by Donya Lynne
He couldn’t risk anyone else riding up with him. He was too torqued. Too strung. Too holy-fucking-hell-this-has-got-to-be-a-nightmare. If anyone else got closed inside this tiny space with him, they’d be in danger, because he was ready to let loose on something, like right fucking now.
How had his father gone from lying in a lifeless heap on the floor inside the family cottage nearly a thousand years ago to being a walking, talking, breathing, heart-beating SOB inside Ronan’s home tonight? Shit like that wasn’t supposed to be possible.
And how about Ronan? That little fucker had skills.
Before he could tamp it down, brotherly pride welled up inside him as Micah breezed through his half brother’s accomplishments in the past couple of weeks. Ronan had broken into his apartment, stolen the small chest his father had given him, evaded them at every turn, hacked into a system that should have been unhackable, and had even bested Cordray in a hand-to-hand confrontation and tied her up in her own home. That alone deserved brownie points for a good deed done.
But the fragment of respect for his brother was short-lived as his mind refocused on the very large elephant in the room.
Micah scrubbed his hands up and down his face as he paced in the elevator’s minimal square footage. “How the fuck is he alive?”
The memories of that night, as well as from the years before and after, continued to flood his thoughts. He could still see the streams of red, blue, and purple blood gushing along both sides of the stone path as he and Malek battled their way toward freedom, cutting down anything shaded dreck blue. He could still smell the acrid stench of burning wood and thatch. Still see the death and loss and destruction all around him. Still feel the rush of adrenaline as he and Malek fled to the forest, racing the dawn with the remaining survivors after killing the last of the raiders. They had barely reached the safety of the thick, leafy canopy as the sun broke the eastern horizon. He could still hear the moans of those who suffered. Still smell the metallic twang of blood in the air. No detail escaped his recollection.
He had found Katarina, grateful she was alive, and they and the others had watched from their shadowy hiding place as great plumes of smoke rose from their burning homes, as well as from the bodies of the vampires who’d been left to die and be claimed by the sun.
He had spent the decades since mourning his parents’ deaths, as well as Katarina’s when she was taken from him a few years later in another raid he managed to survive, while more of those he loved perished.
So much loss. So much death. Knowing his father had been alive all along would have gone a long way toward easing his pain, but his father hadn’t thought enough of him to let him know, and now it felt like he was losing him all over again as he relived the past inside his mind.
The elevator doors opened on the eighteenth floor, and he gusted out like a hurricane.
As he barreled through the wide hallway toward his apartment, he freed his phone from his pocket and hit Sam’s speed dial. He needed his mate, and he needed her now.
_________
The house was quiet. It often was when Micah was at work. Not that Sam minded Micah’s special brand of noise. His presence alone was loud enough to drown out a symphony. But that’s what Sam loved about him.
The phrase, never a dull moment, was written with him in mind.
But tonight’s quiet had nothing to do with Micah’s absence. The kids from Cordray’s shelter were finally asleep. They’d been staying with her and Micah after the fire destroyed their dorm at Asylum, the orphanage Cordray ran in the country, miles away from the city proper.
Sam wasn’t sure she liked the silence better than the lively cacophony they created while awake. With so many kids from toddler to teenager staying with them, there was always something happening. Cartoons, video games, arguments . . . laughter. The laughter was what Sam liked best. Nothing beat the laughter of a child, especially a toddler.
She would miss the constant activity once their new dorm was finished and the kids returned home.
Having kids in the house and seeing their Crayola-colored artwork stuck to her refrigerator awakened Sam’s maternal instincts, making her want children of her own more than ever.
Which wasn’t something she could simply talk to Micah about and expect to happen anytime soon. She couldn’t just go to him and say she wanted a baby and expect that having a lot of sex would make her dreams come true. That’s not how things worked in this still-new-to-her world she’d entered not even five months ago.
Now that she was mated to a vampire, conception wasn’t that simple. Fertility didn’t rely on her ovulation cycle. It relied on Micah’s calling, a phenomenon Micah had told her only occurred once every ten years or so. And since he’d had his first calling with her back in January, and she hadn’t gotten pregnant, it would be another decade before they got another shot at becoming parents. Seems that being bitten by a dreck then bitten by Micah to save her life had made her too fragile to conceive during his calling the first time around.
Ten more years. How was she going to make it that long, especially craving a child as deeply as she craved food and oxygen? This was the definition of suffering.
Maybe—hopefully—Micah’s next calling would bring success. For now, she would have to get her motherly fix from Cordray’s orphans.
She made herself a cup of chamomile tea, went to the living room, and was about to kick up her feet with a late movie when her phone vibrated on the end table beside her.
She set down her mug and checked the caller ID.
Micah.
She answered and brought the phone to her ear. “Hey, baby, what’s up?”
“I need you.” The thick tension in Micah’s voice made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
She was on her feet in an instant.
“Where are you? Are you okay?” She was already hurrying toward the mudroom for her purse and keys.
It didn’t matter if he was at their penthouse, at AKM, or burrowed inside a rat-infested crawl space in the worst part of town. If he needed her, she was there.
