White rage tore through Declan but he remained motionless. The knife at Maggie’s throat punctured the skin directly above her jugular. All it would take was one quick slash and she would be dead. He couldn’t risk it.
“Dec…” Maggie’s cry was cut short. McCoy yanked her back against his body, wicked-sharp canines flashing as he laughed a silent laugh.
Epoc’s own laugh wasn’t so silent. He stared at Declan, dominance oozing from him in waves. “So sweet. So innocent. To think, she actually believed McCoy loved her. To forsake her own clan to be with the werewolf of her dreams…” He laughed again. “She came willingly, do you know that, O’Connell? She followed McCoy like a love-sick puppy.” The laugh turned to a snort. “Not sure she loves him now, though. Not after everything he’s done to her. Everything he’s let be done to her.”
“They shouldn’t have expelled you,” Epoc continued, eyeing Declan closely. “It left her lost, looking for an emotional connection. Someone to love after her brother was removed.”
“Help…” The raw sob burst from Maggie’s lips. McCoy’s fingers sank deeper into her breast, his face as expressionless as a mask.
Fury overwhelmed Declan, made his muscles coil. The screaming desire to tear the Scottish mongrel’s throat out consumed him. In one snap of his muzzle, the bastard would be nothing but a twitching corpse on the ground.
But for the knife…
“She puts up a fight, Onchú,” Epoc continued, glowing golden eyes flaring brighter. “Every night she fights. What my pack does to her. What I do to her… in my lab. Such ferocious spirit. If it weren’t for the blood in her veins, I’d consider letting her live. But of course, I can’t do that. She is, after all, a filthy Onchú bitch. She doesn’t deserve to live.” Epoc’s teeth glinted as he gave a wide, reassuring smile. “But don’t worry. I’ll let you watch McCoy fuck her before I gouge out your eyes. Then it’ll only be her screams you have to listen to as I drain her very essence from her worthless body.”
It was too much. Declan couldn’t bear it anymore.
Blood scalding with indescribable rage, he leapt, teeth bared. And landed on…
…soft cushions.
Declan snapped awake, chest heaving, heart hammering, images of Maggie crashing through his pounding head—a tsunami of torturous memories. He stared at the sparkling chandelier hanging above him, totally disorientated. Where the fuck was he? When the fuck was he?
He struggled up to his elbows, the blood in his veins feeling like boiling acid. Fuck. His body was on fire, the wound in his side an inferno of agony. Gingerly, he moved his hand to the rupture, its poisonous heat baking his fingertips. He traced the fused knot of angry flesh, wincing at the hot pain stabbing into his gut with the delicate contact. The epidermal layer was healing, but the flesh and sinews and muscles beneath… Damn it, he was in trouble.
Slumping back to the cushions, black pain folding over him in a greedy wave, he rolled his head to the side, trying to remember where he was through the dark fog reaching out for him.
Luxury. An expansive room. White marble and gold…
A woman walked into the room, pulling his blurring vision. A woman with long, firmly toned legs, and long, thick brown hair the color of burnished chestnuts. A woman with a torn tank top knotted between high, full breasts, a flat stomach and a phone in her hand.
A woman he should know…
Regan.
Arresting light-green eyes fell on him and she froze. “Declan?”
Worry etching her beautiful face, she dropped the phone and ran toward him. He tried to smile, to tell her everything was fine, not to worry, he was fine, but before his lips parted dark, hideous fingers of pain curled around his being and pulled him under. Into the fog. The dark. Into the hideous memories of Maggie and Epoc and McCoy. Into Hell.
* * * *
The caller ID came up “private.” Whoever had called him had done so from an unlisted number. Peter frowned at his cell’s screen. No message, no voice. Just a connection cut before a word was exchanged.
Something to do with Reggie?
Perhaps. Could also be his ex-wife. He still hadn’t returned her earlier call, a fact she would be psychotic about by now.
No. It was Reggie. Peter’s gut clenched and he stared harder at the silent cell phone in his hand.
“Who was that?”
Yolanda’s voice—like smoke and honey—jerked Peter’s head up and he shoved his cell into his jacket pocket.
