by Jessica Lee
Passion Awakened
Jessica Lee
In the far future, humans are forced to take government-issued drugs to control their sexual urges. Creed Donovan, drug enforcer for the Federation of Americas, is on the trail of a fugitive. The chase through time has landed him in the year 2012, six hundred years into the past and in the mountains of North Carolina.
Shayla Murphy is on hiatus, working on her latest novel when her peaceful retreat turns into a hostage scene straight out of a sci-fi flick—one complete with a knife at her throat and men zapping into thin air. But when the sexy man who saves her needs a little rescue of his own, Shayla can’t kick him out. Especially after he reveals he’s from the future, his ride home stolen, and his own supply of Sustain, the drug he enforces, gone with it.
Without Sustain, Creed’s suppressed lust will soon awaken, and he’s never experienced his libido untethered. Trapped with a beautiful new roommate and on the verge of detox, he struggles to suppress the raging desire in his blood. Only God can help him survive with his mind and heart intact.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Passion Awakened
ISBN 9781419940279
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Passion Awakened Copyright © 2012 Jessica Lee
Edited by Grace Bradley
Photo and Cover design by Syneca
Models: Elina and Christian
Electronic book publication May 2012
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Passion Awakened
Jessica Lee
Dedication
As always, this is for you, because nothing would be possible without you, my love.
Acknowledgment
A big shout-out to the best critique partner in the world—Naima. Love you, girl. You always make me smile through the tough stuff.
Chapter One
Crackle.
Zap.
Creed dropped into a crouch and dug his fingers into the soft earth. The buzz in his ears combined with the sudden blinding sunlight tilted the world off-kilter. His stomach roiled.
He breathed deep through his nostrils and shook his head. After ten years as an enforcer, jumping into a time warp still wasn’t the best part of his day. The hunt that followed… Worth every gut-clenching, molecule-stretching moment inside that field. Creed clutched the small ornate device hanging around his neck and checked the narrow display on its reverse side.
Year 2012.
Over six hundred years into the past.
He tapped the field.
Laurel Pass, North Carolina, USA.
Creed surveyed the area. Smack dab in the middle of damn nowhere.
For the last two weeks, he’d warped, chasing his target—Thomas Guerry. The crazy scientist had plopped them in the heart of the Amazon Sector, circa 2513. Post-war New York, circa 2210, and now this isolated chunk of territory with nothing but grass, hills, trees and more trees and hills for miles. Shit.
Thomas should consider his ass kicked before Creed hauled the rebel’s lovesick, overemotional hide back to the future where he belonged.
The target wasn’t the first to refuse the hormonal suppressant, Sustain, nor would he be the last. In a world where control and order are coveted by the Federation, and as a result, had driven the mortality and crime rates down to a negligible percentage for the society as a whole, any rebellion was immediately snuffed. But there would always remain those who would risk it all to satisfy their animalistic libidos.
Stupid and a federal crime.
And that’s where Creed came in.
His job was to bring Guerry back—alive—and see that he was successfully reintegrated into society with a fresh perspective for his way of life. One that didn’t threaten the rest of the population.
Before straightening, Creed reached into the pocket of his black vest and pulled his particle field visor free. He slid it over the bridge of his nose, the thin metal wrapping around his temples and over his ears like a natural extension of his body. The lenses were jet black, but the view through the enhanced fields was crystal clear. Specially made to detect the blue aura a Sustain user projected, they were also perfect for tracking a time traveler. When a person warped, they left a trail of tiny shimmering particles behind in their wake called Scatter. The image always reminded him of the bedtime story Peter Pan they used to read in the brood homes, the colorful pages depicting Tinkerbell’s fairy dust as she would zoom off into the night.
Creed adjusted his small backpack and made his way toward the sound of rushing water. He cleared the pines and exited onto the banks of a wide river. His target would no doubt follow the water until he reached a populated area. The Scatter in his line of sight did just that, hug the edge of the bank. He crouched, surveying the imprint of a boot in the soft soil. Based on the strength of the residual warp signature and the dampness of the impression, it appeared fresh. Thomas was close.
For the next couple of miles, Creed followed the water and the lingering trail. At a narrow bend in the river, the path suddenly stopped, but on the other side, the particles continued and led up a hillside.
Creed pounded through the narrow strip of rushing water and then up the grassy slope. The roar of his pulse competed with the rapids for dominance in his ears.
At the top and several hundred feet away, a cabin sat in a clearing. So isolated and rustic compared to the clean, sterile edges of his home and the dense population of the Federation in the twenty-seventh century. Very rare for anyone of his time to possess a home secluded from the watchful eye of the government.
