by Anne Marsh
God, the memories were delicious. The jerk of the blade in his hands as cartilage tore and he forced the ribs apart, ripping an exit point right in the bitch’s chest. The wet crack of a rib. She’d been quiet, too shocked to do anything but whimper as breath and soul fought free from the prison of her body. Dropping the body onto the ground, he’d withdrawn his blade and seen the dark blood that slicked the smooth surface, beading on the serrated edge. Ming John’s death had satisfied his thirst.
The best ones died slowly. Too quickly spoiled his pleasure.
Because he was thirsty, he wrapped an arm around the waist of a human female strolling through the gardens. She wasn’t Mischka Baran, but she could take the edge off his hunger. Ignoring her struggles, he slapped a hand over her mouth and dragged her deeper into the shadows. She’d do for now.
Perhaps, then, tonight he could move more slowly. Dreamily, he imagined sliding the blade between Mischka Baran’s ribs, tearing upward as he gutted the unknown woman in his arms. Humming softly, he reached down with his left hand and freed his cock, fisting himself to the remembered rhythm of his blade.
The artificial grotto caught Mischka’s attention first.
Damned Goblins had some sexy imaginations. They’d transformed the club into an outdoor wonderland. Waiting for Brends here was no hardship.
Mischka didn’t even notice the sounds until she stepped under the grotto’s overhanging lip and ducked inside. Cool air smacked her in the face and the riotous noise of the gardens was abruptly cut off. At first, she thought she’d interrupted a pair indulging in a little sex. The familiar smell of semen mixed with other, earthier fluids. When she started to back out of the cavern, however, she came to a frozen stop.
This wasn’t a lover’s tryst. This was a nightmare.
A dark, winged shape crouched over the body of the woman on the ground. There was so much blood. It was worse than the scene behind G2’s. There, the cold night air had arrested the spray, frozen it into a gruesome necklace. Here, in the lavish, semiheated interior of the club, the blood spouted freely, staining the woman’s expensive black cocktail dress and forming a garish smear against her pale flesh.
As Mischka watched, the rogue pulled the knife free from the woman with a sickening crunch of splitting bone, and before she could stop herself or complete her hasty retreat, she was pausing. She’d seen cuts like those before.
The male’s gaze snapped up. Deliberately, he straightened and looked her up and down. “Nice dress,” he said in a low, raspy voice, running his cold gaze over her elaborate corset-and-lace number.
She recognized those eyes. That voice. Eilor.
She reached slowly for the handgun she’d popped into a thigh holster, hoping the paranormal facing her couldn’t tell that her palms were slick with sweat. Deliberately, she raised the muzzle of the ASP until it pointed straight at the paranormal’s heart. Kill shot. Had to be. Even for his kind.
“Freeze,” she said more calmly than she felt.
“Why?” He took another step toward her. Despite being as tall and broad-shouldered as a male suit model, he smelled rank. Like something unwashed and damp that had festered for a very long time in the dark.
“Because,” she said, silently blessing the fact that the ASP had no safety to prevent her from plugging the bastard as soon as she wanted, “if you don’t, I’m going to shoot your ass. Right now. Right here in this garden.”
“You will not, bébé.”
Every instinct she had screeched that he was the paranormal straight from her own worst nightmares. “Last chance,” she warned. “Hands up.” Maybe he’d be foolish enough to refuse. Maybe she’d get lucky here, because she wanted to pump him full of lead.
She needed to do it.
His gaze flicked up from her thighs and he shook his head. “Don’t. I’ve been waiting for you.”
His flat tone bothered her more than anything else. Didn’t he care that she’d stumbled onto his act of murder? He was either bona fide crazy or knew something she didn’t. Either possibility left her feeling antsy, as if she’d overlooked something. She hated feeling incompetent. She was in charge—of her life and her business—and she liked it that way. Needed it that way.