She stood in the doorway of her bedroom, the black linen she’d worn previously replaced by a snug white t-shirt and faded denim jeans. Jeans, he couldn’t help but notice, still unzipped. He saw a flash of a tattoo low on her belly, just below her navel—a full moon? Silvery clouds?—before lifting his gaze to her face. “No one,” he answered. “Wrong number.”
A knowing smile curled her lips and she leisurely zipped up her fly. “Really?”
He scowled. “Yes. Really. You doubting me?”
One finely arched, blonde eyebrow rose. “No. But you are playing things very close to your chest which makes it hard to help you find your sister.” She tilted her head to the side, her hair cascading over her shoulder in a shimmering curtain, her blue eyes direct. “You do not trust me yet, yes?”
Peter crossed his arms, studying her. Did he trust her? Trust was not easy to earn. Just because she was a cop, his new partner, didn’t mean he automatically trusted her. And her appointment coming on the day Reggie disappeared? It raised too many questions in his head for him to be comfortable, let alone the elemental way she made his body act. “No,” he answered. “I don’t.”
“Is there anything I can do to change that?”
“Stop trying to distract me.”
The eyebrow cocked again. “Distract you?” Her glossy red lips twitched. “Is that what I am trying to do?”
“Aren’t you? Every time I get my head focused on Reggie, you touch me, or look at me…”
“And I am not supposed to look at you, yes?”
Peter stared at her, confusion eating at him. He should be out looking for his sister, not having a conversation with a woman who made his baser male responses come to life. He shook his head. Maybe he was reading her all wrong? Maybe Yolanda was just a woman extremely confident with her sexuality? Maybe he was more fucked up than his ex-wife accused him of being? Or more sex-deprived than he realized? An angry thump sounded in his temple and he swallowed down a sudden bad taste in his mouth. “I need to get over to Forensics. The results have come in for the urine swabs conducted on Regan’s furniture.”
An ambiguous light flashed in Yolanda’s eyes. Eager but reluctant at once. “I will come with you.”
“No.”
An irritated frown pulled at Yolanda’s eyebrows and for a moment Peter thought he heard a low growl rumble somewhere in the room. “I am your partner, Detective, whether you like it or not. Stop treating me like an annoyance.”
You are an annoyance, Yolanda, he almost snapped. I don’t trust you, I don’t know you but you make my body react in ways it never has. And that makes me all the more suspicious of you.
She crossed the room, placing her hand on his arm, gazing into his eyes as her fingertips brushed his biceps through his jacket. “I believe partners should have no secrets. Secrets are not conducive to trust. I want to help you find your sister, Peter. Let me.”
He closed his hand around her wrist, feeling her palm on his arm like a brand, even through his clothes. “Is this the way you break in all your new partners, Vischka?”
Her eyes stayed locked on his. “No.”
“Why am I different, then?”
She studied him, and for a still moment, he saw a hint of vulnerability shimmer in her eyes again. She’s been hurt. And she’s trying to hide it.
But by whom? And why?
He brushed a strand of her hair from her forehead, the slight contact of fingertips and skin sending a ripple up his spine. Tell me your secrets, Yolanda. Self-contempt gnawed at
him and he dropped his hand, glaring at her. “What aren’t you telling me, Detective?”
Her face grew still, and the vulnerability in her face grew haunting. Stronger. Before, with a curl of her lips, her haughty expression returned and she scored a line up his torso with her nail. “I like to be in control.”
The smoldering sensuality in her words, the mass of contradictions she presented…everything about her, about the moment, made his pulse quicken and his mouth dry. “So do I.”
But you’re not now! You’re thinking with your dick when you should be thinking of Reggie.
He jerked away from Yolanda, so on fire he could barely draw breath. “What are you doing to me, Vischka?”
Another one of those ambiguous flashes gleamed in her eyes and she pulled a soft breath. “I do not know.”
He turned and stormed across the room, needing to distance himself from her. If he didn’t…”It’s time to go,” he threw over his shoulder, confusion, irritation and—damn it, lust—boiling in his gut. “I’ve wasted too much time already.”
Yolanda studied him. “Go where? Did your wrong number tell you that?”
