His Dark Bond

by Anne Marsh

  That thought shamed him, so he did what he needed to do so he could leave.

  “Nael and Vkhin.” He indicated the brothers standing on the other side of the door with a quick jerk of his head as he named them. “They stand here, and they keep an eye on my door. You need to go somewhere in this club, they’re your shadows.”

  “My jailers. If they’re going to stop me from walking out that door,” she bit out. “Let’s call it what it is. They’re not here for me. They’re here for you.”

  She didn’t understand that her life was at risk, had been from the minute Cuthah had put her name on his list. She went nowhere alone, even inside the comparative safety of G2’s. She was too important for him to be taking chances.

  Nael stepped up to the plate, examining her with familiar, playboy sensuality. “You might like us, baby.” Those dark, sleepy eyes examined her from the frame of his waist-length hair. Brother left it loose until it was fighting time. All those smooth, silky strands pouring arrow-straight down his back and moving with the bunching of powerful muscles. Even though Nael had the same hard face they all had, that hair got the females every time, made them want to stroke the brother like he was some feral cat they could gentle. That hair was as seductive as the male. Females didn’t notice the danger lurking in those black eyes until it was too late. Nael was rapier sharp and every bit as lethal. “We’re not so bad.”

  “Dream on,” she said, shutting him out and slamming the door. Zer allowed her the little fit of feminine pique because he’d already taken so much away from her and he wasn’t done yet.

  “She know?” Vkhin leaned silently against the wall. A good male and a fierce protector. But there was nothing soft about him at all. If she ran, Vkhin would be all over her. Nowhere she could hide from him, and that was why Zer had chosen him. Vkhin was all close-cropped hair and ice eyes. Cold and hard, the brother didn’t display emotions because he had none left. He was 100 percent killer, with the brutal build of the meanest street fighter. On a good day, he merely stood in the shadows, watching with those eyes that didn’t seem to move but that saw everything. Those ancient eyes that stripped away all the pretty pretenses and went bare knuckle on the truth. Brother didn’t lie, and he never pulled his punches.

  “Not all of it.” He thought about Vkhin’s question and shook his head. “Enough, though. She’ll do what we need her to do.”

  “Bond with us.” A slow, sensual smile split Nael’s face.

  “Yeah.” The twinge of emotion was unexpected. And why the hell was that? She was an advantage he could exploit. He had himself a corrupt Archangel to kill, and, unfortunately, he couldn’t make that kill. Because his ass was exiled to this misbegotten planet. Without wings, he couldn’t make the return journey to the Heavens and take down the Archangel Michael who had framed him and his kind. He’d been left hanging out to dry. Worse, he’d handed the Archangel the tools to do the job. He’d made that mistake once. Now, when Cuthah, the Archangel’s left-hand man, came back for Nessa St. James, Zer was going to be ready. He’d stick closer than glue to her, and he’d have the drop on Cuthah when that bastard finally made his move. Wait, and his enemy would drop right into his lap. She was bait in his trap—nothing more.

  “She might not be so keen on bonding with one of us,” Nael pointed out.

  Whether or not she liked the choices laid out for her was irrelevant. Too bad. So sad.

  “We need her.” It was as simple as that.

  “Yeah.” Nael sprawled languidly against the wall. “But if she doesn’t need us?”

  Nessa was the tactical advantage he needed, so her wishes didn’t count for shit. Besides, he’d never met a human who didn’t come with a price tag. “She’ll be ready to bond.”

  “With one of us,” Vkhin added in his slow, deep rasp, folding himself deeper into the shadows.

  “One of you,” Zer agreed. Maybe she’d mate with Nael or Vkhin. Both were more than worthy. They’d fought side by side for millennia, and he couldn’t think of anyone more deserving.

  She was in good hands, so he turned and walked away. She wasn’t someone he should be thinking of, anyway.

  She wasn’t for him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Gritting his teeth, Cuthah dragged his thumb over the edge of the blade.

  “You lost her,” he said. “I gave you her name. Her address. Her place of business. And yet none of you could retrieve Nessa St. James before the Fallen discovered her whereabouts?”

