by Tessa Dawn
He glanced at the front door and frowned. “We cannot stay here, Jordan. I can only oblige you for a day, maybe two, perhaps until tomorrow…Sunday at the latest. It isn’t safe, dragyra. I have enemies that you cannot even imagine. And the gods; they have laws.” This time when he sighed, he sounded truly weary, completely drained by the entire ordeal. “Ask me anything, my angel, and I will answer with the truth. Take this time I give you, to listen and to learn—to teach me what you wish—before we have to go. When I first entered your apartment, when I materialized through the walls, I only had one goal: to place a strong compulsion in your mind to stay put so I could come back and retrieve you later. But the human male who was here—the one who is no more—changed everything. Now there is no way I will leave you alone…unprotected. And I am offering you this time, in your own world, in your own familiar surroundings. Use it as you see fit.”
The room fell deathly quiet, and the ensuing silence permeated the atmosphere like dew on the morning grass settling after a light summer’s rain. It coated everything around them, within them—between them—with a light, ominous mist. Jordan wasn’t sure if her heart had stopped beating or if the silence was all-pervasive, but she felt that familiar tightening, that pit in her stomach, the same one she had felt on Friday. Only this time, she knew without question that the sense of foreboding truly portended a major life change: the beginning of a journey, the end of an era.
What was going to happen on Sunday when the sun came up?
What was going to happen tonight?
She glanced around the apartment and cringed: This was her home.
She blinked back tears and tried to think like a lawyer: Where was Alonzo’s body? What had Zane done with it? And how was that supposed to work out, going forward, if he allowed her to come back through the…portal? After all, Jordan Anderson was a prosecuting attorney, and she had told a lot of people about the ex-con’s threats. Murder was not exactly an appropriate—or legal—response.
And Macy!
Macy was having surgery on Monday, and Jordan had to be there.
She had to!
What was this man—this creature—saying?
Her thoughts were like scattered, chaotic tumbleweeds tossing in the wind, and her head felt muddled and cloudy for reasons that had nothing to do with the dragon’s power. She was simply and utterly overwhelmed.
Folding her knees beneath her and staring blankly into space, she thought she heard her own voice, as if from a distance, as she posed the single most pertinent question: “Where will you take me?”
Zane rose from his seat, and her pulse began to race. She didn’t want him near her. His presence was just too daunting, too powerful, too intimidating. “Come here,” he said as he knelt before her, crowding her on the couch.
She wanted to withdraw from life itself, to cringe and recoil, but she didn’t move a muscle. She didn’t say a thing.
“Shh,” he murmured softly, as if crooning to an injured mind. “It’s okay, dragyra of mine. It’s okay.”
No, she thought vehemently. Nothing is okay.
He raised his hand and fingered her hair—as if he had the right—cradled the back of her head in his palm, and gently drew her forward, until her forehead rested against his chest and she could hear his beating heart. And then he wrapped those massive, lethal arms around her and held her like a child.
And that’s when Jordan fell apart.
Sobbing in his arms.
She was entirely helpless to say…or do…anything else.
“To your waterfall, dragyra,” he whispered into her hair. “I am going to take you home.”
Chapter Eleven
Doctor Kyle Parker glanced at his expensive designer watch, turned up his lip, and frowned. What the hell was he doing at the office at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and on a rare weekend off, especially when he could be at the country club making important connections with other influential surgeons and enjoying eighteen holes of golf?
He stared at the thin manila file lying on his desk, and simply shook his head.
Macy Wilson.
Twenty-seven years old.
In otherwise good health, with the exception of a benign growth attached to her abdominal wall. She was scheduled for routine laparoscopic surgery on Monday, the thirteenth, to have the growth removed—nothing particularly ground-breaking, interesting, or even challenging there—the surgery was expected to be mundane.
His sex stirred in his pants, and he bit down on his lower lip.
And just what the heck was that all about?
Last week at his private practice, he had met with Macy briefly in order to go over the ensuing operation; to examine her one last time; and to have his staff provide her with all the necessary pre-op instructions. As far as he knew, nothing about the average woman had stood out, not the color of her eyes or the texture of her hair, not the curve of her ass or the shape of her breasts. So why had he woken up in the middle of his sleep, late last night, with a raging hard-on tenting his satin sheets?
Why had it taken three rounds of…self-relief…to make that same raging hard-on recede?
And why couldn’t he get the brown-haired, brown-eyed, seemingly average woman out of his mind…all day?
He opened her chart, scrutinized her records, and studied her medical history: Maybe there was something there, something about her, something that appealed to his medical mind…something he wasn’t seeing. His erection jerked in his pants, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Nope.
There was nothing scientific about this sudden obsession with Macy Wilson.
It was purely salacious in nature.
He sat back in his chair and sighed.
Well, hell, this was a fine twist of fate.