He ground his teeth and flung open the door. It hadn’t. But he needed to move. Out of Yolanda’s home. Away from the confusing temptation she presented.
Chapter 7
Regan watched Declan’s eyes open, the shining silver wolf pupils locking on her immediately. He blinked—an almost imperceptible action—and the dark, turbulent grey of his human eyes gazed up at her.
“You’re still here.”
The soft surprise in his voice made Regan smile. “Where else would I be?”
A wry grin stretched Declan’s lips. “Oh, I don’t know.” He repositioned himself so his feet were planted on the floor and his elbows rested on his knees. “Mars, maybe.”
“As far away from you, you mean?”
His grin grew wider and he dropped his head a little. The slight tilt and twist in his torso told Regan he was inspecting the wound in his side, a wound she had watched, in stunned amazement, re-knit and heal completely while he was unconscious—an agonizing twenty minutes and fifty-four seconds. “It’s gone,” she said from her crouching position before him, the joints of her knees aching like mad. She hadn’t moved since he’d gained a fleeting consciousness, some twelve minutes ago, the name Maggie a hoarse cry bursting from his lips, his eyes the wolf’s eyes—wild, savage and haunted.
Declan lifted his head. “Took a bit longer than normal, this time.”
Regan frowned. “This time?”
He snorted. “The life of a werewolf isn’t all getting massages from beautiful naked women on their sofas, love.”
His answer made her cheeks fill with heat. Fair Dinkum, that innocent moment felt like a lifetime ago. Everything in her world was different now. Thanks to the man before her. A man who had taken her to sexual bliss and back. A man more strange and mysterious than she’d ever met. “Who’s Maggie?”
Her own question took Regan by surprise, as did the tight knot of jealousy in her stomach as the name passed her lips. Declan’s eyes widened and every muscle in his body tensed. “Why?”
“You called out her name. While you were unconscious. A few times, actually. Along with ‘get your fucking hands off her, you bastard’.”
For a long moment it didn’t seem as though he was going to answer. Just like he’d avoided answering her repeated question of how he escaped McCoy as they broke into their current “hideout”. It seemed secrets and her abductor were close mates, and her chest grew heavy at the thought. But then he pulled in a long breath and let out an even longer sigh, something very much like anguish etching deep lines alongside his nose and mouth. “Maggie was my baby sister. Three years younger than me and the most innocent pup in our clan. She fell hard for a beta wolf in a rival clan and, before I could stop her, she left ours. The laws of our kind are very simple—you forsake one clan for another, you may never return. Loyalty is not just a creation of poets and artists for canines and, despite the genetic differences, werewolves still are a member of the canis genus. Just a more…advanced one.”
Regan frowned again, the dull ache in her knees forgotten. “Why did you want to stop her?”
The haunted light she’d seen in his eyes before flared once again and a tense stillness seem to invade his muscles. “McCoy was the wolf she fell for. McCoy is Epoc’s main beta.”
Regan’s mouth went dry and her heart gave a hard thump. She didn’t need to ask why he’d wanted his sister not to go, not after coming face to face with the Scottish werewolf herself. “Why couldn’t you stop her?”
Long silence followed her whispered question. And then, in a voice devoid of emotion: “I was identified as a threat to our Alpha before I reached maturity. Despite the arguments of the rest of the clan, I was expelled. Our Alpha was growing long in the tooth and he knew his dominance would not last much longer. An immature male Alpha may not challenge a clan’s leader. The penalty is death for those that do so, but an Alpha may initiate a physical reprimand if they see fit. Our Alpha created an excuse to engage me in a confrontation he and I both knew I would win. My impertinence was punished and my expulsion ordered. Once I was no longer a member of the Onchú clan I was powerless to prevent Maggie from doing anything. And powerless to protect her.” A very menacing, very low growl rumbled in his chest and he stared over her shoulder, eyes more haunted than ever. “There is nothing romantic about being a ‘lone wolf’, Regan, no matter what Hollywood tells you.”
