very powerful,” she said. “My parents considered it an excellent match.”

  “Six,” Wylie said again.

  “Yes.”

  “No fucking way,” he growled. Without permission, his hands clamped around her thighs, hard. “Not happening.”

  She stilled beneath his hold. “He knows I’m here now. He will find me.”

  Rage sliced through Wylie, clear and cold and deadly. “Let him come.”

  “No.” Her hands suddenly covered his and gripped tightly. “This is not your fight.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” he rasped. “You’re one of us. We won’t give you up.”

  She made a painful, broken sound; her fingers dug into his. Tears suddenly webbed her lashes. “You can’t win. I have to run.”

  Fear arrowed through his rage, unexpected and stark. “You’re not running. Fuck that.”

  “It’s my choice,” she said, staring at him.

  He wanted to argue; to rant and rave and drag from her a promise to stay. But he didn’t. She was tense and hollow-eyed, and he could almost smell her fear; it only enraged him more. There was far more to this story, but now was not the time. He knew enough. And they had other problems.

  Worse problems.

  “Thank you for telling me,” he said after a long moment.

  Her hands squeezed his again. “Please, Wylie. You must accept this.”

  He only dislodged her hold, turned and held her shirt out to her.

  “Wylie,” she repeated anxiously.

  “Get dressed,” he told her. “We need food. And I have to talk to Ash.”

  “Please,” she said again.

  “Don’t.”

  Her hand snagged his shirt. “You must promise me—”

  “Promise you?” he echoed, infuriated. Unable to rein himself in, he gripped her nape and kissed her, a hard, possessive, angry kiss he didn’t want to soften. Then he said, “He can’t fucking have you, baby. That’s the only thing I’ll promise you.”

  He didn’t give her the chance to respond. He just got the hell out.

  *****

  Ruslan’s tattoo tingled.

  The old, crude inking lay hidden beneath the sleek silver band of his watch, but he was always aware of the mark. The faded symbols had been with him since birth, a mysterious, inexplicable brand, and one he’d never uncovered the meaning of, in spite of all the years he’d spent searching.

  A lifetime of looking.

  He was a man without history or heritage; the tattoo was his sole clue in determining where—and who—he might have come from. Being unable to discern any significance behind them—beyond their obvious meaning—was infuriating. Over the years, he’d come to reluctantly accept that he might never find the answers he sought.

  And then he’d opened Anson Grant’s journal.

  The drawing of the symbols had stunned him, and he wasn’t a man easily surprised. He had no foundation with which to deal with the enormity of what he’d felt upon seeing it: astonishment, bewilderment.

  Hope.

  But he wasn’t a man who believed in coincidence. That the design inked into his skin was the same as that painted on the living room wall of a dead eugenics geneticist couldn’t possibly be chance. And if the sight of those enigmatic symbols had electrified him, when correlated with who Anson Grant was—and the science in which he’d engaged—it was deeply disturbing as well.

  Beside him, Ash sat silent as he drove across the city. She wrote into a slender notepad, her demeanor cool and distant, something for which he knew he was responsible.

  Answers, Ruslan. I want answers.

  Something he never gave to anyone.

  He recognized her right to them. But she wanted things he was not yet ready to give, and he saw no reason to muddy waters already impossible to read.

  Besides, to share his history would be like peeling away a layer of twisted scar tissue and revealing the ugly wound beneath. He wasn’t certain he was capable.

  What would she think when she learned who and what he was?

  It should not have concerned him, what she thought. He’d never before cared what anyone thought; their curiosity had been an annoyance, their fear a tool he wielded. He had created himself. Never had he felt a need for someone’s approval.

  Or acceptance.

  But the woman beside him was not the same. The same as every other; the same as the rest. He didn’t know why. In the moment that had risen between them in the conference room—when her mouth had drawn his gaze, and the savage thing within him had whined in yearning, and the urge to touch her—really touch her—had gripped him with such intense resolve, he’d nearly succumbed—something had been born. A tangible, pulsating force that had burst into being, and which drew them—inexorably—together.

  Ruslan did not believe in love. He fucked women because his body needed release, and only under the most controlled of circumstances. He made certain the women he took enjoyed it, but there was no intimacy beyond that of intercourse. No kissing. No caresses. Only the most rudimentary of stimulation necessary to accomplish his goal.

  Love, he’d often reflected, was illusion born of the human need for connection and purpose. And he sought neither.

  But Ash...she tempted him. He’d not lied to her. She did remind him that he was alive. Alive in ways he’d never before noticed; ways he hadn’t understood he was able to experience.

  And what he felt made him wonder, if he dared press his mouth to hers, how she would taste. If he put his hands to her flesh, how would she feel? With her there was heat, where there had only been cold; need, where there had only been necessity.

  Desire. A foreign, enticing and dangerous lure.

  And she was not immune. Ruslan had noted every sign of her response to him: the flush of her cheeks, the leap of her pulse. The slight dilation of her pupils. She’d felt the invisible strands of the seductive web that had spun around them every bit as strongly as he had.

