Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Vampires; Shapeshifters; Romance; Fantasy; Werewolves; Thriller; Paranormal Romance; New Adult; Magic
Description: From the New York Times bestselling author of A Terrible Love.... comes the intense continuation of ANGELIC BLOOD.... Julia's spirit is crushed as she sits trapped in the Singer bunker while heaven knows what happens to her people in the evil hands of Praile. Meanwhile, the insidious demon's spore flourishes, reeking havoc on what makes her angelic. Now it's a waiting game until Julia and Scott are released from their forced protection into a potential second catastrophe. Adi and Slash have fallen prey to the corrupt Were, as Tramack doggedly seeks that which he does not deserve. Can Tessa and

BLOOD ENCHANTMENT

A Blood Series Novel

Book 6

New York Times Bestselling Author

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

www.tamararoseblodgett.com

TRB Facebook Fan Page

Cover Design: Claudia McKinney

Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing

Synopsis

Julia's spirit is crushed as she sits trapped in the Singer bunker while heaven knows what happens to her people in the evil hands of Praile.

Meanwhile, the insidious demon's spore flourishes, wreaking havoc on what makes her angelic. Julia and Scott are caught in a waiting game, ready to be released from their forced protection into a potential second catastrophe.

Adi and Slash have fallen prey to the corrupt Were, as Tramack doggedly seeks that which he does not deserve. Can Tessa and Tahlia escape? Will Lanarre royalty cage Tahlia, or will Drek set her free?

Does Lazarus escape the depths of hell, only to fail in his pursuit of the ultimate forbidden fruit?

DEDICATION

Dawn Y.

CONTENTS

Synopsis

Character Index

Works by Tamara Rose Blodgett

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Warning! ***Contains spoilers***

Character Index:

Blood Singers/talent:

Julia- Queen of the Singers; Telekinetic/telepath

Scott- Royal Singer Blood; Deflector/Combatant

Brendan- Tracker/pyro

Michael- Illusionist

Jen- Telekinetic

Cyrus- Healer

Paul- Negator/amplifier

Angela- Feeler

Marcus- Region One

Jacqueline- Royal Singer Blood; Region Two Leader

Victor- Region Two/Combatant- Boiler/Flame of Blood

Lucius- Combatant

Cynthia “Cyn” Adams - Rogue/Healer

Heidi- Reader

Trevor- Deflector

Northwestern Were Pack:

Lawrence-Packmaster

Emmanuel “Manny” - Beta to Lawrence

Anthony “Tony” Daniel Laurent- Second to Lawrence

Adrianna “Adi”- Alpha female

Southeastern Were Pack:

David- Packmaster

Alan Greene- Alpha male

Lacey Greene – female Were and Alan’s sister

Buck “Slash”- Alpha male

Karl Truman- former Homer detective

Ford- Alpha male/ FBI agent

Reagan - Moon Warrior, Lacey’s daughter

Southeastern Vampire Kiss:

Merlin- Coven leader (now deceased)

William- new coven leader (now deceased)

Brynn- New leader of the Southeastern

Northwestern Vampire Kiss:

Gabriel- Coven Leader

Claire- William’s cousin

William- Runner/shifter/Singer blood

Unseelie Sidhe fey:

Queen Darcel- Sidhe

Tharell- mixed Sidhe warrior

Cormack- Sidhe warrior

Domiatri “Domi”- Sidhe warrior

Rex- Sidhe

Kiel (key-ale)- dragon shifting Sidhe

Celesta- Sidhe warrior

Delilah - Vampire, third to Julia, Scott’s half-sister

Rogue Reds:

Ezekiel “Zeke”

Rogue Alpha female Were:

Tessa

FEDS:

Tom Harriet

Tai (tie) Simon

Western Were Pack:

Tramack

[the] Lanarre:

Drek

Bowen

Taliah

Works by Tamara Rose Blodgett:

The BLOOD Series

The DEATH Series

Shifter ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

The REFLECTION Series

The SAVAGE Series

Vampire ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

&

Marata Eros:

A Terrible Love (New York Times bestseller)

A Brutal Tenderness

The Darkest Joy

Club Alpha

The DARA NICHOLS Series, 1-8

The DEMON Series

The DRUID Series

Shifter ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

The SIREN Series

The TOKEN Serial

Vampire ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

The ZOE SCOTT Series 1-8

Never miss a new release! Subscribe:

Marata Eros NEWS

And/or

TRB News

CHAPTER ONE

Tessa

Tramack's claws stop his forward momentum abruptly.

Exhaust from the suburban plumes toward him, and Tessa sees his effort to stifle his violent reaction to the nauseating smells of gasoline. Fossil fuels act like poison to a werewolf.

But Tramack is Alpha, so he can withstand a lot of unpleasantries, like the rogue female Alpha who has outfoxed him for two decades, leaving a legion of Were corpses in her trail instead of bread crumbs.

Nevertheless, he's followed the trail, and here he stands. Tessa can't believe Tramack's finally gotten off his ass and stopped sending lackeys to get their butts handed to them by a female.

She shoots a covert glance at Lazarus.

He's calm.

Hot, but Zen. His skin emits a subtle vapor, in the same way hers holds a layer of anxiety-laden sweat.

“Tessa,” Tahlia calls from inside the truck. Her tone says it all. But if that weren't enough, Tessa tastes her own trembling fear on her tongue.

Fuck.

Tramack's dark brows drop like bushy caterpillars over eyes the color of flat pewter as they fall on Lazarus. “Go to hell, demon.”

Lazarus smiles, his eyes alternating between an icy blue and the palest shadow of gray. “Make me.”

“What are we? Three?” Tessa mumbles. But inside, her guts flip-flop like overdone pancakes.

Tramack's wolves circle their Alpha, flanking him in practiced smoothness.

Tahlia guns it. The fumes from the vehicle make Tessa cover her mouth to keep herself from puking. Fucking Chevys always burn rich.

Tramack coughs. “We have no quarrel with you, demonic. Leave the female—she belongs to me.”

Tessa gives an indignant snort. Lying asshole.

Lazarus turns to regard Tessa as though counting every pore of her skin, then turns his attention back to Tramack. “I do not see a label of ownership, dog.” A lazy smile hovers at Lazarusʼs mouth.

Tramack growls.

“Do not think it, mutt,” Lazarus says. “Tessa is my Redemptive, and as such, she has certain inalienable rights.

I do? “Oh… boy,” she mutters.

“Nonsense,” Tramack states as though whatever drops from his mouth is absolute fact.

For him, it is.

“That is a myth. Demons stay in hell, and the Were roam the earth unimpeded by your kind. You are not allowed to play in this realm.” Tramack's large hands fall to his sides.

Lazarus cocks his head to the left, appearing to contemplate Tramack's justification bullshit. Lazarus raises a finger, and Tess is mesmerized by his skin tone.

Who knew sunburnt skin could look sexy? She shakes her head. Murderous Were are on the prowl, bearing down on them. Lazarus’s little chat with Tramack is just a verbal dance. Tramack will spring. He'll kill Lazarus then take Tessa. She needs to think of contingencies. For example, Tahlia is already in a running car. Tessa sights the positions of the other Were as they move wide of Tramack. They're too close to the Suburban. They'll pounce. Tessa shudders. She can't stand the thought of Tahlia falling into the hands of the Western pack.

“Normally, that is true,” Lazarus says, “but we've been given a certain latitude from the Master for a time.”

“I don't give a ripe, hairy shit how flexible the devil has been. This is where we live, feed, and fuck. So, go to hell.” Tramack's lips pull back from his teeth, and icy fear slides down Tessa's spine.

The other three Were growl low in their throats.

This is getting saucy. Tessa quarter-changes to wolfen instantly, grimacing slightly at the rapid shift.

Her head whips in Tahlia's direction.

Burning eyes like silver discs rotate slowly in a return stare. A voice like gravel grinding together says, “Time to go, Tessa.”

Shit! Tahlia's already wolfen—and ready to drive a vehicle.

Tessa begins to back away from Lazarus. He's on his own.

Lazarus whirls to face her, his eyes like mercury-laced glacier blue.

Her eyes widen.

His gaze changes to obsidian. “Do not leave my side.”

“They'll kill us,” Tessa blurts. “Lazarus!” she screams as Tramack flings himself forward, landing on Lazarus.

Tramack is dirty, through and through.

Tessa breathes through the pain, bursting to wolfen in a slide of tendons and bone-breaking shift of her quarter-change form to half-werewolf.

Hurts, her beast says.

The first wolfen male comes for her, and she tamps her fear. Despite her alpha-female status and awesome skills, she's outweighed and outreached.

She growls, crouching low, and flicks her hands out. Talons fling the residual skin from the change like strips of sloughed snakeskin.

He follows through in a hard charge, wrapping his arms around her like steel bands.

Tessa gasps, struggling for oxygen.

Fuck breathing. She swings her head forward, head-butting the large male in the forehead. Stars burst, and Tessa groans. Fantastic.

His hold loosens, and she plunges all eight talons into his back, unwittingly marrying the two of them together.

He roars, jerking backward and taking Tessa with him.

She flips over the top of him and corkscrews her talons with a turn of her wrists.

Scrambled muscles! Tessa jerks her talons out, staggering backward. Another Were attacks from behind, but she's ready, throwing her skull back into his face.

He howls. This time, she gets lucky and he drops her.

She lands with bone-jarring impact. The exhaust pipe is right in front of her face, but the engine's no longer running. Oh shit. A huge shadow passes over her head. Tessa knows it's not a cloud.

A bird of prey hovers, legs like stiff planks as it sails down in a spiraling circle of speed, talons spread.

Here comes Tahlia.

A scent she can never forget swamps her nostrils, and her beast rebels. Tessa's tossed over onto her back.

A look of triumph covers Tramack's ugly face, his dark-pewter eyes spinning. “Bitch.” He grates, all teeth.

“Douche!” she screams, trying to crawl away.

Tramack grabs her ankles, half-flipping her. She stabs the ground with her talons, arresting her backward progress, and turns to her side, throwing her forearm in front of her face.

A pale-red appendage bursts through Tramack's torso. A ghostly worm of intestine slips out of Tramack in a slimy loop. He releases her ankles, and she yanks her legs away.

“Ahh,” Tessa says, adrenaline surging through her body as she scuttles in a backward crab walk.

Tramack's eyes go round as the fleshy weapon exits his body with a meaty suck.

Her gorge rises. Don't have time to puke, Tessa.

Tramack falls hard on his ass, hands grappling with his slippery guts. He can't quite manage to collect his intestines and drops them with a slapping smack.

Dirt and debris coat the pulsating organ.

She looks up from the sight, swallowing vomit as gravel and grass jam into the tender flesh of her palms.

Lazarus stands above Tramack, surveying the destruction of the Alpha Were and his writhing posse, his tail rising above his head. Tessa's eyes catch on strings of gristle and a tendon.

“Any takers?” he asks casually and Tessa makes a small sick sound.

His eyes laser to hers. Coal black softens to a pale gray then flips to a sky blue.

“Ahh,” Tessa says again.

The bird of prey lands to peck at Tramack's exposed intestine. He looses a high, keening scream.

Lazarus nods in apparent approval.

Tessa's mouth opens and closes as if she’s a fish out of water.

Beady black bird's eyes turn and survey Tessa's stupidity. They blink like two bottomless wells of oil, then the bird goes back to pecking.

Tramack’s bellows fill the air.

“Ahh,” she says with soft redundancy. Tessa's been reduced to a one-word vocabulary.

Lazarus studies her for a moment, frowning. “We do not have time for a breakdown, Tessa.” He reaches for her, and she beats at his hands, her talons automatically retracting. With a sigh of pure frustration, he scoops her off the ground. His tail, mercifully, is gone.

Tramack begins to howl in earnest, trying to swat at the bird while his body furiously heals the wound Tahlia inflicts in her bird from.

New skin grows over the dirt and the intestine.

Tessa looks away before she barfs. “What is that?”

Lazarus looks more human. His pale-blond hair is a perfect complement to what a human being would recognize as a ruddy complexion.

Then the tail rises above his head once again.

So much for human. Tessa gulps back the lump of crazy in her throat. The ball of fear settles in her stomach, spreading out in dangerous tendrils of hysterics.

“This?” Lazarus asks casually. The tail flicks.

Tessa nods, hiccupping. She claps a hand over her mouth, unable to take her eyes off the perfectly formed hammer head at the end of a six-feet-long reddish tail.

Tessa tries to ignore the chunk of intestine that Tahlia slurps down her throat like a succulent oyster.

Caw.

“Oh Jesus, let me down.”

Lazarus bends slightly and sets Tessa on her feet, smoothly kicking the twitching Were trying to heal at his feet. He makes the wound more severe, and brains leak out where only a fractured skull had been before.

Tessa runs to the bushes and heaves her guts into the greenery, never more thankful she’d worn a braid. Leaning on a tree trunk, she stands, wiping a shaky hand over her mouth.

Turning, Tessa sees the Were are repairing themselves. Tramack looks at her with hate.

Tahlia is back to wolfen now, but she’s still covered in the grime of her deeds as a bird of prey. A pure-ebony feather lies at her feet.

Tessa shudders. Gross.

“We need to go,” Lazarus says.

Now he wants to go somewhere?

He looks at Tramack with utter indifference. “But first we kill this Were,” Lazarusʼs tail swishes above his head like an agitated feline appendage.

Tessa looks at the tip. How can that plow through a body? Do I want to know? Tessa turns, her long braid flopping at her back as she clenches her eyes shut.

She should be happy that the misery of Tramack will be at an end. She can leave and be free of him. Avoiding the inevitable skirmishes while traveling as a rogue female would be nothing if he weren’t after her.

“What in the hell are you doing, Lazarus?” roars a voice that sounds as though it's on fire.

Tessa's eyes fly open. A man stands at the edges of the mess, as shouts and screaming begin to filter toward their position.

It's that other guy—the one who came with Lazarus. But he looks nothing like he did in what she could only call a human costume.

He's tall, like all male supernaturals. But there, the similarity ends. Sleek deep-red hair, a shade or two darker than his skin, is slicked back from a high, broad forehead above merciless eyes so black, she couldn't find the pupils if she tried. Black horns sprout from his head like bony flower stems without heads.

Then she gets a load of the tail. Tessa backs up a step.

Lazarusʼs eyes flick to hers then back to this new threat. She'd thought Lazarusʼs tail was something.

But this guy—this guy…

His tail whips above his head, and spikes, all black, extend from a deep-red bulbous end. The tail end looks like a f fleshy medieval flail.

Tessa backs up another step, burning to turn and see how far the Suburban is from her present position. She flares her nostrils, trying to locate safety that way.

“I have the Blooded One contained. We only need kill who we can then proceed to wipe her out of existence. Why you are wasting your time with antagonizing”—his nose wrinkles, vapor exits his nostrils in smoky spirals that drift away, and a strangled sound of fear squeaks out of Tessa—“these ridiculous beasts?” He tsks, a forked tongue flicking out at the last syllable. “You are not staying on task, Lazarus.” The snakelike tongue snaps back into the black interior of his mouth.

Oh, baby Jesus, a forked tongue.

His inky brows come together in a clear frown of chastisement. He takes in the bleeding but healing Were at his feet. Then he stomps Tramack’s head into the ground, crushing his skull instantly. Brains ooze out from underneath his shoe.

Lazarus doesn't even flinch.

These demon guys mean business. Tessa dares turning, seeking Tahlia. As if in total sync, Tahlia bleeds back to quarter-change and races to the passenger side of the Suburban. Tessa breaks, ignoring the demon interaction, and runs to the driver's side. She hops in, starting the engine.

“Or are you doing something else?” the other demonic asks Lazarus. His voice sounds closer.

Tessa tries to squish the panic. Could this dude be even worse than Tramack? She can't unhear their conversation. She closes her eyes, remembering the feel of Lazarusʼs hands on her body and his mouth on hers.

“Come on, Tessa—what are you waiting for?” Tahlia hisses.

Tessa pauses, noting a string of gristle dangling off Tahlia's chin.

“I need to know he's going to be okay,” Tessa says.

“What!” Tahlia shouts. “Leave him. He is a horned one!”

I can't.

The other demonic stands before Lazarus, who is shaking. The other one has him around the neck by the tail. His face intent, he squeezes Lazarus around the throat like a python.

“Tell. Me.” He shakes Lazarus.

Nope. Can't do it. Tessa exits the car, stepping over Tramack. His hand snakes out, grabbing her ankle, and she kicks him. He grunts.

“Don't, Tessa.”

“Fuck off, Alpha,” she replies without glancing at him.

The second demon's eyes move to her, unnerving and flat black. Soulless. Obviously.

Tessa shivers.

Evil radiates from him, coating her through the layers of skin, muscle, and organs, making her insides quake in revulsion. Still, Tessa moves forward against the horribleness of the creature before her.

His black eyes widen in surprise. “Who is she?” His tone is somewhere between shocked and affronted.

“Get your tail off him, jerk!” Tessa shouts.

The demon smiles. Black teeth.

He slowly unwinds his tail from Lazarusʼs throat. A mark like a rope burn twines around his neck.

Lazarus drops to his knees choking, clawing at his throat.

That pisses her off even more. Why can't anything ever go right? Why can't fucking males just leave me alone?

And, for the love of the moon, why must she do the white knight shit? And the one male, albeit a demon, who's actually treated her decent, is busy getting his assed kicked by his own kind.

No. Something deep slips inside of Tessa, like a mudslide in her brain. She rushes forward, red-hot.

Lazarus bellows, “No!”

And then the demon is on her, wrapping her with his tail. That's fine. Tessa's talons are at the ready.

She slices off his dick.

All guys have one.

CHAPTER TWO

Julia

Julia forces her gorge down. She's pretty sure that the queasiness woke her. She rubs her eyes and groggily closes them again. But before she can doze off, the last memory sinks into her, grounding her in the present. Images of brutal clarity force her up off the cold floor like a reanimated corpse.

“Oh God,” she moans, palm to stomach, gazing around the bare concrete surfaces. Emergency lighting flickers. LEDs struggle to warm in the ambient low sixties temperature of the bunker.

Her eyes latch on to the stainless-steel ladder rungs leading to the first floor of the mansion. Beads of sweat pop on her upper lip, and Julia shelves the last images of Jason's death for the moment. She can't touch them or grieve.

Peter—or whoever he is—owns her region while she's down in the bunker.

Jason did what he promised. He saved her—at the expense of his own life. Julia sucks back a sob, instinctively looking for Scott. Her eyes find his form only feet from her own.

She tips off the edge of a cot and crawls toward him, vertigo making walking impossible. Putting her hand to his chest, she feels for a steady heartbeat—and can’t find it.

Don't panic, Julia.

“He cannot sense you.”

Julia jerks back, her heart thudding.

Steady gray eyes regard her.

Victor.

She releases a held breath. “You scared me. I forgot—” She ducks her head. “I forgot that you and Scott…” Julia puts her face in her hands. They smell like dusty concrete. She lets them drop, meeting Victor's handsome face.

“He probably has a concussion.”

She grabs Scott's limp hand, reveling in the warmth. “Right,” she says, nodding a little too rapidly.

I can't take them both being gone.

“He will regain consciousness.” She hears Victor’s attempt to soothe her.

She nods as a tear trails down her face. “We need to get outta here, Victor.”

“Impossible.”

Her face jerks from the study of Scott's relaxed features to Victor's stern ones. “What do you mean ʻimpossibleʼ?”

Victor sighs, running his large hands down his slacks. “It is timer driven. If no timer is set, it will automatically default to seventy-two hours.”

Julia's mind whirs. “How much longer?”

“Roughly forty-seven hours.”

Julia's shoulders drop in disappointment. “How do you—”

Victor points at the far wall. A clock similar to the countdown clock from the Northwestern Kiss where William held her runs the seconds down in digital format, marking time's passage eerily.

“That bastard is up there—doing God knows what to my people!” Julia says loudly.

“I know,” Victor glances away, his frustrated expression exactly matching her feeling of helplessness.

Julia scans the space restlessly, scrutinizing the rows of cots. They're harder than damn rocks. A queen should be able to do something about such slack accommodations, right? She feels a grim smile perch on her face.

Queen.

What the hell kind of queen can't even command the region she was prophesied to rule over? A sucky one.

Jason pops into her mind.

Don't think about him, Julia. Just. Don't.

She sucks in a shaky inhale then lets it out with agonizing slowness. “Okay.” Julia stands, slapping her thighs and dusting off her hands. “I'm going to check out this bunker.”

Her eyes move to Scott, so still on the adjacent cot. As she watches, his chest rises and falls.

Julia has to occupy herself, or she'll go crazy

“I will accompany you.” Victor’s battered body is mending before her eyes.

“It's okay. Just rest.” Julia knows Victor must have hauled them away from the hatchway after they fell in here. “I can do this.” Her brows pull together. “How'd you get down here?”

A rueful smile tucks itself into the corners of his mouth. “I was unceremoniously tossed down by the demonic ruffian and his cohort.”

The older Singers speak so strangely. “So no one noticed you were missing, for like a day?”

“I did.”

Julia whirls. “Scott!” she squeals and rushes to his side, relief surging through her.

Standing, he lifts her off her feet then twirls her. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Julia.”

She automatically kisses him—right there in front of Victor, with Jason's dead body on top of the escape hatch. Julia doesn't even have time to analyze how practical she's become in the years she's survived the supernatural world.

The soul-meld doesn’t care about circumstance. Their bond dictates and overpowers everything.

Their mouths mash, tongues inserting and twining passionately as reason and rationale depart. Scott and Julia touch, moved only to have skin-on-skin contact, reuniting and strengthening each other as only they know how. The reaction is natural for soul-meld Singers.

Victor clears his throat, reminding Julia they have an audience.

They leap guiltily apart—at least Julia does. She doesn't think Scott feels guilt about much, especially their union.

Julia feels the sting of shame because the circumstances are dire. And caving to their need of each other somehow seems selfish in the face of the potential suffering going on above their heads.

Julia knows there is no alternative to the bunker, but that doesn't change her feelings. She self-consciously covers her mouth as though she can erase the moment.

Scott shushes her, pulling her against his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asks against her hair.

She nods, though she's anything but. Silently taking comfort from the steady beat of his heart, she lets Scott's warmth seep through his shirt and heat her cheek.

Victor inclines his head. “My king.”

Right. Now that Marcus is gone, Scott's it. Julia closes her eyes against a reality she can't deny.

“Please, Vic, I can't take all the pomp and circumstance.” He rakes his free hand through his inky hair. “You just treat me like you did before-before Father died,” he ends quietly.

“As you wish.” Victor clasps his hands behind his back, his chin dipping.

Scott exhales in relief without mentioning the obvious: how they would all love to be above. Instead, Scott tugs her away from the cots. “I've been down here, but you want a tour?”

“We've got nothing better to do,” Julia admits. “That horrible guy is up there, doing I don't know what while we're here languishing. I need a distraction.”

“Hey.” Scott stops walking. He tilts her chin up with one finger, “We can't get out, Julia.” He pauses for a moment. “I wasn't a fan of Caldwell.”

Julia shuts her eyes against an agony she can't name, against Scott being that insensitive to all that's happened. Julia knows Jason's conduct was terrible at times, but now he's dead. Truly gone.

“Julia.”

Resentfully, she meets his nearly black gaze. “He did right by you. That demonic had me. He was going to do you in, and I couldn't change fast enough, get past his evil, to save my own soul-meld.”

Scott shakes his head, eyes narrow. “That spore”—his mouth flattens into a tight line of anger—“that thing made you susceptible to the demonic.”

Julia's surprised by his words and relieved Scott's giving credit to Jason.

“Not just that, Scott.”

They look at Victor.

His expression is apologetic.

Julia gets the idea that he's accustomed to having to say things that might not be real popular. Cue Jacqueline being the queen of Region Two.

“If your meld remains unconsummated, you're especially vulnerable.”

Julia's face bursts into flames, but he pretends not to notice her obvious embarrassment, though Scott wears a smirk.

Victor continues, “You would have done yourself a great service to have accepted the triad between the wolf, vampire, and your soul-meld.”

Victor hangs his head in apparent regret, and Julia wishes she had a rock handy, so she could crawl under it.Victor casually discusses her nod to a plural marriage as if it's the weather.

Julia's still trying to wrap her head around being a Rare One—a queen. It's all so foreign. But as the death toll mounts, the enemies draw closer, supernaturals literally pour out of the woodwork, and people she loves sacrifice themselves for her—Julia has slowly come to the realization that she is who they claim she is.

She fills her lungs, shoring up her weak stores of courage. “So now that William is gone, and Jason—” She can't finish.

“Yes, completing the meld will make you nearly invincible and hasten the powers that all Rare Ones hold within themselves as potential—unrealized without the correct prompts.”

Scott's lips twitch. “So you're saying if we come together, then Julia will be safer?”

Knock that off!

He flinches at the shouted telepathic communication.

“Of course,” Victor says smoothly, a slight furrow between his brows as though they are the dumbest people who ever breathed.

Julia crosses her arms. Maybe one of them. She glares at Scott.

Victor's eyes bounce between her and Scott. “I apologize if what I've said is—”

Julia stabs the air with her palm, remembering all the other times sex had come up as The Solution. “Nope.”

“Let me show you the bunker,” Victor says, appearing to sense the tension.

Julia grunts softly, jabbing her elbow into Scott's side.

He guffaws quietly, tucking her under his arm. “That was so uncool. Why would you let him go on like that if you understood everything already?” she asks in a fierce whisper.

Scott flicks her nose. “Fun to watch you get all flustered.”

Julia rolls her eyes. “This isn't funny. Jason is dead.” Her voice shakes, and they slow, letting Victor move down a long corridor ahead of them. “And I don't know what that Peter demon is doing to our people.” Tears fill her eyes as the earlier levity flees.

“Hey,” he says, “he was after you. There's too many in the complex for him to try for everyone. You're safe here with me, and he's probably—I don't know—gone to hell.” He offers her a crooked smile.

“You're so not helping!” Julia jerks away from him, and he yanks her back.

“Let go!”

His dark eyes narrow. “No.” His hand wraps the bare skin at the base of her skull. A painful breath eases out of her as her head dips forward in defeat. “I'm sorry about Jason, but I'm never gonna regret what he sacrificed for you. It was the right call. I would have done it.”

“Do you hate me for being sad over Jason? It's so awful, Scott. I can hardly breathe.” Her hands fist the front of his T-shirt.

“Yeah. I hate—really hate—that you care for another man. But I love how tender you are, Julia. Those two things aren't separate. I can't have one without the other. And…” He pauses for so long that Julia lifts her head off his chest. “He was there first. Before I knew you. Before all this.” He sweeps his palm around their subterranean prison.

Julia's chest aches.

Right then, she realizes it's from a broken heart.

Scott threads his fingers through hers, and they walk down the corridor together again. Victor waits patiently at the T where the hallway ends.

Julia's lost interest in checking out the tomb-like surroundings. Exploring her lackluster prison of the next two days doesn't seem nearly as important as getting the hell out of it and excising the demon that somehow infiltrated her region.

But her want is in direct conflict to what is possible, so she walks.

Scott smooths the tension of her brows with a kiss between her eyes, and her breathing settles into a regular rhythm. She’s survived worse.

I’ll survive this.

She turns her face up to meet Scott's concerned stare and smiles through tears that remain unshed.

The time for grief is gone. Julia has a role to fill, and it's there for her whether or not she's ready for it. Jason's death can't be for nothing. He died because he believed in her importance. In her.

Julia's hand finds the place where the demon's wound festers. It pulses briefly before quieting.

As long as Scott and she are touching, it doesn't progress.

As long.

CHAPTER THREE

Slash

Slash has suffered greatly in battle. He’d been beaten to within an inch of his life and always triumphed in the end.

He's just that determined, but this is utterly different.

He spears the ground, using it like a handhold, and drags his upper body along the debris of the forest, making his way to his mate.

Slash's head spins.

Blood loss.

He has so many puncture wounds from talons, he's a Lycan pincushion. But right now, none of that matters.

Adrianna is injured.

Tramack of the Western harmed his precious mate, and for that—he'll suffer.

Finally, Slash gets to within arm's reach of Adrianna and rolls to his side, heaving his unfeeling, broken legs around in a swinging arc with his hands.

Slash resists the urge to weep. Mere crying isn't enough to quantify how grievous the situation is. Adrianna's face is battered; every bit of skin that meets his gaze is abraded by touch, talon, and teeth. Nips from sharp teeth march across her flesh.

But only one holds Slash prisoner—the area around her left areola has been punctured by a single fang, as though marked.

The vision of her beautiful breast marred by another male bottoms out Slash's guts, leaving him shaking in a rage so pure, there's no name for it.

Adrianna's clear hazel eyes open slowly then round with fear and disorientation.

“Shhh,” Slash croaks, his healing throat like sandpaper. “I'm here.”

Adrianna begins to cry, frantically touching herself all over. “Did they? Oh God, Slash, did they touch me?”

He hangs his head, his palms flat on her shoulders. He leans against her temple, lips against her ear. “They did not have the chance.”

Her body shivers against his, and hot tears scald the cheek he holds. Her grief and fear shred Slash on a molecular level.

“Don't cry, Adrianna. I'm here.”

“I know,” she sobs, wrapping her arms around his head and drawing him closer.

Slash tucks her in against his body, wincing at the motion but happy the others didn't get a chance to rape his mate. However bad that mark against the perfection of her skin is, it is only a mark. Slash's blood burns with the thought of what could have happened.

If they had been taking their time and not had the ulterior agenda of the woman, Tessa, Adrianna might have been violated.

Slash hears far-off screaming, shouting, and the sounds of fighting. They're certainly not out of danger yet.

His memory is fuzzy after he killed the first two Were, but he remembers Tramack's nose jerking up as he held a screaming Adrianna down, as though he recognized a scent so important that it blanked the present.

Tramack flicked his eyes over Adrianna, seeming to deliberate, then struck her in the temple with the back of his hand.

The light in Adrianna’s eyes dimmed, and she fell silent—still underneath Tramack.

Slash struggled to break free of the other two Were. Then Tramack snapped a tree in half as he swung the trunk from behind at Slash's unprotected legs.

Numbness swelled then burst over his lower body—hips to toes, and the Were holding him dumped him like garbage. He landed face-first in the muck of the soggy forest floor.

Tramack tossed the twenty-year-old tree like a twig after using it on Slash then stepped over his body. “That's not the lesson I would have given with more time, but there will be time enough later. My intended has just released her scent.”

Tramack lifted his nose to the sky, sighing in contentment while Slash's eyes remained frozen on his face—memorizing it forever.

Slash realized Tramack was crazy. It happens sometimes. Alphas aren't always of the most stable temperaments. Tramack was no exception, though he had spun down into a new low. Beating a female for no other reason except her mouth? Because he could raise his fist?

Slash understands the prejudice against Reds. He's lived that. If Adrianna hadn't been there, they still would have punished Slash for being what he is, for looking imperfect.

Supernaturals aren't known for their compassion. Every supernatural is supposed to be the epitome of perfection of his or her kind. The expectation is due to their powers, strength, and healing ability. The Singers have all that the Were possess and paranormal talents besides.

No Lycan can withstand silver without obtaining a scar. And some species have no compunction against using the alloy in battle. Slash had been in many battles. It'd only been a matter of time before someone had a weapon meant to do worse than kill—but permanently maim. Slash shoves his introspection away as Adrianna begins to quiet, shattering Slash's reflections. He carefully wraps the tatters of her thin T-shirt over her breasts—the brassiere is long gone.

“They'll come back!” Adrianna says, her voice edging along that fine line of hysteria.

Slash shakes his head, rising push-up style over her. He cages her in with his body, dragging his still-uncooperative limbs behind him.

“They're busy,” he huffs between movements.

For the moment.

Adrianna's lip trembles.

He cradles her face, kissing her soft lips, hating that it's the only undamaged spot of her face. “Listen to me, Adrianna.”

She nods, gasping back a sob. “Okay.” Tears roll over the tops of his fingers.

Their eyes lock. What he sees in her gaze makes his heart ache like a rotting tooth. “I need you to be that smart-ass brave girl I know you are.”

A surprised laugh escapes. “What? I—my words are what got us into trouble, right?” Her eyes flick guiltily away from his.

Slash places a gentle fingertip on her jaw and turns her head back to face him. “No. They would have hurt me regardless of your presence.”

“Because you're Red?” She guesses immediately.

“Absolutely. And because of my imperfections.”

Adrianna crosses her arms. “That's bullshit.”

Slash smiles, his scar tissue flattening and reminding him that his face is still healing.

Her skittish gaze flies around the still woods. “We need to get out of here, Slash.”

He nods. “Can you hear that?”

Distant noises reach Slash’s ears. A large engine revving. A female's screams. Low, threatening male voices.

Adrianna stops all movement, seeming to really understand his odd stance above her for the first time. “What is it?”

She jerks up, and Slash follows the motion, rolling to his elbow. She's now above him and looking intensely into his face. A leaf is embedded in her matted hair. The sun slants through the thick canopy above where they just made love, setting one of her eyes on mossy green fire, mimicking the needle-strewn floor they lay on.

“What the fuck, Slash?” A fat tear slides out of her swollen eye as it skims his body, the unnatural stance of his lower limbs. “What'd they do to you?”

She kneels beside him, and he gathers her close, so tightly she's hard-pressed to breathe. “They've hurt me beyond what I can heal quickly and without a shift—or food. My situation makes us vulnerable. I need you to leave me for a while, Adrianna.”

Adrianna struggles against his hold, but Slash gives a low growl and sets his teeth at her shoulder. She stills beneath him, her wolf submitting to his. Her eyes roll to meet his. “Don't make me, Slash. I just found you.” She touches his face. “We just found each other. Don't make me go, please.”

Slash's eyes close against her pleas. If he has to die because he's indefensible, he won't take his mate with him.

Slash releases his hold. “Adrianna.”

Her head tips back, and he catches her fragile skull. Her eyelids hood, languid over her submission to his wolf. It's a wonderful interaction during sex, but not so much in the present, when Slash can hear the sound of a small battle happening too closely for his comfort. And Tramack’s vague threat about returning hangs over him.

“It's the only way I can protect you until I heal this injury.”

Tramack had performed the maneuver to paralyze an opponent before. He was far too practiced to have not. The move against him made Slash wonder how deplorable the Western pack had become.

He shakes the thoughts away. They can't afford the time of his speculations. “I'm paralyzed,” he says in a bald tone.

Deliver the facts. No more, no less.

Adrianna bites her lip, trying for brave, not that she needs to try. She is brave. She clutches his shredded shirt. “No,” she says with quiet intensity.

“Not forever, but right now, I must—my wolf must—keep my mate safe.”

Adrianna clings to him. “I won't leave you!”

I was afraid of that.

A huge sound booms where the voices have escalated to shouts. The report of gunfire echoes.

He shoves Adrianna away from him, growling. His eyes become razors, and he pushes every bit of Alpha Red to the surface of his skin.

“Do not kill me by staying,” he delivers in low command.

Adrianna's head rocks back as though she’s been slapped. “What?” she whispers. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Slash hates what he must do. But she is a young Alpha female who thinks with her emotions. Newly mated, she's vulnerable, and her feelings are right below the surface. She'll get them both killed without meaning to.

Slash has to think for the both of them.

“Get the fuck out of here. It was fun, but I don't need you like an anchor around my neck.”

Tears pour down her healing face like an undamed river, and she scoots away from his slack hold on her.

“Bastard!” she screams, angrily swiping at her tears. “Did you fucking see what that douche did to me? He marked me!” Her hand moves to the breast Slash covered with a makeshift bra.

Slash holds his flinch. It's one of the hardest reactions he's ever had to suppress. Somehow, he manages. “Yes. Do you want him to again, female?” Slash grinds out coldly.

She shakes her head. “No, you asshole.” Adrianna stands, begins to stomp off, then whirls to face him.

Slash hates being on the ground, unable to stand on his own two feet.

“I would have stayed with you.” Her voice goes low. “Fought for you. Protected you.”

Like all Were, Slash has excellent sight. His eyes home in on the standing water in hers.

Their eyes lock. Finally, he breaks the heavy silence. “That's not your role. Now go, female.”

Adrianna nods quickly. “I'll go, you jerk. I can't believe you mated me and care so little. I thought—” Her hands rub at the tears brimming and streaking her bruised face. “The hell with what I thought. At least one of those bastards is a testi shy.”

She turns, striding away. Then she runs.

A tight breath of relief slides out of Slash. He allows himself to fall backward, the leaves and needles cushioning the short slump. Slash lies there, looking up toward the sky, his chest tight.

Hopefully, Adrianna will be so pissed off, she'll just keep going. His nose will find her later. It's more important that she's safe—and far from this place. He knows Adrianna will avoid the conflict. And most certainly, the conflict involves Tramack.

Slash can explain his reasoning to her later. She would have stayed. He understands the kind of female Adrianna is.

He also understands the male that Tramack is. He'll return, regardless of whether or not a female that is supposedly his intended has been located in Region One.

He'll come back because he’s a follow-through type of Were, the worst kind, made even more by his insanity.

As Slash scans his surroundings, a reluctant grim smile pulls at his lips. The two dead Were languish a few yards away from his position.

At least there's that. Now how do I get somewhere isolated that I can shift to wolfen and hunt to revitalize this body?

A stealthy movement hits Slash's radar, and he tenses, feeling his toes for the first time in an hour. That's not going to do a damn bit of good if what he hears is round two with Tramack. His fingertips itch to burst to talons, his emotions inciting the change like a lit match.

Slash resists. He's exposed.

Truman moves from behind a tree, looking around at the mess and the Were corpses. “What the fuck?” he asks, and Slash grins. His relief is so intense, his normally stoic personality momentarily leaves him.

“Yes, that's exactly it.”

“It's that Alpha Zeke and I scented, right?” A shadow crosses his face, and Slash sits up straighter, hiking his ass so he can be upright. It's not standing, but it's not lying on his back, either.

Feeling swarms to Slash's ankles. Hope flares.

Karl Truman—a former Homer, AK cop, and now the oldest living change on record—stares at Slash's legs. His eyes slide back to Slash's. “That prick do that to your legs?”

Slash nods. “I can feel my feet.”

“Asshole.” Truman's eyebrows jump. “Where's Adi?”

Slash's chin dips to his chest, and a frustrated exhale squeezes out. “I rejected her so she'd leave.”

He whistles. “Ouch! Didn't want that Alpha to come back and hurt Adi when you couldn't protect the new mate?”

Slash nods; there are no secrets with the nose Were possess. Glad someone understands the logistics of being a male who loves his female more than taking his next breath. Slash answers in a curt voice,  “Yes.”

“Well, you want the good news or bad?”

Fuck. “Bad.”

“Zeke's dead.”

Shock rips through Slash, though his surprise is short-lived. “Tramack?”

“Who?” Truman's eyebrows jump again.

“He's the fuck from the Western.”

Truman's hands go to his hips. “Listen, I got changed by the Northwestern and don't give a good goddamn about keeping track of who's who and all the political bullshittery.”

Slash blinks.

Truman goes on, “So an Alpha who's not from here killed Zeke, though he managed to wipe out some of them. That's what that garbage smell is.” Truman cups his chin.

There were even more?

Truman nods slowly. “Yeah, little posse of Were. Here. For what?” He spins in a circle, coming to stop in front of Slash. “Don't know. Don't give a ripe shit.” He taps his nose. “They're presently after the two girls that you and Zeke had just picked up. And the two males from Region Two?” Truman barks out a laugh of pure disbelief, shaking his head.

Slash's eyebrows drop and his gaze narrows on Truman. “Tell me.”

“Those bozos are fucking demonic. Tails—the whole nine yards.”

Gooseflesh ripples over Slash's skin. His beast begs to change, though without a full moon, that’s only a painful wish.

“I can't make this shit up.” Truman shrugs.

His eyes meet Truman's. “What now?”

“I drag your fucked-up ass to the mansion, locate your bride, and kick some foreign Weresʼ ass,” he recites calmly.

Truman's simplicity is somehow perfect. He doesn't understand enough to worry about it.

It is simple: find the bad guys and eliminate them.

Point and shoot. Slash wishes the process could be that simple.

CHAPTER FOUR

Julia

All the rooms are the same. Julia doesn't know what she was expecting.

“They're like crypts,” she whispers.

Victor's beautiful, dove gray eyes stare into her own.

“They are sound-proofed and meant to be similar to the humans’ catastrophic nuclear strongholds.”

Ground zero. Julia shivers, and after studying the rows of metal doors leading to compartments for Singers, she turns back to Victor. “You mean if a nuclear bomb went off?”

He gives a solemn nod. “In theory, our bunker can withstand it.”

Scott squeezes her fingers reassuringly.

Julia is thoughtfully silent for a few seconds. “We're not deep enough.”

“True.” Victor strolls to a door like all the others. However, this one has a security pad with numbers. Victor taps a series of numbers into the lighted keypad.

Julia flinches when it beeps like a whining siren.

Victor opens the door, and crisp, slick stainless doors butt together. Only a dark, slim seam marks the center.

Elevator. “Where does that go?” Julia asks.

“Deep,” Victor replies.

Julia turns to Scott. “You knew?”

He nods. “It's not like we hang out in the bunker all the time. The royal blood lines all have a safe place to be. Never even thought to give the shaft any thought. No one anticipates nuclear holocaust.” Scott shrugs.

“Somebody did,” Julia replies softly, her attention shifting to the elevator once more.

“Yes.” Victor closes the innocuous door, and the elevator disappears behind it, blending in with all the others.

Victor leaves them at the farthest reaches of the bunker. Julia estimates the size to be, on all one level, as large as the mansion above it. She didn't think to ask what the “shaft” size was.

Victor rounds the corner but turns at the last moment, giving them a level stare full of meaning.

His looks seems all for Scott.

“Your quarters are already assigned.”

Julia feels her eyebrow lift. Assigned?

Victor interprets her puzzled expression perfectly and knots his hands together. “In the event of a need to use the bunker”—his eyes rise to hers then briefly flick to Scott's—“each royal family member would each have their own accommodation. That still remains the case. As it happens, Marcus had no official spouse during his reign as Region One king.”

Official?

“But I do,” Scott says from behind Julia.

“Yes.” Lifting his chin, he gives Scott a significant look.

“What, guys?”

“What Victor is too polite to mention is that you are meant to be my wife, but until we do the deed, it's sort of a hollow, unfinished union.”

A pale-pink blush spreads across Victor's cheeks. “Not as I would have put things, but accurate enough.”

Julia says nothing. She knew it would come to this.

“Julia.”

She turns around and faces Scott.

He takes her chilled hands in his warm ones.

Lowering his face to be level with hers, he asks, “Is sleeping with me a fate worse than death?”

Julia bursts out laughing. “No. I-I don't know. Everything's moving too fast.” Her heartbeats pile up on each other, her palms dampening.

“I will be in the main area near the vault,” Victor announces quietly.

Neither of them replies, but his departing footsteps echo hollowly back as Julia and Scott stare at each other.

“I am sorry about Jason.” His dark eyes search her face. “But I'm not sorry that he sacrificed himself to allow you to live. I'm just gonna keep saying the truth over and over again. No guilt, baby.” Scott cups her face, and she sighs.

He's so warm.

Present.

Hers.

Julia feels the rightness of the meld between them. Like warm water it molds to their bodies, reaching every bit of her. Their bond isn't conflicted, and she shouldn't be, either.

Scott waits in the silence pregnant with their emotions.

He wants her as a man wants a woman. He also wants her because the Combatant inside of him knows she'll have a net of security that would be very hard to strip if they finalize their union.

Julia nods, and Scott's shoulders drop, the tension of their tethered hands lessening, growing supple.

His eyes move to the door that simply has a musical note finished in a shining red enamel.

The color of blood. The global symbol for a melody.

Blood Singers.

*

“Don't get pissed,” Scott says, and her eyes move to his.

She was looking around the room. Julia didn't feel pissed; she was stunned.

The space must be something special for the bunker. It's unadorned and so plain, it's almost medicinal—except for a huge bed in the center of the oversized bedroom. An old-fashioned quilt graces the top, and four body-sized pillows round out a metal headboard. Two awkwardly narrow nightstands flank it, matching lamps softly glowing on top.

Julia shivers.

Scott notices, and his fingers part from hers.

He moves to the door then closes and locks it. Julia flinches as the deadbolt slides home.

His fingers twirl the thermostat to a higher temperature. Scott turns, and she's overwhelmed anew by his size, flushing at the thought of being with him.

This is gonna happen.

“Better?” he asks quietly.

She nods, looking down at her feet.

Julia shifts her weight nervously, and Scott's larger feet come into view, dwarfing her Converse sneakers.

“Scott,” Julia begins, her voice breathy.

He wraps his strong arms around her.

“I'm scared.”

Scott pulls away, cupping her chin and tilting it up. Gravity pulls the tears from her eyes.

“Don't, Julia. I would never hurt you.”

She nods, blinking.

His thumbs wipe the tears away. “Why are you crying?”

Her exhale trembles. “So many reasons.”

“You think I'll suck in the sack?” His lips twist.

She laughs, and they move apart. Julia smiles, appreciating the way he breaks the ice.

“Better?” he asks for a second time.

She nods. “I don't—I'm not thinking about that.”

“I know,” he says softly, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear. “Then what is it?”

Julia gives him a look of pure disbelief, folding her arms. “Jason just died. Our people are in danger.”

“And we have to be down here for nearly two days,” he states logically.

She snorts. “So we might as well screw because what else is there to do?” Julia sounds bitter.

“Yup!” Scott says, angrily pacing away from her. “Can't wait to have everyone in danger and die so we can hop into bed together. Right. So sexy.”

Julia hangs her head. “I guess it sounds pretty dramatic.”

“Yeah.” He sounds pissed. His entire body is one long line of tension.

It has to be her; he won't push. He's made his case. Victor's made it.

Julia walks to him slowly.

Scott doesn't move a muscle, showing her his profile.

She flattens her palm against his chest, and a sigh escapes them both. “I'm sorry,” she whispers. “I don't mean to be a bitch.”

His long fingers cover hers. Still looking away, he speaks to the flat gray wall. “You're not. Any human being would feel the same right now. You've gone through hell in the last three years, Julia.”

“I'm not strictly human, Scott.”

“Yeah.”

They look at each other, their heartbeats syncing.

“That's so weird,” Julia says with a tremor in her voice.

Scott knows what she's saying; it's all over his face. “Not to me.”

“That's because you were groomed for the possibility of the soul-meld.”

“Yes, but it's still surreal—our bodies knowing each other, wanting that constant physical contact. And if you remember, I wasn't exactly on board.”

Sadness tightens her chest. “I was a girl from Alaska two years ago. Now I'm a queen of a bunch of paranormal people and part angel and—”

Scott presses a finger to her lower lip. “And you're the woman I love.”

Julia kisses along the side of his finger, and Scott inhales sharply. She stares into his eyes, drowning.

“Julia, if you want to back out of this, do it now, because, baby, I can't stop.”

She shakes her head, releasing the guilt and shame, the ownership of things she shouldn't keep.

Scott shudders, wrapping her against him. “Do you trust me?” he asks against her hair. Their bond is a rubber band of comfort, security, love, and lastly, good, old-fashioned lust.

“With everything I am.”

“Then let me take care of you, Julia. For the love of all that's holy, let me be the one to take care of you.”

Julia wraps her arms around his waist, laying her cheek between the hard muscles of his chest. “Yes.”

*

The room is warm.

Julia is hot.

Scott begins to undress, his eyes glued to her. He jerks off his T-shirt and tosses it onto a folding chair against the wall.

“It's creepy that there's a chair there beside the bed. What? Is there an audience, possibility?”

“No,” he says, voice deep.

She swallows her nervousness, trying not to ramble on anxiously. Again.

“Not even a remote chance of interruption.”

Julia nods, dumbstruck.

Scott is a beautiful man. His large hands go to his hips as he stares at Julia. A handful of seconds squeeze by as they regard each other.

Then his fingers close on his belt buckle.

He slides his jeans down before kicking them off in the direction of the creepy folding chair. When Scott is clad only in socks and boxer briefs, Julia closes her eyes.

Her mind supplies the rest: Six feet, three inches of heavy muscles. Narrow hips. Broad shoulders. Legs like tree trunks. Soon she'll see all that she's imagined in the flesh. Julia calms her breathing and opens her eyes.

Scott stands before her. A little “eep” flies out of her. Her eye roam his naked body. She'd missed the unveiling but she's all eyes now. He's so much more than her imagination could have ever conjured.

Julia grins. “You scared me.”

Scott's smile broadens.

“What are you smiling about?” she asks in a huff, keeping her eyes on his face with an effort.

“You.”

Julia gives a tense little laugh. “I guess it's—”

“Let me, Julia.” His eyes shift to her clothing.

She nods, her heart thumping, and lifts her arms above her head.

Scott strips the T-shirt and throws it onto his pile of clothes. His hands move to the waistband of her jeans and slide them off slowly.

Julia doesn't cover herself. What they're about to do doesn't seem sleazy.

It feels right.

Before guilt has a chance to form, she rolls to her tiptoes and tilts her head for the kiss she knows he'll give her. His intent pounds through their meld.

Julia's not disappointed.

His hands land on her bare back, rolling over her skin. Her flesh pebbles beneath his fingertips, and a little sigh escapes her lips.

Julia becomes aware in stages that her panties and bra joined his clothing on the floor.

Scott scoops her from the floor, his dark gaze tied to her face.

The emotion in his eyes heals her. His body undoes her.

CHAPTER FIVE

Tessa

The demon's penis drops to the dusty driveway like an exhumed hotdog. Black blood pours out of the ragged hole she made with a quick talon swipe. Oops.

Tessa guffaws, because that's the best thing to do while wrapped against a demon. She’s always wanted to try that with a deserving male, and this fire dick fit the bill.

Sound ceases.

His hold loosens, and his mouth opens in dawning horror as his hands automatically go to his crotch.

“Sorry about that, asshole,” she says conversationally.

Suddenly, Tessa is hoisted off her feet, and her hands instinctively slice backward, hitting only air.

Lazarus whispers, “We are going.”

Then she's being turned and squired to the Suburban in a blur of speed.

Tahlia, looking human again, is buried behind the too-big wheel. Her eyes are mostly human, and entirely too young in a face pinched by fear.

“Tessa!” she screams as Lazarus tosses her inside the back of the truck. Tessa shoots across the bench seat like a cannon ball, sharply rapping the top of her skull on the opposite door.

Lights burst and flash behind her eyes. “Ah!” Tessa instinctively curls up into the fetal position. That fucking hurt.

With a shrieking squeal, the door she was heaved through is torn off.

Tessa sits up, her vision warped as she sees Lazarus holding the door like a shield in front of his muscular body.

Then she sees why.

In the next second, Fire Dickless is storming toward him.

Toward me.

The real bad? His penis is growing back and is presently a fleshy little red nub between his legs. It's deliciously pathetic looking.

Don't laugh, please, Tessa.

She laughs. Tears stream down her face, and she can't stop. Knowing she should makes it worse.

With a dull roar of rage, Lazarus brings the car door up between them in a swinging strike, tipping the broadest part sideways at the last second and impaling the demon in his gut.

“Fore!” Tessa whoops as though he’s hit a golf ball, with zero sense of self-preservation.

Lazarus follows through with an open kick that sends the demonic flying. He turns, giving her a death stare. “That is unhelpful.”

Right. Tessa clamps her mouth shut.

A giggle erupts.

“Hang on!” Tahlia screams from the front seat.

It does occur to Tessa then she might be a little bit in shock—or more than a little bit. It's not normal to laugh when a wounded demonic is gunning for them. She nods at Lazarus's obvious rage then slumps back against the door, laughing again.

Lazarus pushes in beside her.

“Go—now!” Lazarus shouts at Tahlia.

She nods, stomping on the accelerator. The tires spin uselessly.

Tessa turns and looks at the back of the rig. Her laughter dies.

The demonic is holding onto the tailgate, his triumphant smile revealing gleaming black teeth.

“Reverse!” Lazarus yells.

Oh, shit.

The click of the transmission locks into place, and suddenly, he's underneath the carriage of the car.

Thump.

Tessa's ass lifts off the seat. Her hair clings to the ceiling briefly before her butt drops back onto the seat.

The four-wheel drive locks into place, and the front wheels roll over the top of the demonic.

Thump.

“Forward!” Lazarus says above the grinding, rising car.

The Suburban gives an ungainly lurch and seems to pause as if stuck on the biggest speed bump ever.

Tessa's eyes find Lazarus.

His face is grim.

And handsome. Tessa's mouth pops open to speak.

The car plops down on the other side of the demonic, and spraying loose gravel, it speeds off.

Tessa turns, getting to her knees. Gripping the back of the seat, she watches as a mangled body rises like a crimson zombie.

“Oh my God!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Lazarus wince.

Oh, yeah, no religious terms. Tessa sinks onto the seat, her eyes tracking the demonic as he becomes an ever-smaller red dot in the distance, like a Mexican jumping bean.

He's steaming pissed.

Tessa rotates slowly to face the front again, lowering herself onto the seat. “That was close.” Her heart's pounding begins to slow.

Lazarus turns, letting his head fall back against the seat. Air rushing through the hole of the door serenades them with road noise.

Tessa blinks at the blurring landscape. That's right: demon boy is back there with a half-crushed door in his guts.

Or is the car door gone now because Tahlia ran him over? Hell on the tires, Tessa muses.

“Where now?” Tahlia asks, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles are white.

Probably not fair to make the youngest the driver in the Race of Death.

Shit happens.

Lazarus runs his fingers through his hair, pulling it away from his perfectly formed face.

Tessa's crazy to still be worrying about him when they just barely managed to avoid catastrophe. Still.

His eyes meet Tahlia's in the rearview mirror. “I do not know.”

“Oh fantastic,” Tahlia mutters. “Let me understand this. I am pursued by the Lanarre—rightfully, I might add. Then I decide to leave, giving myself the illusion of choice. And instead of riding off into the great yonder—”

Tahlia rolls her eyes as Lazarusʼs eyebrows slowly rise.

“I must contend with a demonic passenger after my friend relieved another of the horned persuasion of his penis.”

“Huh,” Tessa harrumphs. “Well, that's a neat-o summary as those go, but lacking a few details.”

Tessa turns to Lazarus. “Lazarus—”

“Laz,” he corrects, that vague smile hanging on his lips.

Tessa blinks. “Laz, what in the hell is going on?”

The corners of his lips tweak. “What indeed?”

Cute or not, Tessa sort of wants to wipe that insufferable smile off his face. Of course, the way she wants to do so is probably not ideal—with her tongue.

“It's too noisy to hear anything,” Tahlia grumbles from the front. “And I don't know where we're going.”

“Drive,” Laz instructs.

Her eyes shoot daggers into his through the mirror. “You do not command a Lanarre female anything, horned one.”

Laz laughs. “I haven't heard that in a coon's age.”

Tessa's brows knot. “Really? Fine. Speak loudly over the din.”

Laz exhales roughly, jerking his chin toward Tahlia. “The demonic hold the Lanarre in a higher regard than most of the supernaturals. That is true.”

A smug smile twists Tahlia's lips, though her eyes remain on the gray ribbon of highway in front of them.

“However, every being who has a soul is culpable to our purposes.”

Tessa hears only the greedy air grabbing at their vehicle.

After a full minute has passed, Tahlia asks, “Forgive me, why are we helping you?”

“It is I who helped you.” His eyes dodge to the mirror in challenge. “Except for your fine work with the Alpha.”

Tessa ignores Tahlia's bird-ate-the-canary grin. “Explain.” She folds her arms. This ought to be good.

“Praile is a high demon—as am I.”

Tessa's throat tightens at the D word. Really, there's no good connotation to that.

“You guys don't look the same,” Tessa states the obvious. It's not as though she's tripped over a bunch of demonic in her life. What did Tramack say? That they weren't allowed in this realm or something like that.

“Praile is the best of us. He has all the traits of beauty among our realm.”

Tahlia grunts loudly enough to be heard over the roar of noise.

Tessa sniffs. “He's fugly.”

A small smile touches Laz's mouth then vanishes.

“I agree,” Tahlia chimes in.

“Your earthly views on attractiveness are not important in our realm. In the demonic realm, dark-red skin, horns and teeth of black, a tail made for battle—those are deemed beautiful.”

“He's less beautiful now without a prick,” Tessa comments dryly.

Tahlia's shout of laughter in the front are followed by a soft whoop.

Laz suddenly grips Tessa's shoulders, causing her to yelp in surprise, and drags her against him.

The wheel jerks, and they nearly sail into the road through the hole in the side of the car.

“What are you doing to Tessa?” Tahlia shouts.

Laz ignores her, his eyes going black.

“You're scaring me!” Tessa says, squirming.

“Good, for Praile will retaliate.”

“He can't. He's fifty miles behind us.”

Laz releases her abruptly, shaking his head. “He is demonic. Do you understand what that means?”

Tessa was born in the 1960s. By werewolf standards, she's young for a female. She has studied some history, but demonic lore was never high on her list. “No,” she says at last.

“It means that Praile has a strength in this realm that he lacks, even as a high demon, in Hades. He can do much here.”

“Why did you—why didn't you stay behind?” Tessa asks.

Laz stares at her so long, Tessa thinks he might be ignoring her question. Then he replies, “Because my Redemptive has been revealed. That is all I needed. All that was necessary for me to eschew my origin. To never have to be in hell again.” He curls his long fingers around Tessa's nape, gently cupping the hot flesh around her skin, warming it.

“You're hot,” she whispers.

Laz nods, the small smile she's coming to like frosting his lips like cake icing. “Yes, I am demonic. It is part of what and who I am.”

“Why don't you look like that Praile nutjob?”

His lips quirk. “It is rare, but sometimes, an ugly demonic will be born. He will lack all the features of beauty among our kind.” Laz gives a rolling shrug, dismissing the way he just put himself down.

Tahlia's eyes flick to Tessa's then back to the road.

“So you're ugly.”

Laz chuckles. “Very.”

Tessa frowns. “Hmm. Okay, so aside from your grotesque looks…” She looks up from beneath her eyelashes, and his face is solemn.

She hits him on the arm. “Kidding!”

His answering smile is tentative.

“God—touchy!”

Laz flinches.

“Sorry.” Tessa pauses for a second, thinking about what to say next. “They really did a number on you.”

Laz scowls. “They did nothing to me. It has always been the order of Hades. An ugly demonic who is a high demon must prove their worth in other ways. They do not have their looks to rely on.”

“Oh?” Tahlia says.

“Yes.”

Tessa's getting this might be bad. She asks anyway, “So what have you had to do?”

His eyes glitter, their color morphing from the pale grayish-blue to a smoky charcoal. “Many unmentionable things.”

Oh. “What—why are you different?” Tessa asks instead of pressing him for all his demon deeds.

“I am not purely demonic.” His words hold shame.

Or maybe I’m reading things into that.

“Okkaaay.”

His head jerks toward her, his eyes now black. “I can heal others. I have a mixed heritage. Imagine being a ticking time bomb of mystery among those whose destinies are set as high demons with a fate as certain as the sunrise.”

Pretty awkward. “And this Redemptive craziness?”

“Stop the vehicle,” Laz says in a powerful voice.

“What about the demonic, Praile?” Talia asks in a strained voice, her eyes bouncing between them and the road.

“Pull. Over.”

Tahlia's mouth becomes a slash in her pretty face as she jerks the wheel. The car slams into the soft shoulder.

She shoves the gearshift into park and turns around, gripping the back of the driver's seat. “You will show me respect, horned one, or I will become an eagle in the time you take your next breath and pluck the beak from your face.”

Laz leans forward, nearly nose to nose with Tahlia. “And I shall suck your soul in one gulp, bird or no.”

They glare at each other.

“Guys,” Tessa interrupts their combative posturing. “Totally not helping. And Praile is probably really cranked.” Definitely. “Let's get things discussed and find a safe place. And ditch this car while we're at it—kind of conspicuous.” What with the built-in AC for the lack of door.

Laz exhales in disgust, dismissing Tahlia.

Great. That's all I need is those two at each other's throats. Tessa wonders how she acquired a rebellious whelp Lanarre and a demonic. How does this shit keep happening to me?

Lunatic life, that's how.

Laz turns to face her, his intense eyes trapping her. “You are my chosen one. The prophetical Redemptive.”

Tessa represses the urge to smile. “I think you mentioned that when we were sucking face.”

“What!” Tahlia shrieks in surprise.

Laz lifts his chin. “Silence, Lanarre.”

“I will kill you,” Tahlia huffs, her iolite-colored eyes flashing.

“Negative,” Tessa says, shooting her a “shut up” glance.

“You will try,” Laz murmurs.

Tessa grunts. “You're sure immature for a big bad demonic.”

Laz leans forward, capturing her jaw in a hand that could crush her. Strength thrums through his capable fingers. “I am more evil than anything you could dream up in the vastness of your thought process.”

Tessa's blood runs hot, surfacing over her entire body and tingling insanely where his touch lingers. She fights rubbing against him like a cat with its favorite perch. “If you're so evil,” Tessa whispers, “then why do you feel so good?”

Laz's forehead tips to meet hers, their breath mingling.

Holy hot tamale. Cinnamon sweet and yum. Tessa's suddenly dizzy.

“That is the question you must answer. I know what the Redemptive means to me. I will stop at nothing to protect you. You are the most cherished discovery a high demon of mixed heritage can hope for.”

“Wait a second.” Tessa pulls away. And like releasing yourself from warm bathwater, it’s a shock to the system, an unpleasant withdrawal.

Oh I’m in such deep shit.

“Are you saying—what are you?”

Laz shakes his head. It's hard to think when his thumb is moving over the pulse in her throat like a feathery whip of fire.

“Tessa, I don't like this,” Tahlia says, warily staring at Laz.

“Me, either,” Tessa answers softly. But Laz did save her—them. He deserves to say his piece.

Laz lifts a muscular shoulder, and Tessa's breath catches at the recognition of how wonderfully put together he is.

Wait—maybe all this bullshit “pull” is nothing more than heat. How long had it been since I was in heat anyway?

Laz jerks her out of her thoughts. “I do know that I am high demon. But the other species is anyone's guess. Demonic is always primary—as angelic is.”

“But you're a Healer?” Tessa asks, trying to shake off the image of humping a certain red guy.

“Yes.”

“What species can do that?” Maybe they can employ simple deduction and figure out what brand of Heinz 57 Laz is.

“Many. Fey, Singers, some vampire—mostly, they all can. Though pure demonic cannot.”

“What do I have to be in order to be your Redemptive?” Tessa asks, without bothering to censor her suspicious tone, though she can't deny there's a powerful connection.

“We would have to be of the same blood.”

Gah. Tessa pulls a face. “Ooh. Like related?”

Laz grins suddenly, and the light expression is so different than his typical somberness that Tessa automatically laughs. “No, we are not of close blood—like blood.”

“I am pure Were,” Tessa says matter-of-factly. That solves that.

Laz shakes his head, his irises back to the soft pale hue Tessa connects with everything being okay. “No supernatural is pure. Anciently, we were one species.” He knits his hands to illustrate his point. “Excepting the angelic and demonic, all the other supernaturals were as one. Then inexplicably, there was a fracture, and the species became separate. Now we have what we have.”

“In your theory—”

“Fact.”

Tessa groans. “Anyway, if it were true, how do we figure out what I am.”

“That Were knows what you are, and he wants you.”

“Tramack wants me because he's psycho.” Tessa rolls her eyes heavenward.

Tahlia snickers.

Laz shoots her a long-suffering look. His attention shifts back to Tessa. “He wants you because he somehow senses your specialness.”

Two decades of chasing her does seem excessive. All those sleepless nights of wondering why he couldn't just find a passive little woman and have a litter of little Tramack’s didn't escape her thought process.

“So what is our mutual blood?”

“Does it matter?” Laz asks.

At the end of the day, probably not.

“What do you get out of her being your Redemptive?” Tahlia asks suspiciously.

What if I don't want to be a Redemptive?

Laz says, “That's simple—I don't go back to Hades. Ever. I am free.”

Ah.

CHAPTER SIX

Drek

“I smell her everywhere,” Drek comments, lifting his palm off the forest floor. He brushes his hands off on the athletic pants so typical of what his kind wear during wolfen form.

Even though shifting is simple for a Lanarre werewolf, there is nothing simple about maintaining the form. All forms require excessive energy without the full moon. For the common among his kind, a full change is only possible at the moon's zenith.

Bowen tips his head in the direction that they both scent the escaped Tahlia. Drek shouldn't allow hope of finding her. Scent-tracking doesn't mean anything except that she was alive when she moved through this area. By some miracle, Tahlia survived a massacre by an unhinged Alpha Were.

It's up to Drek to recover Tahlia and protect her from any future challenges.

“Drek,” Bowen calls in a low voice.

“Wait—” Drek's brows come together. His ears are sensitive, and elongated in his wolfen form. They fold forward slightly, and he stills.

Far off to the east, noises of conflict reach him—a particular kind of conflict. Violence.

He lifts his nose to the sky. The moon rolls over the horizon as though called by him. It is waxing to full.

He notices Bowen is studying him, reading the subtle tells of his face. “Drek, the moon's call is weak.”

His eyes move to Bowen's, spinning silver in his head. “Do not tell me what call I can or cannot answer. I am a Lanarre prince.”

“Fine—fuck it. It'll hurt like a bitch.”

“It will. But I can find Tahlia faster if I become my beast.”

“That means I have to shift.”

“Do not.”

“Right—and be known as the shittiest guard that ever howled? I'm royal enough, Drek. I've got some of that righteous blueblood of the Lanarre, too.”

Drek looks away, throwing his shoulders back.

His fur ripples as he seizes the barest voice of the moon's call. It's a whisper.

But Drek is Lanarre, and that is enough.

His skull splits first. He can't fight the pain of a shift this far from the moon's siren, and his body slumps, knees hitting the soft undergrowth of pine needles, moss, and leaves.

Vaguely, he senses Bowen's shift to his right. The other Were’s change will hurt even more, for he does not possess enough of the royal blood to shift without a high degree of pain.

Saliva strings dangle from his mouth as a double row of canines sprout like knives inside his mouth. Drek's shriek of agony is a garbled wail. He falls to his side, his chest heaving. He whimpers as brutally sharp, short talons erupt from his legs.

Dew claws for vertical climbing, absent in mundane Lycan, push through the back of his legs. Powerful, with their own specially designed talons, they hurt like wisdom teeth breaking through in a human mouth.

Drek doesn't feel wise; he aches to his very molecules.

Lastly, his ears and eyes explode like spoiled fruit. Drek lies in the soupy gore of his own change, blind and momentarily deaf, while his vision comes to him in shades of gray. Stages of clarity gradually form into a crystal-clear acuity of a full shift.

Drek lies still. The seconds pile up to minutes. The noise of animals breathing reach his acute hearing.

The smell of a bird shitting a mile from his position causes his nose to stir. He lifts his muzzle off the richly scented, lichen-laden forest carpet and staggers to his feet.

With a mighty shake of his body, his fur fluffs out, shaking away the miserable remnants of his wolfen form.

Drek raises his snout, testing the air and sighting Bowen.

He is sleeping in the muck of his change.

Drek grins with the mouth of his wolf. He looks to the moon, somewhere between three quarters to full, and howls a singing praise of thanks.

One must always thank the source of one's power.

Especially a Lanarre.

*

Drek had to wait for Bowen to come to himself, then suffer through his complaint of the wretchedness of changing that far from the moon's fullness. Drek reminded him that they were lucky they had the ability.

He gave Drek a sour look.

When that bit was finally accomplished, they trotted to where the scent of Tahlia burnt his nostrils. There is no scent beyond him while he is a werewolf.

“A terrible wonder” some Lanarre call the absurdly refined olfactory senses of the royal Lycans.

Drek's extreme case of nose makes him a supreme tracker. Many of the Lanarre believe his skills are wasted because he is a prince, and as such, nothing is required of him but the making of new little princes.

Drek considers that role to be extremely tiresome.

Yet, he has told no one, though he believes Bowen suspects how much he would like to change the archaic laws that have been in place for over a thousand years.

New challenges hasten the need for responses that are different than the canned protocol that has become ineffective—such as the arranged match between he and Tahlia, a young woman he has never met.

It is his secret, and his alone. But he has no wish to mate someone with whom he has no kinship. She is his chosen—but not his beloved. He would free her from this obligation if he could, and he often wonders if she feels similarly.

He endeavored to speak with her, ascertain her thoughts. That was before.

Before the merciless killing of her guardians. Before her survival became paramount.

No. He will find Tahlia and secure her safety. Then, and only then, will he see to her assimilation into the Lanarre.

Of course, that presumption is met with a dozen thoughts of what that could mean to her.

Tahlia might become an outcast if the others believe he rejected her because of some perceived imperfection.

Drek is sure that she is perfect. Lanarre royalty have been deliberately bred to personify the perfect physical characteristics of the Lycan.

He's also sure that she is barely out of whelphood and not perfect for him. Tahlia is a good choice as a mate because she is of pure royal blood, as pure as his own.

And she is a wereshifter—a rare trait. That very thing undoubtedly saved her from the murderous, crazed Alpha whose scent he now owns.

The royal families of all the Lanarre families have been aligned for hundreds of years. It's time to change that and give males and females of royal blood a chance to choose whomever they want.

“Are you going to be okay?” Bowen growls. Though his vocals are a series of yips and soft barks to those who are not Were, for Drek, it is as refined as his human speech.

Drek is able to hear Bowen's sarcasm a mile away, and he glares at his trusted guard. His return barks are also soft, nearly inaudible.

“I'm in my head, Bowen.”

“I see that.”

Drek would love to seek his council. If there were retribution for his beliefs, which are not in keeping with Lanarre law, it is better that Bowen doesn't know them. Drek can admit that Bowen is more friend than guard. So he will shoulder the burden alone.

Drek could have sent an entire contingent to track Tahlia when she did not arrive at the preordained time. But what kind of prince would I be if I’m unwilling to not find my own chosen? Drek has always felt strongly that his role as prince requires him to lead by example. Strong leadership through acts are more powerful than words. Every time.

He will retrieve the sacred chosen—his chosen—and work out his internal struggles from there. Her safety is paramount.

Bowen yips, and Drek turns toward where his large snout points.

Drek knows he cannot truly frown in this form, but he does frown.

They've come to an open glade. A large late-nineteenth-century manse rises from a knoll like a jewel of architecture. To the northerly position sits a huge red barn, though Drek doubts livestock have graced the inside of the structure in a long time, if ever. It does not scent of animals in the last fifty years.

In human form, Drek would have laughed at the expression Bowen's wolf gives. But humor is in short supply. Bowen swings his massive face toward the structures and gives a soft yip. His eyes rotate so quickly, they're spinning coins of molten silver. His coat is gray, like Drek's, but Drek retains the inky tips of royalty.

The two move cautiously closer.

They've entered a loud ruckus—the same one he'd heard some miles back, before they changed. Drek scents Bowen's intent, and with a snuffle of acquiescence, they trot with well-trained unity, seamlessly parting and running in mirrored semi-circles around where a horned one lies writhing in the dirt.

Another is beside him.

An Alpha.

Drek scents deeply of him, smelling many things, but not the scent he most wishes for. It's both a disappointment and a relief. It would not end well for this Alpha if he had smelled of Tahlia.

The fragrance that rises most quickly is the foreign Alpha's injury, but underneath that, the certain stirrings of insanity lurk like rancid liquid from garbage gone bad.

Bowen gives Drek uneasy eyes from across the yard, where he is positioned in the shadow of the barn. Insanity is a real problem with older Alpha's. There is usually a catalyst for the origin, but once it begins, it can spiral into true lunacy.

Their spinning orbs regard each other.

What has happened here? They seem to silently ask each other.

The demonic holds his cock in an attempt to stem the flow of inky blood that pours forth.

Drek's tongue hangs from his mouth. The injury is fitting for one of that kind. His keen eyes shift to the Were on the ground, intestines littering the sparse gravel driveway.

Deep grooves speak of a large vehicle leaving in haste—recently, by the scent.

The smell of injury, death, and fear permeate the area. And Tahlia's scent is mingled throughout.

Someone will answer for this.

Drek lowers his head, growling softly. The demonic and Were raise their heads, spotting him. They do not see Bowen.

Drek leaps, closing the distance.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Julia

Julia believes that fear about her first time—anxiety over the unknown—would otherwise have been present.

But with Scott, it's not.

The soul-meld is a drug. Feelings of ease coat her body in languid calmness, and Julia submits to the ocean of instinct that permeates every cell of her body.

Scott lies beside her, trailing his fingers lightly over the slope of her naked side. His fingertips hesitate where her waist narrows to a valley, then he moves on, his fingers barely skating the hill of her hip.

His fingers spread on the bone, warming her to the core.

“Do you feel forced?” Scott asks softly, his normal intensity dialed down.

“No,” she replies quietly, looking away. Her hair sweeps forward, partially blocking her view.

Scott tucks the wayward strands behind her ear, tilting her face to his with a finger. “Don't, Julia.”

Her eyes move back to his. She studies the deep-chocolate irises. Steady, commanding, they are filled with desire.

“Don't what?” she whispers, but she knows. She can feel it through their connection, grown taunt with the coming event—the solidification of what they were always meant to be.

“Think,” he whispers and softly kisses the tip of her nose.

A sigh slides out of Julia, loosening that last bit of tension. “I haven't—God, I sound so stupid.”

Scott presses his finger to her lips. “I know. It's what all the damn fuss has been about. The virginity thing.”

Julia nods, her cheeks burning. “I've been really intimate before.”

Scott's dark brows lock together.

Julia smooths them with a finger. “I'm sure there's been other women for you Scott, so get over yourself.”

His smile is tight. “Now that I have you, there certainly wouldn't have been. I'm not a monk. But for you, I will be everything you need.”

Julia holds her lip between her teeth as his words reverberate to her toes. So many emotions riot inside her: inadequacy, guilt, and excitement.

“Really?” she asks. The fact that she's married to another man, though he's gone, doesn't stop how important their coming together is.

Scott nods solemnly. He grabs her hand and unfolds it over his chest.

Their heartbeats sync.

“Feel that?” he asks.

She doesn't think she'll ever get tired of their bodies’ recognition of the other.

He must see the agreement on her face and sense it at the soul level, because that's how they're bound.

“This isn't just sex—though that's going to be mind-blowing.”

Julia snorts softly. “Sort of arrogant.”

He smiles, but then his eyes grow serious, beautiful brown darkening to jet black. “Not at all. It's about your protection. The Combatant in me can't stop thinking about that. The man loves you, the Singer wants you at his side, and the Combatant wants you to live.”

Pretty tall order. “What about the demon spore?” Julia asks.

Scott nods. “What we do next can't hurt. Maybe our union will wipe that fucker out.” His teeth clench.

“Maybe,” Julia replies wistfully.

He tugs at her hand, his dark gaze searching her eyes, forcing her to believe his words through sheer determination, though she feels the echo of it in their emotional tether. “Definitely. Believe, Julia. Reach for the stars, and maybe—just maybe—you'll touch them.”

She closes her eyes, contemplating hope.

When Julia feels the soft press of his lips on hers, she yields to his hold. Scott's a huge man, and he uses every solid hard inch of himself to wrap around her.

Julia feels protected—and cherished.

The room feels like a womb of silence. The battle she imagines happening above them fades, and memories of Jason's sacrifice lessen. Julia commits to the inevitable—her destiny.

*

Scott

Scott stares down at Julia. Golden-red hair scatters like a glittering fan across the stiff pillow of their bed. Large whiskey-colored eyes stare up at him while her heart floods a full gaze. Scott sees it all in those depths. Trust. Hope. Desire for him.

She's finally mine.

Scott wraps his arms around her and holds her tightly, mindful of how tiny and fragile she feels within his embrace.

They've had every awkward conversation possible. Caldwell's death, the unlucky bastard. Her virginity. The possibility of that fucking demonic doing God knows what above. The spore that remains from the wound she received in Region Two.

But the most important thing is making their bond permanent. Unbreakable.

And like he told her, the Combatant part of his dual nature can't relax until that's accomplished. The male inside him has wanted her from the instant their hands accidentally brushed, and he was helplessly swept into the tide of what they were meant to be for each other, suffering through the torture of Caldwell’s indecision. The irony of the soul-meld isn't lost on Scott. He was the poorest candidate of anyone in this realm to have had this bestowed on him. He's more than rough around the edges. Julia's compassionate and soft.

She chases Scott's thoughts with her words.

“I'm ready.”

He believes her. The conviction stands in their shining connection and the trust in her eyes.

Scott tucks his palms underneath her, arranging Julia more solidly beneath him, and gently pushes her long hair out from beneath her body. “There,” he says.

A deep-pink blush spreads across her face as he surveys every bit of her naked body. She's breathtaking—frail yet strong, gorgeous yet unaware of her beauty. It's an intoxicating mix.

And there's no hiding what the sight of Julia does to him—her proximity.

“You're just looking,” she comments shyly.

Scott gives a slow, considering nod. “Let me. I'm not going to just pounce on you.”

The color on her cheekbones deepens.

He gives her a quick kiss, feathering his thumb over the heated skin of her face. “I will pounce if you say the word.” He arches his eyebrows, feeling his smirk edging his lips.

Julia smacks his bicep, and her breasts jiggle deliciously. Scott hardens painfully and cages her in tightly, their chests mashed together.

Julia's heart thunders against his. “No pouncing,” she manages. Then blows him away with, “But I want you sooner rather than later.”

His surprise must show because she laughs.

He eats the sound with his mouth, tasting her with his tongue. Softly, they explore each other's mouths, and his hold loosens enough to let his hands rove her body.

She's so small but curved in all the right places. He nuzzles at her neck, burying his nose into the sweet spot between her ear and collarbone. Her soft sigh is better than all the yeses in the world.

Scott moves lower. He hovers above her while moving backward as he plants soft kisses on her silky skin. When Scott reaches her breast, he slowly massages the pliant flesh, forcing the soft pink nipple up. The swollen bud hardens as he watches.

His eyes meet hers. Julia's face is flushed, her eyelids hood, lips parted. Her breathing is heavy and deep.

This is where he wants his soul-meld: breathless with anticipation.

Scott is acutely aware of his painful dick and his need to pleasure Julia as he lowers his head, softly bathing her nipple with his tongue. Taking the small nub into his mouth, he swirls his tongue around the base, and it hardens more. Scott nips and sucks at her, and Julia arches against him, gripping his shoulders.

“Scott,” she moans.

He palms her other breast.

She pants, and it's music to his ears.

He rolls his face between her breasts, covering the left mound completely. “Yes?” he says in a low voice, continuing to kiss the side of her breast.

“I like it.”

He smiles to himself. “I know.” He pushes the mounds together and moves between the hills of her breasts, kissing, sucking, and lightly biting her nipples.

“Please,” Julia says in a thready voice.

Not yet. “Let me take my time. We've waited long enough, my queen. A few more minutes won't matter.”

Her eyes widen, but the look of surprise fades and is replaced with lust when his hands trail from her breasts and float over her flat stomach to part her thighs. His eyes never leave hers, gaging her reaction.

Julia tenses.

Scott stills.

She bites her lip, but releases it with a pop when his hand covers her mound.

The tip of his thumb sinks between her outer folds. She's so wet,

Scott groans involuntarily, his cock jumping in anticipation. Wait. It's her first time, the circumstances suck, and she's counting on you.

His lips turn up. No pressure.

He throbs, and with a rough exhale of self-temperance, he uses her wetness, flicking the slick little hood back and skimming his short nail over her clit.

“Ah!” she groans loudly. “That feels so good, Scott. Don't stop…”

“Not planning on it.”

Her fingers grab his hair when his face is inches away from a place he's wanted to be for over a year. Julia's all-woman—sweet, salty, and perfect.

His.

“I don't know—” she says in an uncertain voice, her fingertips faltering on his head.

“I do.” Scott buries his face between her slick folds, his thumb keeping the rhythm on the little bundle of nerves.

Julia throws her head back, sounding as though she's hyperventilating.

Scott is intense. He's no different when it comes to sex. And this is his soul-meld.

Her emotions wash over him in a flood. Her arousal is like his own, but different—and varied. Scott senses what she likes and does that, avoiding whatever makes her uncomfortable. He’s surprised by how much she likes him to take charge. He grips the globes of her ass, yanking her hips against his seeking lips and tongue.

Julia groans loudly, widening her legs to give him better access.

He reads the signals of her body like a book, digging deeper, tonguing her entrance as he presses hard at the center of her clit.

Julia gasps, her hands seizing his hair painfully.

Scott rolls his gaze to hers. Her eyes are frantic, tits swollen, and legs spread. The beautiful pink folds of her are at his mouth while his forearm holds her hips pinned against his seeking mouth. He gives one deep press of his thumb in her hot, pulsating flesh.

Julia shatters, throwing her head backward. Her walls grab and release his tongue as he keeps the penetration steady. When she finally comes down, Scott is painfully erect. He breathes through the urge to take her hard, as he wants to.

He felt her barrier. Scott doesn't fool himself; he might have given her a rockinʼ orgasm, but the first time will hurt.

Scott works his way back up her body, gently supporting his weight.

He fits his cock between her legs, and she pulses between them as he throbs for entry.

“Scott, that was amazing.”

He can hardly nod, he wants her so bad. He needs her.

Her expression changes when she senses the agony of his control.

Julia spreads her legs wider, and his prick is like a homing device, slipping into her entrance as though it was always made to be there.

Scott dips his head, shuddering against the slick smooth velvet. She's so tight. Even with lust riding him, he doesn't want to hurt her. He shakes with the sensation.

He must—to finish what they’ve started between.

Her eyes seek his, and he fights to not look away. “It's okay. I know it'll hurt.”

“Julia,” Scott presses his forehead against her much smaller one. “I'm sorry.”

“I know.” Her eyes urge him on.

Scott presses forward in a hard stroke, her newness fighting his length and his girth.

Julia shouts in shock. Her expression can't mask the pain. “Hurts,” she hisses between pants.

Scott nods, slowly removing his length.

Julia stares at him, adjusting her hips. She spread her legs wider, trusting him.

Scott gently rocks inside again.

God she's tight. His mouth parts as his efforts in the last year to keep this from happening through all the upheaval catch up to him. He's frantic to own every inch of her.

“Yes,” she whispers, putting her hands on his ass.

Scott stills, throbbing and hard. He wants to pump with abandon. But through the meld, he can feel her soreness. Scott also feels her desire.

She clenches her fingers on his ass and pushes her hips up.

Take me, she sings through their connection, through their blood.

Scott sucks a ragged inhale, plunging again.

Julia meets him with a small pant of pain laced with desire.

They lock gazes. Cradling her face with his hands, Scott begins to rock inside over and over. She meets his every thrust. Gradually, her pain eases, and he feels her excitement.

“Close,” Julia breathes against his neck, her pussy makes a single tight fist around him, and Scott's head tips back in frozen ecstasy.

He releases inside her, pouring his seed, his love, and his soul into her depths.

Julia's cries of pleasure are salve to his battered nerves.

The soul-meld tightens like a perfect knot, and their eyes meet, bodies joined.

“What's happening?” she whispers, locked against him, their bodies in perfect synchronicity.

Then the tingling begins, sweeping over them both like a live wire. Lights flash, and Scott groans as a second release pours out of him and Julia gasps in surprise as her release follows his.

Scott feels true fear—his and Julia's—co-mingled in a new way. On the heels of the best sex of his life, Scott blacks out.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Adi

Adi can't believe she can be in this much pain and still be live.

Nope. She's going for it.

That fucker Slash!

Her tears burn when they meet the healing wounds of her face. Males suck.

Her eyes close for a second. How could those Were beat her and bite her boob?

How could Slash—how could they be what they were, and he just shove her away like a regret?

Adi thrashes through the woods, uncaring about the limbs and small branches snapping back. She takes the abuse without flinching or protecting herself.

She could give less than a damn.

Adi wanted Slash and he crushed her spirit. That jerkoff Tramack was all about getting to poor Tessa. He wouldn't have returned to give them another beat down.

Adi slows, finally becoming aware of something other than her bull-in -a-china-closet march through the woods.

A high-pitched keening reaches her ears.

She looks behind her. Slash is back there, legs not working.

Get the fuck out, he told her.

Right. Adi sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing the soft flesh thoughtfully. She turns. Maybe I'll just go back.

The memory of Slash's eyes hating on her halts her in her tracks.

No. He didn't want me.

The keening grows louder. Adi strains toward the sound. What on earth is that? She moves cautiously to the edge of the forest and pushes the last of the limbs aside, gathering her ragged clothes against herself.

A red guy is clutching his dick, howling.

Well, that’s unexpected. A rash little giggle slips out. She's never heard the sounds he makes before. The high-pitched agony isn't natural. Of course, losing your dick might kick that right along.

Adi doesn't recognize him. But she recognizes the female Were in front of him—the new chick, Tessa.

The guy does a slow revolution, still clutching his package.

Her keen eyesight takes in something that goes plop on the ground.

Oh my, is that his—?

Adi covers her mouth to stifle more inappropriate laughter. And here, I thought the day couldn't be salvaged.

Adi lets the branches fall back. Shit has gone down. She is not getting involved in whatever this new shit storm is. Though the compulsion to keep looking is like fire ants crawling over her skin, Adi runs along the small corridor of woods that almost touch the mansion. She'll get her stuff and make her way back to the Northwestern. Lawrence and Manny are dead. Her brother Joseph is also gone.

She's a nobody. Nobody's sister. Nobody's pack member. Nobody's mate.

Adi leans against the last tree. It's branches reach toward the edge of the huge Victorian. She angrily brushes tears off her sore face.

I can go back to the Northwestern. Everyone who was important is gone. And the worst male, Tony, is done being him.

No one to fear. Nothing to lose. Adi turns around in the direction where Slash was.

And no one to keep me here.

*

Slash

“This sucks,” Slash comments dryly.

“Yeah. Accept the help. By the time we get back to the mansion, we can get you patched up better. That healer, Cynthia, she can fix ya.”

Slash has no feeling in his lower back and upper thighs. Each minute crawls by as Truman walks him back toward the Victorian. They have to stop every few minutes because Truman's basically dragging him.

“Look at that,” Truman says.

Slash spots Tramack and several Were swimming in their own blood one hundred yards or so from their position.

Good. Slash finds the energy to smile.

He has trouble concentrating when the scent of his female is thick in his nose.

But the enemy is in sight, and she is not. The knot of anxiousness in his chest loosens. It looks as though his scheme to assure her safety was successful. Slash's eyes narrow. “That's a demonic.”

Truman shakes his head. “It's something. I didn't know what they were until that battle by Region Two.”

Slash says, “I forget you were changed late.”

Truman nods absently. “Yup. Really not up to speed on the different species. However—” His chuckles abruptly. “There's definitely no shortage. Vamps, fey, shifters galore. Demonic, and can't forget our hosts, Blood Singers.”

Speaking of which, the Singers are closing in around Tramack, who lies in a steaming pile of his own guts.

Perfect.

Slash releases a tense breath.

Adi is safe.

The demonic appears to be searching the ground for something of vital importance. Slash throws back his head and laughs when the demonic finds what he was looking for.

“Ouch,” Truman mutters.

Slash's mouth twists. “Losing your cock would be a grievous problem, my friend.”

Truman gives him a narrow look. “Do we have time for comedy?”

Amusement is in short supply, and Slash’s day has been so dark, he can only reply, “Always.”

“Uh-huh. What about your girl?”

“Long gone, hopefully in the opposite direction.” That’s Slash's most fervent wish. He can track her easily once he's on the mend.

“You're not concerned?” Truman pulls a face of disbelief.

“More than I can say.” Slash smacks his upper thigh, not feeling the blow. “But there's nothing that can be done. I can't protect her in the state I'm in.” His voice shakes with rage. “And I can't tear the beating heart out of the male who hurt her.”

Their eyes land on Tramack.

Several Singers—obviously not of angelic blood—haul the demonic up by the armpits as he makes pathetic sounds of injury. Slash spies a twisted car door covered in blood at his feet. Odd.

Slash sneers. “We need to get over there and tell them what's happening.”

“What's happening is Julia, Scott and Victor are unaccounted for, and that dog will say he was after his rightful mate. The Singers won't get embroiled in that little mess,” Truman says.

“What?” Slash roars, tearing away from Truman and promptly falling on his ass.

Another set of Singers swoop in and latch on to Tramack as he looks up from the ground.

“Maybe they'll toss those lovebirds into the same cell?” Truman muses.

“Doubt it.”

Slash turns in Truman's direction. “Where is the Rare One and her soul-meld?”

His eyes find Tramack again as he waits for Truman's reply. Slash would kill him twice if he could walk. To hell with the ramifications of his packmaster status.

Truman shrugs. “They were here—then gone.”

Slash frowns. He knows Julia, a little. Even though she's a Singer and not a female of his kind, she does not impress him as a flighty female. His knowledge of their kind is limited.

A scream from the direction of the mansion scatters his thoughts. Slash's nose tells him it's not Adrianna. Nonetheless, adrenaline surges through his system.

“Come on, stubborn Red.” Truman hauls him to his feet, and tossing him on his back, he melts to wolfen underneath Slash, racing to the mansion.

*

They burst through the doors, and Truman lets go of Slash.

Slash slides off his broad back, hitting the door jamb and clutching the deeply profiled wood trim.

His nostrils flare, hitting on a scent. The only scent.

Adrianna was here.

The knowledge of her absence affects him deeply, and his wolf howls to be within her presence. His wolf doesn't think; he only feels. And right now, he's kicking Slash's mental ass for the blow-off he gave his mate.

It's for her own good, he reprimands the beast inside.

Still, Slash feels sick that she’s gone—and unprotected.

You're best isn't good enough, Slash.

Cynthia, the Singer and part-Were rushes into the parlor. She slips and falls on her butt with a yelp.

Truman is suddenly there. He grabs her arm. “What?” he bellows in her face.

She's pale, her face pinched, void of any real emotion, except one.

Slash's nostrils lift.

Her fear rolls over him like a wave to shore.

“Truman,” Slash cautions in a low voice. “The female isn't in her right mind.”

Truman scowls at Slash.

Slash sweeps a palm toward her feet. They're slick with blood.

Truman’s eyes bug then go hard and flat. His fists clench.

Slash realizes the expression is his “thinking cap” look, the same one he probably wore when he was a cop.

He picks up a shaking Cynthia and brings her to Slash.

Her green eyes flutter, rolling up into her head. “Jason,” she manages, before passing out in Slash's arms.

“Wait!” Slash barks at Truman. He whirls.

“I can't defend her!”

