Touch of Surrender

by Rhyannon Byrd

  She shivered, staring up at him, and though he could sense her caution and confusion, the look in her eyes turned vulnerable…soft. “I need it, too,” she whispered, shocking him, the quiet words wreaking havoc on Kierland’s control. She lifted one slender hand, and cupped the side of his face, her other hand curling around the damp heat at the back of his neck. Pulling him down to her, she said, “Just don’t leave me.”

  Don’t leave me….

  The whispered words, reminiscent of his dream, struck like a hammer, battering him back to his senses. “Shit,” he cursed, suddenly pushing her away from him, his hands hard on her shoulders.

  She blinked up at him, her expression a mixture of shock and hurt and disbelief. “What? What is it?”

  Kierland shook his head, unable to explain, his breaths jerking so hard that it felt like his chest would crack open. Words bottled up in his throat, but he choked them back. He wasn’t going to spill his veins, damn it, opening those old wounds—and even if he did, there would be no point to it, because the past could never be undone.

  “Please. Talk to—”

  “Don’t.” The rough blast of the word made her flinch, and she lowered her hands, the heat draining away from that burning silver in her eyes, leaving a chilled slate gray in its wake. He pushed himself out from between the seats, and stood in the aisle, staring down at her, while a thousand expressions worked their way across his face, reflected back at him in the endless depths of her eyes.

  Curving his fingers into the tops of the aisle seats, Kierland opened his mouth, wanting to apologize. To tell her that he was sorry for acting like a bloody madman. But he couldn’t get the words out. All he could do was shake his head again, mutter another sharp curse, and then turn…and walk away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Casus/Kraven Compound

  Sunday night

  AS HE STOOD OUTSIDE THE SMALL cell located behind a set of ancient iron bars, Ross Westmore pushed one hand through his light brown hair and smiled at his good fortune. For a Kraven—a species that had been treated as little better than slaves for their entire existence—he was making quite a name for himself. A few cells down, the Mallory witch, Chloe Harcourt, was sleeping fitfully, and before him was his newest addition to his collection. She was slim and rather plain, but she was priceless.

  They both were.

  In fact, these two little females were his metaphorical “ace in the hole,” and Westmore valued them as he valued his intellect, which had always served him as well as his ruthlessness. Thanks to the little gem before him, he’d been able to steal two of the coveted Dark Markers right out from under the Watchmen’s noses. It was so sweet, he couldn’t help but laugh every time he thought about it. In fact, he was enjoying himself so much that he’d been willing to hold off going after those Markers that the shape-shifters had already found, for no other reason than he enjoyed messing with their minds. Making them wonder and second-guess themselves.

  But recent developments had caused Westmore to change his plans. Now that the shifters were sharing the dangerous weapons among their brethren, making them readily available for the awakened Merrick to use against the Casus, he’d decided to take action. They might have thwarted his attempts so far, but he’d given orders that the entire Colorado unit of Watchmen, along with their recent Buchanan additions, be killed. Although his enemies had had a string of good luck so far, sooner or later they were going to slip up, and when they did, the Kraven and the Casus were going to be there to seize the opportunity.

  And as far as Westmore was concerned, he still had the upper hand. After all, the Watchmen and Merrick were clueless as to why he wanted the Markers, as well as to why he was so determined to facilitate the return of the Casus. And that was how he wanted it, for now. When the time was right, all would be revealed, and they’d be left broken and bleeding on the battlefield, while he and the Casus ushered in a new era of leadership over the clans…and eventually the world.

  And all thanks to the precious little crossbreed in the cell before him.

  She lay on her small cot, shivering beneath a pile of blankets. Clearly, she was cold, the hearth on the far side of the compound’s underground level doing little to ease the snap of chill from the air. Half-psychic, half-Deschanel, she was also hungry, but Westmore knew better than to give her blood. He needed her weak enough to control, keeping her just on the edge of survival with the bits of food he allowed her to have.