Regan swallowed. She knew what Declan was inferring. The Canidae family of carnivorous mammals were pack animals, social order and connection meant everything to them. How it differed for werewolves, she had no idea, but the look of loss and torment on Declan’s face told her it wasn’t by much. And why would it be? Even humans craved family and a sense of social belonging. For a creature both canine and homo sapien, it must be an instinctual, emotional need deeper than anything she hoped to understand. She thought of Peter, and how broken she would be if denied contact with him. Snakes in the bed aside, he was a brilliant brother. Caring, thoughtful and protective. How would she cope if she knew he was in danger?
Probably the same way he’s coping now.
A chill rippled up her spine at the thought. She knew her brother well. God help anyone who got in his road trying to save her.
“When did you last see Maggie?” she asked softly.
Declan scrubbed his palms up and down his face, as if trying to erase the pain deeply etched there. “Two years ago. The night of her murder. I’ve been hunting her killer since.”
Bile coated Regan’s throat. “McCoy?”
Fierce rage turned Declan’s face to granite. “By Epoc’s direct order.”
Regan stared at him, fear and sorrow and anger twisting her heart. “Why? Why did they kill her?”
“Epoc hates the Onchú clan. He has spent centuries destroying almost every Onchú on the planet.” He gave her a black smile, eyes chips of grey ice. “I’m the last.”
“I don’t get it. If Epoc’s a werewolf too, why does he hate…?”
“Centuries ago his lifemate was butchered in their bed by my clan, decades before Maggie and I were born.” Another look passed across his unforgiving features—Contempt. “The Onchú are not the most noble clan in the world, but the Eudeyrn are the cruelest. The Onchú and the Eudeyrn have been warring clans since time began but it all came to a head that terrible night. They attacked Epoc’s home while he was out on a hunt. Their target was Epoc himself. He’d hit my clan in an unprovoked attack a month earlier, killing the youngest male pups as they played in our territory, literally tearing them limb from limb. The then Alpha of my clan wanted Epoc’s blood. And his head. He ordered an assault on Epoc’s home. Unfortunately, Aine was killed defending her own pups. Epoc swore revenge. And he’s spent the last two centuries extracting it.”
The chilling pun was not lost on Regan. She’d seen Epoc’s lab. Knew of the experiments he perform
ed within. She pulled in a steadying breath, her body so tense she felt ready to snap. She saw Declan didn’t want to say anymore, everything about him screamed the subject was over but she needed to know one more thing. She was inescapably caught up in it now. “So, the history between you and Epoc you spoke of earlier…”
His lips twisted into a bitter grin. “Our clans, Maggie and my bloodline. I am the direct, male descendant of the werewolf that killed Aine. The werewolf that killed Epoc’s lifemate.”
He watched her eyes. Waiting for her reaction. Her judgment. Fire burned through him, the wound in his side—now totally healed on the surface—a cancerous poison sending out wave after burning wave of pain. But he kept it from Regan. She didn’t need to know. What she’d just heard was enough for one day. Shit, for a human ignorant of his world and his kind until but a few hours ago, it was enough for one lifetime. Telling her his wound was not healing as it should would only make her worry.
Clear green eyes gazed at him, their color like bhoireann spring moss. Every emotion Regan felt shone in their mesmerizing depths—sorrow, concern, anger, and fear.
His throat grew tight. Fear. But of what? Epoc? McCoy?
Him?
He wanted to reach for her. Wanted to fold his arms around her slim, warm body and hold her close, his face pressed to her hair, their hearts beating as one. Instead he stayed still, elbows on his knees, side an inferno of red pain. Watching her eyes.
He didn’t know what his future held. But he knew—for the next few days at least, until he’d dealt with Epoc and his mongrel, McCoy—he could never leave her. She was now his world as much as Maggie had been. He’d burn in Hell before he let anything happen to her.
Didn’t you say that about Maggie, Dec?
Yeah. Yeah, he had.
“My father was a farmer,” Regan said suddenly, holding his gaze with her own. The statement was unexpected and Declan blinked. A soft smile flittered over Regan’s lips at his reaction but she continued, never changing her position. “His father before that, and his father’s father. Our land was in our blood. When the drought of ’eighty-three hit we lost the majority of our stock and crops. Do you know what it’s like to watch animals starve to death? To go out every morning with a .44, knowing you will be putting a bullet between the eyes of at least five dying animals?”
Savage Retribution Page 10