It was payback time. The paranormal facing her made the mistake of taking another step toward her. One more step, and he’d be able to reach her. Right now, she could take him.
Mischka sighted and pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck the paranormal dead center, but instead of a crimson blossom of blood, there was—nothing. The monster just stood there with that same half smile on his face.
Hell. She hated paranormals, she really did.
She scrambled backward, cursing the boots and the elaborate fabric skirt of her costume. If she tripped, he’d be on her in a heartbeat.
“Run, little human,” he breathed.
Running seemed like her safest bet, but those dark eyes glowed at her, the deceptively human gaze ruthlessly examining her face. Recognizing her. The dark planes of his face lit with unholy interest. God, yes—he recognized her. He inhaled sharply and then launched himself at her.
She wasn’t going to outrun him.
He struck her fast and low, sending her flying. Tulle floated around her like snowflakes in a blizzard. All of her nightmares come to life crouched over her, holding a bloody knife.
She kicked futilely against his chest. The damn bastard was built like a brick wall and weighed twice as much. Panic exploded through her as a fetid odor washed over her. The smell of death.
She opened her mouth to scream.
His hand around her throat cut off the sound.
“Interesting.” His voice still sounded like crushed gravel, as if someone had squeezed his throat, twisted the voice box, and then released him at the very last moment. More disturbing, though, was the new tone. Satisfied. Gloating. God, he knew he’d won this time.
Dark wings rustled and stretched. His legs straddled her waist, pinning her to the ground. Gritting her teeth, she tried again to fight free, but he restrained her effortlessly.
When the lethal point of his blade slid beneath her corset lacings, the cords gave, the sharp pop obscenely loud. Her breasts spilled free.
He leaned forward, forcing more of his weight onto her.
“Mischka Baran.” His dark face pressed against her throat as he dragged his tongue along the shrinking skin. God—was he vampyr? The heavy, wet brush of his tongue nauseated her. “I’ve met your cousin, haven’t I, bébé? And she ran from me, too.” Lifting his head, he licked the last drops of blood from the blade. “I was saving you for last, and yet here you are.”
His free hand shot out and pinned her throat. The lethal pressure of his fingers had dots swimming in front of her eyes. He was going to choke her and there was nothing she could do to stop him.
Desperately, she stretched her fingers out to the side, reaching for her dropped gun.
“Should have stayed in hiding, little human.”
Hell, he was right, but she’d had enough of being terrified. Of the dark face gloating above hers. She’d do whatever it took to stop him, even if she had to bargain with the devil himself. Desperately, she hooked her fingers into his eyes, tearing at the tender flesh. He outweighed her, but he could still be hurt, right? Give up now and die. Swearing viciously, he reared back and she rolled to the side.
With her other hand, she brought up the gun, even though the last shot had done no good. She wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Oh, hunting you is going to be fun. I’ll be back for you, bébé.” He chuckled—and then whirled, shouting something in an unfamiliar language. Guttural and almost Slavic sounding, she decided. There was a harsh clicking sound, like a child’s toy winding down, and then he just shot up out of sight.
With a roar of rage, Brends exploded into their little slice of garden. His long black duster coat flowed out around him while his steel-toed boots moved silently along the ground. Legs braced for an attack,
he held his weapons ready.
Too late.
Her legs crumpled beneath her, taking her to the ground.
Fourteen
Brends launched himself at the disappearing rogue, but the bastard had a head start and a strong instinct for self-preservation. He flew straight up, disappearing into the black cover of M City’s sky. The rogue was huge, wrapped in skin-tough leathers that would deflect most of the metal Brends could send his way. Worse, though, were the wings. That gave the rogue a serious advantage.
The rogue still fired off two of his own blades, the heavy steel thrumming ominously close to Mischka’s sprawled body. Brends got the message loud and clear. The rogue had targeted Mischka, and this was just the appetizer. The feral rage of his beast had the Change flickering over his face as he fought for control.
