by Donya Lynne
She recognized Micah’s abrupt aggression for what it was. A deflection. By attacking her, he could channel his stew of negative, resentful emotions on something tangible, thus finding an outlet to blow the steam out of his chimney.
Did that mean she liked being his punching bag? No. Did she understand where he was coming from? Absolutely. Could she take one for the team to keep the peace while they infiltrated Grudge Match? Yeah, sure. Just this once.
She told him about the exchange of messages between her and their mutual enemy, including Skeletor’s last message, where he flew off the deep end. She was careful not to disclose the tidbit about how she and Bain were related. Maybe Skeletor knew that shit, and while she couldn’t stop him from announcing the truth to the world, she certainly wouldn’t help him by revealing it to Micah or anyone else.
“He talked about being forced to keep secrets and being shunned by those who worship your own flesh and blood but don’t acknowledge your existence.” She paused as an epiphany bloomed inside her mind. “He sounded resentful, Micah. I think this is personal for him. Very personal. Do you have any living relatives?”
Micah shook his head. “No. My parents both died. I stopped hearing from my uncle about the same time my parents died, so I assume he’s dead, too. And since I was an only child and Uncle Rory wasn’t mated, there’s no one else. I’m the last of my line.”
“Nobody? You can’t think of anyone else?”
He shook his head. “Not a one.”
She scowled and nibbled her bottom lip, trying to figure out what Skeletor’s angle was. It just didn’t make sense that he would throw the sibling card at her the way he did without a reason. “Maybe he’s the brother of someone you killed or someone who died, and now Skeletor blames you for the death. Maybe he’s seeking vengeance.”
“Then why would he steal my ankh rather than try and kill me?”
“Hey,” Sam said from the kitchen, waving a knife back and forth, “no talking about anyone trying to kill you, baby. If that’s what he wants to do, he’ll have to go through me, and rest assured, he won’t be getting through me to you.”
“That’s why I love you, baby,” Micah said, flashing his first grin in over ten minutes. “You think you’re a badass.”
“I am a badass, thank you very much.”
“Yes, you are, but I don’t want you putting yourself in harm’s way for me. That’s my job.” He faced Cordray again. “But if he was out for blood vengeance, don’t you think he’d want to do a lot more to hurt me than steal an ancient key?”
Sam returned to preparing the oddest breakfast Cordray had ever seen. There was now a jar of green olives sitting open on the counter that Sam was eating directly out of.
Cordray peeled her gaze away from Sam’s funky breakfast and shrugged at Micah’s question. Perhaps she was overthinking Skeletor’s intentions. “Maybe it’s as simple as he wants to open a portal and knew you had a key?” Her intuition instantly refuted the possibility, and she shook her head as she furrowed her brow. “No, that’s too random. Whatever is up Skeletor’s ass is too personal for it to be just about the ankh. Maybe he wants to open a portal, but that’s secondary to causing you pain. Hurting you is his primary objective. That’s my gut feeling.”
“I think you’re right.” He told her about the malicious poems Skeletor had written to him.
“Man, this guy really hates you.” She rubbed her hand over her forehead. All this thinking wasn’t good for her hangover. “Are you sure you can’t think of anyone who wants to make you suffer?”
“Cordray, if I named everyone who fit that description, the list would be longer than my dick.”
Her gaze dropped to his crotch before she blinked her gaze back up to his. “So you’re saying the list would be a short one.”
His eyes narrowed as his mouth pressed into a thin line. “It was a metaphor.”
“A bad one.” She held his stare. “Would you like to rephrase it?”
His jaw ticked as if he were clenching his teeth. “No, I’m good. I think my dick is sufficiently big enough to handle such a list.”
Cordray let out an irritated sigh. “Males and their dicks.” She shook her head. “I’ll never understand the fascination.”
Micah sprawled and slung his arm over the back of the chair. “That’s because you don’t have one.”
“Thank God. It would suck never being able to use my brain.”
