Aria had the audacity to roll her eyes, which only fueled Razor’s outrage. Dammit, she knew what this meant for him. What it meant at all being in the open. And while she’d been a steady, reliable friend most of the way, her tendency to get on kicks where she swore she knew what was best for him was one of her more annoying qualities.
Though honestly, everything Aria had said or done as of late had been annoying.
Razor stole another glance at the brunette. The way his wolf craved her, getting her up close and personal would be the worst of all bad ideas. No matter what he wanted—he’d given up his right to see through his own desires a long fucking time ago. Aria wanted him to get laid. She’d chosen the right person to tempt him with but for all the wrong reasons.
Getting that close to someone he wanted so much could only end badly.
“She’s not my type.” Cop-out.
“If she wasn’t your type, you wouldn’t go all cartoon coyote every time you look at her.”
“I’m more afraid of going real coyote.”
“Raz—”
“She’s not my type. End of story.”
Granted, it had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to seriously consider the fairer sex enough to give his type any reflection. Once upon a time, his type had been sorority girls who had a habit of leaving their panties at home. What would have been called his college years had been his sexual awakening, as it was for most normal people. But most normal people didn’t have the tendency to leave bits and pieces of their girlfriend strewn across a dorm room.
Yeah, life stopped being normal then.
Razor ran his hand over his jaw, his fingers combing through four days’ growth of beard.
“Look,” he said slowly, doing his best to keep the reins on his temper. “I know you think you’re helping, but trust me when I say—”
“You’re full of shit?” Aria offered. “Raz, if you were gonna fly off the handle like some homicidal flying-off-handle guy, you would’ve done it already. How many times have I irritated the living piss outta you?”
His lips quirked, a reluctant chuckle climbing up his throat. “Too many to count.”
“And how many times have you torn my throat out?”
“In my head or in reality?”
“That’s not funny.”
A domineering presence filtered into the room, and before Razor knew it, his feet had been dragged along the floor and his back was against the wall. A crunching pressure found its way to his throat.
Draken.
“Do not,” commanded the irate god, “speak to my Arianna in such a way!”
Aria rolled her eyes again. “Oh brother.”
A gargled hiss climbed up his throat but died before it could know air. Razor gasped and heaved, his arms flailing uselessly and his legs kicking out but never meeting their target. Hard to meet a target who didn’t have corporeal form—a target confined to an amulet. How Draken had managed to master telekinesis when he wasn’t even supposed to know English was a major point of contention. Razor had intended to petition Aria’s coven for months now to get the insipid god under control.
Especially as the wolf in his chest never failed to smell a challenge and rear up for a fight. Goddamn Draken. Anytime anyone muttered anything the beast overheard and didn’t like, he’d stir in his bejeweled prison and start bellowing threats. Apparently centuries trapped inside an emerald hadn’t done much for the god’s social skills.
And Draken, for whatever reason, had never taken kindly to Razor. Saw him as some sort of a threat or something.
“Draken!” Aria screamed, eyeballing her emerald ineffectively. “Let him go!”
“This insolent little man threatened you!” the god snapped.
“He did not!”
“I heard him—”
Razor gagged and thrashed, the growls from his inner wolf growing louder as the seconds ticked by. Damn, he had done his fucking best to keep himself in line, but no one knew how to push said line more than Aria’s damned pet. A flash and he—
“You’re a monster!”
Razor shook his head and kicked at the air. He’d never get used to feeling his windpipe close. If Draken were ever expelled from the amulet, there’d be a reckoning.
“I should’ve taken you out when I had the chance.” Natalie wiped her tear-stained cheeks with one hand, gripping her silver bullet-loaded gun in the other. Razor’s gaze darted from her face to the door, a roaring swell rushing against his ears, pounding his temples, blurring his sight and—
God. The wolf…
Razor’s ass met the ground with enough force to knock his tailbone halfway up his throat. He blinked away stars and looked up in a daze just in time to see Aria complete her binding spell. There were only a handful of incantations that could harness the god, but determining which one would work on any given day was damn near impossible.
Fortunately, whatever spell Aria had chosen today had done the trick. She grasped the emerald around her neck, heaving deep breaths, and shook her head. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “He’s been…really touchy lately.”
“Mhmm.” Razor winced and fought to his feet, doing his damndest to ignore the whine of pain edging through his body. Pain was the wolf’s greatest motivator—that and fear. He’d learned to suppress it as best he could on his own, but damn, with Aria’s self-appointed protector using every viable—and usually just plain fabricated—excuse to thrash the living piss out of any and everyone, the wolf’s growls became more difficult to contain.
Aria sighed and released the hold on the amulet. “And,” she continued, “if you wouldn’t make so many veiled threats—”
“How the fuck was that a veiled threat?”
“With the tearing out of throats? I can’t imagine how that must’ve sounded to him.”
Razor craned his neck, his fingers curling inward and outward. He blew out a steady breath, did the count to ten, then shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re taking his side. When are you gonna pass that buck, anyway?”
