“What? Fucking freak!” he squeaks.
Slash begins to wring his neck.
The medic gives a hoarse bark.
“A female came here today, young—badly injured.” Slash's heartbeat thunders like a herd of horses. He presumes Adrianna is here.
But that might be wishful thinking. Slash has loosely strung together the dots like the fibers of the finest spiderweb, waiting to be shredded.
“Yeah!” the medic screeches, fruitlessly clawing at Slash's forearms. “Early twenties, broken ribs and pelvis. Collapsed lung. Internal bleeding.”
Slash closes his eyes in relief. These were the responders. “This the ambulance you used for transport?”
“Fuck you!” the medic bellows.
I don't have time for this. Adi doesn't have time.
Slash's forearm tightens.
“Yes!”
Slash drags the medic by the neck and pokes his head inside the ambulance. Mentally shelving the sight of blood flowing out of the now-dead patient, he ignores the other medic’s fresh injuries.
He searches through the fine layers of scent: death, blood, injury, antiseptic, and drugs.
Beneath those, Adrianna lingers. He'd missed it before, while concentrating on extracting information.
Slash squeezes in a hard burst, cutting off the artery that feeds oxygen to the medic's brain. After thirty seconds of frantic thrashing, he goes limp.
Slash carefully moves him inside the ambulance, and before laying the man beside the first medic, he strips the medic’s uniform and puts it on himself. The fit isn't bad—the human was large—but the pant legs are too short. Slash closes the doors of the ambulance.
Turning, he notices his fingers are shaking with tension and unspent adrenaline.
Adrianna is near.
*
The human herd flows past him within the sterile confines of the hospital, moving in opposing directions, never making eye contact.
Perfect.
Slash sights the nurse at the receptionist desk and approaches. Smooth, austere laminate in a bleached ivory tops the countertop at a height that reveals only brown eyes staring above an oversized computer screen as he approaches.
He doesn't have much time. Soon, those medics will wake up. Then they'll get attention—the kind of notice Slash doesn't need.
The nurse’s smile fades when she takes in Slash’s face up close. The scar is a bisecting ripple of flesh that makes his features look harsh and unforgiving.
Slash is unforgiving.
“Hello,” he begins, having covertly flipped his badge in the wrong direction, hiding a face that doesn't remotely resemble the medic he just put into la-la land.
“Hi,” she says hesitantly, shoring up into the shell of politeness expected of humans.
Good girl.
“A family's arrived, asking questions about an admit.”
Her wide eyes narrow. “Oh, for a patient?”
Slash gives a shallow nod. “Yes. We had an early transfer in today—car wreck, young woman, early twenties?”
Beautiful. Vulnerable. Unprotected. Slash swallows hard, feeling his Adam's apple like a resistant plow of flesh.
“Oh! Yes. She's Jenni's. Third floor.” The nurse glides her mouse over a pad. She looks up at him, missing the scars now, seeing him as a person.
Slash tries on a smile.
“Room 313.”
“Great,” Slash says then turns. “No name?”
The less they know, the better.
She shakes her head. Silky, fine brunette hair floats over her shoulders. Her neck is fragile, so easily smashed. Slash shoves his violent thoughts away. His emotions are really riding the edge of sanity. “Unknown,” she replies, her eyes drifting back to the huge screen.
“Thanks,” he says, dashing away.
Slash strides to the stairs. They'll be faster than the elevator.
He takes them two at a time. Looking first left then right, he swiftly ascertains odd numbered rooms are to the left.
Trying to appear circumspect, he moves to room 313 and opens the door.
Empty.
Slash enters, letting the door swing closed behind him. Moving to the bed, he can scent Adrianna everywhere. Her heat cycle is in full swing, and his erection grows like a plank of wood between his legs.
His mate is in need of breeding, and her scent saturates the hospital room, along with her injuries. The combination of smells puts his beast aggressively en pointe. An immediate headache sinks its teeth into Slash's temples.