Kyle Parker knew himself well, and he knew that when he latched on to a new prurient interest, he was a lot like a dog with a bone—he wasn’t going to let it go until he chewed it down to the marrow and spit out the gristle: He would have to approach Monday’s surgery in a completely different manner, with a completely different style. He would have to give Miss Wilson a whole lot of personal attention, couched in an adoring bedside manner, without coming across as a lecher.
One way or another, he would have to get Macy into the sack.
But the funny thing was this: He didn’t just want to seduce her and leave—to hit it and run, so to speak—he wanted to possess her heart, devour her soul, take control over her life, her thoughts, and her choices.
He wanted to dictate her very musings.
He wanted Macy Wilson on her knees before him, eager to do his bidding, in every way imaginable; and honestly, that just wasn’t like him. He wasn’t the obsessive-stalker type.
He rubbed his forehead to relieve some tension, and then he powered up his PC. For reasons he couldn’t possibly articulate, he might be a canine in heat, but he wasn’t anyone’s fool. Whether he was handsome, rich, or not, Macy Wilson was not going to respond kindly to one of the top surgeons at Denver Exploratory Medical Center successfully managing her surgery, then humping her leg in the bed while she recovered.
He entered his administrative password in the white rectangular box, brought up his browser to search the web, and then typed in the name of the nearest local flower shop, where he perused the most expensive, extravagant bouquets they sold: pale green and violet lilies, purple and white roses, all dotted with baby’s breath; the entire arrangement housed in an exquisite crystal vase—two hundred ninety-five dollars.
Son of a bitch, what a racket!
He made his selection and entered his credit card information, choosing midday on Monday as the delivery date and time, and then he entered the hospital’s address and Macy’s first and last names, since he didn’t know the number of her recovery room.
It was undeniably inappropriate, indisputably unethical, and risky as hell, at best. If someone turned him in for pursuing—let alone, harassing—a female patient, he could lose his freakin�
� job, but he couldn’t think about that now.
The urge was too strong.
The need was too great.
Besides, no one on the surgical floor—and certainly, no one employed in his private practice—would dare defy Dr. Kyle Parker. He was too up and coming in his field.
At least he hoped.
He closed his eyes and sighed.
His head hurt, and he felt like he was losing his mind.
Why take such a foolish chance, and for such a plain, average woman?
Especially when he could have anyone he wanted?
He printed out the receipt, tucked it into his wallet, and shut down his desktop, prepared to go home.
What the hell.
It was what it was.
“I’ll see you on Monday, Macy.”
f
Assistant District Attorney Dan Summers ducked beneath the yellow crime-scene tape and made a beeline to Detective Michael Jacobs’ side. He had come to the Two Forks Mall garage for two very different reasons: the first, because he had to see the gruesome scene for himself: a local, low-level gangster mutilated and left for dead in a way that didn’t make any sense. His thoracic vertebrae, his lungs, and a chunk of his liver had been eviscerated, as if someone, or something, had tunneled through his back, tried to yank out his heart, and punctured the entire cavity in the process; but the wounds were inconsistent with any weapon they could identify, and the aorta was still intact.
Furthermore, next to the corpse, on the deck of the garage, were the remnants of a very thick chain, probably eighteen-karat gold, but the entire area was scorched, as in blackened and burnt to a crisp. Who the hell would burn four thousand dollars’ worth of gold, instead of taking it, hawking it, or giving it away? And who the hell strolled through a parking garage in the middle of the night, with a blowtorch in one hand and god-knows-what in the other, something large enough and heavy enough to eviscerate a grown man’s entire upper back in one targeted thrust? And why leave the body for the cops to find, unless you wanted to send a message to a rival gang, strike fear in the hearts of one’s enemies. Either way one turned it, this was too brutal, too gruesome—too exact—for some low-level victim, some unknown gangster. This was a Mafia-style hit. It was meant to instill terror; and it was carried out to send a message—
To someone important…
But the homicide was just an excuse: The real reason Dan had come to the garage was all about Jordan Anderson, his ex-lover.
Late last night, around 10:45, Dan had received a surprising email from Jordan, completely out of the blue: something about meeting a real creepy guy in the Two Forks Mall parking garage, being cornered by her car for a time, and giving the guy Dan’s address instead of her own when he had insisted on knowing where she lived. She didn’t go into a lot of detail—the message was simply meant as a heads-up. In fact, she had insisted that everything was all right; she had managed to get away; and she did not want to reopen any lines of communication with Dan—please don’t respond to this message. She had just wanted to make him aware. It had taken all his self-control not to reply.
Then again, earlier that morning, Dan had received a text from a gal he knew at dispatch, informing him about a call that had come over the radio later that same night, just after midnight: Apparently, Alonzo Diaz, a lowlife ex-con who was gunning for Jordan, had threatened her at work on Friday, and the threat had been material enough for Jordan to take action. She had met with Michael Jacobs early Friday evening, and the detective had dispatched a patrol car to watch her house. Clearly, the threat was substantial, and while Dan knew Detective Jacobs would keep an eye out for Alonzo, Dan’s inside source had told him about a follow-up report, some kind of dust-up at Jordan’s condo.