  He wanted these women. He needed them. Kill them, and he cut off the Fallen’s last hope. He’d never forgotten the Fallen were still Dominions at heart. They’d been bred to defend. To kill. To do whatever it took. Once they learned about the existence of these women, nothing would keep the former Dominions from finding them.

  He knew he was grinding his teeth, but maybe the stupid fucks standing in front of him would finally get the message. He wanted these women. It was their job to deliver.

  When he’d cast the Dominions from the Heavens, Michael had made sure his Fallen would have precisely what they needed to earn their redemption. He’d seeded the thirteenth tribe of Israel with these women, and each daughter’s daughter had carried her mother’s legacy. Each one had been a potential soul mate for a Fallen.

  Emphasis on had been.

  Michael had scattered the tribe across the face of the earth, a little shake-up so the former Dominions didn’t find their soul mates too easily. Cuthah had simply made sure of it. He’d stolen the information he needed, and then he’d killed as many of the women as he could after Michael had disappeared into seclusion.

  But Michael’s little diaspora had worked too well. Cuthah had lost sight of a handful of humans because he’d still been cementing his own place in the Heavens. He’d spent millennia hunting down those remnants. Until he’d discovered Nessa St. James.

  When his cell had rung earlier with Nessa St. James on the other end of the line, he’d known it was a sign. She’d gone for his lure, told him she wanted to work on the research project he’d offered her. Her kidnapping was a good thing, now that he thought about it. She was vulnerable. And she had access to precisely the kind of sample set she needed. Once she’d wrapped up his little research project, she’d be dialing him for an extraction—and would waltz right into his hands. The irony of it all was delicious.

  Perfect.

  The four rogues standing before him stiffened silently under his icy regard but didn’t move. Good. He’d kill the first one who flinched, kill them all for failing him. He’d have taken care of this business himself if he hadn’t believed that an extended absence right now from the Heavens would have drawn unwelcome notice. He was walking a fine line, and one misstep would mean the end of everything. So, even though their screw-up had worked out to his advantage, he had to make his point.

  Striding over to the wide plate glass window, he stared down at the barren mountain slope. “I gave you this female on a silver platter,” he snapped, “and you still lost her. Tell me why I shouldn’t cut those wings off your backs now.”

  “Shallum is dead.” The rogue Goblin nearest the door made the observation emotionlessly. His black eyes never blinked. “Hasrah, as well.” Chalk one up for the Fallen. If his emissaries hadn’t been dead already, he’d have killed them now for their failure.

  “Excuses,” he growled. Shallum and Hasrah were pawns, sacrifices in the larger game. Fortunately, the Dominions’ endless thirst guaranteed Cuthah a bottomless well of replacement rogues. “You were forewarned. You have wings and fyreblades. Instead, you pissed away your advantages and allowed the Fallen to take Nessa St. James away.”

  “We’ll retrieve her.” The first rogue spoke again.

  “Damn right.” When he was ready. Cuthah rested a hand against the window.

  The glass was cold from the ruthless temperature of their surroundings. Night was coming quickly now, dark shadows sliding along the ground as the sun slipped weakly down behind the mountain peaks. The mountain fortre
ss deep inside the rogue Preserves pleased Cuthah. Even the landscape here had given up all hope. The stark outcroppings of stone were a visible reminder of just how bleak life could become without the promise of redemption. A century ago, the place had been the playground for decadent Russian noblemen more interested in fucking serfs and killing game than keeping their fingers on the pulse of Russian politics. Cuthah had never made that mistake. He had his pleasures, yes. He eyed the four-poster bed and the prey staked out there. The delicate female had lasted for a surprisingly long time. She might even last out the night—but he’d never let pleasure interfere with business.

  Matters were heating up in the Heavens.

  He’d set the pieces in motion, and then he’d waited; now, the moment of victory had almost arrived.

  If the Fallen wanted to push back, wanted to make this personal, Cuthah would. For three thousand years, he’d methodically searched for and destroyed every potential soul mate. Until one had slipped through his nets and his fingers, landing in the arms of her destined lover. Mischka Baran was the other half of Brends Duranov’s soul, all that was light and good. The bastard had held on tight to what fate had handed him, and the damage had been done.

