by Lara Adrian
“No.” Her reply shot out of her, no easy feat when her tongue was thickening inside the cotton dryness of her mouth. She took a step back from him and her vision swam. “I’ll be fine,” she murmured, her words slurring as she spoke. “I just . . . need a minute . . . to . . . rest and . . . catch my . . .”
She was conscious long enough to feel her knees start to buckle beneath her.
But if she hit the hard sand and bramble of the desert an instant later, she had no idea.
For the second time tonight, her world went suddenly, inescapably, dark.
CHAPTER 3
Asher held the unconscious woman in his arms and let his muttered curse fly on the night breeze.
She weighed next to nothing, even garbed in yards of shapeless fabric and denim. As displeased as he’d been to learn she was not only female but an adult woman besides, at least one small thing had gone in his favor tonight. The clothing spared his fingers from touching her bare skin. If he’d made that tactile connection, his mind would now be flooding with all the worst of her most agonizing memories.
He stared down at her drooped head and silken shoulder-length black hair, realizing only now how beautiful she actually was. To call her features delicate barely did her justice. Aside from the oversized, plain clothes she wore, she looked like a perfect porcelain doll, a petite, ebony-haired angel sleeping in his big arms.
Her almond-shaped eyes had been a stunning shade of golden-brown before they fell closed. Now her lids shuttered her tilted, intelligent gaze, thick fringes of ink-black lashes floating against the milky smoothness of her face. The cupid’s bow mouth that he doubted ever got much rest while she was awake was now slack, soft breaths gusting through parted lips that were far too sultry for his peace of mind.
“Zoe,” he said, hoping the sound of her name might wake her.
She didn’t so much as stir. And for what wasn’t the first time, he wondered if that was even her name at all. The woman was a scrapper and a fighter, that much he could guess. Not to mention a thief, by her own admission. But she was also a fool if she thought she could run so far afoul of an obviously powerful casino boss that he had ordered her dead, then waltz right back to Vegas as if nothing happened.
Then again, not his damn problem.
Yet here he was, no further away from this whole unwelcome situation than he had been the moment he pulled Ned’s truck off to the side of the road to take a look.
No, he was even deeper now—at least until he cleaned up the bodies and dropped his unwanted baggage off at the nearest hospital emergency room.
Whatever trouble she got into after that was none of his concern.
Asher carried her to the area where Gordo and his companions lay, carefully placing her on a clear patch of sand while he went to work finishing his clean-up job. Once the large hole was dug then filled with its three permanent occupants, he drove the sedan far enough into the desert bramble that it wouldn’t be spotted from the road anytime soon. Then he went back to deal with the female.
He half-expected her to be gone again when he returned. Or maybe he hoped she would be.
But she was still where he left her, still snared in the unnatural sleep that was going to do her more harm than good if her concussion was as bad as he suspected it to be.
He crouched down beside her, trying not to linger on how soft and innocent she looked. Or how she was so pretty it almost hurt to look at her. How long had it been since he had a woman?
A month, he guessed. Hell, maybe two.
Too long by far, based on the primal stirring he felt as her sweet, warm scent invaded his senses, igniting a possessive need in him he didn’t want to acknowledge. The urge to touch her was almost too much for him to resist.
The dark red blood currently drying in a thin rivulet at her temple wasn’t helping matters either.
His fangs were already extended from his earlier battle rage. Now they throbbed in his gums for an entirely different reason.
“Zoe. Wake up.” She lay unmoving, disturbingly still. He shook her shoulder, hardly able to feel the diminutive flesh and bone beneath the thick sweatshirt. “Zoe?”
“Uhhnn . . .” Her lids fluttered, but her eyes didn’t open. And while her muscles twitched under his grasp as he continued to jostle her awake, she was only barely responding. “Tired . . .”
He frowned, having little experience with the sick or wounded. He’d been with Ned till the end of his mortal life, but the old man had made it easy by dying in his sleep. Judging by the woman’s incapacity to remain awake or upright, he had a feeling if he didn’t do something to get her conscious soon, she might never wake up either.