His own team would be in pursuit, although he wasn’t optimistic. Right now, his job was to keep his little human safe. Whether she wanted him to or not. They both knew she didn’t take orders, but she’d made it equally clear that she didn’t want to die, either—and Brends had made his own orders explicitly clear.
No one got to Mischka Baran without Brends’s say-so.
Crouching swiftly beside Mischka, Brends saw that the rogue might have roughed her up some, but she was essentially unharmed. Brends intended to keep it that way.
“You know,” he growled, seizing her arm in his and turning it to inspect a particularly nasty scratch on the soft curve, “you’re in over your head here. If he didn’t before, that killer has a blade with your name on it now.”
“Call the authorities, Brends.” Her pale face glared up at him, but she still kept it together. “Call them now. This isn’t just about you and me and whatever battle you think we’re fighting here.”
“We’ve discussed this.”
“Brends—” she warned.
“They can’t help us.”
She needed to accept the plain, unvarnished truth: her kind was second-class here in M City. The only power they had came from selling their souls. He’d never made the mistake of underestimating Mischka Baran’s intelligence. She had to have figured it out by now: she wasn’t getting to Pelinor Arden unless she went through him. “I told you once. I’m telling you now. There’s no authority here but my kind.”
“Your kind.” Her gaze dissected his face. He could almost see her doing the math, totaling up the plusses and minuses she kept in that neat little mental ledger of hers. Clearly, his being a paranormal still weighed heavily in her negative column, but what had just happened might be tipping the scale.
In his favor.
Bruises were already purpling on her throat, and he swallowed his anger. Taking her into his arms as he wanted to do would cost him the upper hand here and there was too much at stake. Too much that he could lose.
“My kind,” he agreed, leaning closer. She flinched, but held her ground. Good.
And then she scared the hell out of him, the aftershock washing over her. Hell, she was fighting back tears. Would not cry. “Ah, baby.” He’d rather have faced Michael again and lost than watched her cry. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her.
“You’re used to this,” she accused. “In your world, you kill each other all the time.” He didn’t let her see how much her words hurt. They were the truth, after all. “People don’t do that where I come from, Brends.” Her voice didn’t sound sure.
He gave in to temptation and buried his face in her hair, losing himself in her scent.
Eilor, a cold-blooded killer, knew where she was. Still, she was here and she was alive.
Relief washed over her, a surge of adrenaline that had her panting in small, hard gasps. She was alive. She was being chased by paranormals. Just like her cousin.
“Breathe,” he coaxed. “Just breathe with me, baby.”
She gulped in air. She didn’t want to live like that again, sunk in paralyzing fear. Jumping at shadows. If she bonded with Brends, she wouldn’t have to. She’d only have to worry about what he could do to her.
She’d wanted to fall. Except that it was hard to hear her mind’s cool logic over the heavy, no-holds-barred thumping of her heart. Face-to-face with what she’d schemed for, she finally had to accept the truth. She’d spent a lifetime fighting to be bad, but she wasn’t stupid. And every instinct she had screamed that the male she’d come to find was a predator. But there was good hiding inside Brends, too. Somewhere.
“Let me in,” he coaxed in that dark-chocolate voice of his. It was as though he could sense her wavering.
His teeth nipped at the softer skin of her neck, emphasizing his words. She struggled to fight the pleasure, to remain in control, but the erotic prick of his teeth sent a bright sting of pleasure-pain to her center. She’d never got off on power plays, had shown any lover who tried to dominate her to the door. So why was she still here?
“Because,” he said, and she wondered if Goblins could read minds. “Because you’ve always wanted to do all the things you shouldn’t, couldn’t do with those other loves. You want to be bad, dushka, and I’m strong enough to let you.”
She shook her head, but his large hands were threading through her hair, holding her head still for the kiss that tugged at her lower lip. “I don’t want a dom, Brends.”