Sharp lines of determination settle into Truman’s face. “And I don't know what's down that hall that scared the bejesus outta her.” He stabs a thumb at his chest.

Moon.

“Fine,” Slash hisses. “Hurry up. My mate is somewhere, and a crazy Alpha from the Western is making up whatever tale he wants while I can't feel my fucking back.”

Truman and Slash lock eyes. “Okay, hang tight.”

He doesn't have to tell Slash to protect Cynthia. Slash gets it, however, in his semi-paralyzed state he's a weak choice. But like Truman said, he has to see what the danger is. Slash's role as a male Were has never been confusing to him. That there are males who would abuse their precious females—or any female, for that matter—confounds Slash. It also makes him deeply angry.

And rage is always close to him, waiting. Slash is hardwired that way.

Cynthia's sleep is unnatural. Her face looks unanimated rather than peaceful in his lap.

The time rolls out. Though only ten minutes have passed since Truman went to inspect what new horrors lay down the hall, it feels like a thousand years. Each step Adrianna takes from his side is a small knife in his heart. His only consolation is that Tramack is here, and she is putting distance between herself and the Were who harmed her. Slash suddenly smells Cynthia's wakefulness and glances down.

“I couldn't fix it,” Cynthia whispers.

“Fix what?” Slash asks softly, as though speaking to a child.

“Jason.”

Slash stiffens, slapping a palm on the floor and lifting them both upright.

Cynthia sits up, notices she's on his lap, and gingerly climbs off.

“Don't leave,” he says, remembering Truman's words.

She wipes a tear from her face. “No,” she breathes out in a pained gasp.

“What's wrong with Jason?”

“Something…” Cynthia covers her face with her hands. “Something killed him.”

If he hadn't been Were, he would not have heard that last.

Slash flares his nostrils. The stench of death reaches him easily. Beneath that, he smells blood and brain matter.

Slash hates to hear about the death of a solid Were. While he didn't really know Jason Caldwell, he did know Jason was volatile, but not mean-spirited.

This would not bode well—losing Jason so closely with the loss of Zeke. A bad trend had begun.

Jason had been threatened on many occasions to leave or force an ultimatum on the Rare One.

Slash understands. He could never share Adrianna. However, Were are a different species from the Singers. Apparently, Caldwell did not feel the same. Maybe he was human for too long. Maybe he was too much Were. In death, it no longer matters.

Gently, Slash asks, “What killed him, Cynthia?” It's never who in their world.

Shaky hands fall to her jean-encased thighs. “I don't know, but whatever it was, I couldn't heal him. There was no chance. None.”

Slash isn't a soft, comforting male. But her needs are not complicated. Even an idiot Were like him, one who callously gets rid of his mate, can show mercy. “Not your fault,” Slash manages to murmur. “Couldn't have saved him.”

She nods absently, as though she’s merely placating him.

Truman jogs into the room, sliding to a stop in front of them. “You know?” he asks, looking between them and ascertaining that Cynthia must have conveyed the details of Jason's death.

Slash confirms anyway. “Yes.”

“I don't know what bashed his brains in, but it's nothing I've seen in my short acquaintance with the supernatural world.”

Cynthia flinches at his uncaring rundown of events. “Who cares, really?” Cynthia flips a palm over helplessly. “Something killed Jason. And Julia's not here. Neither is Scott or Victor.” A bubble of snot grows from her nostril as a tear rolls aimlessly down her face. “I mean, if Jason's dead, where the hell is Jules? Where the hell am I?” She dumps her face into her hands.

Truman walks over to her, holding out his hand. She shakes her head, denying whatever a hard Were like Truman can offer. Slash thinks he was a hard human before the change, too. “Nope, you're sticking with me like glue, girl. Stand up and wipe that face. We're finding out what the hell is going on—like yesterday.”

“What about?” she asks as body-wracking sobs break over her. She waves her hand toward the hall where Jason's body presumably lies.

Truman gathers her against him. Her body so small inside his arms.

Adrianna is even smaller inside mine.

“We'll take care of him the right way, Cyn.”

She nods against his shirt, fisting the material as sadness drenches the fabric.

Slash stares out the window, wondering how soon he will be able to leave this place and right what went so terribly wrong.

CHAPTER NINE

Tessa

Tessa flops back against the seat. “Listen, Laz…” she rolls her face to the right, looking at him. Beyond that are the deep woods.

“We can go,” he says to Tahlia.

She slaps the steering wheel. “Where?” Tahlia rotates to face them, clutching the driver's seat. “I have been driving for two hours. We are at a crossroads. If we keep going north, we'll be in Canada.”

“Nope,” Tessa says, suppressing a shudder. “Don't need foreign heat.”

“It's hot enough in America,” Tahlia agrees.

“You are Lanarre. Where is the nearest pack?” Laz asks.

Tahlia shakes her head vigorously. “I cannot return to my own pack in the Redwoods of California. It's—the shame would be something I couldn't stand.”

Laz stares at her and Tessa asks, “What do you mean, Tahlia?”

Her eyes fill with tears. Tessa just came to terms with the fact that Tahlia's a baby in Lycan years, and she’s been driving like a bat out of hell for two hours while they fought their way down the highway with three quarters of a car.

“As a Lanarre princess,” she says, quickly looking to the two of them as though they would laugh at her. They don't. “I was on my way to meet Drek, my chosen. That entire plan was derailed when Tony Laurent slaughtered my guardians. Now there is another bad force in play, and I must run. It is Drek's pack that I must go to.” She covers her face with her hands. “I don't know why I didn't think of this before. Eventually, Drek will return when he cannot locate me. Then we can be mated.”

“Wait a sec,” Tessa begins with slow deliberation. “I thought you weren't sure about this Drek guy?”

Tahlia's hands shake a little as she lowers them to her lap. “I'm not, but there is protection within the borders of the Lanarre. It's there that I won't have to fight to remain alive. I am skilled, but am only one.”

Small point.

Laz has been silent until then. “The Lanarre will kill me,” he states simply.

Tessa fingers convulse on the seat cushion. “And what's their policy on rogue female alphas?”

Tahlia's silence is answer.

“Shit.” Tessa slumps in her seat, folding her arms, thinking about the possibility of her heat cropping up. “Can't catch a break,” she mutters.

Laz brushes a stray hair over her shoulder that's come undone from the single plait down her back. “Perhaps the Lanarre princess, betrothed to be mated to their prince, holds sway.” His pale-blond eyebrow rises, and his eyes level on Tahlia.

She shakes her head. “I can't guarantee anything, because they have never scented me. They will scent that I am Lanarre. But the protocol for a betrothal mating is strict. Only Drek and his personal guard know my scent.”

“Oh, this is special sauce here.”

They look at Tessa.

She slumps farther, attempting to become one with the seat. “So we head to Drek's Lanarre stomping grounds—”

Tahlia interrupts, “At the edge of the Hoh Rain Forest.”

Laz cringes. “I am familiar with the area. Very wet.”

Tessa's eyebrow hikes. “Duh.”

Faster than Tessa can track, Laz lifts her and seats her on his lap. His nose buries at her throat, and she makes an inarticulate sound. It speaks of deep satisfaction. Damn it all.

Laz tenses beneath her.

Tessa opens her eyes to find a talon buried against his insta-erection. Her eyes widen on Tahlia.

“We can sit here at the side of the road, drawing attention to our deplorable vehicle and its strange occupants, or we can take our chances with the Lanarre of the Hoh Rain Forest.”

Laz lets out a measured breath, his eyes narrowing at Tahlia, arms still locked around Tessa. “She is my Redemptive. Tessa will be my freedom from hell, Lanarre. Your talon beside my prick won't change anything. Except to incite my rage.”

“Incite away,” Tessa says, glaring at Laz. “I'm so glad I'm your one way ticked to above-ground living. But I don't know if I'm up for the job.”

“You must be ʻup for the jobʼ and accept my claim as my Redemptive.”

Or what? Her desire-laden brain attempts to think.

His thumb presses above her clit, and she groans.

Laz groans, too—but in pain.

I’ve clearly lost my marbles.

“Do you want to mate with a horned one, Tessa?” Tahlia asks with clear disdain, her talon having sliced through Laz's stiff denim jeans.

Tessa drowns in the treacherous seas of his eyes. “I don't know,” she finally whispers. Too much has gone unexplained and Tessa finds she can't think when Laz touches her.

“Then moon help you,” Tahlia replies with disgust, removing her talon. “I can't save you from yourself.”

Who can?

Tahlia starts the engine again and turns west, to travel the Hood Canal Bridge, straight for the Olympic Peninsula. Beyond that is the den of the Lanarre.

*

Tessa wakes with a start, completely disoriented.

They've stopped.

She pulls away from the damp drool spot she’s made on Laz's lap.

Oh Moon, terrible.

She sits up, and his arms slide from around her body. His gaze finds her, and for the first time, Tessa thinks about bad breath, hair, and body odor.

He scoops her against him, scenting of her deeply. “You are part of me.”

She says something in her daze of wakefulness, then his hands jerk her hips onto his lap. Again.

Their position leaves little guesswork to the equation.

Laz wants her.

“Where's Tahlia?” Tessa manages. But her hips grind down against his erection. Her shame isn't enough to stop her.

Gotta be heat. Apparently, when it comes to the demonic beneath her, nothing matters.

“We're in Port Angeles,” Laz says, spreading his palms at her lower back and pressing her deeper against his hardness.

Tessa has to pay attention to their surroundings. What if the Were are after her again?

Tramack will heal anything, even his own evisceration.

But right now, Laz is doing his best to make a hole through their jeans. “Laz,” Tessa gasps.

He licks her throat, and she cries out. “Stop.”

“Your body says yes, Tessa.”

Hell yes it does. “Maybe I'm in heat,” she says without thinking.

“So much the better, my Redemptive.”

Bad, Tessa. Very bad.

Tahlia jumps into the truck. “What?” she yells.

But Tessa barely hears it through the fog.

“We're at Walmart.”

Tessa opens her eyes and really looks around while Laz dips between her breasts, licking and kissing. Her head tips back, and she takes an upside-down gander. Wall-to-wall cars are stacked everywhere.

Her head snaps up. “Laz!” she says, shaking him.

“Hmm,” he mumbles between her tits.

Tahlia puts a talon against his neck.

His face jerks up, his eyes rolling to black.

Tessa tries to scramble off his lap, but his grip on her back tightens, and his hand whips out, closing over Tahlia's small wrist.

“Ow!” she yells, her talons useless inside the vise of his fingers. Her eyes smolder at him.

“You will cease and desist. I am not a male Lycan who can have his cock on a leash. I am a high demon, and my Redemptive sits before me. I must sate her heat, Lanarre.”

“Oh,” Tahlia says in a stunned voice, forgetting Laz's grip on her arm, snapping her attention to Tessa. “You're in heat. How did I not scent this?”

Tessa looks away, embarrassed. “I think I might be.”

“You cannot mate with Laz, Tessa. What are you thinking?” Tahlia yanks her hand out of Laz's lax grip. “You will whelp a monster.”

Tessa glares at Tahlia. “I don't think so. I won't get pregnant by a male who is not Lycan. You know this. It's basic law.”

“Do you wish to take the chance if it were not? How certain are you of this?” Tahlia asks, searching her face.

Laz says yes at the same time Tessa says no.

Horrors.

“Of course you cannot scent another female's heat,” Laz remarks.

Tahlia retracts her talons, gifting him with a dirty look, and raises a bag with the Walmart logo emblazoned on the front. “Hungry?”

Starved. Tessa's not some delicate flower. She's a full-grown Were who has spent two decades keeping a physique that's allowed her to escape from her pursuers. She tries not to dwell on what Laz is really offering her.

He's demonic. She's a Were.

Laz has Praile on his ass, and he's as possessive as any male Were she's ever encountered. But Tessa might like his brand.

And that scares her.

Tessa's stomach rumbles, and she puts a palm over her belly. “What do you have?” she asks Tahlia, and Laz chuckles.

“What?” she half yells at him. “Do demons not eat?”

He strokes a finger from her temple to her jaw.

Tessa shivers.

“We eat, female.”

He says it as though peaches are melting in his mouth and he wants to lick off the juices. Hers.

“Moon, you make me tired, demonic,” Tahlia comments from the front.

“Address me as Laz, or I shall address you as princess.” Laz lifts an eyebrow.

The silence engulfs the vehicle.

Finally, Tessa moves toward the bag, then rattling noises fill the tense atmosphere. Beef jerky, honey-roasted peanuts, hard-boiled eggs, cheese, and… Hot Tamales?

Tessa asks, “What's with the candy?”

Tahlia fidgets with her hands. “It is not allowed for Lanarre to poison their bodies with sugar.”

“You've got to be kidding. Well, this Were is downing them.” Tessa’s so starved, she thinks the jerky and Hot Tamales will be amazing together. She frowns. Or separate. “No chocolate?” she asks Tahlia, still rummaging.

Tahlia laughs.

Laz's fist covers his mouth. Their gazes meet. “Definitely in heat.”

All right, chocolate craving is a dead giveaway. Were females normally don't love chocolate, but like human women, a Were female has certain cravings before her cycle. The Ben and Jerry's ice cream is just because.

“Probably,” Tessa says without looking up from the bag.

Laz opens the jerky and puts a piece underneath her nose. Tessa opens her mouth. She takes it from his hand without thinking.

Tahlia sucks in a breath. “Tessa!”

His fingers are in her mouth as she sucks the juice of the jerky off them. She groans in pleasure, so hungry from the ordeal and length of time without food that she wants to just plow through the supplies. Instead, she lets a near-stranger demonic hand-feed her and slam his erection against her. Slick, Tessa.

“You trust him?” Tahlia asks.

Tessa meets Laz's icy bluish-gray eyes and nods. “I do.”

Something in Laz's expression softens. “Let me feed you.”

After the fifth piece of jerky, Tessa is parched.

Tahlia, munching away on her own jerky, hands back a large water bottle. Tessa downs half then wipes her mouth on the back of her hoodie sleeve before taking a hunk off a cheese stick.

Hot Tamales are poured inside her palm. She tosses them back. Sweet-hot cinnamon bursts over Tessa's tongue, and she moans in ecstasy.

Finally, her hunger has faded, and she notices Laz hasn't eaten. “What?” She touches his arm. Warmth spreads underneath her fingertips.

She doesn't pull away. “Aren't you hungry?”

He nods solemnly. “Yes.”

She passes her bag of jerky to him, and he closes his hand around hers. The bag crinkles. “Not until my female is sated.”

Moisture pools at her core from his fervently spoken words. Tessa's brows come together as she swallows the last bite. “I'm not your female, Laz.”

His smile is crooked, steam rising from his mouth. “Not yet.”

Tessa's appetite is not as robust as it once was. A consumption awaits. Of her.

CHAPTER TEN

Tessa

“Thank Moon we're in a four-wheel drive.” Tessa grips the roll bar as if her life depends on it. She’s strapped in, courtesy of Laz, as they plunge up then sharply down gulleys that are supposed to be roads.

That's a full load of bullshit. They're ribbons of dirt sporting a few spots of gravel that wasn’t sucked up into the muck of the rain forest.

It's sunny outside, but no one would ever know it. The moss is deep, hanging like a fine coating of hair as it brushes past their vehicle, clinging to the sides of the car then letting them go as though the very woods couldn't abide the taste.

If Tessa was the trees, she would think a pair of werewolves and a demon guy tasted like crap, too.

“Hey!” Tessa cries as Tahlia takes a small cliff. Laz's arm snakes around her waist, though she's belted tight.

Moon, he's strong. She tells him, pausing at the ego boost it might give him, but he surprises her by stating without an ounce of arrogance, “The demonic are stronger than all species—even vampire.”

“Don't you think you're cool,” Tessa says, testing him.

“I am not ʻcool.ʼ Torture drives self-regard to unbearably low levels. Only a few of us escape the regime of the Master.” His voice is so miserable as he recounts his time in hell, Tessa's chest tightens.

The rig lurches lower. Tahlia sinks them wheel-deep in a river.

Tessa's heartbeat begins to thunder as the river rushes underneath the chassis. Cold air plows through the car, swarming the interior with iciness. Tessa shivers.

Warm air envelopes her.

Laz.

His skin has gone from a vague ruddiness to a distinctive red hue.

“Are you doing that?” she asks.

He nods.

Wow.

Tahlia downshifts. The wheels grind underneath the swirling current. “Can't go farther!” she yells over the gnashing gears and rushing water. The noises of the woods capture their racket, flinging it away from them to be absorbed by the vastness that surrounds them like a living tomb of green.

“Good thing we didn't trade the vehicle out!” Tessa shouts over the engine.

Then it stalls.

Laz acts fast, ripping the seatbelt off Tessa and tossing it away. The river swallows the fabric, sweeping it beneath the car as the chrome buckle winks into the dark swirling water.

The Suburban shifts sideways. Water sloshes inside and swarms across the floorboards.

“Shit!” Tessa screams before Laz takes her by one arm and throws her on the Suburban's roof. Tessa's talons punch through the metal, and she winces. Going wolfen due to emotion is always painful. Birthing talons through metal—agony.

She gasps, and Laz is there.

I can do this.

Tessa whips her head back and forth, searching for Tahlia. “Tahlia!” she screams.

Tahlia's head pops out the window. She struggles. “The belt's jammed!” she says, her voice shrill with panic.

To be a werewolf and drown is a horrible way to die.

Tahlia tries to stand, and the Suburban sinks hard to the left. The water rises above Tahlia's neck.

“No, Tessa,” Laz says with quiet authority, and she forgets she's on top of a sinking Suburban with a current too fast to navigate by car or body, where Tahlia is about to drown.

Laz is huge. His form has changed. A light scarlet reddens his shimmering skin to the color of soft rubies. Eyes like ice dipped in a vat of aquamarines study the situation, and Laz's blond hair has morphed to a reddish-gold.

Seconds of perusal is all Tessa gets, then Laz grasps her arm. “Roll when you fall, Tessa,” he says. And then she's airborne.

Tessa spins in an ungainly pile of wolfen muscle and short fur.

Still aching from the speed of the change, she lands on the shore in mud and water.

She lands hard, without rolling as Laz instructed. Tessa yelps, feeling her ribs bruise. She gasps, trying to look toward the vehicle escaping down the river. Holding her ribs and still opening and closing her mouth without the benefit of oxygen, Tessa stands.

She stumbles toward the bank.

Laz is nowhere. Her eyes swivel to the roof of the Suburban.

They're underwater!

Her legs are swept from under her, and Tessa lands backward. What little wind was returning rushes out of her lungs.

Her ribs don't heal. Too many demands.

Tessa clutches her neck in the universal sign for choking.

I'm going to die!

Three sets of upside-down silver eyes regard her. Wolfen. All-male.

Lanarre.

With the last of her strength, Tessa points to the sinking rig behind them.

Three faces turn toward where she's pointing.

A body lands beside her.

Tahlia.

Low growls roar above her. Tessa's talons sink into the ground, and she heaves herself upright. A sheet of hazy white falls over her vision.

Need. Oxygen.

The wolfen back up.

She throws herself beside Tahlia. The girl’s lips are blue, and she’s not breathing.

Tessa is struck in the back in precisely the spot she needed. Air surges through her lungs, and she coughs.

Tessa sits up on her knees, not bothering to see who hit her, and laces her fingers together. Putting the knot of her hands on Tahlia's chest, she begins CPR, rhythmically pumping up and down.

Live.

Water shoots out of Tahlia's mouth, and her beautiful bluish-violet eyes slam open. She grabs Tessa's wrists, vehemently shaking her head. “Tessa!”

“I'm here,” Tessa says, landing on her ass in the mud.

Tahlia sits up, and they pant together. “You're wolfen,” she says.

Tessa nods. Nothing like stating the obvious.

Tahlia's eyes widen.

Tessa whirls to see what's behind her.

Laz is on his knees, steam pouring off him. The wolfen have him. The one who stands beside him raises a shining sword toward Laz's neck.

Tessa crouches then leaps as though her life depends on it.

Two wolfen heads swing in her direction, clear surprise etched on their faces.

Not soon enough, fellas. She makes her body a ball mid-flight and takes out sword-wielder neatly.

They tumble together into a heap, and he raises the sword above her head. She throws her forearms over her face defensively.

“I do not hurt females,” he says as though deeply insulted.

Tessa drops her arms. “But you'd kill the guy that saved us!” she yells in a hoarse shout. And forget the fact that she had to figure out saving Tahlia.

Not a proactive group of Were.

He turns, and Laz is walking toward them.

Naked.

Oh. Oh. Tessa's mouth opens and closes without the excuse of oxygen deprivation.

His blond hair glows in the ambient light allowed through the thick wet canopy of green that hangs in tendrils that nearly touch the ground. His broad cheekbones frame eyes so black, they look like holes in his face. Steam vaporizes behind him as he walks, eaten by the green of the forest. He comes to stand before them.

His erection hangs in glorious bare glory between heavily muscled legs. They should be stocky, but because of his height, they're the perfect complement to the rest of his body.

His tail rises behind him, and Tessa's gaze shifts to the wolfen.

They're laid out.

She blinks, spying blood at the hammer-head end of his appendage. Laz told a bold-faced lie when he said he couldn’t use that thing in battle.

Of course, Praile's was a flail.

Tessa backs away, her wolfen form wavering. She’s suffered too much injury, too much—everything. Despite her valiant efforts to remain wolfen, she melts to quarter-change.

Just then, the enemy appears, jumping at them from the creepiness of emerald forest. Tessa couldn't be more spent.

The wolfen beside her stands, stepping in front of her protectively.

Tessa rolls her eyes. He finally gets his act together, and it's Laz, who wouldn't hurt her. That she knows.

Ask her how she knows that, and she couldn't say. But Were live by their instincts. And hers have saved her more times that she can count.

She clenches her eyes shut, asking the Moon to forgive her, and rolls to her side, punching the wolfen in the crotch.

“Ah!” he bellows, folding to the forest floor, where the deep moss catches his body.

Tahlia hops over the downed wolfen and rushes to her. She sees Laz, all demonic and naked, and slows, making a wide birth.

He hisses as if to say, “Don’t screw with me.”

His mouth is vaguely gray.

Tessa shudders. She kissed him, tongued him—and thought about doing more.

A heck of a lot more.

“Need to go,” Laz says.

Tessa shakes her head. She saved Laz. She wants Laz.

But this?

She looks at his form again. Every hard inch of his muscled body is encased in red skin, his mouth is gray, and his teeth are a pearly white. His black eyes narrow on her as he reaches for her.

“I'm weak, Laz. Please, just go.”

His hand drops, and he shakes his head. “I cannot just go.” Anger makes his voice vibrate.

The guy she whacked in the crotch groans. He'll heal.

Moondammit.

“Listen, Laz. You're…” Hot, virile, a sexual typhoon. This is so not the right time for this conversation.

His brows come together. All that muscled flesh momentarily distracts Tessa. The subtle vapor of heat covers his skin.

“You're an attractive—” His dick draws her eyes like a magnet. Tessa swallows, Moon, he's so perfect, it hurts to look at him. “Male,” she manages.

Tessa can't believe she's breaking up with Laz in the middle of a rainforest with a pile of beaten wolfen at their feet before they even got together.

Laz puts his hands on his hips, drawing her attention to—Yeah.

Tessa hangs her head.

“Hate to interrupt all these deliberations,” Tahlia says, her voice shaking.

Tessa's nostrils flare. “More are coming.”

Laz scowls at her, then his hand is at the back of her neck. He tears her from the sodden earth, ignoring the mud that covers her and ignoring his nudity, and smashes his lips to hers.

Tessa groans, moving into his arms. She fits so perfectly against him, she’s forced to hold back a sob of semi-relief at the contact.

His cock presses between them as though it's seeking entry. Laz hikes her up, and her legs wrap his waist.

His length presses against her entrance through her yoga pants.

He shoves upward, and she cries out—in agony and ecstasy. Clutching his neck, she moves her lips against his. Heat blooms in her core, and like a brush fire, it moves outward, seeking.

It slams into Laz, and his face tips back, breaking the kiss.

When his head lowers, his eyes flash to black.

“I don't want you,” Tessa says, having never spoken a lie as large as that one in her lifetime.

Laz runs his hands down her side, and she shudders. As he sets her on her feet, his gaze returns to a pale gray.

Wolfen circle the area.

Tessa feels as though her heart is in her throat. She can't breathe through her emotions.

Laz's face closes down. His body grows opaque. And like a ghost, he vanishes.

Tessa blinks. “Laz!” she screams, her heart leaking out of her pores. Then in the next breath, her mind justifies the lie in her rejection of him. I did the right thing.

Laz would have never survived the Lanarre.

Tessa looks around at the Lanarre surrounding them, noting they're downed brethren. Tahlia and Tessa wrap their arms around each other.

They won't hurt females.

With a flare of their nostrils, they identify the one thing Tessa wishes she could have kept to herself.

“Heat,” one says.

The others smile.

Unclaimed is what Tessa hears. Tahlia turns nervous eyes to Tessa.

“Tell them,” Tessa says.

Tahlia turns to face the wolfen. The number of males in the party makes Tessa uncomfortable on principle, to put it mildly.

Laz’s absence makes it worse. Tessa's been alone for a long time. She doesn’t need Laz. And he was demonic. She hangs her head.

She can admit to herself he was more than that.

“I am Tahlia, Princess of the Lanarre pack from the Redwood.”

Confused, they regard one another then their attention razors on her like sharp slits. The one with the abused crotch stands, slowly shaking his head, giving Tessa a hard glare.

Shit.

“The chosen has arrived ahead of Drek. We do not know who you are—but your impersonation of the chosen will not be met with tolerance.”

Tahlia's mouth drops open.

What? Tessa turns her stunned expression to Tahlia.

His eyes move to Tessa's. “And your cavorting with a horned one?” His smile lacks warmth.

Tessa's cheeks heat. Hell, she'd punched him in the dick and had a demonic in tow. She wasn’t winning any popularity contests.

Like ever. “He's gone now,” Tessa whispers, hoping Laz will stay gone, Redemptive or not.

The Lanarre’s grin is toothy, though the smile never reaches his eyes.

Tessa scents Tahlia's confusion and, underneath that, her fear.

Amen.

“But that doesn't matter. The demonic was here, escorting two Were females”—his gaze flicks to Tahlia—“one a Lanarre—on her own.” His eyebrows rise significantly.

“So what? Females can't travel together?”

He shakes his head. “A Lanarre female of any repute would have male escorts or if she were royalty—her family guard.”

His chin lifts. “You are not she.” His slick black eyebrows drop over molten-silver eyes. “But we will get to the bottom of who you really are.”

“I am Tahlia,” she seethes. “You ridiculous Lanarre, can you not scent my purity?”

Uh-oh.

He rushes her.

Bravely, Tahlia plants her feet wide. She has obviously never felt the hand of a male against her.

His nose goes to her crotch and Tessa blanches.

Tahlia chops her hand on the back of his neck in a hard stroke of such instinctive quickness, he rolls to the side.

He kicks her in the stomach, and she yelps, hands to belly as she falls slowly to the forest floor.

Tessa steps forward and chin-checks him against the side of the tree.

The Lanarre close in.

It takes six males to subdue them. In the end, they do more than that. They steal Tessa's hope.

The Lanarre of the Hoh region isn't a sanctuary.

It's a prison.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Drek

Drek lands steps from the healing Were on the ground.

He barks. Explain.

Drek watches understanding flow over the Alpha's features. The Alpha knows Drek is Lanarre royalty after one inhaled chuff.

“Forgive me, prince,” the Alpha grovels.

A ripple of power, stolen from the moon, tears through Drek. He pushes it over the Alpha, blanketing him in Drek's will.

The Alpha flattens on the dirt. Only a thin layer of skin covers the pulsating wounds of his stomach. Drek's lip lifts, and a low growl hums through the space between house, driveway, and barn.

The horned one whirls, looking as though he'll come for Drek.

Bowen moves through the assembled but scattered Singer population, and the horned one steams from the holes of his evil body, but he does not draw nearer. Clever creature.

He cannot take two full werewolves. He's decided to cut his losses.

Drek allows Bowen the lead so that he might change into wolfen. He scents that Tahlia's fragrance is no longer fresh. Staying in werewolf form offers him no benefit. Drek rises on his hind legs, melting the things of wolf to the part-form of wolfen. He tamps down on the relief of shifting in reverse, which is always easier and less painful than becoming his beast. He ignores the murmurs from the Singers and levels his attention on the horned one.

“I have no quarrel with you, Lanarre,” the evil one hisses. He swings a mallet-like tail above his head.

Drek takes in the spiked appendages at its end. He is a fearsome creature, but Drek is unafraid. He and Bowen will prevail.

Drek has not come face to face with a demonic in many years. That he has today, with Tahlia in such close proximity, causes a profound unease to creep over his skin. In the presence of evil only a few yards away, the fine silver hairs of his wolfen stand on end.

“We have no quarrel yet, horned one.” Drek feels the potential simmering between them.

The red horror of the demonic grins, his black teeth causing his mouth to appear as a yawning hole inside his face. Low vapor rises, sucked by the light breeze of night succumbing to dawn. He throws his head back, laughing.

Drek does not see the humor.

“I have business here that has nothing to do with our cousin, the Lanarre.”

Drek jerks his jaw back, voicing his displeasure in growling words, “We are not relations, demonic.”

“Au contraire,” he wags a finger. “You are very much under the call of the Master, if you possess even a bit of Red in those blueblood veins of yours.”

Low murmurs from the assembled Singers become louder, but Drek ignores them. The demonic before him poses a greater threat than they do.

Drek wonders suddenly where the leadership might be for the region, but he takes charge of the conversation at hand. “Then rest easy, demonic—for I do not have the necessary blood to cause me to be a malleable specimen for the devil.”

Bowen comes to stand beside him.

His presence strengthens Drek. Where three of their kind come together, as with all magics, they become more powerful than if they stood alone. Still, two will do.

They warily and loosely circle each other. “Then why are you here—for I scent my chosen.”

The Were at his feet blanches.

Drek refocuses a sharp look at the Alpha. “What do you know, Alpha of the Western?” At least, he smells like the west.

The Alpha's nostrils flare. “I have not touched your chosen,” he nearly wails.

That, Drek believes. Tahlia would have this male for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She's classically trained, like all Lanarre royalty. In theory, she should be an impressive female in all areas.

“Speak,” Drek commands in a low voice.

The demonic inches closer.

Bowen growls, his lips peeling back to showcase the razor-sharp teeth of his wolfen form.

The demonic halts. Steam pours from his mouth and nostrils; additional vapor covers his revealed skin like a layer of smoke.

The Singersʼ voices rise. Drek gives them a cursory sweep with his eyes. They appear human, but that can be deceiving. His understanding is complete. They have talents that rival the strength, nose, and speed of Lycans. But they are not a species at direct odds with the Lanarre. He returns his attention to the cowardly packmaster of the west, who is attempting to stand while holding his writhing guts inside his body.

“I have been seeking my intended for twenty years! She has led me  here,” the Alpha mewls.

Drek reins in his temper to extract additional information just before a loud female voice interrupts. “She didn't want to go with this guy!”

All heads turn to a taller female Singer.

Drek's nostrils flare. She is Were, as well, though changed, not born. Interesting.

“This numbnuts came charging in here after she'd only been here a day, and she took off like the devil was chasing her.”

Drek blinks, deliberating on the pun within her words. Her modern way of talking and lack of elegance is shocking. However, she is changed. That can make all the difference. Tall but slight, she has longish blond hair and piercing emerald eyes.

“And this fire prick?” she goes on, pointing at the demonic, “He pretended to be a Singer! But really? He tried to hurt Jules—I know it. And we're really fucking sure he killed Jason.”

The Singers break out in screams and shouts, surrounding the demonic.

Drek will not be a referee in supernatural matters between species who are meaningless to the Lanarre. He raises a palm. “Thank you, female.”

She purses her lips, nonplussed by his dismissal.

Drek feels a shrug coming on. You cannot win them all, as the humans say. He scans the faces of the Blood Singers of Region One. His scenting tells him many things.

Death clings to Region One.

A battle or massacre of epic proportions took place here in the recent past. If the demonic have been loosened in this realm, whatever is afoot will affect them all. And why an Alpha would seek his legitimate intended for two decades reeks of foul play and the breakdown of the Western.

But none of these factors are enough for Drek to concern himself with.  “I am looking for my chosen. She is a Lanarre princess.”

Blank looks answer him.

Her scent is here. Someone has interacted with her; Drek is sure of it. He ignores the demonic, who seems to be searching for a handy escape route. Drek gives equal inattention to the Alpha at his feet.

Drek is keenly aware of Tahlia’s appearance. Photographs have been exchanged. “She stands this high.” He holds the edge of his hand just beneath his shoulder. “Black hair that is curled to her waist, with eyes the color of twilight meeting night.”

Silence.

Then the part-Were female says, “Listen, pal—she took off with this jerk's intended.” She makes funny little curls with her fingertips as though plucking the word out of the sky. “So she's gone. And this demon guy's side-kick? She took off with the Alpha's intended”—she says the word with clear distaste—“so since you don't want to join the party in helping keep these guys in line, they went thataway.” She points due north.

Drek smiles. He supposes she's helpful—in her way. “Lanarre do not engage in altercations with other species. Tahlia will be in need of our protection.”

Drek sinks to his haunches beside the Alpha male from the Western, who cringes away. “If you follow my chosen, for any reason, supposed intended or not, I will tear the guts that have just healed out of your body and hang you with them.” Drek’s voice remains deadly with intent, never changing in modulation.

He stands.

The female Were crosses her arms, glaring at him with disdain. Bowen and Drek exchange a look.

The demonic's face is hard, cunning and determined. “My subordinate is with the group that accompany your chosen.”

Frowning, Drek says, “That is not a consideration of the Lanarre.”

The demonic smiles. “It is to me!” he says with a hiss. In a flash, he's blurred like a red smear to the tree line and beyond. The collective gasp of the crowd is a hushed bomb of surprise.

Drek's frown turns to a scowl. He wants nothing to do with the demonic, but he will do whatever is necessary to protect Tahlia.

If he must dance with the devil, then he shall.

The crowd parts as Drek and Bowen step over the fallen Alpha.

*

Bowen scoops the gravel from the shoulder as his nose hovers over slightly damp gravel. He sifts it between his fingers.

“She was here.”

Drek is impressed. He does not believe that Tahlia ever got out of the vehicle that was used in the quick exit they made from Region One. Bowen would have to smell her, layered underneath fossil fuel, manmade asphalt of indeterminate origin, forest, vegetation, and the indigenous wild animal population.

His head turns sharply in Bowen's direction. “Do you think Tahlia might be heading toward the den?” The thought process makes sense. She's probably frightened and unsure. Seeking Drek's pack is solid thinking.

Bowen considers, tossing the gravel away from them. “Not sure.” His wolfen snout points in a generally northwestern direction. His spinning silver eyes find Drek's. “If she does, that benefits us.”

“But not her companions.”

Bowen gives him a look of disbelief and a snort so finely executed, it sounds almost exactly as it would if he stood before Drek in human form. “Does that matter, really?”

No. Yet, they somehow had a hand in Tahlia's rescue. Or Tahlia somehow helped them. Without the details, Drek is not happy dismissing their lives so quickly. And one is a female Were. He scented her. Unfortunately, the demonic, like the vampire, are scentless.

“I suppose no,” he finally answers, “but I believe this female rogue was the one who Tahlia assisted back at the highway. And as I put the pieces together, I further postulate that the Alpha who was so neatly gutted at Region One is part of her capture. And Tahlia interrupted it.”

“That Alpha is bad news, Drek. I don't want that following us to Lanarre country.”

Drek sighs, knowing he should have finished gutting that one. However, it would have been cowardly to kill a defenseless Were without clear reason. And in front of witnesses, when no transgression was made against the Lanarre? No. A bad move.

“We own the Hoh. It is ours.” He misses thumping his chest by a hairsbreadth. “It is the Lanarre who has kept the western half of the United States free of problems among Lycan. The alliance between the southwestern Lanarre region through my mating with Thalia would have solidified that further.”

“Come on, Drek. You know that's not true. There's been unrest. And I don't believe you want the ancient status quo any more than I do.”

He gives Bowen a hard glance but keeps his misgivings to himself. Bowen is right. Small packs keep popping up. They don't feel the need to formally align with the Lanarre, preferring an outlaw lifestyle to the strength of unity. It's troubling. But that further solidifies Drek's ideas about progressing Lycan culture into a more modern direction.

“Listen”—Bowen claps Drek on the back—“you can't take all this bullshit political evolution on as your singular mission to save everyone. You just have to make the Lanarre pack the very best of us. We worry about the rest later, yes?”

Bowen is wise.

Drek is fraught with obligation, responsibility, and thoughts better left unsaid and not dwelled upon.

However, Drek does dwell. He dreams of a better life, more communicative between packs, agreement on inter-pack matings, and a cessation of rites that leave females in precarious positions of being fought over. That is not a healthy environment for perpetuating the breed.

At least that will not be Tahlia's end. No Were would want the cast off of a prince. She can live out her life in peace, without being forced to wed Drek—if, and only if, he is able to effect change.

Without change, the muck of tradition will weigh them down like boulders in quick sand.

“Lead on,” Drek says.

They run.

*

Drek slows, his lungs on slow-burning fire. The Hoh receives more than a hundred forty inches of rain per year, and the forest is slick with trailing moss and undergrowth.

Wolfen flesh has a coating similar to a duck’s; the rain wets the tips, and the hair sheds the majority of the wetness. Still, the rain dampens the pair, making the travel wet and chilly, even in their partially changed forms.

“You're rugged for a prince,” Bowen huffs as he speeds through the woods.

Drek lets the next branch swing back. He hears it whip Bowen, who curses.

“Kidding!” Bowen shouts from behind him.

Drek smirks. Bowen is always poking fun.

Loud voices in conflict reach his ears.

“Wait!” Drek says, wrapping a long arm around a trunk to assist his slowing.

Tahlia's sweet scent fills his nostrils, and Drek inhales deeply, relief flooding him. Nothing compares to a female of royalty, and Tahlia's safety.

He scowls, his nose wrinkling at the second scent: one who is in heat. The odor reaches him easily—all male Were would scent the same.

Bowen reaches him, eyes as wide as his nostrils. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes,” Drek says.

“Tahlia has somehow come to the pack, and another female is in her heat cycle? I'm wracking my brains, but I am certain none of our females were cycling.”

Drek nods. Bowen is correct. He shakes his head. A female in heat? In the middle of a pack of Were? Even the Lanarre will be hard-pressed to restrain themselves. Royal lineage does not negate the primal needs of werewolves. The three Fs are in full play: feeding, fighting, and fucking.

Bowen races ahead.

Drek follows closely—he cannot have Tahlia in the middle of the fray. He's relieved she's safely in Lanarre territory. It was his hope that her scent would lead here.

When he arrives in the heart of his den, his relief is short-lived.

Tahlia is screaming, held down by three Lanarre males.

Meanwhile, a demonic guts whoever comes within striking distance of the female he and Bowen had scented as fertile.

His voice booms over the space, the trees shaking from the resonance of the growling timbre, “Stop!”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Scott

“Scott!” Julia says loudly.

He blinks slowly awake. Julia's perfect face comes into focus.

But it's her bare breasts that really get his attention.

Her hands on his shoulders, she sighs, sitting back on her heels.

Scott sits up, eyes pinned to her nude form.

“Perv,” she says in a sullen voice.

He grins, grabbing her and setting her on his lap. “What happened?”

Julia giggles softly. “I think we blew a fuse or something.”

Scott nods, eyebrows hiked. “Nice.”

Champagne hair sweeps forward over her wrinkled brow. “I don't think passing out every time we have sex is all that great.”

Scott's brows meet. “Oh, yeah. Why not?”

He leans in, rubbing her nose with his then kissing the tip softly. “I'll pass out with you anytime.”

“Perv,” she whispers again, but more softly this time. Her voice is edged with desire and a hint of happiness.

“You betcha, all the way.” Scott covers her breast with his hand, and her sharp intake of air is felt in both ways, through flesh and a warm breath of air through his soul.

Scott shudders. “I don't know how I'm going to get used to that.”

“We will,” Julia says, snuggling deeper into his body.

They hold each other quietly for a few minutes, saying nothing as Scott explores every inch of her skin with his palms. “I can't believe you're mine.”

Julia nods.

Scott feels her sadness through their link and leans back to see her face. A sheen of tears wets Julia's amber eyes. “Hey,” he says as the first one slips out. “No crying. I forbid it.”

She laughs, nodding. “How can I be this happy when all this shit is raining down all around us?”

“Ah,” Scott says, understanding sinking in like unwanted teeth.

Julia disentangles from his embrace and grabs his shirt off the floor, throwing it on over her head. Julia heads to the bathroom, and Scott gives her the space. Water runs, then a toilet flushes.

Scott stands and walks naked to the thermostat on the wall. He looks at the temperature setting. Too cold. He turns the dial up to seventy-two. Balmy. He frowns. His balls will melt off, but Julia will be toasty. Sacrifices must be made. His lips quirk as he leaves the setting warmer.

Julia leaves the bathroom, skin flushed.

He walks by her, trailing his fingers over her neck and down her spine as he moves to the bathroom and uses it himself.

Water runs down the drain as Scott holds his toothbrush loosely, inspecting his face in the mirror. He doesn't know what he was expecting to see. Their soul-meld is complete, but he really doesn't feel much different. He loves Julia. He still wants to protect her. Nothing's changed.

Everything has.

He walks out of the bathroom, catching sight of the pensive way she's standing. “We're not going to discuss what we can't help.” As Scott walks over to Julia, her eyes dip to his hips and a deep-pink color invades her cheeks.

Oh yeah, got my dick hanging in the wind.

Scott grins.

Julia blushes harder.

This is too fun. Scott's gaze never leaves hers as he laces his fingers, placing his hands on the back of his head. Swiveling his hips, Scott whips his semi-hard-on back and forth. His cock slaps his thighs.

Scott waggles his eyebrows.

Julia busts out laughing, covering her mouth. “Really?”

Scott nods. “Oh yeah—really!” he races toward her, and she squeals, turning to run.

Scott seizes her around the waist, heaving her on the bed. She bounces once, and he's on her in a flash.

He runs his fingers underneath his T-shirt, searching for all the obvious tender spots to torture, and soon, she's breathless with laughter.

When his palms cover her breasts, Julia's laughter drains from her face, and serious luminous eyes regard him.

Scott grows hard for her again as fierce possessiveness courses through him.

Julia's eyes widen. “That's how you feel about me?”

He nods.

“It's almost too much.” Her eyes hold fear—and wonder. Her hand rises to his face, and light fingertips trail over his day-old stubble.

“Nah,” he says, fingering the strands of hair caught in her mouth from laughing so hard. “It's never too much.”

“You want to own me, every bit—my mind, my body.”

“Your soul,” Scott whispers with a seriousness he didn't know he had in him.

Julia nods, searching his face. “That especially.”

Scott presses his mouth to her lips. Breaking the kiss, he cocks his head, giving her hooded eyes. “Let's start on all that right now then. No better time than the present.”

“I haven't even brushed my teeth!” Julia protests.

His eyes narrow. “It's not your mouth that needs kissing.”

“Oh,” Julia says in a breathy voice.

Scott works his way down to where he just was a handful of hours before.

Time unwinds.

*

“Victor is going to know we were in here humping like bunnies.” Julia covers her face, toothbrush sticking out of her kissable clean mouth.

“Victor-smictor.” Scott shrugs, slapping her cute little round ass.

“Hey!” Julia says through her toothpaste, but she's smiling.

He loves to see her smile. Scott feels her every emotion down to his feet. And when they're good, they're great.

She spits and rinses, the foamy toothpaste disappears, and she rolls her lips together, sighing in relief. “I hate a sweater on my teeth.”

Scott laughs. “Great visual, sweetheart.” He gives her a slow wink.

Her lips twitch as she arches a golden eyebrow. “You're so immature. Rhyming Victor's name.”

What can I say? “Mhmm.”

“Oh my word, what have I gotten myself into?”

Scott turns, grabbing Julia and hiking her up by the ass. Her legs go around his waist. He groans as he gets his third boner in twenty-four hours. My dick's gonna fall off. “You're killing me, Julia.”

“Ah, no. I'm the one who's sore, big guy.”

Scott feels his sheepish grin. He squeezes her, whispering against her neck, “I didn't hurt you too much?” His heart rate picks up. The duality of his soul-meld completion is somewhat contrary. He had to hurt his soul-meld to make her his—a small hurt for better protection and so much more. Though he can justify what he did, there's no denying his guilt over the process.

“Hey,” she says softly, sliding down the front of him.

Nothing like a few thoughts of hurting Julia to make him a limp noodle. Scott looks away from her burning gaze.

She swings his jaw back to her. He swims in the liquid fire of her eyes.

Their breathing instantly comes together. “I wanted to have sex. I don't think you have any idea how much.”

Scott remains silent.

She touches his cock, and it springs to vivid life again. Julia wraps her fingers around him, and his erection strains toward her. “I wanted this, Scott.” She strangles him for a second, and he stops breathing. “All of you.”

“Okay,” he squeaks. “Got it.” Now what are we going to do about it?

She looks at him as though she heard his question aloud. Probably.

“I thought you just mentioned Victor…”

Then her small hands tear down his underwear, springing his dick free.

She sinks before him. Her tongue is wet velvet against the tip of him, and he shudders. “Julia—”

“Shhh.” She licks at him, her tongue trailing the rim of his head, burning a path of fire.

Scott's head tips back as his hand finds her hair, fisting the gorgeous silky strands. He pushes her mouth deeper as she takes more of him.

Julia eases down to his base. She frees her lips and slides to his tip then deep throats him again.

Scott starts to work inside her mouth with his hips. “Julia, I can't—I can't last,” he gasps. He feels her lips part in a smile around his length as his other palm hits the wall behind him.

She comes up for air. “Maybe I don't want you to.”

That does it. His hips pump.

Her hand joins her mouth, one following the other as she crests at his tip with her hot wetness and slams down to his base, her hand squeezing as she does.

“Ah!” he bellows into the air while hot jets of cum spurt inside her waiting throat.

She swallows him down, and Scott shudders as his release wanes. He slumps against the wall.

Julia undoes him. Flat out.

She places her hands on his ass and releases his dick with a final lick at the tip.

She lays the side of her face against his naked hip. “I love you, Scott,” she whispers, her breath warming where her mouth just was.

What Scott feels for Julia goes way beyond mere love.

He sinks to the floor and kicks off the underwear from his ankles. Gathering Julia to his chest, he kisses the top of her head. “I love you more.”

She tips her head up, and he presses a kiss to her forehead. Julia closes her eyes. He kisses each eyelid.

Her eyes slowly open, and her lips part.

He kisses her mouth. It tastes of him. Scott stands with her in his arms then carries Julia to their bed.

“Again?” she asks coyly.

Scott nods solemnly. “Yes.”

*

“Nobody passed out,” Scott says, turning his head to look at her.

Julia peeks up at him from the crook of his arm. “That's a plus.”

He pushes the hair from her face. “Oh, I don't know. It was kinda novel.”

Julia's laugh is low and satisfied. “Yeah.”

Scott's stomach growls. “All right. I guess that's it then.”

Her eyebrow arches. “It's what?”

“The beast has awoken!”

Julia sits up, tossing her mussed hair behind her shoulder. “I think you were a beast,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes.

Is she flirting with me? He laughs.

Julia's got that look. It's the look that will land her in bed again. Scott's stomach rumbles hard, followed by a gnawing cramp.

“Hell,” Scott says, giving her a considering look.

“We can't just have sex forever, ya know.”

“Says who?” he asks with a chuckle.

Julia blushes.

God, I love her.

Caldwell was a fool. A rough exhale shoots out of him before he can stop it. The jerk saved her, and Scott will always be grateful for that. But in the darkest part of his mind, the part he doesn't like to admit he owns, he's glad that Jason isn't around to make Julia miserable with all his mood swings. Fuck, he was a bitch with that emo shit.

“What?” she asks, studying his expression.

“Can't read my mind?”

She shakes her head. “I'm telepathic, but some species—especially Were—and some individuals”—she taps her head—“white noise.” She shrugs. “I can send you a direct phrase if I do it just right, but it wipes me.”

“We don't want that.” Scott gathers her close again.

She gives a soft shake of her head. “No.” Her head falls on his shoulder, and he strokes her back.

Another hunger pang shoots through him.

Scott stands, tugging her by the hand. “Let's grab a quick shower and see what kind of dehydrated bullshit we can rustle up.”

Julia giggles. “It's better than a sharp stick in the eye.”

“Well, yeah,” Scott says, carrying Julia to the bathroom.

He turns the water on and slides Julia carefully to her feet with one arm. Hot spray hits the shower wall. Steam rises.

Julia strips the little bit of clothing she had on. Naked, she steps inside. Her eyes grow round when Scott follows her.

*

Julia

Victor turns toward the sound of their footfalls.

Julia tries not to blush.

Fail. Julia realizes she can't do the things she's done with Scott and not have it pinging around in her brain. It's all so new. So amazing.

He stands in all his tall, stately glory, though Julia admits his normally dapper suit is worse for the wear.

“Hi,” she says, hating the breathless tone in her voice. She can't shake the embarrassment and tries to hide it.

Scott assured her that all the rooms were soundproof. Nevertheless, Julia is damn sure Victor knows what they were up to in that bedroom for nearly an entire day.

“My queen,” Victor says, bowing slightly.

“Gah!”

Victor's head jerks back at her outburst.

“Sorry,” she mutters, and Scott squeezes her hand. “I know that technically, I'm a royal Singer—”

“You are the Rare One.”

Julia blows a strand of hair back. “Yeah. Anyway, I just want you to call me Julia, okay?”

Victor stares.

“Listen, Vic—”

Victor's stormy expression shifts to Scott.

“We know our place, and it is working beside our people, not over them.” Old Vic is from Two, after all. And Scott's mom was the mistress over that little mess.

Victor's chin dips. Restless fingers rake his perfect blond hair. His pale-gray eyes come to rest on them. “Forgive me. I have lived so long under your biological mother's reign, a different one has me completely out of sorts.”

Julia nods. His feeling are understandable.

Her eyes move to the timer clock. How many hours she has left in her prison underground?

Her flush comes back to merciless life. She's been down here screwing Scott's brains out while her people are—

Scott turns her, gripping her shoulders. “No.”

Julia doesn't need further explanation. Stop thinking about things we can't change, he said. Self-blame won't make the horrors, imagined or real, resolve themselves. Scott's words haunt her—because they're right.

She turns her head to the clock again.

Ten hours, eleven minutes, and three seconds. It seems like eternity. Her eyes lock with Scott's, and her heart squeezes.

It seems too soon.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Adi

Adi shifts the weight of the backpack between her shoulders. It's a miracle she was able to even put anything together with her state of mind.

The pack must be Jen's. The thing's covered in sparkly unicorns. But it was all she could find.

Adi sighs. She can't even escape without looking ridiculous.

Not that she gives a shit. She's got the necessities inside the pack: beef jerky, apples, water, and some peanut M&Ms.

Adi loves those.

A wave of heat threads through her, igniting her core. She pauses, her hand instinctively slapping the nearest tree trunk. The sharp bark presses painfully against her tender palm. Adi's almost healed fully, but her hands still ache from all the punching and hitting of those cockbite Were she ran into.

I hope that one can't grow another set of balls.

Too bad she doesn't have silver talons. A grim smile covers her face as another wave of nauseating heat hits her. Adi doubles over. What the hell is wrong with me? She shuts her eyes, leaning against the tree.

Taking even breaths, she wills herself to relax. Did she get injured more than she knew? Fear grips her as she thinks about possible internal injuries. She has no way to fix that between here and the Northwestern down in Gig Harbor. Though it’s only a couple of hours south by car, she's not in any shape to move fast yet. She might not have suffered as much as Slash did, but she's not perfectly healed. Not by a long shot. When she opens her eyes, she sees nothing but deep green woods—and Highway 101.

Finally.

She swings the backpack around and gives the zipper a vicious reverse tug. After jerking the water bottle out of the inside, she spins the cap off and chugs half. Better. She tightens the cap on the half-drained water bottle. Adi surveys the territory, thinking through her options.

They're all kinds of miserable. But she can't dwell on the beauty of what happened between her and Slash. She can only hope to start again. She figures her small goal of returning to the Northwestern is solid. She'll get back there, regroup, eat some of Susan's delicious home cooking, and figure out her life. She strokes the unicorns on the backpack and thinks of the pajamas she lent Julia way back when.

She feels a sad smile slip onto her face then melt away just as quickly.

She gnaws a piece of beef jerky, and gradually, her stomach settles, filling with protein and much-needed water. With the highway in sight, she feels less anxious. She can just hike parallel to the road, and voila—she’ll be back home before she knows it. Adi regrets not being able to say goodbye to Julia, but she was nowhere to be found. Everyone else she shared so much with might have tried to convince her to stay.

I don't think so.

She plows through three strips of jerky and downs more water.

Adi doesn't realize she's crying until the tears wet her thin T-shirt. She shivers, straightening, and walks away from the tree, shoving her water and jerky in the pack. She flips it over onto her back and strides away.

Doubt creeps in as she hikes the short but steep ravine to the highway. Could I be in heat? Is that what this is all about? Adi grows uneasy with the thought that she's wandering around without male escorts.

I'm too young for heat.

But Moon help her if she is. Being a female Were in heat is like ringing the dinner bell. And what the hell might have set that in motion anyway? A sudden thought strikes her.

Tessa and Tahlia. Those two Were gals show up, Lanarre or not, and suddenly, Adi feels all tingly and fucking needy.

Moon. She stops at the shoulder, cars buzzing by in both directions. The Olympic Peninsula is to the north; her den lies to the south.

Adi had planned to go quarter-change and trot on back to the Northwestern. Now, with the possibility of being in heat, she can't take that risk. If unscrupulous males are around—and her scent is strong enough—they could….

She shudders. It could be bad. Adi gets a sick feeling. Could Slash have sent her away knowing she might be in heat?

No way, even he's not that cruel.

The tears roll unheeded down her face.

*

Adi's face is hot.

She rolls to her side and groans. Twigs, leaves, and small stones are her bed, and her body is protesting about it.

The hell with it.

She sits up, sliding her backpack from where it had served as a pillow, and unzips it. After opening the bag of M&Ms, she pops a small handful in her mouth.

Bliss. Flavors explode, and she sighs with pleasure, sucking the shell of chocolate coating and crunching the peanut beneath.

“Now that is food,” she remarks to the indifferent forest.

Adi tucks her legs beneath her, searching her backpack. Carrying a toothbrush, deodorant, soap, and a small washcloth, she walks to a nearby stream.

I'll thumb it today, she thinks, glancing back at the 101 behind her. She's still not made up her mind, but she plans to head south and figure it out as she goes.

Adi hears the water before she sees it. The water gurgles its music over small rocks, tinkling and singing as it moves through the woods. Adi's thirsty as hell, and her mouth waters with the thought of drinking. But she remembers just how sick Julia got after drinking from a creek.

That's all I need is to be shitting and puking. Yeah, that'd be a nice little piece of awesome icing on the misery cake.

She hikes a little higher, brushing aside small branches, and spots the dim sparkle of the water down a gentle slope. She carefully makes her way to the edge and squats in front of the running water, letting the bristles of her toothbrush dangle in the rush of water. Adi brushes her teeth, gazing around at the environment.

Beauty is everywhere here. The Hoh Rain Forest is a ways off, but the kiss of its nearness is everywhere she casts her eyes. Sweetly scented Douglas fir and western red cedar choke the deciduous alder and occasional red maple as they vie for position along the stream bed. Adi inhales deeply, filling her lungs with the smell of woods, water, and beneath that, the pervasive scent of the small animals that fill the forest with their unique existence. Invisible to most, they are stunningly present for a female Alpha Were.

Feeling alive, Adi stands, swishing dubious water in her mouth, and spits the used toothpaste on a nearby brush. Wild Rhododendrons seek patches of strangled light with bony branches like outstretched arms. Their buds are so full, the color of the blooms are visible within scant slivers of leaves holding the growth tight, waiting for the perfect temperature to arrive.

“Beautiful,” Adi whispers, stroking a deep-emerald leaf. Her fingers come away slightly sticky from the rhody's under leaf. Adi leans over the creek, dipping her fingers into the chilly water to wash them. She fills a washcloth with water and adds bar soap, rubbing vigorously. She washes her hands, face, and pits.

“Shit,” she mutters. Blindly, she splashes water on her face, letting the droplets fall. She applies her deodorant without looking.

Setting the tube down, she wipes an arm across her face. Soap assaults her sensitive nostrils. “Ugh.” She'd much rather smell the forest than the strong-smelling soap she thieved from the Singer's house. Her arms drop, and she opens her eyes.

Without the soap mauling her senses, she might have scented them sooner. Adi stands so quickly, the muddy shore of the creek aids her fall on her ass.

She sits on the squishy mud of the bank. Spinning amber eyes glow from across the creek. Male Were.

“Oh,” she puffs out.

“Female,” one of them calls out.

Adi scrambles to her feet, tossing her pack across her back. A ray of sun stabs the pack, glittering on one of the unicorn horns.

A surge of heat floods her system, zinging her core with such need, she gasps. Adi's heart begins to gallop.

The gazes of the three Were narrow sharply at her.

Adi's eyes are keen, and keener still when she instinctively shifts to quarter-change.

The males across the wide creek miss nothing, their nostrils flaring together.

“Let us ease you, female.”

Fuck that. Adi retreats a step.

They advance.

One of the three takes a step into the water. The fast-moving current breaks around his foot, making protesting sounds of intrusion.

Adi hears a helpless noise—then realizes she's making it.

They take another step.

A wave of burning hits her hard, and Adi cups her elbows, whimpering against the mess of her body.

They exchange glances. In the next moment, they're crashing through the small river.

Adi wakes up. She whirls, never more thankful she kept the backpack straps loose.

She shifts to wolfen in the next jump.

Adi runs for her life. There are rumors about what happens to unprotected females who move through heat without a male escort. Adi doesn't think of what she's heard.

She runs.

Branches lash at her face and body as she moves through them like a bullet made of muscle and fur.

Her body metabolizes the sugar from the candy, chowing through the little bit of protein hanging on from the prior night and her jerky.

The water hydrates her for the first mile.

Their footsteps gain.

I can't outrun males who are a foot taller! Her mind agonizes as her body trembles to keep up the crushing pace she sets for it.

Then a miracle occurs. Adi sights 101 and gets a brilliant idea. As she bursts into traffic, a car slams into her. Adi spins in the air, her body on fire to heal the injury. The heat that she is most certainly going through aids the efforts of her body. The imperative of breeding supersedes all others.

She lands hard, cracking her head on the smoothly pebbled asphalt. Ribs break instantly, and breathing as she knew it stops. Adi's head falls to the side, and sees the males swarming the border of the woods. She sucks in a breath; it shudders like shards of glass.

Cars screech to a halt.

Adi has enough presence of mind to shift back to quarter-change from wolfen as humans approach.

“Hey! Oh my God—call 911!” a human man's voice says.

Adi closes her eyes. Tears roll out no matter how hard she squeezes them. Slash! she wails, though she knows he's not listening.

Hands touch her. Not to harm, but to help.

Pieces of conversation come to her in scattered bits. “Like this—no, careful!” The wail of sirens draws nearer.

Medics arrive. Gentle hands touch her ankles, throat, and wrist.

She'll heal. But right now, Adi hurts like hell.

But the humans don't know that. “One, two—three!” The hands lift her, transferring her to a gurney. Adi shrieks despite her best efforts not to, feeling weightless as the human responders begin to slide her inside the back of the ambulance.

“Skid marks. Driver was going fast. Did you see how far she was from the vehicle?” one medic asks another.

“Too far.” The voice is ominous.

Adi cracks her eyes open. The males are gone.

A bee sting pierces her arm at the bend of her elbow.

Then she is gone, too.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Tessa

They grab the women, hauling them on shoulders as broad as houses, then run deeper into the woods.

Tessa jiggles on the back of the one whose crotch she nailed.

He seems to be purposely jostling her in a teeth-rattling stride while maneuvering around the huge, old-growth trees heaped with layers of moss and lichen.

She wants to barf, preferably on him.

Finally, they reach a clearing, and he allows Tessa to slide off his back.

Actually, he just sort of lets go, and she rolls off him in a clumsy pile of limbs. She lands hard, a breath choking out of her body. The food she had in the Walmart parking lot is long-gone, and she's so thirsty, she can hardly think of anything else.

But those considerations are second to the Lanarre pack coming out to see the novelty of two females literally dropping into their laps.

Tessa stands, dusting off her hands, and glances over her wardrobe malfunctions. Her yoga pants got a workout while stretching to accommodate her shifts from quarter-change to wolfen. They hang loosely now, barely staying on her hips. Her T-shirt's neckline and hem are terribly stretched out. She’s filthy.

She glares at the approaching Lanarre welcoming committee. Assholes. Tessa will not allow fear to rule her.

Her palms slick with the beginnings of the fight-or-flight response.

Tahlia doesn't seem to share her anxiety.

Of course not. She's lived in the comfort of the southwestern Lanarre region of the Redwoods in northern California. Tahlia's seen nothing but deference.

What an eye-opener this must be.

Three Lanarre break from the pack of about a dozen. Tessa backs up until her butt hits a tree.

The Lanarre who carried her turns, his eyes like knives of contempt, slicing her up.

Looks like his crotch is okay now. Tessa smirks.

The three move to Tahlia. “Imposters will be punished.”

Tahlia's brow furrows, and anger radiates from her every pore. “You are some of the most daft Lanarre I've ever had the misfortune of encountering. Scent me!” she yells.

The lead of the three shakes his head. “Drek was tasked with meeting his chosen, Tahlia. After a massacre of her guardians—”

“My guardians, you foolish dog.”

His fist swings out, and Tahlia ducks smoothly. He feints, clocking her with the opposite fist.

She lands hard, her lip split and bleeding. “You will not address me as though you are above me. No female but a royal could speak to a Lanarre male in that way, bitch.”

So much for not hurting females.

Tessa's back straightens. Tahlia has a smartass mouth on her. But for a huge male to use a closed fist on a female Lanarre? Nope.

They're going to get a reckoning when Drek finally makes his appearance.

Tessa moves quickly. These idiots will be unprepared for her offensive. They're so sure of their wonderful maleness, there's no way a female would see to them.

Bullshit on that.

One of the three almost catches her race to get them, but he misses it.

Tessa rolls as she flies low, bunching up her body and somersaulting across the soft ground. At the last moment, she shoots out her hands, grabbing the nuts of the two who flanked Beater.

He turns, mouth agape, and Tessa springs straight to his face, striking him in the throat in a solid jab. He falls.

Tessa smiles. All in a day's work.

She swivels, grabbing the hand that Tahlia throws above her.

“Thank you, Tessa,” Tahlia says, spitting blood on the ground.

“Thought you were a big bad fighter?”

Tahlia nods, her eyes wary on the remaining Lanarre. “I am. When I know I will suffer abuse.”

“You've never been hit by a male?” Tessa asks without looking away from the approaching Lanarre.

“No,” she says, voice small. “None would dare.”

The Lanarre approach, changing to wolfen. Their bodies burst the clothes apart, swelling to almost seven feet.

Tessa's empty. She doesn't have sufficient fuel to shift. Quarter-change is all she's got, and even that is scraping the bottom of the barrel.

And it won't be enough. She took out the three through the element of surprise. Without that to assist her, they'll have her bent into a pretzel in no time. Nailing their crotches was a quick, effective offensive. It also probably has the highest piss-off factor.

Tessa chances a glance at Tahlia. Her face is brave, but her lips tremble. “No male Lanarre would raise a hand to a female.”

“They didn't get the memo at this pack,” Tessa remarks.

Tahlia frowns, but then her face bleeds to horror as she looks to the border of the forest.

Laz steps from the woods.

His tail rises above his head, and he crouches like a samurai warrior. His hiss sounds like a legion of snakes.

Tessa shivers. The demonic are a fearsome species.

The Lanarre turn and pause.

He's worth a pause.

Laz, why couldn't you stay gone? Tessa has time to ask before sprinting to meet him. She runs toward the evil—her salvation.

Maybe there's hope yet. With the three of them, they might be able to get out of this lunatic place where they're noseblind to a true royal in their midst.

She's almost to him when a Lanarre blindsides her with a fist.

Tessa flies, crashing on the ground. She rolls, moving to her hands and knees, shaking her head to clear it.

Tahlia flies in a blur of color to her right.

Tessa stands and falls. She gets up again.

Tahlia's put two of the Lanarre out of commission.

A lazy smile forms on Tessa's face.

A couple of chicks kicking their asses. Tessa likes it. Remembering Laz, she turns.

He brings the end of his tail down on the head of a Lanarre. Brains blow out the side of his head. Shards of skull fling away like the scattered shells of eggs.

A hand grabs her arms, and Tessa twists it hard. The grasp loosens, and she stares up into slowly rotating eyes of silver. She hits him in the nose with the flat of her palm, giving it everything she has left.

He howls, staggering away and grabbing his stubby snout.

Tessa whirls, her throbbing palm letting her know she's fractured something, and promptly slams into Laz's chest.

He grips her with fingers of steel. She sucks in his scent as though she’s starving.

Home. “Laz!” she cries.

He tosses her gently aside, and she lands on the ground behind him.

Her head bounces off a rock, and the world spins. Tessa hears the fighting and screaming. Something warm hits her face like droplets of bathwater.

A large hawk slowly spirals in loose circles above her head. “What?” she chokes out.

Tahlia?

She rolls her head, and it comes off the rock.

No. Tahlia is under three Lanarre.

They're holding her down. Gotta get over there.

Tessa begins to claw at the ground, working her way inch by inch.

A foot lands on her back, and she groans as pain radiates through her beaten body.

She grabs the foot and twists. The Lanarre loses his balance, falling beside her.

She shoves her thumb in his eye. He wails, and she rolls to her side, lurching to her feet, and stumbles toward Tahlia.

Why does she look like I'm seeing her through a tunnel?

Tahlia drops to her knees just as an elegant and commanding Lanarre moves into the clearing.

Tessa sways.

He takes in the melee then shouts, “Stop!” in the most intense voice she's ever heard.

Tessa shudders. His voice resonates through her bones like a note from a tuning fork. She begins to fall forward, and someone catches her. She bats weakly at the hands. Then she notices whose hands hold her.

Heat seeps into all the cold parts of her body, one in particular.

Her eyes snap open.

Pale-blue eyes stare somberly down at her out of a face too red to be human flesh.

“Laz!” she calls in weak warning.

His tail snaps back like a mallet, taking the approaching Lanarre's head off at the base.

Like a classic parody of a zombie, the Lanarre keeps walking forward, arms outstretched, blood shooting out of his neck like a geyser. He comically tumbles forward.

The four after him are more cautious as they approach Laz.

My demon.

*

Drek

The area stills, and a frightened Lanarre princess seeks his face. Her fear strikes Drek like a piercing sword. Its evisceration of his tender insides is complete. His arrogant certainty of her fate as separate from his own is wiped from his psyche forever.

His guts pull him forward with a painful precision born of biology. Tahlia is more than his chosen in an arranged match of tradition he's been told about over the years.

Tahlia is meant to be mine. The very fiber of his being weeps for their union. His wolf thrashes his insides to get to her. Drek nearly stumbles as he makes his way toward Tahlia.

“What is this chaos?” Drek roars, eyes sweeping the impromptu battleground.

Bowen bursts his skin for the third time in twenty-four hours, smoothly transitioning to wolfen.

Drek keeps form.

He takes in the large hands holding her small body on the ground. His beast wants to gnaw those hands off.

“We have caught this rogue Lanarre female, Drek. She claims to be Lanarre royalty from the southwest. She attacks the males.” His snort of disdain sets Drek's teeth.

Only royal Lanarre males can scent royal females. His temples thump, popping veins.

“Take your hands off my chosen, or Bowen will strip them off with his teeth.”

Bowen growls his agreement.

His eyes seek Tahlia. She remains aloof, looking everywhere but at him.

The other males step away, and she manages to stand. Tears stain her face. A smudge of muddy forest floor and a stray needle stick to her cheekbone as she rubs her arms where the males held her.

Her hunger slaps at Drek, and her fatigue tears at him like small teeth. This is chosen? He thought he could just—what? Make her go away?

There is no going away. Tahlia is here to stay.

Mine, his beast whispers with insistence from deep inside. Drek reaches for her, and large midnight eyes narrow at the gesture. “Don't touch me, prince,” she seethes.

Drek frowns. “I am Drek, your chosen.”

She nods, as regal as he.

This is not going as he thought it would.

“I know who you are. Call off your dogs from my friend, or I will make your time on this earth a living hell.”

Drek's misgivings deepen. He might want her, but the greeting she received was incorrigible. Therefore, she is justifiably upset.

He glances at the six bodies on the ground. Two are missing heads. His lips lift from his teeth. The Lanarre guard who are uninjured bow their heads, backing away. Drek risks a glance at the rogue female and the demonic.

She is worse for wear, bleeding from her head. The demonic, standing proudly in the nude, wears the blood of the Lanarre over his entire body.

Drek dismisses him as a threat for the moment, turning his attention back to one of his guard, Ospere. “What. Is. Going. On?” He enunciates each word like gunfire.

Ospere glares at Tahlia.

In the flesh, she is utterly gorgeous—liquid and vital. Wide-spaced eyes of the darkest blue with a splash of violet flash in a face contorted with anger. Black hair in tight spiral curls falls to a hand-span waist.

Drek wonders what it would be like to touch it.

“Do not look at my chosen thus. Explain. Now.”

Ospere’s mouth drops open, and Drek wonders at his shock. “We found the females trapped at the great river, Drek. They were accompanied by that one.” He jerks his thumb toward the demonic hovering near the forest, with the injured female in his arms.

“Why?” Drek yells. “Why would you raise a hand to the chosen?”

“Drek,” Ospere spreads his arms away from his body in an inoffensive gesture. “Your chosen has been here for over a week. She arrived in the time you have been gone.”

Drek jerks his head back. “No. This female”—he points at a pouting Tahlia—is my chosen.”

“No, she isn't,” calls a voice from the direction of their den.

Drek swings his body toward the voice. A female, the near spitting image of the one not two yards from him, stands close to the edge of the glade.

She sways as she walks toward him. The female is undoubtedly royal—Drek can smell it. She also smells alarmingly similar to Tahlia.

“Who is she?” Bowen asks.

“I am Tahlia of the Lanarre pack of the Redwood Forest.”

“You bitch!” the chosen screams.

Drek's shock is absolute.

Tahlia attacks the other female. Talons fly.

Blood flows.

More Lanarre rush in and separate them.

Drek and Bowen exchange a look of confusion.

For once, his nose has lied. He doesn't know who is telling the truth—and who is lying.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Julia

Julia leans back.

“You're gonna wear your eyes out looking at the clock constantly.”

She turns to Scott and sighs. He's right, but she can hardly wait.

“It will surely be unpredictable,” Victor comments, setting his fork at the edge of his plate, tines down.

Julia's stuffed. She leans back, pushing her plate away with a fingertip. “I'm scared,” she admits softly.

Victor's forehead creases. “Do not be. Scott is Combatant. I am, as well. The demonic doesn't stand a chance against the two of us.”

Julia's hand covers the spore. It's quiet. But for how long?

Scott follows the movement, his face troubled. She can feel their combined thoughts like collective soup—delicious, but filling. He knows what she does. Nothing.

She glances at the timer that will release them from the vault, yet again.

Five hours, four minutes, thirty-two seconds.

“Julia,” Scott says softly, taking her hands in his. He kisses her knuckles, keeping hold of her hands.

His flesh is warm against hers. She doesn't cry, but the tears are right at the surface. Julia thinks of Jason dying and Cyn still living above their heads. Maybe safe?

Maybe not.

Julia's been so selfish. Scott's brother and sister are above. Jen and Michael can't even know they're down here.

Julia turns to Victor. “You didn't know those two weren't Region Two?”

Victor's face tightens, regret etched on every surface. “I thought something was off. But, like everyone, I was overly thrilled that additional Singers survived. At least, more presumed to be Singers lived.” His eyes meet hers, and Julia releases a harsh breath.

“Me, too,” she whispers. They exchange a tormented glance.

Victor continues, “I was walking through the kitchen when my veins began to surface.”

“That's when you knew,” Scott confirms, and Victor gives a curt nod.

“So they're here to what?”

Victor narrows his eyes at Julia, drumming his fingers on the cheap folding table they just ate at. “I do not wish to alarm you further. But because you’re the Rare One, the demonic would be interested in shutting you down.”

Julia turns to Scott, and he nods.

“Royal Singers are angelic. The demonic had nothing to worry about when we were spread across the globe—numbers low, no one to solidify or unify who and what we are. Along comes the prophesied Rare One. You changed all that.”

“How?” Julia asks, taking her hands from Scott's hold. She stands and paces back and forth in the all-concrete gloom.

Victor stands, as well, clasping his hands behind his back. He walks closer to her, but stops a few feet away. “Your potential has been much debated. But we know that the Rare One is here to unite the Singers and bring a purity of blood and cohesiveness to our species that's been diluted and misaligned over the centuries.”

“Like Jacqueline,” Scott states quietly.

Victor looks in his direction, saying nothing.

“We can't blame what's happening here on Jacqueline's mismanagement of Two. No. Those demon guys are here because they're trying to halt progression,” Julia states.

Victor's eyes are on Julia's hands as they fly around like escaped birds. “You are the natural enemy of the demonic.”

“All of us are,” Scott corrects.

Victor shakes his head. “All royals, naturally. However, many of us do not possess sufficient blood quantum to worry them.”

They look at Julia. “But I do.”

“In abundance.” Victor casts his eyes to the floor. “I have assumed that you've bonded fully.”

Julia's face bursts into flames.

Even the unflappable Scott seems a little… flummoxed. He manages, “Yes.” The one-word answer clearly signals the end of the conversation.

Not for Julia. “So we have. The soul-meld is consummated. What are the bennies?” She shifts her weight, trying to ignore the timer.

Victor's mouth parts. “Bennies?”

“What are the benefits now that we've done what we were meant to?” Julia asks.

Scott reaches for her.

They thread their fingers together.

“I do not know,” he says.

Julia's shoulders slump.

Scott scrubs a hand over his short hair.

Victor lifts a palm. “I do know that the coming together of the two—a true soul-meld—is unprecedented. In theory, Julia's abilities, when tested, should be at their fullest.”

“English, Vic,” Scott says.

“You are stronger together than apart.”

Scott hauls Julia against him, planting a soft kiss at the crown of her head. “Well, we're together all right.”

Julia's blush flames to life again.

Victor's face doesn't even twitch. “That is good. I am more happy with that news than anything I can dream up.”

Julia thinks it's weird that one physical act can change things so drastically. Was that all it took?

Victor grins suddenly. “And—” He claps his hands together softly. “If a child would result, all the better.”

Julia's mouth feels as though it's come unhinged from her jawbone.

Scott's embrace tightens.

“It would be the happiest of news.”

Julia really feels stupid now. She never once thought about protection. Dread pours through her.

Scott snaps his head to her.

She can't handle the idea of a baby in the middle of this dangerous life. She can't even protect herself.

Scott turns her to slowly face him. “Julia,” he says tenderly, brushing his mouth against hers in the softest kiss she's ever received, “I'll never let anything happen to you—or to a baby we would have.”

Julia's face falls forward on his muscular chest. “I can't do kids right now, Scott.” She wrings the confession out.

Scott places his index finger beneath her chin and lifts it. His lips part into a crooked smile. “But you know they'd be little angels.”

“Literally,” Victor chimes from behind them.

Julia nods, forcing a smile through her anxiety. “That's what I'm afraid of.”

Little targets for the likes of Praile and crew. The thought reminds her of something. “What about Laz?”

“He was the demonic that helped Praile, who went by ‘Peter,’” Scott states.

Julia shudders, thinking of the pain from the demonic's spore when he drew nearer to her. “But what's happened to them?”

Victor spreads his hands. “We are here. They are above.”

Julia notes he very carefully doesn't address Jason's murder.

“And the new women—Tahlia and Tessa?” She shakes her head, putting her face in her hands. There are so many variables, so many who could be hurt because of Praile's unknown agenda.

“He is certainly the one who was behind the Singer genocide here—using Tony. We know that Tony did not act of his own volition. He could not have.”

Julia nods a little too quickly.

“A great offense is the best defense,” Scott says.

Julia whips her head to his. “Yes.”

“Let's talk about what to do when we finally get outta here.”

Victor says, “Agreed.”

“What—” Julia sucks in a huge lungful of air, ready to verbalize the unthinkable. “What if everyone is dead… again?”

Scott drops her hand, folding his arms across his chest. “No way—refusing that outcome.”

“Scott?” Julia cries. “We have to address the possibility.”

Victor cups his chin. “We need to assume that if a high demon has left the realm of Hades to seek the death of the Rare One, that would be the only goal. Killing Singers was more about decimating numbers, and he tasked that to a lackey—Tony Laurent, who is now deceased.”

Yeah he is.

Julia still remembers his ripped-out crotch. Scott, apparently sensing the distasteful memory, slides his arm around her shoulders and draws her close. “So the big wig comes to do me in?”

“I would not put it quite like that. But they were aware of your…” He clears his throat delicately. “Unfinished ties to Scott, and while you were vulnerable, they presumed to end you.”

“But now we're tied—in every conceivable way,” Scott repeats unnecessarily, and Julia suppresses the urge to elbow him.

A small smile hovers on his face as he gets a sense of her embarrassment.

She frowns.

“Yes,” Victor says, clearly oblivious to the interplay between her and Scott.

“So now we're invincible?” Julia asks, disbelief dripping from her words.

“Hypothetically,” Victor says, and Julia hears the but.

“But?”

“The spore worries me,” he admits.

Julia's hand flattens over her stomach.

“Let me see, Julia,” Scott says.

She rolls up a thin T-shirt that'd been stuffed in one of the dressers in their room. It smells stale.

Her fingers shake as she holds the bunched material.

They look at her stomach. Julia glances down, as well.

A small, comma-shaped black smudge mars otherwise-creamy skin. No evidence of the wound caused by the demon's saber remains. Just the shadow of evil.

She exhales slowly. “Still there.”

“Yup,” Scott says.

Julia can hear the worry in his voice. It mirrors her own.

Victor tears his eyes away from the mark. Facing away, he says to the wall, “We might be forced to seek outside help to expunge that potential threat.”

Julia's face jerks to him. She was staring at the mark, rubbing it as though she could erase it from her body.

Scott asks, “Who?”

Victor's exhale is filled with irritation. “The fey.”

Not them again.

“We already owe them. I promised Tharell the exchange of Singers who would marry the fey.”

Scott frowns. “Yeah, before Tharell became a traitor.”

“Doesn't matter. The oath is to faerie. Just like an oath of loyalty in human marriage is to God, not the spouse.”

Julia had never thought about marriage in those terms. “So let me get this straight.” She squeezes Scott once and steps away, gathering her thoughts without the heat of his emotions swarming her mind. “I promised Tharell, but he was acting as faerie's rep?”

Victor tilts his head back, brows snapping together. Finally, after a full minute of consideration, he answers, “Yes.”

“Wow,” she breathes. “Tharell was dishonest, all out of his head because he wasn't close to faerie, and with his demonic blood—it ruled, but faerie was still online. Then when I committed to exchange Singers for marriages—”

“Faerie was silently taking notes,” Victor confirms.

“Marvelous,” Scott says, his expression in opposition to the word.

“And I promised to end him,” Julia says, biting on a nail.

“And that would fall under the same precepts,” Victor adds, giving her a speculative look.

Julia's stomach does a little flop. “This is terrible.”

“Is there a timeline?” Scott asks suddenly.

She thinks about her prior conversations. “I can't remember that I committed to a specific date…. Maybe. We have time,” Julia says with quiet hope.

Victor’s eyes are dark with his thoughts. “Perhaps.”

A beep, like a squawking bird, pierces the still subterranean air, and Julia jumps. Her head whips to the clock.

Zero hours, minutes and seconds.

It's time.

Scott holds out his hand, and Victor leads them to the rungs of the ladder that will take them up and out.

To the unknown.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Slash

“I need to leave,” Slash states.

Truman's eyebrows move to his hairline. “We could use another Were here.”

Slash's breath rushes out of him, and he scrapes a palm over his cropped hair. He doesn't bother with subtle. “I've mated Adi.”

Cynthia's mouth drops open. “You—what?”

Truman's lips twitch at the corners. “Nothing like doing the deed when everything's going to shit.”

Slash understands the timing is unbelievably bad. But sometimes the heart wants what it wants—the hell with timing.

Truman runs his eyes over Slash’s form.

His expression tells Slash what he already knows—he isn't going anywhere right this minute. Feeling has returned to mid-thigh, though his lower back is still numb.

“I know,” Slash confirms what he reads in Truman's disbelieving expression. “That Alpha nailed me. But I'm coming around.”

“Shift to wolfen,” Truman suggests easily.

“Couldn't out there,” Slash jerks his head to where Truman just hauled him from. “What if it'd taken a couple of times, and Tramack and company had opted for a return visit? Plus I'm low on fuel.”

Truman grimaces, casting his eyes to the floor. “You have me there.” He puts his large hands on his hips, considering for a full minute. His eyes rise to meet Slash's. “Shift. I'll guard you, then you go get your girl. This mess will be here in some form when you get back. It always seems to be.”

They stare at each other, both understanding there might be no coming back. Uncertainty is the way of the supernatural world.

Lawrence and his default second-in-command, Manny, are both dead. Tony Laurent is dead, thank Moon. That leaves the Northwestern leaderless. Not an ideal spot for a pack of werewolves to be in. Without leadership, Were tend to become unstable.

Adrianna almost surely went in the direction of her pack of origin after Slash shoved her away. However, the immediate goal of securing her safety was realized when Slash saw Tramack beaten and bleeding on the ground, his Were beside him.

She is safe for now.

But Slash would rather have her with him always. He knows he’ll have to beg her forgiveness and eat crow to the end of his days in order to make Adrianna understand that he would never have said those things and acted as he had if the situation had been even marginally winnable.

She's young and female. Adrianna simply doesn't understand her importance to him—or his role in her protection. How could she? She only has herself to protect.

Slash has to protect them both.

“We'll get some food, and you shift,” Truman says.

Preferably something that's still squirming. Though that was unlikely.

Slash is anxious to get out of the area, scent Adrianna, and set things right.

*

Slash groans.

Two shifts later, he remains wolfen.

Cynthia brings in the third plate of steaming leftovers.

Slash eyes the food: an entire twelve pound chicken, by the looks of it. Slash isn't sure if that's sufficient.

Hell with it, it'll have to do.

She sets the food on the coffee table in the dainty parlor where he shifted and made a mess everywhere. Bet the Singers never thought that a bunch of cross-species would be spreading the remnants of a shift all over their house.

Slash's chuckle is like a bark. Shit happens. And it happens often in his experience.

Slash begins to shovel food, his body feasting and breaking down the nutrients as fast as he can chew and swallow. “Thanks,” he mumbles a heartfelt word through a packed mouth.

Cynthia leans against the door jamb, managing a wan smile. “Welcome.”

Slash's eyes take in her slight form. She could use some food, too. Singers begin to file in through the door, and Cynthia turns to watch their quiet progression.

She sucks in her lip, holding back the sobbing.

“They'll take care of him,” he comments, swallowing a load of food.

“I know,” she replies softly, sweeping a small strand of blond hair from her face and absently tucking it behind her ear. She sniffles, taking a shaking inhale then going still.

They sit in silence as Slash picks his plate clean. Down the hall, voices are talking. Others are crying.

Jason Caldwell was a volatile Red. Most are.

But he was a part of the Singers. And like an injured limb that won't heal, his loss is felt keenly.

Slash uses the last bit of chicken to catch the juices. He can't help his indifference. Slash has seen too much death to be concerned about one more. It's the single consistency of being a supernatural—death.

Right now, the only thing he cares about is the female who is not by his side.

“Thank you,” Slash says again, covering a burp with his fist.

A low vibration of tingling begins in his lower back, radiating like seeking fingers of heat, gripping and massaging his nerve endings back to life.

Slash tries to stand from his crouch on the floor. He crashes to his ass on the floor. He grits his teeth against the searing pain as his body heals the last bit of his paralysis. Flames lick at the lumbar region of his back, bringing it to life. “Ah!” Slash places his palm to his lower back, where the pain is most acute.

Cynthia rushes to him, face blotchy from holding back grief. “What is it?” she asks, grabbing his arm.

His eyes slit in pain. “Healing,” he breathes out.

“Oh,” she says. Then something flows into him—part balm, part heat—and his eyes meet hers.

She's augmenting his own body's healing.

Pins and needles stab him like an unwilling voodoo doll, and he bends in half, his palms hitting the solid coffee table. The plate rattles as his fork drops to the floor.

A gauzy gray shroud covers his vision then shreds to ribbons. Slash staggers to the pass-through, Cynthia's hands still on his arm. He grips the threshold between the two rooms and slowly opens his eyes.

His wolfen vision is ten times as acute as a hawk’s. Everything comes into focus. Slash feels his back, hips, legs, and feet simultaneously. He touches his back, his finger brushing the elastic band of the new athletic pants Truman had set aside for him.

Slash feels alive.

He turns back to Cynthia, and her hands fall. “I keep saying thank you—but thank you.”

She nods. “It feels good to help.”

Truman walks in from where the Singers have congregated at Caldwell's death scene, eyebrows hiked in clear question.

“I'm ready.”

Truman nods. “Looks like someone's locked in that underground bunker.”

Slash frowns, flaring his nostrils. Many scents come to his nose, ones he'd been too unwell to consider. Demonic is the first.

Death.

Were.

Julia, Scott, and Victor.

Truman shrugs. “Don't know who it is or how they got down there. But the timer's about up. All the bad asses have been accounted for.”

Truman doesn't smell them. Probably too new a Were to scent identify every layer in the vicinity.

Cynthia stands up straighter. “Maybe it's Jules,” she says, hope heavy in her voice. “That'd make sense, right? Haven't seen Scott, her, or that Victor dude.” She holds her face in her hands. “I can't take it if they're hurt of worse,” she says through her fingers.

Truman grunts. “Could be, or maybe not. Don't know yet, Cynthia. Don't borrow the worry.”

Her shoulders slump. “Yeah.”

Truman steps away from the doorway, giving her a look that captures Slash's attention. Cynthia doesn't see the expression.

“There's always hope,” Slash murmurs.

He scents something surprising from Truman. He doesn't act as though he cares about this female, but Slash scents that he does.

Their eyes move to Slash. He indicates his healed body with a hand. “I never thought to have a mate. And now I do.” He doesn't acknowledge the Rare One, her soul-meld, or Victor being inside that bunker. Slash would hate to tell them his suspicions, only to be wrong.

Cynthia lifts her shoulders. “I know Adi, and if you don't get your werewolf ass after her, pronto, you can kiss the mate thing goodbye. She's not a girl to trifle with.”

I know. “I'm sorry to leave you with all this going on.”

Cynthia shakes her head. “We could use you. Truman's right.”

Truman remains silent.

“But Adi's important, too. Us women have been through a lot together. And she's kinda headstrong. I'm afraid for her, Slash. She needs a level-headed guy. Don't dick her around.”

Slash blinks. Adrianna being headstrong is one of the biggest understatements he's ever heard. And he would never play games with a female. He's never had the opportunity even if that were part of his nature.

Slash is uneasy, too. Thankfully, Adrianna doesn't have much of a lead on him—six hours, tops.

Cynthia scans his face, apparently satisfied with what she sees there. “Go,” she says softly.

Truman nods.

Slash leaves. He doesn't run at first. But before he knows it, he's sprinting.

Adrianna's scent is easy to follow. It smells like home.

*

Adi

Adi blinks heavy eyelids. She looks around at all the white: white walls, floor, blinds, and bed.

She gazes down at her ensemble, a white hospital gown.

Ugh. She shuts her eyes again. Unreal.

Derailed to the human hospital.

Her eyes snap open. Oh shit. Adi can't let them examine her too closely.

They would find out things.

She sits up, and a plastic tube like a clear worm swings from her arm.

Wonderful.

At least she's escaped the three stooges.

Maybe.

The heart rate monitor starts to beep, and a nurse cruises in. “Ah, you're awake.”

Adi blinks at her stupidly.

She's about five feet five, with a slim build and dyed-black hair. Her liquid eyeliner is like a black slash, making her clear light-brown eyes stand out. She smells fresh off her cycle, and Adi can smell that she uses antibacterial soap.

And she has aggressive breast cancer.

Sometimes it sucks to be a wolf.

The nurse—Adi scans her nametag—Jenni, clasps the clipboard with Adi's probable vitals. Jenni's expression turns puzzled.

Maybe Jenni is a couple of years older than Adi. She looks young.

“Let me check your vitals.”

Adi nods, suddenly sad at all the inside info she now holds. Jenni checks all her parts. And like a jointed doll, she's okay.

That's when the fun begins.

Jenni plops down in a chair and rolls it to her bedside.

“You're very lucky.”

Ah-huh.

“Do you know your name? We couldn't get anything from our records with your print.”

Of course not. No self-respecting Were would allow a human to get ahold of her DNA.

Except me. Adi figures they've got her blood, skin, and everything typed. Dammit. “My name's Adrianna.”

Jenni's smile is brilliant and gentle.

She's in the right line of work, this human.

Jenni pats her hand. “We have x-rays that show a broken pelvis and femur, contusions, and small fractures in keeping with the larger injuries.”

Her eyes sweep to Adi's. “A second set of x-rays show that those injuries have mended themselves.”

Adi gulps. Spying a water cup, she grabs it, takes a sip, and sets it back down. “Okay?” Adi says, feigning ignorance.

She's awesome at that.

“We're going to run more tests.”

“Nope,” Adi replies in a pleasant tone.

Nurse Jenni's brows crease. “I'm sorry?” she asks, as though she heard Adi wrong.

“I am not staying for more tests. I feel amazing. And, I have somewhere to be. I'd love to grab some food, but I bet I'll need to stick around for that.” Adi grabs her lower lip with her teeth and swings her legs to the side of the bed opposite Jenni.

“Hey!” Jenni calls out loudly.

Adi's clothes rustle as she stands, tearing out the IV. She tosses it onto the bed then jerks off the tape, wincing. She rips the gown over her head, pitches it on the hospital bed, and pads naked to where she spies her clothes.

“What? Wait…” Jenni says, setting the clipboard on a rolling tray with a disruptive clatter.

“It's okay. You've done your job and filled me up with some great meds.” Adi turns to look at her, her hands hanging limply at her sides.

