by Jessica Lee
Damn, he sounded like a cynical son of a bitch.
But why else would she have kept his blood? The last time they’d been together things had not ended well. Yet he’d never thought of Emily as a vengeful person. Besides, she would have had to have retrieved the sample before that night.
“Kenric…?” Elle’s voice collided with his reeling head.
Without a glance in her direction, he ordered Elle from the room. “Leave us.”
He dropped onto the side of the bed and stared at the evidence in his hand. What had she planned to do with this? How could she…?
He wanted answers.
Only Emily held them locked inside, and they would not be forthcoming for many hours. Until then he had no choice but to believe there had to be another reason beside the obvious one hammering around inside his head. The turning was in motion, and there would be no stopping it. He’d started it, and he would see her through.
Kenric shed the remainder of his clothes and slid into bed beside her. Emily moaned, tossed a slender arm over him, and sighed. His warm body had to feel wonderful next to hers. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. Maybe he was a damn fool, but no matter what her intentions were, he couldn’t decelerate the changes occurring inside her. He cared for her, a hell of lot more than he wanted to wrap his head around, and until he could hear her side of the story, he’d give her the benefit of doubt.
“I’ve got you, Wildflower. I’m not going to leave you.”
“No. Daddy, please. Don’t leave me,” she mumbled. “It’s dark in here. I promise I’ll be good. Daddy! Daddy!”
Her head rolled back and forth against him. Tears streamed down her face while she pounded on his chest.
“Shhh—It’s okay. Emily, it’s okay.” What kind of hell tortured her dreams? He realized, at that moment, how little he knew about her past. He stroked her hair, attempting to soothe her. “I’m not leaving you.”
Her tears slowed, and she snuggled against his chest. Somehow, his comfort must have gotten through. He shifted, pulling them both higher up on the bed and into a partial sitting position. She needed another feeding.
This time, Emily took to his wrist with little coaxing. Her lips sealed around the wound and nursed hungrily at the flow. A spark of desire leaped through his vein and burst into a raging flame, threatening to consume his control. Air staggered from his lungs. He gripped the blanket with one hand and stuffed it between his body and Emily’s.
This was going to be the longest forty-eight hours of his life.
Feeding and sex.
Each one intensified the need for the other. A large part of the reason he’d kept his sexual desires caged for so long. He never wanted to succumb to what he’d witnessed in Marguerite’s dungeons. He never wanted to become someone who was maddened by sexual bloodlust. As a master, losing control would make him a danger to everyone around him.
After a few more pulls that distorted the line between pleasure and pain, he removed her from his vein. She appeared at peace for the moment and settled down at his side. Her body glowed, satisfied with its feeding.
Moments later, her breathing returned to a more natural rhythm, and her temperature dropped from its fiery state. It wouldn’t last long, though. A temporary reprieve for what was yet to come.
With her sleeping peacefully, he had time for a quick shower. His body reeked of sweat and blood, and he couldn’t shake the throbbing reminder between his legs. He needed some relief. The second he slid from the bed, she moaned and rolled into his warm spot.
He brushed a damp lock from her cheek. “What made you take that vial and hide it from me?” There had to be a damn good reason. Please, let there have been a damn good reason. Otherwise… He didn’t want to consider the alternative. The thought of her betrayal threatened to shatter him.
Leaning over, he placed a kiss to her tousled mass of curls. His shaft flexed toward her with a mind of its own. Yeah, he needed that shower.
Ten minutes under some cool water did help. He smelled a lot better and had gained some semblance of relief. Well, at least his erection had gone down. For now.
Rubbing his hand across the rough stubble of his chin, he thought about a shave, but the moment he reached for his razor, Emily’s scream pierced the room. He barreled into the bedroom.
“I’m on fire!” Her gaze found his, and her look of panic ripped him apart. “Kenric, what’s happening to me? Dear God, I’m burning up inside.” She clutched her stomach and doubled over. “Oh no, I think I’m going to be sick.”