“I know you’re tired, but you have to get up now.”
She groaned in protest, burrowing her face deeper into her oversized hoodie. Her voice was thin and drowsy, her speech slurred. “Go ‘way, Michael. Lemme shleep.”
Michael?
Hearing her murmur the other man’s name spiked something more than curiosity in him. Something deeper than irritation too. If she was accustomed to this other male waking her—this Michael—then where the hell was he right now? Shouldn’t her life or death be that man’s concern more than Asher’s?
“Come on, Zoe,” he said, more gruffly than intended. “On your feet now.”
When she continued to lie there, he raked his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair and expelled a curse. Then he reached down and took her under the arms, lifting her drowsy body onto her feet.
If he hadn’t held her up she would have sagged to the ground the instant he let go.
He could see this was going nowhere productive, so with one arm scooping her behind the knees he brought her back into the cradle of his arms and started heading for the old truck. As if the first time he’d held her against him like this hadn’t been torment enough, now he felt every curve of her small body, each steady beat of her heart.
She wasn’t his, but he’d have laid his life down for hers tonight. He knew that with a certainty that hammered like a war drum in his veins. Fortunately, there were few situations where his genetics and training might fail him, but the truth of what he’d been willing to do for this woman he didn’t know and shouldn’t give a damn about took him aback as he carried her to the truck.
If he didn’t waste any more time, he could have her at the hospital in Henderson within the hour. Plenty of time to drop her at the door and make it back to the ranch well before sunrise, which was key for his own continued good health.
If he was lucky, maybe Zoe’s head injury would erase all recollection of what happened out here tonight—including his intervention. God knew he wished he could forget it, but he doubted very much he would ever purge the memory of her pretty face and sherry-colored eyes from his thoughts. To say nothing of her brutal near-demise.
Shifting her slight weight in his arms, he opened the passenger door and gently set her inside the cab. She started to list sideways but he righted her, forced to climb in partway along with her just so he could reach around and fasten her seatbelt to hold her in place for the drive ahead.
It wasn’t until that very moment that he spotted something else about her that he hadn’t noticed before now and damned sure was never going to forget.
“Son of a bitch.”
Beneath the stubborn curve of her chin, nearly obscured by sundry bruises, scrapes, and grime, was a small red birthmark he wouldn’t mistake for anything else.
A curse exploded out of him, low and ripe, as he stared at that singularly significant teardrop-and-crescent-moon symbol.
This female was a Breedmate.
Asher stared at her, fury mounting in him. That tiny mark changed everything. Because now that he’d seen it, this woman was no longer a problem he could simply roll into the nearest emergency room before speeding off to resume his life without looking back.
Women with this mark were rare. Precious. Cherished by his kind. Protected at all costs and with every last scrap of honor a Breed male po
ssessed. Even a stone-cold killer like him respected that unwritten protocol.
But that didn’t mean he had to like it.
“Fuck.” Asher left her in the passenger seat and paced a tight circle on the dusty shoulder of the narrow two-lane while he tried to decide what to do about her now.
No choice but the obvious one. He had to take her back to the ranch with him.
And then he had some calls to make. Favors to ask of the only members of the Breed truly equipped to deal with a Breedmate on the wrong side of a powerful enemy who’d already made it clear that he wanted her dead.
Rounding the truck with determined strides, he climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine. It rumbled to life, vibrating like a low-level earthquake the way it always did for the first few minutes it was running. Not even that was enough to wake the injured Breedmate beside him on the wide bench seat.
Asher bit off another harsh curse and threw the truck into gear, roaring onto the deserted stretch of pavement. He drove as fast as the old Chevy could handle, not slowing down until he pulled off the main road and hit the dirt lane that would eventually dump them in front of Ned’s secluded homestead.
