WastelandRogue

by Brenda Williamson

  Happier than he’d ever been, he said cheerfully, “Hey, sunshine…”

  Sevrin bolted upright seeing the vacant space next to him.

  “Rye?” he called out.

  No answer.

  A strange panic causing his heart to pound prompted him to shout louder, “Rye?”

  She still didn’t reply.

  “She’s gone outside. That’s it,” he said, consoling his worries. “I should have explained about the relief facilities in the corner.”

  Though, he decided, for what he found acceptable doing in the open area of the cavern, she might feel she needed more privacy. Females were like that.

  He hopped off the ledge of his sleeping alcove and stretched from side to side and front to back, working the kinks out of his muscles. Movement did wonders as his body rejuvenated from his stiff sleeping position.

  By the time he had dressed, he realized Rye wasn’t just doing personal things. She had left. Good. He didn’t need anyone tagging along with him. Besides enjoying his life free of hindrances, his stamina would never hold up to such intense sex on a daily basis.

  Still, he thought of Rye’s passion. How she clung to him throughout the night, spreading mind-numbing kisses over his face. She had a fiery spirit he hadn’t gotten enough of, but there he was without the chance to explore her thoroughly.

  “Damn,” he groaned, rubbing his hand over his crotch to soothe his hardened cock. Just the thought of her luscious body with the generous curves generated a deep ache.

  He extinguished the fire, picked up his coat and headed up the ladder to the trapdoor.

  In the shack, he paused. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hand over them. How could I misinterpret mind-blowing sex for a genuine, sentimental connection? It hurt. Whether it was his feelings or his ego didn’t matter. He hated experiencing the loss of anyone. That dislike had motivated him to be a loner for a long time.

  The moment he left the shack, he sensed something different, something wrong with his surroundings.

  He examined the ground, seeking signs someone had ventured into his territory. Surveying the ruts in the sandy soil, he recognized the wide ribbed strips of pressed dirt marking the path of a steam-trekker vehicle. He ran to the tangled brush at the side of the hill and saw his camouflage netting lying in a heap on the ground. His steam-trekker was gone and his steel crates of weaponry and other supplies lay mostly destroyed.

  Anger flared. “Damn that cunning little bitch.”

  Cold disdain shrank back all his desire, save one—to spank that female’s bottom until she begged for forgiveness.

  “Don’t get involved. Leave everyone to their own devices. No, I had to be an idiot and save a sneaky, scheming female who destroyed my stuff and stole my ride.”

  He thought over everything he knew of the lamian breed’s healing properties. Allium or not, Rye’s body should have healed quicker. She had tricked him. There was no other way to look at the situation. She lulled him into a false sense of security, all the while plotting to rob him of whatever she deemed valuable.

  The distinct rumble of an engine turned him around. He saw his steam-trekker in the distance, barreling across the rough terrain. How had he slept through its earlier departure? The machine wasn’t made to be quiet, only practical.

  The cumbersome vehicle continued toward him, coming to a stop a short distance away.

  What is she up to? Wary of the new development, he watched Rye open the door.

  Livid and unable to wait until she was out of his steam-trekker, he yelled, “What the hell do you think you were doing taking my vehicle?”

  Her brow wrinkled with a scowl. “I thought I’d go out and get you some breakfast,” she answered sarcastically.

  Fuming, he grabbed his hair and pulled at it. “That’s not a toy to go gallivanting around the wastelands in. You could have run into any number of bandits who would have taken it without a second thought.” He stormed toward her.

  “Stop,” she said quietly with her hand raised and her palm facing him as if that would keep him from tearing into her with a dozen choice words.

  Yet it wasn’t her voice or her motion that kept him immobile. Her gaze had bored caution into him. He watched her slowly climb out of the steam-trekker onto the track wheel. For a second his thoughts veered from irritation to the way she looked sexier than ever in the ragged clothing she had picked out of his rubbish pile. The tattered dark-blue pants she had on hugged her hips. The unusual long red high-heeled boots gave her already statuesque figure more height. When he had found the strange footwear in a crumbling building in one of the city ruins he passed through, he didn’t think he’d ever see them on a female’s feet. They were not practical for walking any sort of distance.

