Rogue

by Rachel Vincent

  My father watched Parker as he spoke, leaning forward to emphasize his next words. “You are to bring her in alive, and unharmed. We’re not sure whose daughter she is yet, and we are not going to risk angering the South American Prides by mistreating her without a hearing, no matter what she’s done. Treat her like she’s breakable. Understood?”

  Parker nodded. We all nodded. Bringing in a rogue tabby would be necessarily different than bringing in a rogue tom. It only stood to reason. Yet our Alpha continued to eye Parker, as if to further drive home his point. “I told Marc the same thing, but feel free to remind him.”

  My father took a long sip of his coffee, then addressed the whole room. “We’ll spend tomorrow tracking Andrew down. In the morning Faythe will call him and see if she can find out who he’s with, where they are, and what business he plans to take care of tomorrow. Any questions?”

  No hands went up, and no mouths opened.

  “Good. Everyone go get some sleep. But set your alarms. We’re getting an early start.”

  The room cleared quickly, with my father leading the way. He took his coffee with him and disappeared into his bedroom.

  I plodded down the hall in a daze, oblivious to the broad shoulders brushing past me and the air-conditioned breeze blowing my hopelessly tangled hair back from my face. I’d finally reached the end of a very long day, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of everything that had happened.

  That morning, I’d been one of the good guys, traveling to New Orleans to re-create a dead guy’s last hour in order to learn about his killer. I was relatively happy with my life, and proud of the job I was doing.

  Sixteen hours later, I’d confessed to a capital crime and become the object of obsession of a psychotic monster of my own making.

  But worst of all, Marc and I had…What had we done? We’d fought, of course. But it certainly wasn’t the worst fight we’d ever had. No broken furniture, and no blood. We were even still on speaking terms. So what was my problem? Why was I so disappointed to open my bedroom door and not see him thumbing through my CDs in a pair of low-slung jogging pants, waiting for me to loosen the drawstring and let them fall to the carpet?

  It’s not like we stayed together every night. So why did I dread going to bed alone this time?

  The answer hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs as I dropped my clothes in my hamper. For the first time since I was sixteen years old, my connection to Marc was undefined. I had no idea where we stood. We hadn’t broken up, but we weren’t exactly together, either. He was no longer mad, but neither was he here.

  I took a quick shower, trying to distract myself from thoughts of Marc by planning my upcoming phone call to Andrew. It didn’t work. By the time I stepped out onto the mat, I was replaying the fight with Marc in my head, determined to find something I could have said to end things on better, more sure-footed ground. I came up blank.

  In my room again, I dressed in a pair of stretchy black boyshorts and a matching tank top, my preferred pj’s. I was running a comb through my still-damp hair when my bedroom door creaked open.

  Whirling around, I found Marc watching me, eyes brooding, face somber. He stood framed by the doorway, wearing nothing but a snug pair of jeans. His bare feet were wet, and thin, short blades of grass clung to them. His chest heaved from what I assumed to be a mad dash across the backyard. Droplets of rain fell from his thick, dark curls to run down his torso, crossing the well-defined lines of his shoulders and the clawmark scars on his chest, to roll down his abs before soaking into the waistband of his jeans.

  “Marc? What’s wrong?” The comb fell from my fingers as he crossed the floor in several long, determined strides. His left hand went around my waist, and his right tangled in my shower-damp hair, tilting my face to meet his.

  He kissed me without a word, his lips hard, demanding. He probed my mouth desperately, taking sustenance from my very soul. The fronts of my bare thighs rubbed against his worn-soft denim, and I felt the heat of his skin beneath. My toes barely touched the carpet between his feet.

  Suddenly, abruptly, Marc let me go and stepped back, shaking his head in reproach. In denial.

  My chest rose and fell, each breath coming hard and fast. Our eyes met, and I gasped at the raw pain in his. “Marc…”

  Marc growled fiercely, possessively. He wrapped both hands around my waist and lifted me, biceps swelling with the motion. My legs wrapped around his waist. His arm snaked around my lower back, holding me up. Holding me close. My arms went around his neck.