As he pulled up to the front of the place, the truck’s yellow headlights glancing off the old house and its collection of paddocks and outbuildings, he couldn’t help but try to view it through a stranger’s eyes—her eyes. And it definitely wasn’t much to look at. Not that he hadn’t taken care of it while he’d been there.
He had, the way Ned liked things done. Which meant the plumbing worked great, the foundation and construction were both rock-solid, and the place was well-insulated against the cold that clutched the desert on long winter nights. Asher had installed good windows and doors over the years, and had, at Ned’s insistence, added half a dozen solar panels to the roof to harness some of the energy off that relentless desert sunshine Asher took care to avoid.
He frowned as he noted the chipping white paint on the porch and the lack of any real landscaping or yard. The chicken coop was in good repair and wasn’t sagging. And the pair of bony old horses—Trixie and Jubilee, after Ned’s two sisters who had passed from smallpox when he was a toddler—had a paddock that Asher tended each night, making sure the barn was full of good, fresh hay and ample water.
But as far as charm? The old house and surroundings were decidedly lacking.
Not that he or Ned had ever needed charm.
And as far as Asher’s unexpected guest was concerned, she wouldn’t be staying long enough to suffer for any lack of luxury she might be accustomed to up in Vegas.
It was a safe place for her to lay her head until he could make necessary arrangements for her relocation. Because Breedmate or not, when those goons who’d been sent to make sure she stayed in the desert didn’t show up for work tomorrow, their employer was going to want answers. And Asher could only guess that there would be hell to pay once the casino boss learned he’d lost his men and the little thief he’d planned to eliminate.
He leapt out of the truck, pocketing his keys as he crunched over the gravel around to the other side. She flinched when he unfastened her seatbelt and gathered her into his arms. Her head slumped against his shoulder, her voice a thready whisper. “We home yet, Michael?”
Asher ground his molars together at the reminder of the male she apparently depended on for comfort, in spite of the fact that her Michael had evidently left her to contend with Gordo and his friends on her own.
“You’re safe now,” he told her tightly as he pivoted to kick the door shut behind him.
A mournful howl from the other side of the screen door greeted him as he stepped onto the porch. Sam, Ned’s aged yellow hound, peered at him from inside the house with pathetic big brown eyes. Asher shook his head slowly, confounded by the animal. Damned dog had him around day and night and generally paid him no mind unless he had food in his hands, but the second he left the ranch to run a quick errand, you’d think he’d left the poor mutt for the better part of a year.
With his elbow, Asher shoved open the door he never bothered to lock and stepped inside the dark house. Sam’s face, already pretty sad-looking thanks to Mother Nature, was even more pathetic as he regarded Asher and their new arrival with something close to disdain.
“Yeah, I know. I’m late and this doesn’t look like your bag of kibble.”
He felt like an idiot talking to the beast as if he were his roommate, but after Ned passed the place seemed too damned quiet without a bit of conversation now and then. Even if it was one-sided most of the time.
Sam yawned, then shook his head in a motion that sent his droopy ears and loose jowls flapping, then he loped behind as Asher dropped the truck’s keys on the kitchen table and carried the Breedmate further inside.
Options for where to keep her for the night were as few as the accommodations were meager. There was the couch in the living room, but the relic was made of old, nubby fabric embellished by two long pieces of electrical tape that ran the length of the worn-out cushion. He knew from experience the thing was far from comfortable, and besides, half the time Sam had commandeered it for his bed.
The guest rooms, while plentiful between the two down the hall and the pair of long, roomy bunkhouses in a connected wing out back were empty but for some half-completed furniture projects Ned had given up on years before he lost his eyesight and assorted junk the old man had been hanging on to and Asher hadn’t yet gotten around to purging.
Which meant the only viable place to offer was the master bedroom, his room since Ned had been gone.
No need to flick on the lamp switch. His vision was even more acute in the dark, and a blast of incandescent light might only cause more pain for the brain-injured woman in his care. He placed her on top of the thin blanket, making sure her head came down gently on the pillow.