All signs of argument fled Aria’s face but her hand returned to the emerald. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Callie just turned eighteen. It’s her turn to play babysitter.”
“Callie doesn’t know how to handle him.”
Razor arched an eyebrow. “And nearly letting him crush my windpipe is your definition of handling him? He’s a fucking god, Aria. You can’t handle him.”
She jutted out her chin. “I’ve done pretty well, thanks.”
“Again with the crushing of my windpipe.”
“Oh, stop whining. Your neck looks fine.”
Somehow he doubted it. The skin at his throat was raw enough Razor suspected he’d sport one bitch of a bruise over the coming weeks. Draken did nothing half-assed. If he weren’t such a holy pain in the balls, Razor might almost respect that in him. Almost.
“And,” Aria added, gesturing to the sleeping girl again, “you’re just trying to change the subject.”
His eyes narrowed. “How the hell did she sleep through that? Did you—”
“Small enchantment. I figured this conversation would get loud and…and loud, and I didn’t want her waking up and freaking out.”
Razor stared at the blonde for a long moment before breaking off with a curse. “So, let me get this straight.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You accosted a fan without my permission, tried to sell me off on a date I didn’t want, showed the girl your pissy god—”
“Leave Draken out of this!”
He resisted the urge to cluck his tongue at her. How Aria could be so irritated at her pet one second yet so defensive the next was beyond him. In the end, ignoring her and proceeding with his point seemed the best option. “And then you hexed the poor thing?”
“I needed to get you on board.”
“On board?”
Aria nodded. “With the whole dating thing.”
“You’ve been trying to get me on board for years now.
What on earth made you think this would work?”
“I thought maybe seeing the girl you’d be getting on board with.” She gestured to the sleeping brunette again. “Look, I know this is difficult for you. The last time you let your guard down…”
Razor clenched his jaw and looked away.
Aria swallowed. “Something bad happened.”
He huffed and shook his head. Something bad. Nice, sterile way to describe a young girl being ripped into several pieces. To remember the crimson stains along the wall, the stench of blood clogging his lungs. A cool shiver crept up Razor’s spine.
Thinking about that night had never come easy, and he supposed that was a good thing. The instant he stopped flinching when he considered her screams, when he stopped recoiling at the thought of his blood-smeared hands, when he could brush off what had occurred without entertaining a parade of nightmares was the day he lost his grip on humanity. Full throttle, no-holds-barred monstrosity. The sort of thing he’d feared since the moment he first lost control of the beast. The moment he first wolfed out.
Razor shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. Aria and her coven had kept him grounded in the years since Natalie Meyers’ death. Since the moment his former love had aimed a pistol at his head, told him she knew what he was and how killing him wasn’t personal—just business.
Poachers would call it business—this he knew from personal experience.
But it wasn’t business. He knew that now. The word they were looking for was murder.
And he’d gotten a glimpse of murder—up close and personal.
If it weren’t for Aria’s kindness and the support of her coven, Razor would be one dead pup right now. Most everyone got a second chance after they fucked up, but he didn’t think he was lucky enough for a third or fourth.
Since walking away from the bloodbath of a dorm room, Razor’s ambitions had been zeroed in on ensuring nothing remotely related to death ever occurred at his paws again. A part of that meant keeping people at a nice long distance.
Aria didn’t seem to understand why she was the exception that proved the rule. While the coven as a whole had taken him in, Aria was the one who had championed him from the beginning. He hadn’t known why until last month, when she revealed she had once been engaged to his cousin Marcus, who had been raised almost as a brother.
Razor had fallen out with Marcus shortly after becoming infected with the lycan virus. In fact, not many of his family remained on his calling list. Coming from a line of hunters hadn’t made his biological shift easy to accept, especially for a group of people who had previously enjoyed a good night’s sleep believing that what they did was just, as wolves weren’t human.
Marcus, fortunately, didn’t share their line of thought. Once he discovered his cousin’s fate, he’d hooked him up with Aria and her coven, all of whom had taken him under their wing, doctored him up with protection and shielding spells, and kept him safe until his family ceased hunting for him.
Aria had become one of his best friends, even with her territorial god in tow.
But the difference between Aria and everyone else was he knew her. He knew what to expect when she showed up blitzed on his doorstep, when she called him swearing like a sailor, and when she looked at him with that mischievous glint in her eyes.
She was his kid sister in everything but blood. He didn’t need bedmates to keep him warm.
He didn’t need to be set up.
“Get her out of here,” Razor said, pointing at the brunette. “And don’t pull this shit again.”
Aria’s eyes had softened into that pitying look he abhorred. “This is no way to live, Raz,” she said. “You need companionship.”
“I have you.”
“But you won’t have me forever. I’m not gonna babysit your furry ass the rest of my life.”
“Then I’ll deal.”
She huffed and looked away, every line in her face fixed with staunch disapproval. “This was part of the deal,” she said. “We start easing back into the world and you start cooperating. What happened won’t be changed no matter how many songs you write or how many girls you don’t—”
“Get her out of here before she wakes up, Aria. I’m not talking about this anymore.”