  You should keep reading, she’d ordered. Because she felt the pull.

  Because she didn’t trust him.

  I don’t know who you are. You won’t tell me.

  Which frightened her.

  He knew it angered her; she’d been crystal clear about that. But he hadn’t understood until that moment that the distrust between them had bred fear. That brief, dark flash in her brilliant eyes, especially when she seemed to fear nothing—not even those things she should. The sight had chilled the heat in his blood, and he wondered where, beyond him, that fear had been born. And how he could crush it.

  Feeling too much. He wasn’t certain he cared for it.

  The heated, confusing, perilous thing that had sparked between them was infinitely dangerous. To succumb would violate the rules of the life he lived, would shift the paradigm, and he understood he would not be the same again.

  Then I will have to show you.

  A decision he’d had no intention of making. But the dark entity within him was done waiting; it had ceased to care about repercussions. The darkness wanted her.

  And to hell with the consequences.

  The most dangerous part of him was utterly captivated by her, awakened to a hunger that had nothing to do with blood and violence and death, something that was both profoundly disturbing and utterly electrifying.

  And what had once been enough now seemed too little, and with that realization came a choice, and with that choice came a price.

  One Ruslan wasn’t certain he was prepared to pay.

  But then she had touched him...and he’d understood that no price was too high.

  Unlike the searing discomfort he normally experienced when touched, Ash’s hold had been like lightning striking. The feel of her strong, slender fingers wrapping his hand had sent an arrow of white-hot current arcing down his spine, prickling every nerve to vivid life. Every part of him had shuddered, a piercing, painful awakening, and the savagery inside of him had roared
in demand.

  But it was not blood and bone it commanded.

  It was her.

  On top of the chaos stirred by the discovery of his tattoo in Anson Grant’s journal, it left him feeling ungrounded and uneasy, and worse, Ash’s chilled, determined silence as she sat beside him—which should not have bothered him in the least—was, as Wylie would say, getting on his last fucking nerve.

  You cannot have it both ways.

  No. If he wanted trust from her, he would have to give trust to her. There was no other way, regardless of the risk.

  Because he wanted answers, too: about his tattoo, about his connection to the Primary program. Why Charlie had chosen him.

  Perhaps, if he shared, Ash would be willing to help him discover the answers he sought.

  The black SUV was still behind them as he pulled the Impala to a halt across the street from the Vault—which even in the faint golden light of the street lamps was nothing more than a blackened hole. On the Impala’s dash, Charlie’s ancient CB radio crackled softly. They’d not heard from Wylie, and when Ash tried to reach him, there’d been no response. She’d said nothing, but Ruslan could see her worry grow.

  He turned off the Impala, and she reached for the door handle.

  “Wait,” he said.

  She only turned and stared at him, silent.

  His heart thumped heavily against the cage of his ribs. It was an unusual and unnerving sensation; he wasn’t a man who suffered nerves.

  But he’d never shared this secret.

  He reached up, undid his watch and slid it off. The darkness stirred uneasily, but Ruslan ignored it and thrust his hand into the narrow ray of light that speared through the windshield between them. Then he turned it over, revealing his tattoo.

  “Holy balls,” Ash said and blinked down at it.

  Not the words he would have chosen, but effective nonetheless. “Indeed.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I do not know.”

  She looked up at him. “You have a tattoo you don’t know the meaning of?”

  “It has marked me since birth, but I do not know its meaning, or its origin.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, silent, and Ruslan felt his pulse beat hollowly in the back of his throat. Then she said, “That’s why you lost your shit.”

  Again, not how he would have categorized it, but that she understood was enough.

  “I was raised in an orphanage in St. Petersburg,” he said. “On my birth certificate, my mother and father are listed as ‘unknown.’ No other records exist, and no one at the orphanage was willing or able to tell me anything of substance. The tattoo is the sole clue to my heritage. I spent years seeking its meaning. But like Anson Grant, I found nothing beyond the most basic alchemic definition.”

  Ash moved closer; light reflected in the pale gold of her hair as she bent to inspect his wrist. The scent of jasmine flooded his nostrils, and her heat touched his cold skin. She lifted a hand, as if to trace the marks, then let it fall.

  “The drawing in Anson Grant’s journal is the first recreation of the symbols I have ever seen,” he said. “It was...unexpected.”

  “I bet,” she said soberly, glancing up at him through her lashes. “I’m sorry.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You did nothing wrong.”

  “I shouldn’t have touched you.”

  “No,” he said again. His heart continued to beat like a drum; the hand she was inspecting turned into a fist. All of his control, so easily bled away. “It is not you. I was not raised with human contact, and I am uncomfortable with the intimacy of such contact.”

  “No touching at all?” she asked quietly. “Not even a hug?”

  His jaw tightened. “No.”

  “Goddamn it. Now I want to hug you. Shit.”

  The feral thing within him leapt like a big cat trapped behind caged glass, and Ruslan barely contained the shudder that tore through him from the impact.

  “I do not want a hug,” he said, rigid.

  “Doesn’t mean you don’t need one,” Ash told him and sat back. “So what do you think it means?”