He smirked, which was probably as close to laughing at one of her jokes as he would ever get. “Dick jokes aside,” he said, “Is that it? Is there anything else you found out that I need to know?”
“No.”
He stood again and headed toward the kitchen. “I assume you know our theory about the pedway since you were inside our system last night?”
“Yes. I wanted to go by the Heritage and see if I can find anything useful.”
“Don’t bother. Sev already looked, and Stryker’s team is making a second go-round.”
“But—” She preferred to do her own recon.
“You already have enough going on.” Micah spoke with the confident, no-nonsense tone of a natural-born leader.
Too bad, because she didn’t do subordination. She was her own boss and wasn’t into taking someone else’s orders.
“You’re not my boss, Micah. If I want to investigate the pedway, I’ll investigate the pedway.”
He shrugged, turned, and snagged a piece of salmon from the platter Sam had set in the middle of the counter. “Suit yourself.” He rounded the counter and kissed Sam’s cheek before popping the salmon in his mouth. “I’m going to take a shower, and then I’ve got an application to fill out.”
“Oh, about that . . .”
Micah held up and faced her. “Yeah?”
“Grudge Match is a secret. I could get kicked out just for talking to you about it.”
One corner of Micah’s mouth kicked upward. “In other words, if you piss me off, I can just tell this Digon guy that you told me all about the secret handshake and he’d boot you?”
“Something like that.”
“Nice to know.”
“Just wait until after we’ve finished our investigation to get pissed off at me. This is too important to blow. It could be our best chance of finding out who’s kidnapping our people, as well as to take down Royce.”
Micah lifted his hand as if telling her to hush. “Don’t worry, C. I know how important this is. I’m not going to fuck it up.”
“That sounds good, but let’s face it, Micah. You’re not known to be the most subtle or level-headed of Bain’s enforcers. You could blow this whole operation just for sport.”
He took a step closer and glanced toward his mate. “That was before I met Sam.”
Cordray glanced at Sam, who blew Micah a demure kiss before turning her attention back to the cutting board in front of her. She was slicing grape tomatoes in half and tossing them in a large glass bowl.
Cordray turned back toward Micah. “You expect me to believe that just by taking a mate, you’re a changed male? Completely changed.” She knew that Sam had brought out a better version of Micah than had been there before, but surely remnants from his past still remained.
His dark eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his hip against the side of the counter. “Oh, that’s right, you’re not mated.”
“Micah . . .” Sam cast him a reproachful glance.
Micah lifted his fingers toward her. “No, Sam. I think Cordray needs a lesson in what happens when a male takes a mate.”
Cordray crossed her arms and reclined defiantly in her seat. “I know enough.” She exchanged glances with Sam, whose eyes filled with compassion. After last night’s conversation, Sam knew exactly how up-close-and-personal she’d been with the mating phenomenon.
Micah cocked his head to one side. “What you know is the equivalent of book smarts. And book smarts don’t mean shit on the streets.” He let out a derisive puff. “Book smarts tell y
ou that the lunar cycle impacts the tide and that changes in air pressure create wind, and all that shit. But until you walk along the beach, with the surf washing over your feet as the tide comes in and the wind is blowing through your hair, you have no idea how it actually feels.
“Same with mating. You know the semantics. You know the biological explanation. You know what you’ve heard from others. But you’ve never actually experienced it. You don’t really know how it feels.” His gaze pierced hers under black, furrowed eyebrows.
Sam shifted uncomfortably, her gaze troubled. “Micah, stop it.”
But Micah wasn’t ready to stop. Sam might hold sway over him, but not in this instance. “When you’ve experienced mating firsthand, Cordray, then you can talk to me about how I am or am not a changed person now that I’ve mated Sam.”
Damn, Micah sure was ultrasensitive tonight.
