Alpha Blood

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Gradually, the tension eases from his body. First, his shoulders loosen, then his breathing smooths. His large hand cups the back of her head, stroking her hair.

  When a full minute has passed, Slash presses his lips to the top of her head.

  “Female, you ease me.”

  Adi knows.

  Tipping her head back, she gazes into his nearly black eyes. The scar is hardly noticeable. He’s just Slash to her.

  “You needed easing, my male,” she says in the old style.

  His eyes tighten, and she asks, “What?”

  Slash doesn’t speak for a few seconds then says, “When you call me that, it fills me with…”

  Adi watches him struggle for a sec then finally takes pity on him.

  “Happiness?” she asks, arching a brow. “Contentment?”

  Slash frowns. “Do not make light of it.”

  Adi shakes her head. Turning her face, she kisses the hand nearest to her. “Never.” Her eyes find his again. “It’s just, you take everything so moondamned seriously.”

  His frown deepens, and Adi giggles at his stern face. “Listen, let Bray dog out wherever he is, and a few Lycan are hurt, but they lived. And let’s struggle together with running the pack. And let’s be grateful that there aren’t any witches running around with creepy trolls banging skulls in forests. And, oh yeah…” Adi can’t contain her grin. Moving his hand in both of hers, she flattens it out on her stomach, that now has the slightest swell to it. “Let’s be a tiny bit excited about our whelp.”

  Slash strokes her belly. “I am all those things and more.” His stoic gaze comes back to hers. “But I’ll be damned if anything or anyone takes you from me. These other responsibilities are a distraction from my main purpose.”

  Adi steps back and really looks at him, their fingers still laced. “Which is?”

  “You,” he says, releasing one of her hands so he can cup her face. “It has always been you, Adrianna.”

  How can a girl argue with that?

  She hugs him again, and they stand in each other’s arms for a long time.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Neil

  H e’s not a dumb Were. In fact, Neil is a Lanarre, and as any Were should know—unless they’ve been doing hard time in Antarctica—Lanarre is a large step above common Lycan.

  Even Reds. A crudely formed lot, in his expert opinion.

  He holds up the rear of the guard, as it were. That Lanarre cunt that’s got a nutsack hold on weak Drek is too busy leading him around by his nose to notice their prince has left the pack alone and vulnerable with his second, Bowen.

  Oh no. She’s the president of her own fan club. Her only remote claim of anything special is her rare ability to change into bird form.

  Neil frowns. Of course, that ability alone proves her purity. Only a Lanarre of the purist royal blood would be able to have a second form beyond Lycan. And Tahlia had handed Drek’s sister, Mae, her delectable ass.

  A wonderful event, to be sure. Mae’s another dim twat who needs to be put in her place. Neil would love to volunteer for that particular duty.

  However, Drek has made it clear that he needs Tahlia. Neil supposes that it is a good match. Tahlia is young and malleable enough to be brought to heel. That’s not what Neil wants, though.

  Neil wants the Lanarre of the Hoh.

  He’s privy to the mutterings of democracy that Drek believes he keeps so quiet.

  Neil has his people. Lots of support. They need to revisit the days of old, when Alphas fought for position.

  His eyes narrow on the raven-haired bitch in front of him. Tahlia would then be part of the spoils of that victory.

  May the best Lycan win.

  If he were to win, he would also get Tahlia. Then he could subdue her. He doesn’t care how Alpha she might be, how tender a virgin, or how brazen a bitch.

  She is female and will do as Neil decrees.

  Of course, one thing stands in his way of that neat little fantasy playing out.

  Gaze shifting to Drek, Neil’s eyes become razors on the other male.

  Tradition be damned.

  Neil stalks after the pair, his eyes on the prince, his mind on subterfuge and the subtleties he’s already put into motion.

  Tahlia

  Tahlia hates Neil.

  She remembers the blood to his elbows when she was in bird form. Being in that form is more like snapshot memories. Not ones like a human would have or even like her Lycan form.

