Spider Game

by Christine Feehan

  Trap found he could breathe again. She was fucking glued to his side from here on out, and he didn't give a damn whether she liked it or not. Guarding her. Keeping her safe. That was necessary. He set out running again, choosing a course that would take him close to the canal and the cypress trees weeping moss there.

  Something else strange, Trap. Her bones are different. They don't feel the same. Nothing's broken, but her femur should have been. The impact of that bullet should have taken it right through her body, but it stopped in her skin. Still, it should have broken the bone. And man, I have to tell you, no one has skin this soft.

  Trap didn't like that one bit. You don't need to notice that. Just keep her alive so I can strangle her. He was going to do something to ease the raw, gaping hole in his gut. She'd done that. Gutted him with this shit. He'd had enough. She was going to do what the fuck he said when he said it, and if that made him a bastard, too fucking bad.

  You're broadcasting loud, Wyatt said, amusement tingeing his voice.

  There's nothing fucking funny about her getting shot. Twice. Trap spat the declaration at Wyatt.

  No one thinks her getting shot is funny, bro, Wyatt pointed out. Only your reaction. Never saw you lose it before.

  Trap heard them now, two of them. They were moving slow, single file. He ran silently until he was parallel with them, ignoring Wyatt. Whitney's supersoldiers seemed tireless, not even breathing hard. This close he could share their telepathic link.

  We've got to get the son of a bitch on the roof, Jerrod, one said. He took out the last of our first team.

  They weren't all that anyway, Jerrod said. I'd like to know why these boys are protecting that hideous creature. Do you suppose they don't know what she is? A fucking spider?

  You're just pissed because your brother tried to fuck her right in front of you all and she killed him.

  Whitney should have let me kill her.

  Whitney thinks he's god almighty. His little experiments are getting more bizarre, and he's losing his backing. If we don't shut down this shit fast, he'll have an army of insects coming after us.

  Trap drew in his breath sharply. These soldiers hadn't been sent by Whitney. The soldiers that had come, a few months back, for Wyatt's daughters hadn't been sent by Whitney either. They thought Braden had sent them. Another faction was in play. But who? If not Whitney, who?

  He couldn't ask his fellow GhostWalkers, because if he could hear these two men, they could hear him. He sprinted past their position, inwardly cursing that he couldn't wait to hear more. They were gaining on the house. He couldn't allow them that close to Cayenne, Pepper or Nonny.

  He got ahead of them and crouched low, once more sending poisonous gasses into the air so that they ran straight into them. The air shimmered with a particular glow that was a dead giveaway, but no one ever seemed to understand what it was until it was too late. He'd moved into enemy camps, that shimmer drifting ahead of him. Even when the enemy coughed and went to their knees, it still didn't register that they shouldn't breathe in the air around them.

  In the swamp it was much easier to conceal. The shimmer looked a bit like drifting tendrils of fog coming together to form a veil. He heard the two men's footsteps stumble. They coughed. Cleared their throats. Spat. One tried to take a drink. One tried to speak. He didn't wait for them to succumb to the change in air. Gino was somewhere and needed backup. He stepped right in front of both of them, sweet air caught in his lungs. His knife slashed deep across each throat in one continuous motion and he was gone before the bodies dropped.

  Two more down.

  I've got one down here, Gino reported. The other two have holed up.

  Whitney didn't send them. They're supersoldiers, but they belong to someone else, Trap reported. Mine are all down. If we can get one alive, we might be able to interrogate him.

  I'll do my best, Gino said. One's asking for deliverance right now. Give me a moment to oblige him and I'll ask politely of the last one.

  Trap crossed the swamp, using the trail they'd built and then swerving toward the location Gino had given him. He spotted a soldier easing his way on his belly, using toes and elbows to drag himself forward through the thick vegetation, eyes trained on the house. Trap didn't dare change the air because he didn't know exactly where Gino was.