“Did you set my breaks?” Adi asks, rooting through her unicorn backpack and pulling on her pants. She whistles through her teeth at some residual pain, hiking the yoga pants over her hips.

Bet the other pair are toast.

Adi eyeballs the pack. A few unicorns have road skids, and only a smattering of glitter remains where they'd romped over the slick material.

“Yes,” Jenni whispers.

Adi smiles at her. “Thank you. That would have been awful for me to try and figure out.”

Jenni takes a deep breath then lets it out as though she's calming frayed nerves. Probably. “We want you to stay here for observation, Adrianna.”

I bet.

“Adi.”

Jenni catches her forearm. “Please don't go, Adi. We've never seen anyone heal like you do.”

“I know. Can't stick around and be a cooperative pincushion.” Adi walks to the window, where she pops the metal slats apart with her index finger and thumb.

She swivels the latch at the middle of the window and slides it open slightly. Adi rests the side of her face on the wooden sill.

“What are you doing?” Jenni asks from right behind her.

“Smelling,” Adi turns to look at her. “Stay where ya are. Don't stick me with needles or anything. I won't like it.” Adi allows her eyes to go wolfen, and Jenni gasps, retreating a step.

Adi directs her attention back to the window. She lays her face on the windowsill again and closes her eyes, inhaling deeply.

Her eyes snap open. The males are here.

Jenni's going to be more than a nurse today.

She whirls, and Jenni snatches the clipboard from the tray, holding it in front of her like a shield.

“I need your help,” Adi says, shutting out the fear. For now.

“You have it. Stay here so we can study you and take care of you.”

Adi gives an irritated shake of her head. “No. You're going to wheel chair my ass out of here, toss me into your car, and we're going to your place. Then I can get where I'm going without the three musketeers up my ass.”

“The three what?” Her face screws into a frown of confusion.

Convince her, Adi.

She rushes the nurse, who squeals like a piglet. Adi covers her mouth with one hand, staring deeply into her eyes.

“You'll help me because I know stuff about you.” Adi shakes off the guilt of coercing a sick human. Survive.

Jenni tries to shake her head.

“I'll let you go if you don't scream.” Adi raises her eyebrows, waiting.

Jenni shakes her head again.

Okay, she's gonna scream.

“You have aggressive breast cancer.”

Jenni's face slackens.

Adi takes her hand away.

“How—how could you possibly know that?”

Long version or short? Adi's eyes skate to the window. Short.

“I'm a werewolf.” She taps her nose.

Jenni's skin pales, and she begins to slide down the wall.

“Shit!” Adi says as she catches her easily.

Where the hell are the smelling salts when you need them?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Drek

“Stop this!” Drek bellows a second time in a voice meant to deafen.

All activity ceases.

He makes a valiant effort to soothe a beast within him as it claws for escape. His attention moves to the palest shadow of the moon.

Fortune is with him.

It is full. And for a Lanarre, that means more control, not less. Three measured breaths later, his eyes peg the two Lanarre females before him.

Which one is Tahlia?

He openly studies the two females’ bodies from the tops of their heads to the tips of their toes.

At first, Drek had assumed they were identical. Now he sees subtle differences and smells differences in scent, as well.

“She is my cousin, Drek. Tanya,” the little spitfire tells him.

The other female, his purported chosen, glares at her.

“This is Tahlia,” the voice of a strong female says from a few feet away.

Bowen growls.

Drek raises his hand. “Let the female speak.”

He gives her a less-thorough perusal than the one he gave the warring Lanarre females. She is tall, even for a Were, standing easily five feet and ten inches. A messy black braid graces the hollow between her shoulder blades and runs past her waist.

Gray eyes like a pale storm cloud meet his frank appraisal with one just as bold.

“She saved me from Tramack's men.”

Drek feels his face tighten. His heartbeat trips over the next one in anticipation of her words. “The Alpha from the Western?”

She nods, and clear surprise washes over her face. “Yes,” she answers quietly. “How did you—?”

Bowen chuckles beside him. “We made his acquaintance at the Singersʼ Region One.”

“And what of Praile?” the demonic says.

Their fingers lace, and low growls can be heard everywhere. No Lanarre will stand for the inference of romantic intentions from anyone other than another Were.

A female Were in heat is the exclusive right of the Lycan. How dare this demonic manifest his intent?

Drek steps forward.

The demonic's skin flushes a light red. A tail rises above his head. “Step no closer.”

Drek laughs. “Do you not see you are outnumbered, horned one?”

The demonic smiles, flashing teeth as bright as a slice of ivory in his hard face. “I know many things.”

Drek hesitates. His knowledge of the demonic as a species is limited.

He has never had a need to know this little-seen enemy on intimate terms.

“Demonic wounds are very difficult to heal.” Drek looks at the demonic. They are equal height. His pale-blond hair appears to silver beneath the bright moonlight that swaths the open meadow. Light colored eyes of indiscriminate color gaze guilelessly back at Drek.

But the demonic teem with guile. They are a crafty species—that Drek is not soon to forget. His gaze shifts to the wounded Lanarre.

The body count stands at two. Shards of brain like bleached bone litter the ground as though head-sized eggs have been shattered in place. Drek's eyes reach the demonic again. “You've murdered Lanarre, horned one.”

“Only the ones who would have seen my true death come to pass.”

Self-defense.

“He is a problem,” Bowen comments.

Drek heaves a harsh exhale. “Yes.”

“I can heal all but myself,” the demonic says casually, and all movement ceases. “And I am not horned.”

Something in his tone rings of hollowness.

“That particular mark of beauty was not bestowed on me. However, where that bit is absent, I have other… attributes.”

The female by his side blushes, casting her eyes at the ground.

Drek knots his hands, noticing the male's nakedness again. Casual nudity is not appropriate among shifters, but perhaps it doesn't matter to the demonic. After a full minute has passed, he says, “What do they call you?”

“Lazarus.”

Drek's eyebrows pop. That is an ancient name from the fabled Christian book. It does not seem a likely namesake for a demonic.

“Not that it matters since there hasn't been one fair turn in this entire time,” the chosen says from behind him, and Drek turns to the sound of her voice.

Her eyes are pockets of shadow in her face, spinning slowly like swirling smoke. That alone lets Drek know that she's agitated, her beast rioting for escape.

“Laz saw that we escaped from Tessa's horrible packmaster and the other demonic. He alone helped us.”

Drek whirls to Lazarus. “Praile?”

Lazarus nods gravely. “He will find me. There is no reasoning within the ranks of the high demon. Praile will locate me, and he will escort me to Hades, for the Master's reckoning.”

The female beside him shivers, gripping his powerful bicep.

He wraps an arm around her, covering her head with a large palm. Steam rises in slow-moving vapors to escape into the cooler night air. His tale vibrates above his head, clearly ready for anything.

Drek notes a very subtle shimmer over all of Lazarus's skin. It must be a trick of the eye. The vapor of hell couldn't off gas from his very pores.

Or could it?

“We cannot offer sanctuary to a demonic,” Drek says with a decisive grunt, “or one who killed two of my guard. Or is clearly about taking a female from the limited number the Were possess. This Tessa? She shall remain here and be suitably mated and bred for the female she is.”

Why can't this demonic understand Tessa’s place among his people?

“She is my Redemptive. She will not be mated to a Lycan. Common Were or Lanarre.”

Drek's mouth drops open. “If you know so much about the Lycan, then you must know our females are much depleted. We mate within our species, demonic.”

His grip on Tessa tightens. “Be that as it may, without her, I am condemned to hell.”

Bowen chuckles. “That's rich! Aren't you already there?”

Lazarus's face sours. “Yes. That is why this rare opportunity which has presented itself is so enticing. Without Tessa, my life remains one of torture, abuse, and maiming the souls of all beings whom possess one.”

“It isn't our choice who Tessa mates,” the female claiming to be his chosen says.

“I am Tahlia. Do not listen to this imposter.”

They scent so similar.

Drek ignores them both for the moment, turning back to Lazarus. “I must sort the mess of my chosen before I can give sufficient weight to your words, demonic. Can you be trusted to not harm any more of my guard?”

He can't afford more bloodshed, and he knows that will be what it comes to.

A crooked half-grin seats itself on the demonic's chiseled features. “If they do not try to harm me.”

Drek turns to his guard. “Watch, but do not act.” The six who remain look upon the demonic with angry wariness.

His attention moves to the two females. One lies. The other holds the truth.

The spitfire has captured him. But the other is equally beautiful.

But Drek knows from brutal experience that beauty is not all that matters. There is such a thing as a mate who holds within her the innate makings of a queen.

The spitfire is too bold, too rash to make a good queen, though their connection is irrefutable.

“What do you think, Drek?” Bowen surveys the two royal females from the west.

“I think I will very thoroughly question the females.”

“Good call,” Bowen says.

Drek looks to the Lanarre guards. The one who is the lead, Ospere, nods his compliance.

Whatever Drek wishes to do, Ospere will see it done.

“Take the females to my chambers. Restrain them so they do not harm each other—”

“What the fuck?” Tessa roars and launches herself toward Drek.

Lazarus captures her about the waist, popping her feet off the ground. And though she is a tall athletic specimen of a female, he easily halts her forward momentum, but not before she speaks her mind, “You chauvinistic cad.”

Drek frowns, easily understanding the gist of her words.

“Tahlia is the real chosen. She came here because she thought your pack would protect her since her guardians were murdered. But you're like all the rest of the Were, royal dick or not. Your males hurt her because she tried to defend herself.”

The Lanarre circle her and Lazarus, but Drek gives a subtle shake of his head. They instantly still.

He would hear her thoughts—and what his guard did against the female. Drek folds his arms. “How am I like the other Were?”

“You all have small dicks and try to squish a female's spirit in the hopes she won't discover the inadequacy.”

Lazarus's face appears pained, and a feminine snort sounds from somewhere behind him. Drek doesn't have to wonder over who might have made the noise.

“None of the Lanarre males have lack of function in that area.”

She snorts. “What other excuse is there? And you have proof. How would that be?”

“Tessa,” Lazarus murmurs.

Drek's irritation rises.

“If you were a decent Lycan male, you wouldn't be trying to restrain your future mate. You'd be compassionate. She just lost her human guards, you foolish male!”

She's spitting now, and Lazarus tries to calm her. “I won't!” she replies to something he says beside her ear.

Her eyes flash like silver coins. “It doesn't even matter if another lying female is playing you here. The facts are: we arrived, we were held against our will, and you almost killed a guy who was our only protector when one of our kind sought to enslave me. And you don't bat an eye, Prince Drek,” she states with thick sarcasm. “And you're the stand-up for the Lycan race?” Her stare incinerates all who stand within range, her accusing eyes missing no one. “You guys couldn't dance your way out of a paper bag. No wonder I'm rogue. What can you offer a female? Nothing.”

“Amen,” the chosen says from behind Drek.

“Take them,” Drek says without turning.

“You'll regret this, Lanarre.”

Drek walks to her and the demonic. “I allow the demonic to live because I haven't ascertained his culpability in these circumstances, only that he felt he acted in self-defense. And I do not know the true nature of my chosen. You are female and in the beginnings of heat. You're not capable of behaving rationally.”

The first flicker of uncertainty Drek has seen lights her features. Good. She is too sure of herself for his taste.

“Come no closer,” Lazarus says.

Their gazes clash. “You threaten me? A Lanarre prince.”

Lazarus's nod is slow. “I threaten anyone who would harm my Redemptive.”

Drek's lips thin. “I keep you for her welfare, as undeserved as it seems now.”

Tessa's lips curl back from her teeth. “By all means, kill us. Kill a female who dares to speak her mind and tell the truth about circumstances against her. And kill the male who saved her and your supposed chosen, who you don't even believe is your true mate.”

“Your presence is separate from who my real chosen is.” Drek scrubs his face. “However, a true chosen would not behave as she does.”

“Pfft!” Tessa says, and Lazarus tightens his hold on her. “You wouldn't know a true female with backbone if she walloped you between the eyes.”

Her disrespect grates on him. Drek looks to his guards, who flank him, their eyes spinning with the need for bloodshed. However, they will not act without his command. “Take them to the house as guests. Keep the demonic at the back.”

Drek tries for gracious when all his beast desires is war. “I need your word that you will not consummate whatever this Redemptive status is. Give us time to come to terms.”

Lazarus inclines his head. “I am not cut from the same cloth as the Lycan. I do not feel pressed to manipulate a female for its own sake.”

It's not a real answer, but one of evasion.

Tessa gives him a glance.

Drek flares his nostrils. They are not as well-acquainted as he first believed.

She is learning about his behavior just as he.

A demonic is not meant to be with a Lycan female. They will see this. If he can delay the strange courtship that this Lazarus insanely believes is his right, Drek will figure out something that defeats it without looking like the one who manufactured their demise. Then she can be free to mate with a Were. And whoever his chosen really is will see him act with temperance instead of the dictatorship that is his right.

“Yes, whatever you believe, demonic, does not necessarily hold all the facts.”

“Enough facts.” His voice is droll. Sure.

We will see.

“Take them, as well.”

The guard moves toward Lazarus, but his eyes flare in warning. Even in the moonlight, the shadow of red blooms on skin like bleached alabaster. “I will walk unaided.”

“Yeah—” Tessa says, glaring at Drek. “Me, too.”

They walk away, and Drek's gaze follows them until he can no longer see their forms.

“This is inviting trouble, Drek.”

He faces Bowen, finally succumbing to the pull of his fatigue without the audience demanding answers. “I don't want more loss. And even if the female, Tessa, has a sharp tongue—”

“She is female,” Bowen states thoughtfully.

Drek nods. “Exactly.” He gazes up at the full moon, wondering how this mess happened so quickly. Every solution feels insurmountable. If he kills the demonic, he is a villain for the murder of the one savior the females had. If he doesn't, it teaches his people a demonic can be trusted. That is a lie, with Lazarus perhaps proving to be the exception. And that means there is no justice for the two dead guard. As the humans say, Drek is between a rock and a hard place.

Then there is the chosen. He felt a connection to her that couldn't be denied. But her manner… and his earlier thoughts of wanting to change the tradition to something with more free will make his mind full.

“You weren't even sure you wanted to go through with the pairing, Drek,” Bowen states. He's vocalized Drek's exact thoughts.

“True.”

“Then find out what's what with this Tanya—and Tahlia.”

“Did you feel it?”

Drek turns to Bowen. “Feel what?”

“The connection. The Book of Lanarre speaks of a true match having an enigmatic pull.”

Drek stares at Bowen. Lies, one of the benefits of being royal. “No.”

Bowen slides his jaw from side to side, hands going to hips. “But one of them must be your match.”

Yes, one is. Drek shrugs. “Time will tell.”

Bowen seems to accept that vague answer.

Drek cannot. He must get to the bottom of the identity issue. And if a mate exists for him, she will become his. If not, she can be part of his pack in another capacity.

It's really not that complicated. Safeguarding the females is simple.

The answer to what will become of them is complicated.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tessa

“Fuckers!” Tessa grates.

The male Lanarre holds his fist up, and she clamps her mouth shut.

“Get your hands off me!” Tahlia says loudly, twisting her lithe body from side to side.

The obvious lead Were yanks her to him, clearing her feet off the forest floor. “Do not make me beat a female.”

“Again,” Tessa states in a dry voice. How dare they not own up to how they converged on her and Tahlia—or how bad their manners are. This is royalty?

If Drek is in charge of this group of thugs, Tessa is certainly better off with Laz… or on her own.

The lead Lanarre—Tessa thinks his name is Ospere—turns down his mouth. He's wolfen.

Both Tessa and Tahlia have stayed in quarter-change. Tessa doesn't even look at that bitch, Tanya. She docilely walks along. “You entered our territory with a demonic. You are rogue. She”—he jerks his square jaw toward Tahlia, who pouts magnificently—“is Lanarre.”

“I have told you, you—oof! That I am Drek's chosen.”

This is met with a knowing smirk. “You do not behave as a chosen.”

“She behaves like a female alpha who has been roughed up by males. Pissed.” Tessa's face rocks back from the love tap given by the guard who holds her. She turns faster than he anticipates and sinks teeth sharper than human—more exacting too, on his forearm.

He tosses her, and Tessa goes sprawling on her butt, landing in a heap of arms and legs with moss to thankfully cushion her fall. She flicks her tongue out, coming up with a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth. “That the best you have, needle dick?”

Ospere cocks his head, giving her a considering look. “Why would you goad my guard, female.”

“Because I can. And it's fine—beat me. But you will never take from me who I am.” Tessa hears her voice shake with conviction.

Ospere shakes his head as though weary of her. She has that effect on people.

“Bind her.”

The one who hit her approaches with a ready smirk.

Tessa salivates with wanting to kick him right where it counts.

“Come here, little female.”

“Piss off, brainless.”

He launches.

Tessa avoids him and hits him on the back of the head with her laced hands. His wolfen arm, thirty percent longer and more muscled than usual reaches back and body slams her to the soft ground.

Still, the wind leaves her lungs. She opens her mouth and can't breathe.

He flips her over, and her face plows into the moist vegetation of the forest floor.

“She can't breathe!” Tahlia screams in a panic.

The Lanarre takes too much time to bind her wrists, enjoying her vulnerability, with her unprotected hindquarters on full display.

He hovers. “Where's your demonic lover now, bitch?” his whisper is loud enough to be heard by all.

Her shame is a seed that plants itself in her brain, causing Tessa's tear ducts to fire on like light switches. Air finally returns to her lungs, and she sucks in just enough to say softly, “At least he's got a dick.”

Tessa doesn't know anything about Laz's dick, except it looked beautiful. But she'd maybe wanted to know more.

The Lanarre jerks her up, whipping Tessa around so suddenly, she groans at the onslaught, her shoulders throbbing from the abuse.

“That's enough, Erik.”

“Yeah, Erik,” Tessa manages.

Ospere jerks Tahlia beside him. “You do not want to save yourself. However, maybe you care about this young female. She's barely beyond whelphood.”

“But she is,” Erik says with sick casualness.

Tessa's face whips to his. “Touch her, and I'll end you.”

He laughs in her face, his wolfen breath vile. The jerk's been eating the wrong animal diet.

Tessa leans back and, jumping forward, clocks him in his forehead with her own.

She's lifted from behind by the waist.

Instantly, she knows it's Laz, and a part of her that had shriveled to hopelessness at his departure fans to life again.

Erik staggers forward, and Laz's tail wraps around Tessa, bashing Erik in the skull with the hammer head at the end of his tail.

His head bursts like a soft watermelon. Bits of brain scatter like gray seeds. Mushy, dirty gray brain matter falls before them, and Erik's body slumps to its knees.

His elevated status as Lanarre feverishly tries to repair the damage a mundane Lycan could never hope to achieve.

“I'm afraid he lost his head,” Laz says.

Three Lanarre rush him.

Tessa uses Laz's body, swinging her feet out, and punches them into the closest Were.

“Tahlia!” Tessa screams.

An achingly high-pitched caw meets her fevered plea.

Tahlia's bird form lands on the next, talons sinking into his skull like a knife through butter. She rises, the powerful legs of the inky bird she uses in this form twisting and jerking. She breaks his neck, and he falls face forward.

The sound of bones breaking has Tessa struggling to turn in Laz's hold.

He drops her, and Tessa loses her balance, helplessly sinking to her knees. “Shit!” she yells.

Ospere has become his wolf, and Tessa slips to her knees on the carnage of his exploded form.

Tahlia has lighted on a strong branch directly above.

Tessa is kneeling like a sacrifice one yard from where Ospere growls, circling Laz.

Laz's injuries make Tessa want to cry.

Deep lashes run down his face, arms, and legs. He's still naked and vulnerable. Gorgeous.

Tessa blinks, suddenly realizing that there's something good to have come out of all this. Might as well die in a lust-induced state. She feels the stupid grin overcome her face. Old Erik got his, and Laz standing around in all his muscular naked glory's not too bad.

And Tramack didn't get me.

“Stop!” Ospere commands in a booming voice that makes Tessa's teeth thrum.

“Now what?” Tahlia asks from beside her.

Tessa gazes up at her from her spot in the mud and filth, a black feather sticking out of her hair, and laughs. It's not the laughter of humor, but that of hysteria.

*

“I can't believe Drek didn't choose to kill us,” she states quietly. “I guess if more guards had been killed… and now Tahlia's tied up somewhere with that phony Tanya.”

“Nor I,” Laz agrees.

Tessa chances a glance behind them. Yup, the two guards are their shadows, one in front of them and one behind.

Tessa trudges beside Laz.

“How did you get away from the guards?” Tessa whispers.

Laz's brow quirks. “I heard you beyond me, and I couldn't control my actions. But they'll live.”

A vague outline of a cottage appears. Nicer digs than the Western had. It's been so long since Tessa lived with her pack of origin, so she can't be sure that improvements have been made during her absence.

Doubtful. If there's one thing that's consistent, it's Tramack. He cares about one thing: himself. Not the comfort of the pack.

The small cottage appears to grow out of its surroundings. Situated perfectly between a cluster of hemlocks on one side and western red cedar on the other, it stands as a low, story and a half. A small window is anchored in the gable pitched roof like a single warm eye. A soft light glows through the glass.

Tessa doesn't hear the drone of generators, and this deep within the wood, she's not sure how things like electricity or plumbing reach this isolated structure. The thatched roof looks newly done, if she's any judge. It's beautiful and cozy. She doesn't want to relax her guard, but her exhaustion is taking over with each step.

“More than you deserve, female,” Ospere remarks.

She slides her gaze to him, her tongue ready for the lashing such a comment deserves, but Laz presses a fingertip to her lips.

“Thank you for the hospitality of the Lanarre,” Laz says with quiet intensity.

Tessa surveys his wounds again. They weep blood.

Hospitality, my ass. But she remains silent because they spared his life, even after he beat his way to the front of the group to save her from Erik’s “hospitality.”

She looks back at his convulsing body. Fresh skull, like the membrane of a hardboiled egg, is a thin opaque sheathing covering his healing brains. Tessa shudders.

“It is sad commentary when a horned one would extend courtesy where a female of our kind holds nothing but derision.”

How can he say that? His buddies are the one that beat them into submission.

Laz touches her shoulder lightly, and she pivots on her heel, climbing the wide, bowed wood steps that lead to the front door.

Laz gracefully follows, though his wounds should be causing him a lot of grief.

The Lanarre at back steps forward. He holds the solid plank door wide as they step through the threshold. “Do not leave.”

“Where's Tahlia going?” she asks, frantically searching for the young female.

“She will be escorted to Drek's home.”

That sounds bad. But she clamps her mouth shut. They haven't killed her or Laz yet. They probably won't hurt Tahlia, Tessa hopes.

His mouth puckers.

Tessa closes the door in his face and listens as the tumblers of a lock engage. She spins, facing Laz. “It's completely weird that they'd leave us alone together if they believe I'm in heat.”

Tessa keeps strict eye contact.

“It's baited,” Laz says absently, his hands running over the huge logs that bisect the structure. His fingertips hover over the chinking in a dull ivory. Finally, he turns.

Tessa crosses her arms. “What are you talking about? You killed two Lanarre. You accompanied a rogue female in heat. They're going to kill you—slowly.”

Tessa raises her hands to her face. “Why didn't you stay gone, Laz? You're a demonic. They're keeping you alive for something awful. Look at how they treated Tahlia—their possible future queen.” She grunts her disgust.

Laz peels her fingers gently away from her face.

The wounds of his own are beginning to heal. By tomorrow, they'll be gone. He brushes a hair out of her face. “They will try.” He looks off, eyes trained to the dark forest beyond the window. “It is not the Lanarre who frighten me, but Praile. There is nothing they might do that would be worse than what the Master is capable of.” His face tightens.

“That other guy—Peter?

A small smile erupts over his face.

“What's so funny?” Try as she might, Tessa doesn't find anything amusing. Tahlia's somewhere. Some other Lanarre chick has decided to impersonate her, and Drek seems like a class-A asshole.

“Inside joke.” Laz's smile widens.

“Huh. Okay. Anyway…” She gives him a look that clearly says, get serious. “ Why is he a threat. He's demonic, like you.”

It's Laz's turn to give her a disbelieving stare. “We are demonic.”

Tessa nods. So?

“High demons are the best of us.”

“I remember.”

His exhale is a rush of temper. His skin deepening to the light red she remembers so well.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” His blond eyebrow rises. But now there's a hint of red.

Tessa waffles her hand between them. “That. One minute you look like an average man, then the next, you're all demon.”

“Average?” he asks, a seductive lilt to his voice.

That one word heats her insides.

“Not average,” she says, hating the squeak in her voice.

He moves his hands to her shoulders, brushing his thumbs over the curve where shoulder meets arm.

He explains by leaning forward, his mouth tickling her ear. “It is more difficult to keep my human costume when my emotions are near the surface.”

Laz pulls back, and Tessa sways.

He is back to looking like a Viking: a blond, chiseled, tall, blue-eyed Norse specimen. She lowers her eyes.

Oh, Moon. I want to ride his boat. Tessa's face flames.

Laz smirks as though he can read hear thoughts.

“Why are you emotional right now, Laz?”

He turns without answering, pacing away from her.

She admires the view, the muscles of his ass flexing and clenching beneath the black smoothness of the pants he was given. What is wrong with me? Oh yeah—heat. But it should only be for a Lycan.

“It seems right that I would be emotional from having been captured by Lanarre—Lycan royalty, no less—and my commander hunts me for my wrongdoing. That my injuries take much of my remaining strength to heal. That's enough.”

Tessa walks to his broad, bare back. The Lanarre provided clothing when he conceded their capture to Ospere, but the athletic pants don't fit him, and he never put the shirt on.

Laz runs warm. She stifles a laugh.

Tessa swallows the ball of desire lodged in her throat by all that the pants showcase.

“I smell your lust, Tessa,” he comments in a low voice.

She stops walking. “How?”

He slowly turns to her. The wounds of his face are now scabbed. “I am demonic.”

Right. I guess lust is their biz.

“Ask me why those things are not the cause of my emotion? The fluctuation of my form is not caused by those extenuating circumstances. I have excellent control of the cloaks I choose to wear in this realm.”

“Why is—” Tessa takes a deep breath. “What is causing the emotions.”

Red water rushes through the air, and Laz suddenly stands before her.

She gasps.

“What is that?” Her voice is shaky.

Laz palms the side of her face. “That? That is my essence. What you have seen thus far is not all that I am. This is only part of what it is to be demonic.”

Tessa gets ahold of herself. “What's made you emotional, Laz?”

Soft red moves under the surface of his skin like subtle blood. His hair darkens to gold. The flash of his tail spins above them, seemingly rotating with his thoughts. His eyes darken to gray licked by pewter.

He feathers a fingertip across her cheek, trailing his touch along her hot skin.

Tessa sighs.

“Proximity to my Redemptive.” Then his lips are on hers, and Tessa's questions melt to what he's doing—and what she'll allow.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Scott

They're quiet as they ascend from the bunker. Julia's anxiety scoops out Scott's guts.

All he can do is fall harder into her.

He couldn't wait to have sex with Julia and get it out of his system. Scott figures there's nothing more unnatural than not bedding a soul-meld. Now he has.

And if anything, his attachment to her is tighter. The connection is not like the noose married human men joke about, but a net of love and protection. Its weight is heavy.

Maybe it's because of that spore. The thought of having to go to the sithen and worry about Julia's safety causes the Combatant inside Scott to rise. He beats the primal reaction down with a mental club. He can't be busting his form every time he feels threatened. He has to actually be threatened. None of the Combatants had known what having the Rare One present would be like until Julia was among them. Then their role wasn't just theory anymore, wasn't fun and games, but something real.

Swaths of light pierce the dim interior of the cylindrical ascension as it marks they're progress.

Finally, they reach the top, and Vic gives a hard twist of the spinning handle, lifting the portal.

“This is it,” Julia says.

Scott doesn't reply. He feels the sludge of her anxiety, and he knows what awaits above.

Chaos.

*

Victor pops the hatch and slowly rotates on the top of the ladder rung like a human periscope. His eyes meet Scott's, and he gifts him with a slightly bemused shrug. “Everything appears normal.”

“Nah,” Scott says. “Get your ass out of my face, Vic.”

A smile flashes across his perfect features, and he hops out the top then holds out his hand to Scott. He slaps his palm into Vic's and exits. His eyes scurry over the surfaces in search of Jason's remains.

Every bit of metal sparkles. The hatch is clean and pure.

Scott opens his senses for danger. His nostrils flare. He's no tracker, but he can smell death underneath the obvious taint of cleaning chemicals.

Scott suppresses his obvious relief and bends, easily lifting Julia from the dark hole of the bunker, and her gaze skips over everything his eyes just touched.

Large liquid-topaz irises trace the spinning inset knob that opens the portal, the rim of aluminum that circles it, and the timer that is no longer counting down the hours. The floor that surrounds it is polished and glowing; the rug that covered the portal is absent.

Of course. There's no way to clean what happened to Jason from fabric. At once, an image of the flail-type appendage the demonic swept into Jason's head rises like an unwanted mirage, and Scott shuts his eyes against it.

He can handle the visual, but he doesn't want Julia getting an echo of his thoughts.

Her exhale speaks of defeated relief. “I-I guess Jason's gone. Really gone.”

Scott doesn't have a reply that's not painfully obvious or redundant, so he just pulls her against him, smoothing his hand over her hair.

Victor's eyes meet his over the top of Julia’s head. His relief mirrors Scott's own. Neither felt that Jason was anything but a way to fuck up the Region. Caldwell thought about numero uno. His human origin always got in the way of what needed to be accomplished with their people. Caldwell meant well. Scott even believes he loved Julia—in his way. But it wasn't a selfless love. There were conditions.

True love doesn't have conditions. It loves without strings, unwinding toward infinity by faith alone.

He kisses away Julia’s salty tears then tilts her face up with his hands. “It'll be okay.”

Julia nods. “I have you.”

“Absolutely.”

Her smile is watery but it's there, and Scott'll take it.

“Jules!”

They whirl at the sound of Cynthia's voice.

She flies at Julia, and they embrace. “I'm so sorry, baby.” Cynthia steps away, fat tears rolling down her face. “There was nothing we could do, Jules. I'm so glad you're safe. We didn't know where you guys had gone to.”

Julia nods. “Tell me—is…”

Scott hears the click of her throat, and his own constricts with the overflow of emotions he feels from her.

“Is everyone okay?”

“Well—short version? Yeah. Mostly.”

Julia searches Cynthia's face, slightly chalky and tight with what Scott believes is the stress of Caldwell's death combined with wondering where the hell everyone was. Her six inches of dark-blond roots add to the scene of survival. Who has time for looks when everyone is just surviving from one island in an ocean of disaster to the next.

I'd really like to catch a fucking break.

“What's the long version?” Julia asks with a catch in her voice.

“You know…” Cynthia's intense green eyes search Julia's face, and Scott doesn't exhale in disgust—even though he knows full well what's coming. “You know that ʻPeterʼ isn't Peter, right?”

Julia nods. “Praile.” Her voice is like a whip, and Scott strokes her arm. He summons comfort and allows it to pour over her like warm water. Julia's lips part, and her head tips back. “Thank you,” she breathes.

“Welcome.” Scott kisses the top of her head, and Cynthia's eyes track their interaction like a hawk’s.

Cynthia folds her arms, eyeing them up. “Okay. So I see some stuff has changed.”

Julia's face turns pink, and love swells within Scott. He hates the new feeling of vulnerability. But when Julia turns to him, he feels the tug of the soul-meld, and its presence eases him.

There's worse things. Scott's just not used to feeling emotionally fragile. Fuck. He takes Julia's hand, tugging her away from the portal and the scene of Jason's death.

“Yes,” Julia says, letting Scott lead her down the corridor to the parlor and the adjacent open entryway.

Cynthia walks alongside, trying to catch Julia's gaze and bring her back into the conversation. “I'm not being judgy.”

“I know,” Julia says, giving her a quick look. “But Jason's dead.”

Their eyes lock, and Victor chooses that moment to silently leave. Scott would like to do the same, but Julia needs him at her back. And he's not going anywhere when he can sense how uncertain she is.

“Where—what did they do with his body?” Julia bites her lips, but tears slip out, trailing down her face.

“Ah, Jules, don't cry.” Cynthia grips her shoulders. “He did the right thing. You're the queen and everything, and he took Praile's murdering ass out of the equation of hurting you—or whatever wonky plan the demonic had.” Her eyes meet Scott's. “Jace knew that Scott would protect you—love you.”

Julia nods, tears dripping off her chin.

Scott restrains himself from swooping in there and hiding Julia. She has to face this sadness so she can move beyond it.

Her inhale is a rattle of anguish. “I know.”

“We've buried him.”

Julia nods. “I want to visit his grave.” She looks at Scott.

What can he do? Julia needs the closure. And whatever—Caldwell's dead. Scott can afford to be gracious. Barely.

He understands he's got a dickhead attitude. It's a hard thing to help when his soul-meld had that prior connection. Scott will have to just work on it. Every day.

“First,” Scott interrupts, and Julia quickly wipes her face, trying to be brave. Making the mark.

He smiles at her then gives Cynthia a narrow stare. “Where is the fire prick?”

Cynthia's laughter fades when she realizes the conversation might be too somber. “Fire prick—Praile—disappeared when someone bigger and badder came along.”

Scott frowns. Great, that's what we need, another fucking scenario of bullshit.

Cynthia scans his face. “It's okay.” She waves his concern away. “It was some Lanarre prince dude, and he was all focused on getting ahold of his chosen.”

“His which?” Julia asks, her brows meeting in concern.

“It's that Tahlia girl. You know—the Were who speaks like she's from medieval Europe?”

Julia's smile is fleeting. “Yes, I remember—she and Tessa.”

“Well they're splittsville.” Cynthia makes a whistling noise and Scott smiles. “And,” Cynthia rolls her eyes, “They were riding shotgun with Laz.”

Scott sucks in a breath.

Cynthia looks between the two of them. “He's a demonic, too.” She taps her chin. “I don't know about the fire prick part with him, though. But Praile was pretty pissed about him taking off with the Were girls.” Cynthia shrugs. “Not my issue.”

He snorts. Scott doesn't like the presence of two demonic. Hell, he didn't like any of it. He thought the demonic were done with after the battle at Region Two. He was wrong. Those two sniffing around makes it clear that was only part of it. Julia is the key. As usual. Scott and the remaining Combatants aren't going to make it easy on Praile or any demonic.

“So he's gone?” Scott says.

Cynthia nods. “For now.”

“Are my sister and brother okay?” Scott ruthlessly regulates his body's response. Julia doesn't need his anxiety on top of what she already has. He aims to offer emotional protection along with physical.

“Yeah, we're all okay. But there's this really crappy packmaster from the Western that's jonesing to go after Tessa…”

“No,” Julia says, eyes slightly wild. “She didn't want to mate with him. Tessa told me that. It's why she was trying to leave with Tahlia.”

“Ah!” Cynthia says loudly, snapping her fingers. “Drek! That's the guy who was the Lanarre prince. Man—did he put a kibosh on old Tramack. What a ham-fisted fucker he is.”

Julia blinks. “What do you mean?”

Cynthia leans forward, and Scott is dying for her to see the point through. He's anxious to explore One and make sure it's secure against Praile and others who would try to harm Julia.

“Tramack missed Tessa by inches, thanks to Laz. And once Drek and his buddy found out Tahlia was gone, they took off. But I'm pretty sure that Drek showing up made Praile beat feet outta here. And us Singers were so blown away by all these weirdos showing up and swinging their dicks around, there was just kinda numb reaction.” She spreads her hands away from her body.

“So the Lanarre guy is gone, and the Were females and Laz—the other demonic, also?”

Cynthia pushes her untrimmed hair behind her ear. “Yeah.”

“Where's Slash?” Julia asks suddenly.

That's a great question. Slash is a non-Singer Scott would love to have on their team. He's level-headed.

“He's gone after Adi.”

Julia crosses her arms. “What happened to Adi?”

“That's a long story.”

Julia looks to Scott. “I have time.”

No we don't.

But Scott listens anyway, growing more troubled by the second. Scott winces as Cynthia explains that Slash forced her to leave.

Scott understands his desperation exactly—better to eat crow later than have a mate subjected to death or a fate worse than death. The entire story makes Scott glad One isn't farther south. Nothing but a bag full of assholes for Were down there.

“So Slash is in pursuit of Adi?” Scott asks.

“Yeah, he had to heal up here first. They'd paralyzed him.”

Scott shakes his head. “Fine. Tell me this jerk is in our jail?”

“Sure—he is. But Slash isn't a Singer. It's been explained to me that we can't involve ourselves in Were politics. Their bullshit against him and Adi? We can't punish that.”

“That's stupid,” Julia says.

They have plenty to concern themselves with just being Singers, so Scott's okay with the problem passing them by. “I agree, but we're not in a great position to throw our weight around. We have the demonic who seem to be bent on coming after you. We have low numbers of Singers, and a lunatic Were packmaster that's after an alpha female Were who's not interested in him and another Were female who's looking at an arranged marriage.” Scott plows his fingers through his short hair. This is a mess.

Cynthia nods. “Yeah. Maybe you can put the fear of God in him. Discourage him from going after Tessa. After all, his goons worked Adi and Slash over. Right after they mated, by the way. Super-uncool.”

Julia's face scrunches with a look of disgusted horror.

Scott can't imagine what he would have done if someone had tried to hurt her after their first time together. Probably would have pulled their arms and legs off one by one.

A vague smile seats itself on his face.

Julia frowns. “What are you thinking?”

Oops, a bit too much emotional blow back.

Cynthia smiles. “Probably the same thing any red-blooded male would be thinking if a bunch of thugs tried to spring in on them after a roll in the hay.”

“It's not just that,” Julia says, her tone of voice hard. “It's that Adi and Slash had been circling being together for months. Slash hadn't wanted to go past a certain invisible line because Lawrence wouldn't have allowed the mating outside her pack; he was following Were protocol. But then Lawrence died.”

“Yeah. Awesome,” Cynthia says, “except for Manny.”

Julia gives a solemn nod. “Emmanuel was good to me.”

“Me, too,” Cynthia agrees quietly. A note in her voice causes Scott to study her features. Maybe she liked Manny more than anyone realized. But Scott doesn’t have time to consider Cynthia’s emotional state.

Victor charges back into the room. “The Were is gone.”

“What? Tramack? Why?” Cynthia says.

Victor shrugs. “He wasn't enough of a concern to keep in any event. His escape isn't as important as us securing the Region.”

Scott nods decisively, they didn't have the people to contain him anyway. “Agreed.”

Julia's hand moves to his forearm. “I need us to stick together.”

Scott rubs the back of her neck. “There was never a question of that.” He looks to Victor. “Let's go see our people. I think they'll be a little relieved that we're okay.”

“I hoped you guys were down there. I just didn't say it out loud,” Cynthia says, hiking a thumb toward the bunker.

“How'd you know?” Julia asks.

“Trackers could smell you. They'd been looking.”

“Oh,” Julia's eyes light on the direction of the portal at the end of the long hallway they'd just traveled.

Scott doesn't think she needs the constant reminder of her former husband's brains plastered everywhere.

He tugs her out of the house. Scott glances over his shoulder as Victor moves down the hall with a new rug to cover a portal best left unseen.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Adi

“Wakey-wakey,” Adi says softly, gently slapping Nurse Jenni's face.

Vivid root beer eyes blink apart rapidly. They widen, the whites looking alarmingly freaked, and Adi says, “It's okay.”

“It's not okay,” Jenni says in a voice that trembles slightly. “You've told me you're a werewolf, which I'm inclined to believe.”

“Good practical logic there, nurse.” Adi gives a crooked grin.

Jenni cringes away.

Maybe quarter-change is a little too much.

“Hey, me being a werewolf isn't so bad. You knew something was off anyways. Later, you can say I was a lunatic, hopped up on LSD or something.”

“Later?” Jenni asks, rubbing her eyes with a fist.

Probably trying to make me disappear.

Adi picks her up by the armpits, and Jenni's eyes widen impossibly farther.

“Yeah. There can't be proof of our existence.”

Jenni's lips purse. “Well, bad job on getting discovered, quite frankly—as you ran out and got hit by a car on a busy highway.” She puts her hands on her hips.

Adi's eyes narrow, and she suddenly scents the acute fear smell. Prey. Adi inhales deeply, realizes her eyes have gone wolfen, and calms the fuck down. Moon.

“Listen,” Adi says, regaining control of the conversation, “I know this is a shit ton to take in. Me being a werewolf and all. But aside from all that, I'm a woman, and as such, I feel second class. There's a reason I'm petrified and ran into the highway on purpose—to escape three Lycan males.”

“Lycan?”

Adi's nose scrunches. “Lycan—werewolf, same thing. Don't go all soft on me now. I need you to shelve your disbelief of Lycankind for just five minutes so you understand the danger I'm in. And you, by association.”

Jenni's throat convulses as she swallows. “All right.”

Adi slowly releases her grip on Jenni's Cheshire Cat scrubs. Hmmm. The wrinkled material sits up at attention from where Adi had fisted it.

Jenni absently smooths the material.

“This will be the quickest rundown of supernatural history I can relay.”

Jenni blinks.

“I'm young. We live for hundreds of years, but I'm just out of whelphood—teenage adolescence. So we go into heat for the first time two to five years past whelp.”

Jenni's eyebrows sweep together. “Heat?” she slides her jaw back and forth. “What does this have to do with why you threw yourself in traffic?”

Adi huffs in irritation. “I'm getting to that.”

Jenni's lips thin.

Adi's struck by how pretty she would be without the harsh hair color and makeup. And terminal cancer. That'll do it.

“So I found this great male—he's way older than me. I've been crushing on him since—well, forever. He used to play with me when I was a whelp. He's a great warrior.”

Jenni studies her.

A great male. Adi clenches her fists, holding her eyes wide so tears don't fall in front of this human female she doesn't even know.

“He hurt you?” Jenni asks quietly, getting to the heart of it like a perfectly shot arrow.

Compassion rims irises that darken from the words Adi doesn't say. This chick absolutely knows Adi's pain. Her empathy makes Adi feel vulnerable, which she hates. It's too late to hold back, though. Three asshat males are waiting in the wings to take her.

“Yes,” Adi manages. “But those aren't the facts. I gave myself to him when the big ass admitted to loving me.” She swipes a tear that falls despite her best efforts to hold it back. “Then when a pack of jerk Lycan show up, they kick our butts—we're outnumbered—they got Slash really bad.” Adi's eyes rise to hers. “They paralyzed him, Jenni.”

Jenni's hands go to her mouth, but Adi hears her easily. “Slash is your husband?”

Jenni's moved to stand right in front of Adi. She's much taller than Adi. “No—my mate. But it's the same thing in our world as husband in yours.” Adi slowly lets out a painful exhale, hoping to plow through this next part. “He told me to get the fuck away from him. That he didn't want me anymore.” Adi chokes on the last word. She's really on a stupid rant now—outing the Lycan race while confessing her embarrassing rejection and stupid faith in someone.

Confusion washes over Jenni's face. “You were hurt—both of you. Why would he do that? It doesn't make sense. Actually…” Jenni's face falls. “None of this makes sense.”

Probably from a human perspective, that's true. “I don't know why,” Adi says. More tears fall, and Jenni plucks a nearby tissue from a box and hands it over.

“I bet you never thought you'd be comforting a werewolf?” Adi says, blotting her eyes and doing a messy blow of her nose into the damp tissue.

“No,” Jenni admits softly. “It doesn't seem real.”

Adi gives her serious eyes. “It is.”

They look at each other.

“So now what? Slash…” She pauses over his name before continuing, “Has let you go, and there's some other Lycan—?”

“Yes. I guess Slash and I—our interlude”—Adi quickly looks at Jenni, expecting condemnation, but finding a quiet understanding—“brought my heat early. And that's so bad. To be a female in heat, without a male escort…” Adi shudders.

“So these men—they somehow found you?”

“There's no somehow about it. They scented my cycle, and without a male, I'm vulnerable.” Adi can't keep the disdain out of her voice.  “Even if I could kick one of their asses, I can't do three.”

“No,” Jenni agrees easily.

In that, there's no problem figuring out the logistics of that scenario. She's a chick; Jenni knows the score.

“That's why we were overpowered to begin with. There were too many.” Adi's eyes fill again. Moon dammit. What in the hell is wrong with me? “There were four Lycan males and just me and Slash. We didn't stand a chance.”

Jenni cups her elbows, expression pensive. “I feel like I'll wake up any second, and you'll be a normal woman.”

Adi laughs. “Nope.”

Jenni's shoulders slump. “Okay. So your healing powers have convinced me. You are something. But I can't just leave my post here and take off with an unidentified patient without more information.”

“I'm not unidentified,” Adi states reasonably.

Jenni rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh. You say your name is Adrianna.”

Adi shifts her weight. “Nobody calls me that but Slash. Adi's my nickname.”

Jenni nods, nervously playing with her stethoscope. “How can you convince me?”

“My eyes weren't enough?”

“That was weird,” she concedes.

“Are you always this skeptical?”

Jenni nods. “Pretty much. And for the record, nurses are primarily in the science-math vocation. You know—science. Prove it.”

“Does anyone know about the cancer?”

Jenni's face crumples, and Adi feels like an ass.

“Sorry.”

Her direct gaze moves to Adi as she inhales deeply. “Don't be. I guess I'm in the anger stage of my diagnosis. I'm only twenty-eight and—” She tosses out a frustrated breath. “I feel like my body's betrayed me.”

Adi gets a great idea, but she can't voice it. She knows what the pack would say: You can't save everyone. And on the heels of that: humans are lowly.

Besides, she's got her own backyard to mow. Still, her epiphany niggles.

“Just get me out of here, but first, we have to camouflage my scent. And even with that, they might scent me.”

“You smell all yummy now?” Jenni asks. But the solemn look on Adi's face makes Jenni's smile fade.

Adi nods slowly. “Oh yeah.”

Jenni frowns. “What about Slash? Wouldn't he smell you, too?”

Adi looks at her bare feet. “Yeah,” she whispers.

“So you're telling me that the guy that said he loved you and wanted to be your ʻmate,ʼ took your virginity then told you to get lost? Then let you go out there to be cherry-picked by wandering werewolves?” She shakes her head in clear disbelief, flipping her palm out as if to ask for an explanation.

When said like that, it makes Slash sound awful.

Maybe he is. “Looks like it.”

“That's terrible.” Then Jenni's face perks up. “Well, we're a pair. But I have to say—this Slash? He took more than your v-card.”

Adi nods, a defeated breath whistling out of her.

Jenni puts a hand on her shoulder.

She looks up into Jenni's compassionate face. “You know, I'm supposed to be the bad ass werewolf here.”

“Right now, I just see a woman with a broken heart.”

Jenni's scrubs catch her tears.

*

“This is desecrating the dead.” Jenni mutters in revulsion, wrinkling her nose.

“The dead don't know anything,” Adi says, rubbing liquefied decomposing human organs over her arms and around her neck.

“I can get in so much trouble, and it's gross.”

Adi gives her a look of pure frustration. “I'm the one wearing the guts. I know I reek like road kill.”

“It's so bad. And a must be against some religion somewhere. Ugh.”

Probably all of them.

“But these humans’ remains had already been used for their donor purposes. This is just remnants.” Adi gives her a be logical look.

“This better work,” Jenni mutters.

Adi grips her shoulders. “It's not going to work. It'll only buy us time. I'm hoping, once we're inside your car—”

“What?” Jenny screeches, horrified.

“Shh!” Adi scans the inside of the morgue. The metallic, impersonal surfaces reflect back at her with the dimmed LED lighting. In a low voice, Adi continues, “Once we're in your vehicle, it would take an awesome tracker to find me.”

“We slather you with human remains and that allows you to slip away in the interim?”

“Exactly—now get my face.”

Adi closes her eyes, and Jenni marks her with cold decomposing human soup, putting two fingers’ worth above her eyes and each cheekbone.

Jenni grimaces. “There. Ick.” She removes latex gloves, tossing them with two fingertips in the bio-hazard can.

Adi steps back and moves to the deep washbasin. Looking at the warped mirror above the sink, she slaps the faucet lever on.

The gore of dead humans decorates her face like war paint. Her eyes are seated in the mess of blood and human tissue like stranded jewels of mixed gold, brown, and flecks of green. Adi's hair is slicked back and thrown in a messy dark-gold topknot at the crown of her head.

She does look pretty sick. Adi smiles. None of those pervs are going to dig her now. She smells like a corpse. Adi turns, winking at Jenni.

Jenni crosses her arms and groans. Then she says for the millionth time, “I can't believe I'm doing this.”

Adi hides a smile. “Me, either.”

“Anyone ever tell you you're kind of difficult?” Jenni asks.

“All the time.” Adi flicks her eyes at the rolling stainless steel cart. “Now let's toss me in the body bag and get to the garage.”

“Right. And just for the record, I don't normally haul the dead that way. Or any way. I'm a nurse. For the living.”

Adi feels her eyes go wolfen, hot—itchy. She's already quarter-changed, she has to be. But her wolf roils beneath her skin. “I can feel the heat, Jenni.”

Her beast wants to breed, and her mate is nowhere. Not that she'd let Slash touch her again.

Adi's chin kicks up and her shoulders straighten. “The hell with it, I can live through this heat bullshit, but I gotta get out of here.”

Jenni sighs. “I'm bringing some plastic for my car.”

Adi turns so Jenni won't see the smirk. Cars. So not a priority. She slips into the cold body bag. The plastic crunches around her body as though rejecting her because she’s not dead.

Tough.

Jenni's face appears above the opening. They stare at each other for a moment.

“I'm zipping you.”

Adi nods.

The zipper slides up, and the view narrows. Jenni's a couple of inches from closing it when the zipper stalls. “You'll suffocate.”

“It's okay,” Adi says, already wanting to claw her way out. But Jenni leaves that tiny gap for her.

The smell of death is like a cocoon around her. Her beast doesn't like plastic—or being contained.

Jenni turns Adi's cart in the direction of the exit, and they slap through the swinging morgue doors.

Ceiling lights flicker above her as they pass through the hall.

They slow. Quiet words are exchanged. Adi hears a buzz then the soft whirring of automated doors.

Adi slows her vitals. She concentrates on her heartbeat and breathing. The heat cycles like a yo-yo from deep within. She focuses on the rush of her blood in her veins.

The cart stops suddenly, and Adi slides forward a little, feeling unbalanced. She almost barks at the poor human she commandeered for this little fiasco—then the smell hits her.

Were. They're here. Close.

“Can I help you?” Jenni says. Her voice is neutral and indifferent, but her scent isn't.

Damn.

Jenni's heartbeat sounds like a deer on the run. Worst physical response ever. Her cancer's scent is like riddled Swiss cheese. The Lycan males will smell her disease—maybe Adi—everything.

We’re fucked.

Adi feels responsible for Jenni’s safety.

“You wear the smell of a female we are trying to locate.”

They're not even trying to sound like human men. Moon. Adi masked her smell, but not what she’d passed to Jenni.

Could I not think of that?

The male voice is growly. Adi works to stay loose and unconcerned—a supreme challenge.

“What are you talking about?” Jenni asks with convincing confusion. “ʻWear the smellʼ?”

“There was a female admitted in a car accident. Where is she?”

More growl in the tone.

Adi takes shallow breathes. She can't protect Jenni. Hell, she can't protect herself.

“I am not required to answer your questions, now step out of my way, or I'll call hospital security.”

Adi closes her eyes against the human female’s bravery. She would make a great Were. Jenni reminds Adi of Cyn, with a filter.

“Hey!” Jenni suddenly yells.

A hand touches the body bag, and Adi tenses. Her eyeball rolling to see through the tiny gap.

She can smell Lycan male. A shadow looms, blocking out what little light pierced the small opening.

Oh moon.

She's never wished for Slash more than she does in that moment—or hated him more.

The zipper begins to slide away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Slash

The landscape blurs as Slash charges expertly between branches that reach for his sprinting form.

He only slows when he needs to gather more of his mate's scent. When he picks up a cross-scent, he grinds to a halt. His talons leave deep gouges in the forest floor, and the hem of his athletic pants are drenched with moisture and dirt shot up from running. He re-ties the string at the waistband. His hands are awkward in this form, but Slash maintains it stubbornly.

He's not fucking around with his sense of smell. It's inferior in his human form, and he can't afford delays. And, unlike the females, he doesn't have the benefit of the quarter-change. It's wolfen or bust.

Three Lycan males have crossed Adi's scent trail. A low growl rumbles through Slash, breaking the seal of his lips as a howl shivers at the edge of his tongue.

Why are they here? This is not a claimed territory by any Were. The Lanarre hold the Hoh Rain Forest, and all other packs are south and west of this area. They were asking for trouble, wandering uninvited in foreign Were territory.

Slash's brow furrows as he sinks to his knees. Lowering his face to barely an inch above the obvious footprints of Were in wolfen form, Slash closes his eyes, inhaling deeply.

The smell causes his blood to run hotter. An instant erection hardens, throbbing painfully between his legs, and his skull aches. Teeth lengthen automatically as his body burns to be his wolf.

Slash springs to his feet. A howl bursts from his throat as if torn and bloody. He feels his eyes go to those of his wolf, simmering inside the bones of his face. He holds back, knowing his restraint is not limitless, and tries for impossible calm.

His nose isn't perfect, but it's never made him a liar. Slash's heightened sense of smell tells him the horrible news:

Adrianna is in heat.

Their time together did more than cement their lifelong relationship. And if he knows her cycle has begun, the other three who stumbled across her scent trail know it, as well.

Slash hesitates, deliberating his odds of saving her from an uninvited mating and sentencing them both to death.

It takes him about three seconds to decide.

I'll have to take my chances. Three to one is better odds than when Tramack and his people came and caught the two of them off guard.

Slash pivots, crouching slightly, then leaps forward powerfully, spraying leaves, fir needles, and moist earth behind him.

His revolving wolfen eyes assist him now, sweeping his periphery as his blinding speed causes the forest to be a green smear that flanks him. Slash crashes through a creek. Hitting the other side, he stops dead.

Toiletries are scattered about, standing out like beacons of civilization in the middle of nature. Slash scoops up a toothbrush half-buried in the muck of the creek and raises it to his nose. He salivates as his beast rises in recognition of his mate—and her heat.

The only thing his wolf wants to do is breed Adrianna. That is the very thing any other male werewolf will want to do.

Slash must get to her first.

He tosses the toothbrush to the ground. He studies the ravine rising away from the creek bed. The distant hum of human vehicles rushing beyond his line of sight emits a low mechanical purr.

Slash vacillates. Why would Adrianna head toward the highway? He drops to his haunches, scanning the dirt carefully. Many tracks obscure Adi’s. Her shampoo bottle is crushed. The contents are a vile blue against the rich earthy colors of the forest. An altered paw print has stomped the bottle. Talons have punctured the stout tube of plastic. Slash sucks in a breath.

They pursued her. Running.

Adrenaline surges. His attention hangs up at the other side of the broad creek. He furiously imagines what might have occurred.

Hot syrupy fear pumps through him as pins and needles bloom within his body. He sees the scene in living color. Adrianna is grooming. His eyes move to her filthy toothbrush and the burst shampoo bottle. Then his focus turns to a point directly across the water.

They saw her.

When Adrianna noticed them, she ran. He touches the smaller altered paw print. It’s smeared as though she pivoted. Hard.

Slash stands, clenching and unclenching his fists.

The hold on his wolf is tenuous. Slash must make time to settle his beast, or he runs the risk of exploding his wolfen form and going to Were. And that, he doesn't need. Three shifts in fewer than twenty-four hours is an energy zapper.

He can't protect Adrianna if he’s weak. He can't protect her if they have her already.

Moon, help me.

Slash inhales deeply, sprinting to where Adi’s trail ends at the edge of the road, and gazes at the center of the highway. The beast whimpers. His eyes burn, and his vision doubles to his own and that of his beast’s.

All he sees is her blood. All his beast scents is the remnants of her injury. A car whizzes by, and Slash staggers to the middle of the two-lane freeway, oblivious to the traffic.

Screeching tires slice his eardrums like razor blades. Slash realizes he's slipped back to his human form automatically. It doesn't matter. Adrianna's blood fills his nostrils. What she did destroys his mind.

She threw herself into traffic.

Slash doesn't howl. He leaves the catastrophic proof of Adrianna's accident and flies to the shoulder at the other side of the freeway.

Glass tinkling and metal kissing metal enters Slash's dull consciousness. Drivers exit their cars, hands in fists. One look from Slash, and they slow their progress toward him. His eyes burn with the change, his body fighting to complete the form alteration.

His revolving stare narrows to slivers as they draw nearer in challenge. They study him. The human men have just enough primal instincts of self-preservation to get their asses back into their vehicles.

He dismisses them.

Slash is Red. He can track.

But Adrianna's scent disappears from the spattering of blood covering the yellow dashes of the highway like an escaped ghost.

Someone took her.

The males?

Slash paces the shoulder as traffic increases with the hour and the abused cars that tried to avoid him roll to the shoulder. Humans exchange insurance information, casting dark looks at Slash.

They look away when his eyes meet theirs.

The wail of sirens approach, growing louder with each whoop.

His head snaps up at the noise the humans can't hear yet.

Of course. The hospital.

Hope floods Slash as he tracks the ambulance speeding toward him. A grin of sheer pleasure overtakes his face, and he plunges into the woods. His body streams to wolfen as he paces the ambulance. His speed tops out at the same rate of motion as flashing strobes of red and blue splash across the highway.

When the rioting ambulance slows, so does Slash.

Chest heaving, he peers through the stiff branches of the forest that borders the brightly illuminated letters of the Olympic Medical Center.

His vision closes to a tunnel. He morphs to human form and steps from the woods. His pants float to his ankles, revealing his naked form to anyone who might notice.

Fuck.

With an impatient sigh, he jerks them up, re-cinching the drawstring, and strides toward the ER wing. The ambulance pulls up to the doors, and a medic hops out, opening the double doors at the back. His partner is inside with the patient, and the driving medic grabs hold of the handle at the foot of the gurney.

Slash intercepts them neatly, never breaking stride. “Hello.”

The medics turn like a pair of startled birds. Their hands fall away from the gurney.

Slash's nostrils flare, scenting the patient. “He's dying. Don't bother.” Then he turns and slaps the solid stainless handhold at the end of the gurney and shoves the whole thing back inside.

Let's not have that in the mix.

“Hey!” says the medic who drove. “Get your hands off the fucking cot!”

Slash rotates his neck. “Just did.” Slash has a touch of regret as he clocks the medic, checking his swing at the last minute so he doesn't break the human's neck. There is no honor in killing a healer.

As the medic crumples, Slash catches him underneath the armpits and easily hefts him inside the ambulance, lying him beside the dying patient.

The other medic, a male who obviously sees gym time, rushes him. Were don't do gym time.

Slash grabs the medic, jerking his forearm around the man's neck and hauling him against his chest.

The man bucks and writhes. He’s very strong, for a human.

Slash is at least four times stronger, though, even in his human form. “I won't kill you if you answer one question.”

“What? Fucking freak!” he squeaks.

Slash begins to wring his neck.

The medic gives a hoarse bark.

“A female came here today, young—badly injured.” Slash's heartbeat thunders like a herd of horses. He presumes Adrianna is here.

But that might be wishful thinking. Slash has loosely strung together the dots like the fibers of the finest spiderweb, waiting to be shredded.

“Yeah!” the medic screeches, fruitlessly clawing at Slash's forearms. “Early twenties, broken ribs and pelvis. Collapsed lung. Internal bleeding.”

Slash closes his eyes in relief. These were the responders. “This the ambulance you used for transport?”

“Fuck you!” the medic bellows.

I don't have time for this. Adi doesn't have time.

Slash's forearm tightens.

“Yes!”

Slash drags the medic by the neck and pokes his head inside the ambulance. Mentally shelving the sight of blood flowing out of the now-dead patient, he ignores the other medic’s fresh injuries.

He searches through the fine layers of scent: death, blood, injury, antiseptic, and drugs.

Beneath those, Adrianna lingers. He'd missed it before, while concentrating on extracting information.

Slash squeezes in a hard burst, cutting off the artery that feeds oxygen to the medic's brain. After thirty seconds of frantic thrashing, he goes limp.

Slash carefully moves him inside the ambulance, and before laying the man beside the first medic, he strips the medic’s uniform and puts it on himself. The fit isn't bad—the human was large—but the pant legs are too short. Slash closes the doors of the ambulance.

Turning, he notices his fingers are shaking with tension and unspent adrenaline.

Adrianna is near.

*

The human herd flows past him within the sterile confines of the hospital, moving in opposing directions, never making eye contact.

Perfect.

Slash sights the nurse at the receptionist desk and approaches. Smooth, austere laminate in a bleached ivory tops the countertop at a height that reveals only brown eyes staring above an oversized computer screen as he approaches.

He doesn't have much time. Soon, those medics will wake up. Then they'll get attention—the kind of notice Slash doesn't need.

The nurse’s smile fades when she takes in Slash’s face up close. The scar is a bisecting ripple of flesh that makes his features look harsh and unforgiving.

Slash is unforgiving.

“Hello,” he begins, having covertly flipped his badge in the wrong direction, hiding a face that doesn't remotely resemble the medic he just put into la-la land.

“Hi,” she says hesitantly, shoring up into the shell of politeness expected of humans.

Good girl.

“A family's arrived, asking questions about an admit.”

Her wide eyes narrow. “Oh, for a patient?”

Slash gives a shallow nod. “Yes. We had an early transfer in today—car wreck, young woman, early twenties?”

Beautiful. Vulnerable. Unprotected. Slash swallows hard, feeling his Adam's apple like a resistant plow of flesh.

“Oh! Yes. She's Jenni's. Third floor.” The nurse glides her mouse over a pad. She looks up at him, missing the scars now, seeing him as a person.

Slash tries on a smile.

“Room 313.”

“Great,” Slash says then turns. “No name?”

The less they know, the better.

She shakes her head. Silky, fine brunette hair floats over her shoulders. Her neck is fragile, so easily smashed. Slash shoves his violent thoughts away. His emotions are really riding the edge of sanity. “Unknown,” she replies, her eyes drifting back to the huge screen.

“Thanks,” he says, dashing away.

Slash strides to the stairs. They'll be faster than the elevator.

He takes them two at a time. Looking first left then right, he swiftly ascertains odd numbered rooms are to the left.

Trying to appear circumspect, he moves to room 313 and opens the door.

Empty.

Slash enters, letting the door swing closed behind him. Moving to the bed, he can scent Adrianna everywhere. Her heat cycle is in full swing, and his erection grows like a plank of wood between his legs.

His mate is in need of breeding, and her scent saturates the hospital room, along with her injuries. The combination of smells puts his beast aggressively en pointe. An immediate headache sinks its teeth into Slash's temples.

Moon, let me solve this. Quickly.

He lets the edges of himself go almost wolfen, balancing on the precipice between human and wolfen. The flush of the nearby change eases around him. His eyes sharpen, and his nose takes in every scent. He can only hold this balance between form for seconds.

A human female's scent mingles with Adrianna’s.

The human is diseased.

Slash frowns. Maybe it's all the death in this place, and he's misreading the scents. He glosses over the human woman's scent, concentrating on Adrianna's. She's healed, but not fully.

She needs him.

Slash doesn't smell the males. He smells a new trail: Adrianna’s mixed with the human female’s.

Slash levels down, shoving his beast back in the box for now.

He leaves the room, and with an almost soundless growl, he flares his nostrils, hiking his face up.

There.

Slash's face whips in the opposite direction from which he came. A sign glows in eerie white at the end of the hall.

Morgue.

Slash blurs to the basement of the hospital, narrowly missing two orderlies and a nurse. He's unsure what Adrianna's up to, but she's a clever female Alpha. She might already be aware of her pursuers and hatching a half-baked plan.

A reactive plan because I wasn't there for her.

Slowing down to appear human is seconds of torture as he delays his entry because of hospital employees. Finally, the humans pass, and Slash moves forward again.

The double doors of the morgue rise before him like a yawning stainless steel mouth.

Slash slaps the doors wide, and they swing apart.

The smell hits him. Decaying flesh, tendons, and gore greet him like a punch to the gut.

Things were done. Glass jars stand open, with the decaying stew of humanity inside.

Slash is untroubled, except for the odor that mixes so exactly with the human sludge of the place.

Adrianna.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Tessa

Laz trails heat and wetness in a sultry path from her mouth to her neck. His large hands cup Tessa's shoulders as he draws her closer to him.

His head sinks between her breasts, placing tender kisses like heated sweet air.

“Laz,” Tessa says, tipping her head back.

He catches it with his free hand, his other sliding to the small of her back and pressing her hips against his.

The erection that separates them makes Tessa open her eyes. His nearly translucent gaze meets hers, hooded and darkening with desire by the second.

“They're right outside, Laz.”

“I do not care.” His lips press against hers, sucking her protestations into his hot mouth.

Tessa groans. It's not right. She can't give herself to a demonic when there are Lanarre right outside a prison disguised as a guest cottage.

She flattens her palms on his chest and pushes.

Laz releases her instantly.

Tessa stumbles backward, eyes wide.

Laz gazes at her coldly. The warm storm clouds of his gaze from moments before have chilled to hardened sleet.

Tessa tries to recover. “I'm not responsible for saving you, Laz.”

He nods then turns away, running a finger along a table holding a solitary lamp glowing softly in the room.

Steam rises from his light touch on the wood, and the outline of his fingertip burns into the wood.

“Oh, moon,” Tessa says in a hushed voice. Her hands cover the lips he just ravished, and Laz's stare burns through her. “Are you? Did you mean to do that?”

Laz gives casual attention to the tabletop. Small spirals of smoke from his nose, mouth, and ears drift into the space between them. “No.”

“I can't do this, Laz. I'm a Were. You're a demonic. We're not even the same species.”

Am I convincing him? Or am I convincing me?

Maybe a little of both. Tessa folds her arms, daring Laz to contradict her logic. She's right, and she knows it.

Laz doesn't contradict her. What he asks her next throws her.

“Have you ever mated with a Were?” His words are soft, but if fire could speak, she would be aflame.

“No.”

“And have you asked yourself why?” These words are as softly spoken, just as deadly.

Tessa's stunned. She's never thought about taking a male. Her last two heat cycles were agony. She sequestered herself in caves, hoping to relieve herself. But she couldn't. Only Lycan seed would salve the wound of her need.

Thankfully, she had a precursor that her cycle would be making an appearance, and she found isolated shelter.

Now her heat cycle is just beginning—and there is no shelter.

Tessa gazes at Laz then shuts her eyes tightly.

He would be my shelter if I could let go of my racist bullshit. Tessa's hands fall to her sides, and she clenches them into fists then releases them.

Tessa understands her feelings run deeper than mere racism that's keeping her heart in stasis. Males can't be trusted.

They dominate. The scars of her past won't heal. Won't let her live.

If she chooses Laz, every Were they stumbled across would challenge him. And what kind of young would they have?

Hotdogs, that's what. A mournful laugh escapes her lips.

I can't breed him. I can't stand anyone else breeding me, either.

She will have to leave Laz to save him. To save herself.

Tessa is not his redemption; she is his undoing.

She opens her eyes.

Laz is gone.

*

Drek

He softly shuts the heavy wooden door that signals the opulent entrance to his home.

Two century-year-old-growth logs bisect one another to form a twenty-foot ceiling. A chandelier that once held candles has been electrified during the past fifty years. The lights glow softly, illuminating an angry face, and another as seductress.

Tahlia glares at him, arms bound behind her back, encircling a large load-bearing wooden pole.

The other female, Tanya, strikes a sultry pose. Her floor-length dress is artfully swept across her form, highlighting her classic hourglass figure. The thin material sinks at the V of her thighs and wraps breasts that strain against it. In the cool air of Drek’s antique log home, her nipples pebble.

Tahlia turns away from him. Her long, spiraling curls of ebony drape her face, partially obscuring it from his scrutiny. The tips brush along hips that flare, but are still not as filled out as Tanya’s.

Drek is alarmed with how young Tahlia appears, yet his gaze is uninformed, loving every inch of her body.

When he reaches her eyes, they are deep midnight fire of hate.

“Release me,” she says in curt command. “I will return to my home in the Redwood Forest, and you shall be free of your obligation to mate with me.”

Her eyes tell him how much she does not want to be with him.

Drek sighs, turning his attention to Tanya.

He plants his feet wide, crossing his arms. “And you have arrived in my absence.”

She inclines her head. “Yes, my prince. I am your rightful chosen, and it is my cousin who tries to force her way into a relationship that is not hers.”

“You lie,” Tahlia says, jerking her arms against the post of a huge Douglas fir pillar that serves as both beauty and function.

Tanya has every attribute Drek finds comely in a Lanarre female. She is docile. Her hips are wide, her waist narrow.

Yet, he is drawn to Tahlia.

“I relinquish my rights to you, Drek,” Tahlia says suddenly, watching him think. “This lying cousin of mine can have you. I do not care.” A tear slips out of her eye.

Tanya smiles triumphantly, and Tahlia looks away. Tahlia doesn't have hands to wipe away her sadness, and her grief pierces Drek.

“They're gone. My human guardians died at the hand of a ruthless, insane Were. I will return to my pack and be an outcast, rejected by my chosen.” She raises her head defiantly, and Drek’s chest tightens.

The hold she already has over him tightens. The new feelings anger Drek. He's accustomed to moving through his life decisively. His feelings of ambivalence and passion have stalled his mind.

“Ask me if I care?” Tahlia entreats softly, and Tanya makes a small noise of annoyance.

“Do you care?” Drek asks, as though against his will.

She vehemently shakes her head, the curls that frame her face bouncing. “No. They can hate me. But I will not mate with a male who doesn't believe his nose. Who restrains his chosen because, as Tessa says, I speak my mind. I question your authority. I am who I was meant to be.”

“Let her go, Prince Drek,” Tanya says in a silky voice. “I want to be your chosen.”

Drek turns to her, and Tanya shifts her weight, subtly crossing and uncrossing her legs.

Any Were female understands that to release the smell of their sex in close proximity to a male is a sign of submission—and invitation.

Drek wrinkles his nose. He loves the scent, as any male would, but her motivation is beginning to wear thin on him.

“Address me as Drek,” he commands in a curt voice.

“Yes, Drek,” she replies in a purr.

He restrains his frustrated exhale.

Females.

Tanya is certainly easier.

But she is not the one. Drek is intrigued by how easily Tahlia dismisses him. A Lanarre prince would never harm a female. Technically, he has not harmed Tahlia. Though some of his guard were rough with her. I will deal with that later. Harshly.

Drek would also explore the connection he feels toward her.

Ignoring the pouting Tanya, he approaches Tahlia.

Her head hangs. Small arms are wound around the log, tied off with gentle bindings of cloth.

“Tahlia.”

She refuses him, keeping her nose pointed at the ground.

“Look at me.”

“No.” Her voice is low. Resonate. Absolute.

Drek's lips quirk. He forces her chin to rise with a finger. He is so much stronger that if she doesn't want an injury, she must allow the motion.

Liquid eyes full of grief drown him with her anger and choke him with despair.

He is unaware that his thumb has been absently stroking her cheek, while hazy tears drift down her dusky, smooth skin. They line the inside of his finger, gathering against the flesh dam.

“Why do you resist me?” Drek asks, cocking his head.

She looks at him. Through him.

Drek's eyes move to her mouth. It is full, with a pronounced cupid's bow. He tips his mouth to hers, hovering above the plump flesh as if summoned.

Heat flushes to the surface of his skin, and he feels himself stiffen. Tahlia pulls him like a magnet, and like before, he is helpless to stop the draw of all his senses.

A low moan escapes Drek, and he eases the distance.

His mouth covers her unresponsive lips, moving over the pliant hills and valleys of her lips. They part, and his tongue finds its way inside her. He groans, sweeping his hand behind her skull to touch silky curls that spring and collapse beneath his touch. Then her hair changes beneath his fingers.

Tahlia's mouth grows hard like bone.

Drek breaks away in surprise.

A bird soars above their heads, searching for an escape as bindings flutter to the ground.

Her caw pierces the silence of the room.

Tanya screams, and Tahlia's snowy-white form dives for the fireplace.

“No!” Drek bellows into the stillness, his lips as swollen as his cock, his heart a fist of dread.

His command mingles with the frightened ending note of Tanya's shriek.

Then Tahlia is gone.

Drek strides to the entrance door and realizes he's holding something in a tight grip.

He opens his hand.

A pure-white feather spirals slowly to the ground.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Julia

Julia surveys the landscape.

The trees reach toward the small lake as if asking forgiveness. There's no outward sign that the dead, put there by the fey, line the shores.

Only the most sensitive shifters or a Singer Tracker would catch the scent of so many who'd perished.

But the memory will live on forever in her mind.

Scott slides his arm around her, and Julia's body eases. Their connection goes slack once touch is established.

“I guess it's time to get serious and hunt everyone down.”

“I think things are plenty serious enough,” Scott comments, a crooked smile on his face.

Julia barely nods. There's something she has to do first. She places the flat of her palm on Scott’s broad chest. His dark serious eyes hold hers. “I need to see where Jason is.”

Scott pulls her close. “I wasn't a fan of Caldwell. And you can feel that, Julia. I can't hide it. But like I said, I appreciate what he did. What he sacrificed for us.”

Julia squeezes her eyes closed. “He never got a chance, Scott. We had a different path in Alaska. Then those things got ahold of us and never let go. They killed Kevin, ruined my life, screwed up Cyn's—hell, it's been nothing but a mess ever since.”

“Not everything's a mess, Julia.”

She opens her eyes, looking deeply into his. “I don't mean I don't love you—that we're not meant to be. I always got that on some level from the moment our hands touched. It's just that so many people have been sacrificed along the way. That's what I object to.”

Scott traces a thumb over her lip lightly. “I know,” he says softly, bending to kiss the tip of her nose.

“Ready?” Cyn asks from behind them.

They part, and Julia lets her fingertips trail across his muscular chest.

He grabs her hand at the last moment and squeezes her fingers. “I'll be around.”

“Duh,” Cyn says, winking. “Being all Combatant and that.”

Julia walks with Cyn toward the lake. “He's not with—” Julia can't finish, hoping that he's not part of the mass grave she allowed.

“Nope,” Cyn looks up quickly, kicking a rock with the toe of her bright-red Converse tennis shoe. “He's in his own spot.”

“Good.” Julia releases a shaking breath.

The rest of the short hike is made in silence—not the silence that's awkward and weighty, but the comfortable silence between longtime friends.

“This is exhausting,” Cyn finally says as they reach the border of conifer trees. Feathery hemlock branches sweep toward them.

Rich western red cedar fills her nose, and Julia breathes deeply, fortifying herself for what's to come.

“Don't think so hard,” she says softly.

“Sorry, I forget you're getting a bunch of feedback.” Cyn looks up toward the sky. Fluffy cotton ball clouds drift by, obscuring the sun. “I just can't help but miss his cantankerous ass.”

“It's not that,” Julia says, following Cyn as she begins to weave through the branches, holding them aside for Julia. “It's the past that we miss.”

“This new life,” Cyn says, shaking her head, “I mean—what the hell? I'm a Were girl and a Singer Healer.” She gives a defeated little shrug.

Julia knows exactly how she feels.

She pops a palm up, narrowing her sights on Cyn. “Don't even get started. I can feel your regret and loneliness for what was. And I can't do it, Cyn. I have to let go of this stuff. No matter how much we want what we had, it'll never be our ʻnormalʼ again. Kev is dead.” Julia looks to a point ahead of them, and Cyn follows her gaze. “Jason is dead. It's over.”

“I know,” Cyn says, tucking her hair behind her ear.

Julia checks out her multi-colored locks and laughs. “Nice roots.”

“Fuck off,” Cyn says, but she's smiling. “Like these guys have a good box of bleach in this place?” She tweaks a strand of dirty-blond hair with platinum ends. “Pfft!”

Julia shakes her head, and they smile at each other. Some things are the same, and for that, Julia's relieved.

*

Julia sucks in a harsh breath. “Wow.” She smiles back at Cyn, who's leaning against a tree trunk, her leg bent at the knee. The sneaker is a bright spot of color against all the furrowed brown.

The grave is fresh.

Grief washes over her, and Julia sinks to her knees. Recently churned dirt covers a nine-foot plot. The dirt is deep brown, like crushed toast. Julia dips her fingers in and runs the clumpy dirt through her fingers. When she can finally tear her eyes away, her gaze travels to the head, to a small wooden plaque carved simply with Jason's first and last name.

Underneath that it says Singer in elegant script.

Cyn's hand falls on Julia's shoulder, and she grips it like a lifeline.

“Ya know, if I weren't a Were girl, you'd have busted my fingers.”

Julia nods.

But she's not. Cyn is supernatural. Like Julia. Like everyone in this new life.

“Help me, Cyn.”

Cyn squats beside her. Julia takes off a necklace she's been wearing for a long time. She pulls the thread of gold through the perfect circle of a wedding band she never wore.

Tears form in the corners of Cyn's eyes. “God, this sucks.”

“Yeah,” Julia agrees. She studies the temporary plaque. “I don't want to forget what he was to me.”

Cyn nods. The silence stretches for more than a minute. “Did anyone mention it'll be stone?” She points at the piece of wood.

Julia nods.

She tips her head back, looking up at the tops of the trees. Dappled light strikes the raw dirt all around Julia, turning it to milk chocolate. But nothing about this death is sweet. Tricks of light won't take away the sting. It won't bring him back.

Nothing can right the wrong of the void left by Jason's absence.

Julia loosens her hand around the ring that warms the inside of her palm. She stares at the circle of gold, and re-clasping the necklace, she loops it around a portion of the irregular border of wood. The fine gold chain catches, and the wedding band dangles, flipping back and forth.

The circle of the band sways, falling exactly over the O of his name.

Julia's lip quivers. “I'm so sorry, Jason.”

Cyn pulls her off the grave, wrapping her arms around her best friend. “It's gonna be okay, Jules.”

In that moment, Julia feels like it'll never be okay again.

*

Scott gives Julia a sympathetic look as she and Cyn exit the forest. He stands from his perch on one of the boulders that appear to grow right out of the ground, separating lake and woods.

“What?” Julia asks, blotting her tears with her shirt sleeve.

“I know the timing's not good, baby…”

“It's never good when the endearments start cropping up,” Cyn remarks dryly.

“Anyone ever told you you're a pain in the ass?” Scott says, frowning.

“Sure.” Cyn shrugs.

“Guys,” Julia says.

Cyn crosses her arms. “Fine.”

“Everyone knows about us being together now.”

Cyn gives her a look of pure satisfaction then turns to Scott. “Way to drop the bomb, stud-meld.”

Julia's face heats.

Scott scowls at Cyn.

“Did you tell people, Scott?” Julia asks, instantly remembering every kiss, lick, suck, and everything else—right after visiting Jason's grave.

Julia covers her face as shame pours through her like acid.

Scott strides to her.

Julia feels his thoughts, emotions—and love. “Oh,” she says softly.

Cyn says, “I don't have the two-way radio in my head. Spill it.”

Julia looks at Cyn. “We have consummated—”

“I know,” Cyn says.

Julia scowls. “Aura readers have seen Scott…”

Cyn's jaw moves side to side. “Ah. Gotcha. You guys did the deed, and now you're all rainbow.” She slaps her hands together, knitting her fingers.

Julia's chin dips. “Something like that.”

“Not a helluva a lot of privacy around this joint.”

Scott laughs. “None. But everyone's in the same boat. If someone can't read your mind to find out your situation”—he slides a glance Julia's way and her cheeks become pink again—“then there's an Aura reader who can out you.”

“Being a Singer is serious mojo,” Cyn comments thoughtfully. She taps her chin. “Kinda glad I just fix people when Humpty Dumpty's men can't put them back together again. That telepathy shit sucks.”

“That's fucking random, Cyn,” Scott says.

Julia takes a deep breath then lets it out as though her body's in slow motion.

Scott draws her close. “You okay?”

She nods, gives a small smile to Cyn, and returns her attention to Scott. “You know how I feel.”

“Yeah. But it feels more right to ask anyway.” Julia never feels anything but right in Scott's arms. He pulls away slightly and places his palm above the mark at her belly. “How's this doing?”

Julia shrugs. “It doesn't bother me so much now.”

Scott's expression is troubled.

“That's from Tony's little demon saber, right?” Cyn asks.

Julia nods.

“And it was given to him by that prick Praile, the demonic who—”

“Yeah,” Julia interrupts quietly. “The one responsible for killing Jason.”

“And almost killing you,” Cyn reminds her.

“Maybe not.”

They look at Scott.

“What do you mean?” Cyn asks.

“I mean—why would Praile exert all this effort to get at Julia?”

“Did you seriously just ask that question?” Cyn asks, scrunching her nose. “I mean, Julia's been tag-teamed since forever. And!” Cyn nearly shouts. “We did hand the demonic their ass.” Her eyebrows rise to her hairline.

Scott chuckles, threading his fingers through Julia's and hauling her toward the mansion. “Cynthia, you do have a way with words.”

“What?” Cyn grins. “Praile's at the root of all our current woes, and I think he needs his dick pulled off. Cutting is simply insufficient. Not that I don't think Tessa did a stand-up job with her talons. Damn.”

Scott stops in his tracks. “You just say stuff like that? Do you ever think about how that would be?”

Cyn smiles.

Julia chokes back a laugh. “Yeah, I think she really does, actually.”

“Shit! Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“Consider yourself warned.” Cyn waggles her brows.

Amusement flows through their connection.

Scott narrows his eyes at Cyn. “Nice friend, Julia.”

“Hey,” Julia says, socking him with her free hand, “she kicks ass and takes names.”

Scott shakes his head. “No, she kicks ass and decapitates dicks.”

Julia bends over, clutching her ribs, and Scott releases her hand, putting his hands on his hips. “Not funny, really.”

“So funny!” Julia cries, swiping tears of laughter.

“See?” Cyn says, throwing her palm toward Julia. “She appreciates my humor.”

He scoops Julia up, tosses her over his shoulder, and swats her butt.

“Scott!” Julia gasps, beating on his back, “Put me down.”

“No, ma'am, You're going to get proper discipline after our nuptials.”

Julia stills, her fingers spreading flat on his back. “What?”

Cyn jogs beside them. “That's why Scott was looking all constipated earlier. He had to tell you the news. Now that One knows you guys figured out your love life, you get to be married. I mean—what's stopping you?”

Scott grips Julia's hips, and she slides down his front.

Guilt, desire, and uncertainty cloud her mind. Everything's moving too fast.

Jason's dead. The demonic are still tearing around in parts unknown, and her people are fewer. Those who remain are scattered and unsure.

Scott cups her face in one large hand. “I feel all your anxiety. But here's the thing, Julia—do you have anxiety about you and me?”

Cyn remains blissfully silent for once.

Julia searches her heart. Each piece of her psyche holds tension, except one.

The soul-meld is the only intact thing about her right now. And no matter how her future might change, her supernatural connection with Scott holds.

“Right,” Julia answers, noting Scott's tight eyes and tense posture. “We feel right.”

His fingers move from her chin and wrap the crown of her head. “Then let's do something that's happy. There's been too much grief.”

“I agree,” Jen says, walking up to them, and that's all it takes.

Julia's stoic veneer crumples, and her future sister-in-law holds her as she cries.

Not all tears are sad.

Some are cathartic.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Adi

Lazily spinning silver eyes peer inside the bag where Adi tensely waits. He wrinkles his nose.

Lanarre.

Adi's surprise is chased by a crazy thought. Adi feels like Little Red Riding Hood, ready to be eaten by the big bad wolf.

“Hello, female.” His hot breath bathes Adi, and her beast recoils.

She makes a split decision. Sliding to quarter-change, she rolls in an agile wiggle, beginning to fall from the stainless cot and away from Romeo.

The wheels aren't locked, and the cart rocks abruptly from her sharp motion. She bursts from the bag, landing with her ass still inside the crinkling plastic as her palms slap the concrete of the underground parking structure.

Adi grunts from the impact of her knees cracking against concrete. Healing fire burns along her kneecaps, momentarily weakening her.

The cart is flung, and Adi watches it hit one of the circular support pillars before it lands on the roof of a parked car. A security alarm begins to blare.

Adi moves forward, getting caught up in the plastic, and kicking backward to extradite herself.

Strong arms encircle her waist, lifting her from the ground.

Talons burst from her fingertips, and Adi blindly swipes backward. The Were roars, his hold momentarily loosening.

Adi spins.

Jenni's wide brown eyes find hers, a talon at her throat.

Adi's breath catches. The human female's fear is like ashes in her nose.

“Is this your pet, female?”

Oh my Moon.

Adi backs up until a cold pillar meets her spine. She shivers with fear, chill, and desperation.

The three Lanarre males circle Adi. The one in the center easily holds a struggling Jenni.

Adi fights to track their movements as they separate. “The human doesn't matter. I threatened to kill her if she didn’t get me out of here.” Adi shrugs. Small lie.

The Lanarre swipes a finger across Jenni's throat, and the skin peels away. White at first, it quickly fills with her blood.

Adi's heart sinks. She'd rolled the dice, hoping they would just let Jenni go if they assumed she meant nothing to her.

She lost that bet. “No,” Adi whispers fervently.

He drops Jenni, who clasps her fingers around her own neck, gasping as she drops hard to her knees.

Bastards. Rage uncoils like a snake preparing to strike.

“We've done you a favor then, female.”

Adi stands straighter, flinging her claws wide. “You are Lanarre—the best of us, but you'll threaten me and kill an innocent human?”

“A human who is dying,” another scoffs with a dismissive chuff, coming a step closer.

So let's kill her slowly. Makes so much sense.

“That doesn't matter,” Adi says, her anger chasing tears to dryness. “You guys aren't top dogs in my book.” Her sarcasm rings in the barren parking lot.

Their eyes spin a little faster. “We do not come to threaten you, female.”

Right. “Then let me go,” Adi says in a low voice. “I am mated to another.” Though Slash doesn’t give a fuck, it's still technically true. They must scent the truth of her words.

Maybe they don't care?

The one who grabbed her before spreads his arms inoffensively, his half-smile smug. “Then where is your mate? And what kind of male would leave his female unprotected while she cycles?” One of his dark eyebrows rises.

Adi's gaze skates back and forth between the three.

A pool of Jenni's blood spreads beneath her body, coloring the concrete black. Adi sees red—literally. She would prefer their blood covering the garage floor instead of her human friend's.

Loyalty has always been Adi's greatest character flaw—and her greatest strength. Adi's face whips to the males.

They can fucking try me. Adi clicks her talons together, and they sound like the bones of her enemies.

Their eyes move to her aggressive stance.

“We are Lanarre; we don't hurt females.” He sounds so insulted.

Is he high? Didn't he just slit Jenni's throat? Adi laughs. “You'll just breed me. Yeah.”

“Of course.” The clowns look at each other as if seeking agreement in their attempt at rape.

“We will take care of whatever young you have,” the Were who'd laid hands on her says. His smile hangs vacantly on his face. His teeth are very sharp.

“You're not listening, pal.”

His eyebrows jerk up. If things weren't so serious, Adi would laugh. Nothing's funny right now.

Jenni's bleeding out on the hard cement like discarded trash, and three males are discussing a phantom future pregnancy as though she should be all flattered by their attention.

Bull honkey. “Stay where you are,” Adi says as they fan out, eyes never leaving her.

Grabber puts his hand out, palm facing her. “We won't hurt you. We simply want to take you back to our den.”

Placating cheese dick.

“I am not unmated. You've got to be the dumbest male I've ever had the misfortune of running into.”

At a single yip, the males at his side rushes her.

Adi does the unexpected, using the balls of her feet as she leaps to Grabber.

He reacts swiftly, but not swiftly enough.

Adi has one shot. She sails toward him, and he instinctively tries to catch her, exposing his throat.

Adi goes wolfen midair, sucking in a heated, pain-filled breath, and claims his open neck with her teeth.

She tears out his esophagus like a glossy worm ripped from the dirt of his flesh. Jerking her head back, jaws locked, she swings her head around, releasing a chunk of his breathing tube behind her.

Grabber gasps, flailing for purchase on her suddenly bigger form. She hops away, swings her leg, and plants a foot on his chest, shooting his ass against the pillar she'd stopped cowering against.

Heal that, asswipe.

Powerful hands grip her upper arms, and Adi thrashes. One hand holds her nape painfully tight, and she whimpers.

Her eyes meet Jenni's.

Slash, Adi wails inside her mind, knowing he can't hear her. She hates that she would want a male's protection—and loathes herself because she thought she already had it.

The metal door leading into the parking garage bangs against the wall, shattering into twisted curly cues of steel. They skitter across the smooth concrete like metallic sleet, rolling to a stop at the edge of Jenni's blood.

Slash moves through the jagged open mouth of what used to be the doorway.

Their eyes meet. His are already wolfen green. His utter calm as he surveys gasping Grabber and the two Lanarre who hold her terrifies Adi.

“Slash,” her beast growls out of a throat raw with her anguish.

But the Lanarre don’t give a shit about what she thinks. She's an alpha female running rogue who's cycling. So Adi's fair game.

She's betting Slash won't let them hurt her even though he doesn't want her anymore. She doesn't even have time to think about why Slash would even appear.

The Lanarre's heads jerk in his direction, their stub wolfen snouts rising to scent Slash.

Their grips tighten painfully.

Adi bows her head, breathing through the pain of their hold.

Words are unnecessary.

Slash's wolf bursts his skin. Blood, flesh, and bone fly, covering a ten foot diameter.

Bits of Slash's human form land like gory rain on Jenni. She attempts to cover her face, but is too weak to do so. The remnants fall into her blood.

“Slash! No!” He can't kill the Lanarre. It's a death sentence.

Then he does.

*

Adi crawls toward Jenni. The throbbing sound of the car alarm has finally quieted, and she has a moment's consideration of how lucky they are that no one has come down into the underground garage. The short war felt like hours, but the time was likely only minutes.

Slash is ripping up pieces of the males behind her. Ominous crunching, gnashing, and flesh rending is the only noise inside the space.

He told her what he was: a male who didn't deserve her because of his deeds.

He heaves a head, and it tumbles like a bowling ball alongside Adi. It rolls to a stop, sightless eyes appearing to track her slow progress toward the bleeding nurse.

She ignores those dead eyes that seem to follow her, continuing her plodding course toward Jenni.

Jenni reaches for Adi. Really, it just sort of falling toward her. Adi grasps, hauling the woman into her arms.

Jenni coughs, and blood shoots out of her mouth.

Adi's tears fall on her face.

“Is that—”

“Don't talk, Jenni.” Adi swallows her sobs like open wounds.

