by Karin Tabke
He growled again, then looked up at her as if to say, “We’ll get to that later,” before continuing to nuzzle his way down her legs until he came to the injured foot. His big warm tongue flicked out.
Despite her fear and the pain, she nearly swooned as he used his tongue to caress her instep, around her toes, and over the—Oh God—the sharp edge of the broken bone that protruded just above her ankle. When she looked down and saw the compound fracture, she fainted.
THIS TIME, WHEN Falon woke in the strange bed, there was no sign of the wolf. Instead, its owner, the blond Neanderthal, stood at the foot of the bed, leaning against a post with his arms crossed over his chest, glowering at her.
Raising her chin and trying not to appear intimidated, she sat up. Flames of pain radiated through her, and she fell back again.
Her leg.
She looked down to see her left leg, pant fabric torn away, replaced by a plaster cast. The last twenty-four hours flashed in her head, alternating between fast-forward and rewind.
Death. Destruction. Mass confusion. Pain. Fear. And . . .
She looked up at the great beast in front of her, then away.
. . . awe.
Last night he had terrified her with his magnificent anger and prowess with a sword. Today, still terrified, she looked at him through more contemplative eyes. His arrogant air hung just as heavily around him as it did before. More so in his calm state. He was a man who did not ask to be followed; it was a given. A good foot taller than her, his thick blond hair was cut stylishy short, framing a strong, handsome face. He was dressed casually in a fitted black shirt and black jeans.
Falon’s cheeks warmed as her gaze swept the length of him. Though his clothes nicely defined his wide shoulders, deep chest, narrow hips, and long, muscled legs, she knew his true magnificence could only be appreciated in his most natural state.
She swallowed hard and refocused her attention to the matter at hand: What was going on here? First that man Conan, then the man before her, Vulkasin, then the big bad wolf, and now Vulkasin again. And all of them somehow connected to her—did her newfound powers feed off them? Were they the conduit?
She rewound to Conan—or Jager as he’d called himself—who’d called her Slayer and told her he was going to take her to her people and that they were destined to be one. Her and Conan? She shivered at the thought. And just who were the people he’d spoken of? What was a Slayer?
She had no people. She was an orphan, a drifter, a loner. Yet he’d known her real name, something she’d guarded for the past ten years. That wasn’t enough to give the rest of his statements credence though. Was it?
And what of this man? Vulkasin. Did he know Jager? What had they been talking about? Did he have anything to do with Mr. D’s murder? Or did he think they were connected in some way, just like Jager had? Because now that she’d woken up in the room for the second time, she couldn’t deny it—there was a part of her that felt a connection. To the room. To the wolf. And, Lord help her, to the wolf’s master.
He continued to glower at her; she felt his gaze on her body, but she refused to acknowledge him. Ostrich, she thought, and stared at her broken leg as if the cast would somehow explain what the hell was going on. When it didn’t and it became apparent the man was going to wait her out, she raised her gaze.
Those mocking turquoise eyes stared back as if daring her to speak. His angry aura held a tinge of red—of passion—but stronger than that was the spark of an old, weary soul.
Yeah, well get in line, buddy.
The spirited thought gave her the courage to speak.
“Who are you? Where am I? What did you do to me?”
He put two fingers to his full lips and shook his head. “No answers until I have mine.”
Falon’s jaw dropped. She didn’t know if she wanted to kick that arrogant controlling smirk off his lips or just tell him what he wanted to know so he would tell her what she wanted to know. Both, she decided.
“What do you want to know?” she gritted.
“What value are you to Salene?’
“Conan? Value?” she sputtered. “Hell if I know. I went to Del’s for a sandwich; next thing I know that guy is ranting and spewing crap and tells me he killed Mr. D. That pissed me off, and well, you saw the end of that fiasco.”
“Where do you come from?”
“Like where was I born?”
He nodded.
“I’m an orphan, and have been on my own since I was fourteen.”
“You possess powers.”
Falon looked down at her hands and smiled. She raised them and pointed them like pistols at Vulkasin. She pulled the triggers. “Yeah, apparently I do. If you don’t let me go, I’ll use them on you.”
His eyes sparkled. “Don’t let me stop you.”
His confidence took some of the wind out of her sails. She might be able to slow him down, but she saw what he was capable of. Falon was many things, but she wasn’t a fool. But that didn’t mean she was a doormat either.
“Who are you? Where am I? What did you do to me?”
For long moments he contemplated her, deciding just how much information he was going to give her. Finally, he shrugged and uncrossed his arms. “I’m Rafael. You’re in my house. And I saved your life. Twice.”
Falon shook her head. “Before that. Last night, after—after you killed Conan. You—you—”
He smiled, the gesture nothing short of arrogant, and moved to the opposite side of the bed to sit down on the edge. “Your body called to mine. I answered.”
“I made no such call. You raped me!”
His smile widened, softening the harsh edges of his face. Slowly, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
Her jaw dropped at his audacity. “What, exactly, did you take for consent? My dead weight or my complete silence?”