Her contented sigh as she settled back onto the bed tugged at something rusty and unused deep inside him. Empathy and compassion had never been his strong suits, given his background. Spending a few years around Ned and the animals at the ranch had loosened him up a bit, but he was still a piss-poor choice when it came to looking after someone.
Too bad for this female, because for the time being—until he had arrangements in place for her safety and protection somewhere else—he was all she had.
His gaze strayed to the Breedmate mark under her chin. No wonder he’d missed it earlier. The darkening, fist-shaped bruise that rode her jaw line all but concealed the small birthmark now. He’d been murderous enough when he spotted the three big men beating a defenseless victim. To understand now that the intended was a Breedmate? Asher’s rage rocketed through him as fresh as ever, and all-consuming.
As much as he wanted to assure himself that none of what happened tonight concerned him, there was a part of him that twitched with the urge to find the bastard who’d called for her death and deliver justice the way only someone like him could. He’d gone easy on the three gangsters. When he found their boss, he’d rip his fucking head off and make it into a hood ornament for Ned’s old Chevy.
He had a feeling he would actually take pleasure in that killing. And he’d do it bare-handed, skin-on-skin, because he was sure that man’s terror and agony would be a memory he’d relish reliving over and over.
Heavy mouth-breathing behind him clued him in that Sam was parked inside the bedroom. He turned toward the dog and found Sam’s large head tilted in curiosity at the woman in Asher’s bed. His brown eyes seemed to hold a note of surprise as much as they seemed to question.
Asher’s mouth quirked in an unwilling smile. “If that’s meant to be a commentary on how long it’s been since we’ve had female company at the house, I’m well aware of the answer. Never.”
Sam whined in response, high-pitched and pleading.
Asher grunted. “Yeah, she’s pretty, but don’t get attached. She’s not staying.”
Whether he was talking to the hound or to himself, he wasn’t sure. Either way, after seeing to it t
hat she was comfortable and well enough to make it through the night, his first priority would be getting on the phone to arrange for a new, better place for her to recuperate. Preferably as far away from Vegas—and him—as possible.
Rounding up the dog, the two of them headed out of the room. After letting Sam out to the yard to do his business, Asher hit Ned’s old medicine cabinet in the hallway bathroom and riffled through the stale contents. A box of over-the-counter pain relievers hadn’t been opened since the time of Ned’s passing. They expired a month ago, but they were better than nothing.
Armed with the pills, a glass of water, and a compress he filled with ice from the kitchen, he returned to the bedroom.
As he suspected, she was still out cold. Her face was pale around her cheeks and mouth. So pale that for a moment he wondered if he’d underestimated the seriousness of her injuries. He’d only witnessed the tail end of her ordeal at the hands of her assailants. The large knot on her head was a big concern, but she could be suffering from broken bones or worse for all he knew.
Scowling, he set the glass and other items on the nightstand, then took a seat on the edge of mattress to take a closer look at her. She had so many scrapes and contusions, it was hard to decide where to start.
He resisted the urge to feel her bare forehead and check for fever, focusing instead on her breathing. It was soft and slow, but unlabored. As gently as possible, he laid the cold compress against her bruised cheek and temple, using a spare pillow to keep it in place while he let his gaze travel the length of her clothed body.
The only way to know if she had wounds he wasn’t seeing was to touch her.
He was fairly certain based on how determinedly she’d run earlier that her body was largely unharmed, but adrenaline was a tricky thing. He’d seen pain in her eyes at various points tonight and he wanted to be sure the tough little scrapper wasn’t in worse shape than he already feared.
Starting at her ankles, he slid his hands gently over her denim-clad legs, moving slowly upward and concentrating on the lines of the bones as he went. She was small, but leanly muscled and athletic. He’d expected her to be scrawny based on her petite frame, but as his hands and fingers moved over her hips and other hidden curves concealed beneath her clothing, he was tormented with a barrage of mental imaginings of what she might actually look like without the oversized garments intended to disguise the woman inside.