  His left hand slid into my hair, cupping my head. He pulled me down and kissed me again, hungrily. Urgently. He seemed desperate to touch every part of me, to claim my body with his hands, my heart with his eyes, my soul with his need.

  He walked us across the room. My back slammed into the wall. I grunted in surprise, but his mouth was there again, cutting off my insincere protest with another ravenous kiss.

  Marc’s now-free right hand shoved up the black lace hem of my stretchy tank. My fingers traced his scars. His hand cradled my left breast, squeezing. My fingers skimmed down his chest to his stomach, trailing the thin, dark line of hair below his navel. He lifted my breast, lowering his head. His teeth brushed my nipple.

  Gasping now, I arched my back, thrusting up for him. He shoved me harder into the wall, and his mouth closed over my breast. His lips were hot on my skin, his tongue hotter still. My head fell against the wall, my mouth open. My fingers combed through his curls, tangling in a mass of short, glossy ringlets. Soft, silken wisps tickled my chin. Damn, I loved his hair.

  I drew my tongue along his neck, wrapping my legs tighter around his hips. Desperate for more, I ground myself into him, through both layers of clothing.

  Marc groaned around my nipple, thrusting up to meet me. “Marc…” I moaned, my voice hoarse with need. His mouth left my breast, and he raised his head to look at me. Not smiling—just watching. Waiting, his hands on my hips.

  “Please…” My hands fumbled at the waistband of his jeans. My fingers brushed the flap of material around the button, tugging. The button pulled free of its hole.

  Marc growled again, impatience clear in the low, rolling rumble. He found the waistband of my boyshorts. His fingers curled around handfuls of stretchy black lace.

  He tugged once. Hard.

  Material cut into my skin. Seams ripped. Elastic popped. I gasped. “Hey…!”

  Marc stepped back and dropped me on my feet. I stumbled backward into the wall, thrown off by the sudden movement. Lace slid down my legs to puddle on the carpet. He shoved down on his waistband, and his pants hit the floor, black silk boxers still inside.

  He stepped out of his jeans, already bending to cup my ass. His gaze never left my face as he lifted me in both hands, supporting me easily. My back slid up the wall. My arms snaked around his neck. His lips found mine again, his tongue plunging into my mouth. He lowered me slowly, sliding inside inch by exquisite inch.

  For a long moment, neither of us moved. He pulled away from my mouth and leaned back to look at me. To watch me, as I watched him, knowing we were joined, as close as two people could possibly be. In that moment, that horrifyingly short, perfect moment, nothing else mattered. There was no Andrew, no rogue tabby, and no council. There was only Marc, throbbing deep inside me.

  He closed his eyes and exhaled.

  And just like that, the moment was over, the desperation back. His eyes met mine, and need crashed over both of us. He pinned me to the wall with his chest, sliding quickly out of me. Then he shoved his way back in, thrusting me into the wall over and over again. I could do nothing but cling to him, ride him, hoping it would never end.

  Marc’s fingers trailed along my sides, chills chasing them in a cold, tingling trail. His hands gripped my hips, guiding me, molding me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

  I moaned and gripped his shoulders, urging him on out of irresistible, undeniable craving.

  Leaning down, he nipped the rid
ge of my collarbone, then dipped lower. He nibbled the upper curve of my breast. I gasped, pushing him deeper with my legs. He moaned, and shoved into me faster. His thrusts were frantic now. Uncontrollable.

  He drove into me again and again, slamming my spine into the wall. His grip on my hips tightened. His nails broke through my skin as he lifted me and shoved me down, grinding me into him over and over.

  I gasped, tightening around him as pleasure built, driven by mutual need.

  His eyes closed, and he plunged harder, deeper, drawing whimpers of simultaneous pain and pleasure from me. “Marc…” It was too much. I couldn’t take it.

  He ignored my inarticulate protest. Thankfully.

  He trembled, and release came crashing over me, pointing my toes and driving away all thought. My vision darkened. My fingers curled around his biceps. My legs clenched his back. I shuddered around him.