“Slash?” Jenni whispers, her eyes vaguely turning in the direction of the sounds Slash makes as he tears the Lanarre to pieces.

Adi nods, pressing her fingers to Jenni's lips. “I'm sorry. I—this is my fault.”

Jenni squeezes her arm. “Is okay—” She coughs up more blood. “Dying anyway.”

Their eyes meet.

Both devastated.

Growling erupts behind Adi, and she shields Jenni, quickly swiveling her body in the direction of the commotion.

Grabber is healed.

No.

Slash has shifted back to wolfen and is circling the Lanarre.

“I am Lanarre, Red. I order you to back away. You might live yet, despite your crime against Lycan.”

Adi's eyes laser on the scattered remains of the other Lanarre.

Slash doesn't answer. He grabs the other Were by the throat and smashes his head against the pillar Adi had kicked him into.

Grabber sets his teeth in Slash's shoulder, and Slash howls in agony. He severs Grabber's head with his talons. A string of gristle still holds the head, and it tips backward, hitting Grabber's lower back. The gore is a gut-wrenching sight, even for her, and Adi gasps, turning her attention back to Jenni.

She’s hanging on, but Adi smells her death. She's a tough human. Adi smooths her dyed-black hair back from her forehead.

“Make me—” Jenni's gaze pleads with an unfinished question.

Adi's eyes widen in realization.

“Like you.” Jenni's bright brown eyes begin to dim then close.

A thread of life lingers.

Adi's beast feels that barrier between life and death. Her decision made, she closes her teeth over Jenni's throat, secreting the essence of what makes Adi Lycan directly into Jenni's bloodstream.

Adi's so intent on what's she's doing, she doesn't realize Slash is there until it's too late.

*

Slash

His mate lies in a pool of human's blood. He doesn't know the state of her injury, but he intends to find out.

Slash returns his attention to the last Lanarre male he would bring to true death. He knows the repercussions for this particular sin.

And they are worth it.

Slash was doomed from the moment he scented the malesʼ lust for his female.

They will not have her, he thought.

And then Slash had not thought much more. He did.

His eyes move to the disaster of what is left of the royal branch of Lycan, and he sniffs in disgust. So much for the caretakers of females.

Without another glance, he moves toward his mate. He stops when he sees what she does next.

“Adrianna!” Slash roars.

She ignores him.

He grabs her gently and attempts to pry her off the dying female.

Adi slaps his hands away.

Slash could easily overpower her. She is a small female. But he doesn’t want to force her.

Slash wants to love her. Desperately.

“Adrianna—don't condemn her. She is not born of us.”

“Get your hands off me!”

She turns to face him, lips bloody, teeth longer than a human’s. Her hair is a rat's nest, and her eyes are filled with fear and anger—directed at him, no doubt.

Still, she is beautiful. Her scent wipes away rational thought.

“You lost the right to order me around when you told me to—” Her lips trembles, and Slash aches to kiss it. “When you told me to ʻget the fuck away from you.ʼ I believe those were your words.”

Slash winces at her reminder. But they have more important matters.

“And stop looking at me like that!” she yells.

Slash cannot help the way he looks at her and says the obvious, “You're in heat.”

Adi rolls her eyes. “Gee, Einstein, ya think?”

There's no time for her willfulness at the moment. “We need to get out of here. Now. Where there are some Lycan, there are more.”

“Whatever!” Adi says, gently depositing the human on the ground, and stands.

She pokes Slash in the chest. “Those guys were Lanarre, Slash.”

Adi has a point, he admits to himself. “I'm aware of that, Adrianna.”

“Then why in the world did you kill them?” she cries, her heart in her eyes. She smacks his broad chest then cradles her hand. “Why, Slash? They'll hunt you for killing Lanarre. If I mean so little to you, why would you take the risk?”

Slash eyes her lips, full of blood.

Beautiful.

He bends to hover over her mouth. “Because there is no reason to take another breath—unless you're in it.”

Then his mouth falls on hers, ravishing every bit of plump flesh.

Slash tastes the blood of their enemies.

Bodies are scattered everywhere, the human female might live, die, or become a Were. But none of that matters. The female in his arms is all that’s important.

She squirms.

Slash reluctantly loosens his grip at her hips, searching Adrianna's face.

When her hand strikes his cheek, he doesn't move away.

“Stop lying to me!”

Slash chuckles. Adrianna's still pissed at him, and rightfully so.

“Jerk!” she screams in his face, touching the mouth he just kissed. His eyes go to her lips, and it's all he can do not to kiss her again. Her heat pushes at him, pummeling him.

But humans approach. “I'm sorry, Adrianna. But you must know…”

“I know that you're a dick. And that you slept with me then told me to leave. How could you?”

Voices can be heard not too far off. Their ears prick in unison.

Adi's tears cloud her eyes. Slash thumbs a few off as they fall, then sucks them off his digit, tasting the salt of her sadness.

“Stop,” Adi's voice quavers.

“Never.” Slash cradles her face. “I made you leave. I said what I knew would hasten it, Adrianna. Tramack could have come back for you. And then what would have happened? In my paralyzed and unhealed state?”

Slash sees in her face that she intuits the potential.

“So you didn't really want me to leave?”

He hates how small her voice sounds. He put that tone there. Him. He tips his forehead to hers, sliding his fingers to her neck and fingering her skin gently. “Adrianna, I love you more than the moon.”

“No Lycan loves anything more than the moon, Slash.”

“I am not any Lycan.” Pulling away, he stares deeply into hazel eyes gone gold with her beast. “I am the male who loves you.”

Humans appear inside the ruined doorway, take a look at the carnage, and start screaming and shouting.

Slash takes her hand and pulls her from the garage.

Adi tugs, and he turns to see why she's stalling.

Her eyes go to where the human female was, but she is gone.

Slash captures Adi in his arms and runs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Tessa

She thought he'd gone, but Laz had visually tortured her with how quickly he moved.

He stands before her in a blur of red flesh.

Laz smooths his hands over Tessa's breasts, kneading them, and her core pulses once, aching for more. He seems to sense her need, dipping his hand to cover her mound.

When he slips a finger over her yoga pants and between her folds, she gasps then groans, pushing her hips against his seeking finger.

“Laz,” she says against his mouth.

“What may I do to ease you?”

Oh Moon, make love to me until I can't walk. Tessa says, “I want to do this—I do, but we're in this place with all the Lanarre, and they know I'm in heat and—”

He presses his wandering fingers to her lips, and she kisses the tips. They're like bathwater against her flesh. “Then let us leave. We will escape this place, and no one shall rule us.”

Tessa wants that.

She wants him.

“I am not Lycan. I can never be.” He tips her chin up, looking deeply into her eyes, and Tessa is lost in the smoke of his gaze. “But I was made for you—and you for me.”

“How, Laz? How is that even possible?”

He shakes his head. “I do not know. But what I do know is, there is a fragment of the demonic. Those of us that are not fully of the devil. And because of this ancient DNA, we can sometimes be given a second chance in a realm other than Hades. A roll of the genetic dice, if you will.”

He's so earnest, Tessa almost believes him.

His fingers skate lightly across her features, and she shivers. Trembling with want, she shakes beneath the heat of his touch. “The myth is that you will know your Redemptive immediately, but she will not know you. You're more than a freedom from the prison of my station. You're a chance for happiness and a new life. You are labeled correctly. Tessa.” He kisses her softly on the mouth, and she helplessly moans against him. “You are my redemption.”

“Lazarus, Lazarus, Lazarus,” a low voice chastises, and Tessa whirls. The horned fucker.

Laz shoves her behind himself protectively. “Praile.”

Praile puts his clawed hands, tipped by ebony nails, on his hips and cocks his head. “Yes, Praile,” he mocks. “You have frustrated me to no end.”

His gaze falls on Tessa, and whatever brave thoughts she entertains, flee.

It's fair to consider he's going to want a little payback.

Tessa tries to inch away.

Laz glances at her. “Do not leave my side.”

Praile's eyes narrow, sighting them like an eagle with prey in range. “This lowly female bitch shall die a slow death.” Praile grabs his dick through loose pants and squeezes it. Tessa's eyes go to his hand at his crotch. “All better, my little mutt. Despite your reprehensible actions.” He glowers at her as though she gave him a paper cut.

That makes Tessa so much more scared than an outward threat. She feels her bladder give a little hiccup.

“You've interrupted the Master's important work, you pathetic female. And that work will commence and be seen through.” His eyes move to Laz. “I don't know what provoked you to leave me bleeding and dickless in the dirt of the angelic compound, but I will see a punishment so terrible it will be as though you eternally perish.” Praile taps a short black nail against his chin. “Actually, that is the exact definition of residing in hades. Sublime.”

Tessa finds her voice. “And when you put it like that, I'm sure Laz will just run and volunteer for your brand of bullshit.”

“Lazarus,” Praile says, giving him a look so full of malice that Tessa's knees feel weak.

Laz squeezes her hip where his hand rests.

“Move aside and let me take my revenge on a female who would think to injure a high demon in such a fashion.”

Tessa scans the blackness outside the windows. Where are the Lanarre? The silence is loud.

Her eyes meet the demonic’s.

Praile smiles. “They sleep, little bitch. There is no one to help you. Lazarus knows his place. Whatever infatuation he might have mentioned so he might stick his hot ineffective wick in your pathetic pussy is false. He will not turn his back on the Master and survive.” He spreads his deep-red arms in a gesture implying how reasonable his words are. How absolute.

His horns glow like spikes of shadowed ink on his head.

“Laz didn't lie to me.” Tessa glances at Laz, whose face is like pale-red stone.

He shakes his head, offering a slit of a grin. Small spirals of steam leak out as he speaks, “We are demonic. Deceit is like breathing for our kind. Test him, Were female.”

Tessa looks uncertainly at Laz, who continues to stare intently at Praile.

“Did he tell you that you were his Redemptive, perhaps?”

Tessa's breath catches in her chest, and she whirls to face him again.

Praile's laughs gleefully, tipping his head back. Gales of perverse chuckles tumble out of a mouth. His tongue and teeth are black, and his gums are very red. “Do not feel too aghast. Every demon has from time to time desired a little tail from the surface.” He smiles, and thick steam streams from his mouth. Eyes like black obsidian discs of pure evil regard her.

“Laz,” Tessa says in a low voice. “What is he saying?”

Laz takes a step away from her. Her fingertips trail over his smooth back as he walks toward Praile.

“Have you had her yet?” Praile asks, and Laz shakes his head.

“Did you do as I ask? Feign our getaway, so that the Rare One will be unsuspecting?”

Laz nods. “Yes.”

Tessa swallows her gorge. Not a great time to let hurt, nerves, and the potential for a smackdown get the best of her.

Praile claps his hands, rubbing them together. “Excellent. Now…” His glittering black orbs study Tessa. “I do believe we have a little time for sport with this one before the Lanarre wake from their little nappy.”

They turn and face Tessa.

Laz's eyes are as dark as Praile's.

They move toward her, and Tessa's screams fill the cottage.

*

Drek

Drek rushes out the front entrance to his home, and the sound of a female's screams shatter eardrums sensitive to a pin dropping.

Her terror beats at him.

Tahlia’s escape set his nerve endings on fire. The farther she is from him, the more Drek realizes he's made a grave error in judgement.

He trips over a body and catches himself on a stout wood porch post. Looking down, he finds Bowen lying on his back, snoring softly.

“Bowen!” Drek yells, toeing him.

Nothing.

He peers into the gloom of the woods. Lanarre guards litter the ground, appearing to have dropped where they stood.

Drek turns, making sure Tanya is still secure against the pole. He gives her an apologetic look and leaves her.

“Wait!” she shrieks. “You can't just leave me here!”

He strides toward the sound of screaming that makes the fine hairs at his nape stand at attention.

Drek halts when he gets a whiff of an odor as offensive as vampire’s, though most Lycan are unable to smell, either.

Demonic.

A layer of red vapor hovers like poisonous gas over the sleeping Lanarre.

The screams make more sense now.

He moves to the guest cottage, his eyes rising heavenward in search of a white bird—his chosen. Drek was too ignorant to see and act accordingly.

He jogs to the steps, imagining Bowen’s commentary had he been awake and by his side.

A low voice growls words that let Drek know what he is dealing with—not an enemy, but a relation of sorts.

That's why the Lanarre sleep but are not dead.

Drek will handle this spawn of the devil.

His gaze moves a last time to the inky blanket of sky dotted with the stars like coarse, sprinkled salt.

Tahlia is not there.

When the door doesn't open, he rams it with his shoulder, and it bursts wide.

The demonic are converging on Tessa.

She's wolfen and in fighting posture.

Drek moves in to assist, and the distant sound of birdsong reaches his ears.

The music distracts him, and thoughts of Tahlia crowd his logic, enticing his mind that it might be she.

Drek’s hesitation is his undoing as the demonic attacks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Slash

Slash doesn't stop running until his legs grow numb. His lungs are an oven of slow-burning fire. He and Adrianna are deep within the bounds of the woods. Safe.

For now.

Slash slows to a jog, feeling gimpy because his limbs refuse to cooperate. When he stops, he gently swings Adrianna around by her arms. She sways, and Slash draws her in against him.

“If I'm exhausted, you must be beyond exhausted,” she says against his heaving chest.

Slash is. But he's been through more than this. So he simply nods.

Adrianna pulls away, looking worse for wear. Her hair is matted with leaves and needles.

Slash smiles, gently pushing the mess of her hair back from her forehead.

“I must look like shit.” She stares at her feet.

Slash scents her uncertainty, and so much more.

“Adrianna.”

She looks up at him, and Slash fights to not give her the profile of his face that remains unscarred.

“We will get cleaned up. We will feed. We will rest.”

She puts her hands on her hips, hazel eyes flashing. “And this too shall pass? Pfft!”

She stomps away, and Slash follows her. Each step he takes is agony. Slash returns to his human form and scents for food.

He scents nothing he can hunt without shifting again, and he's out of steam. His mate is in heat, and Slash doesn't think he's seen the last of her temper after their misunderstanding.

Adrianna suddenly whirls, and the small hairs of his body rise in response to her beast—and her heat. Slash stifles a groan. Regardless of how beat he is, his beast senses his mate's hunger.

“You took us away from the rain forest?”

Slash nods. They don't need to travel deeper into Lanarre territory. What they would do to him for killing the Lanarre would be slow and without mercy.

Adrianna takes his hands. “I'm still so pissed at you, I could spit.”

Slash has only silence.

“But—” She gives him troubled eyes. “I guess what you said makes sense. I would have never left you otherwise.”

“I know,” Slash says.

They smile cautiously at each other. “But what about my heat?”

Slash wearily swipes his head with a hand. “It's not typical. However, it was probably our coming together that caused it.”

“I'm young for heat, Slash.”

He nods and pulls her to him, wrapping his arms around her.

“Can't we just—you know—not.”

He chuckles. “I'm afraid not. I couldn't keep my hands off you if I tried.”

Adrianna's eyes fill with tears, but she doesn't cry. “I'm too young to have a whelp, Slash.”

He cups her chin. “You were not too young to become my mate or share your body with me.”

High color floods her cheeks. “You got me there.”

“It's not about ʻgetting you.ʼ” Slash lets his hand drop, and he stares off into the woods, his eyes searching the pockets of gloom. “It's that we're mature enough. And for whatever reason, our union was strong. We complement each other well, or this would not have triggered such a response.”

“You're the old guy. I'm just a young pup.”

Slash had felt guilty about that. But no more. She pursued him. He fought it. Fought his feelings and desire. Fought his lack of confidence over his attractiveness. Finally, she'd convinced him.

In all the years of Slash's life, he'd never been moved to have a mate. And when he was, she's been barely out of whelphood and was the most stubborn, mouthy female he'd ever met. Slash was reticent in comparison. What did the humans say? Ah yes: opposites attract.

No shit.

“Hey,” Adrianna calls softly, startling Slash from his thoughts.

He grabs her hand and lifts it, kissing the layer of skin that is grimy from their trek through the woods—and their killing.

“I'm not going to just hump right now out in the woods. I don't care if my crotch goes up in flames.” She crosses her arms, and Slash barks out a laugh.

“I think I might be able to restrain myself just long enough to find shelter.” His lips tilt.

Adrianna runs her finger over the worst of his scar—the one that mars his lips—and he allows it. No one but him has ever touched his scar.

“When did this happen?”

Slash's smile fades. He figured he would have to tell her sooner or later. “It was a war between Lanarre and Were. It's when their dominance was firmly established.” Slash laughs, but it's hollow inside the thick woods.

“I assumed the Lanarre have always been top of the food chain.”

Slash widens his stance, crossing his arms and tucking his palms underneath his biceps. He rolls his lips together, absently bending the small ball of scar tissue between his lips.

“Slash.”

He looks up. “Sorry. I'm scattered.” He taps his temple, procrastinating the storytelling.

“The Lanarre are really no more than the strongest of us. This was well before your time, but it shows a lack of historic study of Lycan.”

Adrianna nods. “So shoot me. Not into books.”

The corner of Slash's lips turn up. So young. “Packs of Lycans would gravitate toward similar werewolves. Before we knew it, the weak congregated with each other—”

“And so did the strong,” Adrianna finished, understanding flooding her features.

He pointed at her. “Exactly.” He chops his hands away from his body, “So females began to become sick. Too much interbreeding of the same types of animal. Diversity was lost.”

A sick expression pastes itself on Adrianna's face.

“The males didn't thrive, but they weren't so easily taken by death.”

Slash meets her eyes significantly.

“That's when our females became scarce.”

Slash nods. “It was the malesʼ faults for not recognizing the problem and putting a protocol of prevention in place soon enough.” Slash feels his face screw up in disgust.

Adrianna is uncharacteristically quiet.

“When the Reds found that they were down to only a few viable females, we knew that we needed to refresh the gene pool.”

Adrianna leans forward, and Slash squeezes her shoulder. She shivers. A wave of need rolls through them.

Slash gasps as though warm bathwater has been poured over him.

He clenches his teeth. “Adi.”

She shivers again. “Can't help it—and can I just say how weird it is that you call me that?”

Slash shakes his head as though he can shake off her heat. The strongest of the sensation subsides, but a residue lingers like an electrical charge over his skin.

They let a minute pass. Finally, Slash thinks he can speak. “When talk reached us of the Lanarre hoarding females, at first we didn't think it was possible.”

Adrianna stares at him, eyes wide.

“All of us, from Alaska, from here, converged on the various Lycan packs.”

“How many?” she asks.

Slash's eyes go wolfen. “All.”

“The Great Massacre.”

Slash gives her a slight nod.

Adrianna searches his face. “Even I know of that. They used liquid silver on their own kind.”

His smile is sardonic, his finger traces part of the scar of his face. Her eyes track the movement. “Anything to protect their females.”

“But they wouldn't be protecting us. They'd be keeping us,” Adrianna says, hand to chest.

Slash nods. A soft prison is still a prison.

Adrianna approaches him. He doesn't flinch when she lightly follows the worst of the scarring. Her finger runs from the small bumpy line that bisects his eyebrow, narrowly missing his eye then resurfacing like a jagged lightning strike at the highest bridge of his cheekbone, where it swoops to make a curling small knot of flesh at his cupid's bow.

Her fingers feather against his lips. “You didn't die.”

“No.” He smiles beneath her touch, chuckling softly.

Adrianna punches him, and he catches her wrist before her fist lands.

“Come here.” Slash jerks her to him and plants his mouth against hers.

Adrianna molds her body to his, and Slash is soft and tender against her.

Only her.

*

“Oh my Moon! When will we get there?”

Slash stifles an irritated sigh. Sometimes Adrianna reminds him of her youth when he knew her as a whelp.

They trudge through the deepest part of the forest.

He stays her with a hand. “Do you see that?”

Adrianna scans the darkness, eyes narrowing. She finally sights what he already has. “That creepy Hansel and Gretel cottage? Yeah,” she says with exaggerated slowness.

Slash turns to her. “We must find shelter.”

Adrianna blushes, looking properly chastised. But her vague sadness pulls at him.

“Heart of my heart,” Slash says, placing his palm on her chest as he recites the ancient words of his kind.

Adrianna covers his hand with her own. “Soul of my soul.”

“What harms you, harms me.”

Adrianna's shoulders slump. “Fine. When you entreat the ancient words, only a real douche wouldn't reply.”

Slash grins suddenly. Sometimes it's not bad to be almost four hundred years old.

“I'm thinking about the nurse, Jenni.” Adi bites her lip.

“Let's walk to the little house as you share your troubles.” Slash holds out his palm.

She sighs but takes his hand. His wolf notices her nearness and touch. His beast roils beneath Slash's flesh uncomfortably. The urge to breed is unbearable, like an itch that is just out of reach of being scratched.

They move down a little slope where the trees thin, only to climb back up a gentle knoll. When they reach the top, the small dark cottage stands at odds with the surrounding forest.

Adrianna draws closer to Slash without being aware. He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb.

“I might have turned Jenni, and she's got no guidance. She might be wolfing around somewhere without a clue.”

Slash is half-listening. He does care about Adrianna's thoughts and self-doubts. But the male in him is uneasy.

Slash has not lived this long without listening to his instincts.

He steps forward to the broad, well-worn steps. They're unusually wide, given the small scale of the house. Slash notes old dirt and a general absence of habitation.

“I just bit her, and poof!” Adrianna's free hand swings up. “I don't know for sure if she lived or died.”

“Or crawled away to lick her wounds,” Slash says absently as he fingers the large pole that anchors the top of the steps.

Adrianna slaps his back, and he barely feels it. “You're not listening!”

He steps onto the porch. The old wood tongue-in-groove slats are edged with moss, slowly succumbing to the elements in their damp climate.

“What you should really ask yourself is what are the ramifications your bite might have while you're in heat.”

“What?!” Adrianna shrieks.

Slash covers her mouth with his hand, pulling her tight against his chest. His skin crawls. His eyes chase over the tops of ground-hugging ferns, moss, and discarded pinecones from trees that perpetuate life from the earth. The thick greenery suffocates the strangled moonlight.

His pupils dilate to access whatever light is available.

Nothing.

He slowly removes his hand, and Adrianna opens his mouth. Slash shakes his head, putting a finger to his lips. Her eyebrows whip up. But she's quiet, looking around the immediate vicinity. The forest is silent.

Too silent.

“I don't like it,” Adrianna whispers.

Slash gives her a cautioning look but wraps his fingers around her arm. With a jerk of his chin, he indicates the door.

Adrianna gives one more glance around the dim woods, the light eaten by the high canopy, and derelict moonlight, then she follows Slash.

He places his hand on the knob, old tin with a beaded perimeter, and turns the handle.

The door swings open on well-oiled hinges.

Twin barrels of a shotgun ease into his face from about a foot away. “Step closer, and I'll decorate my walls with your brains.”

Slash freezes.

Adrianna yelps.

The old woman with the gun chuckles. “Well, that ward didn't hold worth a damn. Come in, lovebirds.” She snorts. “Or are you waiting for some trolls to come knocking, eh?”

Slash stupidly holds his position, stunned. What creature is this?

“Are ya daft?” She cocks an eyebrow to her snow-white hairline. “I said to come inside. I don't invite twice, Red.”

Her bushy brows drop as she gives him the best evil eye he's ever received.

Slash gives a pointed look at the shotgun.

“Ah!” she says, chortling. “It's not loaded! If it comes to shooting ne'er–do–wells, all hope is lost.”

“Why?” Adrianna asks with uncharacteristic timidity.

The old woman rolls to her toes, trying to catch a glimpse of Adrianna. Slash moves her behind him.

Her eyes move over the two knowingly. “You're no threat. No you're not.”

Slash is puzzled but unwilling to let his guard down completely.

Her chest puffs up, and she moves swiftly around Slash, who angles Adrianna away, facing her the entire time. She rests the shotgun behind the door with the butt down and kicks the door closed.

A solid brass bar falls down into a crooked little holder nailed into the wood casing.

“Who are you?” Adrianna asks.

Who indeed?

“Nosey, aren't ya? You come to my house—uninvited—and think to just barge in—”

“We didn't think it was occupied,” Adrianna said.

“Well it is, isn't it, Were female?”

She turns, showing them her back, and shuffles quickly to a stove where a kettle brews. Steam evaporates as quickly as it rises. She turns, cocking an eyebrow, and puffs out an irritated breath.

“I'm a witch, girl. And you're on private property.”

Easy to remedy. “We will leave.”

“Can't.” She says the one word as both answer and command.

The hair on his nape rises. “Why not?”

“Did ya hear me? I know a Red Were such as yourself hears better than me. The trolls, fool. You didn't sense them when you and your woman were flouncing around, making a racket that led straight to my door?”

Slash can feel Adrianna's pulse through their threaded fingers. “This is the Hansel and Gretel house. We're screwed.”

The witch's face changes, smoothing into a grin. “I haven't heard mention of that in years.” She gives a little sigh, as though nostalgic.

“So you eat kids?” Adrianna asks only a little in jest.

She shakes her head while Slash sizes up their chances of escape.

“No. That's another witch.”

Adrianna's grip becomes crushing.

“Then what do you eat?”

The witch puts her hands at her hips, a long skirt hiding her fingers. “Food.”

“Like people?”

Her nose scrunches up. “No, I'm a good witch. As good as the two of you are.”

Slash is skeptical of that claim. And if she knew of his transgressions, she might be less forgiving.

The witch narrows her eyes at them. “I smell death on you, Were. But rightful death carries a different scent than wrongful, yes?”

Slash nods slowly. Wise words.

“The two of you crossed a ward I've had in place since I could hardly hold a wand.”

“You use a wand?” Adrianna asks.

Her face tightens. “What do you take me for? A novice? Of course I don't need a wand anymore.”

“Sorry,” Adrianna says, and Slash bites back a laugh.

“So how did we get past the ward?”

The witch gives them a sly glance, full of confidence and something else that makes Slash uneasy.

“True love.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Julia

Two weeks later

Julia blinks, and before she knows what's happening, Jen has dressed her in a gauzy dress of deep cream bordering on yellow. Beads of glass grace the square neckline and cup the outside of her shoulders. Her hair is elaborately pinned up at the crown of her head with half hanging down between her shoulders in loose curls.

When she's breathed through her nerves, she descends the winding staircase in the mansion.

Scott is waiting at the bottom.

His broad shoulders strain against a tailored snowy-white button-down shirt, such a perfect contrast to his dark hair and eyes. A crisp bowtie graces his throat. Black pants encase slim hips and long legs.

He isn't wearing a coat.

Scott is so handsome, Julia gets a lump in her throat. Holding back tears, she admires her creamy satin heels, feeling so overwhelmed.

Then his arms are around her. Scott lifts her off the floor and holds her against him. Subtle fragrance of spicy male and Scott's unique scent floods her nose, and he lets her slip down his front.

She turns in his arms, looking around her and blinking rapidly to expel her laughter. Tears.

Shock.

All the Singers who lived through the genocide have gathered. New faces mingle with familiar ones, and a sigh slides between her lips. Small children, though there aren't many, try their best for quiet. But babies still squall, and mothers silence them with a kiss or a word.

Julia's at a lost, but Cyn nails it.

“Wow,” she says reverently.

“When did all this happen?” Julia asks Scott. She can feel his pride swell inside her, brimming over from his own emotional grid to her own. His thoughts mingle with hers, and she takes his hand.

They did this for us, Julia sends them through the bridge of their meld.

Scott nods.

The edge of day burns into night. Small twinkling lights are strung from both corners of the broad front porch to tall softly illuminated lamps piercing the ground. Each lamp holds a glass oblong light. Many children hold the last of summer's wildflowers in lazy bouquets of drooping petals in every color of the rainbow.

Scott's hold tightens on her hand.

“This is all for us,” Julia says in wonder.

Scott nods. “It's about time.”

Julia couldn't have married Scott when she was married to Jason. Their rules are different. They'd allow so much because of the fact that she was the Rare One, but in her heart, Julia was still human, still culturally bound to the principles she was brought up with.

A sudden thought occurs to her, and she turns to Scott. “Do Singers really get married?” She'd heard the term joining, but never marriage, as humans thought of it. As Julia had.

His smile is crooked, and Julia narrows her eyes. “Tell me.”

He frowns. “We handfast.”

Handfast. Julia smiles at the term as voices in the crowd softly swell.

“Isn't that kinda medieval?” Cyn asks quietly as she surveys the assembled crowd, and Julia laughs. “I don't know, really.”

“Yes,” Scott says, “definitely ancient.”

I guess for Singers, everything is about tradition.

“You look gorgeous, Jules,” Cyn says.

Julia smooths her hands over her dress then hugs Cyn tightly, but she pulls away. “I don't want to wreck your dress with all my blubbering.”

Julia smiles through her own tears. “Blubber away.”

Cyn nods, biting her lip to keep from outright bawling. Cyn leans forward and whispers in her ear, “He'd want this, Jules.”

Cyn doesn't have to tell her who, but Julia asks quietly, “What?”

“Your happiness.”

Julia steps away, still holding Cyn's hands, and they smile through their tears. Julia nods quickly.

Scott asks from her elbow. “Are you ready?”

Julia feels Jason's grave behind her, in the past. That life is dead, along with her husband. Julia realizes she's been grieving bit by bit for Jason since long before he died.

She gives a decisive nod. “Yes.”

Scott smiles, running his knuckles in a light caress over her jaw.

They move toward where Victor stands, a ribbon of ivory draped over his hands.

*

Victor carefully and securely ties their right hands together.

The silk cloth is wide and strong, with a slight shimmer. The colors of the sky have washed the grounds in tones of sherbet, raspberry, and deep blue, and the soft murmur of her people is a dim noise inside her head. For once, she doesn't keep them out, only quiets them.

Julia wants to feel their joy as though it's her own.

Scott looks into Julia's eyes. His are shadows in his face, but inside the dark gaze is warmth, love, and something deeper than any human male has the capacity to feel.

Victor's words flow over them. With each one, she feels their bond tighten.

Julia can still refuse, deny Scott—and crawl back into the hole of her grief or hang onto the past that's a wisp of vibrant memory that makes her at once happy and sad.

But she won't.

Julia lets everything she feels for Scott fill her expression and what she's committed to being with him.

He nods, his gaze capturing Victor's, who studies them as he gives the final word of the ceremony.

“Agape.”

He describes a special form of love that transcends this realm. The heavenly love is a perfect word for those with angelic blood.

Victor unties the binding and gives two rings to Scott. They glow in polished white gold from years of wear.

Julia holds her breath as Scott slips one ring on her finger. The metal is cold and way too big.

She glances at him sharply, her lips quirking.

“Just wait,” Scott whispers.

Julia feels the metal begin to heat and looks down at the ring changing on the left ring finger of her hand. It slims, moving like a molten circle of fire, narrowing and growing smaller until it fits perfectly.

Julia's head jerks up, and Scott holds his hand high, palm facing her. He flutters his fingers while his ring grows larger. The circle of gold matches hers in every way, but his is stuck at his middle knuckle.

As she watches, the narrow band appears to shimmer, enlarging until it slips over the knuckle then growing smaller again until it is seated perfectly between his first and middle knuckles.

She gasps in a happy little breath.

After all Julia has witnessed, she's so pleased to see a small miracle like this—one that doesn't maim, kill, or cause grief.

“A simple magic,” Victor comments, after watching her expression.

Julia looks at her hand, stretching her fingers out to admire the simple slim band.

Scott pulls her into his strong embrace, drawing her close enough to kiss.

Then he does kiss her, deeply and thoroughly. His lips are soft and tender against her mouth.

The crowd applauds, and Scott turns her to face them.

She leans against his hardness, and he places his forearm against her chest.

The Singers come: Truman, Cyn, Jen, and Michael.

Julia finds herself missing a few people who have not been found or have been killed. Brendan.

William.

Reagan. Jacqueline—once so intent on killing Julia, and now finding a new life within the sithen and maybe her full sanity along with it.

Julia's palm moves to her stomach, where the spore still lingers.

Everything is finally right in her life, though not by any means she would have wanted. However, her future is uncertain. But that's the one thing in life she can count on: uncertainty.

As people come to receive them and she stands underneath an altar of softly lit twigs, Julia gazes into Scott's face. His expression is cautiously hopeful.

For now, that's enough.

*

After

Julia

“This is too much, Scott!”

“No—after all we've been through, it's barely enough.”

He smirks, and she gives him a light slap on his bicep, but he catches her against him, wrapping her in his arms.

“It's customary on the night of handfasting to use this bed—this room.”

Julia scans the large room, formerly Marcusʼs, and heaves a sigh. His bed was replaced by a carved one made of wood. Clearly medieval and gothic, it stands out in a room many years newer.

“Lots of mixed architecture here,” Julia comments.

Scott presses a soft kiss to her lips. “I am not here to discuss furniture.”

Julia smiles, holding her face away. “I know that.”

Scott motions toward the en suite bathroom, where he just turned off the hot water tap. Julia can't see inside, but she moves toward the doorway, peeking inside.

“Oh!” she says more loudly than she intended. “It's beautiful.”

She turns to Scott, and he is smugly pleased. “Did you plan all this?”

Scott lifts a shoulder. “I'd love to take credit, but the Singers who take care of the royal line had this arranged after Father's death.”

Scott looks down, running a finger along the edge of a tub so huge it could easily fit two.

The thought makes Julia blush. Though they've already crossed that bridge, she finds room for shyness.

“You miss him,” she states.

He nods. “This isn't about Father, though.” Scott holds out his hand, and she slides hers inside.

Their connection tightens like a gasp of air, winding them tightly together.

“I never get tired of the way that feels,” he says, a little out of breath.

Me, either.

He smiles at her telepathic comment.

His finger dips in the water. He saunters closer, reaching behind her hair and unhooking the top latch of her dress. He slowly unzips it to the small of her back, and Julia steps out of the circle of creamy material.

Scott's eyes catch on her breasts. There was no room for a bra in the tight bodice. She sees in his face that he approves.

Julia moves to the edge of the tub, giving him a look of invitation.

Scott follows.

*

Scott

Scott stands before her, naked, wrapping a towel around her body and blotting the streaming water from her heated, fragrant flesh.

Julia admires the muscles as they dance with his deliberate movements. Each stroke and caress of the towel has her closer to wanting him.

She's wound so tightly with desire, standing is an effort.

Julia places her hands on his shoulders, and he looks up, his eyes level with her sex.

Heat rises to the surface of her skin from the look he gives her.

Scott leans forward, his tongue licking a lone drop, and Julia hisses in a breath, tipping her head back and clutching his shoulders.

“Scott,” she breathes.

“Yes.” He moves his tongue a little lower, delving between her slit.

Julia cries out softly.

Her chin lowers, her eyes meeting his.

“More?” he asks, his breath hot against the most tender part of her.

Julia doesn't speak, nodding.

Strong hands grasp her hips and open her to him.

Julia's legs tremble as his tongue moves deeper, digging between her folds.

She moistens at his touch, at the residual emotional sensations they share through the meld.

When her knees weaken, he pulls away, holding her so she won't fall, and swoops her easily into his arms. His erection rests between them.

Somehow, he finds his way to the bed, hair still damp from their bath of mutual exploration. A drop of water trails like melted ice from his hairline and falls between her breasts.

Julia shivers.

Scott lowers her to the bed and spreads her legs with his palms, visually feasting on her nakedness.

When Julia moves to close her thighs, he pins them open with his large hands. “Don't. You're beautiful—and finally mine. Let me take you in.”

And like a sponge soaked in love and lust, Julia relaxes her knees.

Scott bends over her, lapping the drop of water that lingers between her breasts and then presses them together, first laving one nipple and the next. He goes back and forth, always allowing his breath to warm her in a path of fire that ends in the wet torture of her nipples.

They harden inside his mouth, and Julia makes a small aching sound, arching her back. He captures her against him, plunging a finger deep inside as he gives an insistent pull with the smallest bit of teeth at her nipple.

Julia sighs as pain and intense pleasure mix, opening her eyes to see his.

Scott silently gazes down at her.

“I feel you—how hard you are, how much you want this,” Julia whispers.

“You have a small idea.” He places Julia's hand on his length.

I can't take all that. She gives him a sly grin.

He smiles back. You seemed to do pretty good last time.

Julia's face flames to life, and she laughs softly, giving him a squeeze.

Scott gasps, his stomach muscles clenching and releasing with the sensation of her hand on him. “I'll go if you keep up your handiwork.”

“Nice pun, husband.”

“My king,” he corrects, the corners of his lips twitching.

Julia pouts a little. She squeezes him again then rolls to her knees. They face each other on the bed, though he's so much taller, she's really eye level with his chest.

Julia runs her free hand down the smooth muscles of his chest, trailing her fingers back and forth between the discs of his nipples. They harden, and she lays her head against his heart.

He rolls his hand down her damp hair. “I love you, Julia.”

She does something she hasn't tried before, pushing the brunt of her feelings in a tight knot toward him, through Scott. His eyes widen, and his hands slide from her upper back to the lower, convulsively tightening.

“Ah,” he says in soft wonder. “That's how you feel?”

Julia nods, biting her lip. Her feelings are so profound and intense, it's easier to just think them through the connection. Words are insufficient.

When Scott reciprocates, her core pools with moisture. His arousal and want of her is so acute, it incites the reaction of desire from her even more strongly.

His eyes darken. “Lie down.”

Julia does without hesitation. They're not in a bunker and desperate to survive. It's a new chapter, and Julia feels a fresh boldness.

Scott parts her thighs with two strong hands. His fingertips softly brush her entrance, and Julia pants, wanting more and remembering what's already happened.

Julia doesn't tell Scott what she wants. Her emotions swarm through them, and they both tense and relax with the sensation of their connection.

He folds over her body, fingers digging into her thighs, and Julia softly shouts, “Yes!”

Her fingers grab his head as Scott dips into her folds, gently pulling apart the slick skin of her arousal.

Julia sits up as Scott jerks her hips forward. “Ah!” she yells, hanging onto his shoulders as he licks first one fold then the next.

When his thumb presses on her clit and begins to slowly churn the tiny bundle of nerves, Julia's orgasm crashes into her like a river of pleasure, chased by Scott's arousal and happiness over her reaction.

“Please,” Julia whimpers as he looks up. She latches onto the muscular globes of his butt, gathering him closer.

Her channel pulses for him. To be filled. To be owned.

Scott seats himself between her legs and rocks slowly inside, stretching her.

Julia squirms beneath him, loving the sensation of him inside. He's large, and she tries to adjust her hips.

Scott stills. “Am I hurting you?”

She smiles.

“So I'm sort of a full meal deal?”

Julia pops her hips forward, and the smirk becomes a slack-jawed look of surprise. “Don't do that, Julia. I won't last.” His voice is part chastisement and part pleasure

Julia laughs softly, dancing her hips under his slow, precise thrusting. Finally, he bottoms out inside her and groans, pressing his forehead against hers. Their bodies lock together as though they were made for each other.

They are.

“I don't want this to end,” Julia says, gasping as he moves inside her.

“Me, either, but you keep moving like that—and there's no way.” Scott feathers a trail of kisses along her throat then moves inside her again and again.

“Julia,” his voice tight.

But she already knows. His orgasm shivers through them, his last thrust buried inside her so deeply it's as if they're one body. One mind.

One soul.

Scott's release brings hers, and Julia calls out his name. Their mutual pleasure mingles until neither know where it began and where it ends. They hold each other for a long time, heartbeats slowing to a synced rhythm.

“Will it be like that every time?” Julia asks softly, stroking his back. He plays with a lock of her hair, the tips dry inside his fingertips.

Scott's jaw jerks back, and he grins. “Wanna see?”

She does. Her answer flows through their meld.

Scott gathers her close.

EPILOGUE

One month later

“Ready?” Scott asks, and Julia nods, letting out a protracted exhale. “Hey. Come ʼere.” He pulls Julia against him, shielding her with his much larger body.

He leans away slightly, thumb lightly stroking the wetness on her cheekbone. “You know I won't let anything happen to you.”

She nods.

“So why the tears?”

Scott delves deep. Her psyche's an open book to him. After four weeks of living with her as her husband, Scott is even more pleased that destiny gifted Julia to him. He doesn't deserve her.

Yet she's his.

“I don't want to leave,” she admits.

“I feel that.” He gathers her small hand against his chest then leans down so they’re looking into each other's eyes. “We have to address the spore. I've already told you, my Combatant side is uneasy about the thing being inside you. I can't relax until it's outta there.”

Julia nods slowly.

He feels her emotions through their bond.

“We can't start a family until that little piece of evil is gone.”

“I know,” she leans her forehead against his chest.

“Besides, you know we have to go to faerie anyway. You made the promise to Tharell. Ultimately, you made it to faerie.”

Julia shakes her head. “I don't know what Singers, if any, are going to want to possibly align in arranged marriages with the fey. They're very different from us.”

He tips her chin up. “But compatible.”

“True.” She gnaws on her delectable lips, giving Scott ideas. She giggles. “Quit that, sex demon.”

“Speaking of…” Scott raises his eyebrows, the standing question between them.

“Yes!” Julia says, trying to pull away, but Scott holds her close.

“Repeat after me. Praile can't find me as easily without the spore.”

She frowns. “Stop.”

Scott scowls, letting his displeasure flow through their bond. Normally, he shields Julia. It's his role. But right now, he can't rest easy until that thing's out of her. And Victor said the fey would have the answer.

He's never wished more for his father's advice than he does now. Marcus would have known just what to do.

But fucking Praile put an end to a lot of the wisdom of their race through his lackey, Tony. Now it's up to Scott to close this loop. This tiny possibility that while Julia holds the spore, she's somehow made more vulnerable; he can't let that potential exist.

The evil seed only remains dormant because of their meld.  But that doesn't satisfy Scott. He wants it gone.

“The fey have powerful magic.”

“And you're sure there's no Singers that can expunge it?”

Scott exhales harshly. “No. All our talents are more about manipulating environment. Except Healers. And they're not equipped to address problems from other realms. The origin of this fucking thing isn't even from here.”

He steps away, hands trailing from her hips, and paces in front of the mansion.

“I'll go,” Julia says quietly.

Scott turns. “You know I wouldn't press this if I didn't think it was important.”

“I do know that.”

He walks back to Julia, takes her hand, and raises it to his lips. Scott kisses her knuckles then lays the side of his face against the back of her hand. “I understand how much you like how things have settled here. How unsettled your life's been these past three years until now.”

“Almost four,” she corrects.

His eyes move to her features, taking in the gorgeous glow on her skin, eyes like whiskey fire, and a body that rocks his world.

“What remains of the Combatant, Region One, and all of Two will stay behind. We know what to look for. One is fortified. Vic's got it.”

“But where's Praile?” Julia asks.

Scott feels the fear inside her words.

“If he was going to come back, he would have. That's part of why I want to get this out of you fast.” He moves his palm to approximately where the sword pierced her during the battle at Two. “Let's not make it easy for that fire dick.”

Julia's smile is faint, but it's better than nothing. “Okay.”

“And,” Scott says with a coy tone, “it won't be too shabby to see green boy, Jacqueline, and Delilah.”

“I want to know where the others are, like Reagan.”

“Julia—” Scott groans. “We can't save the whole damn bunch of supes.”

She kicks a stone with the toe of her sneaker just as their car pulls up. The sleek black SUV resembles a vehicle straight out of a spy movie.

Scott knows Julia's not quite used to the queen bit, but since she was hurt back at Two, she appears to appreciates the extra protection. Still, she's grown complacent with the meld, knowing all Scott's emotions and being telepathic enough to embarrass him sometimes.

Julia would be blind, deaf, and dumb not to know the depth of his feelings for her. She senses their bond in her dreams, she told him.

Victor hops out the front of the vehicle and opens the center door of the souped-up rig, and Scott leads Julia to the black vehicle.

Their reflection shines back at them.

Her reluctance thrums through their connection, and he empathizes. She's had a fucked-up last few years. And One is the first place she's felt at home in a long time. Caldwell's death, Praile's pursuit, the massacre—she’s been through enough to make a sane person rethink things.

The soul-meld has repaired a lot of the damage, but not all. Scott's got her back.

And a ton more.

He grins, slapping her lightly on the butt as she hikes herself in, shooting him a glare. But he sees the smile around the edges of her lips.

It'll be okay, he says through their meld.

Scott will make sure of it.

THE END

Book #7, Redemptive Blood, coming 2016!

Never miss a new release! Subscribe:

TRB News

If you enjoyed BLOOD ENCHANTMENT, please consider posting your thoughts HERE and help another reader find a new series. Thank you!

***Please read on for a

BONUS novel sampling....

THE TOKEN SERIES

A Token Novella Compilation

Volumes 1-3

New York Times Bestselling author

MARATA EROS

All Rights are Reserved.

Copyright © 2013-14 Marata Eros

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Marata Eros Website

Marata Eros FB Fan Page

Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing

“Love sears the heart immortal

The embers burnt down to the token which remains ....”

Music that inspired me during the writing of The Token Serial:

Joe Bonamassa

Driving Towards the Daylight

A Fuoco

Ludovico Einaudi

THE TOKEN

A Token Series Novella

Volume 1

New York Times Bestselling author

MARATA EROS

All Rights are Reserved.

Copyright © 2013 Marata Eros

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Marata Eros Website

Marata Eros FB Fan Page

Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing

~ Prologue ~

“You're dying,” Dr. Matthews says.

Two words.

Final.

Complete.

Desolate.

I feel my fingers clench the armrests of the chair underneath me, but the rest of my body remains numb.

If his words aren't enough to convince me, I see my silence is a prevailing annoyance in his day.

Dr. Matthews walks stiffly, making his way to the softly glowing X-ray reader.

I flinch when he slaps the photo of the soft tissue of my brain against the magnetic tabs of the lit surface.

The light glows around the tumor, immortalizing the end of my life like an emblazoned tool of disregard.

Just the facts, ma’am.

I sway as I stand, gripping the solid oak of his desk. It's very large, an anchor in the middle of his prestigious office full of the affectations of his career.

I walk toward Matthews. His hard face is edged by what might be sympathy. After all, it's not every day he tells a twenty-two-year-old woman she's got moments to live.

Actually, I do have time—months.

It's just not enough.

I look at the mess that's my brain, at the damning half a golf ball buried in a spot that will make me a vegetable if they operate. My eyes slide to the name at the bottom. For a split second, I hope to see another name there. But my own greets me.

Mitchell, Faren.

I back up and Matthews reaches to steady me.

But it's too late.

I spin and run out of his office as his voice calls after me. The corners of my coat sail behind me as I slap the metal hospital door open and take the cement steps two at a time.

I see my car parked across the street and race to it. My escape, my despair, is a thundering initiative I can't deny.

I miss the hit as if it happens to someone else. Only the noise permeates my senses as light flashes in my peripheral vision, mirrors against sunlight. I tumble in a slow spin of limbs. My body heaves and rolls, hitting the asphalt with a breath-stealing slap.

I lie against the rough black road. My lungs beg for air, burning for oxygen, and finally I take a sucking inhale that tears through my lungs.

The wet road feels cool against my face as I watch someone come into my line of sight. My body burns and my head aches. My arm is a slim exclamation point from my body, my fingers twitching. I can't make them stop. I can't make anything stop.

Powerless.

The doctor is too late with his condemning words. I've already died. I know this because the man who approaches is an angel. A helmet comes off hair so deep auburn it's a low-burning lick of flame. He swims toward me like a mirage, walking in a surreal slow motion. I blink, and my vision blurs. I try to raise my arm to wipe my eyes and whimper when it disobeys my command.

My angel crouches down, his eyes a deep brown, belying the dark bronze of his hair. “Shhh... I got you.” His voice is a deep melody.

I sigh. Safe.

I try to focus on him but the helmet he parks next to his boots becomes three as my vision triples.

There's a scuffle and I try to move to see what all the commotion's about. The angel wraps his warm large hand around my smaller one and  smiles. “It's going to be okay.”

That's when I know I'm not in heaven.

That's what people say when nothing is okay.

~ 1 ~

One month prior

I flex my hand, grab my isometric handgrip, and do my hundred reps. So fun—a little like flossing my teeth. I put on the kettle with my good hand and turn the burner on high.

Flex, squeeze, release, flex again.

I get to a hundred and switch hands. As I go through my daily ritual, I flip open my Mac and browse my emails.

Faren, can you cover my shift? Faren, can you come in a half hour early? Faren, can you bring the main dish for the office pot luck?

Delete, delete, delete.

I'll say yes because it's hard for me to say no. Tough lessons in life have taught me that.

I put my handgrip on the corner of the end table, glancing at my left pinky and frowning. It's almost straight. Almost. No one can tell unless they're looking for it. No one ever looks that hard. Humanity glosses over shit.

I leave my laptop open and walk back to the stove. Depression-era jadeite salt and pepper shakers stand dead in the middle of a 1950s pink stove. The combo reminds me of an Easter egg. The kettle insists it's ready, bleating like a sheep. I lift it carefully, deliberately, using all the muscles of my hands as I've been taught.

As I teach others to do.

I pour the hot water over the tea bag and sigh, forcing my bad hand to thread through the loop of the tea cup handle. My dexterity is returning. I've pushed myself so hard that my hand rebels, willfully abandoning its hold on the cup.

The porcelain shatters, and shards fly on the wood floor of my tiny apartment above the main street where I live in deep anonymity. The pieces splinter in all directions, and I sigh. I want to chop off my hand.

I want to cradle it against my chest because it still works. Just not perfectly.

Like my life.

*

“Another headache?” Sue asks.

I nod, my hands falling away from my temples as I reach for my patient folder. I grip it with both hands and scan who's up first.

Bryce Collins. Pain. In. My. Ass.

I grin. I love the tough nuts to crack. They make it all worth it. I stride to my torture chamber, pushing the door open with my hip and search through the sea of work out equipment and hand held physical therapy implements to meet the sullen gaze of a seventeen-year old athletic prodigy.

A prodigy with a chip on his shoulder so wide I could drive a truck through it. Well I have my own dings and dents. We can compare later.

Right now, it's all about the work.

“Hi, Bryce.”

He mumbles a reply as I hand him the first merciless task. The huge rubber band fits around the pole in the center of the room. Mirrors line the wall and toss back our struggles.

And our triumphs.

I watch as he half-heartedly goes through the motions of his straight leg kicks. When he reaches twenty I scoop my hand down and latch onto his hamstring and he groans at my touch. “Bend your knee a little,” he does while giving me a look that could kill. I stare neutrally back until his gaze drops and he finally digs in.

An hour later, shaking and sweating, Bryce's huge and muscled body lumbers outside my door. He pauses as he opens it, looking at me with pissed off brown eyes.

“I hate you, Miss Mitchell,” he says and means it.

I smile back. I totally get it. Bryce needs to hate me to get better. It beats hating himself. I nod. “I know.”

He walks out, and I run my finger down the patient appointments for the day. Kiki makes her loud entrance, and my lips twist. She balances chai tea in both hands, staggering in too-tall heels that sink into the nearly bald carpet.

“Gawd!” she huffs as she winds her way through the ellipticals, weight machines, and treadmills. She leans against the walking bars that run like railroad tracks for those with dual injuries. Like both legs not working.

I swallow and force my smile back in place.

“Take your tea, you ungrateful bitch,” she squeals, handing me my tea.

I blow on it. A touch of honey and ginger rise through the vapor, and I grin over the rim of the cup as I sip through the little slot.

“So?” I ask in a purr.

Kiki is pure drama. It's only Monday, so we have the entire week to build up to a crescendo. Mondays are usually sedate, so I brace myself. I have thirty minutes until my next client arrives to be tortured into wellness. Kiki smirks, sets down her tea, and moves to the pole. I give a furtive glance around the gym, hoping no one comes in.

“Got a…” She wraps around the pole and slides down it seductively, letting her butt cheeks split as she wiggles and bounces at the bottom. She springs up, the front of her hoohah a hairsbreadth from the cool metal. “Ginormous tip this weekend from a richie!”

She thrusts forward, wrapping one slender leg around the pole, and I groan. She does a little mock-hump against it and grins at me.

Kiki is so inappropriate I could die. But she's my drug and I'm hers. We fit together because we're so different. She's an exotic dancer who's also a senior at Northwestern State.

She makes great money, and she also does serious gym time, packing in an hour six days a week. It's important to not look too striated, Kiki claims. No “guy-look.” Just tits, ass, and curves with definition. I designed the workout for her because I’m intimately familiar with the human body. I didn't set out to be, but life had other plans.

The sins of the past become the direction of our future.

Kiki pouts, leaves the pole, and saunters toward me. “You're no fun.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay... I know I've got to ask the burning question or we'll get nowhere.”

She perks up. “You got it, sister.”

“Who was it?”

Kiki always takes stock of clients. Men think they know so much, but women could rule the world if we came together. I sigh. Kiki notices regulars, high tippers, newcomers and flags the creeps. She's scary uncanny. I came to watch a set at the prestigious strip club, Black Rose, and went away shocked.

Shocked by the clientele, shocked that Kiki could dance that well for such a short time, and shocked by the moolah.

“The owner,” Kiki whispers as if we have a secret.

I shrug. “So?”

“It's Jared-effing-McKenna, baby!” Kiki is offended by my deliberate ignorance. Her brows rise to her hairline, and her dark eyes are wide with clear disdain.

Mine are steady with indifference.

The wheels of my memory spin. Oh yes. Jared McKenna. The Jared McKenna. Greek god. Adonis incarnate. Hercules. Playboy, womanizer, money mogul.

I slowly nod. Let's add “strip club owner” to the repertoire. I remember the detail of why he has so much money and want to forget as soon as I do.

Kiki pouts and tears off the lid of her tea. “Anywho... he was with someone, and his pal tipped me big time.” She sips her cooling tea, gazing at me with “cat that ate the canary” eyes.

“Okay, the foreplay is killing me. How much?” I take a small slurp of tea, and she tells me. The tea sprays out of my mouth, and Kiki grins at my klutzy-ass move.

“Five hundred dollars!?” I choke some more, and tea dribbles down my chin.

“It's okay, baby... it is a mind-blower. I mean,” her hands go to her ample chest in patent disbelief, “my nipples got hard and he didn't even touch me,” she says sincerely and I burst out laughing. My headache is gone for the moment, my Monday morning lethargy lifting.

Five hundred bucks is an assload of cash, especially for one night of dancing half naked. It's more than I take home every week. Just one tip. My schooling is done, my career path set partly because of circumstance. Kiki is high on drama, but doesn't always say things without a purpose and I narrow my eyes at her.

“Spill it,” I demand.

Kiki's lips twitch and she chucks her empty cup in the trash. “This type of gig could be the thing to get you out of that dump in downtown.”

I scowl. I like my downtown dump.

“Faren!” she wails.

I shush her before Sue comes in thinking someone died. Of course, with all the sounds of torment she's heard since I began working here last year, nothing should faze her.

Kiki relents and switches to a softer tone. “You could own something. Something nice.”

I know this. I've been to her condo overlooking Pike Place and Puget Sound. Her view of downtown is magnificent. And expensive. It had to set her back five hundred K. I rent my death trap for nine hundred per month, and it's a studio in one of the tortuously small cobblestone-lined alleys of Seattle. At least it's on the fifth floor. The stairs are murder, but if I want two windows that actually face outside, that's what I can afford. Sometimes the freight elevator works; otherwise, it's exercise. The location allows me to walk to my upper-scale rehabilitation clinic. No need to use my beater car. That much.

“You don't have to give this up,” Kiki says quietly. She knows I won't budge on that, and she of all people knows why.

Rehab’s not a well-paying profession. But there's more than money, sometimes the soul needs edification.

I look at what Kiki has and what I don't. I shove those thoughts away. She's my best friend. She's seen me through everything. Dark shadows press in, and my headache returns with a throbbing vengeance.

Kiki frowns. “Another headache?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't want to argue, Faren. You've got to know that.” Her root beer eyes peg me to the spot. The sweep of her dark hair lays like chocolate silk past her full breasts. “But with your looks”—she throws her manicured hands in the air—“you could shake your booty a little and work a side job. Get a place in your same area... you could own something.”

It's an old argument. Her penthouse is nearly paid for while mine's a rental with a landlord that cares more about the rent than maintenance.

Her eyes swim with knowledge, and I set down my tea. It's too cold to drink anyway. Her words put the last nail in the coffin of my resistance. “Something secure,” she adds in a whisper and I let her hug me. I cling to her and try to believe my financial troubles and dark secret can be erased by taking off my clothes for strangers

Kiki loves me more than I love myself.

She loves me enough for us both.

*

Sue glances up when I click off the light off. The sky is darkening as I slide my last patient folder through the glass partition. She has that look in her eyes and pushes a business card through the slot.

It bears a doctor's name: Dr. Clive Matthews.

I give Sue a sharp look, and she shrugs, giving my hand a maternal pat. My eyes burn with tears from the spontaneous gesture.

Sue notices my emotional struggle and ignores it. “He got rid of my migraines. Miracle worker, I say.” She nods and glances at the card significantly.

I notice the appointment time and sigh.

Sue doesn’t drop her gaze. “How much longer are you going to struggle through those bone crushers?”

I don't answer, and she nods in her knowing way. “That's what I thought, Miss Mitchell. You'd have just come in suffering worse than your own patients.”

Sue’s right. She knows it, and I do too.

I take the card and stuff it in the pocket of my smock, Dr. Seuss cats cover it in a smear of red and blue.

“Thanks,” I say grudgingly while I grab my coat.

“Welcome,” she shoots back in triumph as I hear the door whisper closed behind me.

I look at the card again as the cars, people, and city noise encapsulate me in the comforting rhythm of downtown. The smell of fish, food, and sea mingle, and I begin the short trek to the dank alley with the entrance to my apartment.

I have two weeks to prepare myself to go back into a hospital. I hate hospitals. They're all about death.

The thought of returning is almost enough to get a proper panic attack going.

Almost.

~2~

I tenderly brush the hair off her forehead, though she doesn't feel it. She never knows when I'm with her. The rain coats the window, distorting the outside world and making this room a bubble of reality. The space is dim. That's a must, since too much light causes her to thrash. On some level, she rebels. It's my deepest regret that her rebellion couldn't have been sooner, when it could have saved her.

It's a good day when I don't cry when I visit.

Today my eyes are dry but the next time they might not be. I squeeze her hand, speaking softly. I lean forward to press a kiss on the tissue-thin skin of her forehead. It's translucent, the body inside, still and soft from lack of movement.

Life.

My mother lives but not as she should.

I rise like I have hundreds of times and move to the door of the clinic that takes care of catatonic, high-needs patients.

I have a new job.

I do cry then.

No one notices my tears anymore. They're used to them, and I don't bother to see their sympathy.

I have a date with Kiki.

*

Kiki swivels in front of her makeup table and smirks at me. My trench coat drips water onto the floor.

“Gawd!” Her full lips pout as she swipes another layer of sparkly crap on her lips. “You look like a drowned rat.”

Her face softens. “See your mom?”

I nod. Kiki knows it always sucker punches me to visit. It kills me not to. I face the evil I can bear.

“Well, let's get you in the slut suit, baby.” Kiki moves through the hanging costumes until she gets to my size, and she frowns slightly. “I don't know how I'm going to stuff that gazelle body in the average getup.” She taps her nail against her glossy lip and scowls when some of her handiwork comes off.

“Damn,” she swears softly, making the hangers move with an angry swish of her hand.

“No.” A blue outfit sails to the end of the size eight rack.

“No.” A glossy green spandex number with a painful looking strip of butt floss floats past.

Her eyes narrow to slits as a beige '20s flapper-style dress with cut outs at the nipples appears. “Fuck no!”

I laugh, and Kiki glares at me. “It's not funny, bunny. You need to look spanktastic this first time out of the gate.”

She's so serious I giggle again. “I'm not a damn horse!” I hold my sides as laughter peels out of me, and I feel closer to normal. I'm so grateful for the levity she brings that I don't know what to say. Even if I'm about to strip down to nothing in a roomful of strangers, Kiki makes it better.

She finally grins as her eyes light on something red.

I mouth no, and she says, “Hell yes!” She tears it off the rod.

I don't think it's a real outfit. Actually, it’s more air than cloth.

“I can't wear that!” I stutter, backing away as if it's the plague instead of a skimpy costume.

Kiki's brows come together in an adorable frown. “Ah... we had this discussion dollface. You won't be wearing this for long.” Those perfect brows rise and I blow out a frustrated huff.

Right. No clothes. Well, this is a “classy” club, so only titties. No frontal nudity down there. They can't touch, and I have to wear stockings for some reason. City ordinance. So basically my butt and boobs will be bare to the world, but somehow that's okay because a small triangle of cloth will cover my front and some super-sheer stockings will encase my legs. Yeah.

Kiki pats the stool in front of a huge mirror, lit all around its square perimeter with Hollywood bulbs. Big ones. They glare at my pinched and pale face. Her mocha arm comes around my front and she begins to scoop and fix my hair. It is neither blonde or brown, but a rich honey color. It's never been dyed or bleached. I just didn't want any more attention when I was at home.

My idea of girly-ness is wearing a pair of high heels, tight jeans, and a top with sleeve cut-outs. I watch, mesmerized, as Kiki hikes my thick hair into a loose topknot, anchoring it with about a hundred bobby pins. She pulls a few tendrils loose to cascade halfway down my back. No matter what anyone says, long hair is easier than short. However, Kiki convinced me to take off five inches before I met with the manager a few days ago.

So far, meeting Ty has been the creepiest part. I remember exactly how he'd looked at me. It was eyeball rape.

“Hi, Faren,” Ty said, shaking my hand.

His large dark hand engulfed my smaller one. I’m surprised. I have long fingers that match my height. My hand never feels swallowed by a man's.

“Hi,” I said.

His eyebrows rose, and he spread his arms as he stepped back. “Kiki told me you know what to expect.”

I did. I felt like crying, but I took off my clothes. The heat of my embarrassment crawled across my skin.

My skirt pooled at my feet. My high heels and thigh highs don’t impede its crumpled slither down my legs.

Next, I unbutton the scarlet blouse Kiki had picked out, revealing an inky bra and panty set. The bra is demi-cupped and holds my full Cs high and tight, my pink nipples hidden by a strategic strip of ebony satin.

I made the mistake of looking at Ty. He licked his lips, his hooded eyes roving my body like a starving man. My palms begin to sweat.

“Turn,” he said quietly, and I do. He'd been looking at my bare ass, only a strip of lace bisecting my butt cheeks.

I felt the heat climb higher, infusing my neck to the roots of my hair. I count inside my head, praying for it to end.

“Walk,” he said.

I do, knowing I'm naturally graceful and balanced. The deep lace of my stockings whispers as I move away from him. Grace is the one thing that has never been taken from me, and I'm grateful for it now.

“Turn,” he said. I don't miss that his voice is somewhat hoarse.

I pivoted in a smooth motion, and I can't help but notice I've affected him. Shame flares anew, riding high to mortified.

“Walk.”

I inhaled deeply and draw nearer. I stop about three feet from him, and we stare at each other. I'm so tense I could've screamed.

“You'll do,” Ty said in a sarcastic drawl.

I looked into his dark eyes and see desire there. I swallowed so hard my throat clicks. Silence fills the space uncomfortably. “So when can I start?” I hate how timid my voice sounds.

Ty smirked as though he understands how desperate I am. I know Kiki didn't tell him my reasons. He assumed a lot. It must come with the job. “Tomorrow.”

“Okay.” With shaky fingers, I'd put on my clothes, fighting tears so hard that my eyelids burned with the need to cry. My mind filled with all my defenses. I'm a respectable girl. I pay my bills. I don't party, have boyfriends, goof off... I'm a physical therapist, for God's sake! But when I get the last button done, the words die. Ty sees me as commerce, and I sighed, feeling defeated. I can't even make the proper ending salutation.

I made my silent way to the door and almost escape before he'd asked “Have you ever had sex?”

I turned slowly, my heart hammering. What kind of effed up question is that? I gathered my courage, knowing I could lose this chance to clean up my fiscal problems with the wrong words.

“That's none of your business.” I'd hated myself, but I had to ask anyway, “Why? Why does that matter?”

Ty walked around his desk and shifted papers, his interest in me clearly waning. He'd been silent so long I opened the door and began to walk through it.

His words caught me before I closed it, “Because you walk like a whore.”

I stiffened. The tears that threatened earlier? Yeah... those fall.

I had softly closed the door and moved through the crowded, dark hallways of the strip club. My coat is secured around the outfit that'd cost me almost a week's pay.

I hated what Ty said.

I hated it because it felt true.

Kiki shatters the foul memory of meeting Ty when she asks, “You ready?”

I look back at the girl in the mirror that's me. Her eyes are so pale a gray they would look almost white if it weren't for the lightning strikes of bronze that streak the irises, a warm brown ringing the outside. Right now, they're wide and ghostly in my even paler face and Kiki stares back at me in the mirror. Her darker skin and complexion contrasts with mine in the reflection. She draws me in as I lean back against her.

“You don't have to, Faren.” She gives me an out as I stare at her dark arms wound around my neck in an embrace of solace.

But we both know why I have to.

I nod. “Yeah I do.”

She kisses my coiffed hair and backs up. I slip into the ruby red heels and try not to take that final glance in the mirror.

A tall slim girl stares back at me. Her hair looks like caramel, eyes like ice. Her creamy skin looks like milk against the deep red of the outfit. A glittering mask that is part of the act. It surrounds my silver eyes in secrecy. I'm glad for the anonymity. The glittering v between my full breasts needs only an inch to reveal my nipples. The waistband is Velcro.

Meant to be torn.

Kiki does a little spin, hump-hips, and throws her head back, keeping a death grip on the doorjamb. “Every time you come down the pole, 'kay?”

I nod as the music begins for my set.

“Use your good hand, hon,” she reminds me.

There's no way I could use the bad one. It'll be the wrist for balance and faking using both.

I don't fall apart until it's over. Then I'm at the commode throwing up my meager lunch.

I don't notice anyone watch as I race out of the club.

~ 3 ~

The hundreds fan out like a deck of perfect cards, and I move as though I'm in a dream. I scoop them up from Ty’s desk, and he stays my hand by wrapping my wrist with his large hand. My eyes skitter up to his, and I blink.

“What?” I feel filthy every time I'm near him. He seems to know it by some pervert instinct and capitalizes on it by treating me like dirt whenever our paths cross.

I’d tried to tell Kiki, and she flung her hands up dismissively. “No touchie!” she said and sashayed off. It's easy for her to say because he doesn’t watch her.

But he touches me now.

It's easy for her to say because I don't see him watch her.

He tightens his hold to just shy of bruising, and I fight my natural urge to pull away.

Ty has a hold of my bad hand, and anything can happen. As it is, my heart tries to escape my chest. I can't stand for a man to touch me. Every time it has happened in the past, it ended one way.

His eyes linger on mine then scan to where my coat is cinched at my waist. “There's more where that came from.” His eyes hold some kind of question I don't understand. I don't want to.

I ignore the overt innuendo. “Let me go.” All I want to do is whimper like a scared little girl. Because I am. I’m so scared. I've been doing this job for a week. The money I hold is enough to pay for half of my mom's care for the month. The entire month. It sits in my bad hand. My pinky finger pokes straight out, unable to bend correctly, and sweat dampens the dirty money.

“No,” he says

He squeezes imperceptibly harder, and a low sound of pain escapes my throat.

He smiles, and I realize he's a predator. Like my stepfather. The saliva in my mouth disappears as my breathing picks up.

The door opens, and he drops my hand as if it burns. The money floats to the floor because my hand can't hold it.

Ty says loud enough for whoever walks in to hear, “You're such a graceful dancer, but you can't hang onto your money.” He chuckles at his joke.

I don't think it's funny. I scoop up the money with my good hand, and the bad one throbs where it's been held too hard. Too long. I know from experience it won't work well for a solid hour.

“Hey, boss.” Ty sounds nervous, and that makes my heart lighter.

“What's happening here?” a man asks, his voice a deep rumble. Melodic. It vibrates through my body though my bare knees are planted on the plush carpet. My bones thrum with it as though it’s a tune that sings without permission inside the recesses of my soul.

I don't lift my face. I don't want anyone to witness my misery as I stuff the bills in my purse. I begin to rise as a large hand cups my elbow. Warmth leeches through my thin coat and flows through my body from his touch. I gaze at the beautiful leather shoes that shine in the soft light. My eyes rise to his wrist. Vintage cuff links wink back, a sapphire the only witness to my insecurity.  My desperate need for indifference.

However fleeting, however untouchable.

I turn without offering thanks or a reply. His hand releases me, and I grow cold from its absence. I nearly run from the office, but I hear Ty comment about how strange I am, how all dancers are.

The only reply I hear before that burning gaze leaves my back is, “Shut up, Ty.”

The door clicks and I leave as quickly as I came.

The heat from that stare follows me.

*

Kiki's curls dance as she moves her head to the music in her ear buds. She looks like a duck, her head jutting and retracting to some awesomeness only she can hear. Her long nail scrolls down the screen of her cell.

I plop down across from her and heave a sigh of relief. I heft my bag across my legs and against the corner of the seat of my favorite diner. I don't branch out much. So sue me, I love the view. That's a bit of the reason why I live where I do, why I shell out nine hundred bucks a month on a studio dive. Well, that and Mom's terribly expensive care center is blocks away, like my job.

Both jobs, actually.

Kiki catches my eye and smiles big, her grin infectious. I smile back. She pops an earbud out, and I hear the singer, Sully Erna. Hottie. I feel heat fill out the cool paleness of my skin.

Kiki lights up at my expression, never one to lose out on an easy excuse to tease me. “Sully Erna's coming to town. Saw him when he was touring with Godsmack. He's dee-lish, baby!”

Kiki gives a little hip gyration on the seat as the waitress comes up, pen poised. She looks at Kiki with clear amusement and gives me a knowing smile. The that girl can't be contained look passes between us before we look back at Kiki.

“What?” she asks, laughing. Her hand sails out dramatically, her tips bright red this month because Christmas is coming. God knows, she can't not celebrate something.

I look at my own bitten fingernails and put my elegant hands with their stubby tips on my lap.

Arlene takes our order and saunters away, no doubt chalking up our goofiness to our age. I'm not goofy, but it's part of her charm I siphon.

“So tell me what's going down, girl,” she says without preamble. Now that she's here I don't know if I can say it all.

My hands sweat, and I fight to keep them on my lap. Arlene comes over and slaps two waters on the table. Her eyes flick to mine briefly, see something that makes her pause, but she must think better about getting involved because she leaves us to our conversation.

Kiki knows I owe money for my mom's care. I take a deep breath then another. I meet her eyes. “It's fifty K, Kiki.”

Her eyes bug comically, and her hand flies to her chest. “Jeee-sus! Faren...” she exhales in a contrite burst.

We stare at each other while Arlene delivers our coffees. She looks from Kiki to me, probably wondering what stole my friend's good cheer. One guess.

She leaves and Kiki leans forward, her hair sweeping in a black veil that brushes dangerously close to the steaming coffee. I calmly add cream and sugar, making it something that's not coffee anymore. She searches my face for the Swiss cheese of emotions leaking out and I nod. “Yeah, it's that bad,” I say.

She gives a low moan of outrage. “That bad? So fucking bad!” Kiki hisses. “No wonder you finally caved about shaking your tail.”

My shoulders slump a little at her words. An image of Ty's hand on my wrist like a vise bubbles up. I let it pop inside my mind, hoping it'll evaporate and knowing it won't.

“How long will it take me to work off that debt?”

Kiki's face smoothed out, her thinking face set into motion and I can tell she's adding stuff up. “Well... to be honest, most good nights you can make up to five hundred...”

We're doing the math, and I'm hearing years. My soul can't take it. The pole and the men... it's already eating at me. Then there's Ty. I want months. Hell, weeks.

A moment around him is a lifetime.

Kiki reads my face and sighs. She lowers her eyes and stirs her coffee. “I wasn't going to tell you, but there’s another option. It's kinda risky. It's not like the Black Rose.”

“What could be worse than dancing at the Black Rose?”

Kiki sighs. “Listen, BR is the classiest of these types of establishments. The men have to behave themselves, not touch the girls and you don't have to show your kitty.”

I'm so grateful. I give her an exaggerated eye roll. “What about Ty? He's like some kind of pimp!”

Kiki rolls her big eyes, her false eyelashes nearly reaching her brows. “Ty is Ty. He's great at sniffing out innocent girls, and he thinks you're skittish. He wants to scare you a little. No big thing.” Her eyes meet mine. “Listen, he's all bark. Don't let him spook you.”

Right. I feel I'm a good judge of bark versus bite, but I say nothing.

The food comes, and I look at the chef's salad with fresh salmon and wonder if I can eat it. My stomach's in knots. I feel the beginning of a fresh headache come on. I rub my temple before taking a small bite.

Kiki grabs a greasy fry and swirls it in some ketchup while taking a sip of Coke. No burger. She lives on about a thousand calories per day. I don't know how she stays alive, but she explains that she's not doing drugs to stay thin like the other girls. The whole scene makes me want to cry.

Then I go visit Mom and go right back to the pole anyway.

Kiki dips another fry and meets my eyes. It hangs there like a limp noodle, dripping ketchup that reminds me of blood.

I swallow. “How long?”

She stares at me for a heartbeat then beheads the fry. She talks through the food, “What are you willing to do?”

Oh gawd... Nothing more. Instead, I say, “A lot.”

She nods, gives a sad little shake of her head, and tells me. There's a cavernous silence as the last word drops out of her mouth. I know she hates herself for telling me.

I know she loves me more.

~ 4 ~

Decision made, we move on to different topics. I feel a weightlessness. It might not be a perfect path but at least I picked one. I'm back to telling Kiki about Ty.

“You met Him?” Kiki says in awe, utterly dismissing the true problem.

“Huh?” I ask, clearly hearing the capital letter in the pronoun.

“The owner! The hunky, delicious, panty-evaporating, very, very rich owner...”

I shrug. “He walked in, helped pick me up off the floor, while I was stuffing my dirty money in my handbag...”

“Did I mention rich?” Her perfectly plucked brows rise. “Did you see him?” Kiki's eyes are wide for a different reason now.

I shake my head, trying not to let on how much he unnerved me. And I never even saw his face.

Kiki flings herself back in an indignant huff. Her angry eyes meet mine. “I've been dying to meet him! Meet him meet him, not just him seeing a set while his dude slips me a ginormous tip. I'd sample his wares any day!” She exhales and crosses her legs, looking out at the water. Steelhead Diner sits at the top of Pike Street. The wall of glass frames Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains like a surreal painting of white ice and swirling deep cerulean waters.

“Why didn't you check him out? I gotta admit, I'm fanning my vagina right now.” Kiki says it with such sincere enthusiasm that I laugh.

I look down at my hands and give the first response that springs to mind. “I don't like rich guys.”

“Oh bullshittery! Yeah, I hate rich guys too! Hate.” She’s clearly mocking me, putting her index finger to her chin as her eyes rise skyward and her foot kicks endlessly. “Let's reason this shit out, Faren.” Kiki drills me with her gaze.

I squirm, knowing her brand of wisdom is coming. I take a bite of my salad and mechanically chew.

“Nice house, nice car, nice clothes, hot cologne”—she lifts her brows—“lots o’ gym time for the guns. Hell!” She smacks the table, and a couple of other patrons gaze our way. “Hell,” she repeats more softly, “I bet that he goes to those Kama Sutra classes so he can fine-tune the Moves.”

Oh my God.

“Yeah... that's what I'm talking about, baby. Give me some of that all-day love sauce. I'll come running back to double dip.”

I can't help it; I start laughing and can't stop. Sometimes a little comic relief goes a long way.

“You gonna live?” Kiki asks, confused by my hysteria.

I nod.

“For now.” My ribs are killing me.

“Anyway, listen up.”

I do, the remnants of my laughter ghosting my lips.

“Next time he plays hero, try saying thank you.”

“I don't think he knew he was saving me, Kiki.”

“Huh,” she grunts, slurping her Coke down to melting ice and pushing it away. “All I'm saying is, can you work it for once, Faren?”

Work it. I don't know… that seems like it's all I've ever done.

Kiki slides a card my way. It reads simply: Thorn. My thumb moves over the black glossy letters embedded deeply in the cream cardstock. Small numbers float beneath the name.

I look up and she says, “Take it.”

“Do you do it?”

Kiki smiles then admits, “Not anymore.”

I know her secret, and now she knows mine. All of it in its miserable glory. “That's how you got the penthouse?”

“Yeah.” As she remembers something from a while ago, her gaze drifts far away. “The Black Rose is great money, but this money”—her eyes peg mine—“is outstanding money.” I pause when I see the shadow in her eyes.

Neither one of us say what we're thinking. If I can keep this gig for maybe a year? Maybe less time if I can stomach four days per week instead of three? I could have my debt paid off and only have the monthly to consider. It's too lofty a possibility to hang my hope on.

Yet... it shimmers there, just out of reach.

I grab for it.

*

Thorn

Thorn is Ty.

I’m so forlorn about that fact I can barely force myself into his tight office located inside a tall skyscraper blocks from the Black Rose. Kiki didn't tell me. Of course, I didn’t ask. All I heard was “a grand a night,” and I climbed on board the easy money train. I should rename it complicated with a capital C.

He behaves differently. I guess the stakes are higher. Intimidating me while I work at the BR seems to be just fine. Now?

He lays out the ground rules.

“You will get an email each Monday that outlines the new meeting place...”

“What? It's not at a club?”

“Will you let me finish?” Thorn smolders at me and not in a sexy way. I've seen that look of heat before and it parallels intimidation.

He glares at me until my eyes drop. I breathe in and out deeply. I loathe him and how he makes me feel. How he makes me feel about my decisions.

“When the email comes in, you respond if you'll be there.”

I meet his eyes again, and he smirks. Ty knows he has me. “Why are you Thorn?” I ask, taking him off-kilter with my question.

He answers with deliberate slowness, “Every rose has its thorns.”

Our eyes lock and he asks, “Ready?”

I nod.

“You get a hundred dollars a lap dance.” His eyes sweep past mine, and he recites the speech as if it’s a recipe for cookie dough. “The quicker you give the dance, the better you do it, the more money there is. The clients are not allowed to touch you, and you never have to do anything you're uncomfortable with.” He says the last part with the sincerity of a felon.

Our eyes meet again and I get the message.

Thorn's into clarity.

He lists off the things you can make extra for. “Let them grope your titties- fifty dollars. Hand jobs, one hundred.”

I swallow. I think there's a little throw up in my mouth. I don't say I've never done a hand job. Thorn already called me whore, and there's no convincing the decided. And really? It's better that Thorn thinks I'm what he presumes I am. Thorn doesn't know why I'm doing this. He doesn't know my past, my present job. He's guessing, and I'm all for keeping it that way. The less he knows is definitely more.

Those thoughts take seconds.

Thorn moves on, “There will be security. Not that it's needed.” He flicks his eyes to mine and smirks. “We have trained gorillas outside all the stations. So the girls don't have to worry.”

I squirm a little, thinking about how they'll fire me on the first night. My temples pound with the familiar start of a migraine, and my hand closes around the crumbled card of Doctor Matthews inside my purse. My appointment next week looms in front of me and I don't look at Thorn's dark face, eyes that hate me, a body that wants me. I know someone's got a tight leash on Thorn or he would have done more than proposition me and threat.

Who?

Jared McKenna? The elusive, semi-hero billionaire who happens to own the nicest strip club in Seattle?

I look at Ty, a.k.a. Thorn again, and wonder who could leash that pit bull.

“I'm not sure what to do...” If I don't say something, he'll hear about it from a pissed client. This isn't working my sore muscles against a pole in front of men from a safe distance. It's different.

Intimate.

Thorn grins, his white teeth an eery slash against his dark complexion. He strides over to where I stand, and I barely hold my ground, gritting my teeth.

He towers over me even though I'm 5'9” in my stocking feet.

I pull away and he frowns, gripping me tighter. “Chill out, it's a tutorial. I'm not going to rape you.”

Right. My body remembers and locks up, fights for air, for reason.

He looks at my face and gives a dark chuckle.

Thorn moves the swivel chair and sits down on it, slapping his lap once.

I die inside. If someone had told me I would be this close to Ty the creep manager, I would have laughed.

Not laughing now.

I gingerly lift one knee and place it on the outside of his thigh, his dark eyes watching as I do. The other knee follows, and I force myself to grip his shoulders for balance or I'll fall against him.

I shiver, and he takes it for arousal instead of loathing.

Thorn grips my hips, and I hiss and try to pull away.

“That's not going to work on the dudes we have coming to enjoy this body of yours.” He jerks my hips forward, and I feel his erection against my upper thigh.

“Move.”

I bite my lip to keep from screaming. I rub against him over and over. His hands move to cup my ass, and suddenly I'm not moving on my own. He's shifting my body against his stiff penis. My breasts are safely encased inside a nude bra that brushes his face as the friction of our clothed coupling intensifies. Thorn pants and gives a whispered shout that's somewhere between a hiss and a yell.

I feel sick as I climb off him, a wet patch at his crotch spreading to his muscular thighs.

I back away, shaking. The fine beginnings of a bruise blossom high on my thigh, and I shudder in revulsion.

I wrap my black trench coat around the underwear he insisted was all I wear underneath it.

Thorn asks softly, “Got it?”

I nod. I so have it.

And I never want it again.

I flee as though the devil's at my back.

~ 5 ~

Monday

I watch the blinking cursor as it flashes above send. My finger hovers, my will along with it. I clench my eyes and tap the mouse with a decisive click. My RSVP floats into the ether to be received by Thorn or one of his lackeys.

Tonight's my first night on the job. My new job.

One grand per night whispers through my head.

I'm exhausted. I worked a full day mending the wounds of others, forcing them toward wholeness. I paid for Mom's care for the first time in cash. I pretended not to notice as the receptionist paused when she took the rolled up money.

Her eyes met mine. “Cash?”

I still have the receipt in my purse. I think I'll frame it when this whole thing ends.

If it ever does.

I slowly walk to the “party room.” I know I've done all that I can to make myself desirable. Ty impresses on me the importance of the “mingle” period. These are men with tastes, he'd emphasized.

I walk in, my ice-blue dress barely covering my rear. Little strings that end in silver beads sway and tickle the tops of my thighs. They cup my ass as I move in four-inch stilettos. The neckline is so low the top of my belly button peeks in and out like a teasing divot.

The men turn as a new girl enters. I imagine their response is as instinctive as flowers turning their collective heads toward the sun. I know I've hit the mark when their conversation stops. Eyes greedily move over my form, missing nothing. Some eyes linger at my breasts, some my long legs, some caress the burnished gold of my hair under lights turned down so low they barely illuminate.

One man never looks at my body but my eyes. They're worth a stare, hidden by a mask of small Swarovski crystals. Only the light gray of my irises show through the slits. My dark blonde lashes are hidden under deep chocolate mascara.

“Two hundred for twenty minutes,” he says. He has deep black hair, a strong jaw, and eyes that might be a greenish-hazel if there was more light.

Voices erupt, drowning his and I fluster, backing away.

My masked eyes meet security.

Just like Thorn promised, he interrupts the bidding frenzy with quietly spoken words. “Five hundred, and she's yours for the virgin session.”

My eyes snap to his, thinking I've been discovered. But no, he simply means this is my first lap dance. Ever.

My shoulders drop, and I relax a little.

The man who said two hundred dollars nods at the security guard. Another man, complete in a tux and tails, brings a ticket on a silver tray, his eyes moving over me once.

It's enough.

I feel dirtier than when I arrived.

The man with coal black hair holds out his hand, and I slip mine inside his. It's warm and dry.

Other girls’ faces meet mine as I slide behind a door bearing the number one. I don't know who they are because they wear small masks as well.

It's okay because I don't know who I am anymore.

“I'm Jay,” he says as he loosens his tie.

I stand there stupidly.

He laughs and sits on a large chair. The plush burgundy faux suede hides a myriad of crimes.

Like the one I'll commit.

“Come here,” he commands in a low voice, his eyes burning into mine.

I walk to him. The beads that made me feel sexy a half hour ago sting like many bugs biting my flesh as I move.

I stand in front of him, and he doesn't touch me. He slowly unbuttons his shirt. Jay takes the loop of the tie over his head and tosses it aside. My eyes roam his muscular torso as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, his eyes never leaving mine. He does serious gym time.

I recognize the look of hard work instantly, my hand was not the only thing I rehabilitated.

I'm sore from my own workouts. A permabruise etched on the inside of the wrist of my bad hand testifies to my two weeks of pole dancing. But pain won't end me. After what I've been through, physical pain is just another obstacle.

It's the mental that's killing me.

“Straddle me,” he says.

I mount him like I did Thorn, my upper thighs quaking. Is it horrible that because it's not Thorn, that somehow it's better?

Music creeps into the room from strategically placed speakers. My eyes flick to the side and note scattered tissue paper, lube, condoms, and a neat pile of sex toys in an antique porcelain box.

Glass.

Rubber.

I turn my face away, tears making me hold my eyes wide so they don't fall.

Jay sets a fifty dollar bill on the end table next to the chair. A cut glass dish holds the bill perfectly. It twinkles in the low light while it holds filthy money.

I move, and he says, “I want to touch your breasts.”

My eyes shift to the money. I swallow and, after a brief hesitation, nod.

He bends forward and whispers, “Keep moving... yeah...,”

He groans as I grind against him, my face averted. I stare at the gilded wallpaper, trying for an out-of-body experience. I memorize the geometric shapes. I feel his fingers push aside the glittering v of my top. A finger brushes my nipple, and I nervously increase my pace. My nipple hardens like a traitor, and my heartbeat speeds up in unrequited fear.

I won't embrace it or I'll scream. This stranger latches onto my nipple and sucks as I increase the friction against him. I gasp a little at the contact. I guess touching my breast can mean his mouth, though I'm not expecting it.

I disassociate myself further, my eyes tracing the fleur de lis wallpaper. My grinding stresses my muscles, my fight against adrenaline exhausts me, and the need for money spurs me forward anyway.

His breathing tells me when it'll be over, and then it is. He presses my naked breasts against his face and shouts into the center of my warm flesh, releasing against a hand towel over his front.

Jay holds me against him as if I'm precious. That's worse than if he’d just let me go. I disengage, scuttling off his lap in an awkward lurch and averting my eyes from his crotch.

He stands up, limp and spent, and uses the little toiletries provided to clean up his inconvenient mess.

I'm numb as I adjust my top and scoop up the fifty, adding it to the five hundred. As I walk out of the room, his eyes commit me to memory.

I realize I never said a word. He doesn't even know my name. Jay didn't ask.

At least there's that.

In the restroom, I gaze into the wall of gilded mirrors. Toiletries, makeup, and wipes of every variety litter the vanity. I put my head in my hands and sit there for moments that become minutes. When I lift my head, I turn on the tap, wait for it to steam, and yelp as I wash my hands raw. Then I unwrap a toothbrush and wash my mouth, brushing viciously. Twice.

I thank whatever's holy that I never kissed him. I couldn't stand that. It's the final insult. No kissing.

Because this is closer to prostitution than dancing. I get that now. I take deep breaths, concentrating on inhaling, then exhaling.

I stand, straightening my beaded dress borrowed from Kiki, and head back out into the room.

They bid again, and I head back into the room of the damned. This one wants to touch my breasts.

I let him.

And leave with twelve hundred dollars.

Only forty-eight thousand and change to go.

~ 6 ~

Present day

“Sir,” someone says to my right, but my eyes are shut.

“Please step away.” The timbre of that voice is commanding, authoritative.

My eyes open slowly as I take in the tactile wave around me.

I hear a low curse, and that warm presence moves. I feel cold, bereft as a beefy man in a navy uniform crouches next to me and smiles. His clear blue eyes scan the street. I hear car doors open and close, sirens cut off. The silence is deafening, a deep well to get lost in. All around me, people's legs appear, like clothed tree trunks.

I'm in the middle of a people forest and it makes a slightly hysterical giggle erupt from my mouth.

That's when I realize I'm higher than a kite.

All the while, the man in blue has been talking to me quietly in soothing tones. My eyes sort of spin before focusing on his. I lift my hand to try and touch him, and I hiss in pain.

A moment of panic tries to rise up in my throat because it's my good hand. Please God, don't let that be wrecked too.

“Shh,” he says.

He calmly takes my struggling hand, and his finger moves to the underside of my wrist. I feel the subtle pressure of him taking my vitals. A loop of transparent tubing swings in my vision. “I've got ya,” he says and I notice his name tag: Johnny.

My body becomes weightless. I feel them place me on a stretcher. My thigh shrieks in pain, and I whimper. The paramedic's eyes move to the needle in my arm, and he adjusts something. I float deeper in the haze of the drugged.

“It's going to be okay,” he says, which fills me with instant dread.

I hear that melodic voice in the background. It grows loud in argument, and I know it's my angel trying to shelter me with his wings.

Johnny the paramedic loads me into the back of an ambulance. I try to move. I have work.

I have to die. I remembered Matthews's words perfectly. The drugs can't soften that.

“Let me through!” the angel says. His face appears above mine, seeking me through the safety of blue men, through the onlookers in the multi-colored forest of people.

They can't save me.

No one can.

But the one who held my hand when I was laid out in the middle of the street takes it again. The sedative works in collusion with the hit to my head as I begin to fade.

His deep brown eyes in a strong face are the last thing I see as the sedative takes me from consciousness like a thief.

That undeniable face is the last thing I see.

Then it hits me: I don't have to deny myself anything. When one knows the hour of their death, it all becomes clear.

It's a kind of relief.

*

Kiki's wide eyes greet mine when I wake up.

“Thank God!” she says in a loud voice, and I cringe a little. She covers her mouth. “Sorry,” she tries to whisper and misses it by a mile.

“Oh my gawd, girl, you had me peeing my pants!” Her anxious eyes scan my face then move down my body. They sweep back up to my eyes again.

I smile a little, and my mouth feels like torn sandpaper, complete with cracked lips and breath like ass. “Water,” I croak.

Kiki slaps her forehead and brings a cup to me smoothly, tipping the bendy straw down to my lips. The water tastes like cold heaven. My eyes meet hers.

“Okay, tell me what the hell happened,” Kiki says, plopping down in the hospital chair next to my bedside.

I want to know where that guy is. The one I saw in my drug-induced stupor... where did he go? But I don't ask.

“I don't really know. I was coming out of the clinic...”

“Seeing the doctor about your migraines?” she prompts.

I just nod. Talking about about my death sentence is a little too much.

Matthews's words come back to me, welling up in the center of my brain: loss of sensation and appetite, issues of vertigo—loss of balance.

I can't have that. I need to keep dancing so there will be something left for Mom when I'm no longer here.

Kiki snaps her fingers. “Y'know, they can't release you like this. You're not all here, Faren.”