  Now, the Fallen knew. The Fallen were searching, and it was a race to identify and take the few soul mates left in this world. Once the soul mates were gone, so, too, was the last hope the Fallen had for redemption. Cuthah looked forward to slamming the door of the Heavens square in their arrogant faces.

  Nessa St. James, however, was taking the game to a whole new level.

  She might be able to unlock their genetic code.

  That made her the Fallen’s last hope, but also their weakness, even if they hadn’t realized it yet. He’d studied Nessa St. James for a year. He knew how she’d react and that she wouldn’t be able to curb that delicious curiosity of hers. No, Nessa St. James would ask questions—and find answers. Once she had those answers, he’d retrieve her—and he’d know precisely how to track down the remaining soul mates.

  Science was really a beautiful thing.

  The middle male took a step forward. “It wasn’t my fault,” he argued. “Give me the name of another bitch, and I’ll bring her to you.”

  The rogue was as good as dead, because Cuthah never tolerated excuses, but the asshole standing there so confidently didn’t know his words had sealed the death sentence. Cuthah figured he’d make that point right now. Whipping around from the window, he drove his blade deep into the other male’s gut. The scream was satisfying.

  He kicked the male curled on the floor with a booted foot. “No excuses.” He made eye contact with the two remaining rogues. The gut wound wouldn’t kill, but it sure as hell was going to hurt.

  Reaching down, he delicately ran a finger down the side of the male’s face and considered the blood on his fingertips. If he killed this one and made an example of him, he’d need to recruit another one to his cause. He shrugged. The benefits outweighed the cost. This one had failed. This one was flawed.

  There was no room in his Heavens for the flawed.

  The fyreblade hummed to lethal life in his right hand, the smooth arc of the blade cutting through the waiting air. The head toppled from the rogue’s body. Yeah. That wound would kill.

  Behind him, he heard a sharp indrawn breath from the female. How delicious that she’d—finally—learned not to scream.

  Screaming bought her nothing, and they both knew it.

  The eyes of the other rogues didn’t flicker. The bastards were just as cold and reptilian as any predator. Neither blinked at the violence, but Cuthah knew his message was clear. “Fail me again,” he said, “and Eilor’s fate will be yours. I want the other three females on the list.” He’d leave Nessa St. James where she was for now. He’d watch her, wait for her to give him what he needed.

  He turned away from the body. He needed those females, and he needed them now. The time was perfect for him to take the next step in his campaign, but he couldn’t do so until he had the girls. “Go,” he ordered. “Two weeks. Find them within the next two weeks.”

  The first rogue paused at the door, booted foot on the threshold.

  “Dead or alive?”

  Dead was safer, but alive could be useful. Cuthah’s eyes narrowed. There were possibilities. “Preferably alive.” He shrugged. “If you can. If not, dead.”

  “Now, darling,” he purred, striding back to the bed and its terrified occupant. She scrambled against the sheets as if the linen could hide her. “Why don’t you show me just how much you’ve missed me?”

  Her shattered cry was music to his ears.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Zer needed a fight. No, scratch that. Make it plural. He wanted to move, wanted to pound his fists into someone until they bled—and the rogues would make a damned fine punching bag. The pounding rhythm of the house music vibrated in his bones until he was itching to move out. There were too many damn humans too damn close for his taste. Business was good, and the dance floor was filled. Brothers prowled through the crowd, making their choices. Taking what they needed.

  Until they saw him come back down those damn stairs. Then they converged on him as if he’d come to announce the second coming. So much for not engaging and for taking his aggression outside.

  “Is it true?” The brother closest to him muttered the words as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe them. “Did you find another soul mate?” That was the question they all wanted the answer to. Any human could be a bond mate. But a soul mate? She was one in a million. Literally.

  Picking up his pace, he arrowed directly at the club’s exterior door. He’d secured the first female, and his brothers wanted to hear the deets. “Yeah,” he drawled. “She’s upstairs.” Safe.