Thomas’ path continued along the tree line, but near the dwelling, the trail died.
Creed lowered onto his haunches, watching…waiting for any sign of movement. He curled the gloved fist of his right hand in tight. The rapid flutter of the carotids along his neck was the only external sign he was like a coiled spring ready to explode. He breathed deep, suppressing the adrenaline-laced response that screamed for him to launch into action.
Do something.
But that would only defeat any chance of recovering his target.
Patience.
Patience made him the Federation of Americas’ top enforcer.
If he acted in haste, Creed risked Thomas warping to yet another time period. But if he timed it right, allowed the fugitive to
gain confidence, show himself, it would only take one well-placed touch or shot, and they’d both be going home.
A rustle of leaves snagged his attention.
Thomas.
The rebel eased from the cover of a hedge of rhododendrons. He glanced left, then right, his headful of straight blond hair lifting in the breeze. Thomas shifted the backpack on his shoulder, then started toward the cabin, still wearing the royal-blue bodysuit required by his career and defined his status in their society—an elite scientist. His gait spoke of confidence, as if he belonged on the property. But Creed knew differently. At thirty years old, the tall, thin man was one of the government’s brightest, most accomplished biomedical engineers. Hence for more reasons than one, the Federation wanted him back. Yesterday.
Watching, Creed kept to the shadows of the tree line while making his way closer, seeking an opening for the neural silencer. The device was similar in some ways to the current century’s Taser, but several generations of evolution had morphed the weapon into the form of a glove. He flexed the gloved fingers of his hand once more. The fibers of the weapon were laced deep within the fabric, but in his head, he could swear he felt every charged filament. One touch took the target down, but if still several feet away, the weapon contained the ability to be discharged into a concentrated stream of energy, not shocking the whole body, but disrupting the brain’s neural pathways.
Thomas moved near the steps and started his climb, his back to the enforcer. This was Creed’s moment.
Creed dropped the pack from his shoulders and tore from the cover of the trees, bearing down on his target. Arms pumping, he raced across the few feet of grass and rock surface.
Thomas stepped onto the wooden porch landing.
Creed hit the bottom step and reached out with his palm.
His target whirled, facing him.
The door swung wide.
Oh shit!
A dark-haired woman, hair long and loose, stepped through the doorway, then ground to a halt. “Oh!” she said, brown eyes wide and arms clutching in a death grip what looked like an electronic device to her chest. Thomas glanced over his shoulder, his gaze darting between the startled homeowner and Creed. “Can I help you, gentlemen?” she added, but based on the tension in her body, she was ready to bolt.
“No,” Creed bit out. “We were just leaving. Correct, Thomas?” Creed shot him a look that said, That was a command. Not a question.
But of course, the Federation’s leading scientist wasn’t going to make this easy. In a move Creed thought impossible of the once quiet and calm bioengineer, Thomas lunged for the female. One second he stood on the edge of the porch, the next, he had the homeowner in his clutches, a blade beneath her chin. The brunette released a squeak of alarm and dropped her white device to the wooden planks at her feet.
“You don’t want to do this, Thomas.” Creed took a hesitant step forward. “This isn’t you.”
The knife trembled at her throat. “Maybe not. But I can’t go back.” He shook his head. “You have no idea what you demand, Creed. I can’t live like that anymore.”
“You don’t belong here.” Creed joined them on the wide porch. “It’s the law, and it’s my job.” He lowered his voice, making sure no waver of negotiation lay between the words. “You will go back.”
Thomas’ Adam’s apple bobbed. His jaw tightened. Creed knew exactly what was coming, and he braced for it.
“Never!” the other man cried out right before he lunged, the hilt of his blade tight in his fist, held high, the sharp point aimed for Creed. The woman screamed, the sound echoing off the hills.
Creed blocked the strike, but the impact of his attacker sent them both tumbling down the steps. The full weight of his target landed on his chest, punching the air from his lungs. A hot slice of pain seared deep into his biceps. Creed bit down, grinding his molars, then arched and knocked his assailant to the side. A snick sounded in his ears and Thomas rolled, but quickly rebounded onto his feet. Creed mirrored the same maneuver. He glanced down at his arm and the stream of crimson heading south over his jacket’s black leather surface. Within the flow, a thin, milky-white liquid hitched a ride. Sustain.
Son of a bitch.
Thomas had gone for Creed’s implant with his blade. And succeeded.
Nicely done.
He’d have to give the other man credit. He possessed better reflexes than Creed would have expected of a male who spent most of his waking hours in a lab. His gaze moved back to Thomas, who stood a few feet away with a very satisfied gleam in his eyes. That’s when he noticed the item dangling from the other man’s grip. Creed reached for his throat and the familiar feel of the metal amulet. The snick he’d heard… Thomas popped the chain when Creed had kicked him off.