Not all here. My memory blinks, and I'm on the lap of one man. Like a camera shutter, it clicks. Then I'm suffering through Thorn and his brand of control. The shutter stalls on my stepdad beating my mom nearly to death.

All because she defended me.

And I think I can go and die?

I close my eyes.

Kiki pushes my hair back. “What is it, doll? I mean, besides the obvious… You look like someone just stepped on your puppy.”

I bark out a laugh. You know the type, full of beaten and contained emotions bubbling to the surface. “I don't have a dog.” Perish the thought; I can hardly handle my own life.

Kiki lifts a shoulder, “Yeah, whatever, but if you did...” She smiles, and I smile back.

After a few moments, she says, “This is what I know. You came screaming—”

“Screaming?” My brows pop.

Kiki rolls her eyes. “Not yelling but bookin'.”

“Oh.”

“Anywho, you come screaming out of the doctor's office and run right into the street.”

I nod. That sounds right. After the wonderful bomb dropped, I just wasn't myself.

I'm not sure when I will be again.

“Then!” Kiki throws up a finger. “A super-hot guy plowed into you with his Harley! Love by bike!” she says with a squeal.

“Kiki...” No matter what I say, it won't work. I'm okay, and she's smitten with the strange circumstances.

“You're okay, Faren.” She looks at my blanket-covered body and snatches the blanket down to my thigh. “Battle scars. You can cover that with foundation.”

We look at the bruise made from the bike, and I realize I'm lucky my leg's not broken.

I watch her dark eyes move to my right thigh and land on my bump and grind bruise. She lays a finger on it.

Kiki doesn't meet my eyes when she asks, “How's the work?”

I don't look up. “It's going.”

“What do you have to do?” Kiki asks.

I give her an accusatory look.

She backs away, her hand coming off my leg. I cover my lower body with the sheet again.

“You were desperate,” she says. “You need the money, and this is the only way, short of dealing drugs, that it's going to happen for you.”

“I don't want a penthouse.”

“I know.” Kiki’s eyes bore into the top of my bent head. “Now tell me why the fuck you ran out of the doctor's office.”

I open my mouth then close it again. I don't know if I'm ready to tell her. I don't even know if I'm ready to accept what Matthews said. I'm going through the stages of grief just fine, thank you very much.

I think I'm hung up on anger.

I hear a noise, and we turn like guilty co-conspirators when the door opens. Someone passes through with a cheesy balloon with 1980s lettering that screams Get Well and a bouquet of carnations. The balloon bobs and wags, revealing a sliver of his face.

Ty, a.k.a. Thorn.

My guts seize, and Kiki gives the man who's effectively pimped me out a dazzling smile.

“Ty!” she says happily and throws herself in his arms.

His dark eyes meet mine over her shoulder, and he flashes a tight smile my way. I press my damp palms into the bed sheets.

“Thanks for covering for Faren last night, Kiki,” Thorn says in an ominous message directed straight at me.

His eyes slide over my form, safely ensconced underneath the hospital covers. “Let me talk to our girl here.”

Kiki nods and turns to me.

I ask, “You did a...” I don't even know what to call it. I settle on the most innocuous word I can muster. “Dances for me?” I squeak, hating owing anybody, even Kiki.

“She sure did,” Thorn's eyes meet mine. “What are friends for?” The question is posed innocently, but I know what he's really asking.

Kiki gives me a light kiss on the cheek and ignores my eyes begging her to stay. She buzzes out with a I'll be back soon flutter of her fingers, leaving me with Thorn.

All pretense of a smile leaves Thorn's expression as his eyes go flat black in an millisecond. “Let's talk, Faren.”

I say nothing, and he begins. When Thorn finishes, I stare at my clenched hands, wanting out so bad I can barely stand it.

Thorn wants me as a regular. He wants me to cover my fresh bruises with makeup, like Kiki suggested. He asked if I can still dance, to which I only nod.

Hell yes, I'll dance. I have a sudden desire for my mom that's so strong it's like pain that I can't fix, a part of me broken beyond repair. We'd been so close and now I had no one to take her place as confidante. There's no glue for my broken problems.

Thorn's last words flit through my mind. “There's more money if you keep giving me dances. Private ones.”

My eyes travel to his. I'm so engaged with him I don't hear the whisper of the door when it opens and my angel walks in.

Seeing my face changes his expression of contrition to one of darkness. Those large chocolate eyes move impassively to Thorn and noticeably harden.

Thorn jumps to his feet, gathers up the balloon and flowers, and turns to the man who held my hand. Thorn explains nervously, “Wrong room, pal.”

My brows come together in a puzzled frown as they stare each other down.

I swear they know each other. I'm glad that Thorn leaves. I wonder what chased him out.

Who.

He's even more beautiful than I remember him. My eyes take him in with hunger, every moment of my life is hyper-bright, acutely surreal and microscopic. His hair glints, like the deepest copper penny, from the pale light bleeding through the window. His skin is like creamy mocha, and his eyes are so dark they look black.

Except when they look at me, they're molten amber.

“Hi.” He steps forward and stretches out his hand.

I move to put my palm in his, and I notice manicured nails that don't match the callouses on his palm. A signet ring flashes a college I can only dream of attending as his large hand covers mine.

Cuff links peek from his expensive suit sleeve.

Then I see the shoes. A different leather than before but just as supple. Just as distinctive.

My eyes drive up his body and meet his gaze, and a dimple flashes into existence as a smile full of white teeth dazzle me. Those eyes capture me in an embrace of satin chocolate.

“Jared McKenna,” he says, and I know I'm in for it.

I might be dying. I might have a dirty job that pays for the sins of my past. But right then, I know heaven, if just for a little bit, right here on earth.

~ 7 ~

Pretending is the hardest.

That I don't think about what Doctor Matthews told me. That Jared McKenna, billionaire entrepreneur, didn't run me down with his Harley because I barreled into his path. That I'm one of the exotic dancers at his exclusive club, Black Rose.

Thorn left because he doesn't want to clue his boss in on the relationship to me. Why?

Our handshake breaks. His finger trails along the inside of my wrist, and as it leaves my flushed skin, my heartbeat accelerates. I watch his pupils eat his brown irises. I can't tell if the dimming of his gaze is from the gloom of the room or that I have a clue to how I affect him. Our meeting is a testimony to the power of carnal attraction. Chemistry doesn't discriminate as to timing, looks, or circumstance. It's there to be recognized and play out, regardless of environment.

What's happening is exactly what I don't need. I look terrible, I have a visit to my mom's bedside tonight, and a set tomorrow night on the lap of another stranger. I'm facing the man who is my boss, my assailant, and savior all in one chaotic package. And he's enough of a man to make a legion of panties disintegrate.

Incinerate.

Jared McKenna leans back, drawing his pant leg down as he crosses his knees at the ankle. His eyes are shadowed as he stares at me.

I break the silence. “I'm Faren Mitchell.”

I pray he has too many dancers to know who I am. I can't help my embarrassment.

His manicured nail, blunt and perfect, flicks the clipboard with my medical chart. One corner of his lush mouth picks up in a dimpled half-smile, and I blush, glancing at my hands. Of course he knows who I am. He takes my cool fingers and frowns a little at them. My eyes are hidden, staring at my lap as my heart beats a staccato rhythm.

He turns my palm over and talks to my hand. “I'm so sorry, Faren.”

He says my name like a talisman, and I look up, startled by the soft way his voice caresses the syllables. I gaze at him numbly, his fingers playing over my knuckles. It's more intimacy than I've received from a human being since Mom was taken from me four years ago. It's a terrible beauty that the genuine touch of another human being moves me.

I've lap danced with dozens of men in the last ten days, but Jared makes me feel as though I'm part of him. The light play of his fingers over my flesh creates a symphony of sensation.

I want to snatch my hand away.

I want him to move on to other body parts. I'm so out of my emotional comfort zone that I can't breathe.

I say the first thing that comes to mind. “It's not your fault. I was-I was upset.” I glance at Jared again then bite my lip, casting my eyes downward.

He squeezes my hand lightly. The callouses on his palm scrape an erotic path as they slide away from my skin.

I miss his touch and feel relief at the same time.

He rakes the hand that was just touching mine through his hair and exhales. “It's not your fault. I should have seen you before you were in the street.”

I look at him without wanting to, and his deep brown eyes pull me in. They look so sincere. He doesn’t look like a rich guy who’s had it easy. There's a hardness to him, an edge. Jared McKenna isn’t accustomed to being scrutinized, and he smoothly redirects my thoughts.

“I’ve already paid the bill for your care,” he says. A sheepish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Thank God! I think then on the heels of that, How dare he?

My eyes narrow and he looks surprised.

“What?” he asks as if he doesn't know.

Like he doesn't realize how manipulative the whole paying it is. I don’t want to be an ungrateful wench, but I cross my arms underneath my breasts. The unattractive baby blue hospital tent covering me from knee to neck hitches up, and I watch his eyes shift to my breasts then away.

Still a guy. An unapologetic, manipulative, gorgeous guy.

“I have health insurance.”

He nods, his strong chin holding a kiss from God in the center. My mind swirls with drug-induced thoughts of him as my angel, and a little smile touches my lips.

His stare moves to my mouth. “I understand. However, I feel responsible, so I'll take care of it.”

His words are final, said with an expression that is equal parts hard and unyielding. Jared is used to people saying yes. I wonder if anyone ever says no.

He stands to walk away as if he expects me to roll over. Even I know I'm not being reasonable. The fault lies with him. Jared McKenna has made me forget everything but his presence, and that's not fair. I have terrible debts to pay, a short life to live, and instead of focusing what needs doing, I let a man unnerve me to the point that I forgot what's important. Not to mention he's my boss... and he did hit me with his motorcycle.

His hand circles the doorknob, but as if he forgot something, he returns to my bedside, and slides an elegant business card into my handbag. “I don't think I'm finished with my penance just yet, Miss Mitchell.” Then he does it, a second intimacy I don't know what to do with, I can't know how to quantify.

He leans forward and wraps his hand around the back of my head where it's snarled with asphalt and dirt from the accident. As he breathes a kiss of fragrant heat above my forehead, he whispers, “I really am sorry.”

I gulp down the luscious scent of him: male, cinnamon, and spice. Jared McKenna pulls away, pulverizing me with a stare for my ten heartbeats to his two and walks away.

I watch his tailored navy back and deep bronze hair leave as silently as he entered.

*

I hold my mom's hand, as I have a thousand times before and I cry. I'll miss her. And so much else. Her prognosis is grim—maybe a handful of years or less. I can't let them move her.

I won't.

I swipe at the wetness on my face, listening to the clock as sunlight slants inside her room. Someone forgot to close the blinds.

I sigh, stand, and make my way to the window. My right hand grasps the twisty plastic rod, and I turn it to shut the slats. My eyes catch sight of a familiar motorcycle. As if on some bizarre cue, my thigh throbs where McKenna hit it. His body's unmistakable. He’s large and broad in the shoulders, and the unique hair color brands him.

Unobtainable.

I shut the blinds with a sharp click. He ran into me. Jared McKenna paid my bill. He needs a piece of my mind.

He held me and made me grieve for something I can't have. For that, I hate him. I stare at the louvers. I glance behind me at my mother sleeping in false peace. I turn back to the blinds and the man I know is behind them.

I lift one of the louvers and peer out at him as he sits astride his idling bike, surfing his cell with a tapered finger. I allow my eyes to take in his all-black ensemble. Gone are the tailor-made suit, Italian shoes, and subtly jeweled cuff links. In their place is the kind of leather a girl dreams about.

Dark.

Black.

Dangerous.

I let the louver slip back into place and turn back to my mom. I gnaw at my bottom lip. Decision made, I march out of Mom's room, mad at Jared for following me as if I'm some baby. His new charity. Rich guys like him have to feel good about something they do, right?

I don't need sympathy.

I take the steps like a battle sergeant and swing the wide glass doors open, nearly braining an orderly.

“Whoa! Faren, what the hell?” Barney says with a laugh as I breeze past him.

My cup of care has runneth over, and it's spilling on everyone. Later I'll apologize.

Right now, I'm on a mission.

My eyes land on Jared, and I stomp over to him. The low drone of his bike makes my next words harsher. “You don't need to follow me, Mr. McKenna.”

That small amused smile he's sported from the minute I met him widens into a grin. His teeth are so very white in his smug face.

Gawd, he's so insufferable. His eyes move to my lips, and I realize I'm still mauling them. I let my bottom lip pop out of my mouth.

“Just making sure my investment pays off,” he says smoothly. I am feeling the distraction of him as I see his large strong hands hold the throttle and subtly twist it as the motor give an deep appreciative throb.

“What?” I can't believe him. I put my hands on my hips and his gaze travels in a random three point pattern. Yeah, that one. I scowl at him, my breasts and hoo-ha tingling from where his gaze just traveled.

“Looking for bruises?”

His smile fades.

“No,” he says in curt answer. “Did you look at the card I gave you?”

I shake my head. I went straight from the hospital to my place, took a hot and painful shower, and headed directly to my mom's care facility.

“You might want to.” The kickstand taps the concrete, and then he's moving toward me in a steady stride of fluid muscle in motion.

God, he's big. My heart is in my throat as his shoulders blot out the street behind us, the sun... everything. I look up as he draws nearer. His subtle smell is a memory trigger for the asphalt at my cheek, the swirling haze in my mind, the feel of a warm hand over mine.

Safe, my memory whispers.

I blink, and he's there, tipping my chin up and searching my face. Heat blazes in his eyes though his expression is cool. His gaze moves to my mouth, and I feel my lips part in invitation. An invitation I've expressly forbidden myself. My life is in shambles, and he's a last-minute storm driven into my path.

McKenna bends his frame over mine. He cups my chin as his mouth hovers over the corner of mine. “Do what it says, Miss Mitchell.”

He drops his hand from my face and I stand there, stunned. He walks away, drops one long leather-clad leg over the seat and lifts the kickstand with a practiced swivel of his black boot. He turns to me. “Call me Mick. I think we're on a first name basis now, don't you?” he asks rhetorically.

He doesn't wait for an answer I won't give. Jared pulls away from the curb, and I walk forward like a zombie. I sway as I watch him, and something startling occurs to me.

The past day has been the first twenty-four headache-less hours I've had in months.

Maybe Jared “Mick” McKenna is my medicine?

Or my drug of choice. Either way, I'm an addict.

~ 8 ~

I walk through the narrow front door of my apartment building. My eyes travel the stairs, and I sigh with irritation. My gaze shifts to the rickety old freight elevator, a soothing form of transport—if it works.

I'll take my chances. I press the old push button that slides the elevator doors apart. I shove the metal gate away, step through, close the woven metal behind me, and latch it with my right hand. I press the lit number 5. With a lurch, the cart lumbers up, grinding and clattering the entire way. It stops just short of the fifth floor. I open the heavy metal, and it slides away with a rattle. Gripping one side, I hike myself up to floor level and grimace. My body doesn't like being tossed on a street, I guess.

I close the door and walk the short distance to my apartment. I slide the key into the bolt and turn it, opening the door with my hip, and drop my keys in the bowl on top of a small table from my mom's house.

I spread my fingers, feeling their stiffness.

I put on the kettle and watch the burner turn red as I grab the edges of the stove. I lean against it, chin brushing my chest, and cry.

I don't want to die. I want to see Jared McKenna again. I want to know the secrets of my body before I no longer exist to experience them. I lift my head and walk to the sink, turning on the tap, wallowing in the comfort of my familiar routine. The water steams as it hits the white porcelain basin and I splash hot water on my face and it feels good – normal. Breathing deeply, I try to bring myself back to whatever center I can find.

I stare off instead, thinking about nothing. The card. I remember and lurch to the couch. My normal grace is gone in my rush to retrieve the card he slid inside my purse. My body squawks, aches and pains springing up like unwanted weeds. I reach in my pink purse, the fake diamonds winking at me.

The card will say something like: I know your secret.

Though he can't know.

Or: You work for me, pay up—on my lap.

That elicits a shiver. Not one of revulsion either. I'm pretty sure Jared hasn't put it together that I was the girl picking up money at his feet.

Or my personal favorite: You're fired.

He won't give a shit that my mom is two weeks from being put into one of those places.

I shudder thinking about the care Tannin Mitchell would receive in a state facility.

I push it out of my mind as my hand closes around the heavy paper. The square fits into my palm perfectly, luxuriously. Nothing but the best for Jared.

I move my hand away from the front. In black foil lettering, it reads: Jared McKenna. Tiny upper case letters spell out a web site address.

Well, that was lame. I suppose he wants me to become a follower? My thumb glides across the deeply embossed letters, shining like ink on the deep cream card. With a sigh, I place it on the end table and turn to move back into the kitchen.

My eyes hit on the slanted script on the back. I read it twice.

Streetside; 1920 1st Ave. Seven o'clock. Black tie.

I stare at the deliberate handwriting, and a nervous laugh shoots out of my mouth. What is this?

Then it comes to me. Jared McKenna, a.k.a. Mick, feels guilty. He wants to make sure that he ties the bow just right on the package of his conscience. Once that's done, he can move on and be free of me.

I feel a smile bleed across my face, and I don't need a mirror to know it's not pleasant.

I have nothing to lose. Kiki is doing my laps tomorrow night too. I have a full twenty-four hours without worry.

You're dying, Faren, my mind reminds me in an evil whisper. I decide to seize the moment.

Nothing to lose.

Except my virginity.

*

I walk outside my apartment building, and the cool air nips at my exposed legs. The nude stockings are so sheer they let the wind have its way with me. My platform pumps match my hose, and the chill works upward underneath my silver dress. It's short and elegant, unlike the costumes I wear for the laps of strangers. The clothes hide both the bruise from Mick's Harley and the fading cylinder from riding erections. Gaining experience while losing my innocence, one lap at a time.

I force my thoughts back to the outfit I've chosen for McKenna, the salve to his guilt. The silver of my dress makes my eyes look like shiny coins. I've tacked my hair up in an elegant loose coil at my nape, abandoning informal bands, barrettes and hair jewelry in favor of honey-colored bobby pins I use to artfully arrange my hair into a knot at the base of my head.

But my mind revolves around Doctor Matthews's words and the card he gave me with my appointment about management. I find myself dismissing his cautions as a limousine pulls up at the curb. I clutch my small silver purse and bite my lip not to laugh.

This can't be happening to me. I'm a physical therapist and part time exotic lap dancer. Girls like me don't go out with billionaires. Especially terminally ill girls, even if it's only to dispel his feelings of responsibility.

Of course, nobody would know I'm living on borrowed time from looking at me. The girl in the mirror stared steadily back as I had glammed up for tonight, healthy as a horse.

But that's not what the damning photo of my brain has proven to me.

Was that just a day ago? I wonder. A day ago when I was breezing through patients, grinding through lap dances. Before my life dumps upside down forever. But I've made a promise to Mom. A promise I can't give up because my circumstances have turned dire, permanent.

I will keep it. She gave her life for mine. I’ll do anything it takes to give her dignity. Because that's all I can do.

The driver comes around to the curb and discreetly glances at my outfit. A slim smile courses across lips accustomed to just that expression. He probably smiles like that when he's sleeping.

“Ms. Mitchell?” he inquires in smooth American English. He's a stooped, older gentleman, maybe close to mid-seventies.

I think of him driving with old man reflexes in the heart of Seattle. I hesitate. Actually, the whole situation makes me hesitate, and I have a crazy urge to run off in the opposite direction.

I don't.

“Please.” He sweeps an arm forward and guides me by my elbow to the back of the limo.

I'm so glad for my ten years of ballet before height stole my dreams. I glide down off the curb into the street and fold into the limo easily.

It's empty. I turn to the limo driver. “Where is...” I don't know how to refer to him.

The little old man inserts my missing moniker smoothly, “Mr. McKenna?”

I nod.

“He awaits you at our destination,” he replies and softly shuts the door.

I survey him as he leisurely strolls around the front of the limo and opens the door to slide in.

I realize I don't know his name.

I lean forward and tap the glass partition, my rear in the air and my knee planted on the seat across from me.

The glass opens, and his watery blue eyes meet mine. “Yes, Ms. Mitchell?”

“What is your name?”

A genuine smile spreads the deep folds of his cheeks to smoothness.

“I am Henry.”

He extends a palm through the open glass, and I take it. He gives my hand a brief squeeze before he lets go to turn back to the wheel.

I settle again in my seat and smooth my dress down to mid-thigh. “Thank you, Henry.”

His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “You are most welcome.”

The glass closes with a silent hiss, and our eyes meet for a moment more. I think I see something in them that gives me pause.

A sort of wise sadness remains as his eyes shift to the road. We’re on the same page but put in the book for different reasons.

Henry pulls away from the curb. I watch him expertly navigate the busy lower streets of First Street. He avoids the storefront of Pike Place Market, still jammed with tourists. It's been dark for an hour as we close in on the restaurant. My face breaks into a grin. Thoughts of bucket lists crowd my head, and I remember I can take whatever is I wish for. My life is mine in a way I've never thought of before. There is no precedence for this night.

For what might come next.

We park at the base of the Space Needle, where Mick waits five hundred feet above the ground. Henry slips out of the limousine and walks to my door. I bend my legs in unison, tap my heels on the street, and take the hand he offers me.

Henry lifts his chin infinitesimally, and I look where he indicates. People are walking toward the doors of the Skycity Restaurant and their dress code is not formal as Mick has told me. He requested I dress black tie formal, even though it's not required, and I frown as the mystery of Mick deepens.

I move through the lobby, decked out in vintage 1960s space age décor, and look around with wide eyes. I've lived in Seattle nearly all my life, and I’ve never been here. I walk to the elevator, and a man in a suit presses a button and the elevator doors whisk open. A few people in various states of formal attire move inside and he closes the door with a press of a white-gloved hand.

I ride the glass elevator up. The view is spectacular. City lights greet me in a twinkling crescendo of chaotic pinpoints of color. Puget Sound glitters back at me, the moon riding high and bright against the small whitecaps, as the press of winter lies ready to take hold with icy fingers. I fold my light shawl around my shoulders, feeling the fringe feather and tickle my bare skin. I'm wearing another borrowed outfit from Kiki. She's told me she's too hot to wear something this cool. I smile, remembering her comment when I tried it on in front of her.

“I'm too hot for this sweet dress,” she'd said when I tried on the dress. She spun around me as she plucked and adjusted. Her eyes met mine in the full-length mirror. “But you, you're so cool in it you'll melt whoever sees you.”

She stood and clapped when I spun, relishing who I have a date with. Unbelievable as it is.

I don't know if I’m cool in this dress, but it makes me feel sexy. Free. A precious commodity at the moment.

My eyes search the restaurant, scanning the other diners, and I feel overdressed.

The maître d’ approaches. “Miss Mitchell?”

I nod. How does he know who I am?

“Please, follow me.”

We weave between tables until we reach a wood door with divided and beveled glass panes that distort all the corners as I look through. I don't have any trouble making out Jared.

Mick.

He stands when he sees me through the glass, and I have the sudden and overwhelming urge to cry. It's such an unexpected, old-fashioned gesture that I halt, momentarily stunned. He smiles, and it lights up my core like a match. I feel my insides sear with fire.

With want. It's like spontaneous combustion.

The maître d’ pushes through the door and leads me to a sequestered table. After a moment, I trail after him.

“Watch your step, Miss Mitchell,” he cautions.

I look down. The floor moves ever so slowly. The seam at the rim of where the table sits moves, but the center remains stationary. Vertigo slides over me, and I want to sit down. I think of the doctor's words—vertigo, loss of balance—and I reach out blindly. My hand is taken by McKenna, and my face swivels to his.

The maître d’ melts away, and McKenna draws me closer, his eyes running over me ravenously.

I've seen that expression in hundreds of eyes.

But never one I care about.

One who matters.

~ 9 ~

I think his eyes will go to my breasts or the unseen v between my legs, but they don't. That deep gaze travels to the edge of a bruise that my makeup can't completely hide.

He'd have to be looking for it to notice.

Mick does.

He holds my hand, his eyes pegging the proof of what happened. I try to take my hand out of his and he grips it, those dark eyes moving to mine.

“Don't, Miss Mitchell.”

“You don't have to do this, Mr. McKenna.”

A dark auburn brow rises. “Do what?” He corrects me, “Mick.”

I watch his eyes narrow with an intensity that changes how I breathe, and my palm grow warm in his. He waits for my answer while our flesh melds.

“Feel guilty,” I answer. “I mean...” I indicate our surroundings by sweeping my free hand around the view. The floor moves underneath our feet as the cityscape minutely changes while we stare at each other.

His eyes move to the chair behind me, and he releases my hand as he pulls out my chair. I'll look like an ass if I bolt. I don't think I've ever felt as contrary as I do in that moment.

Mick looks at me as if he's sure I'll sit. What makes him that sure? Is it the money? Does everyone say yes to Jared McKenna? Did he just get flung into money right out of the cradle or is he self-made.

Why does he own strip clubs? It doesn't seem to fit him somehow.

He slides the chair in as I sit as if he's done it a thousand times before. I barely keep from sulking, thinking about the hundreds of women who have stared at those eyes, dreamed about what it could be like with him. That's the difference between them and me—I don't dream. I live it. Right now. Right here.

Mick sits across from me and puts his elbows on the table. He knots his fingers and rests that full mouth against them. We say nothing as we look at each other.

He startles me with, “I don't feel guilty. Just so you know.”

My face must show my surprise because he grins. I realize I kind of want him to feel guilty.

I want someone to feel guilty.

He says, “I know you weren't paying attention before you walked into the street. I couldn't have stopped. There was nothing I could have done differently.”

I feel my brows furrow. “Then... why?” I stare at him, thinking he'll rush in with a good explanation, throw me a life raft. Instead, he lets me fumble around. “Then why take me out like this?”

“I want to,” he says simply.

Those brown eyes stare into mine, and I shift in my seat. What does he want from me? I don't reply but allow myself to stare back. I stare because I want to. My life sentence has given me a bravado that doesn't feel false. I take in everything without shame. Though we're formal, he hasn’t shaved. His hair is short on the sides and longish on the top. A natural wave sweeps it off a low forehead. The flame of his hair burns a deep bronze above eyes that are almost too large for a man's face.

No female alive would mistake Jared McKenna for anything but male. His broad shoulders anchor our table, his biceps stretching the dark navy suit. His crisp white shirt is a blazing star beneath his dusky complexion. I think of how calloused those strong hands are.

“You're blushing,” he comments softly, and I nod. Mick studies me and I don't look away. Still brave. Finally he lets his hands drop to the table draped in fine linen. “You don't seem embarrassed.”

I shake my head. I’m not blushing from shame; it's the effect he has on me. I've never felt arousal, and now it's here to stay because of Mick.

It's in the beating of my heart, the ache between my legs. My nipples are sharp pebbles beneath the lightweight material of my shimmery dress.

It's all... and nothing.

“Then what are you, Miss Mitchell?” Mick asks in soft inquiry.

“I'm not a game to be conquered,” I say. Though I’m not being honest.

Jared makes a purr of contentment deep in his throat and leans back. The waiter comes in and asks what I'd like to drink.

“Whatever he’s having,” I reply. I know that McKenna has some agenda and is accustomed to seeing his pushed through.

He orders a bottle of wine I've never heard of and smiles at me, the dimple in his chin flattening.

But he knows nothing. What Mick senses as contrary simply is what it is. I'm not playing hard to get, I'm simply calling out the shots of whatever this is. I don't have time to play metaphorical chess with him. I have patients to help and dances to grind through to get my mom in a place where I won't have to worry.

In all that, I can't lie to myself and say I don't want what he offers. McKenna doesn't have to know about me. He won't care anyway. A man like him can have anyone he wants.

The wine comes, and he swirls his sample around, stealing a breath from the top. After McKenna’s imperceptible nod, the waiter fills the glass the rest of the way and leaves to give us time to drink without ordering right away.

I look away from Jared for the first time that evening and gaze into the black velvet view. The sky is sprinkled with stars, some of their glory stolen by the lights of the city. The slowly spinning top of the Space Needle gives us bites of the beautiful city in appetizer-sized chunks.

“I'm not playing a game,” Mick says.

I turn back to him, shaking my head. “I don't think so... Mick.” I gather up my courage. “You're not guilty. You're a rich guy. Really rich.” His smile fades, and I almost feel bad about what I'm going to say. “You can have any woman, and a lot of them will say yes because of what you are rather than who.”

He nods, but his face takes on a grim edge.

“I don't care about your money.” I've never meant anything more.

He sees it and can't hide his surprise. “I believe you. I don't know why... but you're different than the others.” He takes an unhurried sip of wine, his eyes gleaming at me over the crystal rim.

“Than the others?”

He spreads his large hands away from his body. “I didn't mean there's been a bevy of women.”

My eyes lift to his.

He has the grace to look embarrassed. “There have been other women, of course.”

“Yes, I'm aware.” I mean, look at him!

“There's nothing I can do to not be what I am. I'll never meet anyone on equal footing.”

“Well tonight's your lucky night.”

His brows shoot to his hairline. When the waiter returns, Mick’s hard glance makes him meld into the background again. I don't try to hide my smile. Mick’s is sure of people's acquiescence. It's kind of disturbing. But I'm so off-kilter I can roll with whatever this strange night throws my way.

“Oh really?” he asks. His face shows he hasn’t been surprised in a long time. About anything.

“Yes.” My hands are beyond damp. I'm so sure, yet so nervous. “We can date.”

“Who says I want to date you?”

I'm not going to outline the method to the madness. Maybe it's just a fancy way of substituting dating for screwing to him because there's an historical precedent; where there is none for me.

“Please.” I lean forward, my forearms pressing against the tablecloth. “You say you're not guilty, you're so rich you probably poop one hundred dollar bills in your 24K toilet, and you’ve been with so many women they're quantified as 'others'.”

Mick cocks his chin back and laughs, full throated from his chiseled belly. “Tell me how you really feel.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and I smile at him.

It's so liberating to say what I think. I wish I'd tried it before.

“I want to know why you want a girl like me. When you can have anyone.”

Mick searches my face again before his eyes dip to the cleavage I offer him with my posture. I don't move; I let him take it in. His eyes rove up my arms, delicately constructed with fine muscles from ballet and athletics. Finally that gaze continues to my hair that looks like melting caramel in candlelight.

Mick's eyes lock with mine. “I don't want anyone.”

He wants me. It's in his face, the determined set of his jaw. Those eyes that never waver, soften, or fall from mine with the rawness of my words.

In fact, if I were to guess, I'd say the enigma I represent is part of it. Though he might not acknowledge it.

“I don't want a relationship.” I say it because even if the great Jared McKenna wants a relationship, he can’t have one with me. I can at least be honest with that much.

He exhales sharply, his eyes piercing me. “That's fine.”

I lean back, feeling a vague sense of disappointment. Ignoring it, I ask, “So what now?”

“We enjoy each other's company. You are agreeable to that?”

I grin. Oh... this can work. As long as he doesn't figure out that I'm dancing at his revolving lap club. Thorn didn't seem interested in revealing our arrangement for reasons unknown. If he can keep his perverted trap shut, this might work. I certainly don't think Mick will be interested if he finds out that I'm one of his dancers. My mom can be secure for the short future she has left. I can throw caution to the wind because the rules of life no longer apply to me. I have free license to experience whatever I want.

I nod. “Yes.”

A smile plays over his lips as Mick orders for me. He's good at taking care of everything.

There are some things that a person can't manipulate.

~ 10 ~

I forget I'm with a billionaire. I forget what Doctor Matthews told me.

I even forget my mom.

For one night.

Mick makes me laugh. I just hope he doesn't make me cry.

I won't fool myself though.

We move through the tables of the other diners, their eyes on Mick then me. He drapes my shawl around my shoulders as we step into the elevator, and I shiver as his rough palms slide against my skin.

I enjoy the view as the elevator eases its way to the ground. Not the view of the city but the view of Mick as he leans against those fragile looking walls that cage us with an apparent indifference for his own safety. I stand in the middle of the elevator and watch him watching me. Mick's arms are crossed, a new set of cuff links blink back at me in a glittering wink in the cool blue lighting. The elevator kisses the ground with a soft nudge, and the doors slide open into the 60s retro décor.

Mick takes my elbow and I stop walking. I look around for Henry, scanning the parking for a glimpse of an actual car, wondering where he's parked.

He turns back, his large hand cupping the boniest part of me. “Henry can take you home.”

“Oh... you're... are you coming with?”

He nods, and I notice his lips twitch as he tows me along. “He drove me here first then went back for you.”

I'm so glad I seem to amuse the hell out of him.

I frown but allow him to lead me to the limo. Henry stands sentinel beside it, resplendent in a tux. It seems too elegant a wardrobe for his position, but he seems comfortable—as if Henry just grew out of the ground beside the sleek length of the limo, two halves of a whole.

“Sir,” Henry says with a slight nod.

Mick gives him an affectionate slap on the back before he hops into the limo. The sight of it twists Henry's lips into an almost-grin. I see the affection Henry has for Mick, and it makes me wonder.

Actually, everything about Jared McKenna makes me wonder.

Mick takes my hands as I slide in opposite him; he holds my hands and lets me drop when my butt hovers an inch above the plush leather upholstery. I laugh as I sink down and catch his eyes gleaming like obsidian marbles. I can't make out what he's feeling. I want to.

Anyone who can make me forget the things Mick has is a tonic I need.

And there I am, back to the addiction that is him.

The limousine pulls away from the curb, and we cruise through the noise and lights. Walls of people line the sidewalks, crawling to the various destinations in their lives as lights blur in a rainbow of neon and diamonds.

My eyes roam his form. Mick's hands rest with languid casualness on his knees. His socks disappear into soft black leather shoes. I can't tell if they're the same ones I picked money off. I swallow hard, looking at his trim waist, the tie tack securing a red silk so deep it's sunset burnt down to smeared tangerine. It perfectly complements his understated rich copper hair. Finally, my eyes lock with his, and he laughs.

“Did I pass muster?” Mick asks lightly, and a blush flames to life on my cheeks for the second time.

The unwanted heat leaks over into places I don't realize it will. I cross my legs, suffocating my sex as if it'll tell my secrets.

His eyes dip to the movement, and his small smile widens.

I frown, and Mick laughs again.

“Yes,” I say with a perfectly sullen bite.

“What have I done that offends you, Miss Mitchell?”

Everything... nothing.

I can't believe he's still calling me that.

Mick leans forward until our knees are a breath away from touching.

I feel the limousine slowing and blurt, “You're so rich!” I must be insane to say what I'm thinking. A recent trend.

Mick cocks a brow and puts his hand on my knee, barely beneath the lightweight material of my dress. A soft gasp breaks the seal of my lips as his eyes shift to my mouth, his favorite part of my body. For now.

“You are prejudiced because of my wealth?” Mick asks, and his breath is now on my face, minty and fresh.

I'm in too deep. “Yes. No. I don't know.” I'm so confused. Why do I have to find something so intoxicating when I don't have time to partake?

He cups my chin with his free hand while the other lightly dances over my knee, causing a rush of moisture to my panties. My thighs clench tighter, but nothing numbs the subtle throb.

Mick turns his head, his stubble whispering against my jaw. “Let me kiss you, Miss—”

I interrupt, “Faren.”

His eyes press into mine, stealing my thoughts like water finding a crack in a stone. “Faren.” He says my name like a melody, the heat from his lips a fraction above mine.

I gulp my reluctance like medicine I don't want to take but must. I whisper my response against his skin. “Yes.”

I think he'll crush my mouth, ravage me like I've heard about. Worse—I think he'll be lustful.

I want whatever he'll give me. I admit it.

Mick’s lips move over mine, rolling the softness of his mouth over my lips and attaching to the arch of my cupid's bow. He moves to the corners of my mouth and pecks back and forth as I remain placid. My hands clench to keep from launching at him like a ravaging animal.

The limo parks.

Mick moves his hand farther up my dress, his fingertips grazing where my garter attaches to the stocking. He slides a finger under the circular attachment as his other hand circles the nape of my neck. He licks beneath my jaw before he dots my mouth with another bead of heat and flesh. My hands break away from my lap and slap the leather as I lean back, eyes shut as I pant. Mick's mastery turns to the deep hollow of my neck, my heart rate no longer a secret to his mouth.

His tongue.

“Touch me,” he commands.

There's no way I can say no. Any argument was lost long ago.

I move my hands to his shoulders, expecting him to move or come forward, but he doesn't. Mick doesn't pause in his rhythm, but continues as his face dips to my breasts and nuzzles them. His hand is at my upper thigh, only a wish away from where no one's been.

I bury my hand in his hair and hang on for dear life.

“That's it,” he encourages as his hand dives beneath me to cup my ass. The lace shifts when he jerks me forward.

I gasp in surprise, and the heat of his tongue takes me while I moan into his open mouth.

Mick's legs are between mine as his hand moves to my lower back. He kisses me everywhere skin is showing. My shawl slips to the floor unnoticed, and he kneads the globe of my butt.

Then we hear a sharp tap on the glass. Mick moves back, carefully disengaging himself from the tangle of our limbs.

I sway a little and feel a flush so far from my earlier embarrassment it seems like a shadow. Mick holds my hands, his perfect hair standing in haphazard spikes from my hands diving through it.

He looks so beautiful I want to cry.

Mick gives a satisfied chuckle. “God, you're good.” His eyes rove me head to toe, satisfied with my boneless dishevelment.

I don't reply for a moment, my intellect swimming somewhere far away from my body. “What?” My eyes go to the window where Henry waits. I look back at Mick, confusion and arousal making me fuzzy.

“Good?”

I’m still reeling from the most intimate make out session of my life. I don't regret using Jared McKenna. He’s both a distraction and an experience sent from heaven. Sexual amnesia—Mick makes me forget everything but him. I don't know if it's a talent, skill, or destiny, but whatever he's selling, I want it. Of course, nothing's free.

“Yes.”

“The blushing virgin act is such a turn on... But you don't have to act.” Mick chuckles. “I know you're twenty-two. We can be adults about this. You say you don't want a relationship and I'm all for it. You don't have to pretend with me.”

My stomach drops like a stone as he studies me, reading my expression.

“Faren, what is it?” His eyes grow sharp in the shadows of the limo. Mick really doesn't know what he said, the rug he tore out from underneath me.

I'm falling, and I'll never catch myself.

I think I want to puke. “I'm going to go now,” I say like a robot as Henry opens the door.

I guess my clawing for the handle gave it away.

“Faren, wait.” Mick gets out right after me.

“No,” I say, backing away.

“I thought we were being honest?” His voice has more than impatience threaded through it. There’s some other emotion I don't recognize, and I don't want to look too closely at it.

I nod a little too quickly as I catch Henry dive back into the driver's seat in clear escape. “Oh yes.” I stalk back to him and poke him in the chest. It bounces off the wall of muscles.

“Maybe you're not so smart, Jared McKenna.” Stab, poke.

His eyes narrow as I drop his nickname.

“Did you ever think you don't have it all figured out?” I ask with soft menace. I'm so angry I feel sick.

Or I just feel sick. Heartsick.

I stare at him. When his expression darkens, I walk off. I don't wait to see if he gets his elephant of a conversational faux pas. I jerk the apartment door open and shut it with a kick that echos in the hollow corridor.

The heel of my stiletto embeds in the grated iron. I jerk out my foot, leaving the shoe there like the physical manifestation of fury it is.

I feel Mick watching me, and I ignore him as I limp to the freight elevator. I move through the doors with one shoe on, ready to turn and send him off with a world-class death glare. I want Mick to disappear.

I turn, and he's gone.

So is my stiletto.

~ 11 ~

Kiki rifles through my outfits as I lay on my bed, hands crossed over my stomach as I stare at my ceiling. The old beadboard ceiling has the original creamy paint, which has alligator crazing throughout. Kinda like my heart now.

The days of what's left stretch before me like a black ribbon of road sinking into an uncaring horizon.

“Gawd, you're a wet blanket, doll. Just sayin'.” Her full lips purse, and she gives me what I like to think of as the mom look.

I don't put much stock in it. I have a mom. She's not really alive, but her presence is more powerful than it's ever been. It motivates and orders my steps each day.

She tosses a deep bronze dress on the bed, eyes it critically, and says, “Come on, get up. Get out of this depressing funk or whatever the hell you're jonesing at.” Her dark eyes search mine. “No pity parties on my watch. Let's do this.”

She's right. I can't tell Kiki everything. She knows enough already.

I roll off my jammie bottoms and cami to slide on the second skin outfit she chose, my hair still damp from my shower. I move to the full-length mirror. I admit her choice is a good one. The deep bronze material shimmers as I turn, and it accentuates the slight caramel color my hair possesses.

The color of the dress makes me think of Mick's hair.

Mick the prick. I watch a sad little smile pop on my face like a weed that needs plucking.

Kiki scrunches her nose. “Why do you look like you're gonna throw up in your fuck-me shoes?”

Good question. I jump when the buzzer sounds.

“I'll get it,” Kiki says.

I nod. My eyes move back to my reflection. I know the outfit will be a real hit for the laps that await me tonight, like I care. I've already tabulated my earnings. My mind dismisses the emotional tally that keeps building.

I don't know how much longer I can stomach the breast fondles, hand jobs, and other “extras” they want from me. Hanging onto my virginity isn't such an accomplishment when innocence is taken in increments.

Chunks of who I am are stolen right from underneath my nose. My mind focuses on two nights ago.

That night.

That kiss.

Mick.

That wasn't thievery; it was consensual. It touched something in me that had never been caressed, awoken. I could dance on a thousand laps and never experience the tender assault of every sense I had from Mick.

My head snaps to the front of my apartment, and I walk in there.

I forget I'm wearing the costume for my set.

Jared McKenna is standing in my living room.

I suspect he's tired of me ignoring his texts and calls for the past forty-eight hours. Yeah... that's probably it.

We regard each other for maybe three heartbeats while the late afternoon sun streams into the apartment, half of it cut by the tall building north of my own. It illuminates Mick, setting his hair on fire and shading his jaw, making the cleft at its center a deep pocket of shadow.

His eyes don't meet my face.

He's too busy looking at my outfit. What little there is.

A hot flush rises to the surface of my skin. Mick's gaze lingers at the knot of material at my neck then sails to the deep v of the bodice and the almost-sheer straps that hardly cover my breasts. The thinness of the fabric doesn't hide the betrayal of my nipples. They harden at the sight of Mick, the memory of what he's awoken in my body an involuntary reaction I'm helpless to stop.

His eyes take in my breasts. They move to where the skirt skims and cups my butt, the satin material clinging to my every curve.

I know it will hitch up to reveal my panties when I straddle laps tonight.

I swallow my nausea at the thought of being that close to anyone.

But him.

Then I remember what he thinks: I whore myself out. Mick presumes I act like a virgin in affectation.

He can't know that's the only real part of me. To assume it's not possible is a blow I'm not sure I can overcome.

But Mick is also right; I am some kind of whore.

If he only knew.

These thoughts race through my mind in those brief transparent moments of introspection as his gaze finally lifts to meet mine. I see many things contained in his tight expression.

I latch on to the one I want to see, dismissing all others.

Disappointment.

Kiki looks between us as if we’re a ping pong match, having not gotten a word out of me post-Mick date. “Well”—she looks at me with wide eyes that say, you're so talking about this later—“I can see the two of you have to discuss… stuff.”

I want to hurt her.

Kiki looks into my face and gives a subtle shake of her head, her eyes brimming with thoughts of matchmaking, cupid's bow strung taut.

“Stay,” I beseech. I keep the pleading out of my voice by the slimmest of margins.

“No, you're right, Miss...”

“King,” Kiki says with a purr and eyelash flutter.

Forget hurting. How about murder?

“You're an insightful friend to understand that Miss Mitchell and I need to straighten out some misconceptions.” His dark eyes tell me how he likes straightening those out.

That gaze holds a hunger only a banquet of food would satisfy.

I'm the first course.

Kiki swipes her keys out of the bowl and grabs her jacket. I follow her to the door as a swarm of butterflies inside me vies for escape. Their fragile wings glide and sing beneath my skin. My nervousness is a living thing.

She hugs me. “Whatever the hell your problem is, solve it,” she whispers. “Don't play this stupid!”

What she doesn't realize is I'm not playing. I'm slowly losing.

Everything.

Kiki releases me and tosses herself out the door. I close it behind her, touching my forehead to the solid wood. I wish that when I turn around, Mick won't be there. I can't bear any more of his assumptions.

I can't stand to be near him and not touch him.

“Are you ever going to turn around?” His voice, a gravel-threaded melody, commands that I answer, and I turn slowly. He rakes a hand through his neat hair, sending it into disarray. “Jesus, Faren, don't tell me you're going out in that?” His voice sounds as if he's in physical pain. That is so not the real issue.

“Why do you care, Jared?” I walk into the kitchen, slam the tea kettle on the burner, and light it carefully. Let him get an eyeful. I don't give two shits. My hand trembles around the kettle, and I switch to my good one. Great, my hand was good through work with six patients, and it decides to stop working in front of him.

I have lap dancing in four hours, I remind myself. I hunch in on myself.

Don't let him see how much he hurt me. How much I'm hurting myself.

Don't.

I'm so deep in my thoughts I yelp when I feel him slam into me. He triggers every bad memory of what I've gone through, and I get so scared I stop breathing. Gooseflesh springs up everywhere.

“What are you doing?” I yell.

Mick doesn't answer. He tears me away from the stove with a smooth spin and slams me against the wall. Only his palm holding my back keeps me from ricocheting off the surface like a broken doll.

I look up into rage-filled eyes, and he scares me.

My emotions betray me.

I feel him through the thin material of my dress, ready for me. For all of it.

“I'm sorry, Faren... I shouldn't have assumed,” he says, his knee pushing my legs apart, pinning me.

My wrists are buried against the wall above my head, and my bad hand starts to twitch. I can't take anymore: the sexual tension, my mom's situation, the impending job I hate.

The prognosis I can't escape.

The tears scald and burn their pathway down my cheeks and I turn my face as my hand continues its spasmodic jerk and dance inside his hold.

His eyes flick to my captive hands, and then our gazes lock. “What? Why are you crying?”

My eyes squeeze shut, but the tears don't care. They slip out, impervious to my unwillingness for them to escape. I sob and break apart as the one man who's made me feel alive holds me captive against my wall.

My emotions crumble as the tea kettle shrieks.

My eyes spring open, and Mick is a wavering image seen through desperate tears.

His face never comes into focus as he takes my mouth.

And I let him as the tea kettle sings its symphony behind us.

~ 12 ~

He punishes me tenderly. Each kiss erases the hurt of his words. A man could never speak an apology as perfect as the one he makes with his mouth.

Mick drops my hands, and they grip his tailor-made suit, crumpling the shoulders without mercy as the kettle sings. With a casual slap, Mick hits the kettle off the burner. It skitters across the surface, screaming its anger at the rough treatment, as he plunders my mouth.

His body begs to take mine, his every hard line against my soft ones. I forget again, my body melding to his as though it's always been meant to.

Then my cell alarm chimes.

Once, twice.

Three times. I lift my head. My early alert before work.

“Let it go,” he says, kissing me into oblivion. Our tongues twine in an intimate dance.

I almost do. Then I think of Mom. The sinful selling of my morals needs to continue for her to live.

She has less than a handful of years to exist, but they have to be on my terms. A state home is not part of the plan.

I gently push Mick away. His lips are slightly swollen, and I can't imagine what mine must look like. No collagen needed for these babies. My sarcasm doesn’t make a dent in my grief.

“What?” Mick asks.

“I have a second job... That's my alarm...”

Don't ask.

Mick smiles, his sexiness lighting him from the inside. “I know what you do, Faren. It's fine.” His fingers bite into my hips, a fraction away from a location too intimate for anything but consummating what we've begun.

My stomach drops. “You do?”

He nods. “I know you're a physical therapist. I know about your mom.”

The air in my lungs freezes into shards of glass that cut me from the inside. Only Kiki knows about my mom. Now Mr. Perfect Billionaire knows.

“I think you should leave.” It creeps me out that he's stalking me, checking my background. It’s a small relief he doesn't know about that job.

Guilt.

I assume he knows I was attacked by my psychotic stepfather and saved by my mom. Who was beaten into a coma by fists that know no mercy.

Double guilt.

I’m not interested in being somebody's pity case. I have enough pity.

I want to forget.

Can Mick distract me? I roll my lip into my teeth.

His eyes track the movement. He leans down and touches my mangled lip with his own. “I want you.”

“It's not enough,” I say.

Mick puts his hands on either side of my head, caging me, and cocks his head to study me with hard-edged eyes. “I thought you didn't want a relationship? Think of what I can give you. Think of what we can have.”

I think those thoughts until it repeats in an endless loop. It's all I think of lately. It's all I can. “You know more about me than anyone else, Mick. You've seen to that.” I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“I don't know everything.” He's so close I taste his breath, yearn for it. “I want to know more. All.”

He moves aside the strip of dress across my breast and presses his mouth to my nipple in a possessive suckle. A thread of connection I didn't realize existed that tethers my breast to my core begins, and a slow ache steals my will. I arch into his lips and moan.

How can I stand anyone else doing this to me?

He lifts his head, wraps my full breast in his palm, and squeezes just shy of true pain. I begin to pant.

“Do you like this, Faren?”

I can only nod as I step away to deny myself. By the look on his face, I deny Mick as well.

“I can't talk you into staying?” he asks, his voice so low I strain to catch it.

“No, you won't be deflowering me tonight, Mr. McKenna.” That came out harsher than I meant it to.

Mick's expression darkens. “I apologized for my presumptions about you. That wasn't fair.”

His eyes follow me as I walk to the door, hyper-aware of his gaze on my body.

I whirl around to face him, so close to the knob I can touch it.

“I know. And I already told you I'm not into rich men.”

His lips twitch as though he's amused, and I want to impale him with my stiletto. Speaking of which… “Do you have my shoe?” I ask.

A shit-eating grin lights up his entire face. “I do indeed. Why do you think I came by?”

Another chink in my armor forms. Because you want to see me. I hoped. Of course, Mick dashes that all to hell.

He strides to the front of my apartment, and there by the door, a fancy silver high heel mocks me. I don't wait for any more indecision. I yank the door open and sweep my palm out.

“Why are you being so difficult? We both know what we want—what we need.” Mick asks against my cheek as his hands grip my shoulders.

“Why do you assume we'll end up together?” I counter.

“I assume nothing,” he says.

My brows arch as his hands heat my bare shoulders. He pulls me to him, and I'm so sure he'll kiss me that I close my eyes, holding in my sigh. But it moves out of me unbidden, like an invitation.

Mick doesn't kiss me. “I know it.”

He walks out, leaving me standing there holding the door.

My lips are swollen from his kisses. Every patch of my skin burns from the memory of his touch and my desperate want of it again.

I slam the door and stalk to my vanity table.

Time to put on my face for strangers.

*

I arrive promptly, the bronze dress a perfect complement to my coloring. I know how it looks in all lighting. Kiki encouraged me to pay attention to detail, and I stay the course.

Hardest path of my life.

I strut inside, not feeling like myself after Mick's frontal assault. I haven't felt alive in so long that I feel as if I'm dying piece by piece as I move deeper into the underbelly of the newest venue.

I walk with a false seduction toward the knot of men like I always do, but a man I've never seen intercepts me.

“Miss Faren?” He cocks a brow in question.

I nod, glancing nervously about me.

“You’re the auction tonight,” he says.

I blink stupidly, and he smiles, all teeth and condescension. A rolling hot lump moves through me.

“Here's how it works,” he begins, taking my elbow as he scans my outfit. He gives a slight nod of approval, and I adjust my mask. “You go behind those curtains there”—he indicates ceiling-to-floor velvet drapes in a deep scarlet. “and come out when the bell chimes. Walk the entire length of the floor, come to that center, spin.” He does a little pirouette, and I fight a surge of nausea through sheer grit. “Then continue back from where you entered.”

I’m a piece of flesh to be chosen by one of the men tonight. A random dancer selected like a prize, my humanity forgotten in the discarded pile of hundreds before me.

“Faren,” he gives me a significant look, “the winner might pay quite a bit to have you crawl onto his lap.”

I cast my eyes at my feet so he doesn't see the sick anger swimming in them. “How much?” I ask to the ground.

“I have seen some prices go as high as ten.”

I meet his eyes, so filled with greed I can't make out the color. He takes my silence for acceptance.

“Good.” He smiles at me, and I just stare. He moves nearer and I fight not to move away.

“Now move that hot ass to the stage.”

I feel him leer at said ass as I move away. I don't blink so the tears won't fall.

~ 13 ~

The lights are too bright for me to see the shadowed faces of the men.

I make out the white bidding paddles easily. I step onto the stage, and the curtains whisper open. The velvet makes a sinister slithering sound as it drags across the floor, widening the crack I look through.

I stroll across the mock stage, and the whispers stop.

I turn, and I feel the eye-molestation of the all-male crowd.

I walk back and try not to cave to my desire to run and never stop.

The curtains close, and the shouts and bidding begin.

The horrible auctioneer goes on and on as I wait for the winner in the cramped space between the hall and the stage.

Finally the gavel sounds, the stern echo final and unforgiving.

A security guard comes for me as if I would run off and leave the money.

I think about it.

In the end, I hear the amount the winner promised. I walk down the hall to the room I always dance in. Different building, same rooms. All with peeling, elegant wallpaper like memories of a time when there was hope. The rooms weep their sins all around me.

I move through the door and walk to the damning chair.

I don't turn when the door opens and shuts behind me. I wait until the unknown man makes the first comment. That’s what I always do.

Then his voice paralyzes me, my every nerve ending singing with adrenaline.

I can't turn. I'm rooted to the spot. My heart beats a jagged rhythm of fear.

“Well hello, Faren,” he says, and I turn.

It's better to face the nightmare than hide from the monster underneath my bed.

My hands grip the back of the chair, the only safeguard between us.

“I've been waiting for this for a long time,” my stepfather says like the predator he is.

My mother’s murderer.

“I know.”

I see the tunnel of my escape narrow to a pinpoint of light.

Then disappear.

Instead of thoughts of escape, I have only one thought. It fills my mind, pressing every empty space in my skull until I think it'll explode.

As despair chokes me, I think only of him.

Mick.

#

THE TOKEN

A Token Series Novella

Volume 2

New York Times Bestselling author

MARATA EROS

All Rights are Reserved.

Copyright © 2013-14 Marata Eros

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Marata Eros Website

Marata Eros FB Fan Page

Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing

~ 1 ~

Stepfather

“You can take off your mask, Faren.” He smirks, confident now that I’m cornered. I can't help but notice there’s only one exit.

I force myself to breathe deeply and ignore his request. Security is right outside.

The police have been looking for Ronald Bunce for four years. I bet they'll make it a national holiday when I tell them he's alive and kicking- right here.

If I can.

It's Ronnie. I try never to think of my mom as ever having been married to him. She's still Tannin Mitchell to me. I can vaguely remember my parents, James and Tannin. A time of normalcy, family dinners, movies, and ballet recitals. When daddy died, I lost the anchor in my life. I was cast adrift.

So was my mom. Not for long though, as she was caught in the current that was Ronnie.

Sadistic and manipulative, he knew all the right buttons to push to capture her. By the time Mom knew what kind of man hid behind his mask, it was too late.

Now he looks at me, with my own mask firmly in place, and I don't know how to escape.

“How's your mom, whore?” He smiles, and rage fills me.

I'm so angry I want to cry from the sheer frustration of not fulfilling what your mind pleads for me to do.

I covertly pick up a glass dildo as Ronnie slinks closer. His slight belly and stocky frame belies what he was in his former life: a star wrestler.

My day's come.

I know how strong he is, middle-aged but not finished. My palms slick against the sex toy's smooth surface as it goes slimy with my fear and I almost drop it. I watch his eyes flick to my hand. My bad one twitches and he grins.

“That's the one I fucked up, right?” he asks softly.

I shake my head, moving backward, hoping I can make a run for it as he circles me around the chair.

“You can't get away, Faren. Your stupid mother only delayed the inevitable.”

My mother was dying a slow and miserable death because of him.

I notice that I had picked up something else as well. I fling the lightweight box of condoms at the wall opposite of where we stand, and Ronnie glances back as the foil-wrapped goodies cascade to the floor in a rainbow of plastic squares. I bolt for the door.

My bad hand circles the knob while my right clutches the phallus.

A strong arm winds around my waist like a snake, and I'm airborne.

I want Mick so badly I can't think. Somehow, I know he would save me.

But Mick's not here, and as my stepfather spins me around, he slams me against the door. My head thwacks the unforgiving wood.

He hisses, “This is going to be my way—all the way. You got that?”

I nod as I slur, “Your way... with a caveat.” I'm not always wise with my words, but I don't want to die before I must. I don't want to spend what life I have left this way—with him.

My head lolls to the side as his eyes narrow. He shakes me, and I wince as my head makes contact with the door again. I briefly wonder where security is.

Are they ignoring my safety because this excuse for a man paid over ten thousand dollars for a dance with me?

I know the expectation of more hangs between us.

No amount of money is worth letting Ronnie see through what he’d meant to four years ago. If he does, my mom's sacrifice will be in vain.

“Stop with the fancy words, girl. They're not enough to save you.”

His rank breath belies the artifice of a suit that cost half of what I make in a month. My hand cramps as I struggle like a drowning person through vertigo and nausea.

“Caveat?” He jerks his chin back, making a low grunt in the back of his throat. “Caveat my ass.”

“Yes,” I whisper in a low hiss, smacking the dildo onto the side of his head with the last of my energy. Even I know he rang my bell with the head-to-door attack.

Ronnie staggers back, his expensive suit like a costume to hide the fiend beneath. I slump against the door and shake my head. The room swims in streamers of color, and I let the toy drop.

A fine fissure, like a delicate spider web, spreads from the point of contact at its smooth tip. Ronnie falls to his hands and knees like a stunned and enraged bull.

I see cufflinks appear out of the sleeves of his suit, and I stumble toward him, insulted beyond reason that Ronnie has anything beautiful. I plant my feet, my bad hand shaking so badly it's doing its own dance. I ignore it and sweep my foot into his face.

A spray of blood arcs, splattering all over the rich upholstery of the chair I would have danced on. He rolls over as his blood dots every surface within three feet of him.

“You bitch!” he wails through his broken nose.

I look at my foot, already turning black and blue. The top took the brunt of the force.

As he fights for air through his shattered nose, I close my right hand around the cufflink and tear it off his sleeve. His eyes bulge, and I see my death in them.

As he tries to stand, I back up to the door. My bad hand reaches out for the knob. I glance behind me.

His eyes are on me. His blood drips all over his expensive white shirt, now dulling to rust. Ronnie's fists clench as he moves toward me.

I bat at the knob again, and my fingers ignore my command. I'm panicking so much that I forgot to use my good hand.

I transfer my cufflink trophy to my left hand, jerk the knob with my right, and swing the door open.

I almost stop when I see that pandemonium reigns supreme.

But it's not safe to pause when the devil's at your door. I feel his breath on my neck as I fling myself over the threshold into the pack of screaming and running people.

I know why the security guards weren't at my door.

They're on their knees. Cuffs like fine jewelry slip onto the wrists of the men who may have guarded me from Ronnie.

A cop looks up and meets my eyes. His gaze narrows, and he shouts to a free cop, “There's one of them.”

I turn and run, expecting to see Ronnie with open arms, his shirt stained from my high heeled move.

But he's gone.

And so am I. I scatter to the back entrance and leap down the stairs. My head is on fire, my temples pounding. My sense of balance feels as if it's permanently gone. I grip the cold metal handrail, smack the paddle handle of the emergency exit, the alarm shrieks, and I jog into the night.

I take a right at an alley I know then a left. I hop on one foot and ditch the heels in a trash can. I get caught in the reflective headlights of a cat, indignant and hissing when I disturb his hunt for a midnight snack.

I really run then, pouring on the speed as my bare feet slap sidewalks full of dirt, gum, and eighty years of pedestrian traffic. I see First Street as my lungs burn.

I think of nothing but getting to my apartment.

I run to the main door of my building, slapping my palms against it and fumble with the security number for the coded lock. I jerk it open and run inside, feel the cool hex tiles on my bare feet and look down. My foot is a nightmare of red. A large bruise forms with a deep knot of color in the center.

From a nose.

I shut the door and pray that I lost the cop. My forehead feels hot against the metal door. My heartbeat slows, and my bad hand stops shaking.

But not my body. It trembles, proof of my adrenaline drying in a fine sheen against my skin.

I hope the freight elevator works tonight, because if it doesn't, I might sleep right where I am.

A small mirror with flaking paint hangs crooked to the right of the elevator, separating the stairs from the fine mesh of the metal elevator doors. I catch sight of my face. Relief pours through me.

The mask.

I never took it off. The cops don't know who I am.

With a quaking hand I remove it, and reveal my gaze to the mirror. It's me in there somewhere and I give the girl in the reflection a sad little smile.

I faced my worst fear tonight and survived. My anonymity is still intact.

I leave the mask on the shabby table just beneath the mirror. Probably meant to hold something while a person adjusts their tie.

Or cufflinks.

I slowly open my left hand. Uncooperative in battle but faithful in this. I turn my palm up and peel my thumb away. My stepfather's cufflink glitters at me, solid gold with a small diamond in the center. Tears blind me as my bad hand holds onto that tangible evidence of my success.

It’s a token of my survival. Maybe I'm like the cat I met at the dumpster. Nine lives. I could use one about now.

I move through the elevator doors and close them with a clank. I shut my eyes as the elevator moves to the fifth floor. The soft rocking motion lulls me as I move closer to my haven of solitude.

The bell chimes when the elevator arrives at my floor, and I walk the short distance to my apartment door.

Opening it with my right hand, I shove the door open and close it behind me, turning to latch it.

I lean against the familiar surface. Finally safe. Not for always but for today.

I turn and see Jared McKenna sitting on my couch, long legs stretched out.

His face changes to a look of concern when he takes in my disheveled clothing.

Or it could be my wide, shocked eyes.

“Faren,” Mick says, unfolding from the couch.

I watch his big body move, and I can't hold my emotions in check anymore.

I know it's wrong to use him like he wants to use me. I should be ashamed but all I feel is relief.

“What happened?” Mick asks, those dark eyes raking down my torn dress to my dirty, shoeless feet. His expression darkens. “Who hurt you?”

I meet his eyes, and they're full of protection.

For me. My bottom lip trembles from the aftershock of the night, his concern, my revelations.

He takes my hands and my left isn't prepared. The gold cuff link rolls out onto the floor with a clatter of metal against wood. Mick's eyes sweep to the trinket.

He scoops it up and holds it in front of my face. “Who. Is. He?” he asks with quiet menace. Not directed at me, but the phantom attacker.

My mouth parts, and his eyes move to my lips. “Nobody,” I reply.

It's the truest lie I've ever told.

~ 2 ~

“Faren.” Mick grips the cufflink, and it winks its damnation at me.

What had possessed me to take it?

“I got mugged.” It's not a smooth lie, but it's all I have.

Mick searches my face, and his arm falls to his side.

His eyes drill me for a heartbeat, then Mick sets it down carefully on the small table that holds my keys. He frowns and puts his strong hands on his hips. “You were mugged by a man wearing cufflinks?”

What can I say? “I... yeah.” When his eyebrows pop, I quickly expound, “I think he was a pimp or something.” The web of deceit grows and sounds even more ridiculous.

And it does circle the truth fairly well. Of course, the whirlpool remains, and its vacuum is trying to suck me in.

Mick's gaze shifts to the cufflink again. “What did he look like?” Mick's trying to take charge, flesh out the culprit, exhaust the inconsistencies.

I don't lie. He and Ronnie don't run in the same circles, I bet. “He's about my height.”

That hot gaze slides to mine, full of rage, and I step back.

“Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault...”

He rakes his hand through his neat hair. It spikes and makes him look younger, though I know he hasn't seen thirty yet. Who the hell is worth a billion dollars and doesn't even have a gray hair? My distrust builds as quickly as my lust, and they jockey for position inside me like enemies.

“I know that.” His eyes sweep back to mine, the black of his anger bleeding into the deep chocolate of his gaze. “I'm not blaming the victim.”

His earlier comment about me leaving in this outfit stains the air between us, spoiling our breaths as he stares at me, yet he never references it. His brooding gaze seeks me like a heat missile, and I see something different in their depths.

“Come here.”

I take two steps that put me close to Mick, so near I feel the heat from our bodies. He makes me feel small, and I'm tall even without heels. He must be 6'3”. His hands land on my shoulders and stroke the skin. Mick moves those hands back and forth, warming me. His touch causes a riot of goose bumps that run to my nipples. They rise like small peaks on the mountains of my breasts. Mick's eyes flick down before they slowly rise to mine, holding my gaze prisoner. He captures me easily as though he understands on some basest enigmatic level... I never want to let go.

I step back. His hands slip down my arms, his fingers moving into my hands. Our fingertips cling for a breath before parting. My left hand twitches as he releases me, and I see him smile.

I smile back, reminding myself that he has the means to learn anything about me. He's already investigated me enough.

“I'm going to get cleaned up,” I say.

“You should call the police,” he says, his eyes tracking me as I make my way to the bathroom.

I nod. “You're right.”

His eyelids drop, covering his skepticism. “But you won't, will you?”

I shake my head and dip my head to hide my smirk.

Neither of us ask the biggest question: What was I doing that got me mugged by a man who wore solid gold cufflinks?

Why doesn't Mick demand to know where I was? His eyes ask, but nothing comes out of that sexy mouth of his.

How can Ronnie Bunce run from the law but do well enough to pay ten thousand dollars for a lap dance?

“I'm staying,” Mick states as he strolls to my couch and gracefully falls into.

“Suit yourself,” I murmur, when its all I can do to breathe through him being here.

His lips twitch and I stalk into the bathroom. I crank the shower faucet on, and it groans to reluctant life. I let the water run because it takes so long for hot water to travel through a thousand feet of eighty-year-old cast iron piping.

I strip out of my outfit and toss it into my small waste basket. It's garbage, like the memory it symbolizes.

There's so little material it fills up only a third of the hole in the can. My eyes fixate on the glittering sunset material and tears threaten. I know deep down that just because I've thrown away the evidence of what I do doesn't mean I won't do it again. I know Thorn will move the lap location like he does each week. He'll stay just one step ahead.

I just can't do it with that monster. Not now, not ever.

I can't tell Jared McKenna that my stepfather tried to attack me tonight. Jared can’t serve justice to Ronnie because the job I perform places me before him like a platter of forbidden fruit. My mom's sacrifice will be for nothing if I keep dancing.

I can't go back.

I must.

The water hits my neck, and I lift my chin and let it pool and run down the front of me. My billionaire... whatever he is, is sitting in my cramped living room while I bathe mere steps away. Arousal beats a path between my legs and pulses there. I leisurely soap myself, forgetting my brush with danger.

I take extra time between my legs. My guilt roars up in a hot flush when I remember how Mick assaults my lips.

My breasts.

I want him to do everything to me and know nothing about what I do, I bury the shame of using him deep.

It's a dangerous game that I've set myself up to lose. I simply don't have Mick's fiscal resources. I have to follow the path I've set, but I don't have to like it.

I finish washing my hair as the water cools. The tank in the old building blows through hot water in less than fifteen minutes.

I step out, towel myself off, and wonder if Mick wears a suit to bed. How does he look without it? My cheeks singe.

My cell rings outside the bathroom, and I let it go. After the fifth ring, it cuts off, and I hear the melodic tones of Jared McKenna.

Jesus, maybe it's Thorn. Or someone equally awful. My heart starts an unlawful rhythm.

Why would Mick answer my cell? That... He just thinks he can do anything.

I jerk the towel around myself and stomp out to the living room. My long hair wet enough to drip a trail of pissed off behind me.

Mick's eyes flick up. His large hand holds a big rectangular cell. One I don't recognize.

He finishes his conversation. “Yes, I’ll be there.” His eyes glitter as he takes in my lack of clothing. “I've said yes twice. Handle it.” His head dips, and his gaze slides away.

Mick listens to the anonymous caller and says, with finality in his voice, “I won't revisit this conversation, Jimmy. That's what I hired you for.”

He swipes the cell and it appears to power down, the screen brightening like a falling star before winking into velvet blackness. Mick's shadowed eyes return to mine. He points the cell at me and cocks his head. “You know... I like what you're wearing, don't get me wrong, but shouldn't you have clothes on?”

My face flames. Images of where my hands were on my body filter through my mind like a shuffling deck of cards and I reply in anger as I often do when I'm nervous.

Or cornered.

“You answered my cell,” I accuse.

Mick smiles. “No.” He lifts his own in answer.

I feel my face furrow.

He expounds, “Same ring tone, perhaps?” He crosses his leg casually. His eyes belie the aloof mannerism. Holding heat, his gaze never leaves the bare skin my towel reveals.

I back up and want to cross my arms so badly I almost drop my towel. He smirks again. Nothing so obvious as that. When Mick smirks, just the corners of his lips turns up.

“Prove it,” I bark.

And with a thumb press, his phone blinks back to life and my ring tone sounds from his phone.

“So it's a coincidence,” I say quietly, mollified.

“It appears so.” His eyes touch mine then look away. “Though I am not a believer.”

My head whips to his. “In what?”

Those eyes lock on mine as he stands and stalks toward me. He watches the water drip around the hollows of my collarbones, running to the shadow between my breasts.

“Coincidence.” His breath whispers against my face as he reaches me.

~ 3 ~

He inserts a finger inside the terrycloth that tightly circles my breasts. I clutch it with my good hand while my bad hand loosely holds the fine material of Mick's lapel.

“I want to finish something between us,” he says. Mick's eyes roam over all my exposed flesh.

“And I want to know what you're doing in my apartment,” I answer, and Mick chuckles.

It seems as though he's always laughing at me, but nothing I'm doing is funny. Time's at a premium. I barely escaped from “psychotic daddy: and now I have sex-on-a-stick moneybags who blanks my thoughts every time he's within a mile of me. That's a good thing. I’m not much for introspection at the moment.

I need to take back the reins. I glare at him, wanting him while despising his assumptions.

Mick spreads his hands inoffensively. “I am a man of many talents.”

“Okay.” My death grip on the towel tightens without mercy. “This is your modus operandi? You pick girls' locks as an attraction maneuver? Because I've got to say, pal, that’s a creeper move.” My brows rise. “For the record, after the whacked out night I've had, coming home to you was the cherry on top of a freaky cake.”

Mick's eyes crinkle and he laughs, filling my small apartment with the genuine and wonderful sound.

“What's so funny?” My tone changes into clear suspicion.

His grin stays as he answers, “You.”

“Fine, you park out here like the rich stalker you are. When I come back, I expect a full explanation.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Mick answers. It sounds more like come and get me.

Or maybe that's my overactive imagination. I’ve been doing a lot of that since I met Mr. McKenna.

I slam the door to my bedroom, rip off the towel, and fling it into the corner. I stride to my dresser, tear open my top drawer, and hunt through my panties and bras. I pick, without shame, my sexiest matching set. They remind me of the outfit I threw away. That I can't afford to throw away.

The memory that sunset dress represents is worse than keeping it around to remind me. I slide the all-lace thong onto my body, the edges glowing like a deep burning sunset along my creamy skin. I throw my bra on with a vicious hook and twist, dumping my breasts into the wide lace. The thickest part barely covers my nipples.

I take a quick look in the mirror, the adrenaline from my escape the fuel to the fire of my eventual consumption by Mick.

I want answers. Why is he in my apartment? Why is he taking over my life?

Why am I allowing it?

I know why but can't admit it. Too many truths in too short a time. I feel as if a fuse in my brain has short-circuited. A trend where he's concerned.

Mick hit me with his motorcycle. Even I have to concede how weird that is. Mick knows a lot about me, but he doesn't know about my terminal illness. He doesn't know that Ronnie Bunce bought me for ten thousand bucks and never got his dance because of a fortuitous raid.  What's with his relaxed attitude? Wasn't his “classy” Black Rose going to get tarnished now that his revolving lap dance club got nailed by the police?

Exchanging sexual favors for money is illegal. A spike of shame pierces me. It feels so real, the hot poker of my embarrassment is there regardless of my justifications for why I do it.

Mick would probably die a thousand deaths before he'd date a dancer. Unlike him, I know what will happen. My fate is set. My eyes slide down my body in the reflection, noting the healing bruises. The one high on my upper inner thigh is a pale gold smudge. The one from McKenna's bike is solid with the faintest trace of tread. I fight the urge to laugh, Mick’s ownership is a stark duality. I work at his club, and it bruises me; his bike hits me, and I bear his mark.

Bruised but not beaten. The final consummation remains.

An idea forms, and my lips twitch. I can taste whatever I was before drowning in my current reality. The truth sets us free.

I slip on a pair of shorts so skimpy the bruise from the bike is in full relief, a lash of purple against my leg. The proof of my occupation lays hidden where Mick can't see. Yet.

I want the pole bruise to show like the brand it is. I want His Hotness to be acutely reminded of how we met. Though I know he remains blissfully ignorant of that pivotal first meeting.

I'll never forget the way that filthy money felt as I clutched the damp bills.

I throw a pewter cami over my bra and turn slowly in front of the mirror. The soft pewter sweatpant shorts look like mist against my pale skin.

The color is a perfect compliment to the bruise, showcasing it. I slip on platform flip flops with a glitter thong of silver and walk out of the bedroom.

Project Guilt Trip is in full throttle. I want to provoke Mick. Shatter his reserve.

I'm shaking off my stepfather trying to resume abusing me. I'm moving toward my goal of spending my remaining life the way I want. People always think about what they'd do if they have no time left, but I surprise myself every day. My plans morph as time unravels.

I walk out of my bedroom and pause when my eyes catch Mick reclining on my couch. His long arms flow along the back, nearly spanning the length of it, and I gulp. Mick's sheer size moves me, makes my attraction to him more acute. I like the idea of being overwhelmed by him.

He has shed his jacket. His cufflinks glitter on the bare glass of my coffee table. As I move toward him, Mick studies me with eyes that stand at half-mast. He appears casual, but I'm familiar with pain and anxiety. It's how I gage how much torture my physical therapy patients can endure.

I smile when I see how I'm playing him perfectly. His eyes roam my form and skitter to a pulse-freezing stop at the large bruise. Mick takes a cleansing breath and the exhale shudders out of him in an empty echo.

“Okay,” he relents, “let's talk.” His eyes don't move from that mar against my pale skin, heavy and damning.

“Go ahead.” I sit down across from him. I cock my head, my long hair sliding over my shoulder, and I watch him lick his lips. “After all, the burden is on you. Every bit of it.”

“I'm sorry, Faren.”

“You spend a lot of time apologizing.”

His eyes narrow, deepening to dark chocolate. “You know, you're goddamned rude sometimes.”

I nod. I don't know if that's the truth but it feels right. “Yes.”

“Fine,” Mick says, non-plussed. “As long as you know it.”

I lean forward, pushing my elbows into my sides, the motion driving my breasts forward and Mick's speech is arrested, his gaze pegging my assets as surely as the sun rises.

“Listen,” I begin, “you hit me with your bike.”

His eyes return to mine and a flush takes hold of his face. It's subtle, a heightening in the color across his cheekbones. It spreads as I watch, lighting the top of his ears slightly. I watch Mick fight his emotions.

Bingo.

If there's one thing lap dancing's taught me, it's my value. My body is a powerful tool. I've given up chunks of who I am in exchange for control over others. It's evil.

It's also a terrible necessity.

I put his feet to the fire. “And you more or less called me a whore. You implied that I was faking innocence.” I lean back, and cross a long leg, so utterly not innocent.

Mick watches my movement with a look I can't read.

“And now”—I throw my palm vaguely toward the door—“you've shown up in my apartment through entry of dubious means. I think the weight of explanation lies firmly with you.

That color that rose to the surface of his skin fades. “Fair enough. But you might not like what you hear.”

We stare at each other as my heart drums a rhythm that's fierce and insistent, reminding me I'm alive. That reminder is brutally beautiful.

“Fine. I'd rather have the bald truth. It's better than lies through omission,” I say.

His dimple flashes and disappears. Mick plows a hand through his hair, and I take in the edges of a sleeve tat. It’s been hidden all this time underneath custom tailored shirts, tethered by precious metal. Now he has rolled up his sleeves, folding them halfway up a bulging muscled forearm and I'm struck anew by his physique. He has the body of someone who's known physical labor. A man honed by honest work.

Not the privilege of the wealthy. The honest part is up for discussion.

That can't be. Rich guys like Jared McKenna have people who do all the work. They just delegate. Like the old story about Henry Ford pushing a button from his desk. An expert would come in and answer whatever question Ford couldn't answer.

Mick leans forward, his legs spread while his knotted hands dangle between his knees. He sighs, looking at me. “I've misunderstood you.”

He has no idea.

Mick stares at me, and I make my face blank. Easy to do when he's not touching me. I stay on my side of the coffee table, and he stays on his.

Miles separate us, and nothing does. Thinking about it makes my head ache. I feel the heat and magnetism between us like a living vapor twining and seeking entry into me.

“You asked me why I want to date you. Can it just be that I find you attractive?” he asks and I answer a question that might be rhetorical.

“No.” I hold his gaze. “You're mega-rich. You can have any girl you want. I'm not flattered.” Yet.

“True.”

I laugh and fold my arms. The arrogance.

“You told me you wanted honesty,” Mick defends simply when he sees my expressions morph in a myriad of emotions.

I nod. “Yes.”

“When I hit you with my Harley...” Mick dips his head, and his hand massages the back of his neck in a frustrated swipe. He lifts his eyes to mine, and his hand falls.

Mick's gaze seeks the bruise on my thigh, on perfect display against the backdrop of my gray shorts and peaches and cream perfection. It's ugly.

A battle scar.

He moves forward. “I had to make it right. Here's a young woman, so distraught she doesn't look where she's going, and I barely stop in time to...”

I finish for him in my head. Not kill her.

“It's an Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole, Faren.” His molten whiskey eyes never leave mine, and the intensity of that gaze pins me helplessly against my chair. His eyes caress me as he speaks. “I never meant to fall down that hole, but once I made sure I’d taken care of your needs and you would live without permanent damage...” He lifts those broad shoulders and claps. “I found out what I needed to. His eyes don't waver as he pierces me with the heat of his confession. “I know you take care of others. Then, I wondered why you chose to be a physical therapist. So, I googled you.”

I feel a slow tumble of muscled limbs as Mick rotates down that unknown tunnel that is my life.

Oh my God, he googled me. Goosebumps rise, fleeing over my skin and I shiver, thinking of what he knows.

His expression frightens me, it darkens like the promise of a storm bent on staying awhile, cleaning the corners of everything it touches and scattering it to the wind.

“And that bastard who called himself your father.”

I watch those large hands of his separate, clenching and flexing. They remind me of my own bad hand. My eyes stray to my isometric device, and Mick follows my glance.

He nods. “I know how difficult your recovery was. I know what he did.”

“You don't know everything.” My stomach burns even though he does not mention Ronnie by name. My mother's beating and subsequent hospitalization was sensational enough to be easy pickings on the internet.

Mick shakes his head. “I know enough.”

I can handle him knowing, I can compartmentalize his hotness, his wealth. It doesn't have to affect me. It's something for me to experience as my punchcard for this life fills as I sit here with him.

What I cannot stand is his pity. I can't bear the compassion in his eyes. I won't be some kind of mercy case.

I want to know, just once, what real sex is before what I do makes me indifferent to what sex can be.

And my heart has made up my mind for me. My intellect screams that I should just find out about sex with an anonymous Joe. Hell, there're a million laps that would take what I offer.

I don't want those. I want Mick. He knows it. I know it.

For the first time in my life, I'll have what I want on my terms.

I stand, and he does too. His fists are still clenched, ready to pound someone. Those few seconds of introspection I force on myself were mine alone. Mick still wants to avenge me from the phantom mugger.

I scare myself with how badly I want him to hurt Bunce. Feeling that way doesn't help me with my most pressing goals. I need to keep my shit together. I can't allow things to get all jumbled.

Ronnie will turn up. My mom needs me. I need the job that's under Jared McKenna.

And I want to be underneath him as well, losing something precious

Not stolen by the thievery of men who hold value only for their wants.

~ 4 ~

Mick takes my left hand as we impose an artificial and calculated distance between us. He raises it to his lips and kisses the hills of each knuckle, lifting his eyes to mine between the valleys of my left hand. My hand spasms in his grip, and his eyes tighten.

I'm embarrassed and try to snatch it away.

“No, Faren,” he says.

I can't make the damn thing cooperate. My lip rolls into my teeth, and I hold it there, worrying the supple flesh like a dog with a bone. Mick turns over my hand, and his deep brown eyes run over the fine scars that map where the doctors played Humpty Dumpty.

Putting me back together again.

I gasp as he lays his mouth against my shaking hand. It quiets under the heat of his lips, and a sigh escapes me. His touch commands a visceral reaction from my body. It's sensual when he doesn't mean for it to be, tender and resolute, taking me by surprise.

An unguarded moment, but not unwanted.

“He did this to you.” Mick’s tongue flicks over the uppermost knot of scar tissue, a peak in the center of my palm.

The press of his hot tongue undoes the yarn of my memory and the ball unwinds. I try to hold it back, but like all memories that hold savagery, this one runs like uncontainable water.

I see the knife stab my hand, pinning me to the carpet. A matted pool of blood congeals under me, binding me and cooling me. I can't move. Bunce gets close. He twists the knife. My fingers flinch involuntarily, movement where none was meant to be.

“Gotcha,” he whispers in a foul vapor of stale beer and unwashed teeth.

I scream deeply, my voice a hoarse shriek. Mom lays unblinking, one side of her face frozen. The other eye slides to her daughter crucified on the floor.

Bunce never sees her roll in a graceful turn of feral fluidity, the instinct to protect her child the only one that matters. The heavy glass sphere in her hand hits his head with a meaty thwack.

He's unconscious when I tear the knife from my palm. The metal slides and grinds as it sucks out of my flesh. I gasp in pain, swallowing it like the deeply bitter pill it is.

“Run, Faren!” Tannin Mitchell screams.

I stagger to my feet and stumble out the door and down the steps that led to our perfect house. Like a spoiling cake, the interior had rotted while the frosting remained pristine.

My call for help came too late to save my mom.

“Faren.”

I hear my name through my fog of recollection, a soupy existence on a plane only I know. My private hell.

My eyes open to Mick cradling me.

“Come back to me,” he says.

“I'm here.” My mind still floats in the horrible memory, suffocating me. I went away for a little while when he kissed the remnants of that battle for my life.

Mick folds my body against his. “I'd kill him if I could.” His face contains thunder.

For the first time in my lust-filled dilemma, I wonder who the real Jared McKenna is.

I come back to myself as Mick watches my personality fill the vacancy of my eyes. I see the truth in his. Mick doesn't want easy. He might even believe in fate.

I've never believed in fate more than I do in this moment. “I know,” I say, answering him.

His eyes search mine. “I really am sorry.”

I nod. His strong hands wrap around me. Then, inch by painful inch, he sets me away from him. Our bodies silently cry out for each other, and he actually winces.

Mick continues to gaze at me, seeming to come to a decision. Maybe it was him watching me battle a memory he can't know anything about. Maybe it's my recent close call with danger.

“I have something to confess.” A smile ghosts his full lips and I find myself licking mine in unconscious response.

Oh no, what now?

“I want you to know how I made my money.” His weighted eyes land on mine.

I shrug.

Nothing he can tell me will bring him down to earth for me. I'm living a rare existence measured in breaths, not years. He can't affect me with his background, though I am curious. My heart races from remembered tragedy, from his nearness to me.

“I—I invented something.” The way Mick says it, he sounded as though he's admitting something embarrassing.

That’s not what I’d thought he would say. His words peg me to the floor as my mouth hangs open, begging for flies to catch. He chuckles, nervousness threading through his attempt at a light confessional.

He explains his invention, giving me the layperson's rendition, I'm sure. I fold my arms under my breasts as I get up and walk to my couch. I stare at him. The calloused hands, the muscles too striated for words make sense now. Those muscles don't dance before my eyes because he's a mirror lover in his thousand-square foot gym of glass and exercise equipment I imagine is at his disposal.

“Let me get this straight... You invented a fuel cell for airplanes? That’s ground-shattering technology. What, do you have an incinerator for the money in your mansion?”

Mick doesn't deserve my sarcasm. I can tell he told me that to normalize himself in my eyes. I scan his expensive clothes. His shirt is worth more than a quarter of my monthly pay.

His face hardens. The beautiful cleft in his chin is a dark spot like a period on the end of the sentence of his anger. “Listen, I never had money. I did the same thing my dad did, but with a twist. He was an auto mechanic, and when I was a kid, I dreamed of planes.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, stares at his Italian shoes, and frowns. “I wanted to fly planes, but at the time, pilots needed perfect vision. So I became an airplane mechanic. I went through school, working full time, and I found I had a knack for making a leap of logic. Several, as it turns out.”

I don't miss his double entendre. My ear has been to the ground since the minute I lay on that cool street, his hand in mine as his bike rumbled in the background.

Mick meets my eyes. A trick of light makes them look like low burning embers of raw emotion and conviction. “It's not only planes. The part I conceptualized to advance fuel economy has given me the means to do more than I’d ever imagined. I've used those means to grow an empire of holdings. But in the beginning, I was just a kid with a dream who used what he'd been given.” His eyes bored into me. “With a ton of sweat and determination, I made my life what it is now.”

I don't know what to say. If he says he misjudged me, I'm guilty of that as well. I feel shame, but for different reasons. If he has billions of dollars, why does Mick choose to run the premier strip clubs of the west coast? His Black Rose establishments pepper this side of America. If he's so goddamned good, so hardworking, so everything... why is he okay with selling flesh?

He nods, almost to himself. “There you have it. I'm not some rich guy who... what did you say?” He chuckles.

“Poops gold,” I reply absently, buried in my conjectures.

Mick laughs in a rich baritone that makes my insides clench and my core tingle. I'm so in trouble. Why did I have to meet someone who seems so tailor-made for me when I can't fully realize the potential? It's like a horrible tease. As Mick unwraps his history like a finely packaged gift, the mystery, the fine layers of the man don’t dissuade me. His motivations should alarm me.

Instead, they heighten my desire.

“Hey,” Mick says in a quiet voice, seeing something on my face that makes him move toward me in two graceful steps. His eyes search mine. “I told you that because I want you to know we're not much different.”

I shake my head with a little laugh. “Au contraire, Mr. McKenna. We so are.”

His lips twist in sage agreement. “You're right. I'm jaded and you're... innocent.”

I feel the heat from my blush and hate it. I hear another low chuckle and move away, erecting that careful distance again. But Mick gently tugs me against his hard body.

“No, we're the same where it counts, Faren.”

He laces his fingers through mine and raises our knotted hands to his heart. I swallow through the heat of my desire and my despair at my circumstances.

I feel the warmth of our hands through my thin cami and close my eyes, so lost in the sensation that I can't think. His words slip into me like cool water against my parched mind, soothing... complete.

Dangerously drowning.

“In here.” Mick presses my good hand more tightly against himself. His heartbeat pushes against my flesh.

He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't need to. Our hearts beat in sync like they were always one, and I suddenly know. He wants meaningful sex.

And I want more.

~ 5 ~

We bounce apart like guilty teenagers caught making out as pounding reverberates against the door. “Faren!”

Kiki. Fuck.

I give Mick an apologetic look. He frowns but walks over to where his jacket lies neatly folded. My heart rate decreases. I heave a sigh and undo the three locks. The chain keeps the door latched as I take in Kiki's brown eyeball.

“What?” I hiss.

Her wide eye lights on my body, roaming me head to toe. Seeing I'm in one piece she glances behind me at Mick.

“I heard.”

“Not now.”

“Yes now,” she insists.

I close the door, slide the chain back, and open the door. Kiki breezes in wearing half of her costume from the club. Mick gives her a considering look, the wheels in that fine mind turning. I guess he really doesn't know who works for him.

Too many women to keep track of.

Mick sure as hell knew who Thorn is though. But acknowledging him in my hospital room would have meant explaining why, and I don't think Mick's ready for me to know that part.

He hasn't told me he owns ten clubs on the west coast. His confession might have meant more to me if he'd come clean about that. However, it's not a requirement.

I cast my eyes to the floor, regaining my composure.

It's not fair that I expect him to tell me why he owns strip clubs when I don't admit I'm one of his many employees.

I turn my bad hand over and look at the healing bruise on my wrist. Using my wrist as a balancing tool on the pole instead of gripping had become too much. I don't know how much longer I could have kept it up. Certainly not on the complicated sets. That'd been a small part of my decision to move to laps. They were awful, but they didn't take hand work.

Well, not that kind.

“The cavalry's arrived,” Mick says dryly.

I smirk, my eyes roving to his crotch in what I think is a subtle glance. His brows pop as he catches me checking on the condition of his package. I feel heat climb my body, and I want to gag at my obviousness. He's making me obtuse.

“Yeah,” Kiki says, her hands on her curvy hips. She looks from me to him. “Did I interrupt anything?”

Kiki doesn't care. She asks the question as she faces me so Mick doesn't see her expressions. Not obvious or anything. Yeah, right.

But he sees my expression. My eyes are the window to my soul.

Finally, I answer, “No.” My eyes flick to Mick's, and his tighten with my words. “Mick was just leaving.”

I don't want to put him off. But he was waiting in my apartment, breaking and entering. Into my body.

My heart.

I should be scared by his intense interest. Worried over him waiting for me. Alarmed about his knowledge of me. But I don't have the time.

I have time only for what I choose.

Mick's unhurried gaze roams my body, pausing where he wants. He moves to the door, giving Kiki a second glance. He seems to be trying hard to place her.

I see it when he does, and I clamp down hard on my expression.

“Have we met before Miss King?” His piercing scrutiny is unnerving.

Kiki tilts her chin up to meet his eyes. “Just here, with Faren.” She gives nothing away, and I want to kiss her.

They have a stare-a-thon while I stand uncomfortably beside them.

“I guess not,” he says in a slow drawl, his eyes shifting to mine.

She nods. “See ya.”

His eyes meet mine in a fierce stare. He pulls me against him as if Kiki's not there, as if his realization of who she is and what it means for us doesn't exist.

Mick's thumbs press under my jaw. His long fingers wind around my neck, and he lifts my mouth to his. My platform flip flops bringing me inches closer to those full lips.

But it's not enough.

His head bends, and I rise to my tiptoes to meet him. The kiss grows, and I melt against him as his tongue slides between my lips. When my hands move to his shoulders, I grip his lapels, dragging him nearer. Mick resists deepening the contact, releasing my face and stepping away. His eyes flick behind me. The translucent brown of his irises are replaced by the black velvet of desire.