  Rye still wore his shirt, loosely tucked into the waistband of her pants. The missing laces left the front open halfway down to her navel. The visibility of her curvaceous breasts instantly revved up his undersexed body.

  His overindulgent mind retreated from the visions he had of doing her right there on the track wheel when a man climbed out of the vehicle behind her.

  Sevrin moved back a few steps. “Who’s your friend?” He wrapped his fingers around the handle of his short-barreled gun hanging in the holster.

  Chaotic thoughts ran through his head about Rye setting him up, tricking him into bringing her to one of his lairs so she and her friend could rob him.

  “Friend? Yeah, right,” she grumbled.

  Rye’s tone made Sevrin discard the first scenario for another equally vile trap. It wasn’t unusual for scavengers to go to extreme lengths to steal. When they saw his steam-trekker coming in the distance the day before, she let her lover cut her up and leave her in the ditch for him to find.

  Sevrin knew he shouldn’t have stopped.

  He was a stupid, gullible idiot. His thoughts were so fixated on his amorous and heartfelt emotions, he’d let a treacherously conniving bitch bed him and then go off and fetch her mate.

  Sevrin swung his arm up and aimed the gun at the couple.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” The tall man brought a knife up against Rye’s throat. “I swear I’ll cut this lamian bitch’s head off.”

  Another ploy? Did they think he’d believe they weren’t together?

  “I didn’t plan on coming back, Sevrin,” Rye explained. “Only I’m not used to driving something as big and complicated as the steam-trekker. It stalled and unfortunately this trash came along and demanded I hand over your vehicle and all the contents.”

  While Sevrin had believed they were in cahoots, gut instinct made him doubt. At least he hoped it was instinct and not a residual desire muddling sane reasoning.

  “Then why are you here?” Sevrin asked.

  “So you can kill him,” she said with clear directness.

  Sevrin already had that in mind.

  He thought through the consequences of squeezing the trigger. Even if his shot hit center of the man’s head, it would knock the man back, forcing the knife into Rye’s neck.

  She twisted to the right as if to give him the opportunity, but it wasn’t far enough for him to take the chance. He’d not risk her life for anything.

  “Put down that bullet launcher, mister.” The man swayed from side to side, making him a moving target.

  “You’ll let her go unharmed?” Sevrin stretched his trigger finger out, showing his willingness to do as the man asked.

  “I ain’t a killer. You gimme what valuables you got, including the steam-trekker.” He jerked his head toward the vehicle. “Then I’m on my way.”

  “Don’t do it, Sevrin.” Rye gave him a warning glare. “You can’t trust he won’t kill us both.”

  “Shut up, fanger bitch,” the man growled at Rye.

  Sevrin rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. There wasn’t a female on Earth who would let that kind of rudeness pass unnoticed. When Rye’s lips curled away from her teeth, showing the glistening white of her fangs as she hissed with anger, Se
vrin trusted her not to be part of some plot to rob him.

  He also knew he had to defuse the situation. “Easy there, mister… What do I call you?”

  “Levor, why?”

  “Levor, her name is Rye.” Sevrin slowly unlatched the gun, emptied out the ammo and tossed bullets one way and the gun the other. “I think she’d prefer you call her that instead of fanger bitch. Females are touchy about being called names. It makes them act irrational. We don’t want to see her crazy now, do we?”

  Sevrin ignored the infuriated look from Rye.

  “She does anything, I’ll kill her,” Levor said.

  “I’ve dropped my weapon, so how about letting her go.” Sevrin watched Levor’s hand, the slight tremor shaking the knife closer to Rye’s jugular. “You can’t carry anything if you’re holding her.”

  Levor pushed Rye away. He held his arm out, aiming the knife at Sevrin. “Take me to your stash.” He waved Rye to go also.