“Fine. Whatever. You’ve changed. Blah, blah, blah.” She flapped her hand like it was inside a hand puppet. “I’m sorry I brought it up. Just make sure you don’t fuck up Operation Grudge Match, and I’ll never have to say I told you so.” She set down her half-empty coffee mug and stood.
“Aren’t you staying for breakfast?” Sam said.
Cordray eyed the buffet of lemon poppy seed waffles, raspberry coulis, salmon on top of scrambled eggs, and tomatoes. But at least the jar of olives was gone. Still, her stomach did a little somersault.
She placed her palm on her belly. “I don’t think my stomach could take food right now, but thanks anyway.” Her headache was better, but she still felt like crap on top of shit. Her belly was in no mood for food, especially when what she really needed was blood. “And really,” she added, gesturing toward the strange mix of foods, “I’m not sure if this is breakfast, dinner, or dessert.” Sam sure had kooky tastes.
Sam stabbed a bite of waffle and smiled. “I was craving lemon waffles and salmon this evening. Go figure.”
She shook her head, glanced toward Micah, who reached around and stole another piece of salmon, and then grabbed her jacket from the arm of the couch. “Well, enjoy your breakfast.” To Micah, she said, “I’ll e-mail Digon and let him know I can vouch for you.” She shrugged into her coat.
He nodded once in acknowledgement as he dipped a segment of waffle in the raspberry coulis.
As Cordray started for the door, Sam said, “Stop by anytime, Cordray.” The tone in her voice held a plethora of unspoken messages, all obviously aimed at what they’d discussed last night.
Cordray glanced over her shoulder. Sam was watching her with a mix of concern and hope, as if she were a mother watching her firstborn child take the car keys for the first time.
Cordray paused and dipped inside her thoughts.
Tell him. Please tell him. You need to tell him that you love him.
She squinted and bit her bottom lip as she averted her gaze. “I’ve gotta go.”
She dashed toward the door, yanked it open, let it slam behind her as she descended the porch steps two at a time, and then hopped on her Ducati.
Within seconds, she was zooming away from Micah’s home, vowing never to speak of her feelings for Trace again.
Chapter 24
The farther Trace drove from Asylum, the more his chest ached. And the more his chest ached, the more pissed off his inner beast became. Which, in turn, pissed him off.
For God’s sake, what the fuck was up with his goddamn power? He’d been worked over by Micah only a few days ago. Hard. Not spank-me-with-a-noodle hard, but rip-my-mind-from-my-body hard. The waxing session had been the most intense session he’d ever endured. But as puny as getting waxed sounded, his beast should have been sated ten times over, not clawing at him for another round.
By the time he reached Micah’s house, he was almost doubled over and damn near ready to melt. His right hand trembled uncontrollably. His entire body hummed with mounting pressure. Fear replaced anger. Worry filled his heart.
His power had never claimed him so quickly before, but he felt as if he were on the verge of exploding like an overly inflated tire driving over jagged granite. There was only so much tension his body could take before it snapped and unleashed the full force of his power.
Wincing as a shard of agony ripped through his chest, he staggered up to the keypad for the garage, managed to punch in the security code, then ducked under the bay door as it slowly crept upward. At the inside door, he gasped and clutched his chest as he gripped the handle and twisted it.
Sam’s laughter coming from the kitchen was music to his ears, as was Micah’s deep voice, but neither calmed the strain compressing his lungs. It felt like a giant fist was wrapped around his torso, squeezing his rib cage, mashing his organs together.
He hesitated in the hallway and pressed his right palm against the wall to keep him upright. The plaster vibrated under his hand and cracked.
This was bad. If he didn’t get to Micah soon . . . if he couldn’t reach his master in time . . . he would mutate. That had to be what was happening to him. Never before had he felt such agony—such intense suffering.
Micah laughed from the kitchen. “No, baby, you put the banana liqueur in first, then the brandy.”
“Like this?”
Trace could hear the smile in Sam’s voice. He could practically see the shimmer in her clover-green eyes as she looked up at Micah with complete adoration filling every angle of her face.