  The soldier eased himself over the thin trunk of a sapling that had gone down a few years earlier. It was broken in places and rotting. Only a few inches in diameter, it was still quite long. The soldier's stomach seemed to hang up on it for a moment. There was a gurgling sound. Blood splashed on the leaves around the sapling. Trap tried to spot Gino. He had to be somewhere on the ground. The soldier had been facedown, only a few inches off the ground, and yet Gino had cut his throat. The soldier had to have been staring right into his killer's eyes when he died, but Trap couldn't see his fellow GhostWalker.

  Nice job, Gino.

  I can handle this, Gino replied grimly. Draden can cover me, you get to your woman. Should have been on top of this, Trap. I'm sorry I let that sniper anywhere near her.

  Not your fault. I should have been with her. She wanted to do this alone. Said it was important to her. When a woman tells you it's important and your gut tells you no fucking way, go with your gut, Gino.

  Copy that.

  Trap made his way to the house, leaving the last soldier to Gino. Gino wanted to interrogate him. They didn't have a whole lot to offer in return for information. Trap doubted that the soldier would believe them if they offered to spare his life. Still, Gino could make him very uncomfortable and plant a tracking device in his body while he questioned the man.

  He stayed under cover as long as he could, not wanting to risk getting shot by the last remaining soldier. Crouching just at the tree and brush line, he waited. It took less than five minutes.

  I've got him. You have to go.

  Trap didn't hesitate. He had to see Cayenne for himself. See that she was alive. If she was, he didn't know exactly what he was going to do with her. The rage buried so deep, rage he'd held for nearly all his life, was there. He could feel it. Powerful. Dark. Lethal. He'd spent years building a glacier to keep it covered. In that moment, when the first bullet had taken her, driven into her body, jolting her heart--that bullet had lodged into the very heart of his glacier. Great spiderweb cracks had radiated out from it, and now that rage was rising to the surface and he was helpless to stop it.

  He knew Malichai would have had Pepper or Nonny inform headquarters that they were under fire. That contact would send a team to clean up the mess. They wouldn't want the bodies strewn around the forest so a medical examiner could speculate on the deaths. They'd already be on their way. That didn't matter to him.

  At first he used ground-eating strides to cross the yard to the house, then abruptly he found himself running, using his enhanced speed. He jumped, clearing the long row of steps leading to the house. Like most houses in the swamp and bayou, the Fontenot home was built the traditional way, raised off the ground in case of a flood. His jump landed him on the wraparound porch Nonny loved so much.

  He yanked open the door and at the last minute called out his name so Pepper or Nonny or both wouldn't shoot him. He didn't break stride as he went into the house. Pepper moved away from the door, her face lighting up when she saw him and then darkening to a frown when she really saw him. She bit her lower lip and stepped aside.

  "Trap, Cayenne's fine. She just has bruises and a few stitches."

  Pepper tried to soothe him, but he barely registered her voice. He couldn't assimilate her reassurance. There was no way to calm the deadly beast rising like the molten lava in a volcano. He tried to breathe it away because now it was in his belly, hot and ugly, swirling like the fireball it was, spreading through those various cracks so there was no dam that could possibly stop them.

  He moved unerringly through the house, his footsteps utterly silent. In his ears, his heart thundered. Roared. The jackhammers were back, driving deep into his skull with eve
ry step he took. The scent of blood was heavy, mingling with Cayenne's fragrance. That sent the rage swirling a notch higher. The blood scent nearly obliterated Cayenne's beautiful exotic natural perfume just as the bullets had almost taken her from him.

  Nonny stood in the door of his old bedroom, but after taking one look at his face, she reached inside the room, caught Malichai's arm and tugged. Malichai filled the doorway, opened his mouth and closed it, reading Trap's darkened face and the lines carved deep. Both stepped outside the room and aside, allowing him to brush past them. They wisely closed the door, leaving him alone with her.

  Cayenne was in his bed--the bed he'd lain in for four long months. He'd dreamt of her being in that bed. Fantasized about her being there. Jacked off thinking about her and what he'd do to her--all in that bed. Now she was sitting up in the damn, fucking bed, smiling up at him as if nothing had happened. As if she didn't have a care in the world. All around her was the aftermath of her surgery. The empty bags of fluid and blood. Her bloody clothes shredded and on the floor. More blood--all hers--saturating the cloths they'd used to try to stem it.