  “I do not know.” He replaced his watch. “But I would like to find out.”

  “Hell yes, we’re going to find out.” Her gaze met his. “You need some answers.”

  Yes. And she would help him get them, that was clear in the set of her mouth and the promise glittering in her bright blue-green eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said, the words a pale sentiment for the intensity churning within him.

  “This is some messed up shit,” she said. “What if you’re a Primary?”

  The question jolted him like a cattle prod. “That is unlikely, given the limits of bioengineering when I was born.”

  She only shook her head. “I wouldn’t bet on it. Manufacturing and sales are the final steps of technology, not the first. I’d be willing to bet there’s been folks working to create the perfect baby juice for a lot longer than either one of us have been breathing. People are monsters.”

  Ruslan stared at her.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It was just a theory.”

  He looked away. It was not inconceivable; in point of fact, the idea had occurred to him. But he’d always considered his birth to be something those who’d born him had fled, something reviled and regretted.

  A mistake.

  He was not special. He was damaged. That the possibility existed where he might actually be what she was suggesting—

  “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she added. “Sometimes my mouth disconnects from my brain and—”

  “Ashling,” Ruslan cut her off quietly.

  She halted. “I really wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

  He turned to look at her. “Do you know what Ashling means?”

  “It’s Irish. It means dream or vision.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Your name suits you, and...I like it. I do not care about your ‘dickhead’ father, or what he calls you.”

  He was surprised by the short laugh that broke from her. “You’re a piece of work, Ruslan.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Art work.”

  She blinked. “Was that a joke?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She began to laugh, sweet, husky laughter, and he couldn’t look away. Such warmth in that laugh. Such invitation. And he grew distinctly uncomfortable, because that laugh warmed him—too much. Invited him—and he wanted to accept. Aroused him—and he wanted to act.

  “The SUV is parked three cars behind us,” he said brusquely. “We should inspect the Vault and go.”

  “A joke,” she said and snorted. “I should calendar it.”

  The CB on the dash suddenly crackled with life, and a disembodied voice broke between them. “Breaker, breaker, one-nine, this is Corn Dog looking for Annie O. Annie O, come back, over.”

  Ruslan blinked.

  “Finally!” Ash grabbed the microphone of the CB. “This is Annie O, Corn Dog, over.”

  “Goddamn, it’s good to hear your voice, Annie O. You get my message, over?”

  “Ten-four,” she said. “Got your truck and your coat, too, over.”

  “That’s my girl. What’s your skinny, over?”

  “We’re detecting. Are you okay, over?”

  “Ten-four. All is well. Gonna hunker down tonight, and then head up and catch some fish tomorrow, over.”

  “Fishing sounds fun. I hope you don’t get skunked.”

  “Copy that, Annie O. We’ll keep our eyes peeled. You got Spock with you, over?”

  Ash grinned. “Ten-four, over.”

  “Good. You stick to Annie O like white on rice, Spock. You get me, over?”

  Ruslan’s head tilted, and he frowned.

  “Copy that,” Ash murmured. “We’ll pack up our tackle and see you soon, Corn Dog. You take care, over.”

  “Ten-four Annie O. You do the same. Smell you later, over.”

  She set the microphone down and sighed. “Right on.�
��

  Ruslan only stared at her. “And you continue to think I am the odd one.”

  She was still laughing when she climbed from the Impala.

  CHAPTER

  -10-

  Your name suits you, and I like it. I do not care about your ‘dickhead’ father, or what he calls you.

  Ash was still musing over those words twelve hours later. She shouldn’t have been; they were just Ruslan’s way of continuing to do what he wanted to do, regardless of what she wanted him to do.

  Slick bastard.

  He was good, she would give him that. Almost...charming, a word she would’ve never associated with him before last night. And when he’d cracked that joke—

  Goddamn it.

  Because being physically attracted to the man was bad enough; seeing that spark of dry humor had altered what she told herself was only biology and over-active hormones into something...richer. Deeper.

  Something that had the potential to be disastrous.

  You remind me that I’m alive.

  Why? Why had he said that?

  Damn him.

  Ash was not a woman who sought men. She’d had one singular, wholly unpleasant experience with sex; she was in no hurry for a repeat performance. And the hard lessons—and deep scars—left by her shitbird of a father were more than enough to turn her from anyone else. She liked being alone; she was safe alone.

  But that solitude carried a price, something she hadn’t known until Ruslan. Because he paid it—over and over and over again, and Ash didn’t think he even realized the loss.

  A loss she wanted to make him feel.

  “And that makes you a dumbass,” she told herself.

  She sat at her desk, Butch’s notes on Jesse’s missing brother, Jace, in front of her. She and Ruslan had spent the night at the office after finding exactly squat at the Vault—nothing but more destruction and further evidence that things were insanely out of hand.

  Ruslan had insisted it was too dangerous for her to return home, and while Ash knew there was some truth to that, it was the blood decorating the floor of her apartment that had decided her. Three men had died in her living room, and while she was both a realist and a pragmatist, she also knew her home would never be the same again.