He dashed for the nearest trash can.
Chapter Twenty
Kicked back with his boots propped up on the conference table, Markus tossed his dagger into the air. The silver blade flipped end over end as Guerin and Logan strode through the sliding steel door of central command.
The chill on Guerin’s arrival said he’d shelved his easygoing nature for the night. In its place, he wore the lethal aura of a pissed-off three-hundred-year-old vampire. Dressed in dark leather, Guerin matched his killer attitude; even his eyes glowed red. An unnatural sight beneath the sheen of brown hair turned black from the rain.
He took his seat at the head of the table in Kenric’s absence.
The focus of Guerin’s sinister eyes tracked Arran as he pushed away from his computer and joined them. “I’m sure Markus has filled you in on what happened tonight to Emily Ross.”
“Yeah, I heard. That’s fucked up.” Arran switched his gaze from Guerin to Logan, who’d decided to prop himself against the smooth cement wall. Neither warrior twitched under the heat of each other’s glare. Markus stayed out of range, glad he hadn’t been the one to put the stink in Arran and Logan’s shit.
“What I didn’t get into over the phone was that Kenric believes it was a deliberate hit since there was a recent threat made on her life.”
“Son of a bitch!” Logan bit out.
Markus dropped his boots to the floor with a thud. Damn. Only yesterday had Kenric mentioned her to them.
“Kenric suspected she might be in danger from Marguerite.” Arran pulled up a task chair. He spun it around before straddling the seat and leaning over the back. “He filled me and Markus in when he asked for backup at the hospital.”
Guerin worked his gloves from his hands. “What I can’t understand is how in the hell they located her so fast in order to pull off an ambush on her way to work?”
“Where was she when she got hit?” Markus palmed the hilt of his dagger. Uneasiness slid through his limbs. Why was his gut crawling because of a woman he didn’t know?
“That’s another reason we believe it was a deliberate hit. The DEADs were completely off their usual hunting grounds. They ambushed her about three hours ago near Magnolia Island. Right outside a coffee shop on Ocean Ave.”
The dagger hit the concrete floor with a clatter. The street sign of 21st and Ocean glared in Markus’s head.
“Hey, watch it with that blade,” Arran snarled beside him. “You take out my foot, and I’m going to show you how a Highlander deals out payback.”
“Fuck you.” Markus scooped up his dagger from the floor. Three hours ago. That’s when he’d been there. Blood pounded at his eardrums. Why hadn’t he sensed that DEAD hit? Images of an auburn-haired woman clutching a bag and running in the rain toward her car flashed across his mind’s eye.
The pain that tortured his skull seized his chest, going slice and dice on his heart and lungs. He had to get out of here.
Now.
Or suffocate.
He jumped to his feet. His chair whirled and slid back, slamming into the pool table. All heads swiveled his way.
“I gotta go.” Markus forced the three words out of his throat and made for the door.
As he rounded the table, Guerin lunged to his feet. “Where the hell are you going? We need you here tonight. Logan and I still have patrol.”
Air. He needed air. Needed away from here. He rubbed his temples and kept moving. His damn h
ead hurt. Pain. The fucking pain wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Markus!” Guerin’s bellow echoed across the expanse of the room.
Markus willed himself to stop.
“Where you’re going is more important than your duty here?” His commander’s question trickled into his brain and battled with the mixed-up shit swirling in his mind. Markus pivoted slowly on his heels. Guerin’s dark eyes narrowed on him, waiting for his answer.
And he gave him one.
“Yes. It is.”
Markus lowered his torso over the fuel tank and throttled down hard on the grip of his bike. The wind fought to tear him from his ride. The speedometer read one hundred ten miles per hour. Rain sprayed his visor, blurring the road at his wheel. Oncoming headlights formed starbursts of colored lights on his wet face shield.
He didn’t give a flying fuck.
Better off dead.
They’d all be better off if he’d eat some serious-ass pavement and fry with the sunrise.
He was a traitor.