Rafael leaned across the big bed toward her, so close she could see the quick flare of his nostrils and feel his warm breath on her cheek. “I am guilty of many crimes, but rape is not one of them. I asked your permission, and you gave it.”
Falon closed her eyes, but she couldn’t block the image of him taking her from behind or the way their bodies had undulated wildly as he repeatedly thrust into her. She had wanted him all right. But damn if she’d admit it. Her eyes flashed open, and she shook her head, denying culpability. She’d said yes, but not in reality! “I thought it was a dream. I never would have—”
He pressed his lips to her cheek and kissed her. His warm lips trailed along the curve of her face to her jaw. He dug his long fingers into her hair. Damn if her body didn’t spark. “It was no dream,” he said against her throat, then dragged his teeth along her jugular. “I wanted you; you wanted me.” Fingertips brushed across her tight nipples. Falon gasped and felt a flood of warm moisture between her thighs. Rafael groaned and grabbed her head in the palm of his other hand. “Just like you want me now,” he said, his voice raspy with desire.
Falon struggled, very uncomfortable with how her body reacted to his. It lit up like a roman candle that would flare until he chose to extinguish it. It was wrong. She was wrong for wanting him.
“Do you want me to demonstrate more thoroughly?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said before she realized the words had escaped her mouth.
He grinned above her. “Now who is in denial?”
Falon blinked. “I didn’t mean that. I’m hurt. Scared. Just like I was when you brought me here. First, Conan—and then those beasts outside almost killed me—”
Abruptly, he released her and moved to the edge of the bed and stood. “I took care of that.”
Her ardor cooled as abruptly as he had moved away from her. She seemed to have more control of herself when he didn’t actually touch her. She filed that realization in her memory banks.
He’d taken care of it? How? And what was he referring to? The fact that she’d been hurt? Had he healed her? Had he somehow given her the strength to jump that high wall and run like
a deer?
“If that’s true, then take care of my leg!”
He stalked toward the door and put his hand on the knob. “Until I know you won’t pull a dumb stunt like you did this morning, you’ll have to deal with being immobile.”
He opened the door, and as he walked through the threshold, Falon screamed, “You can’t keep me prisoner here!”
He stopped and said over his shoulder, “Any time you want to venture outside those gates and deal with Angor and his pack mates, feel free. But know there will not be a another rescue.”
He left her then.
RAFAEL CURSED AS he strode into the great room. The girl was full of contradictions—scared shitless one moment and showing alarming degrees of courage the next. When she’d awoken, she’d acted just how he’d expected: nervous and disoriented, afraid of his wolf even as she’d mustered the courage to mouth off to him. Her answers to his questions were useless—if he believed she was telling him the truth, which he didn’t.
He’d underestimated her. The bathroom escape was clever. And ballsy. He’d heard the shouts from outside of an intruder and known she had taken off. How she’d gotten over that wall, he had no clue, but if some of his men had been guarding the interior perimeters the way they should have, they would have seen her and gotten to her before she could even try.
He’d had no choice but to go after her himself. And when he’d found her, he’d smelled his mark on her fifty feet away, as strong as it had been when he’d taken her. That the Berserkers hadn’t respected it pissed him off, but his anger wasn’t directed at the animals, only at his men and himself.
Fools! He should never have underestimated her determination. He’d watched her take on Salene, so how the hell could he have forgotten—she was no beta female, but an alpha, and that was likely what had called to him in the first place, despite the fact she was a human. Or was she? Her powers intrigued him. Though unusual for a human, he knew it was possible. The keepers of the wolves were living proof. Regardless of what she was, arousal buzzed through him at the memory of her body’s acceptance of his.
He wrestled with his raging hard-on, pissed off that he wanted her again. He didn’t want to want her. He had done what he had to do. He’d marked her, but only for the sake of the pack and the Blood Law. That was all he was going to do. No further involvement. Not on any level, and that included sport fucking. He would not do that to himself. She would be dead soon enough, and so he forced himself to think of her as dead to him now.
It didn’t temper his rage. All it did was make him imagine her dead, her body broken and bleeding after Lucien was done with her. No longer warm but cold. No longer spirited but faded. No longer . . . anything. No, it didn’t temper his rage; instead, it made him uncomfortable. Guilty. Reluctant. And he could be none of those things.
The girl had to die so that his pack could survive.
He stopped in the middle of the great room. Dozens of pairs of eyes stared at him. Minus the elders who kept to themselves in the back of the compound, this was his pack. His only family now. Forty-eight men and thirty-two women, all between his age of thirty-four down to twenty-four. They’d been loyal to him, staying despite the fact they couldn’t mark their mates until he did or reproduce until he did. At least he’d finally given them the comfort of the mark.
Like a thick pheromone haze, the smell of sex permeated the hall just as it had his bedchamber. Since he had marked the girl last night, his pack had been wildly fucking. Not mating, that would not come until he and his chosen one became one in mind, body, and spirit. She would have to mark him of her own volition for their bond to be complete. He would not give the woman upstairs the chance.