  “What do you think it is I’m hoarding?” Sevrin asked Levor as he glanced at Rye for a clue.

  “Don’t look at me. I didn’t tell him anything specific,” Rye said.

  “You brought him here. He must think I have something of value.” Sevrin kept his voice low.

  “I think the steam-trekker says it all,” she grunted and then whispered, “If you did as I asked and killed him, we’d not be in this situation.”

  “I didn’t have a decent shot.”

  “With that gun you could have fired a bullet straight through me and gotten rid of our problem.”

  “Shoot you?” Sevrin walked toward the mine shack and opened the door. “I’ve never hurt a female in my life.”

  “I’m a lamian, capable of healing, remember?” Her quick glance flashed unconcealed irritation as she stepped aside for Levor.

  “Yeah, well, the next time you decide to bring a thieving slug around, I may just forget my manners and damn well shoot you.” Sevrin moved to the other side of the open door.

  Levor came forward. He motioned for him and Rye to go inside.

  Sevrin went first. He stood on the trapdoor that led down into the mine cavern where he kept the best of his stuff. Usually he had junk piled over the entrance so no one wandering in would go down there.

  “This is it,” he told Levor, not thinking of anything he had as very valuable. “Nothing special, as you can see. Besides the broken furniture and piles of junk, there are a few cases of tin-sealed government food, some ammo and a couple of guns in that old stovepipe.”

  “What about the good stuff?”

  “This is as good as it gets.” He looked at Rye, wondering what was going on in her head. After saving her life, he expected gratitude. Why had she really brought Levor there?

  “Where’s those government boxes?” Levor flashed a glance at Rye and then back at him.

  Sevrin shot Rye an angry look. “You told him?”

  “I told him what I needed to.”

  “Did any of them have drugs?” Levor said. “You must have some. The government had plenty.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Sevrin laughed. “I ain’t got drugs. No one does in the wastelands. The boxes were empty when I found them.” Not really but he wasn’t going to give away all his secrets.

  “Don’t lie to me.” Levor paced a few steps one way and then a couple the other way. “If you ain’t got anything of value, then I’ll have to take the vamp. There are some men in Old Louis Ruins who pay top dollar for vamps.”

  Levor turned and Rye rushed him before Sevrin could move a foot.

  “Who are they?” Rye demanded as she struggled to grab Levor’s arm.

  Sunlight through a gap in the wallboards caught the steel blade in Levor’s hand and the reflecting glare blinded Sevrin. He advanced anyway. Rye stumbled back, out of reach of Levor slashing the air near her face.

  “I’ll kill you, fanger bitch,” Levor declared. “I don’t care what Wickstrom is paying.”

  Rye seemed to freeze at the mention of Wickstrom. Sevrin had his own reason for heading to Old Louis Ruins. His brother worked for the Wickstrom Group. The rumors about lamians being kidnapped in the name of that group had set him en route to find out if his brother was all right. What did Rye know of the powerful group of scientists?

  “Don’t kill him.” Rye pushed Sevrin away from Levor.

  “I’m not trying to kill him.” Sevrin reached to grab Levor before he got out of the shack. “I need information from him.”

  Escaping Sevrin, Levor raced outside.

  Sevrin followed. If Levor knew about Wickstrom and the plot to kill lamians, he needed the details.

  Levor reached the gun Sevrin had discarded and was already loading the chambers with the cast-off ammo before Sevrin reached him.

  Levor fired twice in his direction.

  At the same time one bullet burned into Sevrin’s side, he heard Rye scream. Had the other hit her? With his palm pressed to his wound, he spun to see her by the shack door. She had her hand up against her neck, blooding spurting from between her fingers and her eyes wide in shock.

  The engine of the steam-trekker rumbled to life. Sevrin considered turning to stop Levor but the pain radiating through him slowed his movements. Besides that, getting to Rye was more important than any piece of machinery.

  As if choreographed, Sevrin went down on his knees at the same time Rye did. He shook his head in disbelief at letting one wasteland rat get the better of them.