  “She meant for you?” A hint of something Zer didn’t recognize entered the male’s eyes. Fear. Hope. And, yeah, a whole lot of desperation. Going without had been marginally easier when they’d all believed that there were no soul mates.

  “She chooses.”

  “Straight up?”

  “Yeah.” He wasn’t going to take her, even if he knew that most of the brothers watching this little exchange believed that was his right. He was their sire. Their leader. He was first in line for everything, whether it was Heavens’ smack-down all those millennia ago or the sweet, hot promise of redemption he’d just hauled into the club like a berserk caveman. And if he’d enjoyed that atavistic behavior, well, he wasn’t going to make any excuses. He was who he was.

  “So, what’s the plan? What are you going to do with her? You guarantee she’s choosing?”

  “Yes,” he said, and he made eye contact with each male in the hard press of bodies. “Yeah, I am.” All eyes turned to him, and, beyond the edge of the crowd of armed males, there was Brends making his way over. Figured. Just once Zer wanted to act first and think later. He’d retrieved the female, and he’d stashed her here. That was the critical point. Now, he’d do a little wait-and-see. Maybe, her presence in G2’s would be enough to draw Cuthah out. If not, he’d still be up one soul mate, and he’d use that advantage.

  “We let her choose,” he repeated, letting his hand rest on his blade just in case anyone got any other ideas about the female waiting upstairs. “That rave G2’s is holding night after tomorrow—we bring her downstairs then. Anyone who wants a shot can come and do their asking then. She’ll listen, and then she’ll decide.”

  The group parted to let Brends through, but that was no surprise. What was surprising was that Brends didn’t have his soul mate wrapped around his arm, but Zer figured she couldn’t be far behind. She didn’t like the club, didn’t like what they hunted here, and so she’d be close at hand, eager to pry Brends free. God help them all if Mischka learned about the female upstairs.

  “Keep this on the down low,” he cautioned, and Brends’s eyes flashed. Yeah, he knew his mate wasn’t going to care for this particular secret. At all.

  “You found one of the four.” Brends didn’t both
er with making nice.

  “Her name was on the list. Face and ID match.” He spoke lightly, but they both knew the words meant the world. Brends had his soul mate, but the others didn’t. The others were still lost. “She’s a match.”

  “You think it matters which one of the brothers she chooses?” Brends’s eyes narrowed, as if he didn’t appreciate the idea that maybe his beloved mate hadn’t chosen him because he was best but merely because he was first. Yeah, Zer bet that stung. Still, he could refute the whole first-in-line argument, right? Nessa St. James hadn’t gone for his sorry ass. Hell, she’d have kicked him straight to the curb if she could.

  “It’s not first come, first served.”

  Brends looked like he wanted to disagree. “She’s not a weapon,” he pointed out.

  And that was where his brother was wrong. That’s precisely what Nessa St. James was.

  “We can’t keep this war up.” Vkhin’s voice slid out of the darkness behind Zer. The male made a habit of forgetting Zer’s orders—he was supposed to be guarding Nessa with Nael. Vkhin had been the other candidate for sire. Maybe the powers-that-be hadn’t chosen him because he was too strong. Certainly, he was older that Zer. Much older. Pure, emotionless control, a deep, still pool of a male.

  Unfortunately, Vkhin spoke only the truth. The Fallen couldn’t keep up this war. Couldn’t win. Didn’t mean Zer liked hearing it, though. Shoving off the wall where he’d parked his sorry ass, he headed for the door, running a mental inventory of his weapons. Weapons, he understood. Draw. Stab. Kill. He’d had millennia to perfect that skill. Most of the time, he didn’t even have to think about it, fighting being even more natural than breathing. Unlike that last time in the Heavens, with Michael’s dark, cold eyes taunting him. He shook off the memory. No point going back down that road. Much as he wanted a do-over, all he had now was the present. The past was gone.

  Christ, he needed a fight. The rogue within was riding him hard, the creature struggling to punch through the surface. When he caught sight of his face in one of the mirrors some sick fuck had walled G2’s with, he recognized the cold-eyed bastard all too well. He looked like death prowling across the floor. Walking, breathing sin incarnate, that was him. “I’m out of here,” he growled.