  "What the fuck do you think you were doing?" The words hissed out of his mouth. Low. Lethal. It felt like an explosion in his chest. His chest hurt more than any injury in his life had ever hurt him, and he'd had plenty.

  Cayenne frowned at him. She studied his face for a long time. He remained still, just inside the door, every muscle locked in place.

  "Are you angry with me, Trap?"

  She sounded shocked. Innocent. As if she didn't know she was his entire world and she'd nearly allowed a bullet to take her from him. He wanted to shake her until her teeth rattled.

  "What the fuck do you think, Cayenne?" He bit the words out, enunciating each. His breath came fast, as if he was running through the swamp again, running to keep those soldiers off of her.

  Trap leapt across the room and yanked up the thin tee she was wearing. One of his old ones he'd carelessly left behind when he'd packed to move to his new home. Packed to move wherever the hell Cayenne was, because even then, he knew she was home.

  "Hell yes, I'm angry. Have you looked at your body? That bruise covers your entire chest. Both breasts." He yanked the covers down to expose her legs. "Your thigh. You could have been killed."

  She touched her tongue to her top lip. Then outlined her bottom lip. He wanted to lean down and bite that full lower lip and if she kept it up, that was exactly what she was going to get. Hard. He was going to bite that lip hard and leave his mark on her.

  "Trap." Cayenne said his name gently. "I'm perfectly fine. If I hadn't covered Nonny like I did, they would have killed her. They weren't only coming after me. I feel things and their energy hit me before the bullet was fired. I had a much better chance of survival than Nonny."

  He crouched beside the bed, his face inches from her. "You fucking don't get to take that chance. Your life isn't yours anymore. You need to get this right now, Cayenne. I'm not fucking around with you. You belong to somebody. That somebody is me. You gave yourself to me. You let me believe I could fucking live again, not just exist. Not walk around like a fucking zombie. I could live. You did that. That gives you responsibility to keep yourself alive. Not throw your ass in front of bullets because you think you're fucking invincible. You're not."

  "Trap." She whispered his name, reached out to touch his face.

  He couldn't bear her touch. Not right then. He would shatter into a million pieces if she touched him. He batted her hand away.

  "Don't try to sweet talk your way out of this. If you didn't have bruises all over you, I'd bend you over the bed and use a fucking strap on you. You wouldn't sit comfortably for a couple of weeks and maybe you'd think about what a fuckup this was every time you tried."

  She touched her tongue to her upper lip and then moistened her full lower lip with her tongue. He was up abruptly, pacing away from her, fury riding him so hard he shook with it. She just sat there, looking innocent. Not comprehending the enormity of what she'd done. Not understanding what she was to him. Not feeling the same way.

  "I have to get out of here. I'll be back to get you in a little while."

  "I'm going with you." Cayenne flung the covers all the way from her body and swung her legs off the bed to the floor.

  "You're not." He glanced over his shoulder and nearly froze. Every muscle locked in place. Her face was set in stubborn lines. That beautiful face, heart-shaped, her silken skin inviting touch. Eyes large, a vibrant green framed with impossibly long, thick, black lashes. Straight nose and that exotic, perfect mouth. Her chin was up in a line that challenged any man.

  "I am."

  The roaring in his head increased. "You don't have one fucking ounce of self-preservation in you, do you?"

  She narrowed her eyes at him. Lifted one hand to the mass of dark hair falling around her face, down her back and pooling on the sheets. Her hand actually shook, and the vulnerability there on her face and in that action caused his heart to seize in his chest.

  "I had to sit here knowing you were out there, Trap, with soldiers I brought here. Soldiers bent on killing everyone. Soldiers you were facing in the swamp while I was lounging around in a bed. So, yes, I'm going with you, and I'm going to make certain I have you in my sights for as long as it takes to get rid of this terror inside of me."

  She stood up. Trembled. He was there instantly, settling his hands around her upper arms. His fingers closed around her silken skin. He felt the movement of muscle beneath his vise-like grip, but she didn't pull away from him. She was cold, as she often was and actually leaned into his body for warmth and shelter.