Moon, let me solve this. Quickly.
He lets the edges of himself go almost wolfen, balancing on the precipice between human and wolfen. The flush of the nearby change eases around him. His eyes sharpen, and his nose takes in every scent. He can only hold this balance between form for seconds.
A human female's scent mingles with Adrianna’s.
The human is diseased.
Slash frowns. Maybe it's all the death in this place, and he's misreading the scents. He glosses over the human woman's scent, concentrating on Adrianna's. She's healed, but not fully.
She needs him.
Slash doesn't smell the males. He smells a new trail: Adrianna’s mixed with the human female’s.
Slash levels down, shoving his beast back in the box for now.
He leaves the room, and with an almost soundless growl, he flares his nostrils, hiking his face up.
There.
Slash's face whips in the opposite direction from which he came. A sign glows in eerie white at the end of the hall.
Morgue.
Slash blurs to the basement of the hospital, narrowly missing two orderlies and a nurse. He's unsure what Adrianna's up to, but she's a clever female Alpha. She might already be aware of her pursuers and hatching a half-baked plan.
A reactive plan because I wasn't there for her.
Slowing down to appear human is seconds of torture as he delays his entry because of hospital employees. Finally, the humans pass, and Slash moves forward again.
The double doors of the morgue rise before him like a yawning stainless steel mouth.
Slash slaps the doors wide, and they swing apart.
The smell hits him. Decaying flesh, tendons, and gore greet him like a punch to the gut.
Things were done. Glass jars stand open, with the decaying stew of humanity inside.
Slash is untroubled, except for the odor that mixes so exactly with the human sludge of the place.
Adrianna.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tessa
Laz trails heat and wetness in a sultry path from her mouth to her neck. His large hands cup Tessa's shoulders as he draws her closer to him.
His head sinks between her breasts, placing tender kisses like heated sweet air.
“Laz,” Tessa says, tipping her head back.
He catches it with his free hand, his other sliding to the small of her back and pressing her hips against his.
The erection that separates them makes Tessa open her eyes. His nearly translucent gaze meets hers, hooded and darkening with desire by the second.
“They're right outside, Laz.”
“I do not care.” His lips press against hers, sucking her protestations into his hot mouth.
Tessa groans. It's not right. She can't give herself to a demonic when there are Lanarre right outside a prison disguised as a guest cottage.
She flattens her palms on his chest and pushes.
Laz releases her instantly.
Tessa stumbles backward, eyes wide.
Laz gazes at her coldly. The warm storm clouds of his gaze from moments before have chilled to hardened sleet.
Tessa tries to recover. “I'm not responsible for saving you, Laz.”
He nods then turns away, running a finger along a table holding a solitary lamp glowing softly in the room.
Steam rises from his light touch on the wood, and the outline of his fingertip burns into the wood.
“Oh, moon,�
�� Tessa says in a hushed voice. Her hands cover the lips he just ravished, and Laz's stare burns through her. “Are you? Did you mean to do that?”
Laz gives casual attention to the tabletop. Small spirals of smoke from his nose, mouth, and ears drift into the space between them. “No.”
“I can't do this, Laz. I'm a Were. You're a demonic. We're not even the same species.”
Am I convincing him? Or am I convincing me?
Maybe a little of both. Tessa folds her arms, daring Laz to contradict her logic. She's right, and she knows it.
Laz doesn't contradict her. What he asks her next throws her.
“Have you ever mated with a Were?” His words are soft, but if fire could speak, she would be aflame.
“No.”
“And have you asked yourself why?” These words are as softly spoken, just as deadly.
Tessa's stunned. She's never thought about taking a male. Her last two heat cycles were agony. She sequestered herself in caves, hoping to relieve herself. But she couldn't. Only Lycan seed would salve the wound of her need.
Thankfully, she had a precursor that her cycle would be making an appearance, and she found isolated shelter.