“I’m at the apartment. When can you be here?” He sounded more strung out than a crack whore.
She also didn’t miss the fact that he hadn’t answered her second question. The one inquiring whether he was okay. Whatever had happened to upset him, he didn’t sound like he was in the mood to discuss it.
“I’m on my way. Less than thirty minutes.” She snatched her jacket and purse off the hook by the door then darted into the garage. “Are you okay?” she asked again, hopping behind the wheel of her Camaro, which had been Micah’s gift to her after they mated.
“Just hurry.”
That was twice he’d avoided the question. She wasn’t going to risk a third time. With Micah, she’d learned it was better to let him get there on his own. He’d tell her what had happened when he was ready.
The Camaro’s engine fired, and she hit the accelerator, backing out of the garage like she was launching into space.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She was about to disconnect when Micah called her name. She lifted the phone back to her ear.
“Sam?” he said again. The strain in his voice gave her the impression he was on the edge of losing control.
“I’m here.”
Silence drew out over the line.
“Micah?”
He exhaled heavily, remained silent for another moment, and then said darkly, “I won’t be gentle.”
His voice held no malice or danger, but it most definitely held a warning. One meant to prepare her for what he planned to do to her once she arrived.
Her breath hitched as she braked at the stop sign at the end of the street, and her body warmed in all the right places. She loved this side of him, but she hadn’t seen it in a while. They had sex, yes. They had a lot of sex. Hot, torrid, body-melting sex. But there was something about having sex with him when he needed to blow off steam that made her extra weak in the knees.
And it sounded like he had major steam to blow off tonight.
“I don’t need gentle,” she said.
“Yeah well, I’m not sure you’re ready for this kind of rough.”
She hit the gas, pulling into traffic. “I’ll be there soon. Just hang tight, baby.”
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She disconnected, quickly dictated a text to Brenna and Mya, the two females who worked for Cordray at Asylum, to let them know they were in charge of the house since she had split too fast to find them and tell them where she was going. Then she dictated another text to Trace and Cordray so they knew what was up.
Those two had cordoned themselves off somewhere private in anticipation of Trace’s calling. Apparently, Trace hadn’t learned how to control his mixed-blood power during sex, and had made quite the destruction zone of Cordray’s bedroom and the upstairs hallway at the Asylum house the first time they’d done the deed.
So, yeah, no one wanted them around the kids when his calling hit. There was no telling what might get broken or how dangerous shit could get with the kind of sex forged by a calling, which was a hundred times more powerful than regular sex.
Cordrace, as everyone had begun to call the newly mated pair, should probably hole up in a bomb shelter for the duration. They might be safer that way. So would everyone else.
Once the texts were sent, Sam got down to business using the Camaro in the way intended. For speed.
She didn’t know what was wrong, but Micah needed her, and that was all that mattered. Because as much as Micah needed her, she needed him more.
That was what the mating bond was all about. Undeniable, unquestionable devotion to the one who owned your heart.
I won’t be gentle.
That’s what he had said, and she knew exactly what that meant.
But she didn’t want gentle. She wanted whatever it took to make Micah whole. If that meant her body would be covered in bruises after he was finished finding solace inside her, so be it. Because rough with Micah was more glorious and moving to her soul than any of the gentle she’d ever received from her previous lovers, including her ex-husband, the bastard that he was. Except he was never gentle. A man who hits women could never be called gentle.
Micah had saved her from Steve. Now she would save him from whatever haunted his thoughts. And she would continue saving him for the rest of their lives.
“I’m coming, baby,” she muttered to herself as she sped toward downtown.
Chapter 3
Ronan pulled the Jeep to the curb in front of Alexis’s house and shut off the engine.
After dematerializing away from his townhome to put five miles of much-needed distance between him and Micah—and his prick of a father—Ronan stopped by his dad’s crib, swiped the spare keys, then took off in the Jeep. He hadn’t known where he was going at the time, just that anyplace was better than being near his fucked-up family.
He used the term family loosely, because he didn’t think of either his dad or Micah as family. They shared genes, but that was about it. And genes alone did not a family make. At least not by Ronan’s definition. He thought of Alexis more as family than his own father.
Once he’d climbed behind the wheel of the Jeep, it hadn’t taken him long to figure out where he was going. He hadn’t seen Alexis in a while, but she was just what he needed. She was his partner in crime, his nurse when he needed mending, the feminine body he wanted when his appetites turned more hedonistic, and the ear he needed to vent to when he’d had enough of his father’s shit.
In some ways, she was his mentor. In others, he was hers. But they were equals where it counted.
The one thing she wasn’t was his mate. Hell, she wasn’t even what he would consider a lover. Best friend, confidante, and fuck buddy? Yeah, that pretty much described their relationship. When he needed sex, he went to her. When she needed it, she came to him. No strings attached. Nobody got hurt that way. After all, you couldn’t miss what was never yours, and they’d both already been hurt enough. They didn’t need to try to be more to each other than they were.