“I'll be in touch, Faren.”

My lips still tingle with the touch of his. I can still taste him. My hand covers the mouth he just kissed and I say nothing as I watch him leave.

Kiki walks around me and shuts the door with her ass, slapping her palms on the wood and stares at me. “What the fuck was that?”

I turn away, guilty over Kiki not knowing. I don't know what to do, so I talk about what I can. “My stepfather showed up.”

“What?!” she shrieks, put off course by the revelation.

I cringe before I go to the stove and slap on the tea kettle that Mick had moved. My hand shakes as I turn on the burner.

“Faren? Sweet Jesus, talk to me.”

I don't say anything, cranking up the heat while I wipe down the already clean countertop.

“Okay,” Kiki says and paces behind me. “I got a weird ass email from Thorn saying that all laps have been suspended. He gives an alternate address for the next lap place. I'm on call, so I still get the emails.”

I pivot toward her. “Yeah... There was some kind of raid tonight.”

Kiki's eyes go from slits to saucers, her brow furrowing. “What? Laps aren't illegal.”

Neither one of us talk about the extracurricular stuff, but someone obviously did. I don't think any of the girls don't do the extras. I might be the only virgin, but I'm certainly no longer innocent.

Kiki exhales sharply, and a strand of dark hair floats around her face. “Bunce was there?”

Kiki's face crumples. “What the fuck is he doing? I mean, he should be in jail, and he's going to lap dance venues?”

“I was the auction girl,” I admit as neutrally as possible.

“Oh shit-in-a-sack, girl.” Kiki's eyes narrow. She puts it all together easily. Pity, sympathy, and fear mix in her expression. “He won you.”

I nod again, my eyes still dry. That’s a miracle. “Yes. I didn't know. It was like it was a setup, but I don't think Thorn knew.”

“How...?” Her brows rise.

“Cops busted in as he was chasing me around the room.”

Kiki puts her hand to her ample, heaving chest. Her throat convulses in a hard swallow. “That was close.”

“Yeah, it was.” My anger rises like high tide, swamping all my other emotions. “He has no right.” I shake, my bad hand trembling with my anger. “Mom is in that stinking mental limbo—lights on but nobody home—because of him. Yet all he can think about is getting at me. What the hell is Bunce doing that he can even afford to come to a place like that?”

“We gotta go to the cops!” Kiki says.

I shake my head. “What do you think will happen if we do, Kik?”

After staring at me for several moments, Kiki answers, “They'll throw your ass in jail because of the extras.”

“Bingo, give the girl a prize,” I mutter. Neither of us says what I'm thinking. I wouldn’t be able to see Mom. I wouldn’t make money. Mom would go into a state home. Ronnie Bunce might go to jail, but maybe not. He's free to come after me. He obviously has financial means.

Somehow.

“It costs a lot of money to be a member,” Kiki says speculatively, voicing my thoughts.

My cell chimes with an email notification, and I ignore it. The kettle whistles, so I pour the water into cups I always keep on the stove top. I stuff tea bags inside the cups.

“How much?” I ask as I face the stove.

“When I worked there, the other girls would talk. It's a short term occupation, obviously.”

I glance at her, and again that silent communication flows between us. It's a grab-the-cash-and-go job. Or become more than a lap dancer. I have an epiphany, and I almost drop the tea.

Kiki's eyes move to my face as she twines the tea bag string around her finger and dunks it. “What?” Kiki whispers, watching my expression as as the lightbulb flicks on.

“Holy crap, I think I know what that creep is doing.”

Kiki studies my face, pumping the tea bag up and down, her eyes full of questions.

“Pimp,” I say emphatically.

A light goes on in her face. “You think?” Her shaky breath skates across her hot tea, and her eyes meet mine over the rim.

“I know,” I say, taking silent inventory in my memory banks. I think about how he acts as though he owns women, especially me. I've witnessed his attitude with Thorn at the club. Of course, I know better.

Nobody owns me.

~ 6 ~

“Do we have a plan?” Kiki asks, pouring more water and leaving the old bag in the cup.

“We?” I say. “Wrong pronoun. Don't own this, Kik. You gave me the idea, and I took the job. It's my mess.”

Kiki leans forward, her hair tangling a little around the tea string. “You didn't bargain on Bunce.”

We sit in swollen silence for a moment.

“True, but there's more.”

Kiki flops against my couch, tea forgotten on the coffee table. “God, what now?”

My eyes aren't dry anymore. The mist of my sadness hangs on tenaciously... but I'm not inviting her to the pity party. Instead, I face it head on. “Remember when I got hit by Mick's motorcycle?”

“Mick, huh?” One side of her mouth lifts into an amused tilt.

I slowly nod. “Yeah.” I meet her dark eyes, and something she sees smooths out her features.

“Okay...” She snaps her fingers. “You were seeing the headache doc.” Her brows rise.

“It's more than a headache.”

Her eyes search my face, her posture tense. “What?”

I spit it out like a chunk of barf. “Brain tumor.”

Kiki had been leaning forward, but she slumps back again. I know then that it's more of a stunner than I thought. Nothing shuts up Kiki.

Finally she looks at me. “Why the hell didn't you tell me, Faren?”

I look at my hands, the left scarred from many surgeries, the right smooth and perfect. I lift my shoulders. “I... it was too much.”

Kiki blows out a breath that sounds like a deflated balloon. “Oh my god. Jared McKenna... the job… Your mom!”

I don't wince at the tone. Those are the same things I considered though not in that order.

“Yeah,” I say, taking a sip of my cool tea, grimacing, then setting it down.

We sit in silence, Kiki staring at the solid sheet of black that meets my window, midnight fast approaching. She looks at me. “I know this sounds hard... and shitty...”

“Months.”

Kiki puts her head in her hands and cries. “That's not long enough!”

I nod. Hell yes, it's not. I reach into the almost-empty tissue box and pluck out three tissues. They float and settle on her thighs like discarded clouds of sadness.

Kiki crumples them, her eyes pegging me with such intense sadness that I have to breathe through my own grief. Her wet face, the snot mixing with her tears, is too much. The reality is worse than what I’d envisioned.

“Are you sure, Faren?”

Her hope nails my sadness to the walls of emotions. It squirms for freedom.

“Yeah.”

“This is how you want to spend your... time? With a billionaire strip club owner, running from your stepfather, and dancing on laps?” Kiki shakes her head, trying to make sense of my reasoning.

Anger boils inside me. “It's about my mom. They'll put her in a state home!”

Kiki stares at me. Then slowly nods as my angry eyes beat the hell out of her. The situation makes me so mad, but Kiki's here, and she's asking the questions I don't want to explore

“True. So what's your excuse with Jared McKenna?”

I can't stop the blush that rolls over my skin in a hot wave of recall. “Wow, you've got it bad,” she says, watching my reaction.

“He has something I need,” I reply, not meeting her eyes.

Kiki leans forward. “I'm really sorry, Faren. You're my best friend, and I can't stand... can't even think...” She hiccups another half-sob.

“Don't,” I beg.

She nods, struggling with her emotions. Finally, Kiki wrestles them into submission. “Any guy has a cherry picker, Faren.”

I get a visual of a giant penis with a gizmo at the end- virgin slayer. I frown.

“He's your boss, he's...” She rolls her eyes as if the whole scenario is unbelievable.

Because it is.

“He's Jared McKenna. So far, you've been lucky the hunk-o-love moneybags hasn't put two and two together.”

Not yet but soon. “Not so far.” I put my hands under my butt and jiggle my legs.

“When he finds out you're a dancer, that your mom was... hurt by Bunce—”

“He knows.”

Kiki's brows shoot up. A laugh escapes my throat, which is so tight with grief I didn’t think it was possible to laugh. “He's had me investigated. I mean, he googled me.”

Kiki narrows her eyes. “That's just weird. I don't know if I should think that's flattering or you should run like hell.”

I laugh again. “I kinda told him that.”

“And?”

“Mick doesn't think there's such a thing as coincidence.”

Kiki shakes her head. “No guy believes in fate.”

I just stare at her.

Kiki whistles. “Huh, he's a different dude.”

“A different, filthy rich dude.”

“Yeah.” Kiki shoots me a significant glance. “Let's address the filthy part.”

I sigh. “I don't know why he peddles visual flesh.”

Kiki barks out a laugh and points at me. “Making me laugh in the middle of this revelation is pretty smooth.”

We fall silent again.

“He didn't get rich by accident,” I say. “He wanted to fly airplanes but invented some fuel-saving thingie, and now he's got his own planes, pilots, the works.”

Kiki's nose scrunches up, then she wags her finger. “Uh-uh. No.” Her expression tunnels down to skepticism. “So he makes bank with the invention. He was a real guy before—”

“Kinda a real guy now too,” I say, somehow keeping a straight face.

“Stop with the sarcasm, ya witch,” Kiki says.

I smile. She can almost make me forget.

Almost.

“He's Mr. Right Now?”

I cross my arms in a huff. I can’t explain the enigma of chemistry. I've never felt it before, and I've had tons of opportunities. Why does it have to be Mick? Why couldn't losing my virginity happen with some anonymous fool who can give me the experience without caring about anything more?

My shoulders sag.

“I don't know. I can't explain it. I just know that it's not fair for me to offer him what's not there.”

“Faren,” Kiki says, as serious as a heart attack, “you gotta know he wants more than a few fun humps.”

Kiki thrusts her hips back and forth with a cocked brow, and I laugh again.

I know Mick and I share something. I keep saying we don't need to go further, that we can be casual. Somehow, he nods and says the right words while his body moves against mine like ownership, forever... and maybe the promise of something I can't contemplate.

Love.

The L word is worse than a curse right now. It's a have not.

“He can have anyone for a fuckfest, Faren. He doesn't need you.” Kiki folds her arms, deep in thought. “This is going to sound awful because you know I think you're a little hottie, but”—her eyes apologize—“he can have any hot piece of ass he wants. Experienced tail.”

“I know.” I shrug with a small, sad laugh. “I don't understand it either. The more he knows about me, the more he seems determined to have me.”

“And?” Kiki says.

Truth time. “And I want to let him.”

Kiki stands, and I do too. She walks over and hugs me, some five inches shorter than me. “You don't have to do this, Faren. You want an anonymous guy to take your virginity? Done. You want to quit the laps? I'll give you the money. You want me to make an anonymous call to the cops and let them know their local high-end pimp is wanted for attempted murder?”

Her eyes hunt in mine so deeply I feel as though she's mining my soul.

“I'll do anything to make this better.” Kiki cups my face and swipes the lone tear that tracks down it, pulled by gravity, eased by her finger.

“Tell me what I can do. Because, god damn, you don't want love mixed in the witch's cauldron here.”

I'm so overwhelmed by her generosity, I can't speak. The lump in my throat chokes me. Our eyes lock.

“Don't tell me you're falling for... Mick?”

I say nothing.

I don't have to.

“Oh shit, honey...”

Kiki wraps me in her arms as I sob. The pity party's begun, and she’s crashed it. Just like I knew she would.

What are friends for?

~ 7 ~

Bryce again.

One-two-three, he huffs through his leg extensions and for the first time, my mind wanders during a session. It could be because Doc Matthews is pressing for protocol.

I have big decisions to make about radiations, chemotherapy and the rest.

I don't like “the rest.” I know the counteractives will make me sicker than the actual progression of the tumor's growth. They'll screw up the things I want to gain from the short life I have left. I can't allow it. So I'll go in and sign a novel's worth of release forms.

They don't want to be responsible for my decision.

My phone chimes with a text just as Bryce finishes his set.

He stands and grabs a terrycloth hand towel from a peg that reads Bryce, and he gives me a penetrating look that's part glare, part inquisition.

“You're not all here today, Miss Mitchell.” He wipes sweat off his forehead then drags the towel up his forearms.

You're not all here...

True. Definitely not all here. I don't answer with the whole truth. “I have a doctor's appointment, and I'm... thinking too hard.”

“Huh,” he says, staring at me.

“Headaches,” I supply, and Bryce's brows cock to his hairline.

I sigh. “Y'know, migraines.”

He nods, and my shoulders drop as my mind skitters across things like another therapist taking my patients when I'm gone. I shove the thought away, latching onto the conversation at hand.

“Yeah, my mom gets those once in awhile,” he says.

We stand awkwardly for a moment. Then Bryce asks, “Am I about done?”

I am.

I push through my emotions. “Yes, you've got almost full extension now.” I narrow my eyes, thinking about how hard he must have worked to finish his sessions early. My brows arch. “I guess you were doing your homework?”

Bryce grins. “For this? Yeah.”

I hear the part that he doesn't say—not for school.

“Listen, Bryce—”

He gives me the hand. “Nah... don't need a lecture about my future from my physical therapist.”

I smile. “Okay.”

Bryce nods and turns away. No limp anymore. He pivots back, and I see the light bulb of a question on his face.

“Yes?” I ask.

His eyes travel to my hand. The left.

“Is that why you do this?”

I don't look at it, but I feel the subtle tremble. “Yeah.” I give him steady eye contact.

“Can I see it?” Earnest. Young. Leave it to a teenager to go where adults fear to tread.

“Okay.” I don’t want to show anyone—ever.

I hold out my hand, and he towers over me. Bryce was a lineman on the football team before he wrecked his knee, and I feel the acute disparity in our sizes.

He’ll play again. We made sure of it—together.

Bryce's large hand opens my left hand. My fingers slightly curl, but the pinky sticks straight out, frozen. The twisted pucker scar on my palm is just off center. He runs a finger over it, and my entire hand convulses.

His eyes sweep to mine. “Why does it do that?”

I swallow hard. “It...” I collect myself as he hangs on to my hand. “There was nerve damage from the wound.”

His eyes darken. “Who did this to you, Miss Mitchel?”

I try to lighten the moment. “I thought you hated me?” I give a small smile, and he frowns. He doesn't take to my effort at distraction.

Bryce shakes his head. “No, I never did. I hated the therapy.”

I nod. I knew that. I gulp again. “My stepfather.”

“Jesus,” he whispers in horror. He looks at my messed up hand, a raw ball of pink flesh stares back at us.

It’s pretty horrible, bare to the scrutiny of a teenager whose main gripe is not playing football.

“Can you use it?” he asks.

Not much. “Yeah, some.”

His anger is palatable. It beats the air between us into a thick trench of emotion. “Where is this dick nozzle?”

I burst out laughing, and he lets go of my hand. “Dick nozzle, huh?” I grin, the tension evaporating.

He replies, totally serious, “I was editing that.”

My brows quirk. Wow, editing. Must've had a really choice comment.

“I hope they find that bastard,” Bryce says.

I hope so too. My palms sweat. I have laps tonight in a new location. I don't know what I'll do if Ronnie shows. Somehow, I don't think Thorn will give two shits who Ronnie is. Why does Mick have that prick in charge?

More questions than answers. Ones I can't ask without giving away what I'm doing.

After Bryce leaves, I reach into my smock and pull out my phone.

A text from Mick.

Of course.

A thrill shoots through me with dread at its heels. Mick is circling so close to the truth. Truths I don't want him to know.

Before I leave the clinic, Sue asks how my visit to the doctor went.

I thank her for the recommendation and say it went well. It's just another of many lies. I'm becoming expert at sinning by omission.

I have the papers to sign and my mom to see.

And money to collect off the lust of men.

But... I look at the text from Mick. Apparently, no circumstance in the universe can distract me from him. I'm getting sucked into the vortex of Mick.

I want to see you.

I want to see him too. My hand shakes as I text back the most important word of the day.

When?

*

I load ice into a washrag that I press against my eyes. It'll take the swelling down to something I can hide with makeup.

The tears come no matter how hard I resist them.

My mom's situation is worse. They’re talking of moving her to the state facility. The discussions have moved to down payments for retention.

Like my finances are incontinent.

I have two weeks to come up with ten percent of the year’s care of my mother, or she'll be moved.

My right hand throbs from the papers I signed at the hospital. Do I hold them liable since I don't want drugs that lengthen my short life but make what's left diminished?

Yes. I sign anyway. After thirty signatures, Faren Mitchell is a parody of who I am. White pages with blue mock me.

I slip on another work outfit. They all blend together now. I twirl in front of the mirror with no admiration for how it makes me look. Deliberate calculation stares back as I go through my mental tally.

Is it short enough? Does it show just enough skin? Did I remember to coat my nipples with edible strawberry lotion in anticipation of a stranger’s suckling?

Can I shower fast enough before Mick arrives to scour the filth of other men's mouths and fingers from my body? A burn begins behind my eyelids. I widen them, and the feeling passes.

I will not cry. I will work, dance, and collect money. Above all else, I will not contemplate what it means if Ronnie Bunce is psychotic enough to reappear.

I drop my cell inside my purse, along with my keys and lip gloss. I slip through my door and turn the bolt with a swift click. I turn and scream, my hand flying to my neck.

Mick stands there, a wicked look on his face. My startled gaze drags over him. His outfit is impeccable but more causal than I've ever seen.

I'm in my stripper outfit. Thorn is expecting me.

Shit and double shit.

Mick had told me he'd be here at midnight, not nine. I moved heaven and earth to get off work early, and here he is.

I'm so mad that Mick can't keep to our arrangement.

I get a physical reaction of pleasure that he ignores it.

My nipples harden, and a sliver of his neck holds my eyes as his heartbeat pulses in the exposed hollow. My body remembers him perfectly, reacting in a predictable, pulse-thudding surge of desire that hits my core like a typhoon. The fingers of lust touch every intimate spot on my body. Awakening it for him.

“Surprise,” he says, his deep rumble threading through my body.

~ 8 ~

My hand lowers from my chest, my heartbeat undaunted as we stare at each other. “I thought we agreed on midnight...”

Mick's deep auburn eyebrow arches. “You agreed.”

I swallow, and his eyes catch mine.

“Where were you going?” he asks, his eyes driving up my body like a whip of heat.

Oh god. “Out of milk.”

“Really?” He folds his arms.

My gaze shifts to his bulging biceps. He probably gets those sleek muscles from counting his money and throwing the extra into his built-in incinerator. I realize how uncharitable I'm being and laugh at myself before slapping my hand over my mouth. I'm living a surreal existence, and I keep finding pockets of humor at the strangest times. At least it gets me out of my insta-lust problem.

Mick strides to me, and my mouth closes. His athletic fluidity makes all of my other senses step back as my vision narrows to only him. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The material stretches taut over his chest and arms. The fine muscles in his forearms ripple as he puts one against my locked door and presses against me. I feel his hardness through the thin material of my outfit. It should trigger every alarm I have from the soulless job I perform... but it doesn't. Everything to do with Mick seems too real.

“Are you laughing at me, Miss Mitchell?” he whispers, pressing against me deeper.

I gasp when his mouth moves from my earlobe to the soft skin underneath it. His mouth swings back and forth, making me shiver uncontrollably. I lose every thought of work, timing, and my inappropriate milk-fetching outfit.

In his arms, I come alive.

My hands creep to Mick's broad shoulders as I beg with my mouth, rasping against the stubble that peppers his jawline. He doesn't make me wait, taking my mouth in a sweep of brutal ownership that makes me stop breathing. He ravishes me with a kiss so simultaneously deep, hard, and tender, I let go of him through sheer self-preservation. Mick sweeps his arms behind me and draws me into him, disallowing my escape. When his fingers plunge into my hair and my lipstick is worn away, Mick finally lifts his head.

We stare at each other, our ragged breathing the only noise that fills the hall.

Mick grins. “Now that's the only look I want you to wear, Faren. Naked would be better, but I'll take this too.”

His deep voice vibrates against my body, and I shiver from that subtle vibration, from his scandalous words and the images they provoke. I swim to the surface of my mind. I'm in the hall of my apartment building making out with Mick in my lap-dancing outfit.

Mick scrutinizes my morphing emotions as they blaze across my face. His brows pull together. The dip of dark red hair at his forehead is near-black in the shadowed hallway. “Tell me where you're really going, Faren.”

Mick demands, not with his words but with the gentle kisses he lays between my breasts and I shudder, sinking my fingers into his hair.

He groans.

“No.” My face turns, and his fingers tighten into my hips as he drags me deeper into the stiffness that presses between my legs. “You don't own me, Mr. McKenna,” I say in a voice low with need.

“God, I love your defiance,” he says, his tongue against my flesh. “It's such a turn on.”

My eyes seek his. “Only because it's true.”

He raises his eyes to meet mine. I can feel each of his fingers blazing like spots of heat through the slinky material of my dress as he cinches those fingers tighter.

“I could find out,” Mick says. His words are light, but his eyes are dark with intent.

I nod. “You could,” I challenge.

Mick cages me with his arms, the heat from those hands beside my face, and sighs. “It's not good enough. I want you to want me.”

I laugh, and his brows jump above those dark eyes. His expression makes my heart race. I want him to dominate me, control me because I don't want the control I have to own. In this one thing, he is the antidote to my situation. The perfect opposition to my decisions.

“I do,” I answer. The truth is almost painful.

He surprises me by cupping his large hand over my sex, his thumb pressing against my clit. I buck against his hand, sucking in a breath that he captures with his mouth.

“I know that you want me.” He lifts his mouth and meets my eyes.

Mine are half-closed with lust. Mick moves his thumb, and moisture surges down against where he touches. I whimper at the swirl of that soft pad against my most intimate of areas. I can't argue because what he says is true but...

“Okay,” I gasp as that dexterous thumb swirls faster, harder. “Then what are you saying?”

His hand leaves me, and I slap my door, my bad hand steady as a rock. My core throbs for a finish he doesn't provide. It's not blue balls; it's blue clit.

His finger moves to my jaw, running the length of it. “I don't know.” His stare never drops as his finger slides a trail of heat between my breasts.

I sigh, moving my face away from him. He steps back, and my body is cold without his. “You do know, or you wouldn't have said anything. You've made yourself into a billionaire.” I glare at him with uncertainty and sexual frustration. “You're not going to let one woman get under your skin, screw up your agenda, your easy life.”

Mick's expression darkens. He slams his hand next to my face, and the door rattles as my eyes widen.

“You're scaring me, Mick,” I whisper.

“Good,” he says, an inch from my face. “You don't seem like you know what you want or how to protect yourself. Keeping me at arm's length because you're scared of what's here between us isn't working.” His eyes move to my mouth. “It isn't going to work.”

I move into his body, and his hands drop, clenching to keep from touching me. His body leans toward me, a physical tell of his desire and forced restraint.

But I keep pressing. “It is working.” I plead for neutrality because I know what I can reasonably give. And there isn't one speck of reason within our entire relationship. A casual meeting was lost the second he took my hand in the middle of the street. Neither one of us would admit it. We still won't.

He loosens a hand and touches a tendril of my hair, spreading it to thinness between his fingers then tucks it behind my ear. “It's not going to work for me.” He drops his hand.

“I don't know what to tell you.” I want to tell him everything.

Mick is telling me that he wants sex, that he wants more. But he wants the Faren he thinks he knows. The martyr who has been through hell and survived, who takes care of her mother. A woman who is an enigma. A fixer.

Not the Faren who performs illicit dances at his clubs. Who is a dead girl walking. No, he doesn't want her.

I change the subject like a gutting. “I'm meeting Kiki later. We need a little dress-up girl time.”

I can see he doesn't believe me.

“Fine,” he says with a casual shoulder lift. “I don't offer this to most women.”

“I feel so special, Mick.” My sarcasm echoes in the hall where kisses did moments before.

Mick rakes a hand through his hair. “That's not what I meant and you know it.”

I shake my head. “No.” I press my finger into his chest, and his scent wafts between us, cinnamon, spice, and male. I suck it in greedily. “What I do know, is that you're used to getting what you go after.” I fight my instinct to fling myself in his arms and wrap my legs around him.

His face falls into grim lines. “True.”

“Then why are you telling me you want more? That my 'defiance' gets you off? We both know it's some kind of flame that'll burn bright only to snuff out. What's the point?”

I shouldn't say those things. I had planned to give Mick that precious part of myself, and now I think, worse than my approaching death, that I might have given more than I meant. Having sex with him might slowly kill who I am instead of being the easy experience I wanted to mark off before I'm gone.

Mick grabs me, his fingers desperate against my bare back. He breathes against my goose-pebbled flesh, and his steady words sink like talons of truth into my psyche. “What if it's not?”

What if the flame doesn't burn out but more brightly than before?

That's the question that presses between us, understood all too well.

Mick gently pushes away from me, and I look at his face, gorgeous and serious. He walks backward, his eyes pinning me as time stood still between us. So much unrequited.

“Midnight?” he asks, like confirmation.

I nod. I know what’s on the table. I know how it'll end. It's the journey that scares me.

~ 9 ~

I wait until my racing heart returns to normal and then slowly walk to the freight elevator. I slap the down button. After the elevator lumbers to its aggressive stop at ground floor, I push the metal door aside.

I look around the foyer. It has been recently cleaned, and I watch my footing on the hex tiles that gather like a sea of white puzzle pieces. I throw on my unattractive puffy coat and move through the dark, narrow sidewalk to the off-street parking, shivering as I fumble with my keys. I slide into my mom's rattrap VW.

I try not to cry because I have half a dozen dances to slink through. I tip my head back, and hot sadness leaks down the sides of my face, dampening my temples. I gulp and bear down on my emotions. It's unnerving how smooth I’ve gotten at that. How numbingly simple.

I drive to the new venue after tapping the address into my GPS. The arrow rotates as an iconic race car appears on the screen. I follow the directions given by the sexy British voice and park where it tells me.

My eyes take in the skyscraper as my hand clutches the gearshift. I can't count the stories. The building seems to disappear into a sky polluted by the light of the city.

In glittering silver neon, the name blinks at me: Rose Enterprises.

Of course, Thorn’s venue would be one of Mick's buildings, though I’m surprised he's so careless after the big raid. I thought he'd be more cautious. Embarrassment seizes me. What kind of woman wants a man who peddles what Jared McKenna does? He’s hiding behind being a self-made billionaire when he gets a hefty kickback from young, desperate women.

It's sick, and I wait for the justifiable shame to strangle me. A wheezing exhale escapes my lips. My moral compass no longer points true north. It's guided by circumstance and fate, neither conferring with the other.

I sit inside my car, hands gripping the wheel. A second cell chime reminder sings in the silence of my car and I jump. Sighing, I slide out of the cold darkness of the car's interior that held me like a cocoon and walk toward the gigantic sleek glass doors. A bellman greets me with a secret smile I want to slap off his face. I brush past him as though it doesn't hurt that he knows what I do.

I wait until I get into the elevator before I slip on my back up mask, both hands trembling tonight. I can't remember where I left my original. The altercation with Mick, the surprise of him showing up. It's too much to hide. But somehow I must.

I walk through the elevator doors as they slide open.

The venue is the nicest I've attended, if I think on those terms. Hand-cut glass chandeliers drip their elegance like an upside-down wedding cake, five tiers tall in a triangle formation. The table is dead center underneath them and holds a group of ten men.

I approach, thinking the “clients” are in short supply tonight. My eyes seek every corner for who else might be here, what other anomalies are present.

Thorn rises like a Poseidon in a deadly sea, reaching out to me. I want to run from that outstretched palm.

Instead I move nearer and slid my damp palm into his dry one.

“Faren,” Thorn says, giving me a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

He draws me behind him, and every male's eyes are glued to my ass. I whisper by them. A hand passes through the fringe of beads that make a faint noise as I walk.

“No touching,” Thorn reprimands him playfully.

Tension sings in a taut line through my center.

The man from my first dance slaps a paddle on the table. “Enough of this showmanship, Thorn.” Jay shoots Thorn an angry glare, and Thorn smirks.

He has all the power. I am merely the puppet whose strings he manipulates.

I want to speak, and Thorn sees it in my expression.

“What is it Faren?”

I hate his face.

“I...” I feel the intensity of my blush and know it's bad. “Why am I the only girl?”

“That's an interesting question,” Thorn says.

Jay rolls his eyes, twirling his finger.

“Get on with it. Your attempt at foreplay grows tiresome.”

My eyes flick to Jay's then back to Thorn. I'm not sure what's going on. It can't be good. My gaze lands on each man, and I feel my shoulders drop. Ronnie Bunce isn’t among them. The laps are old. Jay is maybe thirty-ish, but the rest are over fifty.

The old pervs. I keep the revulsion off my face, but the effort's not pretty.

“Faren,” Thorn begins, running his eyes down my body like he knows it intimately.

I loathe his show. Jay narrows his eyes on Thorn, his assessing gaze moving between the two of us.

Thorn lowers his voice. “You've been selected for a bidding lap dance.”

His words are a sucker punch to my gut. The last auction had been won by my stepfather. I had escaped by a hairsbreadth. This one has all the trappings of some new violation.

An older man dressed as a butler flows out of a corner. His silver tray is ready and waiting with a single card on it.

Thorn said, “A predetermined figure has been selected for this dancer based on popular demand.”

I cringe at his words, my eyes hopping from one face to the next.

I watch the card pass to each man. Whatever they see causes them to look at me then each other. No one speaks. A silent acquiescence flows between the bidders. An excited but invisible buzz begins, and I cringe. What's on the card?

I realize they've all been my laps. That's the common denominator. I’ve tried to expunge the memory of dancing for them only to have their physical presence serve as a grim refresher.

“The winner of this auction gets all the extras as part of the cost and can pay an extra five thousand for a maskless dance.”

Maskless.

My head whips in his direction, my hair skating across my bare shoulders in a flurry from my response. “No!” I say, backing away. “Thorn, you promised.” I know it's pointless... like that man owns a shred of integrity.

I've never wanted to kill anyone but Ronnie. However, Thorn might be the exception.

He sees it and throws his head back, laughing.

“No one is going to want to pay that much to see my face anyway,” I say. I cross my arms, unconsciously putting my breasts on sharp display. All eyes follow the movement, and I fling my arms to my sides.

“You can always say no, Faren. No one here is about force.” Thorn looks around at the men's lascivious eyes. “Right, gentleman?”

They murmur their agreement, but their gazes reveal their lies. They want more than they have a right to.

It's laughable. Thorn hides behind his position, his criminal coercion. I look at the one client who might show me mercy. My eyes lock with Jay's, and I beg a silent plea.

Our stare is broken when one of the men stands, tossing his cloth napkin on the table. “This is absurd. No woman is worth that!”

The room falls instantly silent.

Only money has the ability to suffocate noise so completely.

Thorn inclines his head. His cufflinks are a parody of Mick’s. Thorn’s like a one-dimensional copy. He tries so hard that all a person sees is artifice, not the result he covets.

For me, everything circles back to Mick. Mental, physical—all of it.

The irate client stalks toward the door. Thorn makes no move to capture, wheedle, cajole or beg. He just lets one of the birds walk.

He turns back to the others. “One less man to take away this lovely, young... dancer.” Thorn says dancer like whore and winks at me.

My head dips and tears sting. They are not tears of sadness but pure, unadulterated rage. I hide it, casting my eyes to the floor like lures.

“Faren.”

I inhale deeply in an attempt to calm myself and lift my hate-filled gaze to Thorn.

He nods at my expression, his indifference to my feelings profound. “Let's begin, gentlemen.”

They wouldn't know gentle if it bit them on the ass.

They begin at the atrocious figure that should make me gag and feel like a prostitute. Instead, it makes me greedy for what it can do for my mom. Twenty thousand dollars could pay off half her debt tomorrow.

I'm game, I decide.

I feel as if I'm watching myself from a distance. This is happening to someone else.

Then the bidding stops. A final twitch of a finger rises then falls with the softest tap on the circular table.

The ticket slides across the smooth wood to Jay.

He's won. I'm so thankful.

So resigned.

~ 10 ~

Jay leads me by the hand to a new room. We're encased in a modern swath of chrome, metal, and glass. It’s so unlike the seedy, once-glamorous confines of the carousel of past venues.

The door is still marked with the number one, like the other doors before it. The number hangs slightly askew and I can't help but think Thorn has a sense of humor. He must run around with numbers in bulk. I put the fist of my free hand against my mouth to stifle the giggle. I know it's an insane stress reliever and take what I can get.

Inside the room, the bright city lights stretch below us. The acres of glass reflect the artificial lights like chips of brilliance embedded like diamonds. The dark velvet of the cityscape appears vast and untouched. We move to a chair that anchors the center of the room.

Ten chairs stand in a half moon around the one I know will hold Jay and me.

I whip around, my hand still clasped in Jay's warm, large one.

Thorn is there, the evil smile of accomplishment a natural break in a face that should be handsome but just looks chiseled apathy.

I can't believe I didn't anticipate this eventuality.

Thorn has met someone who presents a challenge. Someone he instinctively knows does not fit. Thorn doesn't know why, but his masochistic edge hones in on my innocence and desperation like a tuning fork, and I am helpless before him.

The old laps file in. Toward me, surrounding me. Their eyes tell the story of their intent.

They're the audience for my performance.

My eyes narrow on Thorn.

“This isn't a problem, Faren... right?” That empty gaze challenges me to deny him, to quit.

But like any predator who senses a weakness in his prey, he's got me by the short hairs. Thorn doesn't know the reason; he just knows he does. The soft underbelly of my desperation is present for slicing and dicing. Thorn jumps in with both feet to crush my hope.

I turn away from him as the men settle in. Jay squeezes my hand gently, and my eyes rise to his. Jay's gaze tells me it's still just him and me. We can do this. I don't know when I went from being a girl giving him release to a girl he wants to save, but it happened fast, like a switch being flipped.

We move toward the chair, and it looms large at our approach. Jay drops my hand, and the fringe of beads sways at my rear as quiet music fills the space. Not a murmur, mutter, or voice can be heard.

Jay begins a silent striptease, removing his suit. The tie pulls through his collar, a flag of silk floating to the armrest as he unzips his pants.

My hand shakes when I pick up the towel. I can't stop my eyes from making a downward shift to his giant erection. I swallow, brave as I've ever been, and stand before him, ignoring Thorn's presence at my back.

Jay reclines in the wide chair, a copy of every chair I've done a lap dance in. The cushion is wide enough to accommodate my knees on either side of his muscular thighs. I slide my knees in place, straddling him.

“Faren.” Jay threads his fingers through my hair. His grip tightens, and he pulls me toward his mouth.

No kissing. The heat of his lips touches mine.

I pull away. The bruise on my upper thigh throbs as it begins to deepen, and I search his face. Beyond the tightness around his eyes is care.

Concern for me.

I can't have that. Right now, I feel as though I'm cheating on Mick. It doesn't matter that it's a job, that my mom is the beneficiary of these illicit monies. No, those are emotions. Real, vital, undeniable.

“No kissing!” Thorn barks. “You know the rules, Jay.”

I wonder what his full name is. I'm certain the reason for first names only is anonymity.

Jay's fingers leave my hair and trail down my arms, gooseflesh rising in their wake. He gives a barely perceptible nod, and I run through the “extras” I remember.

Hand job.

Breast suckling.

Vaginal digit penetration.

Anal digit penetration.

There won't be a police raid to save me.

My head dips when I think about anyone but Mick touching me there. I'm selling my soul to the devil. I can't go back. It's bought and paid for.

Being a virgin doesn't mean I’m innocent. There're degrees of compromise. I'm becoming an expert on skirting the inevitable, like swimming against a vortex.

I look into Jay's eyes and move. I’m subtle at first, my upper thigh pressing against his erection. He takes liberties without asking, and I bite my bottom lip when his hand covers my breast. He grips the fullness at the bottom and squeezes it just on the good side of pain. I muffle a gasp. His hand moves to my back, fingers spread wide, and he bends his head over my captive tit. He covers my nipple with his mouth, and my body's confusion surfaces.

Mick's tongue has been on my flesh, and my body remembers. It rejects all other tactile memory and latches onto the one that resonates. My nipple reacts in traitorous spontaneity. It rises as Jay laves the sensitive bundle of nerves, and my head tips back. My cheating mind thinks of Mick, and the thin strip of my panties grow moist.

The shifting of legs and clothes behind us breaks through my fantasy of dancing on Mick's lap. Ten rich, perverted men are watching a young, desperate woman dance on a stranger's lap.

I ignore them all, keeping my eyes shut tight.

I rise up, moving expertly, faster and faster. My legs are more powerful than they once were. The bruise sings like a beacon each time my flesh strokes his penis through the thin barrier of my clothes. Jay's breathing becomes harsh. I hear a distinctive groan behind me and move a little more slowly, grinding in deliberate, arced strokes against his rigidness.

His hands move to my ass and flip up the hem of my dress. The beads slide like cool ice against my flesh. The air glides against my butt cheeks, which are on full display. The slim thong offers no coverage.

Jay's hands slap on the globes of my butt, and my eyes snap to his. I’m startled me out of my fantasy, rudely awakened into the reality of the moment. I hear a symphony of sounds under the music. Primitive and dark, they speak of what's happening behind me. I suddenly realize I'm present. I can't watch from the outside. I begin to panic.

“I need this,” Jay murmurs as he thrusts his hips... and a finger penetrates my anus.

My butt clenches against the invasion, and I fight against moving away. I battle for my shattering fantasy as a stranger takes yet another liberty, stealing one more thread in the fabric of my lost innocence.

His finger breaching that entrance is so unexpected, I fall against him. His finger sinks a little deeper inside me, and I cry out in surprise and horror.

Jay mistakes my intense reaction for arousal. He forces my knees wider in a spreading shove of his knees, and I'm wide open. My panties are totally misplaced, and he crams his stiffening erection against the bare cut-out on my stomach. I feel his hard flesh connect with my soft belly, and I know what will happen.

I'm helpless to move away as he traps me, perfectly unbalanced. With a final thrust, he releases against my stomach.

I feel nothing as I hear the chorus of grunts and moans behind me. The only proof of Jay’s release is the cold edge of my dress as his cum soaks the material.

My heart tattoos a staccato rhythm. Artificial detachment coats me in icy calm as I crawl off Jay's lap. His penis sits like a limp, soggy noodle and provokes my gag reflex. My good hand comes to my mouth as I meet Jay's eyes and choke. He rises, stuffing himself inside his slacks and zipping up. He reaches for me.

I stagger back, vertigo hitting me like a released demon.

Strong arms come around me from behind. A man's forearm sinks into the damp mess at my front.

“Pull it together, Faren... or we're going to have some words.”

Thorn.

My teeth sink into my tongue. Copper pennies fill my mouth, and the dizziness floats away. Jay's face comes into sharp focus.

I elbow Thorn in the gut, and his arms release me. I run to the door while men in various states of undress follow me with hooded eyes.

I tear open the door and rush to the bathroom.

I shake as I empty my stomach into the porcelain bowl of the toilet.

I can't do this.

But when Thorn gives me my cut from the twenty thousand dollars, I bend my head as he berates me.

I say yes to negotiations for something more.

With Jay.

Even though my heart longs for Mick, I agree to the deal with the devil for my reasons.

They don't seem as important as they once did.

~ 11 ~

I drop my keys twice as I try to unlock my apartment door. My bad hand trembles so much, I'll have to put a heat compress on it to loosen it.

I move through the door and slam it. I tip my head back, resting it on the solid wood, as I close my eyes. My heartbeat slows as I stand in my soiled dress and cry. Tears run down my face, and I stop the sounds that want to go from whimpers to wailing by sheer will alone.

Memories of my childhood after Ronnie Bunce took over fill me with steel. Nights when he creeped past my door as I feigned sleep. The doorknob wiggling. The kitchen knife in my sweaty grasp, underneath my pillow, that comforted me. Cold metal with killing potential guided me toward sleep in that faraway memory.

I slide down my door, and my soul shatters. Broken sobs tear out of me as I clutch my handbag in my good hand. I cry for what I'm becoming, what I've lost, and how the end of my life is turning out.

At first, I don't hear the pounding on the door. When the noise breaks through my despondency, I rise up on my knees and turn the bolt. I sneak it open a crack and meet Kiki's eyeball.

“Oh my god... Faren! Baby, what's wrong?”

What is right?

My chin sinks to my chest, and my tears soak the bit of material that makes up the bodice of my dress.

The door swings wide, smacking against the wall stop. Strong hands lift me by my armpits. My bad hand thumps Kiki, and a nervous laugh chuffs out of her.

“What the hell?” She kicks the door closed and looks down at the stiff material of my dress. Her eyes rise to my swollen ones.

“Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

I shake my head, tearing off the dress. Somehow, as I trip out of the thing, the fringe comes away and tiny glass beads skitter across the scarred wood floor like rioting gems. The music of their escape scrapes across my raw nerves, and I hitch in another sob.

“Okay,” Kiki says, throwing up a hand. “We're getting you out of this...” She wrinkles her nose and picks up the ruined dress with her long nails. “Dress, and getting you into a hot shower.”

I laugh. Water won’t wash away my crimes, my grief... my sins. Her brows sink low over her brown eyes. She’s so full of compassion that I look away.

She grabs my arm, and I let her herd me into the bathroom. When the pipes stop groaning, I step into the spray. I let the warm water trail over my face, gather in my open mouth, and fall across my body.

Kiki’s silhouette remains a ghost of shadow through the opaque shower curtain.

I don't know how long I stand there, but when my fingers prune and the water begins cooling, I raise them in front of my face. My abused left hardly twitches. The steam and heat of the shower had restored most of its function. The bright pink scars crisscross my palm, and I squeeze it.

Kiki's shadow has departed. My hand jumps, and I force it to soap my body. I take my time, putting myself back together piece by piece.

When every part of me is clean, I move out of the shower and towel off. I tuck the edges of the towel underneath my armpits and move to the door, surrounded by a cloud of steam.

I hear low voices and hesitate on the threshold of the open bathroom door. I take a few deep breaths and pass through.

I’m not surprised when Mick greets me from my couch.

He holds up his phone. “You don't answer your texts.”

Oh yeah... midnight. My eyes shift to my clock. It's twelve fifteen.

I nod and turn away, heading to my bedroom. I shut the door softly. I can't handle Mick tonight. I feel like the worst kind of human being. I’m losing everything that's ever mattered to me. Mick can't fix it, and he can't take away how he makes some of his money.

Nor can I stop my feelings for him.

I jerk on sweatpants and a cami, leaving my feet bare. I walk out of my room with my dripping hair and face free of makeup.

“What are you doing here?”

Kiki blanches.

“He was worried... and so was I.” She gives him a covert glance.

God, they're ganging up on me. “There's no reason to worry.”

I turn toward the stove. It's pretty easy to act emotionless when I'm so numb. If I can perform one normal task, I have a hope of getting past this recent batch of misery.

I feel Kiki behind me. Her soft-scented vanilla body spray heralds her arrival.

“Faren,” she says in a low voice, “just tell him. Maybe he can help.”

Does Kiki think I don't want his help? That I haven't rolled the obvious around in my mind 102 times? I have, and I won't. I need Mick's money, but he has something I want more. I have almost enough to erase my mom's debt from the clinic. One more stint of laps, and I'll be free of that. It won't stop the pole dancing after the laps are through, but if I never see another lap in my life it'll be too soon. I'll still need the cash from a few times per week at the pole for my mom's monthly care. Or that debt I've danced so hard to get rid of will come back to take a second bite out of my ass.

“No,” I answer just as quietly.

Kiki lays her face between my shoulder blades and sighs. “I can't make you, but he's not stupid.”

“She's right, I'm not.”

Just his voice makes warmth spread from places that had been dry and quiet moments before.

How can I respond sexually to anything after what happened only a couple of hours ago? I can't answer. I don't know.

Kiki slips away from behind me as my hand grips the kettle.

I feel Mick’s heat behind me, radiating through my thin cami. I shiver as his hands drop to my shoulders.

His fingers dig in almost painfully when he leans forward. “Let me in, Faren. Please.”

I can't fight them anymore, my best friend and this man who is wealthy beyond my wildest imaginings. He can have anyone he wishes, and it’s me he pursues. My grip leaves the kettle, and Mick feels my subtle shift. I turn, and his hold on my shoulders softens just enough to allow it.

When I face him, he crushes me tight. I shake in his arms, and Mick lifts my chin with a finger. Tears leak from my eyes all over again.

“Hey, hey,” he says, kissing each eyelid. “What's wrong?” When my tears become too much for his lips, he chuckles and wipes them away with the pads of his thumbs. “I can't stop this, but I want to try.”

I look at him through the waterworks and see Kiki behind him with her arms folded. Her eyes beg me to accept help. From him, from her... from anyone.

I put my forehead against his chest so I don't have to meet his eyes. His hand strokes my spine, his fingertips going from the top of my backbone to the bottom and trailing up again.

I speak into his chest, “I don't want to use you.” The truth eases out of me like a feather on the wind.

“Use me, Faren. I want you to,” Mick answers.

“Yeah, use him,” Kiki pipes in, and I smile through my sadness.

Mick chuckles. “Listen to your best friend.”

I tilt my head back. “You mean listen to you?”

His eyes search mine. His fingertip brushes away the last of my tears, and he nods.

“Yeah, that's what I mean.”

I feel my arms creep around his waist, and Kiki claps.

“Thank god,” she squeals in a whisper that sounds like a hushed shout.

“Yes.” Mick doesn't ambush me with his mouth but sips slowly, awakening me anew.

I rise on my tiptoes and press back.

I hate that a small part of me clings to a hope I don't have, that I don't deserve.

It's wrong.

Except, in Mick's arms, it feels so right.

~ 12 ~

Thorn

I can't quit. I need one more lap gig to make that last ten thousand. One more horrible, soul-sucking dive into the abyss of loss.

Of who I am.

I don't have a penny. I've paid every dime to my mom's debt, and the balance stands at only ten thousand. Only. I sigh. My thinking about money has become so skewed. This last gig will tip the scales, and she won't be moved to the state facility. I breathe through my nervousness as Thorn stares holes through me.

His chair creaks as he tips it backward, his muscular weight forcing it to accept his movements. He ignores its protests and taps an elegantly appointed lighter on his desk. “Faren... you know how much I enjoy you.” He tips the lighter upside down. Tap. Flips it right side up. Tap.

I cringe. Yeah, I know.

He smiles at my obvious discomfort.

I nod but say nothing.

Flip. Tap. My eyes key in on that lighter, the silver winking as he flips it. I hate it. Hate him.

He tosses it to the desk with a final resounding tap.

Thorn swivels to the side and stands. He walks around the desk, sets an ass cheek at the edge, and folds his huge arms in front of him. “We can't have a repeat performance of what happened with Jay.”

My hands twist in my lap. “I... I wasn't expecting...” Heat bites my skin like a colony of fire ants.

“Your little starfish to get a tap?”

Thorn's so vulgar. I think I hate that about him the most.

I glare at him, letting all the loathing I feel fill my expression.

He barks out a laugh. “I should make you give me another lap dance because I know you hate it. Hate me.”

I stay silent. I can't speak because I can't contain myself. I keep looking down, trying not to out myself.

“Look at me.”

I raise my eyes to his. His dark face is perfectly sculpted, every feature beautiful separately, even better together. Thorn works hard on his physique. The tattoo sleeves that cover both arms are mere shadows against his dark brown skin. But his eyes are vacant of understanding, compassion... feelings.

“You have one chance to redeem yourself, or it'll be off with your head,” he says, laughing manically.

I seethe but nod. “You looked green at the last venue, and that can’t happen again.”

“Even with your behavior, you're a favorite.” Thorn's eyes bore into mine.

I lift my chin. This big, beautiful man with a black heart will not cow me. I can't allow even the finest crack in my composure. I need this.

Tannin Mitchell needs it.

So I wait, my breath held as he lets me stew.

“An associate of mine has thrown his hat in the ring, so to speak,” he says, letting out another dark chuckle. But his amusement overrides everything.

“Who?” I ask, hoping for Jay. Gross as our dance was, I'd rather have the evil I know than one I don't. One more time.

“Ron.”

I feel my mouth open and close like a fish out of water.

Thorn nods, spreading his hands apart. “You should be happy. He paid the big bucks and the cops came. He didn't get his piece of the pie.”

My eyes flip to his. I wish I'm wrong, but I know I'm not.

“The Faren pie.”

When I stand, my handbag falls to the floor and the contents spill out. My hands fist as I hiss, “I am not food.”

“You're what and who I tell you to be. If you want to suck up the cash, you need to do the deed. Period.”

Thorn makes me sick. But sicker still is being forced into dancing for my assailant. “Does your boss know how you get girls to participate in your pathetic merry-go-around?”

Thorn jerks his chin back. “McKenna? You think Mr. Bleeding Heart is aware of this?”

I stumble back. I think over my interactions with Mick, how certain things didn't fit.

Thorn's perfect inky brows pull together, and he laughs. “What? You thought that McKenna...”

I nod, and he scrubs the short black nap on his skull. Thorn shakes his head, palming his chin. “No. Jared McKenna plays everything above-board. He does not have a bead on this... game.”

“It's not a game. We're people, Thorn.”

He shakes his head. “You're a bunch of girls who give rich dudes what they need. You can't play innocent when you rub your kitty against the pony.”

I kick up my chin. “I could tell him.” I lay my fingertips over the lips he'd kissed. If I tell Mick, then he'll oust Thorn and I can come clean.

“I know,” Thorn says with a smirk.

“What? What do you know?” My eyes become slits as I glare at him.

“I know you're McKenna's new plaything. Why do you think I don't force you for personal laps?”

His words are a slap in the face. My thoughts scatter like dandelion seed on the wind.

I stare, my hands loosening, and dizziness seizes me again. I grip the chair behind me with my right hand. I fight against it, hoping I won't get a headache to remind me of my short path.

Thorn sees me sway, and his arm reaches out to steady me. I jerk back unsteadily.

His eyes are on me, his hand encircling my arm with bruising force. “You tell him about the laps, and I'll tell him you work it.” He's collecting money behind Mick's back.

Blackmail in its purest form. My vision narrows to a pinpoint of light. Thorn's face fills it.

“Test me,” he provokes.

I don't.

Instead, I feel my right orbital region explode with pain so acute, it staggers me, and I fold where I stand.

It's the only time I’ve seen Thorn have an expression other than contempt, greed, or lust.

That emotion surprises me as consciousness departs, and it follows me down the spiral of darkness.

Fear.

#

THE TOKEN

A Token Series Novella

Volume 3

New York Times Bestselling author

MARATA EROS

All Rights are Reserved.

Copyright © 2014 Marata Eros

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Marata Eros Website

Marata Eros FB Fan Page

Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing

~ 1 ~

Light. Searing and complete.

My eyes remain shut, but I feel a deep burning behind my heavy eyelids.

A sharp click like a pen closing. Then, “When did this happen?”

I think I know that voice.

“I don't know, a couple of hours ago.” A pause. “We were talking and then”—I hear the shrug in his voice—“she just folded like a deck of cards.”

I know that voice.

Thorn.

My eyes open slowly. The bright light is gone, and Doctor Clive Matthews’s compassionate gaze comes into focus.

“Hi there, Miss Mitchell.”

I say nothing. Thorn is here.

Where is here?

I look around, my neck stiff and see that I'm in another hospital room.

Great.

“Your boyfriend said you fainted.”

Oh, my God. My head swivels to Thorn, and he grins back. His hands are jammed in his designer denims, his sleeve tats in full relief.

“Ah...” I croak.

The good doctor gets a cup of water and bends the straw to my mouth.

I sip, leveling a death stare at Thorn.

I finish and open my mouth to deny Thorn's claim of any attachment to me.

Before I can speak, Thorn says, “Doctor Matthews said that you shouldn’t be working so hard in your condition.”

My head turns to Matthews, and I narrow my eyes to slits of condemnation. Had he told Thorn?

His brows rise. “I thought we talked about management, Miss Mitchell.” His brows fall as his head cocks to the side. “You agreed you would minimize your activity as part of that plan.”

Thorn looks on with keen interest, his eyes ping ponging from Matthews to me.

I have to take this in hand, but I'm not sure how.

I mentally recap. Matthews believes Thorn is my boyfriend. I don't know if Thorn knows I'm terminally ill, but he knows something is up. Mick doesn't know about the lap venues, but Thorn holds that over my head.

It's a circle of madness and deception I can't decipher.

I close my eyes against the chaos that my life has become.

Just then, my cell sounds a text chime, and all eyes move to my purse.

“Want me to get that, babe?” Thorn asks, his tone light and his eyes dark.

“No,” I answer through gritted teeth, “let it go to voice mail.”

Doctor Matthews pats my knee through the hospital gown. “I'd like to keep you here for twenty-four hours.” He sees my face and chuckles.

“But I know you won't stay for that.”

I nod.

Damn straight I'm not going to stay here.

“You're free to go, but remember what we agreed on.”

Matthews looks at me before his eyes slide to Thorn.

I nod quickly, hoping that Thorn doesn't know everything.

He already knows too much.

*

“Get out of my room,” I tell Thorn the instant Matthews leaves as I hike the blankets to my chin.

“No,” he says.

I scowl, and he waits.

An exhale rushes out of me.

“I don't owe you an explanation.”

His chin kicks back, and a large hand scrubs his short hair. “Uh, yeah, ya do.” His dark eyes peg me to the bed.

I stubbornly say nothing.

“Listen, Faren, I've got a good thing going with these lap gigs. McKenna runs his uppity-whitey shit—”

“Whitey shit?” I ask, my fingers coming up in airquotes.

He gives a stiff nod. “Yeah. McKenna and I go way back, same hood.”

My brows meet above my eyes. I didn’t expect that revelation.

Mick had told me he was self-made. His intellect isn’t in doubt. But that edge that he wears—his dark, gritty side?

Here's the proof. Thorn isn't an accident as an employee. There's a real man hidden inside the suave shell of the billionaire that everyone else sees.

“So you're a charity hire?” I confront.

Thorn steps forward, his expression flashing from neutral to angry. “You don't know jack shit, girl.”

We stare at each other.

“I know you're skimming money with the revolving lap venue,” I say. “That McKenna remains unaware.”

Thorn scowls, rubbing his face then putting his large hands on his hips. I watch his tats undulate with the movement and swallow.

I can't deny Thorn scares me on a primitive level.

Or maybe any level.

“And I know that you like boss man,” he says.

I shake my head, but my expression gives me away.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding and palming his chin. “You dig my man Mick.”

“How did you know I was... seeing him?”

Am I seeing him?

Oh yes.

“I know it's real because my bro doesn't dish on the cracks unless he's serious.”

“Cracks?” I ask miserably.

Thorn nods.

“Y'know, chicks?”

Oh my god.

His vulgarity knows no bounds.

“Please leave so I can dress,” I ask as politely as possible.

“Yeah, fine.” Thorn nails me with a hard stare and pops his thumb into his chest. “Then we're gonna chat, you and me.”

I nod. Anything to get rid of him.

I wait until the door clicks behind him, then I swing my legs around and wait for the dizziness. When none comes, I let the breath I've been holding leave me.

The floor leeches the heat from my feet as I walk to the bathroom and lock myself inside.

Some wonderful nurse has hung my things on the back hook, and I smile, tearing off the offending hospital gown.

I look in the mirror and see a pale, pinched face. I stuff myself back into my clothes, slide my feet into my shoes, and walk back into the room.

“What took all that time?” Thorn asks, lounging against the door jamb.

“Let's go,” I say.

He moves to take my elbow, and I wrench it away from him. “Don't touch me.”

Thorn wags a finger. “It'll look suspicious if I don't act like the concerned boyfriend.” He leans in, his grip on my elbow a painful circle. “Besides, we've done a lot more than this.”

Shame engulfs me. A flush of anger mixed with embarrassment slides up my face, and he chuckles.

“Good girl.”

Or bad, from my perspective.

His brand new, fire-engine red Porsche 911 turbo Carerra hugs the curb like a screaming jewel. The color yells nouveau riche to all who stroll by.

Mick probably has ten of these tucked away somewhere, though I've only seen him ride the Harley. I swallow hard at that memory.

“Hey?” Thorn says, and I realize I've allowed him to drag me to his car. “Get in.”

Right. So we can chat.

Accepting help from Thorn isn't smart. He's probably keeping a mental score card of favors, and mine is adding up. I don't need any more debt.

But I have to get home.

I sigh and dig at the handle from the top and clamp my good hand inside it like a claw, jerking it open. The heavy door swings across the curb, inching over the sidewalk with a whisper of space between the shiny red metal and the cement.

I breathe through the look Thorn gives me when he sees the door hovering a fraction of an inch above the sidewalk.

“Good thing you didn't damage the goods.” His eyes bore into mine. “I'd have to reconsider taking it out of your hide.”

Wonderful. The prick.

I lower myself into his car. It's like lying down in a bed, it's so low to the ground. I scoop my hand into the handle and shut the door as Thorn smoothly pulls away.

We travel silently for a few minutes, and I watch his hands shift and maneuver in traffic.

I wonder what Thorn could have been if he wasn't a rich thug.

He's somehow a boyhood friend of Mick’s. That fills me with unease because I can't reconcile the two.

His hands clench the wheel, and I know I can't get out of our chat.

“So… what made you face plant? Believe me, if you're some sickie, I can't have you passing out all over the laps.”

Thanks for the compassion, asshole.

The laps.

It always comes full circle to that.

His eyes land on me for a beat then slide away. “I have a business, Faren. I know you think I'm a cold prick.”

I laugh—I can't help it. He's so right.

He frowns, tightening his grip on the steering wheel, taking me down familiar streets.

There's no way I'm telling him. “A business that's behind Mick's back,” I say instead.

He pulls over at a curb. The meter clicks to a glaring red expired as I look. The engine rumbles, causing our bodies to tremble.

“And the first girl I've ever heard Mick talk about is a cum-sponge for old pervs.” His eyebrows cock, and my face flames.

My hands twist in my lap, and I don't reply.

“Not so high and mighty now, are we?” Thorn asks softly.

I don't move when he snatches my left hand off my lap.

I can't. He's that strong, that fast.

He flips my palm over, and my fingers helplessly clutch against his hand.

Thorn's eyes meet mine. “What the fuck is this?”

I shake my head and hope he'll let it drop. I know he won't.

“I... I had an accident... about four years ago.”

“Bullshit.” His black eyes blaze into mine, his hand tightens, and a little whimper breaks the seal of my lips.

“Please.” I breathe through the pain.

His eyes flash to mine before he drops my hand.

It twitches between us. I won't be able to use it for a few minutes.

My eyes meet his.

“I know accidents,” Thorn says slowly. “This isn't no accident.”

I swallow, clearing my throat. “How do you know?” My voice is quiet inside the purring car, my body tense.

Our gazes lock.

“Because.” His hand gently lifts my palm as it spasms between us and runs a finger over the scar at the center. “I know knives.”

Of course he does.

~ 2 ~

I can feel myself begin to thaw toward Thorn as we sit there beside the curb in his purring Porsche.

The silence seems to bind us together as we commune over our differences- our sameness.

He hasn't coerced a confession out of me yet.

The man who forces lap dances on all the new girls and asks no questions. I am so sure I know exactly who he is, what motivates him, only to realize that I'm not the only one who is guarding secrets.

I startle when a street cop comes up to my window and give the glass a sharp tap with his knuckle.

A blue uniform and irritated eyes blare into mine.

Thorn raises his middle finger and pulls away.

I turn. My hand presses against the window as I watch the meter cop take down Thorn's plate number.

“That wasn't smart!” I laugh, whipping around and sinking back against the seat.

He laughs too. “No, it was stupid, but if felt fucking great.”

I nod. I understand great.

I mean, I did.

“Listen, sweet cheeks,” Thorn begins.

I glare at him again, and he chuckles.

“You're so easy to get worked up.”

I think of Mick's hands on my body and I can't deny Thorn's claim. But not for what he thinks.

“Truce?” Thorn asks, his face in profile.

“What does that mean?” I ask. I’m hoping for an alliance, even an uneasy one he seems to offer.

“It means you don't tell Mick I'm doing the merry-go-laps, and I don't tell him you're riding the ponies.”

I get a visual of a carousel filled with wooden horses that have the faces of men I've danced on. I hear the dry click as I swallow.

Another lie.

Another secret.

I concede. “Okay.”

“You can always go back to the poles,” Thorn suggests. His shadowed face turns to mine. “Just be one of Ty's pole girls.”

I stare at him, and he smirks as his eyes travel to the street again.

I say nothing.

“That's what I thought. You need the cash.”

I move my left hand under my right. A nervous habit.

“Why?” Thorn asks, inching closer to First Street.

“Do you have to know?”

I don't want him knowing about my mom.

He laughs. “No.” His face swings to mine as he pulls into my narrow alley and the cobblestones make us bounce as he slows.

“Remember when I told you how you walk?”

I nod, my eyes dropping. How could I forget?

“You said that I was... a... whore.” My voice drops on that last word. I don't deny it. I'm splitting hairs at this point.

“I've gotta be tough, Faren. There's no way to survive this biz without my shit in one sock.”

I wait.

He sighs, raking his hand over his skull cap of black hair. “I said you walk like a whore. I didn't say you were a whore.”

We stare at each other.

I offer my hand, and he takes it. One light pump, and it's done.

“I'm a fucked up dude,” he says. “Just so long as you know it. I'm not soft on the bitches—I can't afford to be. But I don't let any violence or hooking shit go down on my watch.”

My eyes search his. “What about the extras?”

“That's up to the girls.”

He shrugs.

Thorn leans forward, and I press back against the door. “I'm not gonna hurt you.”

Right. A truce is one thing, trust is another. Mine doesn't come easily; Ronnie trained me well.

“No girl is getting the beef stick during laps. If she wants to spread the peanut butter on her time... I'm not policing that.”

I blink, processing his words. “Speaking of...” The raid plays out in every corner of my skull, and I wince from the memory. “those cops...”

Thorn nods, intercepting my thoughts like catching the football from the quarterback. “Yeah, I won't lie. That was close.”

Yeah, it was.

“I don't like lying to Mick,” I say. The first absolute truth I've spoken since this whole mess began.

Thorn exhales in a rush. “Me either.”

“Then why do you do it?”

“Why do you?” he counters.

I can't. I just can't.

Thorn's eyes move to the rearview mirror and widen.

“Fuck me.”

His tone of voice puts me on high alert. “What?” My hand flies to my chest as I turn to see what he does.

Thorn revs the engine. “Get your head down!”

I press my head between my legs as he guns it, shooting out of the alley. I pop my head up as he accelerates headlong into a hole in traffic that's hardly more than a gap.

His wheels screech as he depresses the gas, shifting hard into second and ripping the wheel to the left as he zooms into the two lane opposing traffic load.

I hit the door hard. “Holy shit!” I scream, ducking my head again.

“Yeah!” Thorn hoots, punching the roof. “That rocked balls!”

He decelerates, and I ask meekly, “Can I sit up?”

“Oh yeah, go ahead.”

I lift my head up and wilt against the seat. A leaky sound escapes, and I notice it's my breath. “God, what the hell was that about?”

“Not what—who.”

I look at him as he circles back toward my street. We crawl along in stop-and-go traffic in front of Pike Place Market.

“Mick.”

“No,” I reply in a wheeze.

“Yeah.”

*

Detour

Thorn drives past my turn off, and I say, “Hey, where are we going?”

“You want to explain to Mick what you're doing with me?”

Not really.

He watches my face. “I didn't think so.”

I look at his strong hands, the tat sleeves bleeding up his arms and ask, “So what's the plan?”

“I'll drop you off somewhere else.”

“Where?”

He pulls up at a building and parks.

I see my mom's clinic, and my heart stops.

I whip around to hit him.

“Don't.” Thorn's eyes are hard. “I'm not a complete asshole, but I'm no punching bag either.”

He saw the violence in my eyes that fast. Thorn is brutal around the edges, and the potential for instant physicality surrounds him.

My breathing picks up. “How did you know I was going to hit you?”

“You're nothing but a big tell, Faren.”

My brow cocks.

Thorn laughs. “Y'know, like poker.”

I give him blank face.

“Yeah, okay. Everyone has subtle body signals that give away what they’re gonna do next. Your tells are big.”

Oh. “That's not good,” I admit.

Thorn laughs. “You really wanted to give me the smack down?”

“Yeah.”

Thorn's humor seeps away. “Nobody abuses me. Ever.”

I nod. Got it.

“You knew about my mom.” I fold my arms as my eyes wither him with a glare.

“Google. I Google every name I hire.”

His eyes glitter in the dome light when I open the passenger door.

Bunce.

“Then you know I can't do that dance with Ron.” I guess Thorn doesn't know him as Ronnie.

Thorn frowns, clearly bewildered. “I know you don't like the laps—I get that. But the dude laid down some serious cash, and you're gonna have to dance that lap. Cops breaking it up or not. He wants a big time raincheck.”

Thorn spreads his hands. “I got a rep, ya feel me?”

I did, but I had been hoping that Thorn’s little compassionate streak might extend to this. I hold up my palm. “He did this to me.”

His eyes widen, and his surprise hums along with the powerful engine underneath the hood.

He strokes the scar with his thumb, my fingers curling inward with every stroke. I want to snatch my hand away from the disconcerting intimacy.

“Yeah?” he asks softly.

I can only nod, my eyes are so full of tears.

Thorn is a silhouette of muscled black, his image wavering through the water of my sadness.

He puts my hand back on my lap and looks into my eyes.

“I'll see what I can do...”

“Thorn... no,” I groan. “I can't... I can't face him- that way.”

Thorn sighs, his head slapping the back of the seat.

“Fuck, I didn't know.”

“It's the fucking mother of all coincidences. But... it's gotta come out of someone's hide.”

My eyes widen. I get one leg out of the car, wanting to escape this conversation so badly the city air feels like a salve.

“Don't freak on me,” he says. “Let me see what I can do. But, Faren?”

I turn.

“Maybe think about going back to poles.”

“Why?” I ask. I only have to do one last lap auction. Then my mom will be debt free, and I'll only have to cover the monthly expenses. A couple poles a week will take care of that.

“Some chicks can't tolerate the laps.”

Some chicks don't need it like I do.

“I don't think Mick will forgive ya for the laps. He might for the poles.”

Thorn's warning me, giving me an out before it's too late.

But I don't need Mick's forgiveness.

There's only one thing I need from him.

That's a secret I've only shared with Kiki; I'm not sharing it with Thorn.

To him, I'm just a desperate girl who’s been dealt a raw hand. No bad pun intended.

I feel a little bubble of hysterical laughter beg to escape.

In his own skewed way, Thorn's trying to help.

“Why are you helping me?”

Thorn's eyes slide away, and I realize I should take his olive branch and run.

“I don't know,” he says, carefully avoiding my eyes. “Mick would want me to.”

“What?” I laugh. “You're doing these shitty lap venues behind his back and you're worrying about...” I lift my shoulders.

“If he knew what you were screwed up in... hell,” Thorn hits the steering wheel of his fancy car and I jump.

“He'd...?” I prompt, my eyes searching his face.

“He'd kill anyone who touched you.”

I think about how tender Mick is with me.

“Mick doesn't do halfway. He's an all the way kinda dude.”

“He can have anyone,” I half-explain.

“No shit.” He jacks his eyebrows up and gives me a look that says he questions my intellect.

“He's got history. Trust me, you don't want to put him in a position where he feels he needs to protect you.”

“Why? Tell me about him,” I say.

Thorn lifts his chin toward the open car door. “It's not my story to tell. And my cup of care is all filled up right now, so why don't you scoot your ass out.”

His eyes are softer, but that hard edge is still there, still sharp.

“Okay.” This is all I’ll get out of him.

For now.

I get out and shut the door.

His red streak of a car screams away from the curb, and the smell of rubber fills my nostrils as I trudge up the stairs to see my mom.

~ 3 ~

The doctor stops me before I enter her room, and my heart drops like a stone in a lake. The ripples and splash are seen and heard only by me.

“What is it?” I ask.

Dizziness assails me, and I remember that I collapsed with Thorn, that I'm damn lucky Matthews hadn't kept me overnight.

I swallow against what feels like a panic attack, and when I open my eyes, I'm calmer. My mother's primary caregiver comes into sharp focus.

“Are you okay, Miss Mitchell?”

Hell no.

“Yes.” My eyes move around him to my mom's door. “Is… my mom okay?”

His face breaks into a smile, and my life changes that fast.

A rare sunny day in overcast Seattle pierces my mom’s room with late afternoon sunlight.

By habit, my eyes trace over the tubes that have kept my mom's meager existence going.

But they're gone.

Tannin Mitchell is breathing unassisted. Her eyes are shut, the withering look is there, but the bloom is back on the rose.

Soft pink unfolds across her cheekbones as if brushed on.

I move closer to her bed and softly stroke her cheek.

Without warning, her eyes pop open, but they're not hers.

“Hello, Faren,” Ronnie Bunce says, his eyes inside my mother's face, latching onto mine like a bird that catches sight of its prey.

I pinwheel backward, screaming as I fall.

Into blackness.

“No!” I scream, clutching damp sheets as I sit straight up in bed.

I'm in between, that place where a nightmare seems truly real, a dream that still clings to me with tenacious fingers.

My eyes search every surface of my room. I come up with nothing out of place. My personal effects mock me from their benign place in my life.

Inanimate, unreal.

I fall back against the bed as my galloping heart slows to a trot. I try to regain the sense of joy I felt when my mom's doctor told me she's woken up, that she lives.

Not in that vegetative existence where she might thrash on a good day, breaking the surface of the unconscious water she drowns in.

On a bad one, Tannin Mitchell appears as if she has already left this world.

I sit up again and stare vacantly into the dim emptiness of my room. The clock fills the silence with its ticking.

I feel something land on my left hand, oozing wetness into the well of my scar.

My tears.

I dread tomorrow. Not my day job.

But the night.

I turn and see the clock reads three thirty. I slide my cell off the nightstand and scroll through my messages.

Two from Mick. My palm dampens against the hard shell of my phone.

A soft flutter like moth's wings ignites inside my stomach.

Mick: Faren, text me.

Mick: Are you okay?

I smile. No, I'm not okay. I put the cell down next to my body and close my eyes.

It's late and I have no right to respond. I've screwed things up six ways to Sunday.

I grab the cell and text him anyway.

Me: I'm okay.

I wait five minutes. I watch the numbers on my digital clock flip over into my uncertain future.

Me: You awake?

I hold the cell in my good hand.

He'll text.

I roll over and settle into the warm nest of my covers, knowing I have to be at the clinic by eight.

I don't feel my eyes close as my hand wraps my cell.

It sits against my chest like the teddy bear I no longer sleep with.

What seems like seconds later, the alarm sounds. It blares its rhythmic discordance like a tortured duck. I slam my hand down on the button, and blessed silence ensues.

Thank god.

I sit up, wiping my eyes and feeling like shit.

I rummage through my covers, hunting for my cell phone. I find it buried in my pillowcase. I scroll through texts from work, from Kiki.

No texts from Mick.

My stomach falls to my feet, and heat floods my system.

I think of Thorn evading Mick in my alley yesterday and wonder if it was the last time.

Maybe Mick figures I'm too much of a pain in the ass.

He'd be right.

I get up and stretch.

I pad into the kitchen, make my tea, and head for the bathroom. I crank on the shower.

When steam rises, I jerk off my pajama bottoms and cami and sink into the spray in abject relief. I think of Mick as my hands glide over my body, my slippery fingers touching every bit of me. I linger at all the places I want him to touch.

I crank the faucet to cold, and it jerks me out of my reverie, my desire to climax so I can control myself around Mick.

I hold myself back from pleasure. It's a savage torture of my want versus the experience I must have.

If he gives me a chance to redeem myself, I want to be so primed for the pump that nothing can stop us.

No excuse.

No truth.

Just my need to take Mick.

Before he takes me.

*

I bolt my door and turn, instantly stumbling over something.

Another card. Wrapped in elastic and attached to my mask.

The mask I misplaced! I do a mental facepalm and cringe. How does he know it's mine? My brows come together as I rack my brain. Maybe it's an innocent “find.” One that doesn't warrant a total meltdown of my threadbare control of my emotional fabric.

I bend over, retrieve the mask, remove it from the card, unlock my door, and throw the mask inside without a glance.

Closing my door, I lock it again and turn the card over.

My heart thumps harder.

Came by to see you. Out of town for a few days.

Mick

I run my thumb over the deep, hastily scratched cursive. I feel each indent.

I caress his signature twice.

The rasp of my flesh over his penmanship evokes a sharp pang of lust mixed with longing.

I slip my phone out of my smock pocket and look at the texts from Mick.

They're from before Thorn and I almost blew it in the alley.

Just the thought of any kind of collusion with Thorn sets my teeth on edge.

I still can't get a feel for him.

But I have different things to consider with his new information. Mick doesn't know about the laps. It doesn't get him completely off the hook with me though. I mean, he's still okay with making some of his money off pole dancers.

And I'm hypocrite enough to be pissed about it. In a roundabout way, he's providing for my mom's care.

I cringe and put my cell inside my pocket, along with the card.

My fingertips linger on the thick paper.

Can I afford my pride anymore?

What kind of game is Mick playing?

What kind am I?

I move into the freight elevator and slam it shut. It lurches down and lands at the bottom with a teeth-slamming crunch.

I flinch, step out, and high tail it to the door.

I look left and right, letting the building door close behind me. I notice my VW is sandwiched between two cars.

My off-street parking is not-going-anywhere parking today. I can't back out without ramming the yahoos who take parallel parking to a new level.

Shit.

I guess I'm going to get some exercise. I know it's not part of the protocol Doctor Matthews has in mind.

I imagine him saying, “Brain tumor patients shall not run to work.”

Well fuck it.

I run.

*

I grab Trixie’s thigh hard as she does a particularly good hamstring extension. I feel for the proper lift, hardness of muscle, and method.

It's perfect.

She grunts, staving off another with five seconds of unapproved respite.

“Come on,” I encourage, “one more.”

“It's killing me!”

I know. “Give me one more real one. Otherwise you're just going through the motions. I'd rather see five real than twenty fakers.”

“Gah!” She bellows like an enraged cow and pushes through the last set. She collapses against the weight bench underneath her, arms dangling like limp noodles.

I pat her leg.

“Don't touch me,” she barks.

“Grumpy,” I answer in a neutral tone, though I can feel the smile in my voice.

Trixie whirls around, her mousy hair and thin body like a whip that doesn't sit still.

“Where am I at, Faren?”

I hate to say, but I know what she's asking. “There's still a good amount of atrophy.”

Trixie's hazel eyes narrow at my evasion. “How. Much.”

I fold my arms. “You're organic, Trixie, not a robot. Each patient is different. I'm not here to defeat you, but to encourage you.”

“With pain?” she asks, disbelieving.

My lips twitch. I've heard that so many times I've lost count.

“Yes. We don't call this ‘the torture chamber’ for nothing.”

She stands and looks up into my face. “What do you estimate?”

Her shoulders droop, her mouth a grim line.

Yet, I deliver news that makes her face fall further. I never lie to my patients.

Only myself.

*

I slide my patient folder through the glass slot and meet Sue's eyes.

“How's Doc Matthews?” she asks, flicking a finger through the sheets page by page, swiping stickies away where they're not needed.

I say nothing at first.

Sue looks up over her eyeglasses. The bottoms of her eyes are magnified, and the tops are sharp.

Focusing on me.

Those two words—brain cancer—stick in my throat like a burr, and I want to spit them out.

Instead, I swallow the lump in my throat and force a smile.

“He's great.”

Sue exhales in obvious relief. “So you're feeling better?”

I nod, also true.

Except for the terrible headache attack yesterday and fainting, I've never felt better. I smile at how easy it is for me to dismiss the horrible incident when the little ones are becoming less frequent.

Of course, it could be the calm before the storm. My smile fades with my pessimism.

I turn to go, hiding my face to shroud my thoughts.

“Oh, Faren!” Sue calls out and I turn back.

She waves a mask at me.

The twilight doesn't fail to catch the refractions the Swarovski crystals fling around the room like tiny diamonds in flight.

I can't speak. I left that stupid thing inside my apartment.

I know it.

The mask that I had misplaced, that Mick found and used as a handy message-holder. My belly does an unwieldy flop.

“Who... what?” I ask.

Sue is obviously pleased she’d remembered to give it to me. She slides it through the slot.

It sparkles as it moves. “He said it was yours.”

“Who?” I ask again, my voice fragile.

Sue's brows draw together, and she shrugs. “Some man. He says you dropped it outside the office.”

I stand there like a zombie, and my bad hand gives a vicious jerk. My good one is softly fisted around the damning mask.

“Is something wrong?” Sue looks as if she's about to dive around the partition and tackle me in full-on mother hen style.

“No!” I say, a little more harshly than I mean to.

“It's mine. Just a little leftover Halloween stuff still running around in my purse.”

Sue nods, but her eyes track me in a way they never have before.

I'm getting more attention than I want from a co-worker. But that's the least of my worries.

My stepfather has been in my house.

~ 4 ~

My body freezes outside my apartment building in fear. Strobes flare at me in greeting, red then blue, pulsing in the descending twilight.

The sunset bleeds away as I approach my building and a cop car stands sentinel by the glass doors. My thoughts fill with Ronnie. Cop cars at my apartment, dumped mask like a message... I can think of only one conclusion. Out with pessimism, in with realism. I'm not a fan of coincidence.

My hand only trembles a little when I whip out my cell and text Kiki.

Me: Holy shit, the cops are at my building

Kiki has her phone glued to her ass. Unless she's in the shower, she'll reply.

I wait until my cell pings.

I look down and give a nervous laugh.

Kiki: What in the fuckinstein is happening? Are you ok?

Am I okay? Hell no. Ronnie had my mask; he knows where I live. I'm not safe. Oh god—I'm not safe.

Me: No... Yeah, I'm okay but Kik—can you come over?

I'm finally asking for help.

Kiki: Gah! I can't, I've got poles tonight. I've got to wiggle my ass and play grab the cash... after?

Me: Yeah.

Kiki: You're not lying... are you really okay?

No. Me: Yes... just, come over, k?

Kiki: <3

I walk toward the apartment building and see cops milling around in the small foyer.

A cop walks up to me, his badge reads Tagger.

He's my height, and his watery green eyes meet my gray ones. He does that eye flick most men do when they see me. Though my sexy clinic smock gets in the way of an in-depth perusal, he still lingers for the perfunctory two-second eye rake.

“I'm sorry, miss, I can't let you enter the building.”

His hand hovers over me as if I'm going to sprint for it, slide across the tile, and make a home run as I land inside the elevator.

Right.

“I live in the building,” I say, not quite keeping the bite out of my words.

I'm tired, my feet hurt, and I'm freaked as hell about Ronnie.

Now cops are telling me to get lost?

Don't they effing know I am already? So lost.

Tears of frustration fill my vision, scorching me as I refuse to let them fall. Instead, I level a glare at the cop who's just doing his job.

Anger feels better than tears.

It's not his fault he just stepped into the pile of shit that's my life.

Tagger's brows rise, and he takes out a piece of paper and slides a finger down what I know must be a short list of tenants.

His eyes meet mine, and they have a look. It's not easy to decipher sandwiched between two buildings in a tight, narrow alleyway full of puddled shadows.

“Faren Mitchell?”

My heart pounds harder, and my hand gives a warning tremble. That's one of the “tells” Thorn spoke of. The full-on shakes might happen in a minute or two for extra fun.

“Yes.” Even to me, my voice has the quality of a squished whistle.

He lightly touches my elbow and I don't retreat. “I'm afraid we have some bad news.”

His words hollow me. I don't think I can handle any more of the evils of life.

I follow him through the door. My eyes take in my irate landlord and the splayed guts of the security code box.

“You fuckweasels didn't get here after my tenant called it in- what? Ten minutes ago?! What in the blue fuck do we pay your salary for? To goddamned respond is what!” my landlord yells.

Tagger narrows his vision to a laser beam on Humphrey. His combover stands like a filthy flag on top of his head. I can just imagine him compulsively raking his pudgy fingers through it.

Another cop has a little handheld device, his stylus poised but not touching. Apparently fuckweasel doesn't warrant note taking.

“Faren!” Humphrey stalks over to me, and all I see is the spot of mustard on his rumpled shirt collar.

Tagger steers me into the vestibule of my apartment building.

I don't miss the look he gives his partner, a significant eye jerk to Humphrey.

The other cop, Scott, calls, “Mr. Humphrey! My questions are not finished.”

Humphrey stops. He shoots me a scathing look that clearly says later.

His fists bunch, and he pivots and walks back to officer Scott in a jerky trot. His chubby body rocks importantly when he halts in front of Scott again. He’s pissed and not bothering to hide it.

Tagger shakes his head. “If it wasn't his property, we wouldn't be so lenient.”

“He's a jerk,” I say and bite my cheek.

Tagger smiles, and it changes his face, erasing hard years. “Yes, duly noted.”

We climb the stairs, and I slow. His hand takes my elbow.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Tagger stares at me. So much in his face is left unsaid, and I can feel the blood rush to my feet.

“Where?” I ask again.

He sighs explosively. “It's your apartment.”

I wrench my elbow out of his grip and sprint up the stairs.

“Miss Mitchell!” Tagger bellows.

I outpace him like an antelope on crack.

I've kept in great shape, working to get out of the hole of disability Ronnie Bunce put me in. There's only my hand now.

I can't make everything right.

I throw open the top floor door, slamming it against the wall and making another crack in the plaster for Humphrey to bitch about.

It slaps me in the ass when Tagger crowds behind me.

I groan, clutching the doorjamb, as my eyes take in my doorway.

My solid wood door hangs from its hinges like a busted tooth, and I walk forward as though in a dream.

Or a nightmare.

“Is it... safe?” I whisper. Tears spill, cutting fine pathways in my heart.

“Yeah, but, Miss Mitchell...”

“Faren,” I reply absently.

“Faren, stay with me please. I can't have you running off like that.” He's not out of breath, but his eyes are tired.

Tired of things I've never seen. And some that I will.

“Okay.” I walk toward the torn mouth of my apartment.

I step through the threshold and don't know where to look first. Everything that can be broken is.

The silent tears roll on.

I glide over to my stove. My pale green salt and pepper shakers sit untouched, the only perfect thing in the wreck of my apartment.

I hug them, my eyes taking in my tea kettle shattered on the floor.

It had been my mom's.

“Miss Mitchell...” the cop begins.

I walk over to my couch, the afghans scattered everywhere. I sit and look at the couch Mick lounges on when he breaks into my apartment. God, I miss that.

I laugh and hiccup at the same time.

I raise my eyes to Tagger, feeling like a husk.

“I'm sorry, Faren, but I have to ask you some questions.”

“Someone just came and beat the shit out of my apartment and you have to ask me some questions...” I thump my bad hand against my chest, and the salt shaker falls to the floor.

We watch the salt dump all over the rug.

Our eyes meet, and I think about luck. If weren't for the bad, I wouldn't have any at all.

Tagger slowly stoops, pinches some of the salt, and with a deliberate fling, throws it over his shoulder.

I stare at him.

“For luck,” he says without an ounce of defensiveness.

“Okay.” I sound shaky. I don't believe in luck.

His stylus comes up above his tablet, hovering like a chopper without landing.

“Ready?”

I give the barest nod. My bottom lip trembles as I try to shut off my mind—an engine that never quits.

He starts in, and I respond.

Where do I work? What are my hours?

Everywhere. Impossible.

I don't meet his eyes and that makes it easier.

Do I have any enemies?

I look up.

Tagger shrugs. I notice his dirty blond hair needs a cut, curling above his ears.

“Seems personal.”

Oh... it is.

His eyes run over me again and stutter to a stop at my scarred hand.

They lift to mine.

His question is there, though he doesn't voice it.

The cop knows the evidence of violence when he sees it, like Thorn did. He's not here to question me like a suspect, but he's suspicious. It's in the tense set of his body.

I stand, and he follows me. I take a mournful mental inventory of the things in my home.

I halt when I catch sight of my bed.

My normal clothes are hanging in the closet.

Slashed—every one.

The only things that escaped destruction are my stripper outfits. Each one of those is neatly laid out on the bed.

Gooseflesh breaks out over my body, running down my arms.

I move to my dresser and tear my drawers open.

My panties are missing.

Bras.

Oh my god.

I slowly turn, and Tagger gives me a neutral look.

I want to hit him. “You could have warned me at least.”

He shakes his head. “I needed to see your reaction.”

I wipe my eyes, brushing angry tears away.

“What?” I move into his personal space. “You some kind of sadist? You get off on some freak coming in here and wrecking all my stuff?”

Tagger's eyes narrow.

“No, I don't, Miss Mitchell.” He stares at me then glances at the bed full of stripper clothes.

“But I am mighty curious why someone would break into your apartment and wreck everything. Then they take nothing but your lingerie, and keep an assortment of very... interesting clothes in perfect condition on display for your return.”

My eyes drop from his.

I hear his frustration. “Is there something you're not telling me?” he asks.

There is.

But if I breathe a whisper about Ronnie Bunce, I have to answer questions about laps, extras... and my newest love interest. It could be dangerous for me.

It could hurt my mom.

Oh yeah, officer, I'm keeping billionaire Mick McKenna around to deflower me before I die, and my crazy-as-fuck stepdad wants to make good on unfinished business.

They'd keep me wrapped up so tight I'd never see my mom.

No way. I'm all she has. I can't be embroiled in some mess while her care hangs in the balance.

“No, there really isn't,” I lie. The weight of my desperation pins every word with a grain of truth. Love is a powerful motivator.

Tagger closes his tablet with a smack. “I wish I believed you.”

Me too. I stare at him, folding my arms.

He sighs in frustration. “You have a place to stay?”

I don't answer fast enough, and he explains, “You're not safe here. There's no way to secure the door.”

I can tell he thinks I'm some kind of whacko flight risk.

I open my mouth.

“She'll stay with me.”

We turn toward the door, looking out into my small living room at the man entering my wrecked apartment.

I heard his voice and, like Pavlov's dog, that ache settled right between my legs, heat spreading from my core to my toes.

From just his voice.

Tagger whirls around, his hand on the butt of his pistol.

“How did you get up here?” His hand strokes the leather holster.

My eyes move to Mick's, their root beer brown so deep I drown in them.

“Ben Franklin let me in.”

Tagger frowns.

Mick holds up a one hundred dollar bill.

~ 5 ~

“Hate to break it to you, Mr. McKenna, but you can't buy me.”

Tagger glares as Mick calmly plucks a billfold out of the interior pocket of his suit.

“No?”

Mick's brows dump above angry eyes, a tick beginning in his square jaw. “Then maybe you can explain why my girlfriend is being browbeaten by a beat cop who leaves the apartment unattended after it's been rifled through?”

Girlfriend?

I drink him in as he stuffs the money in his wallet.

Tagger's forehead furrows, his body going tense. “Where's Scott?”

Mick removes an imaginary piece of lint from his understated, tailor-cut suit. It perfectly showcases his natural elegance.

His eyes cut to Tagger. “I don't know. Why don't you find out and leave me here with Miss Mitchell? I can take it from here.”

I cringe at his unflinching handling of the police.

Tagger doesn't move. “We may need to assign police protection—”

“That won't be necessary,” Mick cuts him off.

My eyes find Tagger. “Police protection?”

He shrugs, and my eyes narrow. He makes me feel as though I’m somehow to blame, like a police liability.

“You thought you might lean on Miss Mitchell until she cracked?” Mick asks.

Tagger stares at Mick, his fair skin taking on a ruddy glow.

I turn my attention to Mick, my mouth agape.

“I'm aware of Miss Mitchell's background,” Tagger says.

I somehow cover my shock. I’m so glad everyone knows everything about me and doesn’t bother to make me privy. “What does my history have to do with this?”

I shoot Mick a hard look. Has he said something to Tagger? No, that makes no sense-- unless they know each other from before.

Tagger scrubs his face and scowls at Mick. “I don't know how you know anything here, McKenna.”

“Sounds personal,” I mimic and Tagger gives me a thoughtful look.

Mick walks over to me and puts a large warm hand at the nape of my neck. The warmth from his voice is nothing to that single touch.

A searing flame races from my head to my toes, coming back to latch on to my crotch in a vicious twist of arousal.

My lips part; I keep from panting from sheer will alone.

I clearly need more oxygen.

It doesn't matter that Tagger is watching us like a hawk. Mick is touching me, and I can't get past that.

He's a barrier I can't break, that I want to hold forever.

“It is,” Tagger replies, his eyes noting Mick's hand on me.

“Ben Franklin always works, Tagger.” Mick gives my neck a gentle squeeze, and a small bubble of sound escapes me.

Mick glances at me, his aloof facade slipping around the edges. It's like ice melting before the passion of our contact.

“It doesn't work with me, McKenna.”

Mick's eyes slide back to Tagger's. “I know you're working a case.”

He does?

Tagger pushes his tablet into his pocket slowly, never breaking eye contact with Mick.

“I have a right to know what's going on,” I say, stepping away from Mick so I can think. I feel like the only one out of the know. Tagger knows my background, Mick does too. They seem to know each other. And Ronnie Bunce is at the heart. Maybe it beats without their knowledge.

“There's been a similar... pattern of break-ins,” Tagger admits.

My mouth opens then closes. “When... who?”

Tagger cocks his head. “It's local, similar M.O.”

Oh... maybe not Bunce.

“Hookers mainly,” Tagger says, and my face flames.

Definitely Bunce. First the mask, then trashing my apartment?

Mick's expression darkens.

“I'm not a hooker,” I say.

That rides the line of lying.

Have I had intercourse during a lap?

No.

Have I done everything but that?

Almost.

And I did it for the money.

I think of my mom, how it was before Ronnie and I bite my lip. That long ago memory is a bittersweet whip of velvet inside my mind.

“We're not accusing you of prostitution,” Tagger says.

“You’d better not be.” Mick’s voice sounds like a growl, and I barely resist looking at him.

Tagger grins, seeming to love his role of authority.

“She's not your wife, Mr. McKenna. You really don't have any rights here. In fact, you being here is wrong on a lot of levels.”

Tagger turns to me. “Do you feel threatened, Miss Mitchell?”

“Of course!” I answer immediately.

“Do you feel threatened by Mr. McKenna?” he clarifies.

My eyes shift to Tagger’s as I remember Mick slamming me against walls and doors, pinning my wrists above my head while he assaulted me with his lips.

I take too long responding, and Mick looks at me.

“No, I don't feel threatened by Mr. McKenna.”

Mick's shoulders relax, but there's a question in his eyes that I don't want to answer.

Tagger closes the distance between us, and Mick tenses again.

I would love to understand the animosity between them, but I keep my mouth shut.

Tagger’s arm stretches out, and I flinch. Habit.

His eyes tighten at my reaction. “I won't hurt you, Miss Mitchell.”

I've heard that before—about a hundred times when the cops came and Ronnie talked to them.

He could be very convincing.

I imagine he had his own stockpile of George Washingtons.

Tagger’s hand opens, and his card sits inside. “Take it.”

I pluck the card out of his hand and slide it into the front pocket of my scrubs.

“Humphrey has promised to get your door repaired within twenty-four hours, but until that happens, you'll need somewhere safe to stay.”