  Sensing his presence, she lifted her head from her pillow, staring at him through the most unusual color eyes he had ever seen. The pale pure gray of the Deschanel, but with threads of dark blue woven through, creating a mesmerizing effect, reminding him of lightning flashing through a warm summer sky.

  “You know why I’m here,” he murmured, stepping closer to the bars. It was time for his little psychic to use her powers and tell him where the Watchmen would be searching for the next Dark Marker.

  Lowering her head again to the pillow, she rolled over, giving him her back. “And you know my answer,” she responded, her English perfect, without any trace of an accent. “I have nothing to tell you, except that I wish you would die and go to hell, where you belong.”

  Keeping his voice gentle, he said, “Come now, Raine. Can we not be civilized in this exchange?”

  “From what I’ve seen, there’s nothing civilized about the Kraven. You’re as monstrous as the Casus.”

  Yes, she knew what he was—but then she was part Deschanel, and it was the vamps who had kept the existence of Westmore’s race a secret for so many years. A secret that had been so well preserved, not even the Consortium and their little Watchmen had learned about the Kraven until Westmore had launched his campaign to bring back the Casus.

  Walking along the front of her cell, he ran his hand along the iron bars, his light tone completely at odds with the warning his words imparted. “If you force my hand, Raine, you know what will happen. Do you really want to be the Casus’s plaything again? You barely survived your last punishment. If you’re not careful, your impertinence is going to be the death of you.”

  He watched as her slender back stiffened and knew he’d hit home with his threat. He didn’t dare allow those under his command to lay a hand on the Mallory witch imprisoned a few cells down, since she was being saved for Anthony Calder. A powerful Casus who was leading his brethren within Meridian, Calder was working with Westmore to coordinate their return.

  But while Chloe Harcourt was to be protected, this little psychic vamp was free game, so long as they didn’t kill her.

  “Tell me where it is,” he commanded in a soft, intimate rasp.

  “Go to hell,” she groaned, huddling beneath the covers. “I told you yesterday, the Merrick female hasn’t finished deciphering the next map.”

  It’d taken Westmore months to find a psychic with Raine’s unique gift of seeing into the past and the present—but as powerful as she was, there were still certain limitations to her abilities. For one, she could only “see” within a living subject’s lifetime. So while she could mentally “watch” as Saige Buchanan deciphered the encrypted maps that led to the hidden locations of the Dark Markers, she couldn’t simply “see” the Markers being buried, since the one who had buried them was already deceased. As a result, she was forced to wait until Saige had determined the location. Then, once Raine passed that location on to Westmore, as she’d done twice before now, it was a race to see who could uncover the Marker first. The Kraven and the Casus…or the Watchmen and the Merrick.

  After a brutal session with four of his Casus soldiers, Westmore was confident that Raine had learned her lesson and now knew better than to feed him false information—and yet, he didn’t trust her not to drag her feet when it came to imparting her mental findings. Which was why he’d made sure to procure a new incentive that would earn him her cooperation.

  Pushing his hands into his pockets, he propped his shoulder against the cold metal bars, proud of the fact that he was the one standin
g there, delivering threats, wielding all the power. He wasn’t the best-looking of men, or even the most physically imposing, but then, when you were the one in control, those things didn’t matter.

  And when it came to the insolent little twentysomething in that cell, he was definitely the one in control.

  Casually, as if he weren’t about to break her heart, he said, “By the way, have I mentioned that we found your little brother?”

  She sat up so fast that the cot nearly toppled, her expression stricken with fear as the blankets fell away from her pale body, exposing small breasts that hadn’t quite healed from her punishment, the tender flesh still bruised and marked with fading bite wounds. “You didn’t!” she cried. “That’s not possible! He’s in hiding!”