  Chapter Seven

  Rye pulled her hand away from her neck. She held up her blood-covered fingers. The scent kept her unfocused. As if it had a power of its own, her blood mesmerized her. She wanted to lick it, absorb it back into her body and savor the energy that it produced.

  “Are you all right?” Sevrin’s voice dragged her attention to him.

  She slapped her hand back over the severed area. All right? She wanted to laugh. Was he ever going to stop asking her that?

  “Rye?” he asked again.

  Her gaze went to the stain spreading on the front of his shirt, the blood seeping between his fingers. She must have nodded because he stopping looking at her and unlaced his shirt. Blood leaked from a large wound on the right side of his abdomen. She’d seen men die from less severe injuries. Her heart began hammering faster, bruising the inside of her rib cage. Adrenaline rushed through her veins. The pain in her neck faded as fear clamored over her hungering senses. She was going to lose Sevrin to death and she couldn’t move to prevent it.

  “Damn, that hurt.” The muscles in Sevrin’s face tensed. His nose crinkled, his eyes closed and he panted quick puffs of air as if could lessen his pain.

  Then slowly he rose.

  No, don’t get up. Save your strength. I need you here…with me. She attempted to vocalize her thoughts.

  He fell forward on his hands and knees.

  “Sevrin?” She tried to get up, go him, but an alarming fear of losing him seemed to be in control of her limbs.

  The stream of blood where the bullet ripped through her jugular decreased to a trickle as the vein and flesh healed. She lowered her hand, feeling the worst was over for her.

  “Rye?” Sevrin lifted his head and stared at her.

  She still couldn’t move. After everything that maniac Hamner had done to her when he had held her captive, this had to be the moment shock took a firm grip on her.

  She watched Sevrin struggle to get off the ground.

  Once he managed to get to his feet, he took a deep breath, as if he gathered energy from the air he inhaled. He slowly raked his blood-covered hands over his head, combing his hair back from his face. Then he gave a long, low whistle of relief.

  His movements less stilted, as though he had gone through a miraculous recovery, he dusted himself off. He leaned forward and brushed his hands over the front of his pants and then the backside.

  With incredulous wonder, she watched his every move. How is it possible? She had been sure his condition appeared serious.

  She rubb
ed her neck, pushing her thoughts to her own injury. The pain had vanished. Could she talk, ask him about his wound? She opened her mouth but failed to execute a sound.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, coming straight at her, worry on his face.

  Yes. No. She shook her head instead of verbally answering.

  “You’re still bleeding, Rye.” He knelt down. “You said you were all right.”

  She watched his eyes shifting from her face to her wound as he examined her. His concern and gentle touch made her insides burn. She looked down at his open shirt.

  “Rye?” He lifted her face with a finger beneath her chin. “Talk to me.”

  Her jaw quivering, she attempted to speak. “Are…Are you…”

  Afraid to hear he was pretending to be all right, she went silent and stared at his blood-soaked shirt.

  He stroked her neck and gave a sigh. “You appear to be healing all right.”

  “And you?” she blurted out, touching his shirt near the bloodied area.

  “You’re not the only half-breed in the world, you know.” He smiled.

  “But you don’t—” In disbelief, she touched his bottom lip and pushed up the top one. “You haven’t any fangs.”

  “Where you are more lamian, I’m more human.”

  “But the lamian gene is dominant. It always takes over. It’s how evolution works.” She argued with insistence, still having trouble accepting the possibility of him being lamian.

  “Apparently, not always. My grandmother was of the new breed and her husband was human. That made my mother half lamian and it makes me a quarter.”

  “But—”

  “Enough with the ‘buts’.” He stroked her jaw. “There’s enough lamian in me to heal and that’s about all that’s lamian about me. I don’t drink blood. The sun doesn’t bother me other than it being too damn hot some days. And—”

  “I thought you were human!” She hit his arm, frustrated and elated. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Ah, we just met. It’s not a greeting I use, ‘Hey, I’m Sevrin Renault and I’m half lamian.’”