  I clasped my jaws shut to keep from screaming and waking the whole house.

  Marc’s eyes flew open. He grabbed my upper arms and pinned them to the wall, still pumping into me. “Why, Faythe?” he demanded, his eyes swimming with fear and anger. “Why?”

  I shook my head, quivering in the aftermath of violent bliss. I didn’t understand. I didn’t know why. As usual.

  Marc shuddered one last time, and collapsed against me, crushing me between his chest and the wall. He was still inside me. I still clung to him, terrified for no reason I could name. Something was wrong. Something other than our nightmare of a day.

  I inhaled, breathing in the scent of summer rain, fresh sweat, sex, and all things Marc.

  He stepped away, lifting me from him to set me gently on the ground. My legs wobbled. I felt empty.

  Hollow.

  Lost.

  Marc turned from me and, to my surprise and confusion, stepped into his pants. He pulled them up and zipped them, and I’d never in my life heard such a horrible, terrifyingly final sound.

  Because he had dressed, I followed suit. I tugged my tank top down over my breasts and looked to find him sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall where he’d had me pinned less than a minute earlier.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  He frowned, whatever he’d been about to say lost. “I hurt you.”

  “No.” I shook my head, denying the truth because it no longer mattered.

  “You’re bleeding.” He reached up with one hand and touched my hip, just above the waistband of my snug gray shorts. His fingers were smeared with blood.

  I saw four short, deep scratches on one hip, and a matching set on the other side. “It’s fine.” I crossed the room to my dresser and snatched a tissue, dabbing at the new marks to avoid his eyes. “You’re still mad at me,” I said, fully expecting him to deny it.

  “Yes.” His response caught me so off guard I gripped the edge of the dresser for balance. In the mirror, Marc rubbed his forehead, momentarily blocking his eyes from view as he spoke, and my heart threatened to stop beating. “I’m so mad I can barely stand to look at you.”

  My hand clenched the tissue, and my pulse raged. “So what was that?” I spun around, gesturing angrily at the wall, still damp with my sweat. “A grudge fuck? One more for the road?”

  His hand fell, and his eyes found mine again, searing my soul like a branding iron. “Do you know how many cats I’ve executed for doing what you’ve done? Did you think I took those assignments just because your father told me to?”

  Unsure how to answer, I said nothing, crossing the room to the end of my bed, where I leaned against the bedpost for support.

  “I believe the death sentence is warranted for creating a stray. No one should get away with stealing a person’s humanity. If Jose wasn’t already dead, I would have killed him myself, not just for what he did to my mother, but for what he did to me. For what he turned me into.”

  “Marc, I—”

  “Shut up.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I know you didn’t mean to infect him, and I know you can’t take it back, so save your breath.” He sighed and stood slowly. “I know I don’t have any right to be pissed at you, but I can’t help the way I feel. Part of me wants to rip this Andrew’s fingers off one by one, just because they’ve touched you.”

  “Marc—”

  “But another part of me wants to congratulate him for having escaped death-by-Faythe.” His voice grew cold, his words clipped in bitter anger. “I swear, any man who walks away from you without limping is a lucky man. Just ask Ryan. Or Eric and Miguel.”

  Stunned, I sank onto the end of my mattress, leaning against the bedpost. That was a low blow. I’d had to bite through Eric’s throat to free myself and Abby, and I’d only defended myself from Miguel. And coming from Marc, that statement was more than a little hypocritical. He’d dished out his own serving of justice to Miguel.

  And since he was neither dead nor limping, Ryan had little reason to complain about his treatment at my hands.

  “Is that what you want to do?” I asked, my hand tightening around the column of wood as I watched the specks of gold glitter in Marc’s eyes. “You want to walk away from me?”

  “Yeah.”

  I recoiled as if he’d slapped me, and tears blurred my vision. I should have known better than to ask a question I didn’t want answered.