  “Yes, well, you’d be amazed what information can be bought when you offer the right inducement. Luke wasn’t so hard to find, once the right numbers were mentioned.” Giving her a small smile, he relayed, “You should be proud of him, Raine. He’s quite brave, for an eight-year-old. Threatens to kill me every time I see him, which is more than I can say for that sniveling sister of yours who would never stop whining.”

  “You bastard!” she shouted, trying to lurch to her feet. But her naked body was too weak, and she fell to the floor, smashing her bare knees against the cold gray stone. “He’s just a child,” she said in a broken voice, the soft words ravaged by despair as her shoulders hung forward, her small hands wound into tight fists.

  Westmore made a crooning sound under his breath, then shook his head, his tone deceptively mild as he demanded, “Pay attention to the Merrick bitch and tell me when she has a reading on the map, Raine. If you don’t and they find the next Marker before we do, I’ll bring your baby brother to you in pieces, just like I did with your sister. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded, her body trembling as she rocked back and forth, her long, honey-colored hair hanging in tangled, dirty waves over her shoulders, nearly reaching the floor.

  “Good girl,” he murmured, enjoying the sight of her on her knees, cowed by his ruthlessness. It was the kind of image that Westmore relished, and as he turned to walk away, his smile found its way back into the corners of his mouth. Whistling softly under his breath, he made his way along the winding stone staircase that led to the upper floors, the raw sounds of Raine’s grief keeping him company along the way.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Weesp, Netherlands

  Monday afternoon

  “THERE’S SOMETHING WE NEED to talk about.”

  Despite his outward appearance of calm, Kierland had to push the low words past his lips, forcing them out, while his heart beat like a cornered animal trying to pound its way through his chest.

  He was sitting with Morgan in a pub in the Dutch town of Weesp, a twenty-minute drive east of Amsterdam, their booth surrounded by a slew of chattering customers. By the time they’d arrived in Hannover the previous night, Morgan could sense that Ashe Granger had already moved on. They’d been tired—and Kierland had still been worried about the knock that Morgan had taken on the head—so they’d decided to get some rest and booked two rooms at a local hotel. He’d made some calls before heading to bed, checking in with Aiden again to see how Noah was doing, and had learned that three more Merrick deaths had been reported, as well as the deaths of two Watchmen who were believed to have been killed by Death-Walkers. He’d also talked to Seth, who’d finally gotten back to the States and hooked up with his men, but there hadn’t been any new information for the soldier to share.

  After taking a long, scalding shower, Kierland had spent the night tossing and turning, twisted by worry and restless frustration, the memory of those scorching moments on the train with Morgan completely screwing with his mind.

  For hours, he’d replayed that blistering kiss over and over, analyzing and observing, trying to figure out what had happened to make him go after her that way. Yeah, he’d been caught off guard by the dream, but the visceral surge of need he’d felt when he’d opened his eyes and found Morgan’s face so close to his had been…uncontrollable. In that moment, he hadn’t cared about the past or the future. He’d just wanted her, more than he’d ever wanted any other woman before.

  And he still did.

  When he’d finally returned to his seat and had tried to scrape out a lame-ass apology, she’d refused to talk about what had happened. Her tone had been distant as she’d blown him off, murmuring something about how it’d been nothing more than a “stress reaction” to what they’d been through. Then she’d completely ignored him and buried herself in a paperback she dug out of her bag, barely saying two words to him as they’d made their way to the hotel.

  They’d met for an early breakfast that morning, and after poring over her maps, Morgan had determined that Granger was now in Amsterdam. So they’d altered their course again, heading west from Hannover. It’d been a stressful day of travel on the crowded trains, and they’d finally decided to get off at Weesp so they could grab a hot meal.

  The waitress had already cleared their lunch plates and the bill had just been paid, which meant it was time for Kierland to say what needed to be said.

  A part of him sat aside, slack-jawed at what he was about to do, but he didn’t see any other way. As he’d lain in bed during the long, sleepless night, he’d finally come to a conclusion.