During the last hour since his realization that the auburn-haired girl was Emily, the seal on his duality of memories had cracked open. The images spilled into his conscious mind like some cancerous sludge regurgitated from hell. He remembered. Remembered it all.
Such a sick SOB.
He’d followed Kenric to Emily’s at sundown, completely covered in leather and a black-out helmet to combat the lingering rays of the sun. He’d waited all evening for them to part.
Trailing Emily hadn’t been hard in her aged sedan. She’d been an easy target, alone late at night in an empty parking lot. One phone call was all it had taken to have the pair of DEADs lying in wait for her.
He’d done some vile things. Images from his time spent at Marguerite’s lair flickered across his mind’s eye.
Sick, depraved things.
Flashes of him in various stages of sex and bloodlust gripped him. Multiple bodies, male and female, writhed against him on a floor littered with white furs.
They had stroked, licked, sucked, and fucked. Him and everyone around him.
Markus shook his head, trying to knock the degrading images from his mind. His rear tire slipped on the wet road, but he countered the effect with little effort, bringing it back under control.
Wind and rain beat at the sleeves of his coat and ran down his back, finding their way under his shirt. Spider veins of ice formed at the edges of his field of vision, but he didn’t feel the cold. Strange.
He really should be cold.
Maybe it was because the last shred of what held him to his humanity had severed. Broken by the vampire his leader knew all too well: Marguerite.
What she’d left behind he didn’t recognize. Markus worked his throat, trying hard to swallow the acidic taste of self-disgust threatening to choke him.
A horn blared, jerking his attention back to the road. Throwing his body to the right, he willed his bike around and away from the blinding, fragmented prisms of color.
Somehow, he avoided the head-on collision. The pissed-off sound of the horn blasted into his ear as it passed him. Breathing hard, he geared down and popped his visor.
Too late.
He leaned hard into the sharp turn of the road, but his rear tire lost its traction. The bike spun out from beneath him.
The force of the crash sent him flying. Time slowed to a crawl, and the world went mute.
Suddenly, the ground sped forward and slammed into him with a lung-exploding force.
Sound returned at a full-volume blast.
He tumbled down the embankment. Tree limbs and loose gravel chewed at the leather covering his arms and legs, ripping it apart and peeling back his exposed skin. A blow to his back brought his momentum to a halt. He lay on his side, sucking hard to feed the rush of adrenaline. The stench of burned rubber and gasoline filled the air and stung his nostrils.
Markus lifted his eyelids and groaned at the unnatural arrangement of his right leg. Dammit! He was still alive and conscious. This had to be somebody’s idea of a sick fucking joke. Not one damn branch had pierced his heart or removed his head, taking him out of his messed-up life. Throwing his head back, he raged into the blackness.
Inch by inch he dug his fingers into the soil and pulled himself along on his stomach. Every breath felt like muscle gliding over shards of glass. Damn! He must have blown every rib on his left side.
Getting into a sitting position was a maneuver born in Hades. The metallic taste of blood flowed into his mouth as he brought his leg forward. The bottom half of his calf dangled at a grotesque angle. A jagged piece of bone protruded through what remained of the leg of his jeans.
With the last vestige of strength left in his body, he reached for his wolf form. Fuck his clothes. No way in hell did he have the strength or desire to undress in his messed-up state.
The crack of bones shifting into place, along with the sound of tearing fabric and popping threads, echoed through the trees. Markus howled from the morphing of wounded flesh and bone. A necessary marathon of endurance. With the shift came a swifter tide of healing.
Black fur sprouted from his pores and spread across his extremities. He rocked up and onto four solid legs, whirled about, and leaped deeper into the unfamiliar woods, leaving the shredded remains of his life behind.
In his head, he ran into the night with no general direction or purpose.
Deep inside his gut, a different story unfurled. It knew exactly where his paws took him.
Mud caked all four limbs when he exited the dense cover of trees onto the shoulder of a dark paved road. God only knew how long he’d run. His sides sawed in and out. He snorted and twitched his ears as clouds of vapor curled from both nostrils.