“I said she's staying with me,” Mick says with finality.

I'm so not staying with him.

Too many secrets to hide.

“Right.” Tagger looks at me, unconvinced.

I blush from his look that brims with assumptions. He's getting a mental image of all the slut suits on my bed along with nightly humpfests with Mick.

“Fine.” He walks to my yawning, shattered doorway and turns. “There will be a follow-up.” He leaves.

Tagger never did tell me what my history had to do with this.

I'm the victim; he knows that. If he knows about my past, then he knows that.

So why do I get the feeling he suspects me of wrongdoing?

Some people have a nose for the truth.

~ 6 ~

Mick presses his fingers to my lips. “Faren, just say yes.”

I lift my cell phone and wag it. “Kiki's coming over.” Though I don't know when.

Mick seems to sense the cracks in my words and slides through.

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear and brushes his lips over mine. Pulling away, he cradles my face, and my hands fall to my sides.

“I lied,” he says in a bland voice.

Oh no.

I can't take any more revelations.

His dark eyes search mine, his high cheekbones still splashed with color from being outside.

“You're not like the other women I've been with.”

I close my eyes and feel his fingertips against my lips, “Technically we haven't been together.”

My eyes open, meeting his.

He grins, his perfect white teeth blazing at me. “There's time.”

“Yeah, about that,” I say as I step away from Mick.

His smile fades, but he continues to regard me with that customary heat. A built-in incubator of desire.

I gulp. “I want to make sure that we keep our relationship without strings.”

Mick jams his hands in the pockets of his suit. “Yup.”

My stomach twists.

My brows rise, and I put my hands on my hips. His face is totally neutral. I'm looking for any bleep on the emotional screen. Nothing. I roll my bottom lip into my teeth, and his eyes shift to the movement.

The temperature rises instantly. “No strings,” I repeat.

“Nope.” He grins as he watches me gnaw on my bottom lip.

It's that tell again. I let my lip go. I wonder how many unconscious things I do that show Mick things I’d rather he didn’t know.

Mick strolls toward me. “I'm all about strings.” He kisses my forehead, his hands coming to my shoulders.

Oh god.

“Tight…” His kiss falls like butterfly wings against the sensitive spot beneath my ear. “Strings.”

My eyes snap open, and his are two inches from my face.

I take note of the ring of bright gold around his pupil and feel my control slip further... into his hands.

I manage to whisper, “Just until Kiki comes.” I don't address the permanency of what he implies.

He kisses me then, a crushing press that takes away my breath and curls my toes. That molten hard press breaks my lips open, and our tongues twine in an erotic collision of wet heat.

Mick breaks away, leaving us both gasping, our swollen mouths seeking more of the same passionate damage.

“Get your things, Faren.” His face is hard, his eyes soft with want.

I blink and look down at my work outfit. “Oh god, my stuff.”

I shake, thinking about all my clothes. My eyes move to my open bedroom door.

Mick searches my face, easily reading my expression. “We'll get more.”

My pride holds me at knifepoint. “I don't need you to buy my clothes.” I want his help, but the plea is a lodged wedge in my throat.

I turn away and walk over to my bed, covered with shimmering dresses that barely cover my female bits, and sigh.

I don't have two dimes to rub together. I've spent every penny on my mom's debt.

I roll my bottom lip into my mouth.

“Too late, babe,” he says so close behind me I jump.

How could he buy me anything that fast? My apartment was just wrecked.

I whirl and see his hand on the first dress he ever saw me in. Mick lets the silver glass beads run through his fingers like water. I watch him like visual foreplay.

He says, “You can take all this.” Something ripples across the surface of his face that gives me pause.

“Thanks,” I mutter, and I smile when he's not looking.

I move to the closet, grab a duffle, and stuff all my outfits inside. My cell chimes. I grip it in my good hand and see the name rising from the blackness of my screen.

Thorn.

The lap address appears for tonight, and my breath catches. I completely forgot.

Nothing like a visit from my deranged stepfather to blank my mental agenda.

Mick zips the duffle closed and I slip my cell into my smock pocket. My mind is so thick with my thoughts it's like a mudslide inside my skull.

“Important?” Mick inquires.

I shake my head, trying to clear it. “No.” Yes.

My nose scrunches. “I need toiletries.”

I move to the bathroom and look at the forty million makeup bottles and brushes. When I look up, my fractured reflection stares back. The glass is shattered but intact inside the frame.

It makes me want to cry again, seeing all those images of my face in broken slices.

I can feel Mick staring at me. His gaze brings my emotions to the surface. My trembling lip and quick swallows to contain the new torrent of tears gives me away, and he gently moves me aside.

He pins the duffle to the rim of the vanity with his knee. He sweeps the entire top tier of items into my duffle.

Powder sprays up, and perfume bottles clink together. My hairbrush misses the rim of the duffle and clunks to the floor. Tampons fall like decapitated paper fingers.

I look at Mick, and he's grinning.

I laugh and can't stop.

He takes me in his arms when I begin to cry.

“Shhh, Faren.”

His big hands slide around my waist and cup my ass, hauling me up on the now-empty vanity. “Stay with me.”

“Why?” My hands come to his face, and the rasp of his five o'clock shadow feels good against my fingers. “Why do I have to stay with you?”

Mick's face goes serious, his brown eyes darkening to glittering ebony marbles. “Because I leave town for two days and someone eviscerates your apartment.”

His hands move to my waist, his fingers touching at my back. My head tips back, and my breath slides out in surrender as his thumbs stroke my ribcage.

Mick's grip tightens with my response. He dips his head, pressing a soft kiss at my throat, and my fingers sink into his hair.

The deep bass of his voice continues. “Hacks your clothes to pieces... and you escape a mugging by the skin of your pretty teeth.”

I don't have any words for the evil he recites.

Instead, I switch gears. “You called me your girlfriend.”

Mick steps away, and I become cold without him, my fingers falling from his thick hair.

“Am I?” I ask. I want to be. And I don't.

“You're something.”

“What?” What am I to him? What are we really doing?

Mick looks down, a lock of his dark auburn hair defeats the widow's peak that centers above his forehead. When his gaze rises to mine, those dark eyes cover every nuance of emotion on my face, missing nothing. Every hill, every valley. As if weighing me.

“Special.”

He holds out his hand, and I slip mine inside.

Mick scoops the duffle from the floor and throws it over his shoulder, hauling me behind him.

I begin to turn around and look at the carnage that Ronnie made.

He squeezes my hand. “Don't look.”

I take a deep breath and follow him out my ruined door.

*

My stomach drops when I see where we park.

Henry has slowed the limo to a gentle stop in front of the Millennium Tower, and a literal red carpet runs out to the floorboards of the limo.

To my left is Puget Sound, and to my right is one of the most expensive high-rise condominium palaces in Seattle.

This is also where Kiki lives.

Holy smokes, how much more convoluted can my life become?

“Do you know all your neighbors?” I ask, trying for casual.

Mick stops his more or less constant drumming on his knee. “Not really.”

His other hand rests on my thigh like a brand of fire.

“I thought you said you live here.”

Henry opens the door and I place my hand into his gloved one, that sense of the surreal slipping over me as he helps me out.

I feel so conspicuous standing in front of the Tower wearing my cartoon scrubs.

Of course, I've been to Kiki's many times.

Her studio condo put her back a million dollars. In my ignorance, I'd thought it was a penthouse at first. There is no point of reference when you've never had money.

It's all just more. More than what I have.

I know Mick McKenna will have a large bachelor pad.

“I do, in a manner of speaking... but I am waiting for a new space to be renovated while I live in a smaller condo.”

I look at his profile as Henry walks behind me, swinging the door shut.

“Excuse me, will that be all, sir?” Henry asks.

Mick shoots me a glance.

“Yes,” he answers, giving me a wink. “I'll take care of Miss Mitchell.”

“Indeed you will,” Henry replies, already moving around the front of the gleaming black limo.

“Oh, you will, will you?” I ask in the coolest voice I can manage. Inside, a dozen butterflies beg for escape.

Freedom.

~ 7 ~

It's impossible to not look around in awe. I can't hide it, so I don't even try.

His is the finest home I've ever been in.

There are no walls, only floor-to-ceiling glass that looks out over Puget Sound. The challenge of catching the state ferry for a day trip to the hippie-filled Bainbridge Island is only a casual walk away.

The reclaimed walnut floors gleam as the tall ceilings rise to open ductwork in brushed stainless. A beautiful wide staircase appears to grow out of the floor. A harvest of antiquated brick walls close in around us, lending a warm intimacy to the space.

Mick watches me with a wary expression as I walk through his elegantly appointed smaller holding.

As though I'll bolt.

He knows me better than I think.

Mick trails behind me and sets my duffle on a low-slung, soft black leather couch that narrowly hugs the rough wall.

I stroll to the kitchen, where an island of black granite flows like sleek, sparkling oil. It runs underneath cabinets with a soap stone under- countertop sink, the deep bluish-slate perfectly picks up the midnight flecks within the dark sea of granite that surrounds it.

“You like it?” Mick asks, studying my face with tender intensity.

I nod and back away from the kitchen. My eyes sweep the high-end stainless appliances, and I spot a tea kettle. Pain cuts me as I recall the one that lies shattered on the floor of my apartment.

“Yes,” I answer, my finger running along his living room couch.

The couch is perfectly angled to see both the fireplace that bisects the large great room and the water of Puget Sound that appears like an ebony canvas through the acres of windows.

I face Mick, and there's a stillness in his body—as there is in mine. As though time has taken leave of the moment.

Then it breaks, and Mick strides to me.

I brace myself like a beach when a tidal wave threatens. I watch the water suck away until the only thing left is the wave that is Mick crashing against my body.

He moves in a rush of water as he flings his coat to the floor, his cufflinks scattering like platinum pebbles on the sand.

My hand grips the couch as he hits me at full speed. Both of his hands find my ass, his lips slam into mine, and we fall backward over the arm of the couch.

I cry out.

Not in fear, but terror.

Terror that what I want might finally happen.

That I'm not ready, not in control.

It's not on my terms.

Somehow, through a coincidence of circumstance, Mick has me where he wants me. My heart beats with lust for what he can do, with fear from how I feel.

Though I try to deny, deny, deny.

“Faren,” Mick says as we fall into the couch.

One of his feet hit the floor, stopping him from landing on top of me. His left hand hooks the back of my neck.

He presses himself into my center, and I groan, deepening the ache that he started with his touch and the desperate way he says my name. He jerks his pants down, a button flying off and skating across the floor.

His ownership of my safety sinks my caution like lead weights and I latch onto his penis with a grip that should hurt.

I've lost my mind. My emotions are a tornado of uncontrollable lust and acute desperation as I squeeze him.

He's impossibly hard, big.

Mick hisses, and my hold loosens.

“No.” His eyes go dark and he covers my hand that grips him. “I've been waiting for that... for what I know is really there.”

Can't lose my nerve.

He releases my hand, and I fumble with his belt. It jerks loose of the loops in a slithering hiss of cloth against leather. I fling the belt aside, and it clatters to the floor as he presses his knee between my legs.

Edgy pressure grinds against my core. Heat floods me in preparation for what's to come, and I whimper. I’m so close to having what I want that I writhe underneath him.

“Oh god, Faren.” Mick jerks his pants down further with one hand, freeing himself.

I get a good look at him and gasp. I've seen a hundred bare cocks, but never one I wanted.

Until his.

Mick yanks off my shirt, my arms flinging backward to help him, and his hands latch onto my breasts with my smock still tangling my wrists.

He squeezes them as his thumbs pivot to my nipples, his knee splits me further, and I cry out. A great throbbing pulse between my legs is connected to those thumbs. I abandon my will to Mick, my control.

His eyes move to mine as I speak his name.

I feel as though every lap dance I've ever done is coming back to haunt me. The sexuality that's been robbed from me because of obligation has been returned to me like a gift.

“More,” I ask without knowing what it means.

I hear my panties tear, and my eyes spring open as he maneuvers his head lower.

Mick's eyes meet mine from between my legs, and I'm overcome with nervous embarrassment.

Mick's hands leave my breasts and hold my thighs open. His eyes flick to mine. “I've wanted to do this since the first time I laid eyes on you.”

I blink at him as he dips his head.

I have a moment of hysterical realization that he just ruined my last pair of panties when I feel his hot wet tongue on my clit and my mind slides in a languid push of bucking hips and near loss of consciousness.

My lungs burn as they beg to breathe, but I can't think of anything but Mick's mouth on me.

It is the best feeling I've ever had, slick, hot, and so blindingly real. My body stills under the press of his mouth.

He holds my hips down with his forearm and spreads my legs wider. He slides deeper into the cradle of my body, his hands going to my thighs and squeezing.

His eyes flick to mine again, his tongue working the sides of my lips. As Mick sucks from the top to the bottom, my head falls back. A hushed whisper that's half his name and half-moan eases out of me. He continues to stare into my face.

I latch onto his hands, my eyes wide, my breath coming in bursts that are harsh and needy.

Our gazes lock.

When his tongue spears me, my fingers dive into his hair and I scream, the echo striking us like an erotic slap of unsullied sound.

Mick's thumb swirls the wetness from my entrance up to my clit as his tongue is buried in a deep pump.

My eyes slam shut, and I release his hair as I break apart. The orgasm is so crushing, so vital, I cry helpless whimpers as he works between my legs.

The pulses of my ecstasy are enhanced by his tongue in me, his hand on the swollen bundle of nerves.

His face where no one has ever been.

I lie naked beneath him, my wrists above my head in a rope of my uniform. One foot dangles off the couch, one bent leg is plastered against the back.

Mick rises on his knees, and I watch my juices glisten on his jaw. His powerful hips flex as he walks closer to me on his knees.

I watch him bob, so rigid... so perfect.

I haven't told him my state of innocence, but he'll soon find out.

His hands come to my hipbones as he steers me toward his engorged penis. I shiver in anticipation, wanting every inch that stands at stiff attention.

My cell phone shatters the silence.

As does the doorbell.

~ 8 ~

“Fuck me,” Mick seethes. He swivels, eyes tagging the door with a death glare.

The bell trills like someone's laying their elbow against it.

My phone vibrates across the glass coffee table.

“Can we ignore this?” I ask, already feeling exposed. The tether of our almost-connection slips away like a rope of vapor.

“McKenna!” a man yells, followed by a heavy fist.

I almost recognize the voice, but I can't place it.

Mick hops off the couch, jerking up his trousers, and I watch him stuff his semi-erect goodness away.

The disappointment is a sucker punch. I feel dazed.

I untwist my smock and notice my bra is hanging on by one strap. I heave it to the floor and tear my shirt over my head, accidentally tugging my hair.

Mick's almost to the door and I hear my voice mail chime alert.

I'm naked from the waist down, my pussy catches a breeze and my wet passion tickles as it cools. I scan the floor and grab my smock pants, kicking my ruined panties off to join the bra. I jerk on the pants as Mick turns around, sees my state of more or less dress, and looks through the peephole.

I know it's bad when he leans his forehead against the door.

“Fuck,” he says with feeling and unbolts the door.

He sucks open the door, wearing no shoes, no shirt... just his pants. Hopefully minus the hard-on.

It's Tagger.

I want to die of embarrassment. Twice.

Tagger does a head to toe sweep of Mick's... general disarray, and smirks. “Catch ya at a bad time?”

Mick holds onto the door, blocking Tagger’s view of my body. “Yeah, kinda sucks. What do you need?”

“I'm surprised you don't have a butler and the whole nine yards.”

I can see Mick's face shut down.

“You said Faren Mitchell would be with you.”

“Yes,” Mick answers, giving him nothing.

“Is she here?” Tagger presses.

“Yeah.”

“May I come in?”

Mick exhales. Moving aside, he sweeps his hand to the right, and Tagger walks in. His casual clothes look out of place in Mick's expensive digs.

Of course, I still have my physical therapy uniform on.

Sans panties and bra.

Oh god. My chin drops when I catch sight of my underwear. I give what I think is a subtle swish of my toes in an attempt to bury them underneath the couch.

“There you are,” Tagger says.

My stomach clenches. He sounds so much like the men who speak to me at the laps.

Horrible condescension and assumption rolled into neat little judgment with a bow on top.

My eyes meet his, my teeth setting together in a pre-grind.

Mick sees my expression over Tagger's shoulder and frowns. “Okay, you've seen her. Now you can go.” Tagger must know he walked in on something, and it’s even more obvious that Mick's pissed about it.

Tagger turns to Mick, his eyes roving over shoulders hardened through grueling work outs. My eyes follow Tagger's and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out he’s jealous. About what? Neither confirms knowing the other, but I don’t think it’s just about male posturing.

Tagger breaks his stare with Mick and moves to where I stand, trapped between the coffee table and couch. His watery green eyes move down me like they did Mick, and his lips flatten into a grim line.

He gets to my naked toes, and I blush when he sees my torn panties as the crotch flirts at him from underneath the lip of the couch.

I want to crawl in with my discarded underwear.

Instead, I stand there and stare at him as he puts the pieces of our evening together.

I don't know what he sees in my face, but it makes him turn to Mick.

“Tell me this girl isn't one of your playthings, McKenna. Not her.”

I frown. Okay, definitely knows Mick. I'm spot-on with my earlier assumption.

Mick's chin jerks back, and he folds his powerful arms over his bare chest. His eyes narrow on Tagger. “Listen, Jake, I've got you.”

My eyes widen, moving between the two.

I move away from them, wondering what’s going on and hoping I'm not going to find out.

“You're pissed because of who I am,” Mick says.

Tagger moves into Mick's grill and his jaw flexes. “I'm lit up because she doesn't know who you really are, how we suffer over your sleazy bullshit. What's happened.”

Oh no.

“Does she know?”

Mick shoots this out-of-line cop a warning look.

I'm pretty sure I know what Tagger's going to say. If he does, I’ll have to play a role or it'll come off weird. I don't want to.

Not now.

His timing is criminal.

“What... what should I know?” I ask.

Mick looks into my eyes as Tagger drops the news like a bomb.

“Prince Charming here owns the hottest strip clubs on the west coast.”

My eyes slide away to stall while I gather my will, my expression. My words.

I work at one of his clubs. I work at Thorn's illicit club that Mick doesn't know about. I remember picking up that sweaty pole money at his feet like it was yesterday.

It won't be my repulsion that drives me away, but my own guilt. I keep my head down and slide by the men.

“Faren,” Mick says, and I can still feel that sensation of his mouth on me.

I won't stay here because I can't hide what I'm doing forever.

I slip my clogs on and grab my purse off the couch by the front door.

“You simpering dick,” Mick says to Tagger.

I feel a hand wrap my elbow and turn me around.

My eyes move to Tagger's. I don’t like his hand on me one bit.

“I can get you out of here, Miss Mitchell.”

We stare at each other. “I can get myself out, Officer.”

He smiles, and it feels off. He’s completely fine with wrecking my evening with Mick because he has some kind of ax he wants to keep grinding. Is his hard-on for Mick so important that my supposed need for protection plays second fiddle?

I jerk my elbow out of his hand, and his smile widens.

Uneasy, I watch Tagger move to the couch. I studiously avoid Mick's eyes, but I can't ignore his presence.

His existence consumes me like lava. It spreads over me, and I can't breathe through the suffocating warmth.

“Get out of my house, Tagger,” Mick says. I feel his contained anger, frustration and remorse in his bitter tone.

Tagger scoops something off the floor with his stylus. “Don't you mean where you bring your clients?”

I look at my panties hanging off the end of that slim instrument.

Clients?

My eyelids tingle as my eyes fill with tears.

Is this some kind of fuckpad? How many girls have been on that couch? I don't know which to feel more hurt by, his lie by omission or his revolving door of meaningless flings that Tagger seems to be so intimately aware of.

Tagger strolls toward us. I give hurt eyes to Mick before I can stop and back away from them both.

Mick’s jaw looks like granite. “I said Get. The. Fuck. Out.” His eyes roll over my panties in angry possession.

“Evidence, McKenna,” Tagger says in a satisfied tone, holding up the panties.

This guy's like a Jekyll and Hyde. My money's on Hyde.

“What?” Mick asks, clenching his teeth.

“I obviously interrupted an assault in progress...”

“What?” I echo. My voice sounds as though it's been torn from my throat in breathy pieces. Mick didn’t rape me.

If anything, in some twisted way-- I'm the user. But Tagger doesn't intuit that.

Mick snatches the panties from Tagger. “I've never forced any woman in my life. You know that.”

Why is Mick defending his honor?

“That past of yours though.” Tagger wags a finger like it's a good bit of comedy, though we stand around like shell-shocked survivors. “It wouldn't take anything for someone to snap after what you've been through... do the wrong thing here.” He spreads his hands inoffensively.

They glare at each other, the atmosphere thickening.

“She's coming with me, McKenna. I'm getting Miss Mitchell's statement, and she can't make one with you standing over her after an alleged assault.”

“I don't need to make a statement.” I back up farther, my butt pressing against the cold metal of the doorknob.

“You're making one, Miss Mitchell.”

What the hell is going on? How did this cop go from showing up at the scene of my demolished apartment to accusing Mick of attacking me?

My back's literally against the door, my heart hammering as Mick clenches my panties.

“No,” I say, “nothing... happened here. Mick didn't hurt me.”

I meet Mick's eyes, and his are sorry. He didn't want me to find out about the strip clubs from the mouth of a jealous cop.

I'm betting he never wanted me to know.

Tagger shakes his head, reaching for me, and I panic. I hit him with my bad hand because my right holds the strap of my purse.

Tagger grabs my bad hand, biting into the carnage of nerve damage.

I cry out, and even to my ears it's sounds like a wounded animal.

Mick doesn't hesitate.

He steps forward like a dancer in the first blush of movement. His fist lashes out in a natural strike, the knuckles set and turning as he pivots into Tagger's face.

Tagger's face rocks back, his hand convulsing on mine, and I scream Mick's name as the pain rips through my palm.

Mick swivels, his hand coming down as he turns, and hammer chops the cop's forearm. Tagger reflexively releases my hand.

Mick turns to me, my hand a shaking nightmare and wraps his arms around me.

I know Tagger didn't mean to hurt me. Probably doesn't even consider my damaged hand.

I gasp into Mick's muscled chest, tears sliding out from underneath my clenched eyes.

“Oh god,” I gasp. The old pain grinds through my hand and halfway up my forearm in the way only nerves can travel the agony highway.

I hear a pop and then feel a pain worse than I've ever experienced slices through me.

I fall back, Mick falling with me, his weight covering me in a brutal slap.

I see Tagger, his legs spread and a nasty wound on his jaw, holding a Taser.

Delivering the jolts that incapacitate Mick and transfer to me.

I see his smile before darkness takes me.

~ 9 ~

“Billionaire Jared McKenna has been detained overnight for the alleged assault of physical therapist Faren Mitchell,” a reporter chimes. Her bronzer makes her look like an oompa loompa.

Kiki turns off the television and stares at me, having just extradited me from the holding tank. I wrinkle my nose-- pee and barf still sharp in my memory. “Oh my god, girl, this is so many levels of fucked up shit.”

I can only nod at another ugly turn my complicated life just took.

I perch at her small kitchen table, déjà vu slipping over me. I've come full circle. I'm back at Millennium Tower, about twelve stories below Mick's place.

I swallow past the mental replay of what happened in his condo. “Yeah, so what I need. More notoriety.”

Kiki leans forward, long black hair misses her coffee by a millimeter. “Is it true?”

I roll my eyes. “No.”

“But he came clean about the strip clubs?” Her brows draw together as she sets her tea cup down.

I shake my head. “No, not exactly.” A laugh of pure exhaustion erupts out of me. “The cop is the one who dropped that bomb in Mick’s little humpshack up there.”

I point to her ceiling.

Kiki folds her arms. “I never even knew that McKenna lived here.” She blows a strand of hair out of her face and moves away from the table as I look out the window to the water outside, “here I was, all jonesing to meet his rich ass and then poof-- he lives above me.” She flings a hand above her head.

Kiki puts a butt cheek on the super-high seats around her trendy square nook table. It angles perfectly in the banked windows where west meets south where the glass windows intersect. “Somehow, I'm not thinking you like the proximity.”

I look at her, hand around my mug of coffee, forgoing tea for the moment.

“No. I mean, I don't know.”

She says, “They're going to dredge up all the shit again.”

“Yeah.” I lean back against the chair. “Just as I was becoming a nobody, they'll latch onto the entire Ronnie thing again.”

I slam my mug down on the table. “I don't want people knowing...”

“You took a chance when you signed up for the titillating stuff,” Kiki says.

I sigh. “Yes, I'm aware.”

Kiki lifts her shoulders in consolation. “People are entertained by sex.”

“And evil,” I add and we lock gazes.

“So here comes beautiful Faren Mitchell, survivor of an attack by her lunatic perv stepfather, only to be assaulted by billionaire bookoo bucks.”

I grimace. “Alleged.”

“Okay... so spill-- what did happen. The torn panties have made the news.”

My mouth falls open, the fire of shame coalesces inside my chest. “Are you shitting me?”

Kiki shakes her head slowly as her eyes glide over my sick expression.

“Oh my god, my life has become a soap opera.”

“It's official.” Kiki raises her hand solemnly. “You're the 'it' girl right now. Your apartment was ransacked, and that prick Tasered your supposed attacker, and you were collateral damage.”

Kiki doesn't look away. “Did he really hurt your hand?”

I nod. “I don't think he meant to.”

“Don't defend that assjack,” Kiki fumes, “why was he putting his hands on you, Faren? I mean, eff me- that's just weird.”

I did consider why he seemed so intent to nail Mick to the wall. How it seems like he's using me for his own agenda.

“The whole fucking sick situation reeks.”

“I... I guess he thought Mick was a threat?” I throw out lamely.

Kiki barks out a laugh, and slaps the table. “That'll do it, good for McKenna.” She throws a victory fist in the air.

“You can play the victim and get the police to lick your boots. You've gotta beat the press at their own game.”

I don't like the way that sounds.

“You hold a press conference, play the wounded gazelle. You know, talk sappy smack about how McKenna and you have been dating...”

“I don't know if he wants that...”

“Well, you can't say you and Mick have been casually fucking.” She cocks her brows.

The oxygen leaves the room. “Because we haven't.” I manage through my teeth.

“I want the deets,” Kiki says.

I open my mouth and she does a slicing gesture across her throat. “Later. Anyway,” she pauses, getting into her scheme, “Moneybags—”

“Mick,” I interrupt.

Kiki rolls her eyes, “Hotness?” She waits, and I let a small smile slip.

She grins at my expression. “Hotness is there for you when your apartment gets burglarized. Then this dirty cop comes by to make sure you're where you said you'd be”—her eyes swivel to mine—“and how many shades of fucked up is that anyway? Nevermind. He stomps in there, interrupts consensual… whatever it was, sees your underwear, and goes medieval with the juice.”

I guess that about covers it, but Kiki is missing some finer points.

I hold up my hand. “First, we don't know Tagger's a dirty cop.” I lower one finger.

“He's something.” She juts out her chin in defiance and I can't dispute something reeks like a badly camouflaged turd.

“I think he knows Mick. There's bad blood there. I mean… Mick knew his first name.”

Kiki makes a sound that I translate as knew it.

“Second, my place was not burglarized, it was demolished. Third, it didn't look good.... Mick and me.” I whisper that last.

“What doesn't look good is Tagger's concern over your underwear and why he thinks Mick is capable of assaulting women. Where the hell does he get that?”

A beat of silence passes as we stare at each other.

“Google!” we yell at the same time, making a mad scramble for her laptop.

“I can't believe I haven't already thought of this.”

Kiki looks at my face. “You little weasel, you've already thought about it.”

“Well, he Googled me...” I say in lame defense.

Kiki taps her lip. “But you took him at his word.”

“Yeah… Tagger said something about how 'if I knew about his past.'”

Kiki gives a low whistle.

She flips open her Mac, and I watch over her shoulder as she inputs Mick's name.

“Holy fuckballs!” she shouts. “There's like fifty pages.” Her shoulders slump. “It'll take all goddamned day.”

I scan the first ten hits; all entail holdings, buildings, real estate... so many stories about Mick and me. I swallow, ignoring those.

No... no, no, my eyes flicking through each post. I keep scanning.

Second page: Black Rose gentleman's club holdings.

“Click that.” I point at the elegant black rose held between a skull’s clenched teeth.

Kiki clicks. It's a boatload of boring fiscal stats. My eye catches on a small thread.

Related articles: Black Rose inception.

I point again and Kiki clicks.

I don't know who finishes first, but when we're done reading, she closes the laptop.

“That's horrible,” Kiki says.

Yeah.

At least I know why he peddles flesh.

“He's like... a really honorable guy,” I whisper, feeling like a flea for my layers of deception.

The shame I'd held at bay seeps into every pore.

“Yeah… a really rich, hot, honorable guy with a tragic past.”

Kiki gives me a sharp look. “It's almost as tragic as yours.”

Almost.

~ 10 ~

Kiki drops me at the curb. I flick her a wave, and she lifts her cell. Text me, the gesture says. Our revelations swirl between us like unseen smoke. I nod and turn toward concrete steps.

I'm on my way to see Mick when a text comes in from Thorn.

Thorn: You get a pass on laps because of what went down with Mick. It's your only freebie. You feel me? Tonight Faren.

I chew on my bottom lip while I tap out my response.

Me: Yes, I'll be there.

I don't ask about Ronnie. I have to accept that Thorn understands Ronnie terrifies me, his trashing of my apartment is his newest calling card. Thorn isn't heartless; he's determined.

I don't know which is more dangerous.

I have to talk to Mick about the strip clubs and somehow keep my secret just a little longer.

When we quench this fire between us—when he realizes how innocent I am—I'll come clean about the laps. After all, I can't keep that particular secret much longer.

He won't want to keep some naïve virgin anyway. He'll take it and run.

I'm counting on that. Mick's tender with who he thinks he knows, not who I actually am.

I inhale deeply at the thought of an experienced, rich guy settling down with a terminally ill girl who gives him her virginity while grinding on the laps of strange men.

I think about what I learned on Google. Mick's protective nature makes more sense now.

A lot more.

I just don't know where that leaves us. I know what would have happened if Tagger hadn't burst in. Mick had had me right where he wanted me. I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Then fate inserted itself.

I push the glass door to the Seattle Police Precinct open, the directional reflects back at me, West.

A horse whinnies with a cop on its back as I walk into the old stone building and scan my surroundings. My body feels ultra-sensitive from the shock of the Taser. I'm certain that combined dangerously with my illness.

I shove that thought away for later reflection.

I walk over to the reception desk and stand there while a cop types something.

“Yes?” he asks without looking up.

I feel sexist for thinking it's weird that a man is working the front desk instead of a woman.

“I'm here to see Jared McKenna,” I say, my eyes sailing around the huge noisy space.

He stops typing and looks at me, really looks at me. “You're Faren Mitchell.”

“Yes.” How does he know who I am?

Nothing about that seems good.

Officer Ferric stands and walks around the chest-level, semi-curved desk. He gives me a once-over. “Follow me.”

I don't.

He's ten paces away before he notices. “Miss Mitchell?” His brows rise to a receding hairline of unkempt tufts of dishwater blond hair.

I put my hands on my hips. “Let's just say my confidence in police protection has been shaken.” I'm no longer afraid of every single thing in my life. I want to find out what I can about Tagger. What's happening between him and Mick- see Mick.

I can tell he's thinking about what words to use. “That's what this is about,” Officer Ferric replies.

I cross my arms. I don't have time for this, my life's clock is ticking. I dipped into my vacation time at the clinic and Sue is covering for my last minute request for a personal day. I have do or die laps tonight and haven't seen my mom in two days.

My world is unraveling, a slow spiral of chaos settling in for the duration. My emotions boil right underneath the surface. Being in the public eye again just makes it worse.

“Okay,” I huff. At least I can see Mick.

We pass through a door as his finger holds it open for me and I walk through.

Among the rows of desks my eyes hit on Tagger and I slow. I can't ignore the instant association of Tagger and the Taser. The Ts run together in subconscious connection.

Adrenaline rushes through my body with numbing intensity, and I actually step back when Tagger's small green eyes peg me.

I take comfort in the shadow of a bruise on his jaw. The one Mick put there because he touched me.

“Miss Mitchell?” Tagger addresses me. And I can almost feel Ferric behind me as he quits breathing.

I don't even try for polite. Tagger sends a ripple across the water of my barely concealed emotional turmoil and he's off the list for civility. He's been so out of line I don't know where to begin. “Where's Mick?”

Tagger sits on the corner of his desk, one long leg dangling off the edge. “He's lawyered up.”

Mick's not here. I squelch my disappointment.

“Why... He didn't do anything wrong.” My guilt over pigeon-holing Mick spurs me on. “You need the supposed victim to accuse someone, right?”

They can't just nail Mick to the wall because he wants to. Can they?

Tagger inclines of his head, my eyes keep fixating on the dark mar near his chin. “True... but it looked like assault from my perspective, Miss Mitchell. And we're here to protect the victim, even if they don't think they need it.”  His eyes hold mine.

I see how large his hands are. I’d forgotten until that moment how they'd looked on the grip of the Taser.

The damage those hands could do to someone he wished to bring to harm.

Protect and serve, my ass.

I lick my dry lips, and his eyes shift to the movement. “It was consensual, Tagger.”

“Detective,” he corrects. Condemnation fills his gaze like brackish water .

I think of how Mick doesn't care about titles. The very thing Tagger accused Mick of—being arrogant and aloof—becomes more glaring as his character flaws.

I cross my arms. “So Mick's 'lawyered up' because of police brutality.” My eyes don't stray, but spear him with my accusation.

“How do you figure?” The scorn of his expression hits me with dismissal. “He's the one who struck me, Miss Mitchell.”

“So you gave us both the zap?” I ask. Justify that. My fingers bite into my crossed arms.

His eyes drop. When they rise, they’re filled with artificial concern. “You got in the way. It was unintentional.”

I don't believe for one second that my safety was a consideration.

“You tell yourself that. But remember, you laid your hands on me... and by your own admission, you're aware of my history. I don't need another violent episode in my life.”

My short life.

Ice creeps into his expression. The little bit of green in his eyes becomes flecks of hardened emerald steel as he stares me down.

“Tagger,” Ferric cautions.

Tagger scrubs his face, hiding his expression but unable to remove my memory of it.

“I was just about to contact you.”

I can tell he's trying to regain his composure.

Epic fail.

“Yeah, I loved waking up in the holding tank.”

He gives a hard exhale. “You didn't deserve that.”

I shake my head. My apartment's McFucked, my soon-to-be lover and I were electrocuted, and I woke up in a holding tank for criminals. Tagger doesn't get it, and I can't figure out why.

Ultimately, the biggest thievery is my time.

He looks up at me and I lean into his face, gathering courage from I don't know where.

Well, yeah I do. Nothing to lose.

“My house is wrecked, your assumptions landed me in jail—unconscious—and now the world is going to dig through what happened.” I try to unclench the tight balls of my fists, and they don't budge. Even my bad hand is like stone.

“It's sealed, you were a minor,” Tagger responds smoothly.

Unflappable.

I straighten and laugh. It sounds like brittle glass. “Oh yeah, that's going to keep everyone from finding out.”

My name isn't on Google, just everything else that identifies me. I blister him with my regard. “Everyone will know.”

“The Seattle Police is sorry for this unintentional interruption in your life.”

I stare at him. “Maybe they are... but you're not. Mick and I are together, and you can't stand it. So now I have to pay by association.”

I lean in close to him and he remains immobile. I plant my hand beside his leg and I can feel the other officers’ eyes on us like weight. “Right?”

Anger warms his eyes and I know I've hit the mark.

Tagger slaps his hand next to mine. The energy from his rage simmers through the hairsbreadth that separates us.

“Yes,” he hisses so quietly only I can hear him.

I step away, never letting my gaze drop-- as if we're opponents in a boxing ring.

I don't care that twenty other cops are watching; this one worries me.

I whirl around and stomp out of there. I don't get to see Mick after all.

Ferric doesn't follow.

Detective Jake Tagger's eyes never leave me, I don't have to turn to know they're there.

Hate beats down on my back.

~ 11 ~

Me: We need to talk.

Mick: Yes... when?

Me: Now?

He can't sense my pleading via text. But it's there, and I hate myself for it.

I wait five minutes for a response and sigh.

Forget it.

I stuff the cell in my pocket and smooth my right hand over my left while I vacantly stare.

I storm all the way from the police station to my apartment. I launch up the five flights of stairs because a handwritten Out of Order sign is taped to the freight elevator.

Figures.

A new door greets me. I pull out my key, slip it into the lock, and turn it. I heave a disgusted sigh. Humphrey couldn't even get a new lock for the door! Cheap-effing-skate. Totally not secure.

I open the door, anticipating a night of filling huge black bags with broken picture frames, lamps, knick knacks, and my kettle.

Instead, I gaze around in wonder. Every surface gleams. Everything that was broken is gone, and a replacement fills the space.

I move to the stove as though in a dream and see a new kettle, a replica of the one I lost, sitting in its usual position on the back left corner of the stovetop.

Who did this?

Mick.

I jump when I get his text.

Mick: Are you home?

Did you... do this? I quickly tap out.

I jog to my bedroom, fling the closet open, and burst into tears.

My closet overflows with new clothes. I take inventory of the colorful smocks and matching pants lining the far end of my rod.

Every cartoon print ever made stings my eyes with its primary colors, and I hug the clothing, pressing my face into the laundered goodness.

My cell vibrates.

I look at the screen.

One word. The only response that matters.

Yes.

I put my cell against my chest and hang my head.

For once, my tears are happy ones.

I needed something good so bad.

*

Me: Can you come over?

I have become the pursuer.

Mick: I'm with my legal team. When I finish here, I'll be over. If you're okay for now, we can make a day of it tomorrow. I'll break away if you need me now. I'm more sorry than I can say.

For the strip club revelation, I assume.

My fingers hover over the keys.

Me: No apologies. But disappointment slays me.

Then a thought pierces my self-pity. Laps.

Another single word. Unfortunately, it doesn't illicit happy tears.

One more time.

I can't expect him to come running. I bet his publicity people are ripping their hair out. I'll have to settle for tomorrow even though I ache for him now.

I gaze around my refurbished apartment and believe I owe him the truth.

I just don't know if I'm brave enough to tell him.

*

All my outfits for laps are at Mick's in that duffle.

I have nothing.

I turn, looking into my closet stuffed with new things.

My shoulders hunch when I realize I have to cannibalize something beautiful he got for me to get through my last night of laps.

I stare into the closet’s depths. I'm way past introspection but sick over my choices.

I know Mick won't want me if he knows.

I'm a dead girl walking who takes her clothes off for men. I like to imagine he would see my desperate battle to pay for my mom's care, to make the last moments of my life count for something.

However, I don't know if anyone is altruistic enough for the transgressions I continue to accumulate.

I don't beg for Mick's help because I'm a coward. I fear his answer, I fear that I'll lose my chance at the one thing I want for myself. It's selfish.

It's real.

I take deep, even breaths. I refocus my thoughts on my mom, her welfare.

I straighten my spine and stride over to the closet, tossing my cell on the bed. I tear through everything and see something that makes my heart stutter.

It's a beautiful gold and silver slip of fabric that shimmers in a draping sweep from the hanger. The beads at the hem catch my eye, and I think of when Mick's fingertips breached the hem of my dress in the limo. I swallow the memory—it seems like forever ago.

It feels like yesterday.

I run my fingers over the silky material, threaded in a cross-hatching pattern with tiny strings of gold and silver. It's really too classy for what I’m about to do, but  if I wear something Mick chose, maybe I can keep him with me tonight like a seed of goodness in the awful garden of my choices. It's a lie I cling to without complaint.

I need it to survive.

The dress doesn't resist when I slide it off the wooden hanger. I grab a pair of hump-me pumps from the new selection.

I locate the size on the sole.

I look at everything inside the closet. It's all my size.

This is why Mick is so amazing.

He's got control of the big things, and never misses any of the small.

I strip off the outfit I borrowed from Kiki and pad into my bathroom.

I open the door, and a new mirror greets me. My shattered reflection is a fragmented memory.

I don't waste tears in the shower. Instead I focus on what it'll be like to never do another lap.

Grin and bear it takes on an entirely new meaning.

*

I slip on my mask as I ride the elevator up for my last lap gig. I take stabilizing breaths as it climbs and comes to a smooth stop at the fourteenth.

My eyes shift to the elevator buttons, and I notice there's no thirteenth floor.

I don't think about luck. I'm thinking about choice.

I step out of the elevator into a ballroom-type setting. The first man's eyes that claim me are Jay's. Relief rushes through me, though I don't embrace it.

I know what happens to hope.

Thorn strolls up, looking like a finely coiled snake. I'm not here to poke him though; he's given me two breaks.

His eyes meet mine.

“Jay owns you, Faren.”

I blink at Jay, and the warmth I've seen in his eyes in the past has been replaced by something else.

Jay grins. “Ownership is nine-tenths the law, Faren.”

I look from Thorn, who doesn't look thrilled, to Jay—and realize what they're talking about.

Possession.

*

I can't stop the shaking. I feel as if I'm going to break apart and float away. Thorn hauls me inside his office by the wrist as Jay waits for us to … reconcile our arrangement.

“Faren,” Thorn starts, and I turn on him.

He holds up his hands to ward off the tirade he knows is coming.

I realize I've become foolishly brave with Thorn, our secrets making us uneasy allies.

“You told me no on Ron, and I get it—I do. This lap is willing to go the distance. He'll pay your debt to Ron and extra—so long as he gets every extra.” Every extra... like seeing my face.

“And my identity, Thorn!”

The ultimate extra.

Thorn walks over, and I remember how frightening he is.

I retreat a step.

He stops before reaching me and rests his large hands on his hips.

“What is it?” His eyes search mine. “I know I shouldn't give a ripe hairy shit about your problems, but you’re messing with my boy.”

“He's not your boy,” I cut in.

Thorn nods, scrubbing his face with his hand. “Yeah, he is.” His eyes stay on mine. “If Jay wasn’t waiting out there, I'd play confessor.”

I fold my arms and stare at him. Jay can wait.

“Give me something before I cheat on Mick with this lap.”

Thorn's eyes snap to mine. “You feel like you're cheating on Mick?”

My sigh sounds like a sob. “Hell yes, I do.”

None of my justifications work anymore. They're like needles of doubt, emotional acupuncture gone wrong.

“Then why are you doing the laps?”

“My mom,” I whisper.

“Why are you cheating him?”

“I owe him,” Thorn admits.

“Wait a second.” I step toward him, and now Thorn looks cornered. I point at him. “You're playing revolving lap dances behind his back because you owe him?” A disbelieving laugh erupts from my lips.

Thorn gives a stiff nod, as miserable as an emotionless bastard like him can be.

“How?” I ask.

“What's the story on your mom?” His face is neutral, but he clearly means to exchange information.

I look at my feet. “You know about my mom.”

I jerk my head up and see him nod. “Well, her care... it's—I owed fifty thousand.” Thorn whistles and I move on. “Now it's ten.”

He clears his throat, doing mental math. “So one more lap auction, and she's set.” He shrugs. “Why can't you just make payments? You didn't have to do the laps.”

I shake my head. “It doesn't work like that. If the debt gets over a certain magic number- they shuttle her to a state home.”

Thorn's face tightens. “I know about state run shit.”

More silence. “So you bail mom out, then you're done with laps.”

I nod. “I might have to keep up with some pole work.”

For as long as I can.

Thorn looks at my hand. “What about your fucked-up hand?”

I hiccup back a sob.

Thorn looks down, struggling to maintain his emotions but looking conflicted as hell. “Sorry, it's just...”

I don't even have the emotional latitude to be happy about his discomfort; I'm wound too tight. “I use my wrist and twirl with the dominant.”

I wait while he considers my words. Finally he opens his mouth. “Mick saved me.”

My wealth of reading hits me between the eyes, and suddenly I know his part in the whole miserable scenario.

Tyson Marius Simon.

“You're the one,” I say in a whisper, putting the pieces together.

Thorn nods. “I couldn't save her, but I tried.”

He scrapes a palm over his skull cap of hair. “After I got out of prison for manslaughter, Mick gave me Black Rose. It's been an honor.”

His dark eyes hold mine, and I don't look away.

“And you've been running it ever since,” I guess.

Thorn nods again. “I have, but I have my pride. Mick paid for everything I own. He threw expensive shit at me: the car, my pent, my clothes, the business degree.”

He sees my surprise and chuckles a little. “Yeah, I get that a lot. I talk rough... hell, I am rough.”

Yeah. I don't agree out loud. I never doubted he was smart. Not once. It's one of the most dangerous parts about him.

“I figure I owe Mick about five hundred grand, give or take. The girls get their cut of the laps, and I get mine.” He makes the money fingers together, his thumb brushing the inside of his fingers back and forth.

“So we're both cheating on Mick but for different reasons,” I say.

“I'm not cool with it, but once it's done, I'll pay him back. Even though he feels like he owes me.”

I look at Thorn and see someone different than the man who made me audition on his lap. He's got a weird code of honor.

If it's not mine, is it still honorable? I'm not in a position to judge.

“He does owe you,” I say.

Thorns brows rise.

“You killed his sister's murderer.”

Thorn’s face wrestles through many emotions and finally settles on resignation.

“I can't bring her back.” Despair edges in where indifference was moments before.

“No.” I shake my head, and my hair slithers over my shoulders. “But it's a kind of justice.” I think only of Ronnie.

Thorn shakes his head. “Vengeance.”

That too.

~ 12 ~

The other dancers are in their rooms, and I've narrowly escaped Ronnie again through a lesser evil.

But not this dance.

Jay's as handsome as they come, and it should be no chore for me to ride him.

But it is. His good looks and willingness to pay don't make it easier.

I admit he’s better than the other laps—old, tired men leading grim lives and seeking youth through the thighs of a woman less than half their age.

I smoothly straddle him. The twinge of pain high and inside my thigh summarily ignored, I insert myself between his legs and the arms of the chair.

His eyes look at mine through the mask. My flesh is hot, and the sharp outline cuts into my skin, making for an angry silhouette when I remove it after my night of grinds.

I put my hands on his bare shoulders. I unconsciously command my bad hand to cup where his muscular shoulder curves into his arm, but my other hand grips with perfect dexterity. I bob up and down like a cork in a sea without a current.

Jay gets hard as I arc against his cock, and he moans.

His hand travels to the V in my dress and moves it aside. My naked breast pours cooperatively into his palm.

I tip my head back as his thumb works my nipple into a pebble of hardened flesh. I think of Mick. I can do this if I pretend it’s him.

I can do anything for him.

That realization swims through my mind like a pulled thread, unraveling my brain.

I stop thinking about what Mick's doing in memory of his dead sister.

I quit all thoughts of how much more I want from him than just taking the last shred of my innocence.

My mind hurries past my faceless death, my mother's existence that is worst than the true absence of death.

I concentrate on Jay's hands on my body, pretending they're Mick's.

*

My dress rides at my waist like a slim inner tube of glittering material. It itches me as I rock deeply against Jay's erection, both his hands hold my breasts.

“Sit up,” Jay commands, eyes at half-mast.

I rise, no longer rocking.

“Lean forward.” He kicks my legs apart, and my lip trembles.

Do it, just do it.

My g-string offers nothing more than a suggestion of material as air grabs along my folds, whispering its freedom.

I hang open and exposed above him. Jay wraps my wrists with his big hands and jerks me forward. I cry out in surprise.

I fall forward, and he has his prick sprung that fast. He centers it below my entrance, and I can think of nothing except that he'll be in me before I can react, before I can do anything to stop him.

“Don't,” I whisper through instant tears of violation. The word sounds like the plea it is. I never anticipated him taking advantage of me.

My wrists strain against his hold, but he's so much bigger, stronger.

I don't want my virginity taken this way. I had a plan, and it isn't Jay.

It's Mick. It's always been him.

He presses one hand to the small of my back, his bare flesh against mine, and presses down. His penis splits my butt cheeks, and he slides against my back entrance without penetrating me.

I panic, my free wrist pressing against the back of the chair, and he clamps down harder, holding me captive.

He moves against my most intimate parts, and my fantasy about Mick from earlier aids him.

My slickness allows Jay's unbidden movement.

He does not enter me. He uses the tight recess of my ass to glide between my cheeks, a grueling friction ensuing.

I groan in disgust, clenching my eyes shut and struggling against him as he fucks me outside my body.

Jay releases my other wrist, and I lie against him like a corpse. His hands cup my ass, and the rhythm of his penis speeds up.

I feel as though I'm watching this happen to someone else. I’m on the outside looking in.

“Just a little more,” Jay grunts.

His hand's brutal hold tightens further, and I bite my lip in pain. His dick feels like a snake between the globes of my ass.

My gorge rises, but I hang onto the precipice of my will, my fingers white knuckling this final sin.

He gives a last vicious pump between my cheeks, and I cry instead of screaming as he releases against my back. Hot jets coat the beautiful dress, drying into a revolting gel as I lie in a listless pile against him.

“Fuck yeah,” Jay says, pressing into my body as his hips slow their rhythm.

We lie together for a few seconds as his breathing slows.

He pushes me away gently and studies my face.

I sway, fighting throwing up.

“Now the mask, Faren.”

Somehow, this is the worst extra of all.

I can pretend when I wear the mask.

I can't anymore. I tear it off and fling it aside. With unusual accuracy, it rims the trash can and drops inside.

Jay looks at my face, his eyes pouring over every detail as though he's memorizing it. He raises his hand to caress my jaw. “So beautiful.”

I flinch away, my eyes going anywhere but to him.

An exhale shudders out of me, expelling my disgust, guilt, and disgrace.

Noise disturbs the silence of the room where only our breaths had been.

Voices crash against the door. Jay's eyebrows tick up, pulling together and he gives me a sharp look.

There’s the sound of someone being struck.

Jay sits up.

“Don't fucking go in there, Mick!” Thorn says.

Mick.

My breath stalls. I’ve never felt adrenaline like I do in this moment.

I try to scramble off Jay's lap, but our clothes and limbs are too fused for a rapid untangle.

The door crashes open and hits the wall with a thundering crack.

I twist at the torso and take in a wild Mick, my bare ass facing the door.

His eyes widen. My half-naked body wears a dress he undoubtedly chose with himself in mind and is now defiled with another man's release.

Gone is his expensive suit and smooth demeanor.

In its place is a rage that borders on insanity. He launches himself at us.

“Faren!”

I don't move, the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

Jay is the one who thinks, dumping me on the floor as the bull that is Mick rushes him.

I fall on my naked, sticky ass, limbs flung in an ungraceful mess.

Mick plows into Jay and the chair goes ass over tea kettle onto the floor. Mick hammers Jay's face and I meet Thorn's eyes.

His black eye is blacker than his skin, and he shrugs helplessly.

“Help him!”

Thorn shakes his head as if Jay deserves it.

Jay disgusts me, but Mick will kill him.

I see that now.

I jerk up like an awoken sleepwalker and lurch to Mick. My dress bunches in all the wrong places, and I grab his arm.

“Stop! Please, Mick,” I scream as Jay's bleeding face turns into tenderized meat.

Mick flings off my arm, shoves away from Jay, and comes at me.

I back up, pinwheeling my arms as he stalks toward me. His knuckles are bloody, the skin torn from pounding the flesh off Jay's face.

My ass hits the wall, and he slams against me, his hands caging me.

“Why?” he roars in my face.

His hot breath bathes me in his anger, and I feel stark terror. I pushed this man so badly that he doesn't sound like him anymore.

“I was going to tell you,” I whisper against his heaving chest.

His hand slams against the wall, and my head leaps from the force of it.

“No, you weren't,” he says in a quiet voice, so full of menace I taste it on my tongue.

My eyes unclench and look into his.

“Mick,” Thorn says.

“Shut the fuck up, Ty.” Mick spares him a venomous glance then swivels that poisonous gaze back to me.

“Why?” He sounds much softer now but no less livid.

I clam up. I can't speak to the anguish in his gaze. Caused by me.

He takes an escaped lock of my hair between his fingers.

Then his fingers plow through my hair, fisting it tightly. His mouth finds mine and punishes me with his kiss. His tongue spears me like it had in my core.

Deep and unyielding.

Final.

He tears away, untangling from me, and I follow each movement, burning it into my memory.

Mick looks at Thorn in disgust, and I watch Thorn swallow.

Mick’s dark eyes come back to me. Outraged accusation swims where tender passion had last night.

I hear Jay groan. Mick and I ignore it as if we're the only two people in the world.

“I think I loved you, Faren.”

Oh god.

I swear my heart stops beating. I take a shaky step toward him, reaching out with my good hand.

He puts a palm up, his gaze going to the beaten Jay just paces away.

No, Mick, no, no, no. You're so wrong.

He turns to me with hard eyes. “But I think you love other things more.”

His eyes sweep the room of sex paraphernalia, touch on Thorn briefly, and settle on me. “Good-bye.”

Mick wipes his mouth, as though erasing our last kiss, and walks out.

I sink to the ground, wishing it would swallow me.

I don't love other things, I realize too late.

Only him.

Read More

Volume #4

Please Read on...

VAMPIRE

An Alpha Claim Brief-Bites® Novelette

Episode 1

New York Times Bestselling Author(s)

MARATA EROS

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2015 Marata Eros

Copyright © 2015 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

www.tamararoseblodgett.com

TRB Facebook Fan Page

Marata Eros FB Fan Page

Cover art by: Willsin Rowe

Proofed by: Corinna

Chapter 1

Narah

My legs are kicked up on the desk, the toes of my left combat boot stacked on the heel of my right. I lean my feet a couple of inches to the left and look at my boss.

Kinda wish I hadn't.

The tongue-lashing was going to be brutal, and not the fun kind. I just barely hold back a snort of self-serving comedy.

“Narah,” Casper leans into the desk, edging a butt cheek on the only part not covered by my assortment of shit. My eyebrow cocks. Perturbed doesn't cover it. If I wanted a butt on my desk, I'd ask.

“What?” I bark with anticipation.

A vein in Casper's forehead throbs and I dial it back some. No need to bring the guy to heart failure.

“What?” I repeat more good-naturedly, though both of us know I'm nothing of the sort.

He sighs, scrubbing a palm over his face. Hair almost as white as swan feathers glows under the LED lighting in my tiny office, and his glacial eyes tighten, fighting for a view of my face over the top of my boot.

I jack my feet down and stuff them underneath my desk. My fingers itch to go to my smart phone. Anything to not commit to this conversation.

“You know we appreciate your skill set.”

Blah, blah, stinking-blah.

“But we can't have you pulling firearms on all your bounties.”

My bottom lip pops out in a pout. “It was a very small gun, Casper.” I put my index and thumb almost touching.

“Using manstopper ammunition?”

He might have a small point.

“Outlawed in 1898,” Casper adds.

I shrug a bare shoulder, my tank top skin-tight against my small frame. I find loose clothes are handles to make a bludgeon against me easier. I nail the targets but if there's nothing for them to grab onto, so much the better.

“I like antique weaponry and ammunition,” I say with deliberate nonchalance.

“Really?” Casper says and I wince at the sound of his voice. “Let's run down the list of target fatalities.”

Hmmm.

“Target 103, lethal stabbing.”

I lean back in my chair and cock my neck back, staring at the dingy ceiling. A water stain has spread out from the center in a pattern of copper lines that somehow resemble a flower opening.

It's sort of like watching clouds outside, but inside.

“Narah!”

I sigh, answering the ceiling. “Yeah.”

“Target 424, beheading.”

Yeah, that'd been messy.

“Again, I was in fear for my life,” I say, not sounding defensive.

At. All.

“Thirteen times?” Casper asks softly.

My chin snaps down and I meet his eyes. Mine are big and golden hazel like a cat's, and that's why I hide them behind my aviator shades. The sun hurts like hell. I've always been sensitive to sunlight.

I shrug. It'll get me nowhere to fight with Casper. Who has the nickname in the office of, The Ghost. No one says it to his face though. I fight a snicker.

“We are the last profession for use of lethal force, you know. It's not goddamned 2015, when everyone thought all physical force was necessary in some capacity.”

I'm in the wrong era, I muse with regret.

“We are the last stand against the criminals of our time. When the police can't nail them, then it's up to us. But Narah,” Casper scrubs his head, his crewcut bristling from the contact, “we can't have you killing all the targets. They must be brought to justice.”

And of course, if I kill a target, Casper doesn't get credits. That's what this is really about. I bring in the most targets in our office. I get results and he gets credits for my hard work.

We stare at each other. I won't break and Casper knows it. “You're the finest bounty hunter we have. Your instincts are uncanny, and you never let being a woman get in your way...”

I lunge to my feet and Casper jerks to his, eyeing me warily.

Good, my desk is finally free of his ass.

“Nothing about me being a woman comes into play here.”

Casper shoots out an exhale like a cannon. “Everything about it matters. You're smaller, you're vulnerable to things a man could never be.”

Rape is the clear inference.

“You think a man can't be raped?” I bark out a laugh. “You think that my looks don't disarm. They do, Cas.” My eyes laser down on him and his shift away. “You know I'm a proficient, Level Ten.”

“Nothing to sneeze at,” he concedes and opens his mouth to add more, perhaps dig his grave a little deeper.

I raise my palm. Nothing to sneeze at. I can feel a royal conniption fit brewing. “No. If I've killed while gunning for a target,” Casper frowns at my wording which causes me to grin, “then they needed dying. Period.”

Casper walks to my office door. “I'm sorry, Narah, I've done what I could, but the law states that there can't be more than ten sanctions in one quarter. You have thirteen. I got the bonus three waived.” He whips his palm in the air like he's performing a magic trick. “Now you'll have to go before the magistrate.”

Fuck. They'd plug me a second ass after a first class reaming. If—if I could even bounty again.

I jerk my leather jacket off the back of my chair and sling it on. A bright headache, a new friend of mine of late, settles into my temples with zeal. I press my fingers against my head.

I hate not having a target. The chase is the one thing that makes my life worth living. No longer an outcast—always in the game.

Now the rules are being threatened.

And all I want to do is play.

Chapter 2

Aeslin

Edan jerks a thumb my way, throwing a towel I deftly catch. I dab at the sweat running like a river from my scalp and making its way to the waistband of my work out gear.

“Corcoran's asking for you.”

I look at him, narrowing my eyes.

“Hey man, don't kill the messenger,” Edan's hands spread away from his body.

He'd look so much more innocent if he had even one spot of bare skin. Edan's tatted from head to toe. Well... that's not entirely accurate. Don't think his feet hold the tats of our species. Or his face.

Turners are required to be marked.

It's grounds for immediate execution to civilian vampires if they touch us. After all, we're the only savior of our dying race. They can't miss our marks. In the human world, tattoos no longer stand out. We hide in plain sight now.

I flick irritated eyes to him. “I'm on leave, Edan.”

He shrugs. “You know the drill. If a female comes on the radar, we're all on alert.”

I throw the damp towel in the soiled laundry hamper. I'm bone tired. Not physically—mentally. So many scouting expeditions and coming up empty handed has taken its toll. I rub a hand on my nape, trying to make a raw spot. “I've worked a solid quarter—nothing.”

My eyes meet his. Edan's looks are unusual for a Turner. Most of the sub-sect of vampire Turners possess dark coloring. Our only unified feature are silver eyes. Edan's are amber. Some kind of genetic throw back. My own hair is a deep chestnut, more red than what is considered fashionable. And if we want to enjoy female vampire company, it matters. They're few and far between. If they can't be our mates, it's only for release. And that's become an empty vessel.

“But what if we have a live one?”

I smirk at his words. “You mean undead, right?”

Edan throws up his hands. He's muscled, like the rest of us. Mandatory training makes our bodies at battle readiness. Last month we'd just missed a female by minutes.

She'd been sterilized. Technically, it'd been on our watch.

The loss had brought the entire team down and morale had not recovered.

Edan spoke my thoughts, “We need this, Aeslin. We need a female. They're so vulnerable to the Hunters...”

I toss my palm up. “We've been over this. It's a race against them. And they got to that female first.” I see guilt on his face and know mine looks the same.

“Then why can't you see that every lead should be followed?”

Tired of fucking losing, that's why. Or just tired.

My eyes feel like they're on fire when I glare at Edan, a Turner I've fought shoulder to shoulder beside. “You don't think it haunts my fucking every thought that she could have belonged to one of us?”

“Does it?” Edan asks in soft disbelief.

“Yes,” I hiss defensively.

“Then join us.”

I don't want another dead end. Another disappointment. “I'm not rested.”

“So when has that ever mattered?” he asks.

Since that female was lost, I think but don't say.

*

Corcoran stands at the window when I walk into his office and shut the door.

He doesn't turn.

Corcoran is a Noble.

A politically correct word for being in charge of the Turners. But he became a Noble the hard way, having been a Turner first and struggling through the ranks to prove himself invaluable to the cause. Now he rules over the Turners of our region with an iron fist.

Hell, in his day, there was a female turned every month. Now we were lucky to turn one a quarter. However, there was one biological advantage. A human female with vampire blood once turned, was always meant for her biological other half. Lucky bastard. It meant offspring.

A chance at happiness.

With Hunters killing off every vampire they could, our numbers continued to dwindle. In the last half-century, one in two females who possessed enough of the blood of our kind had been sterilized before they could be turned, negating their vampire ancestry and the ability to have children.

A Turnersʼ goals were two-fold. Find the hybrid vampire females before the Hunters did, and determine how they were setting their sights on the rare females.

Easier said than done.

“Aeslin,” Corcoran said as greeting.

I remain silent.

Corcoran turns, eyeing me up. “You look rested.” He sounds hopeful. We both know I've had only four days respite.

I need a month.

I haven't taken enough blood, had enough sex, slept inside the ground as I should. A lot of have nots on the short list of my exhaustion.

I lift my shoulders in an answer that isn't one. It will do no good to rehash the discussion I had with Edan.

Corcoran says something under his breath. It sounds suspiciously like a curse.

“You're the best I have, Aeslin,” he says quietly.

“Let Edan take it. Hell—Jaryn could...”

His gaze darkens. Eyes not the common light gray of the Turner are pewter in a face devoid of emotions. Corcoran's gaze is a coming storm.

“I need you on this.”

That's just what Edan said. “I mean no disrespect...”

“Yes, you do,” he says with the barest bit of humor.

My lips thin. “Yes.”

“She's a Turn, Aeslin. I know it.” Corcoran closes his fingers into a fist.

My breath leaks out of me in defeat. “Okay.”

I simply don't believe anymore. There's been so many dry runs I can't remember the last one that wasn't.

“She's sending out pheromones like a distress signal.”

“Who called it?”

His face closes down. “Torin.”

Corcoran and Torin don't see eye-to-eye. I say nothing, waiting. I'm not political and won't immerse myself in it now.

Corcoran slams a fist against the wall that bisects the bulletproof windows. “She's bounty.”

His frustration gets my attention. Hell, her occupation stalls me and I unlace my fingers and straighten my posture. “What?”

“Damn,” he grits through his teeth, knowing full-well the risks of this acquisition.

I tell him anyway. “Too high profile,” I state, hands going to my hips.

“She's manifesting.”

Dammit.

“Is Torin sure she's a Turn?”

Corcoran exhales in a rush, taking a rough palm down his face, nodding.

I suck in a deep breath. “I'll do it.”

Corcoran looks relieved. “You know the risk?”

Hell yes. But another sterilized female? That we don't need. Can't stand.

“Yes,” I answer.

If Torin's got a bead on her, then so do the Hunters.

The thought of a female out there and vulnerable tightens my guts. This is the part of my job I hate. However small, the emotion is there in my suppressed emotional makeup. The hardest to squelch, the most damning.

Hope.

Chapter 3

Matthews

Rio raises the paper in the air. “Right from the top, Matthews!”

I snap my head up, my back on the bench as I flick my eyes to Rio then back to the bar. My arms shake from exertion but I can't take my eyes off the weights I'm pressing. Not unless I want my body as a pancake.

“Spot me, asshole,” I grit.

“Right! Sorry hoss.”

I'd roll my eyes if I wasn't so fucking plowed from fatigue.

Rio appears upside down and above me. His hands hover over the bar, I lift, as I take the last rep by storm. I heave another.

“No clanking,” Rio chimes.

Gonna kill his ass.

Beads of sweat roll, burning into my eyes as I gently set the bar on the brackets. It's almost soundless.

Rio smirks.

He whips the paper around and I duck out from underneath the three hundred pound weighted barbell set.

“God damn—you're a beast, Matthews!” Rio chortles.

“Give that to me and stop with the verbal diarrhea.”

Rio's face tightens. “Fine, fuck. You need to get laid if you're going to get your jock strap in a bunch all the time.”

I jerk the paper out of his hand and read the words.

Assignment thirteen.

I smile.

Thirteen is my lucky number.

I give the paper back to Rio. “Gonna save the world, brother.”

“On your life.”

“I hope not,” Rio winks and begins to walk off.

“Specs?” I yell after him.

“Same delivery as usual.” I shouldn't ask, it's protocol but I like to hear the words anyway. It makes me uneasy when things are changed. I like routine—crave it.

I sit on the weight bench, thumbing the missive. A thrill races through my body.

I'm a Hunter.

And being a Hunter is bigger than me.

It's for humanity.

People walk the streets; eating, sleeping, shitting and humping. They never realize there's an entire underworld of supernaturals vying for the top of the ecological heap. They're oblivious to the danger that sweeps past them like an unrelenting current.

Hunters have been in place since ancient times. Our opposition have the same sorcerer’s blood that we possess.

Druid.

Both sides descend from priests of the highest order.

But instead of exterminating the vermin, they are saviors of those that would harm who we're sworn to protect. They believe in perpetuation, and we believe in sterilization.

The Harborer's are the nemesis of our kind. Brothers by blood, enemies by deed.

The sooner we wipe out the supernaturals, the sooner the threat to mankind will end. And we're making steady progress.

I move through the expansive gym where all Hunters hone their forms, turning sideways to pass between the heavy equipment. I've worked myself so bulky I'm at the point of losing grace. However, no Hunter wants to be distracted by their own lack of strength when they've got an assignment to fulfill.

I'll get the details of my next sanction and be done. Hopefully it's another kill. Nothing gets my rocks off more than nailing one of the fangs myself. A larger threat would be a Harborer showing up for the same assignment. But they are fewer in number than Hunters. Vampires are the greater threat.

Even a skilled Hunter full of quality bloodline magic can find himself in the death embrace of a clever fang and poof—dead meat. The ultimate threat of being turned by one of them hangs over every one of us.

No Hunter wants to deal with that potential. Get in, kill the fuckers, and get the hell out.

Simple.

*

I run my high security keycard through the slot and the door to my penthouse suite whispers open. I move through and the door slides closed behind me. The midwestern skyline bleeds a purple and red sunset over downtown Sioux Falls as it colors my floor like beaten fruit.

I stretch and the vertebrae in my back give a satisfying round of pops. I toss my car keys in a low bowl of Mexican pottery that sits on top of a table hugging the jog out in the foyer.

The floor plan is one of my choosing. It's narrow in the entrance and widens to an open living room and kitchen combination.

Not that I do a shit ton of cooking. My lips pull at the thought of cooking as I cruise to my fridge. I open it, and true to form, there's no food, but plenty of beer. I grab one and pop the lid using a sterling band on my right ring finger. It's hell on beer caps.

I take a hard pull, taking the frosty beer to half empty and move to the view seen through my floor to ceiling glass windows.

Philips Street is overrun with tourists enjoying the bronze statues and Native American shops that dot the area. My excellent night vision is not necessary at the moment. Not with twilight promising nighttime. I roll the cool bottle against my forehead as my gaze wanders and sigh.

I have twelve hours before response is required for the sanction.

I set the nearly empty beer on a low thick glass coffee table. A hot shower and catching five hours of sleep is my entire goal before this mission. I'm beat. Chasing down hybrids is a full-time job.

Walking to the wall that rounds to the hall leading to the bathroom, I  pass a palm over a glass sculpture that hangs like artwork.

It's not.

A brilliant blue spiderweb of light harmlessly lasers over my skin, reading the unique lines of my hand. A single chime sounds in the silence and the front slides away to reveal a black hole.

I pull out a cylinder that rests inside.

It'll have all the instructions for assignment thirteen. Name, birthdate, location. My sector covers the midwest states. There are twelve of us serving this area.

A vial with a syringe is enclosed in an thick airtight lucite case. My pulse quickens.

It'll be my first.

A woman.

Hunters sanction male hybrids. It's the Huntersʼ core belief that women should be protected. None of us kill females. I don't allow myself to touch on what happens when a rare hybrid is located and a Hunter won't sterilize. The penalty is severe and immediate for lack of follow through.

Or the disastrous transgression of mating with a hybrid, though rare, it's not unheard of. Those are grounds for a Kill Order.

I set my dark thoughts aside as the specs fall out last, rolled neatly with the traditional black satin ribbon keeping them in a tight circle.

I pop the ribbon and look over the specs, reading them twice.

Occupation: Bounty Enforcer.

I whistle low in the back of my throat. I'm all for a challenge.

I slug the rest of my beer back, running a fingertip over the name.

Narah Adrienne.

I crush the specs, having already committed them to memory. I walk over to my fireplace and toss the crumpled parchment inside the firebox. Striking a match on the base of my boot, I throw the lit match inside and watch it burn. A low flame bursts over the ancient paper and renders the message unreadable.

Ash rises up the flu. Ms. Adrienne's fate is not yet set in stone.

I smile at the thought of destiny. Here I come, sweetheart.

Chapter 4

Narah

Casper coached me about coming before the Magistrate. I'm not stupid. Just brash.

Very brash.

Casper ran a heavy hand over his nape. Nervousness making him sterner than usual. “Try to look like a woman.”

I gave him the glance he deserves. I have platinum corn rows to my waist and a sleeve of colorful tattoos. There's no softening that.

“I'll go tribal on his ass if he doesn't like what he sees,” I boast, but butterflies tumble inside me like a washer on spin cycle.

“Narah—please—don't incite anyone. I don't want to have to get an enforcer out of jail. It's the last place you should be.”

“You don't have to worry about me, Casper. Butter wouldn't melt in my mouth.”

Casper nodded. “That's exactly what I'm afraid of.”

So here I am, in line for my turn to get my hand slapped. I'm wearing my version of dress clothes.

They're probably not what Casper had in mind.

Black boots (shined), black, skin tight jeans and a sheer black blouse with a black cami underneath. My black bra straps don't even show. It's downright demure for me.

My ass bones hurt as I sit on the archaic wooden bench they've parked me on. I sigh, throwing out my long legs underneath the bench in front of me, bored.

I wait through insufferably stupid recounts of deeds ranging from petty theft, to misuse of credits. I stare at the ceiling. This one is a far cry from the shabby-ass accommodations the government bequeaths us at my office.

Beautiful, old-fashioned plaster work is done in a cake icing style. Swaths of rich smears of buttery looking plaster swirl in different shapes above my head, ending where plaster crown molding meets ceiling to wall. Mission brass fixtures hang down five feet from fifteen foot ceilings, with etched glass orbs covering the modern LED lightbulbs inside, stars shallowly bisect the crystal surface.

I momentarily forget my environment, dreaming of a life of being able to watch clouds float, a world that would allow my imagination free reign.

Instead, I'm inside the magistrate court for killing too many criminals for the quarter.

“Adrienne!”

I reluctantly shake off my daydream and leap lightly to my feet, stilling my nerves. The security guard's hand twitches above his piece. I give him tight eyes.

He flinches.

I grin.

His face sours and he jerks his thumb at the Magistrate, indicating I should go. I stroll forward down the center of the aisle. Benches that resemble old church pews flank either side of me and I come to stand in front of a huge desk, with two smaller ones like wings on either side of the Magistrate.

I stare at his archaic getup. Time seems to have gone backward. We're back to guys with powdered white wigs and Shirley Temple curls.

I bite the inside of my mouth to check the chuckle that bubbles inside my throat. But when someone chooses to look ridiculous, I feel almost honor-bound to laugh at their efforts.

Like now.

The top casement-style windows of the court building are cracked open. It's early fall here in Sioux Falls and neither heat or AC is required. A perfect balance between the hell of summer's breath and the bite of the frigid midwestern winter. It'd be perfect if the nearby meat plant didn't give off the blood vat smell.

Not that I'm against the smell of blood.

I stand before the Magistrate and don't squirm or budge. I ruthlessly manage my expression into neutrality.

He looks me over with smug dismissal. Taking in my presumably unprofessional appearance. He sits higher than me, like a king on his dais. He's literally looking down his nose at me.

My chin kicks up in the only defiance I speculate I'm allowed.

“Magistrate Oren presiding.”

The courtroom announcer sounds like the town cryer.

I shift my eyes down, so close to losing my composure I'm drowning. It's insane how amusement often grips me at the most inopportune times.

Oren clears his throat. “Is there something amusing, Enforcer Adrienne?”

I lift my head, giving him a steady gaze. “No, Magistrate Oren.”

His eyes narrow on me like slits of hate. “Do share if there is.”

I can't win the staring contest but oh how I shake with want. Instead, I let my fists loosen. Oren believes he has won the small battle of wills and begins as though bored.

I have a sense of things. He isn't bored, but after my hide.

I lick suddenly dry lips. Maybe I should have worn the dress. I try not to grump about it. Dresses are for work. They help with captures.

“You are thirteen kills deep for the current quarter. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty.” Dumb ass.

His lips pull in amusement. “Three of the thirteen were waived by Enforcer Casper's appeal.”

I clear the tiny tickle in my throat in the now-silent courtroom.

His eyebrows hike.

“Yes, Magistrate.”

Where is he going with this.

“Technically, you are then three into probation already.”

My palms dampen.

His next words seem to hang in the air between us. “You will have lashes.”

I suck in a breath of sheer disbelief. Fucking lashes.

The courtroom erupts in animated whispers.

The gavel strikes the wood with a sharp echo and the voices leak away.

“We will not tolerate murderers as our Enforcers.”

“Magistrate,” I reason in a low voice, “the targets were killing me,” I jab my thumb into my chest, “I would have died without lethal force.”

“Understood,” he interrupts. “That is why, by law, you are allowed ten kills per quarter. We understand you are securing the most heinous criminals of our time.” His elbows rest on the highly polished wood as he feigns benevolence with his spread hands.

“You've read my reports,” I defend, and I'm immediately pissed at the desperate waver in my voice.

The whips are barbed at their end. Ten lashes is considered a fatal amount. My heart beats a heavy rhythm of fear.

His head lifts slightly and he tucks his hands underneath his chin. “I have reviewed your files.”

I feel my eyebrows jump on my forehead. “What—why then? Can you not take me off detail?”

His eyes hood and he looks me over from head to toe. Lingering on all the places he shouldn't be thinking about right now. Pervert—he's enjoying this.

“I think in your case, Enforcer Adrienne, a more strict discipline is required. Unless you feel extra leniency is needed due to your gender?” He drums his fingers softly from his imperial vantage point.

My mouth drops open. It's probably because I'm a woman. Gotta make sure there aren't any little girls out there dreaming of anything but motherhood and home.

What a crock of shit that is.

He leans back suddenly, the chair groaning under his weight. “I will deliver the lashes myself.” He sweeps his hands apart merrily. “After all, what kind of Magistrate would I be if I was unwilling to mete out discipline by my own hand, but merely delegated it to another.”

His eyes glitter.

The fucking sadist.

I can hear Casper sputtering behind me.

Not that it matters. The gavel falls a second time, and Magistrate Oren calls out the next name.

But his eyes watch me as two security officials take each one of my arms and guide me away.

Casper is at the last pew with his head in his hands as though in prayer.

Our eyes meet at the last second, for only as long as a blink.

The emotion in his gaze mirrors my own.

Fear.

Chapter 5

Aeslin

I perform a weapons check, as I do each time a Turn is scouted. The mirror is my aid, my memory sharp for holes in my defense.

The females found are turned for their own good. Most will be deep into their late-blooming adolescence, and malaise will have taken over where good health used to be.

Narah Adrienne will be no different, if she is indeed the Turn Torin claims her to be.

A solid camouflage spell by Torin will kill the sight of my weapon band, by rendering it invisible. I'd be conspicuous as hell to appear among the humans with three daggers, throwing stars and bindings.

Tight jeans hug my body, and an equally tight T shirt accepts the job of holding its shape around my bulk. I wear all black because I'm harder to spot with the weak eyesight of the humans. Tight clothes aid in making it tough for an enemy to get their hands on me. I finish my visual inventory at my face.

The tattoo of my kind wraps my thick throat. Buried within the intricate black markings is the sign for female and is half the size of my palm. A female of our kind. Where the human symbol is a circle with a cross, ours has a dot inside the circle along with a second bar. The symbol is more complicated. As is our race.

The symbol for female is buried above our hearts. For we have two. The large heart commands the smaller one, but one heart can keep the other alive if the other is pierced.

That's why vampire lore, the part that's actually true, talks of taking the head. A stake to the heart is not absolute. Not when there are two.

Satisfied I'm battle ready, I walk out of my subterranean home. The smell of the earth permeates the rooms that run like a maze beneath the ground. The ambient temperature anywhere in the world is the same at this depth and uniquely suited to the vampire. The temperature in my home ranges in the high fifties.

I move through my house, noting the locks are engaged, and everything is in order. Lastly, I move to the holding room for a Turn and peer through the window at head height inside the only door.

A bed, nightstand and a large dresser flank one side. On the other is a doorway leading to a large bathroom with a walk-in shower. Everything is in order. Turners command every luxury and are afforded a weekly maid service. Rooms for a Turn are always fresh and in top shape.

Mine has never been occupied.

I give a last lingering glance at the empty room and walk away.

This mission will probably be bullshit like the rest.

If we're fortunate enough to get to Narah before a Hunter, then there is the matter of her surviving her change.

If the Hunter gets to the Turn first, she will be rendered sterile. The serum the Hunter injects arrests the natural evolution of her life. She cannot turn into a vampire, as she's destined to do.

Nor can she have children. Human or vampire.

I thumb my silver knife and lift it, feeling the custom grip and the perfect weight for throwing.

I will kill a Hunter during this mission if one steps into my path. Of that, there is no doubt.

Chapter 6

Narah

“You could say thank you.”

I cross my arms and mumble out a reply.

Casper's brows meet. “What was that?”

“Thank you,” I grump. “Fucking lashes?”

Casper sighs and squeezes my shoulder once. “It's barbaric but within his rights by law. I'll admit,” his fingers float through hair like spun white glass, “I haven't seen that sentence passed in years.”

“He's a creep.”

Casper gives a chuckle in seeming agreement.

I glare at him. I can't find anything humorous right now.

He stops, giving a helpless little shrug. “I appealed, you've been granted a stay.”

Three miserable days. “I'm just going to anticipate the sentence. Work myself up into a stupid lather.”

“Narah,” Casper's kind eyes find mine, “you're the finest enforcer I have. A mite enthusiastic with the kills but productivity? No one comes close. I don't know where you get your instincts from...”

I grin. “Women's intuition,” I say more smugly than I should.

But Casper smiles back. “You'll only admit to being part of the fairer sex if pressed.”

“If it gains me advantage.” Which it clearly didn't today.

Casper inclines his head. “True.”

I puff out a breath and it lifts a rare loose strand of hair. The rest is tightly coiled in a lineal nest of neat braids against my head. It stays in a knot at my nape when I work. I can hide the tats—or not.

It depends on the job.

And the job Casper has for me is intriguing. He knows I need this. If I don't take a target I'll go crazy until my sentence. It's a mercy.

“No killing,” he says, slapping the file down in front of me. I don't tear it open as I usually would, but trace a light fingertip across the smooth top.

Our eyes meet.

“How much?”

He folds his lanky arms. “Always about the credits, even now.”

I slowly nod. What else is there? Of all people, he should understand.

Deep down, I feel like the end is coming for me. Way off in the distance of my imagination I see the light of a train as it hurtles toward me. I am like a deer on the tracks.

Waiting to be struck down.

The headaches, the down turn in my appetite. The lack of my love life.

What love life?

Credits are at least a tangible reward to the one skill I have in spades. I hunt the criminals by instinct. If Casper or the other enforcers knew that is what I do—Zero research—working by hunch alone, feelings?

They'd perform an exorcism. It wouldn't be pretty. That's why I don't partner. And probably why I don't have any friends. They mistake my caution for indifference.

When in realty, I'm profoundly lonely.

My face tightens, my chin jutting out. “How much?” I enunciate.

“Two hundred thousand.”

I whistle. “Fireballs, I could retire,” I say with a wistful catch in my voice.

Casper allows a small smile to escape. “Not quite yet.”

But already the wheels are turning. I could pay for my small studio apartment in downtown. I have a view of the Big Sioux River. The water is my solace when sleep doesn’t come. Which is a lot lately. I know I need to visit medical. All enforcers are covered for their medical needs. But I don't want to show weakness as the only female in the entire sector that has to have her runny nose wiped. Or her ass patted.

“Bring him in, Narah.” He taps the file of my next target and the sound is loud in his office.

I move to open the file and Casper presses a fingertip against it. “No kill order on this one. But Narah.” His eyes bore into mine and I fight squirming. Casper has been the only father figure I've ever had.

There were no daddies at the orphanage.

“What?”

“He's a level ten criminal.”

Rape-murder-robbery-arson-fraud. I suck in a breath and let it out slow.

Level ten is bad. Bad for the crimes they've committed. Bad for skill prowess. Level ten is a criminal that has committed all the biggies and also has lethal skills of defense.

Just like my level ten skills. Let's hope mine are only offensively needed.

I stand and Casper does too.

“Narah,” he calls out when my hand is on the doorknob, “I'll be there for the discipline hearing.”

I look away because I can't accept what I see in his eyes.

Compassion.

I close the door to Casper's office softly behind me. Mindful of the enforcersʼ eyes that follow me as I walk through our building.

There's no comments about my sentence and how horrific it is. Not one word is spoken. The silence is absolute. The affirmation is absent.

The world swallows me as I leave the office. I suck in a deep inhale and it sounds like a rattle.

I look over my shoulder at the office sign that swings in the wind. Final Enforcement.

The hostility of my co-workers follows me like a familiar friend on the drive home. Tears I shed in front of no one fall freely in the sanctuary of my vintage Mustang.

My 1969 Mach 1 rumbles down the one way streets like a horse who knows its way home. All three hundred sixty of them under her spacious hood.

I open my eyes wide, disallowing more tears. I have myself and that'll have to be enough.

That's all there is.

Chapter 7

Narah

I'm naked before my full length mirror, looking at my back from over my shoulder.

A back that will be scarred for life in two and a half days.

My eyes travel the length of my spine, taking in the elaborate tattoos that cover my body. I move to view my front, admiring my vibrant color choices for my ink. Especially the iris torso wrap in violet and white that seems to pulse as though alive to wind and finish at the base of my spine. Colorful skulls with black roses twine up my dominant left arm and a vine punches its deep forest green barbs around my neck in a choker necklace of delicate thorns.

I don't look at the rest of me—my beat-up knuckles and feet from running, kicking and punching. Those things I ignore. I have tatted my body to make it beautiful forever. In the way I want it to look.

I have no roots, so instead I wear them like a remembrance.

I sigh, padding to my bathroom. I pour half a bottle of shampoo inside an unmarked new container and fill the rest with tap water. I shake the bottle and take it with me into my walk-in shower. I turn the hot tap on and stand under the spray until my skin stings with heat and slowly adjust the cold tap, tempering the hot water's scalding bite.

I pour the diluted shampoo inside my palm and lather it slowly into my rows, hitting the scalp in between. I don't miss any area and thoroughly wash my scalp and all evidence of the weak shampoo away. I lather my body, hitting my still-perfect back with a soft bristle brush and catch my lower lip as it trembles, fighting another round of tears.

I shut the tap off and step out. After ten minutes of hand patting my braids to partial dryness I lube my fingers with argon oil and run them over the light blonde corns. I shake my braids out and wash my hands with soap. Without looking in the mirror I knot all the braids at my nape.

Tightly.

None of the offenders can use my hair like a handle of destruction. If I was smart, like the other enforcers, I'd just wear my hair in a chopped style close to my head.

But I like to flaunt that I'm a woman. Right before I Kick. Their. Ass. My colleagues don't razz me anymore, but stay away. I'd had to fight for every inch in the orphanage and I wasn't giving any ground away now.

Our lifespan as enforcers is thirty years. I'm twenty-four now. Just a baby by today's standards. Casper had to fight to get my appointment as a bounty enforcer.

I hang my head. Now he's fighting to keep me alive.

I breathe through my self-pitying and step-by-step I build myself to hardness again. I will prevail.

I don't normally wear makeup but brush my long eyelashes with a wick of brown mascara. Dark golden eyes with flecks of amber, sharply contrast to my pale blonde hair. My eyes water from the intrusion of anything on them. A swab of cherry flavored Carmex and I'm done.

Clean as a whistle; soon to be covered in blood.

I walk to the closet and slip into what I consider my enforcer garb. Tight jeans, tight T and expensive boots. I bought them for their tread, padding and ankle support. I pop down at the end of my bed and laboriously lace and tighten, lace and tighten. I wind the ends of my laces around the top and tuck them into themselves. Standing, I grab my small weapon's belt. All enforcers have them and our unique number is embedded in plain sight.

I also have a chip behind my ear that clearly states what I do for a living. I don't fill my gun clip with manstoppers but hollow points are the modern equivalent and my small .45 Springfield will put a hole where I sight it. A comforting weight at my back for a left-hand draw, tucked in a custom slot.

The last thing I do is go straight to my kitchen and shake out three ibuprofen tablets. I stare at the small rust-colored pills in my palm. I shake out one more and dry swallow all four.

I can't think if one of my new headaches take hold. My stomach revolts immediately and I pour a small glass of milk, hoping it'll settle.

Instead, my mouth tastes like ass.

I scrunch my lips and move to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Most enforcers wouldn't take the time to clean up and get ready. They'd grab their belt and go, rolling out of the sack with bedhead and whatever last night's cat drug in and shat on them.

Routine is a comfort to me. I like being clean. Ready.

I grab my leather jacket off the hook by the door and my keys go in my pocket.

The file remains behind.

I've memorized the contents.

I'm hoping not to kill Tahile Benzoi. But in my heart, I don't know if I can stop what might be ordained.

Even if it means another lash.

Chapter 8

Aeslin

“Three more blocks,” Edan says quietly and I nod in silent reply.

I hear the faint rumble of a powerful engine in the distance. Fossil-fueled. I frown. There aren't many of those allowed anymore, a relic.

Of course, I own one. Bought and paid for with vampiric bribe money.  The greenies are only as moral as their pocketbook.

“That's her,” Edan says.

“Yes. Where's her target?” I ask.

Edan makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. “He's just a human. We'll dispose of him and take Narah Adrienne.” Edan shrugs his broad shoulders, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against his brain-activated binoculars. Vampires can see like felines in the dark but a mile out, a little help of the human persuasion is useful.

“A violent human. Why they have a woman as an enforcer is beyond me.” My disgust must leak through my voice because Edan rolls his amber eyes, slightly reflective in the ambient light that reaches our dim hiding place.

“She's a vampire inside a human shell. Narah is unique as all the hybrids are and would manifest more strength, speed, cunning and intuition than a mere human. She'd stand out.”

I chuckle. “Aren't you a snob?”

“Warranted,” is his droll reply.

I grin. Edan makes no bones about his disdain for humans. They are simply a highly evolved livestock. Except in the case of the rare hybrid.

Edan's cocky smile fades. “Got him.”

A tall human male strolls past with seemingly all the time on earth. When in fact, humans are on borrowed time. Their lives doled out as though measured. I wrinkle my nose at his scent.

Grease, human body odor and the smell of guilt—if there is such a thing—can be determined easily.

What is not so easy is him walking around without a care. A wanted felon.

Something seems off. My instincts fire off.

Edan moves to stand and I catch his arm in a grip of steel. “I don't like this.”

Edan's eyes narrow on me then shift to the human male. “This is Benzoi—her target, right?” he clarifies.

I reply slowly, “He's wanted for everything and yet he walks around like a free man.”

Our gazes lock.

“Hunter,” we say in unison.

*

Matthews

The blood of my ancestors runs like boiling oil, searing a path through my veins, though it doesn't burn.

It's also critical to my longevity. Without it, I would not sense vampires are near. The primal warning system as part of my organic makeup is appreciated. I don't know exactly where they're hiding, but I feel their presence like a weight in the air.

My acute hearing also picks up the thrum of an engine I'm trained to identify. I palm the box with the fluid that will kill Narah Adrienne's womb and her chance for turning.

I force myself to relax, using a low whistle to mimic a casual posture, the clothes I borrowed off a homeless man should throw the vamps off my true scent, but with only an overcoat, it will barely be enough.

The low vibration of her car kills a few blocks over and I know Narah Adrienne's on foot.

I scan the darkness, wondering if I can get to her before the vampires. If they've sent their soldiers, the legendary Turners, some are immune to my spells.

This mission calls for a delicacy that even a skilled Hunter might not be able to muster. It's me against them. And the expertise required to get myself in her sights as a target when I'm anything but.

I hear stealthy steps and a young woman approaches, tightly braided hair is silvered by the moonlight as she reveals herself from behind the  thick corner of a nearby antique stone building.

“Tahile Benzoi,” she says in a richly melodic contralto. Her gun is naked in her small hand and I smirk.

“Yes?” I ask with a sarcastic lilt.

With a jerk, she sloughs her jacket off at the ground and runs toward me, gun raised.

Mild surprise floods my senses. Feisty thing.

I dump the reeking borrowed overcoat and it reveals my weapon's belt in all its glory.

Narah Adrienne doesn't see it and launches herself at me.

I harness my surprise for later reflection. I've underestimated her. She attacks like a man. Hard and fast—deliberate.

However, I'm not here for her life. Only her fertility.

Her hand comes down with the but of the gun against my shoulder. I grunt at the impact but my muscle mass saves me. I toss her behind me, using my momentum and she lands like a cat.

Nine lives.

We circle each other as I remove the slim case.

Like throwing rice at a wedding I fling my free hand out. Pushing the magic from my core as I've been taught and hit her with my best spell. The simple ones are deceptively powerful—pure.

“Stop,” I command softly.

My power swirls, striking her like a velvet whip of heat and fire.

Narah's eyelids flutter, her beauty is not masked by the elaborately plaited hair and many tattoos. She's beautiful even through the camouflage, and my soul cries out in defiance to deaden her fertility.

It is necessary.

Her head dips and she says in an angry voice, “Bite me, Benzoi.”

My body stills in shock. Then the flash of a silver blade follows that of her eyes.