  She has still frames of him burnt into her memory banks, with Laz’s blood all over him like measles. He’s a nasty Were, both in conduct and spirit.

  Her guardians would have been so uneasy had she been betrothed to Neil instead of Drek.

  Tahlia suppresses a shudder.

  She swears she feels Neil's eyes on her and turns. But his gaze is far and away, surveying what lies ahead of their group of three as they hike toward the Northwestern.

  Tahlia relaxes minutely, feeling foolish and superstitious.

  Drek hops over a fallen log, and turning, he cups her waist then lifts her high over the top of the decaying tree.

  Heat flares between them, and Drek’s eyes tighten as he maintains control of his beast with an obvious effort.

  However, Tahlia is unable to resist, and though her original agenda was to find Tessa, she rises on her tiptoes, balancing against Drek’s hard chest, and kisses him lightly on the lips.

  Drek groans, his hands still on her waist, tightening. “Do not, Tahlia.”

  Her lips mold to his in a smile, and she presses her flesh against his once more.

  He wraps his arms around her and holds her so tightly, she can barely breathe. “You make a sane Lycan crazy.”

  Tahlia holds the smile prisoner inside her heart instead of on her face.

  Happiness is in short supply.

  A huff behind them has her withdrawing from Drek.

  Neil stands on the top of a firm section of the log Drek plucked her from. A sapling has sprung forth from its caved and fertile center. His hands are leveled on his lean and powerful hips; a look of vague distaste rides his lips as her and Drek fill his vision.

  “My prince,” he begins, as though Tahlia doesn’t exist, and maybe to Neil, she is like a pesky fly that should be batted away until its short life ends.

  Tahlia is no insect.

  She is a Lanarre princess who has seen her share of horrors. Tahlia might look fragile, but she is not. She’s bested many females who physically outclassed her.

  And it is no small thing she is betrothed to the most powerful Lanarre this side of the Rocky Mountain Range.

  As Tessa would say, Neil can stick it.

  His eyes narrow on her, and his nostrils flare. Of course, Tahlia makes zero effort at polite affectation.

  Neil makes her angry, and she doesn’t hold her thoughts away from her expression.

  “Yes?” Drek asks, his fingertips leaving a trail of liquid heat in their wake like a current of electricity, and it is a small tendril of icy cold when they leave her body.

  Rather than hiding behind Drek as he speaks with Neil, Tahlia moves to stand at his side.

  As though feeling her presence, Drek shifts, bringing their hips to nearly touching.

  Fear creeps over Tahlia, instinctive and disquieting. She has a moment that feels almost like a premonition. The old expression of one’s stomach dropping is not a falsehood, but a real thing. A sensation that when she looks at Neil, comes over her with a numbing precision.

  Drek takes her hand, stroking a thumb lightly over the top, attempting to calm her nerves.

  Tahlia releases the breath she was holding.

  Neil’s voice drops low. “There is a safe spot across the human highway in which to bed down.”

  Neil's gaze clashes with hers, suspicion held within. Neil’s are an uncommon color of gray—almost pewter—and her own are a bright and light bluish-violet, in sharp contrast to the curly, true-black hair that falls to her waist in loose spi
rals.

  “Does that please you, Tahlia?”

  Tahlia is self-contained and was raised in the royal Lanarre court. Much was asked of her and she had learned harsh lessons of independence all under the guise of neutral expression and conduct. Hiding one's emotions from others was highly valued.

  Neil’s direct inquiry and the sarcasm behind it does not rile her. Or maybe it’s just because she won’t allow him the satisfaction.

  “I am pleased by whatever pleases Drek,” she replies neutrally, training neatly asserting itself. Her lips curl away from her teeth, exposing sharp canines. Neil cannot miss the subtle aggression.

  Or fail to see it for what it is.

  “That’s fine, Neil,” Drek says in a barely-polite tone.

  Tahlia whips her face to his.

  In a million years, she would never understand why Neil being their guard was a good idea. Drek had said it was a very good plan to keep the one Lycan who was a threat close while he was away.