And before she could get in another word, he turned on his heel and stalked out the door. She yelled something after him but he ignored it. He didn’t need this shit. Not now. Not ever.
His life was predetermined. Set. He’d grown accustomed to the idea of being alone. It was what he deserved after the crime he’d committed.
After the life he’d taken.
Chapter Two
Ginny awoke with a throbbing head, a dry mouth and a general sensation of having been flattened by a Mack truck. She sighed and rolled over, stretching across the confines of her familiar queen-size bed. Her mind, ever her enemy, struggled to piece together events from the night before.
Of course the memory of the blonde girl couldn’t stay away for long. After a few seconds everything filtered back in Technicolor. Going to Electric Panther, seeing Razor on stage and then being accosted by the self-proclaimed club owner who insisted the enigmatic lead singer had kept his eye on her.
And then…nothing. Nothing after that.
What the ever-loving fuck?
Ginny bolted upright and took an immediate, harsh look at her surroundings. It was her room. Her queen-size bed. The quilt her nana had knitted for her lay draped across the corner rocking chair like it always did. Her television. Her nightstand. Her Mickey Mouse clock. Everything looked exactly as it should, which for whatever reason scared the living piss out of her.
She had no memory of returning home last night. None. Zilch. Nada.
Okay, panicking.
Her feet hit the ground and took her on a whirlwind tour of her modest apartment. Just as in the bedroom, nothing seemed out of place. Her purse was on the kitchen counter, her cell phone charging on the coffee table—heck, even her jacket was strewn across the back of the couch as always. Nothing to suggest she hadn’t come in here of her own volition.
Perhaps the blonde girl had drugged her. Or something. Or maybe there had been something in the cookie her boss had given her before she left the diner. It had been rather suspicious. Frank Palmer wasn’t her biggest fan. In fact, he threatened her with unemployment every day.
Oh God. What time was it?
Ginny scrambled to the kitchen and the clock on the microwave told a story that completely trumped whatever had happened the night before. One in the afternoon. She was supposed to be at work at ten.
She was so fired.
“Fucking fuck fuck.” Ginny turned and made a mad dash for her cell phone. Just as she thought—eleven missed calls from Trixie’s. Half a dozen voice mails and three text messages.
WHR R U?
GET UR ASS IN HEAR RITE NOW!
U R FIRED!!!!!!!
Ginny’s pulse spiked to epic proportions. She choked back a sob and did her best to calm the niggling doubt rising in her belly. She couldn’t be fired. She couldn’t. She came in to work every day, often ten minutes early to get a quick and—by the way—off the clock start on her duties. She stayed late when she had other plans—or at least pretended she had other plans—had put up with the nicknames, come-ons, ass-grabs and borderline sexual stalking that had occurred each and every day since she put on her Trixie’s apron.
Frank couldn’t fire her. He had to know she wouldn’t go without a fight. Not after everything she’d done to earn her paychecks. Every miserable, nasty, sometimes humiliating…
Why do you want to keep this job, again?
She shook her head and focused. It was the principle of the thing. Also she needed money for rent. And utilities. And clothing. And food. And living in general. And Trixie’s was, if nothing else, steady money in the bank.
And she wasn’t about to get fired. Not when she had spent years drafting the perfect I quit speech.
Ginny’s shaking finge
rs managed to punch in the right numbers to the restaurant’s main line. She knew Frank would answer—he sat on his ass in the manager’s office where he pretended to do important paper-pushing while barking orders at a staff of line cooks and servers, all of whom entertained idle fantasies of frying His Assholeness on one of his own goddamn burners.
Seriously, the annoyingly logical voice that remained perpetually holed up in the back of her mind chirped, why are you calling to fight for this job?
Her answer hadn’t changed, she just said it over the phone’s ring this time. “Matter of principle.”
On the fourth ring, Frank picked up, breathing heavily into the receiver. “Trixie’s.”
“Frank—”
Apparently the sound of her voice was all the fuel he needed to lose his already-lax grip on control.
“Your ass is fired!” he screamed. “You have any idea what you put us through up here this morning?”
“I overslept.”
“What kinda mamby-pamby excuse is that?”
“This one happens to be the truth. I can be there in thirty minutes, I swear. And I’ll work doubles for the rest of the week. Just give me time to shower and—”
“Do you have hearin’ problems or what? You are fired! Finished, finit-o!”
“I have never once missed a day of work!”
“Tell me why I should care. You weren’t here today, and that’s what matters.”
Ginny’s grip on the phone tightened to the point she was certain it would shatter in her hand. “You’re a miserable old ass, Frank Palmer.”
“Yeah, well, I still have a job.”
Click.
Trembling, Ginny lowered her hand, every molecule of her body wound tight as a drum. She stood gasping for breath for endless seconds, then finally turned her attention to the phone itself. The screen was blank except for two words spelled across in red text.
Call ended.
Call fucking ended.
This was all that stupid blonde’s fault. She’d done something to her. Slipped her something or…something.
Insatiable Craving: 2 (Insatiable Nights) Page 2