How he wanted a female to look at him the way Sam looked at Micah.
“Whoa! That’s enough,” Micah said. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”
Sam giggled.
Trace pulled himself toward the kitchen, his hand dragging over the wall, leaving a hairline fracture in the paint as his power simmered just below the boiling point.
He turned the corner, saw Micah standing beside Sam at the stove.
“Now, stand back,” Micah said. He was holding the handle of a sauté pan.
Sam leaned away just as Trace fell to his knees.
“Master . . .” The agony was so great he could only whisper. “I need you.”
They couldn’t hear him, too absorbed by whatever it was they were cooking.
Micah lifted the handle of the pan. “Let the edge of the liquid catch the flame,” Micah said. “Like this.”
“Master . . .” Trace clutched his chest.
A plume of blue-orange flames burst from the pan.
Fire!
Mother!
Oh God!
Trace shrieked as pain knifed his soul and memories of his mother burning to death blasted into his mind, almost blinding him with its ferocity.
Sam jumped and spun around. “Oh my God! Micah, help him!”
Micah dropped the pan back onto the burner, the flames stretching upward, and immediately lunged for him. “Trace! What’s wrong?”
All Trace could see was fire. Maddening, life-taking fire.
His mother dying.
Because of him.
His power spiraled into a vortex. He was going to let loose. He could feel it. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Sam!” Micah reached for her. “Help me!”
She started forward.
“No!” Trace lurched away from them both. “Stay away from me!” He didn’t want to kill them. He didn’t want to take yet another beautiful, innocent life the way he’d taken his mother’s.
If only he’d been more disciplined. More responsible.
Micah grabbed his arm. “I’m here, buddy. I’ve got you. Stay with me.”
Trace tried to pull away, feeling his power slither down his arm and coil in the palm of his hand. “Get away from me. You and Sam have to get away from me now. NOW!” He thrust his fist against the floor, forcing the leash to stay on his beast just a little bit longer even as a shockwave of energy pulsed down his arm. A dull boom sounded as the earth trembled.
He was losing the battle. Shit was going critical.
Sam froze, wide-eyed, terrified and unsure what she should do
.
“Get away from me, Sam!”
Her panicked gaze flew to Micah, imploring him to do something.
Fear flickered over Micah’s face, then determination hardened his features as he slowly rose to his feet. As he did, his master’s persona fell into place until he stood tall and proud, confident, in total Domination mode. “Do you dare tell me what to do in my own home, slave? You dare to speak to my mate in such a way?”
Fast as lightning, Micah’s hand shot out, striking him across the cheek.
Trace’s head whipped to the side, but the wicked slap came just in time, seconds before his power would have burst from his hand and obliterated everything within a fifty-foot radius.
For the moment, he was saved. They all were, but the dull throbbing in his chest persisted, and his power remained poised to strike.
“Master . . .” He turned pleading eyes up at Micah. “What’s wrong with me?”
* * *
Micah wasn’t sure if the question was literal, figurative, or rhetorical, so he didn’t know how to answer. There was nothing wrong with Trace in the figurative sense, but right now—at this very moment—it was obvious something was most definitely and gravely wrong with him in the literal.
“I don’t know,” he said a moment later.
He had never seen Trace in such awful shape. He was pale, and for a dark-skinned male, that was saying something. Sallow hollows filled the space under his eyes. Dots of perspiration sprinkled the skin above his upper lip. The guy looked shredded and completely strung out.
“Help me.” Trace’s pale eyes beseeched his, the pain he was experiencing evident in the twist of his lips and the way he grimaced as he clutched his chest.
He knelt in front of his best friend and placed his hand over his bald head. “Let me in, Trace,” he coaxed gently. “Open up your mind and let me in. I can help you better if I can see what’s going on inside here.” He tapped his fingers on Trace’s head.
Trace closed his eyes with an air of regret. “I can’t.”