“Maybe you do.” His eyes darkened. “You let me in,” he promised, “and I’ll make it good. I’ll give you whatever you want, dushka. No questions. No explanations. Tell me, if you want, or make me guess.” His otherworldly eyes glowed with heated passion. She was surprised they hadn’t lit up his damn gardens. “I’m a good guesser, dushka.”
He trailed the sword-roughened pads of his fingers down the bare skin of her arm and leaned forward. The hair she’d unbound slid around them, sealing them into a dark, decadent world of pleasure. The spicy scent of male and sex surrounded them.
“And Pell, too,” he promised. “I’ll bring Pell back for you.”
“For a price,” she said, desperate to shake off his erotic spell. Her core was liquid, greedy for this male.
“Everything has its price, dushka,” he whispered against her ear. “But I’ll tell you what mine is. No surprises. You pay it and we’re done. Give me until we find Pell. Until you’re face-to-face with her again. One month at the most, I promise you, and nothing more.”
Thirty days of taking orders from an alpha male who wouldn’t hesitate to tell her what to do. Would give her orders and expect her to follow them. She didn’t follow blindly, not anymore. Her clit pulsed with need, reminding her that she needed this. She needed him. She wasn’t going to find Pelinor on her own, not in time. Brends, on the other hand, could lead her straight to her missing cousin. Before the killer got there first and all she had was a body to bury.
And she was suddenly sure that he wouldn’t hurt her. Dominate her, yes. Touch every inch of her intimately, yes.
But he wouldn’t hurt her.
Not intentionally.
Surely she could keep herself safe from accidental hurt?
She wished desperately she weren’t so attracted to him. If they bonded, he’d have an inside track straight into to her head. He’d be able to connect to her. Communicate with her.
“And?” Her voice sounded dry. As if her throat was closing up.
“If the killer were to come for you”—he eyed her closely—“I’d know. I’d be right there.”
“You want to use me as bait.”
To give him credit, he didn’t hesitate. He gave her the truth, although she supposed it only helped his cause. “Yes.”
She might be able to help stop this. And stopping this was the right thing to do. Before she could rethink her decision, she said it. “Yes. Bond with me, Brends.” Savage satisfaction lit his eyes and she had no time for second thoughts before his head lowered and blotted out the gardens around them.
Fifteen
Lifting her into his arms, Brends moved rapidly. He wasn’t doing this on the ground. He wasn’t an animal, even if that was what Mi
chael had tried to make him. His thirst for this female did not rule him.
Keeping Mischka safe was just good business. And if pursuing the sexual attraction that flared between them kept her off balance, that was just fine with him. He’d protect her because Mischka Baran would lead them straight to the serial killer whose kill had framed the Goblins and stirred dangerous public outrage. She was bait in their trap. Nothing more. The bond would let him best protect her—and he’d have a mental connection with her that he could use to compel her obedience.
The punch her kiss had packed still surprised him, however.
If he spent too long wrapped in her arms, he’d forget all the logical reasons he had for pursuing her and simply lose himself in the sensual delight of her body and soul.
He should have been elated, and he was, he told himself. She’d accepted and that was what he wanted. What he needed. She was just like the other human females lined up outside his club, wanting a Goblin favor. She’d simply resisted longer, better, than most—but she’d been willing to sell her soul in the end. All he had to do now was get her where he could touch her freely, before she could change her mind.
The desire flooding his body battled with his thirst to taste her. Touch her.
When he shouldered open the door to the club, his security detail didn’t move. Their eyes followed him as he deliberately carried her through the crowded club. No one at G2’s that evening would doubt that she was his. He pressed his mouth against the pale skin of her wrists, giving her a small, heated kiss. Her pulse jumped, beating a hard tattoo against his mouth.
Zer fell into step behind him. “Does she know?” His sire’s eyes held his.
“Does she know what?” Mischka pushed at his chest, but he wasn’t relinquishing her delicious weight or the feminine warmth cradled in his arms. He wasn’t letting go until he had to.