Alexis was as damaged as he was, and, as the saying goes, it takes one to know one. He got her, she got him, and that was all that mattered. Trust naturally followed suit.
But casual and uncomplicated didn’t mean boring or ordinary when it came to the time they spent in the bedroom. After all, she was the one who had taught him rope bondage, an art he’d taken naturally to when she started letting him tie her up.
But bondage was as far as she wanted the kink to go. And spanking. She did enjoy a good spanking. But no flogging. No hitting of any kind beyond a firm hand on her ass. No ball gags. No blindfolds.
Although . . .
Ronan liked the idea of blindfolds. A deep, dark corner of his personality adored the thought of rendering a female helpless and taking care of her. Call it a hero complex, but the fantasy of earning a woman’s trust and keeping her safe always got him hard. Alas, that was one sexual fantasy that would never play out with Alexis, because while she liked being tied up, she detested be treated like she couldn’t take care of herself.
He hopped out of the Jeep and winced. His arm throbbed as his feet hit the pavement a little harder than he’d intended. He cursed under his breath. Damn shoulder ached like a motherfucker. The bullet was still lodged in the flesh.
Alexis opened the door and leaned against the jamb, her arms crossed. She was barefoot, wearing loose jeans that were torn at the knees and a draping, off-the-shoulder top that fell to midthigh. “What happened to you?” Her straight black hair hung over her shoulders to her waist.
“Bullet.” Holding his injured arm against his body, he marched up the steps and pushed past her, into the entryway.
She closed the door and locked the half dozen deadbolts that had probably taken her an inning’s worth of baseball to unlock. “Let me see.”
He peeled out of his bloodstained shirt, cringing as he lifted his injured arm, and tossed it over the back of the settee a few feet away.
Alexis inspected the wound. “Let me guess. This has something to do with your brother.”
She knew all about Micah. She was the only person he’d told about his family problems and his plans to steal the ankh from Micah’s ridiculous penthouse apartment. Then again, she’d been the one to put the final pieces of the ankh’s power together for him and show him the map she had created of the portals she’d identified in the Chicago area. At least the ones she was able to locate. Pretty much any structure that looked like a pyramid or obelisk served as a gateway.
Being that she had done most of the legwork and research for the ankh’s purpose, she could be considered a co-conspirator in the ankh’s theft, whether she saw it that way or not.
When he didn’t answer, she peered up at him. “Ro, please tell me you didn’t actually go through with it.”
“Damn right I did. Fuck him.”
She sighed and pushed him toward the back of the house. “Come on, let’s get this thing out of you.” They entered the kitchen, where she pointed toward the table. “Sit.”
He did as he was told while she disappeared in the back hallway, where he heard her rummage through the bathroom cabinets. A moment later she returned with her first aid kit.
Hers wasn’t a standard kit. For starters, it wasn’t a tiny white and red box. It was a large metallic-grey, multilayered fishing tackle box she’d customized to hold all her medical supplies. You didn’t survive off the grid this long without having your own miniature surgical unit in your home, as well as basic medical knowledge. And given Alexis’s line of work and who she was hiding from, she was a master at independence and self-preservation.
She plunked the tackle box on the table beside him then retrieved a bowl and several small, stained towels from the linen closet. The towels were clean, but she’d removed a lot of bullets and sewn up a lot of wounds over the years, an
d Tide could only get out so many bloodstains before it said “Fuck it,” and gave up.
“You wanna talk about it?” She pulled another chair in front of him and sat down, studying the bullet hole under the brighter lights of the kitchen.
“Not really.” He wasn’t in the mood for being Dr. Phil’d, and he already knew what she would say.
She stood and flicked the latches on her medical kit, popping the lid. “I told you going after Micah was a bad idea.” She dug out a small bottle of local anesthesia then grabbed a syringe.
“Well, I did it anyway. He deserved it.”
“Is he the one who gave you this?” She nodded toward his wound.
He glanced down at the hole in his arm that was still leaking blood. “He surprised me at my house. Popped me before I could pop him.”
“Did you deserve it?”
He frowned. He knew what she was getting at. She thought he should have left Micah alone, but that wasn’t Ronan’s style. Micah had been a black mass of oppression in his life since birth, and he was sick and goddamn tired of living under that shroud. The best way to break free was to cut his way out. If that meant literally running the blade through Micah to get out from under his shadow, so be it.
Alexis shook her head and set down the syringe. “Of all the people to rob, you picked him. Have I taught you nothing?” She grabbed an alcohol wipe and tore open the packet. “Never steal from someone in your own family, Ronan, no matter how much you hate him, and especially when he’s AKM’s fiercest enforcer. He could have killed you. I’m surprised he didn’t.”
“Must have been my charm.”
“It must have been dumb luck.”
“What’s done is done—AH!” He flinched and pulled back as she swabbed the bullet hole with alcohol.
She gave him a tart smile. “Serves you right.”
He grinned back. “Sadist.”
“Only when you’re bad.”
“Is that how it works?”
She let out a breathy laugh. “Look who’s talking.” She picked up the syringe.