Now her heat cycle is just beginning—and there is no shelter.
Tessa gazes at Laz then shuts her eyes tightly.
He would be my shelter if I could let go of my racist bullshit. Tessa's hands fall to her sides, and she clenches them into fists then releases them.
Tessa understands her feelings run deeper than mere racism that's keeping her heart in stasis. Males can't be trusted.
They dominate. The scars of her past won't heal. Won't let her live.
If she chooses Laz, every Were they stumbled across would challenge him. And what kind of young would they have?
Hotdogs, that's what. A mournful laugh escapes her lips.
I can't breed him. I can't stand anyone else breeding me, either.
She will have to leave Laz to save him. To save herself.
Tessa is not his redemption; she is his undoing.
She opens her eyes.
Laz is gone.
*
Drek
He softly shuts the heavy wooden door that signals the opulent entrance to his home.
Two century-year-old-growth logs bisect one another to form a twenty-foot ceiling. A chandelier that once held candles has been electrified during the past fifty years. The lights glow softly, illuminating an angry face, and another as seductress.
Tahlia glares at him, arms bound behind her back, encircling a large load-bearing wooden pole.
The other female, Tanya, strikes a sultry pose. Her floor-length dress is artfully swept across her form, highlighting her classic hourglass figure. The thin material sinks at the V of her thighs and wraps breasts that strain against it. In the cool air of Drek’s antique log home, her nipples pebble.
Tahlia turns away from him. Her long, spiraling curls of ebony drape her face, partially obscuring it from his scrutiny. The tips brush along hips that flare, but are still not as filled out as Tanya’s.
Drek is alarmed with how young Tahlia appears, yet his gaze is uninformed, loving every inch of her body.
When he reaches her eyes, they are deep midnight fire of hate.
“Release me,” she says in curt command. “I will return to my home in the Redwood Forest, and you shall be free of your obligation to mate with me.”
Her eyes tell him how much she does not want to be with him.
Drek sighs, turning his attention to Tanya.
He plants his feet wide, crossing his arms. “And you have arrived in my absence.”
She inclines her head. “Yes, my prince. I am your rightful chosen, and it is my cousin who tries to force her way into a relationship that is not hers.”
“You lie,” Tahlia says, jerking her arms against the post of a huge Douglas fir pillar that serves as both beauty and function.
Tanya has every attribute Drek finds comely in a Lanarre female. She is docile. Her hips are wide, her waist narrow.
Yet, he is drawn to Tahlia.
“I relinquish my rights to you, Drek,” Tahlia says suddenly, watching him think. “This lying cousin of mine can have you. I do not care.” A tear slips out of her eye.
Tanya smiles triumphantly, and Tahlia looks away. Tahlia doesn't have hands to wipe away her sadness, and her grief pierces Drek.
“They're gone. My human guardians died at the hand of a ruthless, insane Were. I will return to my pack and be an outcast, rejected by my chosen.” She raises her head defiantly, and Drek’s chest tightens.
The hold she already has over him tightens. The new feelings anger Drek. He's accustomed to moving through his life decisively. His feelings of ambivalence and passion have stalled his mind.
“Ask me if I care?” Tahlia entreats softly, and Tanya makes a small noise of annoyance.
“Do you care?” Drek asks, as though against his will.
She vehemently shakes her head, the curls that frame her face bouncing. “No. They can hate me. But I will not mate with a male who doesn't believe his nose. Who restrains his chosen because, as Tessa says, I speak my mind. I question your authority. I am who I was meant to be.”
“Let her go, Prince Drek,” Tanya says in a silky voice. “I want to be your chosen.”
Drek turns to her, and Tanya shifts her weight, subtly crossing and uncrossing her legs.
Any Were female understands that to release the smell of their sex in close proximity to a male is a sign of submission—and invitation.
Drek wrinkles his nose. He loves the scent, as any male would, but her motivation is beginning to wear thin on him.