  At the time, in theory, the idea had sounded plausible. In practice, it now seems dangerous.

  And Tahlia was pretty sure that Neil has designs on more than the crown.

  The thought has began to take shape in her mind and is a narcissistic one. That impulse continues to grow, rootless from observation; the idea is merely there in her head. Maybe Tahlia is making things up, creating drama as her guardians had once or twice said of her.

  Or more than once or twice.

  A touch of sadness makes her smile at their wistful memory.

  Drek frowns in her direction. “What’s wrong?”

  With a tiny shake of her head, Tahlia remarks, “Oh, just a memory. A sad one.”

  Wrapping a powerful arm around her shoulders, he takes her toward the human highway, where her acute hearing picks up the sounds of traffic.

  With a smile meant just for her, he says, “Let’s make good ones then.”

  Tahlia wants to believe that what the Lanarre promised her is actually a good match.

  He is everything that she could want.

  True, in his absence, there were Lycan males who behaved badly, Neil included.

  In fact, Neil was the ringleader.

  But if she didn’t look too deeply, most of her contact with Drek had been good.

  The nagging thought remains that Laz was nearly tortured to death. And for what? Because some being had to take the blame for the deaths of Lanarre who were terrible?

  And he saved Drek.

  Tahlia’s having a difficult time reconciling it all. Thank the Moon she asked Drek for time to sort it all out mentally.

  And her hormones are not her friend. She can only thank Moon that she’s a little bit too young for heat, though it’s not unheard of for heat to come early.

  Tahlia would be very vulnerable.

  The thought of going into heat in Neil’s presence causes that strange sensation of her stomach dropping. Again.

  A Lanarre female in heat must be bred. They are almost never allowed outside the den at that time. Their mate tends to their needs.

  And if they have not been mated, then the ceremony takes place with a suitable Lycan.

  In the case of that happening, Tahlia can only be reassured that Drek is with her because a Lanarre male will be unsuccessful in resisting an unmated Lanarre female in heat.

  Servicing her is the only biological directive.

  Tahlia doesn’t let her thoughts betray, her but her back itches where she is certain she feels Neil’s eyes boring into her like missiles seeking a target.

  Drek

  Finally, Drek relaxes.

  His fine senses tell him Tahlia sleeps. Her breathing is even and deep. Tranquil.

  He can’t help his smirk as he watches the rise and fall of her slim shoulders as she takes breath. Tahlia keeps her distance in the day, excepting that sweet kiss she landed on him when he least expected it.

  One of the things he likes about Tahlia is the randomness of youth.

  Drek is a young Lycan, but Tahlia is an infant comparatively. He enjoys her spontaneity even as he’s saddened by her caution.

  Those few bad apples in his pack caused that guardedness he senses in her.

  And that horror of a Were, Tony Laurent, murdered her guardians.

  Drek does not disturb her by moving away and creating the distance she would no doubt insist on if she were awake.

  Tahlia is curled beside him, her small hand bent and cupped beneath her chin, nuzzled tightly against him as if she were already a part.

  Already his mate.

  His eyes rise, gazing across the low-burning embers of the fire, and that one look touches on Neil, who appears asleep.

  Neil is feigning sleep.

  Unease rolls over Drek’s flesh. Perhaps he should have chosen another. He is not a weak Lanarre.

  Some royals are.

  Drek is not. His parents forbade a lazy son. He hunted, and they risked their only heir in battle so that he would be a leader who knew the toils of his subjects. He would not be just a figurehead.

  His parents, who were wiser than they knew, allowed him to fall down, realize failure, and rise from the ashes of his downfalls to try again, becoming stronger and braver.

  In the end, he embraced integrity because of them.

  That is all true, but he is just one male.

  As one eye remains on his future bride and the other on the enemy inside his camp, Drek would do much to see Tahlia find the wayward Tessa and sprint back to the Lanarre of the Hoh.

  To return without having found Tessa is to admit to Tahlia he doesn’t keep his word.