  He had to have her. It was as simple as that.

  And yet…there was nothing simple about it.

  The remnants of his nightmare still lingered in his mind, causing twinges of horror and grief, but he had to face the facts. Sooner or later, the lust that constantly fought to pull him and this woman together would have to be dealt with. And he’d rather deal with it on his own terms.

  Warnings from the grave or not, this was his only choice. Kierland couldn’t be near her and not touch her, as last night had proven. If he was going to survive the coming days as they continued the search for his brother, then he needed some kind of temporary claim on this woman. It was the only way he could keep himself from losing his freaking mind. But he would have to be smart. Would have to approach it in an objective, rational way, making it about nothing but the physical release, since to get involved with a woman like Morgan Cantrell on any emotional level would be the greatest act of idiocy he could ever commit.

  Leaning back against the padded booth, Kierland watched as Morgan applied a quick sheen of that berry-colored gloss she always wore over her lips, then pushed up the sleeves of her violet sweater to her elbows. As she took a quick look at her cell phone, scrolling through her text messages, he thought about the proposition he was about to suggest…and knew that he wouldn’t have been able to make it before, when she’d been a trainee at the academy. The “quick sex” option simply wouldn’t have been possible then, because he never would have been able to touch her without losing control and claiming her with his bite, marking her as his mate. Her effect on him had simply been too strong.

  When he’d first met her, the physical attraction had been immediate, but it’d been more than that. Once he’d gotten to know her, Kierland had found that he liked everything about her. Her strength. Her smiles. Her laughter. He had no doubt that to touch her would have been to put a permanent claim on her.

  But now they had the past between them. His mistakes. Nicole’s death. Her relationship with Ashe. All the bitter, nasty years of anger and cutting remarks that had been designed to push her away and make her hate him.

  But she still wants you, the wolf whispered through his mind. If nothing else, her reaction to that kiss last night is proof that she still lusts for you.

  It wasn’t much, but Kierland would take it. Hold on to it with everything that he had, until it was time to let her move on and they went their separate ways.

  Closing her backpack, she looked over at him, a quizzical expression pulling her brows together. “Didn’t you just say that you had something you wanted to talk about?”

  Kierland nodded, and she lifted her brows,
waiting for him to get on with it.

  “I need a woman,” he growled, and would have laughed at the bluntness of that statement if he weren’t drawn so damn tight, his body knotted with tension and hunger and barely restrained lust. There wasn’t any space for humor in the primal, volatile mix. Hell, there was barely even room enough for him to remember what it was he needed to say.

  Her eyes went wide, and she leaned back, her dark hair sliding across her cheek as she slanted him a sideways look. “You had two women on Saturday night. I would’ve thought that was enough to keep any man going for a few days. Even a Lycan.”

  “You know damn well I didn’t sleep with them. It was—”

  “Not my business,” she said quickly, holding up one slender, delicate hand. “So stop right there and spare me the details.”

  “Damn it, Morgan. I didn’t touch eith—”

  “If that’s true, then it’s only because you didn’t have the chance,” she stated, cutting him off. She looked around the inside of the pub, as if trying to find something to focus on that wasn’t him. “So is this your way of telling me that you need to go off on your own tonight to pick up a woman?” she eventually asked, rolling her lips together. “Because if so, you certainly don’t owe me any explanation, Kier. I’ll be fine on my own.”

  “Christ, I’m not looking to leave you alone,” he muttered.

  She sent him a look of comical disgust. “Well, I’m sure as hell not going to tag along!”

  “Damn it, Morgan. I wasn’t asking you to!”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and eyed him warily, her gaze shadowed by a heavy weight of suspicion. “Then spell it out for me, because I have no idea what you want from me, Kierland.”

  “You,” he growled, and it was easy to hear the graveled edge of the wolf’s voice in the guttural word, the beast stretching within him, irritated by the human constraints of his body. “You’re the one that I need.”