“That’s right, enforcer.” Thomas clutched the time device at his throat and held up Creed’s in his other fist. “Time for you to get a feel for what you demand others to renounce.”
On a low growl, Creed dove for the Sustain rebel. “Thomas!”
“Enjoy your stay, enforcer.”
Creed sliced through thin air, tucked and somersaulted where Thomas had once stood. “Dammit!” He spun, on automatic, clenching and unclenching his fingers. How had he allowed this to happen? His pulse raced. He was a pro. The FOA’s best.
And he was trapped.
Chapter Two
Shayla clasped her throat and swallowed hard. She could swear the cool edge of the blade still kissed her skin. On shaky legs she reversed her steps, watching the fight between the large, intimidating man with ebony hair and the attacker unfold, until her rear bumped the cabin’s door.
She should get her ass inside.
But she couldn’t bring herself to turn away and make it happen.
Mesmerized, she watched as the bleeding man who’d saved her life lunged for the blond with the knife.
“Enjoy your stay,” the thinner man uttered, then poof! Shayla’s breath hitched. He was gone. Just like that, vanished. She blinked and shook her head. Her mind refusing to accept the last few minutes of her life. Shayla stared once more at the spot where the guy with the blade had stood. The man who remained slowly revolved and faced her. Even from a distance his vivid blue gaze captivated her, held her immobile. She could only imagine what the effect would be up close. A shiver ran down her spine.
Mr. Blue Eyes pivoted and headed for the tree line, jerking her back to reality. Shayla slid her palm up and shoved her jaw shut. Dang, she had to have looked like a freaking idiot standing there with her mouth agape. But how often did one get accosted on their doorstep by a knife-wielding lunatic who could vanish in thin air? Her stomach rebelled. God, was she going to be sick?
With a backpack in hand, the stranger appeared from the cover of the trees and headed toward the cabin. On reflex, Shayla dropped her hand onto the doorknob. She had no idea what the heck she’d witnessed, and even though he’d saved her life, he wasn’t getting inside.
At the foot of the steps, he lowered his bag as if she weren’t there, then proceeded to unzip the diagonal closure to his jacket.
“What’s going on?” Shayla finally managed to blurt out. “How did he do that?”
He glanced up in acknowledgment, long, thick obsidian lashes lifting, but carried on with his task in silence. Eyes narrowed, the only sign the action caused him any discomfort, he pulled his injured arm free from the black leather. Underneath, he wore a thin white t-shirt. The short sleeves stretched taut over defined biceps, the right one soaked in blood.
“Hey!” she yelled and eased forward. “I’m right here.” She waved a hand, the “heeelllo” unspoken but very much implied. “After what he just tried to do to me, I deserve…” The afternoon sun highlighted something other than blood dripping from his upper arm, snagging her attention. The wound lay open, and blood mixed with a white substance trailed from the deep gash. “Oh God…” Shayla inched down two steps, taking herself in for a closer look. “You’re really hurt.”
She reach
ed forward, but before she could make contact, he yanked his arm away.
“It’s nothing,” he snapped, his voice deep and commanding. The tone made it clear she needed to mind her own business. Good luck with that. He was on her property, and his buddy had been the one to cross that line with a knife to her throat.
“It most certainly isn’t nothing.” She shook her head and moved closer whether he liked it or not. “It looks like he ripped something open on your biceps.” Shayla grasped his shoulder to turn him. “Is that muscle? You’re going to need a doctor.”
He shrugged, the action knocking her away. “No. It’s not muscle. And no, I don’t need a doctor.”
“Fine.” She huffed. “You don’t want my help. Good.” She tossed up her hands in surrender, wheeled about, and marched back up the steps. “You don’t want to answer my questions. I’m fine with that too. But the police won’t be so easygoing.” Shayla bent and recovered her laptop from the porch boards then reached for the door.
“I can’t allow you to notify your police.” The deep rumble of a voice at her ear nearly had her jumping out of her skin. She whirled around. When had he climbed the steps?
“Why?” What would he do to her if she did? Was he going to finish the job the other guy started? She breathed deep through her nostrils. Stay calm, Shayla. You can’t let him see your fear. “I was attacked. Held at knifepoint. And I am going to call the police unless you have a very good reason why I shouldn’t.”
“And what will you tell them?” He arched a brow and one corner of his mouth quirked, drawing her attention.
Her heart skipped.
A five o’clock shadow the color of kohl surrounded full lips so dang perfectly etched they should be a sin to possess. She blinked, forcing herself to focus on what he was saying.