  His heart contracted. Hard. Tight. He tightened his grip on her, not knowing what he was going to do. Not trusting himself. For the first time, he was afraid for her. Really afraid. She'd made him open himself to her. She became part of his life. Not just part. She became his life. She acted instinctively and she'd almost been killed. That was a part of her character.

  She'd lived in a little cell thinking of herself as not human. As an experiment to be studied. She'd been pitted against teams of trained soldiers determined to kill her, and she'd come out the victor. She was fearless in battle.

  "Damn it, Cayenne, you aren't disposable. Your life is worth something. Everything. You can't keep thinking the way you do."

  She tilted her chin at him, her green eyes searching his face. Brooding. Moody. Those lashes fanned the high cheekbones concealing the brilliant green of her eyes and raised again to reveal multifacets. Gems of emerald. His breath caught in his throat. This woman was his. She was his everything, and she went into battle prepared to die. Fearless because she didn't believe she had anything to lose.

  "You have me to lose, Cayenne," he corrected. "You die, and what the fuck do you think is going to happen to me? You can't give a man who had nothing everything, and then take it away from him. You don't get to do that. I lived in a void. It was a kind of hell, and maybe I thought I belonged there because I didn't die with my family. I believed for so long I didn't deserve a damn thing because if I hadn't lived, they wouldn't have touched my aunt. I had nothing. Nothing. Do you fucking understand that? I had nothing until you gave me you."

  She took a breath. He could see her pulse pounding in her throat. He wanted to bend down and lick it. Taste her skin. Taste her passion. But he couldn't because she'd been shot. Twice.

  "The thing is, Trap," she said softly, "I do understand. You're not in this alone. I had nothing. I lived in a void, a kind of hell. Maybe I thought I belonged there because I was convinced by everyone around me that I wasn't human. I believed I didn't deserve anything at all. Until you saw me. The human. Until you chose me. I had nothing to live for. I had nothing at all, until you gave me you. So please don't tell me I don't understand. You were out there, in danger. You pushed aside all feeling and you did your job. When you did it, you weren't thinking about whether or not you could be killed and what would happen to me if you did. You simply did what you were tr
ained to do. You aren't less than me. I don't love you less."

  His heart clenched so hard he thought it might shatter. Love. There it was. She said it. Brought it right out into the open. He had skirted carefully around that particular word and the terrible emotion it conjured up. A single word couldn't describe the way he felt about her. There was no getting around it. The powerful, overwhelming emotion he felt for her had to be love and more. More than love. Worship maybe. Whatever, she couldn't leave him.

  He didn't know if he was steadying her or himself when he pulled her closer to him, when he fit her small body against his side. It wasn't the revelation of how she felt that got to him. It was her voice. That soft, shaky admission. Close to tears. The revelation of love. Of fear. No, not just fear. A soul-shattering terror. It was there in her voice. In her mind.

  Cayenne always gave him everything without reservation. She wasn't ashamed of her feelings or what that exposed to him. She didn't care that by knowing how she felt, he might have power over her. She just gave him everything. Straight up.

  His hand moved over her face, brushing aside her hair. "Baby." He said it softly. "I can't breathe right now."

  "Then kiss me and I'll breathe for you," she whispered back. In that voice. The one that could turn a roomful of decent men into a pack of salivating hounds. The one that sent fingers of desire dancing up his thighs and down his spine to spread through his bloodstream straight to his cock.

  He didn't deny either of them. He needed to kiss her. More than he needed to draw air into his lungs, he had to kiss her. He bent his head and took her mouth. She opened to him instantly. He didn't take her along for the ride on the kiss, she participated fully. Her lips were soft, his were hard. She was cool. He was hot. His mouth melted her as he took possession, his tongue stroking along hers. She had paid close attention every time he kissed her or touched her and she learned fast.

  They exchanged breath. Air. Passion. He felt it, the rage retreating under the force of her love. Of her giving. She gutted him with her kiss. With her love.