  And it would tip Neil off. The move would be too much like saying the words aloud: I don’t trust you. I’m on to you.

  I know what motivates you.

  It’s better that Neil is kept in the dark and believes Drek soft.

  Neil was safe while the demonic, Lazarus, was captive beneath the barbed whip.

  Drek knows better.

  Lazarus consented. He was too powerful to have been tortured when he chose to escaped it.

  He decided to endure.

  Neil does not understand what it is to battle a creature more powerful than himself.

  More powerful than anything Between.

  Until such time that Neil makes a move, it is better that particular Lycan believes he has the upper hand.

  With that, Drek finally succumbs to rest, fitful though it is, while Neil silently bides his time.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Julia

  J ulia’s palms lie flat against Scott’s chest as blood seeps out of his mouth.

  Her long hair windmills around her body while she sucks in a sob. A few loose strands stick to her wet lips, and Julia blows them out, twisting her body to look up at Lachlan in supplication.

  She can’t speak. Scott’s life hangs in the balance, and like a torn limb from her body, her tether to any and all realms, weakens.

  Their eyes lock. “Blooded Queen.”

  Julia tips her head back, fingertips bunching into the cloth of Scott’s shirt. She howls into the bowels of Below, loosing a ringing banshee wail of despair.

  All at once, the last few years of her chaotic, ill-defined life come crashing in, and she can’t do it.

  Julia can’t cope.

  “You must cope,” Lachlan’s voice tears through her emotional meltdown.

  The rims of silver that circle Lachlan’s bright-white eyes flash like lightning through his pure-white irises.

  Julia slowly blinks away her tears of frustration and terror, knowing she telegraphed her words directly into his brain.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, ashamed by her sense of hopelessness and inadvertently transferring that anguish to the Sidhe warrior.

  Lachlan turns away from her as the next line of demons surge forward.

  Julia dips her head. Dear, God, if I’m this angelic being, help me—help me… help everyone.

  She feels the heat of the demons. Scott’s life is a dimming l
ight within her body as Lachlan’s sword whistles.

  Then something wonderful happens, and Julia’s eyes reluctantly open. The ground begins to grow translucent beneath her. Gone are the dark stones that reek of sulfur.

  As she watches the crawling and beautiful metamorphosis, a demon’s head rolls to her side, but Julia doesn’t really notice. Instead, she raises her hands in front of her face, noticing her skin is becoming opaque.

  Behind her glowing hands, Lachlan’s blade finds its home, caked with the gore of the demonic. He grabs her hands, hauling her to standing.

  She tries to pull her hands away, getting back to Scott.

  “No,” Lachlan pulls her against him, wrapping his arms around her so she doesn’t fall.

  Julia struggles until his energy seeps into her.

  She takes what he offers in greedy gulps.

  Lachlan gives.

  When he finally releases her, Julia falls backward, landing against Scott.

  His breath hitches.

  Lachlan begins to fall where he stands.

  “No!” Julia screams, stretching her fingers out before her.

  Scott heaves beneath her then sits upright, causing Julia to tumble. Before she can fall, his arms go around her, and she feels the changed musculature, size, and strength of his new form.

  Her soul-meld has gone to Combatant while Lachlan does the impossible in front of their faces.

  He lays dying.

  Though Julia knows that’s impossible. Fey are immortal. She feels Lachlan’s thoughts like beads of truth inside her mind. A necklace of power encircles her.

  She senses Scott’s body shrug off the last vestiges of sickness from Hades.

  Julia slides her arms around his waist, clinging to his muscular side. Keeping his tight hold on Julia. Scott stands, and reaching down, he grabs Lachlan by one arm and hauls him upright, where the huge warrior bows limply within the powerful hold. With Julia still latched to his side, he hoists Lachlan over his shoulder.

  “Wrap your legs around my waist, Julia.” Balancing Lachlan, Scott lifts her by the rear, and Julia twines her legs around his huge body, burying her face against his broad chest.