  “I’m not an idiot, Faythe.” Marc stood, running one hand through his curls. “I know the best thing I could ever do for myself would be to walk out of your room right now and keep going until I get to Mexico. But I can’t do that. I couldn’t do it five years ago, and I can’t do it now. And I don’t know why.”

  My brain barely registered the blur of movement as he whirled around and kicked my desk chair across the room and into the dresser. I jumped, the crash echoing in my head. The chair fell to the floor, miraculously unbroken. Marc turned to face me, sagging against my desk.

  “You never admit that you feel anything for me in front of anyone else. Hell, you’re only here because you made a promise to your father. If you hadn’t, you’d be back at school by now, with Andrew, or some other poor guy too clueless to realize how dangerous you are until it’s too late.

  “Yet in spite of all that, even though I know you won’t stay here a day longer than the time you owe Greg—assuming the council doesn’t lock you up—I can’t just walk away. And I hate myself for it.” Whirling, he slammed his fist against the door, and I jumped again as it rattled in its frame. “You make me hate myself, for not being man enough to say I’ve had it and tell you to go to hell.”

  Speechless, I stared at him, grasping desperately for something to say to make it all better. To erase what he’d said, and take back what I’d done. To accomplish the impossible.

  “Say something, Faythe,” Marc ordered.

  My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  “Oh, now you have nothing to say.” He crossed my room in several huge strides and was in my face before I could even blink. Bending at the waist, he planted one fist on the mattress on either side of my hips, intentionally invading my personal space. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he demanded, pleading with his eyes for me to put him out of his misery. Or maybe he was daring me to do it. “Tell me I’m more than a convenient body to warm your bed and keep you entertained during your exile from the real world. Tell me you’re not just staying here because you have to. Tell me we have a future together. Damn it, Faythe, tell me something!” he said, turning away from me in disgust.

  “Marc, I…I don’t know what to say.” I stood, searching my mind frantically for something that would make him happy without lying to him. Because the truth was that I didn’t know whether or not I would stay past the two and a half years I’d agreed on. I didn’t know if I had a future with Marc, because I didn’t know whether or not I had a future with the Pride, and I knew he wouldn’t go with me if I left again. We’d been down that road once before; it led to me fleeing the ranch the night before our wedding, the summer I turned eighteen.

  I couldn’t do that
to him again. Or to me.

  “You’re not just a convenient warm body,” I said, moving toward him with my arms open. He frowned in suspicion but let me wrap my arms around him and lay my head on his chest. I ran my hands over him, soothed by the smell of his skin and the feel of his flesh. He relaxed just a little and returned my embrace, his chin brushing my temple. “If that’s all I wanted, I’d be with—” I murmured.

  Marc stiffened in my arms, and I froze, cursing myself silently. Why couldn’t I learn when to just shut up?

  He stepped away, and in his eyes was a distant, bitter chill. He grabbed my arms in a bruising grip. “What do you want, Faythe?” he growled, all traces of warmth gone from his face. Now there was only anger. “Just this once, tell me exactly what you want from me.”

  “I want what we have right now,” I said, determined not to let on that his grip hurt.

  “That’s it?” He dropped my arms, gaping at me in suspicion and fresh pain. “You want what we have now?” He repeated my words slowly, carefully, as if analyzing them for hidden meaning. “What if the status quo isn’t enough for me? What if I want more?”

  “We’re perfect together the way we are.” I reached for him, staring into his eyes. “Why change anything?”

  He captured my wrist and drew my fingers firmly from his face. “Life changes things, Faythe. You’ve changed things by infecting Andrew, even if you didn’t mean to. You can’t expect us to remain the same any more than you can expect time to stand still. You either adjust to the changes and move along with the times, or you get left behind. So which is it going to be? Are you going to let us evolve, or are you going to leave us behind?”

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Damn it, Faythe, yes you do!” He dropped my hand and turned around, bending to snatch my desk chair from the floor. The wood groaned beneath his hands, and I watched the muscles of his back tense and gather, as he wrestled with whatever he was preparing to say. Finally, I wrapped my arms around his waist and molded myself against him.