According to the dispatcher, Officers Ryan Gaines and John Pacheco had responded to a possible domestic disturbance at Jordan’s address, shortly after midnight, and Dan wanted to know—no, Dan needed to know—if Mike had more facts.
What the heck was going on?
Was Jordan in any real danger?
Was she doing okay after both questionable incidents?
Heavens knew, she would never reach out to him—not again, not anymore—and he had no one to blame, but himself.
“What’s up, Mike?” he called, approaching the gruesome scene.
The burly detective turned around and snorted. “Shit. This must be a peculiar homicide if the DA’s office is on the scene within fifteen hours of the crime.”
“What’ve you got?” Dan asked, ignoring the comment while he scanned the mutilated body still on the floor of the garage. He grimaced and covered his nose. “Holy shit,” he grunted. “Why hasn’t the coroner removed the remains yet?”
“Forensics,” Mike said. “This one’s too bizarre. We need to be careful with the on-scene evidence.”
“Hmm,” Dan intoned. “What do you know about the victim? I heard it was Daryl Smith, a peripheral member of the North Side Posse. Far as I know, the guy was into petty theft, running heroin—maybe some crack—and he may have recently escalated to GTA, but it was all standard, low-level shit. What kind of enemies could he have made? Who the hell would take him out like this, want to leave this kind of message? And why burn most of the chain, but leave the body? Why go for the heart, then leave it intact?”
Detective Jacobs shrugged. “I see you’ve still got your sources.” He smirked and continued, “Truth be told, we don’t know. Not yet. It is Daryl Smith, and there was nothing— absolutely nothing—the vic was into that explains this shit. One of the weirdest hits I’ve ever seen.”
“And you’re sure it was a hit?” Dan asked. “Not some other kind of trouble, an unexpected run-in with a rival gang member, something else the kid was mixed up in?”
Detective Jacobs furrowed his brow. “I’ll tell you this much: It looks like a professional job, not just some run-of-the-mill confrontation; but what we don’t know is whether or not it was a paid assassination, an act of retaliation, or some strange-ass ritualistic deal. We’re gonna have to dig a little deeper on this one.”
Dan studied the outline of the fallen body and winced. “Ritualistic?” he parroted. “What do you mean?” His lower abdomen tightened, and the hidden tattoo on the nape of his neck, just above his hairline, began to tingle.
The detective turned to face him and sighed. “So it’s looking like we’ve got a couple more missing gangsters, all members of the North Side Posse, and here’s where the shit gets weird: The posse was at war with a rival gang—again, some everyday, petty bullshit; nothing that explains this mess—but one of the families of the rival gangsters was into some pretty strange shit.”
“Like?” Dan prompted.
“Like some kind of occultist nonsense, devil worship or something. We don’t know the details yet, just that the vic’s father belonged to some bizarre dragon sect. Ever heard of the Temple of Seven?”
Dan scrunched up his features in a what-the-hell gesture and immediately shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.”
At that, Detective Jacobs gave him a cursory once-over, almost as if he was reading his posture, analyzing his body language for cues, and then he drew back and frowned, slowly shaking his head. “You’re not here about the victim, are you?”
Dan felt his chest constrict, and he tried to play it off. “What do you mean?” He chuckled insincerely. “I’m the assistant DA—whoever did this shit, we’ll be prosecuting the guy.”
“Or gal,” Detective Jacobs interjected.
Dan gestured toward the butchered corpse and smirked. “The guy. Maybe guys.”
“Yeah,” Detective Jacobs conceded. “No doubt.” He paused for the space of two heartbeats and then he cut straight through all the minutia. “But since you only prosecute appeals, the case won’t come to you. So, what are you really here for, Dan? What do you really want to ask me about?” He planted his hands in the pockets of his pants and gave the attorney a no-nonsense stare. “You still carrying a torch for Jordan Anderson?�
�
Dan dropped his head and stared at the ground.
Well, shit.
Was it really that obvious?
Chapter Twelve
Jordan followed Zane in absolute silence as they left her apartment early Sunday morning, locked the door behind them, and headed to the elevator carrying several duffle bags packed with her things. Zane had said they could retrieve more items later; The Pantheon could purchase or provide whatever she might need, and she could always come back for more.
He had said he would bring her back.
It was all that was keeping her sane.
As it stood, she felt like a card-carrying member of the Stockholm Syndrome club, aiding and abetting in her own capture, participating in her own abduction, following the lion to his den, but for the life of her, she didn’t know what else to do.
The male was real.
The situation was extremely real.
And there didn’t appear to be an easy way out: a fact that had become ever-more tangible over the past thirty-three hours…
During that time, Jordan and Zane had talked as best as they could, considering the circumstances. They had co-existed in silence when talking was too much—or too hard—and they had suffered through one and a half, long sleepless nights of him stirring restlessly on the couch, and her tossing wildly in her bed. And during that time, she had wished—more than once—that she could just jump out the window and make the nightmare end.
She had felt like a captive bird.