Fur receded from his muzzle, and his limbs elongated. Uncurling his spine, he braced his stature on two legs. He rolled his newly re-formed shoulders and sucked in a deep, pain-free breath.
The road sign to his left read HWY 505 SOUTH, below it, mile marker twenty-five. A single mile from Marguerite’s lair. What the fuck? Who are you kidding, asshole? You knew where you were heading the moment you walked out on the Enclave. He whipped around, one foot back into the underbrush, and phased.
His feet settled on the hard-packed dirt of an empty driveway as a dingy white Victorian porch came into view. Taking the steps two at a time, he headed straight for the front door.
He didn’t knock.
Enrique could kiss his ass.
With his mind clear for the first time in days, he had to face her. Face the reality of what he’d become.
Markus sauntered naked into the candlelit foyer and straight for her receiving room. She might kill him for his arrogance—hell, he wished she would—but he seriously doubted she’d dare.
He held the key to what she wanted most.
He heard several sharp intakes of breath the moment he threw open the double doors. Before he could blink, Enrique appeared before him and wrapped his hand around his throat.
“I don’t believe you’ve been announced, minion.” Enrique sneered with a shiny white display of fangs. “An ill-conceived move like this could have the unfortunate effect of death.”
Markus pulled back his lip to unveil his own set of sharp teeth. “Something tells me, minion, that you won’t risk pissing off the mistress by killing her new play toy.”
Enrique’s face twisted, and his eyes lit with seething anger. Enough rage, Markus knew, to be a formidable threat. Instead, Enrique shoved him into the room.
“Well, if it isn’t my handsome Enclave warrior come to pay me a visit.” On her chaise, Marguerite rose from the lap of one of her half-naked male slaves. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Markus planted his feet at the base of her platform.
Enrique’s fingers dug into his neck. “Kneel before your mistress.”
“I’d rather stand.” Markus cocked him a sideways glance.
Pressure landed on his shoulders, driving him to his knees. He swallowed back a grunt as his
hands saved his face from eating the floor.
“I’d rather you kneel.” The threat contained in Marguerite’s words was unmistakable.
Guess he’d fucking kneel. He eased his head up and rolled back onto his knees. In his periphery, Marguerite’s commander stood to his left, his arms crossed over his chest, weapons galore strapped to his body.
“Much better, slave.”
He’d pick his battles.
“Did you come for your reward, minion? My commander tells me your mission was a successful one with Kenric’s newest, or shall I say former, bedmate.”
Marguerite glided down the steps before him. Her silver gown parted at her thighs with each step, offering him glimpses of her bare pussy. Hot blood engorged his cock. Oh, she knew how to play the fucking game well. Pun definitely intended.
A rumble vibrated in his chest.
By sheer will alone, he pulled his gaze away from the show. Her lips curled into a slow smile. She could see his arousal, and he smelled hers.
Her feet touched the wood floor, and she lifted her hand to her neck. Without hesitation, she dragged one hooked claw across her flesh. A swell of blood rose along the open trail.
A ribbon of red flowed down her pale white skin and disappeared into her cleavage.
The rich and heady scent of her blood short-circuited his brain. He groaned, his gut a wretched coil of hunger, of need.
“Come, Markus. Come to me, and let me show you how delicious it can be when you make me happy.”
Her words crawled inside his head and seeped into his veins. His cock jerked as the pressure within his balls shot to an aching overload and the whore took him to the brink of release. He coiled his fists at his side.
It wasn’t enough.
Dear God, he was so lost.
He lunged and grabbed the blade sheathed at Enrique’s thigh. With both hands wrapped around the hilt, he drove the serrated end straight for his own heart.
“No!” Her single word filled the cavernous space.
Every muscle locked. Fuck! The blade ceased in its path, the biting edge of the tip burned in his flesh. Yet he lived. The bitch wouldn’t let him die.