“Address me as Drek,” he commands in a curt voice.
“Yes, Drek,” she replies in a purr.
He restrains his frustrated exhale.
Females.
Tanya is certainly easier.
But she is not the one. Drek is intrigued by how easily Tahlia dismisses him. A Lanarre prince would never harm a female. Technically, he has not harmed Tahlia. Though some of his guard were rough with her. I will deal with that later. Harshly.
Drek would also explore the connection he feels toward her.
Ignoring the pouting Tanya, he approaches Tahlia.
Her head hangs. Small arms are wound around the log, tied off with gentle bindings of cloth.
“Tahlia.”
She refuses him, keeping her nose pointed at the ground.
“Look at me.”
“No.” Her voice is low. Resonate. Absolute.
Drek's lips quirk. He forces her chin to rise with a finger. He is so much stronger that if she doesn't want an injury, she must allow the motion.
Liquid eyes full of grief drown him with her anger and choke him with despair.
He is unaware that his thumb has been absently stroking her cheek, while hazy tears drift down her dusky, smooth skin. They line the inside of his finger, gathering against the flesh dam.
“Why do you resist me?” Drek asks, cocking his head.
She looks at him. Through him.
Drek's eyes move to her mouth. It is full, with a pronounced cupid's bow. He tips his mouth to hers, hovering above the plump flesh as if summoned.
Heat flushes to the surface of his skin, and he feels himself stiffen. Tahlia pulls him like a magnet, and like before, he is helpless to stop the draw of all his senses.
A low moan escapes Drek, and he eases the distance.
His mouth covers her unresponsive lips, moving over the pliant hills and valleys of her lips. They part, and his tongue finds its way inside her. He groans, sweeping his hand behind her skull to touch silky curls that spring and collapse beneath his touch. Then her hair changes beneath his fingers.
Tahlia's mouth grows hard like bone.
Drek breaks away in surprise.
A bird soars above their heads, searching for an escape as bindings flutter to the ground.
Her caw pierces the silence of the r
oom.
Tanya screams, and Tahlia's snowy-white form dives for the fireplace.
“No!” Drek bellows into the stillness, his lips as swollen as his cock, his heart a fist of dread.
His command mingles with the frightened ending note of Tanya's shriek.
Then Tahlia is gone.
Drek strides to the entrance door and realizes he's holding something in a tight grip.
He opens his hand.
A pure-white feather spirals slowly to the ground.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Julia
Julia surveys the landscape.
The trees reach toward the small lake as if asking forgiveness. There's no outward sign that the dead, put there by the fey, line the shores.
Only the most sensitive shifters or a Singer Tracker would catch the scent of so many who'd perished.
But the memory will live on forever in her mind.
Scott slides his arm around her, and Julia's body eases. Their connection goes slack once touch is established.
“I guess it's time to get serious and hunt everyone down.”
“I think things are plenty serious enough,” Scott comments, a crooked smile on his face.
Julia barely nods. There's something she has to do first. She places the flat of her palm on Scott’s broad chest. His dark serious eyes hold hers. “I need to see where Jason is.”
Scott pulls her close. “I wasn't a fan of Caldwell. And you can feel that, Julia. I can't hide it. But like I said, I appreciate what he did. What he sacrificed for us.”
Julia squeezes her eyes closed. “He never got a chance, Scott. We had a different path in Alaska. Then those things got ahold of us and never let go. They killed Kevin, ruined my life, screwed up Cyn's—hell, it's been nothing but a mess ever since.”
“Not everything's a mess, Julia.”
She opens her eyes, looking deeply into his. “I don't mean I don't love you—that we're not meant to be. I always got that on some level from the moment our hands touched. It's just that so many people have been sacrificed along the way. That's what I object to.”
Scott traces a thumb over her lip lightly. “I know,” he says softly, bending to kiss the tip of her nose.
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