Rafael shook his head. That was not going to happen. Not with this woman. His pack had become restless and impatient. Lycans were born to procreate. That his pack had not produced one single child in fourteen years was placed squarely on his shoulders. All these years, and still he could not stomach what was asked—no demanded—of him. He had prolonged the inevitable. Now he’d made his mark, and once he was free to mark another, he would pick a Lycan like himself, exchange marks, and watch his pack thrive.
He was as weary of the tension as his pack. He glanced around at their exhausted, lust-glazed faces. It was a wonder they could stand, and the infusion of sex must have addled their senses as much as it was addling his.
Because although he’d ordered the Berserkers let loose to protect the compound against anything that even remotely posed a threat, they should’ve maintained enough of their senses to ensure the interior security of the compound and the girl Rafe had ordered them to guard with their lives. Yet when she’d escaped, not even Anton had loaded the high-powered tranq guns that could down Angor, the largest of the Berserkers, and gone after the girl. Because of their inaction, she had been hurt. It infuriated him. Yet he could not explain his protectiveness over the girl. While he knew he had to do what he had to do, something snapped inside of him when he saw her in Angor’s jaws. Rage and worry infused him. Had the beast’s fangs broken her skin, he could not have saved her. He shook his head. When had it become so complicated?
He hadn’t made himself clear before, so he would now. “I’ll kill any one of you who allow her out of this compound again,” he growled menacingly.
“Rafael,” Anton said as he approached, his head bowed submissively. “At first we thought she was an intruder. It wasn’t until she jumped the fence that I recognized her.”
Rafael snarled. “And you then did what?” He grabbed a halfdressed Lana, one of the unattached females. One who had, on several occasions, eased his own sexual tension. Anton’s scent was all over her. “Went back to fucking?”
“No. I—”
“Rafael—” Lana said, pressing her full naked breasts against his chest.
Rafael looked down at Lana’s big brown eyes that gazed up at him with longing. Many of the pack females had deserted them due to their yearning to take a mate and reproduce. He was grateful to those who’d remained, even the pack whores like Lana. But as her musky scent toyed with his raging libido, he thought of the girl upstairs.
His mouth firmed when he remembered the instant he’d seen her outside, surrounded by the vicious beasts. For a split second, he’d wondered if he should leave her to them to finish. That way, Lucien could do him no harm . . . But her expression, while fearful, had been overridden with bravery, and as soon as he’d seen her bare foot, bloodied, and broken, he’d known he would never let that happen. Possessiveness had swarmed over him, just as it had last night when he’d taken her. She was his. His mate. Even the Blood Law could not deny him that.
Lana slid her hand down his belly to his groin. “Rafael,” she softly said, “your need to mate is strong.”
He set his jaw. Yeah it was, but not with her. He looked over her shoulder to the slowly sinking sun. He’d heard Lucien’s howl last night . . . he would come. Soon. For it was only during two hours each day that they were both in human form—the hour before dusk and then the hour before dawn. And the Blood Law could only be avenged when both brothers were in human form.
Sure enough, as soon as Rafe had the thought, a loud snarling preceded the low, throaty roar of a Harley. The scent, so much like his own, was unmistakable. Lucien was already here.
Six
AS RAFE MENTALLY and physically braced himself, Lucien strode into the great room as if it were his. It had been, a long time ago. At least, it had been theirs. Now Lucien was the outsider, and an unwelcome one at that. The only reason he’d made it inside alive was because he came alone, could glamour the Berserkers, and shared Rafael’s blood. It was a respect thing with the packs, but if any one of those three factors had been absent, he’d have been eviscerated by the Berserkers. If somehow he had miraculously made it past them, Rafe’s pack would have descended on him like vultures on road kill and finished the job. Many of them wouldn’t have wanted to. In fact, many would have grieved over Lucien’s body. But they’d have done it,
because while they’d once been loyal to both him and Lucien, their greatest loyalty now was to Rafael only.
Fortified by that knowledge, Rafael met Lucien toe to toe, flexing his muscles and baring his teeth like the true alpha he was. “My dear brother, to what do I owe your most unwelcome presence?”
Lucien snorted, his message clear: Rafael knew damn well why Lucien was here.
True. Every Lycan in the room knew why he was here. He was here for the girl, exactly as Rafe had known he would be. He just hadn’t expected him to come quite so soon.
As Rafe watched, his pack gathered in close, their bodies at the ready. Though he and Lucien were twins and remarkably similar, their looks were also glaringly different. Lucien’s features were harsher, a dark counterpoint to Rafe’s light. Thick black hair. Tawny eyes with dominant black striations. They shared the same prominent cheekbones, aquiline nose, square jaw, and sadly, the same grim, unsmiling mouth.
Lucien walked around pissed off at the world. Rafe couldn’t begrudge him that. He walked around with his share, too. Having most of your family eradicated by Slayers, not to mention having your mother skinned alive in front of you, and your father eviscerated while you were forced to watch, tended to do that to a Lycan. But in Lucien’s mind, he had suffered more, and at the hands of his own brother no less.
And if Lucien had his way, Rafe was about to find out exactly how pissed off a Lycan could get when his mate was slaughtered before his eyes. The question was whether Rafael was going to let that happen, right here and right now.