I don't have time to be puzzled about the spell's lack of success when a pair of Turners spring from hiding.

Chapter 9

Aeslin

I dive out from the shadows I use to camouflage us, racing against time and drive forward, Edan at my heels. The Hunter tells Narah Adrienne to “stop” in a voice full of magic and dark command.

Magic washes over me, slowing my progress. It arrests Edan's.

“Fuck,” he whispers, jerking a foot up and it falls back into place as though paralyzed.

Narah says, “Bite me, Benzoi.”

Not a normal Hunter then. This one has enough Druid to cast powerful spells.

I'm partially immune, a common ancestor helping me ignore their power. Many Turners possess immunity. Edan is an unlucky one who doesn't.

Narah's eyes round when she sees us.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Your salvation.

I don't reply. My only goal is to grab her and get her to the Turn room for the change.

The Hunter moves closer to her position. “For the love of all that holy,” Narah roars, going for the Hunter's throat.

“No!” I yell.

The Hunter swipes the side of her neck with his forearm. He expertly taps her vagas nerve and she drops.

He catches her one-handed and tears the top of a syringe out with his teeth, spitting out the top onto the ground.

It rolls to Edan's feet and he groans in frustration, frozen from magic.

I move through the quick sand of the Hunter's spell and come to stand behind him.

Tipping the syringe back he purges a small amount as he prepares to pierce her vein.

Narah's eyes go wide as she comes around.

She doesn't scream.

Instead she stabs his throat with her knuckles and he chokes, but the needle goes in.

*

Narah

I don't know what this guy is but he's more than a level ten criminal. Hell, he told me to stop and like a dog on a chain my entire body revolted movement. Any movement.

Then I remembered my job and who I am.

Defeat isn't an option.

I shake off the lethargy with difficulty and the fog of his words thins. It feels like a veil has been lifted and I can breathe again—move.

I get ready and two guys throw themselves out into the middle of the street.

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask the lead one.

I take my eyes off Benzoi and notice one of the two is standing still. Like stock-still.

My eyes move back to Benzoi. Something is totally weird.

The muscular guy doesn't answer me and now I have two to deal with. One mess at a time. I'll subdue the target and deal with tall, dark and deadly and his pal, almost-comatose.

I go for Benzoi's neck with the butt of my weapon. It's my fave, take out the wind and the dudes fall flat.

Instead, he nails my vagas nerve and unconsciousness sucks me under. It's only a moment. But that's all he needs. Seconds later I come to in his arms and immediately begin to fight out of his hold.

He pops the top on a vial and liquid shoots out in a stream.

Dread surges through me. I strike his throat with my knuckles as the tall guy comes up behind Benzoi and kicks him. Benzoi tumbles but not before he sticks me with whatever cocktail he has.

The needle twangs from my forearm, sticking straight up.

Drugs.

I panic, trying to bat it off me and the tall guy moves in and a sudden headache slides into position.

Not now!

He scoops me off the ground and I punch him in the face. A fast hard strike. I'm not fucking around, he needs to be maimed so I can get out of here and not get shot up with whatever the hell's in that vial.

It's like hitting granite and I bite my lip not to cry out, my hand feels like it's broken. He shakes his head like a bug bit him instead of a well-trained enforcer.

Silver eyes regard me and I wince, grabbing my skull as shards of glass spin in my brain and I groan.

He turns his head and his low baritone voice yells, “Edan! Come quickly.”

Benzoi is getting up and I grab this man I can't hurt, who's sort of half saved me. “Get out,” my head hurts so bad I'm pretty sure I'm going to puke, “he's a criminal,” I manage.

“Look at me, Narah Adrienne,” he says.

He knows my name. Gooseflesh has its way with me, my body chilled. My skull feels crushed, Benzoi tried to poison me and this guy can take a hit.

I'm vulnerable.

He grasps my chin and turns my head.

His eyes are mesmerizing. I try to shake his hold and look away and see Benzoi moving toward us.

I gotta get out of here.

My next move is a last resort but it's pretty effective. I lift my knee and plant it in his groin.

Silver Eyes falls to his knees and I twist out of his grasp. Using my elbows I GI crawl to the sidewalk, casting a glance at the other guy, who seems to be moving fine. He and Benzoi lunge at each other and begin working their fists like experts.

What the hell have I gotten caught up in?

Meanwhile, my white knight is holding his package.

Time to go. My head numbs and I jerk unsteadily to my feet, limping at a jog to my car. It's the first time a headache has taken me down on the job. The headache ate the medicine like candy.

Turning around, I spot the three of them.

Silver eyes is up and scanning the area.

For me.

I run, hitting my car at full speed, I jerk the car door open and jump inside. My vision narrows and I know it's not safe for me to drive.

I turn on my car anyway.

The engine roars to life and I hit reverse, peeling out of the parking lot and narrowly missing a parking meter.

Silver eyes and his friend begin to chase my car. Benzoi is nowhere.

Tears of pain ruin my vision and I jerk the wheel, ripping the car in the correct direction and tramp down on the accelerator.

The odometer reaches fifty miles per hour in streets where the posted speed is fifteen. Thank God it's four in the morning.

My gaze searches my rearview mirror and the men are almost at my trunk.

The pain roars in my head and I do cry out.

They can't be human. No one can run this fast. The throbbing in my head blurs my vision and I increase my speed.

Sixty.

Eighty.

I keep my eyes on the road.

When I get to ninety miles per hour I peek at my rearview mirror.

Darkness is all I see.

A breath of intense relief whistles out of me and my arms begin to  shake.

Using every back road I know, I wind my way home.

It takes an hour.

By the time I circle back to where I live I have to crawl through my front door.

I don't make it to bed but collapse where I've crawled, my eyes rolling up in my head.

My last conscious thought is a pair of silver eyes.

Read More

Vampire Alpha Claim 2

Please Read on....

CLUB ALPHA

A novel

New York Times Bestselling author

MARATA EROS

All Rights are Reserved.

Copyright © 2014-15 Marata Eros

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Marata Eros Website

Marata Eros FB Fan Page

Editing suggestion provided by Red Adept Editing

Proofed by Corinna

Cover art: Willsin Rowe

***Club Alpha is a STANDALONE, PSYCHOLOGICAL DARK ROMANTIC SUSPENSE and contains scenes of graphic violence. May contain triggers***

PROLOGUE

Greta

Completion.

That's what it is to graduate with honors, and finally go after what I'll be in this life.

Marketing. International travel, stretching the bounds of the four languages I've mastered. Perfection.

Hot guys.

My eyebrows flick up. Speaking of which.

I track a handsome specimen right now.

A man moves across the room lithely, coming to stand at the exact opposite of the huge bar. His crystal tumbler full of amber liquid catches the light. His coloring suggests he’s Latino or some exotic Spanish mix. At six feet two-ish, he’s built to move, dance— and do other stuff.

My lips curl at the other stuff part of my internal monologue. I'm so wanting to find out what the sex fuss is all about. By all accounts, it's pretty life altering. It's beyond time.

My studies are through—it's Greta Time now.

His gaze locks with mine, and he smiles. A deep dimple winks at his cheek, and a cleft bisects a chiseled, square jaw.

Beautiful green eyes with thick black lashes rim the windows of his soul.

He pauses, and I say yes with my eyes.

Please approach me.

My breath catches like a trapped bird in my throat.

What a beautiful man.

My hand grips the smooth curved wood of the high-end bar I find myself in; the other holds a low ball of peach schnapps.

I take a sip, grimace slightly, and set down the drink.

People flow between us as we stare across the room, and I lose him momentarily as the moving scenery of bodies blocks my line of sight.

I crane my neck, swinging my head side to side, searching. I remind myself that I'm not here to meet a man. I'm here to meet my fellow graduates and celebrate our graduation from the most prestigious university in Washington state.

Someone sits down beside me but it's not him. I look around the other man.

Tall, dark and handsome has vanished.

I take another absent-minded sip then knock back the rest of my sweet drink. Disappointment burns alongside the alcohol inside my stomach. Where'd he go? I restrain myself from pouting.

I stand. Against my better judgement, I'm brazenly determined to seek him out, then a wave of dizziness hits me.

My hand flies out to the bar and latches on. Frantically, I look toward the entrance, hoping my friends will arrive. Though I'm known for being frighteningly punctual, none of them share that trait.

I lift my fingertips from the polished surface and touch my forehead. My hand comes away clammy and shaking.

Alarm sweeps through my system. What's wrong with me?

I forget the man with the deep-green eyes—and my drink and friends—as another wave of dizziness follows the first.

I stagger backward toward my seat, my knees hit the stool, and I sit down abruptly.

“Miss?” a low voice murmurs from my elbow.

I turn my head, but my neck feels loose, as though it’s made of rubber.

A man's face wobbles in front of me, his features coming together and shattering in the field of my vision.

“Are you well?”

Well? No. I shake my head, and streamers of color flow across my eyes. I groan, feeling nauseated as the dizziness grows.

I feel pressure at my elbow then a grip. I'm walking?

“Is she—” a deep melodic baritone voice inquires.

“I have her.” Curt. Final.

“Okay?”

“Fine,” says the disembodied voice at my side.

I'm gliding. My head tips back against a warm chest.

Everything fades to black.

*

Paco

Standing at the edge of the bar. I sip the sparkling cider.

My bodyguard, Robert Tallinn, remains by the exit while eyeing the entrance.

Though I’ve attended school in the states for many years, I still believe America is the most aggressive country in all the world. I remain vigilant while traveling.

My jet is scheduled to leave for Costa Rica early in the morning, and that is why I partake only of the non-alcoholic beverage in my hand.

Tallinn fought my spontaneous urge to visit the lounge within the elite hotel we're staying in.

Coffee is grande in Seattle. Very. I am here to romance the local coffee barons for their money, in exchange for my beans—a perfect trade, in my estimation.

Tallinn hates the lack of protection the hotel offers. I told him it's his job to keep me safe.

His smile was tight at those words.

I raise my glass to him now, and he glowers.

I laugh then take a sip and set my glass on the smooth polished surface of the wooden bar.

That’s when I see her, and my back goes ramrod straight.

The crowd is thick. Beautifully attired people mingle with others they consider to be of equal caliber.

But she stands out like an angel among demons.

Her head is tipped over a pale-amber drink. Her platinum hair is twisted into a loose bun at her nape. The size of the knot tells me its length—but not how it would feel in my hands.

Her graceful neck is bent as she studies nothing at all. She appears to be frozen in time. Waiting.

I stand, drink forgotten, and stare at the most beautiful woman I've ever beheld.

She lifts her face as though she has become instinctively aware of my gaze on her. Eyes like a late-summer sky fall into mine, and my chest grows tight. Light-pink color rises to her fair skin, and I feel myself harden inside my slacks at just a look. The attraction is beyond casual lust.

I feel as though gravity has asserted itself and I am being pulled into her orbit.

I must meet her.

As we continue to stare, people move between us, and another man sits beside her, large enough to block my view.

I set the tumbler at the edge of the bar and begin walking toward her.

I see her searching face for an instant as she appears to swing around the torso of the man who blocks our mutual appraisal.

I understand in a vague way that my approach isn't casual.

Someone steps in front of me.

“Oh, pardon me!” a woman says.

I go around her impatiently.

The angel stands. She appears to look shaken and unwell.

I stop.

The man beside her rises, his back facing me, and takes her elbow. She remains hidden behind him.

I vacillate, thinking of the connection, the electrifying chemistry from a glance. I begin walking again.

I intercept them, and the other man is half-carrying her, his arm locked around her narrow waist.

My eyes are for her, though, as I pose the question to the man, “Is she—”

“I have her,” he says in a closed tone. Final.

“Okay?” I finish my question.

Her cheeks are flushed, and her head has fallen back against his shoulder. The blue eyes I so admired are hidden by closed eyelids. Dark-blond lashes fan against her high cheekbones.

He is clearly with her. I should drop it.

I cannot.

“What is wrong?” My eyes still rove the woman, not giving the man my full attention.

The man turns. “Drunk.”

I look fully at him.

He winks; a deep sense of oddness surrounds the gesture.

Turning, he ushers her out. And I let them go.

Tallinn suddenly appears at my side. “What the fuck was that?”

I shake my head. “I am not sure.”

Tallinn stares after them thoughtfully. After a full minute has elapsed he says, “I didn't like that dude.”

Neither do I.

I stare at the empty space they had just occupied.

*

Greta

Brutal fingers grip my butt cheeks and pry me open. A hoarse cry escapes my cracked lips.

He plunges inside me again.

My muscles instantly tense around the intrusion, though my virginity is long gone.

Slick wetness covers my inner thighs to my knees.

Later I find out it is semen.

Sweat.

And blood.

His thrusting continues.

Silence is the only noise. The screams fill my head because my mouth is gagged.

Panting.

The only break in the quiet is the grunts of their ecstasy.

I'm unceremoniously flipped over onto my back. Four faces with masquerade masks loom above my warped vision.

“No,” I say in muffled agony for the hundredth time, lifting my forearm to cover my battered face.

One of the men hits me, smashing my face into the stained mattress.

Another lands on top of me, stabbing inside my wounded vagina. “Yes,” one of the assailants says as he uses me.

I slide back and forth on the mattress as he pounds into my unwilling body. Another pries my jaws apart, forcing my lips open. He jerks the gag out then thrusts his length inside my mouth.

Vile salty essence fills the space. My chin is jerked back and the hot liquid glides down my throat.

I choke.

He removes himself from my mouth and clamps it shut, pinching my nostrils together.

I have to swallow, or I won’t be able to breathe. My throat convulses, and he releases my jaw.

I scream as I suck precious oxygen, gurgling through his semen. “No!”

The next blow slams my other cheek into the mattress as my hips are lifted and a new man assaults me. His stabbing penis tears and burns where no one has ever been.

I can't live through this, I think.

But I do.

CHAPTER ONE

Paco

Two Years Later - Present Day

September 29

Francisco Emmanuel Lewis Castillo.

I set the pen down and lean back, regarding my good friend and co-conspirator.

It is terminado.

I've signed my soul over to the devil. He no longer chases me from the dark corners of my mind. This particular demon stands in the sunlight, taunting no more.

Zaire chuckles, running a hand through hair a shade of blond so dark that it flirts with being brown. He sets his ten-gallon cowboy hat on top of all that shaggy hair.

Clear hazel eyes regard me with amusement.

I say nothing.

Zaire Sebastian has been after me for the five years he's run the enterprise I finally succumb to.

Club Alpha.

He flat-palms the paper, spinning the sheets until they face him. His eyes flick down, and a fingertip stabs my signature.

“Careful, you might cause it to bleed, amigo,” I note softly.

Zaire laughs. “Always so cryptic, Paco.” He makes a low sound of chastisement in the back of his throat. “How long have I known you?”

Forever.

He reads my expression and nods. “It's just now I find out you have a hundred names?”

I dip my chin. “Just four.”

He grunts his answer and I'm struck by how different Zaire and I are.

He perpetuates fantasy.

I manufacture exotic coffee for exotic tastes, my own not excepted.

It is the taste for the very fine and my need for something extreme—a thing not within my control—that has finally driven me to Mr. Sebastian.

Zaire stands, offering his hand. “Are we clear on the terms?” He studies my face. “Humor me,” he adds as I give a single shake of his hand.

I spread my hands away from my body, enjoying the slide of my linen suit, which is tailored perfectly to never impede my movement, as though I’m wearing a second skin.

I lift my shoulder. “You wish for me to recount the particulars?”

“Hell, yeah, Paco. You're a particular kind of guy.”

True. I smile and Zaire grins.

“I will have three months for this fantasy to come to fruition. I have three days from the time of this signing to submit the twenty-page questionnaire about the things that make me—uniquely me.”

Zaire's eyebrows pop to his hairline.

“It will be an honest disclosure,” I say.

“Nice. I like how my telepathy always works well between us.”

Zaire's rough-around-the-edges manner is a fachada, a clever front for the smart-as-a-whip man who swims beneath the surface. He twirls his fingers, encouraging my continuation.

“I have agreed to a no-liability clause against you, even in the case of my death, pursuant to the… activities, which might or might not present themselves.”

“And?” Zaire runs his fingers down the brim of his hat, where the evidence of the habit is in the curvature of the rim.

“I will tell no one. I understand and have agreed to the non-disclosure.”

Zaire makes the universal symbol for money, moving his thumb against his four fingers.

“I shall pay half in the moment listed therein, and the remainder at the end of the three month term, regardless of the outcome.”

Zaire slaps his palms together. “Hot damn!” His eyes glitter at me like captured stars. “I look forward to putting you through the paces, Paco. I ain't gonna lie—I've been wanting to get you like a fox in a trap since the beginning.”

I stroke my chin, my fingers finding the cleft at the end and squeezing it together. “I am aware, Zaire.”

“Yet you still agreed.”

I nod.

“Why? You've signed, now I have to ask. Why would you take this kind of chance? Because I'll be straight with you. I don't care about your money.” He pauses, his eyes moving to the ceiling. “Yeah, I do. What I mean, buddy, is you have so much to lose.”

I shake my head. “When a man has every need met, and ones he did not think he had are satisfied, then he is left with a void.” I cock my head, moving my hands to the pockets of my slacks. “You act as though you would talk me out of our arrangement.”

Zaire shakes his head. “No. You said, and I quote, ʽYour heart beats, but it does not live.ʼ”

“Yes. I am familiar with contentment, but I am not on intimate terms with contentment's distant cousin, joy.”

A slow smile spreads across Zaire's face as a flutter of emotion skates across the deepest part of me. Unease.

I embrace the uncommon feeling. For too long, I have felt nothing besides the slow, rolling river of time's passage. I welcome any emotion that causes my soul to surface through the murky waters of my complacent mediocrity.

Zaire shakes his head, and a low chuckle breaks the seam of his lips. “You're going to make a fun subject.” He gazes around the room before his eyes land on the wide expanse of glass that flanks the entire wall. From this vantage point, seventy stories aboveground inside the Columbia Center, the clouds appear touchable. The gray Puget Sound churns like angry boulders of water beneath us.

I walk over to stand beside Zaire. Our heights are similar, though our heritage is different. “Why do you do this?”

Without turning, Zaire places a forearm on the glass. He gazes over the city, at the raging sea beyond. “I know what it is to be rich. To be so rich you could park an incinerator in the house and burn money twenty-four hours a day.”

I say nothing, waiting for the point. Zaire Sebastian will have one.

He rolls his head on his forearm, facing me. “This isn't a game, Paco. Once we start, with the exception of the one-month markers, it's your new life. I have people everywhere. They can get to you anywhere in the world.”

I nod. I'm counting on it. I travel extensively to oversee the manufacture of my beans. I can be in Costa Rica one day and Brazil the next.

He straightens from his slouch against the window. “Your preliminary physical came back as outstanding, by the way.” His lips quirk. “My techs were making bets on how much time you spend on that build.”

“Oh?” My eyebrow hikes.

“Yeah,” Zaire turns and throws a punch toward me. I stiffen my gut and arch backwards, capturing his wrist and twisting as I dance into him.

“Shee-it!”

“And?” I ask. He struggles and I nestle his fist between his shoulder blades, cupping my opposite hand on his elbow.

I apply pressure.

Zaire taps my leg.

I drop his limb and step back, out of arm's reach.

We stare at each other.

“They said two hours—every day.” He's breathing hard.

I'm not at all. “They would be wrong.”

“How long, Paco? How much time do you devote to physical perfection?”

I cast my eyes down. Too much.

When I look up, he's massaging his arm. A wicked grin slashes the solemnness of his face.

“I don't worship my body; I use it. I have trained it to be used. There is a difference between doing one thousand sit-ups and forcing the body's compliance.”

“Have you forced it?” Zaire asks.

“Absolutely.”

Zaire snorts. “You realize I have you as a level-five risk on the form?”

For the first time since our meeting began, I get a thrill like an electrical current. Singing tension winds through me, causing my toes and fingers to tingle with anticipation of the unknown. “Yes.”

“That means you're rating at the highest level for hand-to-hand combat, knife play—”

My lips twitch. “There is no such thing as playing with knives.”

He stares at me for a moment before going on, “Stylized weaponry and a variety of martial arts background.”

“Yes.”

“Is that accurate?”

A beat of silence presses between us like a bomb before detonation.

“Yes.”

“I will personally oversee your submission and handpick the girl.”

I open my mouth then close it.

Zaire's wide grin angers me.

“Cat got your tongue?”

I'm unfamiliar with the idiom, though I speak several languages.

“You have utterly no say in this fantasy, Paco. This is what you're paying the big bucks for. This is a match-making enterprise of the highest order. We will find your love match.”

I believe love to be an impossibility for me. However, I remain silent about my skepticism. “You trivialize it,” I say and hear the sullen tone in my own voice. I can't shake it.

“It's not about what you can get, Paco. You could have a bevy of the finest tail on the earth. Hell, chicks smell money a mile away, they'd swarm you like bees to honey. That's not what's at stake here.”

Zaire strides to the door, and I stroll after him.

He turns and gestures sweepingly, using the arm I didn't leverage behind him. “This is about a wealthy man—or woman—knowing the one who says I do really wants them for who they are, not what they have. This fantasy is engineered to pull out every stop to prove their worth. No one can pretend through the circumstances I provide at Club Alpha.”

He meets my silence with his own.

“Three days, Paco. You have three days for dissolution. If I don't hear back, you can assume I've gone through your questionnaire, found it to be sound and withstanding further legalities, your fantasy will begin.”

“And your failure rate?” I ask, though I know.

“Zero.”

Neither one of us mentions some of the candidates have sustained injuries during their unique fantasy trials.

I've interviewed each one personally. Their answers are the same: they would do it again.

“I would never guess you were a lawyer in charge of fantasy matchmaking for the wealthy, Zaire.”

He gives me a hard look. “And I would never guess you were an exotic coffee mogul with a ninth-dan black belt.”

I wink at him. “I went… how do you say it? Ah yes, easy on you.”

The look we share is between two men wondering how it would be to give it a go.

“What art do you practice?” I ask.

“Jujitsu,” Zaire replies.

We bow at each other, eyes locked—as it should be. Never take your eyes off your opponent.

“Now,” Zaire says, straightening, “if you don't have any questions…”

“I have many questions.”

Zaire's eyebrow lifts, and the corners of his lips twitch. “Ones I can answer?”

“No.”

He opens the door, and I pass through. “Then we're through.”

I turn as he shuts the door. I halt the swing of the solid Douglas fir with the slap of my hand.

“I'll see you on Halloween.”

“Trick or treat.”

Zaire closes the door. It latches softly behind me.

In three more days, the games begin.

CHAPTER TWO

Greta

I look up at Gia in disbelief. “Are you freaking kidding me?” I gaze back down at the—I don't know—novel in my hands. I grasp the edge of the paper and let the pages contained between the folder slip through my fingers.

Gia smirks. With golden eyes like deep whiskey, rimmed with smoky-kohl eyeliner, she blinks at me like a satisfied feline. “You want thorough, don't you?”

I shake my head, and my hair, fresh from the blowout Gia insisted on paying for, slides over my shoulders.

I nervously smooth my hands over the tight crimson pencil skirt and look at question number one million:

Have you ever partaken in illegal drug use?

I swallow hard. “I don't give a hot damn about thoroughness. I—hell in a handbasket—I don't even know about this.” I tap the papers.

Gia saunters to where I sit at my desk at Roffe Enterprises. She puts one sculpted butt cheek on the corner of all that antique oak. “Listen here, Greta.”

Oh Jesus, wonderful. “I feel an epic rant coming on, Gia.”

Her full lips twist. “You better believe it. I've gone through every angle, point by point. My logic is irrefutable.”

“That's just it—it's your logic.”

Her lips flatten, and a nail tip taps her chin. “Your logic is working to death, having no life—hell, you have to make an appointment to poo.”

I roll my eyes, not because she takes practicality to a new level, but because she's right. I almost schedule bathroom time. Everything in my life is a squeezeathon—from the bathroom, to sleep, to the gym. I factor breathing in there somewhere, too.

I do make time to sigh in frustration at Gia. I love her, but she's such a pushy broad.

“I know that look,” she says, eyes narrowed at me.

“What look?” I ask innocently.

“The look where you're going to back out. I'm paying—I'm sponsoring you, Greta. There's no excuses. You've got—what? A billion vacation days built up.”

I scrunch my nose. She may be overstating things.

Or not.

I scan the paperwork for Club Alpha on my lap. I find what I'm searching for. “It says here my work can continue, that the fantasy incorporates itself.”

“It's organic in nature,” Gia inserts.

“Like a disease?” I ask.

She pouts.

“Okay!” I shove the papers away. “You know I'm grateful. I understand this is like—I don't know—an intervention.”

Her face becomes solemn.

“God, I'm not that bad!” I say, folding my arms.

Gia goes uncharacteristically silent.

“Am I?”

She nods. “You're twenty-four years old, for shit's sake.” Her probing eyes capture mine in a gaze I've held countless times on the psych bench.

I grip the folder full of the stats of my life. Greta Dahlem, exposed. “But why do we have to go to this extreme? I can find a guy the old-fashioned way.”

Gia stands and walks away from the desk to pace in front of the bank of windows overlooking the Space Needle grounds.

I admire her sharp figure, not with envy but a sense of pride. Gia is her own thing. And I'm more because of our friendship, and what she has done for me.

I blow strands of my pale-blond hair out of my face.

She whirls, pointing a pen at me. “You—no. You couldn't find a man the old-fashioned way if your life depended on it.”

Probably right. I sulk, spinning in my chair.

My phone buzzes through. “Miss Dahlem.”

Gia meets my eyes. Her expression says, “See?”

I depress the button, giving Gia an eye roll. “Yes, Ashley?”

“Mr. Aros, line one.”

“Thank you, Ashley.”

I hold up a finger to Gia and she gives me the middle one in return. I suppress a giggle over her spontaneous lewdness.

“Hallo,” I say.

“English is fine, Ms. Dahlem,” Aros says.

“Fint, ja,” I reply and switch to English from my native Norwegian.

Gia waits through my upcoming travel plans. They revolve around the latest swatches of material for wind, water and temperature repellent outerwear for the extreme skier. Another foreign client would be so good for my resume, and maybe Mr. Aros will be he. We briefly confer about our upcoming meeting. The conversation winds to a succinct close.

“Thank you, Mr. Aros,” I say.

“Farvel,” he says and the humming international connection abruptly ceases.

“Are you done playing Swedish twinkle toes with clients?”

I snort. “It's so insulting for you to mistake me for a Swede. Really? I am Norwegian—there's a difference, you know.”

Gia shrugs. “It's all just broad for me, baby. Scandinavian. All you blond, blue-eyed perfect folk. Skinny. Tall. Whatever. It's simple to lump you all together.”

I remember when that was a bad thing.

Gia's face falls. “No, I'm sorry, Greta. I wasn't thinking.”

I say nothing, holding my chin to stop the quivering. I don't stop my other hand from stroking the scar at my wrist. Plastic surgery, another gift from Greta, made it a fine line instead of the twisted mess it was.

“It's okay. I've moved on.” My eyes meet hers to push truth into the lie. My jaw tightens. “I will move on,” I repeat decisively.

A Mona Lisa smile ghosts Gia's lips, and we leave the past behind us for the moment. “Say yes, Greta. Don't let what's happened rule you, overwork you. It's like—” She pauses, and I watch the uncertainty cloud her normally Zen features. “It's like you run from introspection. This might help your healing, Greta.”

Nothing will. My work is safe, but exploring the boundaries of my fragile psyche? Not so much.

I stare at all those intimidating words on the form for Club Alpha, so they can make my life an atom among the spinning chaos of a new reality.

“I've already filled it out,” I admit softly, trailing my finger over flat words that say so much, and so little, about me.

Gia squeals, clapping her hands. Her eyebrows arch. “Then it's only the physical left?”

I nod.

“Excellent,” she grabs her handbag and shoulders it before jerking a thumb at the door. “Tell Ashley to cover for you.”

I roll my lip into my mouth, mauling the tender flesh with my teeth. I do it so much that I'm surprised I have any lip left. “You're so bossy,” I finally grumble, hitting the intercom with a finger.

“And you need it,” she quips.

Maybe.

I tell Ashley then let Gia drag me to Club Alpha.

*

I find it very difficult to let this man, whom I don't know at all, circle me like a cow on the auction block.

I stifle the urge to moo.

“I have a copy of your questionnaire, Ms. Dahlem.”

He butchers the pronunciation.

“It's Dahl-em. Like doll then em.”

Rich hazel eyes scrutinize me, and I curse under my breath as my fair complexion springs to life in a blush I don't have to see to know that bright pink color has flooded my cheeks.

“You betcha, darlinʼ,” Zaire Sebastian replies in a droll voice.

“Cut the cute, Zaire. I told you Greta's a little shy.”

Zaire winks at her, tipping his huge cowboy hat, which hides curls of moppy dark-blond hair. His gaze moves back to me, appraising me. “Not that shy. I'd say detail-oriented is more Greta's style.”

I kick my chin up a little at his assessment. “Have you seen my paperwork?”

His eyes are shadowed as they meet mine. “I've skimmed it. But soon I'll practically know it by heart.” He crosses his fingers over his muscular chest and puts two fingers up, mimicking a Boy Scout pledge. “Promise.”

Zaire's eyebrows plunge, his expression instantly morphing to seriousness. He looks at an image of me as I was when I first arrived. I was wearing a silk shell blouse in a soft pearl so lustrous and light it resembled a cup of cream instead of white, a deep red pencil skirt, and four-inch heels in nude, which matched my stockings to perfection. I buy only Italian-made hosiery. They have the sizes someone of my height needs for a true fit.

I'm a sweaty mess now, though. Yoga pants and a sheer T-shirt cling to every crevice of me. I swipe a strand of hair out of my face. The tight dutch braid that sinks into a low knot at my nape never quite holds all of it.

“What did you say you do for conditioning?”

His eyes boldly rove my body. I feel the blush swim back to healthy life.

Damn.

Gia grins.

I scowl back.

“I ski during the colder months…”

His eyebrows jerk up. “You're…” He appears to think about it, then says, “Twenty-four?”

I nod, puzzling over his bewilderment.

“It's not typical for someone your age to be a skier; snowboarding's more like it.”

I shrug. “I'm Norwegian. They toss us out the front door as toddlers with skis instead of shoes.”

“Yes,” he says with a thoughtful small smile, “I read that in your nationality breakdown.” He gives me steady eyes. “Pure, yes?”

My heart thuds, and fresh sweat dampens my palms. I feel Gia at my back.

I push images of fair flesh on hands, pale eyes in shades of blues and greens far away. My attackers are Caucasian.

I lick my lips. “Yes, one hundred percent.”

Zaire turns toward his desk and picks something up. “That's a rare thing in America nowadays. Melting pot and all.”

I nod. I know. I so know.

“Dual citizen?” he asks, turning with a tape measure in his hand.

I shake my head. “No, orphan.”

Zaire says nothing while taking the measurements of my waist, hips, and bust.

I blush again when he tightens the tape around my breasts.

“Don't breathe,” he says, winking. “You're five-ten?” His eyes rise to mine.

I nod.

He writes nothing down.

“A few things off the bat we should straighten out before yʼall get started down this path.” He looks at me expectantly.

“Okay,” I say, cupping my elbows and retreating a step.

“There are a few candidates who have a very narrow idea of what they find attractive.”

Gia makes a disbelieving noise in the background. “She's so perfect it's sick, Zaire—you know this.”

I think I'm going up in flames at this point.

Zaire raises his palm while I study my feet. God, Gia.

“She is a wonderful specimen of the female form, yes. A regular Eve. However…” He pauses, and my head snaps up from admiring the lush carpet of his office. “She is tall, very blond, and thin. Not every man wants to be with an Amazon who looks like a Nordic goddess.”

I suddenly feel as inept as I did when Gia first coerced me into trying Club Alpha. Of course, the fee of fifty million dollars made participation unlikely for me to ever be a part of it.

But Gia is old money. That’s nothing for her. She makes Paris Hilton look like a pauper.

“Hey, girl, quit that face,” Zaire says, placing a gentle finger underneath my chin.

I stare into his face. Zaire's eyes are kind, and he says nothing about the sheen he must see in mine.

“Some of us gents think a filly with legs longer than ours is primo.” He pushes the blond tendrils of hair still loose from my unraveling bun behind an ear. “Some of us love a girl so fair, she's skin and ice in the flesh. With eyes like glacial seas.” He clears his throat, clearly somewhat embarrassed by his verbal poetry.

“I forget the golden tongue you have,” Gia comments wryly.

Zaire grins. “Helps in court.”

“Though you make so much money now you don't bother with law much anymore, do you?”

“No, I'm cupid for the rich.” Zaire mimes nocking an invisible arrow in a bow. I can almost hear the whisper as he lets go for his imagined target.

I shake my head. “That's not really true. There's—there is stuff in here about dismemberment, injuries… things.”

Zaire sets his jean clad butt up against his desk, his eyes at half-mast. He crosses his feet at the ankles, regarding me. “True. I'll try to keep you out of the true danger but these fantasies have a way of progressing in a natural way. Exponentially.” He spreads his arms away from his body, and I notice how big his hands are. A trigger niggles, and I quickly look away.

“That line I gave you about your looks?”

My face swings back in his direction.

“Well, there are a lot of clients where you're not within the standards of attraction.”

I deflate, air sliding out of my tight chest.

“Then there are a few where you fall in like a round peg in a perfect circular hole.”

I open my mouth then close it.

Gia steps forward. “So there are a few possible matches for Greta?”

Zaire grins. “I think we can give it the old college try.”

He sees us to the door. Having been weighed, cataloged, and measured, I feel as though Zaire knows me better than he should. Once he reads through the questionnaire, he'll know me better than anyone alive.

Zaire opens the door. He touches my shoulder as I pass, and I flinch.

His eyes tighten imperceptibly at my reaction. “One question?”

“Okay.”

“You're not racist are ya, darlinʼ?”

I laugh. Hell no. “No.”

“Good.”

His eyes meet Gia behind my shoulder. “Three days.”

“My accountant will square up with you, Zaire.”

“Always a pleasure, Ms. Township,” he says. His gaze moves to me.

“So long, Ms. Dahlem.”

He says my name perfectly as he takes my hand. Instead of shaking it, he squeezes my hand softly and lets it drop.

I turn away and don't look back.

Three more days of my old life.

CHAPTER THREE

Paco

My hands are loose as I face Tallinn. He feints and I follow his movement like water through a cleft in a rock. Still, he moves to where my elbows don't guard closely enough.

Jab.

His knuckles sink deep, stealing my breath.

I slap him; his face rocks back from the speed and force.

He spits blood out. “Paco,” Tallinn reprimands, “what is this hitting like a girl bullshit? I try to teach you boxing, and you slap me?”

I punch him in the gut.

Tallinn doubles over.

With a roar, he moves to my torso with his head, picking me up like a bull with horns.

I wrap my legs around his midsection, and he slams me onto the dojo mat.

“No karate!” he bellows, and I give a low curse.

With my level of proficiency, I often dream in karate. I counter smoothly anyway, heaving him off. I leap deftly to the balls of my feet, bouncing. I’m ready for whatever he'll bring.

“You are such a prick, Paco.”

“Yes,” I say without a hint of disagreement.

We sway slightly as we circle each other.

“You sure this will be part of the fantasy—boxing?” Tallinn's voice is strong with his disbelief.

I throw a strike, hard and fast, to his jaw, but he blocks it. I'm very good with my left hand, though it's not dominant, and I follow the blow closely with a jab meant to disable him.

It glances off his forearm.

“Fuck! You're strong, you Latin dick!”

I smile.

Tallinn flings insults at me. However, I am not diminished, but edified by strife.

He rolls his brown eyes in a face that is just as dark. Muscles roil beneath finely honed arms and legs. Tallinn is here for his athletic grace, prowess, and his ability to guard—and because he is my friend, though not so much when sparring.

“Technically, I am Hispanic in origin, my friend.”

He wallops me in a fine move in what Tallinn terms the breadbasket. My insides spasm. Instinctively, I move into his body, leaving my awesome reach behind, and scissors kick his legs apart.

“No—oh!” He drops like a ton of bricks.

Tallinn blinks up at me. “No karate.” The words come out of a tight throat.

I shake my head. “That is more the flavor of jujitsu.”

Our stares collide, and I throw out a palm.

“Douche,” Tallinn says, slapping his hand into mine.

I grin.

“Yeah”—he nods, jerking a towel off the wood tree full of pegs to hold such things—“keep smiling.” He peeks at me from behind the bright-white terry cloth. “Not bad today, by the way.”

I incline my head.

“Were you ‘bringing it’?”

Tallinn looks up into my face and begins to chuckle, then it morphs into a guffaw that sounds like a tortured donkey’s braying.

I frown.

“Man, just don't try, will ya? Leave the slang for the naturals, such as my wise ass.”

I nod. “Yes, wonderful.” I stalk off, and he follows.

“Hey, don't get your silk boxers in a twist, Romeo. You'll do fine.”

I whirl, and he stops—ready for my attack. I smile despite my annoyance. “I love that about you, Tallinn.”

His eyebrows hike. “You do?” He folds his arms, and his face portrays pure skepticism. “What do you love?”

“You are ready to fight at any moment.”

“Pfft.” He scrubs the skull cap of his dark-brown curly hair. “Well, yeah, man. Anytime.”

I point my finger at him. “That is what I wish for.”

He pulls a face, his jaw jerking back. “Stop wishing and start being, Paco. If this fantasy thing”—he palms his chin—“is some kind of slice of random all the time, that is your best defense—a good offense.”

He looks over my lean frame. “And I recommend bulking up, pal.”

I glance down. My body fat hangs at six percent.

“You got the nice Benedict Cumberbatch cheekbones. The green peepers the ladies dig, but you want to beef yourself up with some muscle mass, look menacing.”

“Do I not look as though I could be threatening?”

Tallinn throws his arms apart, and the muscular planes of his chest strain against the taut material of his shirt. “I know you are, Paco, but with your fancy clothes and refined vibe, it's not expected.”

“I do not wish it to be.”

Tallinn rolls his eyes. “Okay—whatever. All I'm saying is give the dudes the feeling that you got potential.”

“Potential?” My lips quirk.

“Don't give me your vaguely amused look.”

I try not to look amused and it makes my mouth ache instead.

“Okay, now you look constipated.”

I burst out laughing, and so does he. Tallinn claps me on the back.

“What I'm saying is: if you look the part, they might not mess with you.”

“I believe the sort that Club Alpha employs will be very interested in messing with me.”

We stare at each other.

“What about the girl?”

I look at Tallinn then away. “There is no girl.”

An image of the blond angel from the bar over two years ago floats to the surface of my mind—it never leaves the tombs of my mind.

“Not yet.”

My eyes slide back to his as the memory dissipates like vapor. “I have never been the protective type. If that's what you're inferring.”

Tallinn snorts. “There's an inner Alpha in you, begging to be free, man. And I'm here to tell you, if the right chick comes along, you'll die to protect her.”

I sigh. What have I gotten myself into?

We begin to walk out of the dojo. My dojo. The metal door slams behind us, echoing loudly. We walk down the long hallway, seeking the indoor pool that will serve as my cardio friend for the next half hour.

“Isn't this the point of the entire fantasy? You're rich, really rich.”

I narrow my eyes at him for restating the obvious.

He ignores my look and moves forward. “Every bitch from here to Timbuktu would love a piece of the pie that is Paco. And you're not interested. You want a bushel of bambinos but on your terms. Thinkinʼ you can avoid that prenup and have real L.O.V.E.”

“Fantastic synopsis, Tallinn.”

“Why didn't you just try eHarmony or some shit?”

That would have been the path of least resistance. “Zaire guarantees a set of circumstances tailor-made to flush out the merit of the women.”

“Women?”

I nod. “Apparently, there might be more than one perfect match. And she is wealthy in her own right, so my money should not be a factor.”

Tallinn whistles quietly. “What about your merit?”

I fold my arms across my chest. “What of it?”

“Well, if she has to jump through hoops to… what? Prove her worth? What's to say the same isn't happening with you?”

I answer with silence.

“Ha! Knew it. We've got some rich babes signed up for the fantasy freight train, and you don't know who the passengers are or how you'll hold up under their inspection.” Tallinn nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, that's dee-lish. I want to watch.”

“You're a pest,” I say, smiling.

“Yeah, I am. Anyway, you're not allowed to blab about what paces Sebastian puts you through?”

I shake my head, stripping my sweats off to my swim trunks below. I push through the glass door and breathe deeply of the mildly chlorinated air. I jerk my sweat-soaked shirt over my head and toss it into a pile by the edge of the pool.

Tallinn follows, of course, walking in a loose perimeter around me. “Damn, man! Are you Adonis or what?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

I dive in, slicing the water smoothly. I twirl underneath then come up for breath. I break the surface, and Tallinn is there, seated on his haunches.

“So when does it all begin?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Tallinn leaps up. “Damn, better get you in the boxing groove.”

I turn away to begin laps.

Tallinn races along the pool's edge. “Cut this cardio shit short, Paco—it's keeping you too lean. Come to your million-dollar weight room instead. I'll beef ya up. Hell—you have the size. Am I not your personal trainer or what?”

I push off from the pool's end, turning to backstroke. I count the strokes as I move to the other side of the pool.

“What do you say?” he bellows from the other end of the pool.

I heave an internal sigh. “Yes,” I reply.

The door flaps shut, and I try to concentrate on fluidity, but my mind is on other things.

Danger.

The unknown her.

*

I do the sequence of yoga exercises on the floor of my office, as I have for six years.

My body screams with the soreness caused the day before. Tallinn put me through a weight-lifting regime he promises will have me bulked up quickly.

I arch, my palms and feet a bridge above the floor, with my chest facing the ceiling.

The shrill beep of the intercom buzzes and my form wavers.

“Yes?” I say, and the voice recognition kicks on, turning it to speaker and relaying my response.

“Mr. Castillo, Mr. Estrada is on line one for you.”

“Thank you, Esmerelda.”

I slowly break form, caving and shifting to my knees. I stand, hold my position for a full second, then stride to the phone.

I hit the button, trying to stifle irritation.

“Bueno?” I bark into the phone.

“Paco, how are you?” my cousin asks in Spanish.

“I am well, and you?” I lean back on the desk, crossing my legs at the ankle, wondering if Club Alpha employs relatives for their scheme.

Perhaps.

My suspicion knows no limits. My heart rate ticks faster, sending a pleasant flutter of anticipation coursing through me. It is the first day of the three months.

I expect everything—and nothing.

We chat about our mothers and the weather. Finally, Ramiro comes to the crux of it.

“We are having some trouble with the narco, Paco.”

My stomach tightens. My upbringing is remarkable, in that, I spent only a few years in Mazatlán, Mexico. I’ve been frequently in the states ever since, and I am American educated. Though my accent is flawless, the cadence of my speech sometimes gives me away as foreign born.

And apparently, so does my less-than-stellar grasp of American idioms and vernaculars; so says Tallinn.

I spin my pen between the webbing of my fingers absently, contemplating how I can break from work to travel south and smooth the feathers of the local drug cartel so they will not infringe on my family who remains there.

Dealing with the narcos is a necessary evil.

I have become distracted while Ramiro speaks.

“…fly into Rafeal Buelna.”

I straighten. “Let me address my schedule and plan accordingly, Ramiro.”

“Nothing is more important than family, Paco.”

My hand tightens on the receiver. “No one understands that better than I, Ramiro.”

Silence swells between us.

“Adios.”

I don't wait for his response. My visit to the plant in Costa Rica will have to wait. I pick up the phone to let my manager know that trip will be delayed.

A small rough-woven bag, hand-stitched at its top, sits at the corner of my desk. I pluck the strings that keep it tied. They unravel, and I sink my hand into the coffee beans, rolling them through my fingers. They are not unlike a talisman. I have always felt an affinity for the things we put in our bodies. And the coffee I produce is no exception.

Everything we consume should be of value.

Even love.

CHAPTER FOUR

Greta

October 2

I don't know what I thought would happen.

Maybe a bomb would go off?

However, my first day of the Club Alpha run starts out with a whisper. My alarm goes off, Mr. Right doesn't make an appearance, and I'm left with the usual: work.

I fly through my condo, straightening the pillows on my perfectly made bed and putting my paltry amount of dishes into a dishwasher, which I run twice a week.

I scan the toiletries one more time as I roll my travel clothing into a tight bundles, which I set inside my suitcase like sardines.

White makes me look like a ghost. So I wear a red blouse that is such a deep scarlet, the fabric looks made of blood. The navy cloth pants never show a wrinkle, and the inseam skates the exact middle of the instep of my matching platform pumps. Today, I'm six feet, two with heels.

A cropped blazer skims the soft waistband of the matching pants. The single thin chain of white gold with a floating heart nestled at the hollow of my throat is my only jewelry.

I’m meeting Mr. Aros after an international flight that will leave me tired and drawn-looking.

I have the fix—the makeup I've paid hundreds for. It conspires to make me look like I'm not wearing any, though I slather it on.

Perfect.

I pack it away so I'll look good for the flight and in case I meet anyone important.

I pick up my smartphone and scroll through useless updates I keep in my head anyway.

No social life—Gia's words hunt me down inside my skull. If I had a social life, I would need all the reminders for work stuff, because I'd be too busy living to remember them.

I curse under my breath, stuffing my cell into my handbag. My eyes flick toward the window for one last look before I take off. Between high-rises, I catch a peek-a-boo of Puget Sound. It's only a corridor view, but it'd sold me on the condo.

Someday I'll live where the water is all I see.

The statement feels like a promise.

*

“More wine, miss?”

I startle awake, my hand swinging out to catch the glass before it tumbles underneath the airplane seat.

I rein in the scowl, coming back to myself in errant chunks of disorientation. I didn’t have wine. “No, thank you. But I'd love some water.”

The flight attendant nods politely and retreats into the dim corner where they acrobatically prepare alcohol and bland airplane food.

I shouldn't bitch. Roffe will be picking up the tab. How many cold-weather countries do we have where I can hop on a flight, talk up the newest outerwear to discriminating buyers, and hope they sign for a Roffe clothing line? It's more than a salary to me; it's a commission, as well. The money makes me feel secure. I have six years before true financial security. My trust fund garnered my acceptance into Club Alpha, but Gia's sponsorship allowed it now.

My head lulls back against the headrest, and my gaze moves to the magnified portal windows as clouds float by like escaped cotton balls.

A lowball in faceted pressed glass is set in front of me. The deep impressions of the glass fractures the light from the window into diamonds on the tray table. I raise it to my lips. Ice clinks faintly as I sip. I fight back the time zone change, dehydration, and everything else.

Even with the quickest flight and an overnight stay in Amsterdam, it is still almost thirteen hours of seat time. And my rear is going numb.

And why do they ply me with booze? God.

I'm so grumpy. I should be excited to arrive in Oslo. I'll practice my native language and haunt sites I haven't seen since before college.

Maybe I'll get a deal for Roffe, I muse, holding the chilled glass against my hot cheek.

I kick off my heels and curl my toes, spinning the half empty glass on the smooth surface of my pop-out tray. My mind wanders to some of the things Zaire told me.

Anytime, anywhere… the fantasy will play out. The fantasy is treacherous ground, he said.

The fantasy will integrate so naturally into my life.

I shut my eyes, thinking of Gia and all she's done for me—and been for me.

Gia is wealthy and highly educated. She is the youngest woman in the state of Washington to receive her PhD in psychology. When she volunteered to mentor patients who were “unrecoverable,” Gia Township didn't know what she would begin when she was assigned my case.

My thumb restlessly strokes the fine scar at my wrist. Both wrists hold the proof of my past.

I can't stroke my brain. There is no balm for that scar.

Yet, Gia has brought me through the water's depths that were my mind. I was drowning, and she rescued me. She insists I rescued myself.

Club Alpha is her gift to me. It is meant to be a catharsis.

I shiver, sliding my coat's cuff to cover my wrist and blink, feeling tired. Exhausted by my memories. Overcome with the thread of hope.

Gia says I will trust again and that not all men are sadistic monsters.

*

Touchdown bounces me awake, and my eyes meet the flight attendant's. She is based in Norway, but like most Europeans, she assumes I'm American and don't have any foreign language set. Normally, that would be spot-on.

Americans aren't compelled to speak any language other than English.

Still, I'm always vaguely insulted when another person makes a three-second assessment of me and knows all from it.

I don't think so.

She whispers about me to another flight attendant, and neither bother to mask their obvious gossip. First class doesn't inherently mean there will be class.

“I don't bleach my hair, incidentally,” I comment as we taxi. I'm Norwegian. Towheads rock.

She blanches, paling even lighter than her natural fairness.

“I didn't know you were Norwegian,” she says, a flush rising to her cheeks like cream through milk.

I frown. “I didn't know you were unkind.”

She sniffs, turning away.

Bitches abound apparently.

I remember what Gia tells me in our sessions. As long as a comment is kind and honest, your feelings are always appropriate to verbalize.

Just restating the facts, Jack.

It's important to put people on notice. It validates me. Setting limits with those who would devalue me through pettiness and their own uncertainties is critical. I can't abide it. I'm too fragile to absorb hurts slung my way.

I’ll survive.

The young woman who criticizes me now continues to do so forever if I don't address it in the present, for myself.

Gia taught me that. I hadn't thought it would work until I put it into practice. It does work. Block by block, I've built myself back up.

After graduating from the University of Washington with a degree in marketing and surviving the unthinkable, I have two long years behind me.

Gia says I'm ready.

People see a tall, slim young woman with blond hair, who appears to have every single thing someone could want. Except hope.

And love.

I have my work. It's been a safe haven that's allowed me to hide. And now I have a ninety day leave of absence from my normal reality.

I smile at the flight attendant as I leave. I can afford to be gracious.

Because I have the unique insight of being grateful for my life.

*

Seattle is in the throes of an epic Indian summer while Oslo is swimming in the low fifties. I huddle inside my fisherman's knit sweater and stuff my wool-encased feet into Dansko clogs. I have exactly one day to acclimate before meeting with my client. I dress in the typical wardrobe of the area. Blending's good. There is safety in anonymity.

I rub my tired eyes, giving a longing look at the hotel bed, and sigh. I know the trick of travel. I'll go to bed at the same time as I usually do, nose in a book.

Tomorrow, I should wake up refreshed. Right now, I'm still riding on the adrenaline of arriving.

Oslofjord Bay looks like a wet finger of a channel between other hotels. Roffe has spared no expense for my room. I drop the heavy drape to cover the window, closing out the view of the harbor beyond.

I feel quiet inside my mind. Though Oslo is a bustling city of a million and a half people, it is home to me. Where things were happy once. Normal.

I allow myself to relax in increments. I use breathing exercises until I am regulated and calm.

Smoothing my hands down my dark skinny jeans, I leave my room and slide the keycard into my back pocket. I have the company's American Express card in my front pocket. I leave my handbag behind in the safe in my room.

I walk to the elevator and press the down button. I snatch my smartphone out of my other pocket then scroll through the updates. It flashes, saying it’s syncing to the international cell cooperative.

Great.

The elevator doors swish open, and I move inside. I hit the button for the lobby. The elevator shifts gently then moves downward. Leaning against the back of the elevator, I close my eyes, listening to the dings as I descend. The elevator rocks slightly as it slows. A final ding announces a stop.

My eyes pop open. Floor thirteen.

I frown. It's bad luck to have a thirteenth floor.

Nobody steps inside.

Weird.

I wait a few seconds then shrug, hitting the button again. The doors remain open like a wide, unblinking eye. I hit the Lukk døren button in red. Close door.

Nothing happens.

My brows cinch. I shove my cell into my pocket. A flutter of anxiety swoops inside me like a freed butterfly. Don't panic, Greta.

My heart rate begins to speed.

I panic and hit the button about a hundred and one times. Nothing.

My heart begins to hammer harder. The hell with this. I peek my head outside the open elevator doors. A normal hallway greets me. It could be a corridor in any hotel. Plush carpet in deep plum rolls out to several doors with numbers hanging on each.

I whip out my cell.

No service.

Because I'm in a damn elevator. Shit. I slide my phone back into my pocket and exit the elevator.

The doors close in a whisper behind me.

I whirl, slapping my hands against my chest then quickly checking that my phone is inside my pocket. The outline of it's there. My hand drops. I cautiously look around. I should hear a maid, people—something. It's so quiet, I hear only the thundering of my heart and the whoosh of blood.

My palms slick.

I need to get the hell out of here. My eyes flick in the direction of the keypad full of buttons by the closed elevator.

There isn't one.

*

Of course it hurts like hell when my hand hits the smooth brushed stainless of the elevator doors.

Like all inanimate objects, they're not hurt or moved by my bludgeoning. The steel is uncaring of my bruised palm. I back away, looking left, then right. I move to each door.

They all have the same number.

1

I hiccup back a sob and cover my mouth with one hand as I jerk the handle on the first door. Locked.

I feel as though I've been dumped in a funhouse. I try every door, and each one is locked.

I stand in the middle of the hallway in a strange hotel with an elevator without buttons and fight tears of rage, panic and fear.

Then it hits me: The fantasy.

This has got to be a Club Alpha thing.

I frown, my pulse beginning to slow as I puzzle it through.

But to what end?

I walk the length of the dim corridor. At the opposite end, in small, brightly lit letters, a sign proclaims in Norwegian: Emergency stairs.

Duh. A shaky laugh escapes me as I think how completely stupid I've been. I allowed myself to get wound up immediately instead of just being logical and going through the steps one at a time.

I tear open the door with such force, it slams into the wall, notching deeply and sticking in the drywall like a skewer.

“Pfft!” I mutter, leaving the thing.

I descend the stairway, confidence and relief flooding through me with each downward tread.

A dozen steps from me, three men are loitering on the landing. They're smoking clove cigarettes; the scent wafts to me, smelling of spice and death.

I swallow hard.

My perfect calm becomes a storm of doubt.

CHAPTER FIVE

Paco

I wince as I seat myself in the generous chair of my jet. It's always on standby and has a crew of five.

I feel as though I've just survived a severe beating.

Tallinn, seated across from me, grins at my discomfort. Leaning forward, quick as a snake, and executes a pincer grip on my quad. My thigh shrieks for mercy underneath his knowing touch.

I chop his wrist with the side of my stiff fingers, and he bellows,

“Damn, man!”

He scowls, and I smile through my pain.

“You deserve that and more, you masochist.”

We glare at each other. “You know—I'd kick your haughty ass if I thought I could take you.” Tallinn's dark eyebrows rise in mock challenge.

“That is the operative word—think.”

Tallinn extends his middle finger in a salute and one of the stewardesses gasps at his crudeness.

Tallinn gives her an appreciative head-to-toe appraisal, and I shake my head. “What is a gorgeous girl like that doing working as a flight attendant for you?”

“I enjoy beauty.”

Tallinn rolls his eyes. “Oh boy, must be nice.”

“It is.” I hold up my highball for another round.

Tallinn eyes my tall glass. “You should be a heifer with how much booze you put away, Paco.”

Vaco. Cow. Ah. “And you should be jailed for how hard you worked me.”

“Sissy,” he comments, smirking. Tallinn leans back and grips the seat's arm rests. Looking around the large cabin, he says, “The lactic acid should break down, and you'll be feeling better in about twenty-four hours, ya infant.”

“I am not complaining. I just assumed…”

“That you were in such great shape from your kung fu, you'd kick ass in weight lifting.”

I think of all things I could share—and decide against it. “Precisely.”

Tallinn chuckles, scrubbing a large hand over his face.  He leans forward, hands dangling between his knees. “Tell me, Paco—would you want me to go easy on you?”

I give him a level look. “No.”

He mock shoots me. “Bingo, you're not the type, pal.”

I raise an eyebrow.

He explains. “There's two types of dudes. There's the dudes that want to look good—threatening, nail the chicks, those ones.” His discerning eyes meet mine. “Then there's the guys that want to be good because it feeds them, dig?”

“I do dig,” I say.

Tallinn grabs his ribs, howling with laughter.

I cross my legs, grimacing again. “What?”

“I get my rocks off whenever you try to sound relevant.”

“I am relevant.”

“Ah-huh.”

I drum my fingertips on my thigh and he watches. “You nervous?” Tallinn asks.

I nod.

Tiffany returns with my highball glass. I stock cheap whiskey on the flight. For reasons unknown, Chivas Regal never gives me the aftereffects of some of the better whiskeys.

I swirl the amber liquid inside the thick crystal. The spherical ice cube tumbles inside, making a pleasant musical sound as it spins.

“I do not like to fly.”

Tallinn grins knowingly. “No shit?”

I scowl. “There is nothing remotely interesting in leaving perfectly good ground.”

“Yet, you'll sign up for an unpredictable fantasy thing—where your ass can be in constant danger?”

Said like that, the idea makes little sense. I can't support the logic, so I simply nod.

Tallinn shakes his head.

“We going to your place in Maz?”

I nod. I love this home the best of all of my residences, probably because of the memories. They say scent is the strongest memory trigger, and for me, the smells of el centro never change. Shrimp, beer, beach, and exhaust collide with warmth, sea air, and good food.

My house is a tangerine oasis on a cliff overlooking Olas Altas Beach, where cliff divers dot the view. This area of Mazatlán feels very Mediterranean.

“Paco?”

I look up. “I apologize. I was lost in my thoughts.”

“We staying at the orange?”

I smile. “Yes, though mi casa is really tangerine.”

Tallinn shrugs. “It's a big place. Looks like a huge fruit balanced on a cliff.”

I think of it from his perspective. Perhaps.

“Work out tomorrow?”

I nod. “Yes, you are my personal trainer.” My lips quirk.

“Listen, Paco—no offense, but the minute I'm done torturing your ass, I'm going out to find where all the tequila is, hombre.”

“I don't think that's ever an issue. I have a fully stocked bar…”

He waves a hand of dismissal. “And a bartender, and, and… whatever. No.” His eyes meet mine. “I think I want a drink and to enjoy the night life.” His eyes become hooded.

“Women?” I ask without really needing an answer.

His palms spread from his sides. “Ah—yeah.”

I look at him critically. As a man of color, Tallinn is exotic enough to be attractive to the local population because he is American, though Mexicans generally prefer lighter-skinned peoples. Mazatlán was settled in antiquity by Spaniards and the French.

I am both.

Though Americans are considered aggressive and the locals treat their presence with a sort of wary caution, the south also harbors a latent fascination with the culture of our northern neighbors.

“You won't find as much of that in old town. You will need to visit the Zona Dorado.”

“Golden Zone? Yeah, I know.” He studies my expression just as some turbulence kicks up, bouncing us in our seats. “Woot!” Tallinn trumpets as his rear leaves the seat.

My eyes flick to the door that my pilot is seated behind. I frown, my hands clenching my glass.

“I would ask that you take care in that area.”

“Narco bullshit?”

I have not enlightened my personal trainer, bodyguard, and friend as to why we’re taking this spontaneous trip. Tallinn is accustomed to my last-minute notice of only hours.

I lean back, forcing myself to relax, and lift my empty glass. “Always.”

Tiffany the flight attendant comes and takes the glass before moving to the other end of the cabin. I briefly admire her blond hair and svelte figure. A man always wishes for what he does not have. Fair women have always held appeal for me.

Yet, I am more unusual in my coloring than many of my family. It is the Basque ancestry, renown for fair skin and light eyes. Though only the green of my eyes and my height speaks to it.

The pilot's voice comes over the intercom as smooth as glass. “Prepare for landing, Mr. Castillo.”

“What about me?”

I laugh. “I think he assumes you'll follow suit.”

Tallinn grunts, and I close my eyes in relief. Being on the earth is so much better than being above it.

*

“Buenas Tardes, Alfredo.” I press one cheek then the other against my long-time driver's face.

He is stooped, and many years of life are etched into a face that smiles often.

We grin at each other. “Francisco!” he calls out loudly in pleasure, gripping my forearms. He looks me over. When his eyes finally meet mine, he tsks. “Raquel will be stricken when she sees how thin you are, muy flaco, mi amigo.”

“No—Alfredo, gordo!” Tallinn laughs, and Alfredo just shakes his head.

“Usted es el gordo,” Alfredo says, eyes sparkling as he indicates Tallinn's stocky frame.

I cock an eyebrow. “He's saying you're fat, Tallinn.”

Tallinn grunts. “I am not. You're the one…” He glances at himself. He certainly has more than six percent body fat, yet—as he would say—he is built like a brick shithouse.

I smirk at my thoughts.

Tallinn relents, doing a knuckle bump with Alfredo. “Como estas?”

“Muy bien!” Alfredo answers, and Tallinn gives him a hug that makes his eyes bug. I let them have their moment, which is nearly a tradition. Then Alfredo moves to open my door, and I slide inside the cool interior of the limousine.

A bucket holds chilling sparkling cider, and I silently thank Raquel for remembering how defeated I feel after a flight.

I uncork the top and take a sip.

Tallinn takes the bottle and pours his own glass. He eyes the floating bubbles before tipping his head back for a gulp.“Ah!” He smacks his lips. “Hits the bull's-eye!”

We sip the cider while riding in companionable silence.

“Why Club Alpha?” Tallinn asks.

“I think we've beaten this horse to death.”

“You could have anyone, Paco. I'm just not getting it.” He groans, apparently thinking about the invisible potential bounty of women I am missing.

I shake my head. “I don't want anyone. I want that woman who was made for me, who does not feel she can take another breath without me in it.”

Tallinn blinks. “Okay, whatever. You're waxing poetic.”

The one proclivity where Zaire and I see eye to eye, I remember. “I know.” He scowls and I hold up a palm. “We will have to agree to disagree. I want to exhaust the impossible.”

Tallinn exhales in a rush. “If you think it's an impossibility, bro, why do it?”

I watch the scenery rush past as the ghetto makes way for the city. Honking and loco driving ensues.

Home.

I shrug in answer and drain the last of the bubbling cider, holding the long-stemmed glass loosely. “I must know. I must know that this is all there is for me in this life.”

“It's plenty, Paco. You have all the money, everything at your disposal. You're a coffee freak.”

“Aficionado, Tallinn.”

“Sure.” He slaps his palms on his thighs then points his finger at me. “It sounds cool when you say it.”

I glance at him. “I have some meetings to put behind me, and then we can have a day or two of fun.”

Narco business.

“Define ʻfun,ʼ” he says skeptically.

“Parasailing, perhaps?”

“Skydiving?” Tallinn goads.

“Absolutely not.”

We grin.

He leans back in his seat, scrutinizing me. “I won't break up with you for your wimp ways, Paco.”

I bark out a laugh. “I am so relieved.”

We fill our glasses to the rim and clink them together.

“To enterprise,” I say.

“To everlasting love.” Tallinn’s eyes are filled with humor at my expense.

Our stares lock over the rims of our glasses as we regard each other. We have different motivations, but friendship binds us.

I cannot help wondering where she is, and if she's thinking the same thoughts I am.

The sparkling Sea of Cortez winks at me as we wind up the hill to la casa.

I wish to share this view, and this life, with someone.

CHAPTER SIX

Greta

“Que Guapa, senorita.”

Spanish.

Get a grip, Greta.

Mid-twenties males, three—I assess them as a threat, as I do all men.

Their dark eyes travel my form but not with negative intent.

What did Zaire say? Oh yes, I'm a level-two risk. Zaire said he's never given a female a five, the highest number for physical self-defense, conditioning, and prowess.

Apparently, my “condition” is okay. Like a can of vegetables on a shelf, I'm not quite expired.

My physical self-defense is not too great. I can't work knives or weaponry, but I know how to use my body. I've overcome paralyzing fears.

I no longer stop in front of zip ties in the hardware store in a state of mind-numbing panic and despair.

My gaze creeps to them as I walk by. I don't repress the shudder. I can't.

My thoughts take seconds.

I leave my crisp American accent behind and use the fluidity I was trained for. “Gracias,” I reply quietly then take one brave step down.

The one who called me pretty lifts his lips in a small smile of surprise, and the cloying smoke becomes a veil in front of his face.

I'm ten feet away, and I want to wave my hand to displace the opaque shroud so I can see his expression better in the pool of shadows he stands in—and gauge his intent.

But I don't want to move nearer.

Exert confidence.

“El ascensor no funciona.” I say. The elevator's not working.

“Si?” he says. he says. “I speak English.”

“Excellent,” I reply, when nothing is remotely good at the moment.

“Do you work here?”

He shakes his head.

God, like finding hen's teeth.

“All right, well, I'm using the stairs because the elevator…” I wave a hand vaguely behind me.

“No trabaja.”

Right. We look at each other.

“Si,” I say.

Yeah, the elevator's not working. We got that now.

I take the steps. Six more in my descent puts me at eye level with him. The man flicks the cigarette on the ground and crushes it into a smear of charred tobacco on the stairwell. I look at each face before me.

I swallow hard. “Adios,” I say, turning the corner and moving two steps down. Then four.

The sixth feels like a small victory.

His words reach me at the tenth. “Nos vemos pronto.”

I don't turn around, he and his band of semi-thugs won't be seeing me soon, because there won't be any repeats of that little thirteenth-floor bullshit.

I burst out onto the twelfth floor, look at the elevator, and move back inside the stairwell.

I'll take the eleven flights for now by foot.

Flicking my eyes to the men who were just there, I see they're gone.

Instead of being relieved, my unease grows.

*

I flop down on my bed, flinging bags of purchases on the adjacent bed.

I braved the elevator after a lengthy pissing match with the concierge.

Was my service inhospitable?

No, I'd responded.

But I was dumped on the thirteenth floor and had to use the stairwell, where I was greeted by the Spanish mob.

That retelling was not entirely accurate, but it felt like it.

I stayed calm until he assured me there was no access to the thirteenth floor. I'd kept to English until that moment.

Then I'd switched to Norwegian, and the exchange got colorful.

He called his manager, who assured me the stairway was for emergencies only and was open exclusively to employees, not guests.

They'd given me the stink eye since.

The assumptions were rampant. Why was I lying about the thirteenth floor? Why was I traipsing around the stairway all those floors above and ranting about men in said stairwell?

They definitely didn't take me seriously.

I stab Gia's avatar on my smartphone, briefly contemplating the hour. At nine in the evening here, it’s six in the morning in Seattle.

I grimace, thinking about a raw Morning Gia. It rings once. I'm committed now—can't go back.

“Hello?” Her greeting is muffled.

“Gia, it's Greta.”

I hear a rustle. The phone drops with a clatter and I pull it away from my ear.

I hear her moving it, probably swooping to pick it up.

“Greta?” Her voice is sharper now.

I close my eyes in relief just from hearing her say my name. How many times has Gia been my touchstone? The only thing to hold onto when I was drowning?

Too many.

“I just wanted to phone and…”

“What's happened?”

I pause, wondering if I should bitch about something that ended in a closely skirted hotel brawl.

I laugh.

She does, too. “Listen, you're calling me in the middle of the night, so it better be good.”

I check the clock on the nightstand. “Ah, no. It's six there.”

“All right, can't fool you. What's up, buttercup?”

“I had a thing.”

“Ah, yes, that delves into it so thoroughly. What on God's green earth is a ʻthingʼ?”

I explain everything.

She's quiet for so long that I open my mouth to say more.

“Doesn't sound like Club Alpha,” she says in a careful voice.

“That's what I thought. I mean, it's for a potential romantic entanglement, right?”

Silence.

“Right, Gia?”

“Kind of. Actually, Club Alpha is a method of exhausting the character of a person, showing their underbelly, if you will.”

A handful of seconds roll by. “I know it's supposed to be intense. There's a lot of hoops to jump through.”

“It's more than match-making. It's an irrevocable machine of non-compromise. It's meant to pair you with your best match while making sure the ineffability of life is ferreted out before a long-term commitment is engineered between the two.”

“And I know two languages?” I make a sound in the back of my throat. “I think—yeah—English please. You make my brain hurt.”

“You're a player in Club Alpha in part to face your fears, grow stronger, and find Mr. Right. It's simple.”

“Yet, not,” I say with a laugh, realizing she can't see my rueful grin.

“I'd love to refute that, but if you wanted a hole in one, eHarmony works. I guess they have the best outcome of all.”

“Then why am I doing Club Alpha?” I put my hand on my stomach, feeling my pulse beating strong and sure.

“First: I trust Zaire. Second: you don't care about money. What I mean is, you do, like most people. But it's not what propels you through this life. The male players of Club Alpha, without fail, do not want a woman driven by the dollar.”

I sigh.

“I heard that.”

“I know, I'm just—I didn't like what happened today in the stairway.”

“I told Zaire no triggers. Was it, Greta? Was it a trigger?”

I think about it. It was frightening, but no, it wasn't a trigger.

“Your attackers were white males of a certain order. Tall, large men.”

“They were still guys,” I argue. But it wasn’t the same. Men of color are never a trigger. However, my distrust for males overall is a simmering pot that never comes to a boil.

Now, if it had been a group of white men on that same stairwell…

“Not the right type.” Gia says, her words echoing my thoughts. “And if this is indeed a CA ruse, it stays within the rules Zaire accepted for you.”

I'm quiet for a moment, suddenly wishing the distance across the pond wasn't between us.

“But it's not without challenge. It's part of your therapy.”

“But why mine? I mean, I can't ever repay you for what you've done. All that you've given me.”

“Because, Greta, you were meant for great things. And a group of men and their viciousness will not rob you of your destiny. Your fate will include love and hope.”

“I don't think I can.” I roll my lip into my teeth, chewing on it lightly.

“Yes you can, Greta. Do you trust me?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes.”

“Then let whatever will happen, happen.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Good. And? By the way, good job for taking the bull by the horns with hotel management. You would have never done that even a year ago.”

She's right.

“I was a bitch, and klutzy with my delivery.”

“I doubt you were a bitch. Sometimes assertive females are labeled bitch—by men. Other women think of them as ʻopinionated.ʼ”

I laugh. Gia's transparency is something I adore.

“Don't let a man's discomfort with your thoughts diminish you.”

“No.”

“Go get ’em, tiger.”

I grin, feeling lighter.

“Thanks, Gia.”

“Now hang up on me so I can get back to my life of leisure.”

I swipe at my eyes.

“ ʼKay, bye.”

“Goodbye, Greta.”

I pass my thumb over the smiling Gia, with her coal-black eyes and swarm of big hair fro-ing out behind her.

I want to be her, where ambivalence has no home. Decisiveness and determination are the only things that share the space of her mind.

Nodding, I release my beat-up lip with a small smile.

I'm working on me.

I fall asleep with my clothes on, and without a nightmare in sight.

*

“Hallo, Ms. Dahlem.”

Mr. Aros bends low over my hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss it. I leave it loose as countless etiquette courses have taught me. Dead weight of the hand when being kissed. Check.

If I help him lift, I'll smack him in the face.

That won't get me any points in a clothing line deal.

Today, I’m wearing my charcoal pantsuit. The dark gray is elegant, keeping it out of dowdy territory. I pair it with a sherbet-orange silk blouse shell of the palest variety, the color appears to shimmer like the ice cream. Buff pumps peek out from the long inseam of the pants, which are a blend that promises to never wrinkle.

I have done my research, and Aros is a typical tall Scandinavian, though he's really a Dane. Red hair and a six-feet-seven-inch frame towers over me even with the heels that make me five inches taller.

“It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I say in perfect Norwegian.

Though I speak two languages, I have some degree of fluency in Danish, Swedish and can stumble through Spanish and French.

“For mig så godt,” he replies in Danish. Nice to meet you as well.

I smile.

He grins back. Perfect white teeth stand out from a complexion that is uniquely olive.

“Now that we've done the dance of tongues and I know you can speak in my native language as well as the one of this country… please, be seated,” he says in lightly accented English.

Aros indicates a chair opposite his desk.

He moves aside without waiting to see what I do, but merely assuming I'll sit.

I do.

“Please call me by my given name, Tor. Mr. Aros is simply too formal.” He straightens cuffs on a custom-tailored suit in pristine navy with subtle ivory pinstripes.

“I admire your sense of color, Ms. Dahlem.”

I'm immediately self-conscious and ignore the compliment. “I'm sorry,” I say, flustered, “you may call me Greta.”

He smiles, and it makes my belly do a little flop. “What a charming name.”

Charming.

I loved my parents with a fierceness that doesn't fade with time. So all I can do is agree.

I glance down at my ensemble and give a secret smile at his words.

“Greta,” he says softly.

I wonder when I lost control of the meeting, allowing it to get personal so quickly. It's like a landslide.

“Never be sorry,” he says. His intense chocolate eyes control mine, commanding me not to look away again.

Instead of answering sensibly, I say the first thing that pops into my head.

“Okay.”

His eyes don't drop, and neither do mine.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Paco

Sweat rolls down my body as my legs pound the wide cement swaths lining the malecón. The longest sidewalk in the world, it is twenty-one kilometers of seaside walkway flowing with pedestrian traffic by day and night.

I'll do just over a half-marathon's worth of running today. Even keeping my pace to sub-seven-minute miles, it's still brutal. I've become accustomed to the temperate Seattle weather after traveling back and forth to meet with the clients I hope to woo. There, early October is pleasantly cool as Indian summer gently kisses the hottest part of the year goodbye.

In severe contrast, early October in Mazatlán clings to heat and humidity as though its life depends on it.

The weather is a great training opportunity.

I smirk, throwing a glance behind me at Tallinn, who raggedly follows me. He extends his middle finger then quickly hides it behind him as two lovely senoritas sway by.

“You're killing me, Paco!” he shouts after they pass.

I pick up speed, breathing deeply through my nose and out my mouth. I make my way past the Fisherman's Monument in Playa Norte, where Tallinn catches up.

“You,” he gasps, “are the biggest dick.”

“Have,” I correct dryly.

“Whatever!” He huffs beside me. His midnight skin glows with sweat, which runs like ink. “You probably have a pencil dick—just sayinʼ.”

My eyebrow pops. I toss a disbelieving look his way and sprint up the gradual hill that winds around the huge cliff where Diablo's cave resides right across the busy street running parallel to the malecón.

Jogging to a stop, I shield my eyes from the mid-day sun.

A diver stands poised, perfectly balanced to drop the fifty feet to the shallow, glittering waters below.

This is the same view from my home. But it is more spectacular up close and personal.

I pace back and forth, waiting for the diver to jump.

Like a bronzed swan in flight, the man leaps from a board, plunging himself into waters too shallow for the maneuver.

“What the fuck?” Tallinn says in a hoarse whisper, rushing to wash his rapid plunge from the seaside railing.

They are experts, these fearless locals. My chest swells with pride for my fellow Mexican.

Vivir al día.

I don't realize I say it aloud until Tallinn says, “Huh?”

“Live for today,” I say like a prayer.

“Yeah… too cool.”

I smile, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Listen,” Tallinn begins, catching his breath as we cross the street and head up the steep hill toward the house. “I managed to stay on your butt through sheer willpower. But you need to beef up. No more extreme cardio. Lift the metal, pal.”

I sigh as I trudge up the ancient cobblestones.

“Yes, I accept.”

He frowns.

We're almost to the top of a great circular drive. An island surrounded by hand-cut antique-marble pavers encloses a small grove of palm trees.

“Accept what?” He shakes his head, still breathing hard. “Stop with the Bozo the Clown bullshit. The foreplay's killing me, Paco.”

“I accept the challenge to ʻbeef up.ʼ”

Tallinn’s critical eyes rove my body with the gaze of a maestro. We both know I cannot be taught. “Look, you're cut. You're like a pack of unused razor blades. Hard. Lean. So fit I could play a tune on those abs. But…” He grins. “There's some unrealized potential here”—he slaps my open palm—“and here.” His hands grip my shoulders.

“You're as broad as a house with bear paws for hands. Let's get the rest of your body matching your size.”

“Fine,” I wave a hand at him, smelling the homemade tortillas being lovingly made inside.

His nostrils flare at the same time. “I smell something that's awakening the beast!”

I grin at the proof of Tallinn's fine appetite.

We stroll into the house, and three men in suits rise from their seats in the grand foyer.

Narcos.

My maid, Amelia, speaks in rushed Spanish, explaining who they are.

I already know.

Tallinn's gaze flicks in my direction. Some males see potential for violence right away. Tallinn is one of those.

I did not hire him for just his personal training skills. His knowledge of weaponry and skill in using said weapons is renown. He's also instinctual—an excellent trait in a guard.

He steps away, giving us both room to maneuver.

The narcos have arrived at my doorstep a day earlier than we agreed. They’re in my home, where I eat, sleep, and relax.

I do not abide such things.

My thoughts flow through my mind in seconds. I know with grim certainty that my expression shows nothing.

“We have come to collect, Francisco.”

Manuel Rodriguez stands in the center of the knot of men. They carry concealed weapons.

I know this because Tallinn has taught me to spot uneven weight distribution and suits pulled taut where they should otherwise hang straight.

The gait of a man who has a knife strapped to his calf is unequal.

I count the weapons, stepping closer. The sweat from my run chilling against my body. “I am aware.” My eyes search his face. All the while, I wonder what I've done to garner this surprise visit. It can't be good. “I have never been late in a payment of any kind in the time we have been acquainted,” I say in crisp Spanish, without bothering to rein in my irritation.

Tallinn's mouth forms a thin line. My speech is probably too fast for the Rosetta Stone program I make him use to learn my native tongue. Like a bird of prey, he scans their body language. He is quick to act and slow to think. He is the kind of man I'm happy to have on my side.

Manuel takes in my sweat-soaked clothing as well as my hair tied in a tail at my nape.

“Ejercicio, Francisco?”

“Si,” I reply, though I find the question to be a dumb one. Of course I was exercising. The question is a diversion.

Tallinn's eyes slim to slits.

“You are early for our meeting,” I say, switching gears to topics other than small talk.

“Things have changed.”

My guts cinch like a perfectly tied bow.

I reveal nothing of my feelings. I plant my feet apart, folding my arms against my drenched shirt. The sea breeze flows from the outside, swirling around us with cool insistence.

“We have reports of a cousin of yours....”

Ramiro.

Ice sheets inside me—he is like a brother to me.

“We need to see to her until you make full payment.”

The effort necessary to keep from launching myself at him is ugly.

Tallinn makes a small move forward, and one of the narcos shoves hands in his pockets, flashing his piece tucked neatly inside a holster.

Manuel holds up a hand inoffensively. “Come no closer.”

I still, only now realizing I’d moved forward.

“I am aware you are a lethal weapon in your own right, Francisco. We do not want you within arm's reach.”

“Why have you taken, Ramiro?”

A smile spreads like oil across his face. “I did not say it was Ramiro.”

We need to see to her until you make full payment. My brain suffers the vertigo of my uncertainty. Who?

Better question: why? “Who?” I bark out like a dog backed into a corner.

“She, Francisco. She is a distant cousin and is being watched by my people there.”

I go blank, utterly and completely blank.

“Where?” I ask.

He smiles a second time, and I want to end him. My eyes go to the vulnerable spot at his throat. One strike, and he would fall. My palms sweat with want; my fingertips dig into my forearms under the pressure of my restraint.

I've always paid. Culturally, that is how it is done. It is part of life in Mexico. I think it's enough to know that my family is safe.

I am obviously wrong.

“We have not taken action, of course. And we might not have to—if you pay us the amount we require.”

I realize I've always loathed what the narco represents in the deepest part of my psyche. They go against everything I am.

Yet, the police are corrupt and my family is vulnerable, recourse is nonexistent. There isn't a wealthy person in Mazatlán who does not pay to keep his or her family from harm's way.

Instead of delivering the beat-down I envision, I take a stab at logic. “There is no reason for this. Whoever she is, I have done nothing wrong. I pay on time—every time. These threats are unjustified.” I look from one to the other of them, but my gaze moves back to Manuel. “I do not have a female cousin.”

His polite smile becomes a grin. I can almost see the feather sticking between his lips after his meal of the canary.

Prick.

“She is currently in Norway, friend.”

I can't conceal my shock. My chin juts back as my arms drop. It is the most unexpected of answers.

“What? Are you loco? I have no cousins in Europe.”

Tallinn is silent, watching the ping-pong match of our faces, dialogue aside. He is watching hands, expressions and the subtle tells of our bodies.

Manuel goes for the pocket of his suit and I move in.

A gun finds its way into my face.

“Relax, friend. I but retrieve a photo of your lovely relative.”

The circle of the barrel greets my forehead. I swallow the bitter pill of my fear.

Ruthlessly regulating my breathing, I settle my heartbeats.

I will live another day. My belief is absolute—like everything else about me.

The narco surprised me. A feat of epic proportions.

I thought to pay the cool five million tomorrow. I have the currency in a safe secured into the very foundation of my home.

This?

This is unexpected—and unwelcome.

“Put the gun away, Emilio.”

Emilio twists his lips in the parody of a grin. He holsters his weapon, and my shoulders relax.

Manuel flicks the photo at me. The corner catches me on the chest then floats to the floor.

I stoop to pick it up, my eyes on my enemies.

I gaze down at the image. The subject of the photo is obviously unaware that her picture is being taken.

Blond hair like whitish silk is caught mid-breeze and rosy color blooms on skin a shade of vibrant pale cream.

Yet, it is her eyes that hold me prisoner.

They are depthless seas. The ocean of her soul is not stormy.

It is full of life. Cornflower blue is captured for all time in the still shot. A graceful, long arm is frozen forever, attempting to brush a strand of hair away. Her long neck is fragile like a stem supporting the delicate flower of her face.

I swiftly study her face again. A vague memory floats to the surface of my mind, and I attempt to latch on.

My breath catches. The bar. My angel.

I swiftly kick that possibility aside. I remember one moment of suspended time when I met her face with my gaze. It cannot be her, yet the memory of those brief seconds haunt me. The coincidence would be too serendipitous to entertain.

My gaze seeks Manuel again and I slowly, reluctantly hand the photo back to him.

His fingertips pluck it out of my hand, and as I itch to have the photo back, my extremities tingle.

“She cannot be a relative,” I say simply.

Though her loveliness is something I've never encountered in my thirty years on this earth, she is not blood of my blood.

“We say that she is.”

He lies. I shift my weight, my confusion deepening.

“You are Spanish and French, eh?” Manuel asks as though explaining.

I nod absently. I'm not sure what my ancient lineage has to do with anything. Many people of Mazatlán can trace themselves back to those European areas. There is even Chinese blood here.

Though I can't think of why this obscure woman has been picked as my relative. I hate that she reminds me of the woman from the hotel. The coincidence commits me in ways I don't relish, in ways I'm helpless to deny.

“And the price of this year's protection has increased with inflation.”

I stare at him, my rage boiling. I know I'll explode.

“Thirty million, Francisco.”

My heartbeat grinds to a halt. “You are joking.” My eyes bounce between the three of them.

“What's going on, Paco?” Tallinn tenses. He understands just enough to know things have gone from bad to worse.

I need to negate violence at all costs. No matter our skill, we remain weaponless. That basic fact can't be ignored. The police are corrupt. There's no accountability.

“He's raised the amount I owe six times more than that of the year before,” I say in English. “And”—I give him my eyes for a brief second before shifting them back to Manuel—“he will torture and kill my cousin if I do not comply.”

I don't need the consequence spelled out for me. That is how the narco operates.

“She,” Tallinn says loudly, pointing at the photo Manuel holds, “is not your cousin, dude.”

“I know,” I say. It's laughable.

No one is laughing, though.

“Then who the hell is she?”

My skin pebbles with realization. Club Alpha. Is it possible to feel one's blood grow cold in their veins?

I think so.

“She might be my wife.”

“Are you crazy? Man, you don't have a wife.”

We look at each other.

The wife of my future.

I see when Tallinn hits on the same puzzle I solved. His arm flies to his chest. “Oh man, no way.”

I nod. My words are for Tallinn, but my eyes never leave Manuel.

“Yes way.”

Manuel just keeps smiling insufferably. “We can come to terms then?”

“She is not my relative!” I yell, finally losing my temper. The two other narcos drop their arms from their knotted hold and let them hang loosely at their sides.

“Then you will not mind her slow torture and execution. Your indifference will be absolute at her deliberate rape.”

I flinch. The thought of my angel being degraded is more than I can stand.

His fingertip trails seductively over the photo of her. My stomach churns in a slick roil of heat. “What do you want?”

Manuel is back to grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Why… the money of course.”

My heartbeat returns to normal.

I can do money. I have more than I could ever spend in ten lifetimes.

“Fine.”

Manuel leans toward me. I can smell bad breath cloaked by mints.

“There is one other thing. You must kill her. You, no one else.”

Every instinct of protection that has lain dormant inside me rises like sweat out of my pores.

I cannot kill her. I know this as surely as I stand there taking my next breath.

And why would I have to murder anyone?

Especially if my speculations hold true—if this is a Club Alpha artifice—why would I kill the woman possibly meant for me?

It makes no sense.

“You have seventy-two hours. I expect the money to be wired directly into my account, as always. Here is the number of a doctor who will validate the end of her life.”

He passes the number to me and when I don't take it, Tallinn does.

“I can't kill her,” I say.

“That is no problem. We will be happy to end her life, friend. Slowly.”

I peg my hips with my hands, pacing away. I need time to think this through, and time is not my friend. I hit on a plan and whirl back around.

“I'll do it,” I say.

“Excellent,” Manuel answers as though he knew what my reply would be.

He could not have. I am not transparent.

Manuel nods at his lackeys. They pivot on their heels, and start to leave the house.

I call out, “Manuel!”

He turns.

“I am not your friend.”

He chuckles darkly.

I watch him walk out of the front door and into the street where a black SUV waits to rush him to his next appointment of extortion.

I glance at my wristwatch.

Seventy-one hours, fifty-eight minutes and ten seconds.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Greta

“I'm trying really hard not to get excited here!” I squeal into the phone.

Gia sighs. “It's not like I'm Miss Maturity or something but let me insert myself here as the voice of reason.”

I groan, slapping my forehead. Reason makes me tired. Exhausted.

I'm lying on the hotel bed, thrilled to my toes to have a date with Mr. Yummy Dane tonight.

It's all business.

I'm so excited I can hardly stand myself.

“It's got to be Club Alpha, Gia. I swear, it's like this guy is made to order, Greta style.”

“Tell me more about him before you get your thong in a twist.”

“I don't wear a thong,” I say with a small euphoric giggle.

“Right, it's an expression, my giddy friend.”

“Well, I can wear heels, and he's still taller.”

“Okay, you have me there. You're an Amazon.”

“I'm actually Norwegian,” I huff.

I cross my legs at the knee and jiggle my foot, anxious to pick out a hot outfit.

“We've established this. Go on.”

“He's interesting to look at.”

“Uh-huh. Does that mean hot? Or, he has a good personality and abs—but he's a double bagger?”

“Gia!” I slap my bare feet on the bed.

“No! He's… I don't know, exotic, foreign…”

“A client,” she reminds me in a droll voice.

I smooth strands of hair out of my face. “Yes. There is that.”

“Listen, Greta. I thought you put Mr. Right as dark, non-Caucasian.”

A beat of silence thrums between us.

I twist the hem of my shirt. Memories flood my mind: being tied off to bedposts, the mattress a hard misery beneath me.

“Yes,” I reply in an agonized whisper.

Gia deciphers the one tightly squeezed syllable from halfway across the world.

“Don't you go there, Greta. Don't you dare. Breathe. Now.”

I suck in a lungful of air and release a breath that tastes stale and stifling.

I clench my eyes. “Gia,” I whisper.

“I am here. Listen to my voice, Greta.”

Hands.

Everywhere.

Four heads rise above me. My legs are spread. Searing pain like a hot poker ignites from my groin to my belly button.

Variations of blue and green irises, hidden behind identical masks, smile maliciously down at me—as they pump their evilness inside my body.

“Come back, Greta. It is not happening right now. It's the past.”

I breathe in harsh pants, shoving their hands away, killing them, hurting them like they hurt me.

My eyes burst open, and I sit up, stiff like a plank, in the middle of the bed.

The hotel room's calming ultra-modern environment comes into focus like the lens of a camera. The drape is parted, and a slit of the water beyond shimmers in the late afternoon

My heartbeat begins to slow.

“Greta, are you here with me?”

I know that voice. It saved me.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Good.” Her tone is no-nonsense, but the concern is threaded through her one-word response. “It's dangerous for you to revisit what happened too often. It doesn't grow you.”

Like a plant.

I shiver a little, though the room is seventy-three degrees. “I know.

Maybe I can't go out with him.” I clench the rolled-down bed linen in a tight fist.

“You can—you will. I just… I caution you. It might be coincidence.” Gia laughs. “I mean, you're not such an ugly duck a man might not want to take you out.”

I smile a little.

“It's safe, Greta. He's a legitimate client. There's no reason you can't doll yourself up, and show him the newest swatches by candlelight and wine.”

No alcohol. Ever.

“Sorry, I mean sparkling cider,” Gia corrects herself quickly.

“I knew what you meant.”

Gia sighs. I hear so many nuanced things from that one snippet of sound.

“It'll be fine. You're only in Norway for a week. Then you return here. I'm sure the Club Alpha fantasy doesn't really heat up right away.”

“Zaire said it could be anytime within the ninety days.”

The silence, instead of words, fills the conversation.

“Knock his socks off, Greta. Have fun. Allow yourself to feel happiness again.”

I nod then realize she can't see it. “Okay, you're right.”

“Phone me tomorrow.”

“I will. Thank you, Gia.” Thanks for pulling me from Hell's gallows.

“You bet. Talk tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

I swipe her grinning face away.

Determined, I jump out of bed and walk briskly to the closet. Tearing open the doors, I scan the clothing.

My eyes land on a rich midnight-blue dress so dark it's nearly black, very simple. It's sleeveless. I hesitate, hand on the hanger. It won't cover the scars.

Finally, I jerk it off and lay the beautiful dress out on the bed. I walk away before I can turn chicken and decide against wearing it. I move to the shower and turn the water on as hot as I can stand it.

It won't wash the memories away. Nothing will.

But I'm determined they won't steal my freedom.

The happiness Gia promises is there for me if I trust again.

If.

*

A pearl gray limo prowls to a stop beside the high curb in front of my hotel.

A light shawl covers my shoulders. Like my shoes, it's nude. October in Norway feels like the promise of winter, and I'm instantly aware I'm not dressed warmly enough. The spiderweb of fabric gives the illusion of coverage but no real warmth. A huge coat would have marred the line of the dress, so I chose my shawl.

Beauty is pain. I smirk.

The hemline rides three inches above my knees and wraps at the high point of my hip. The subtle v-shape neckline is not exceedingly low, but it offers a glimpse of cleavage as I move.

I stride to the limo as the driver rounds the front and heads me off at the pass to open the door with a flourish.

“Thank you,” I greet him in Norwegian.

“You're welcome,” he returns like a perfect volley in English.

I forget how so many Europeans speak English. So much for practicing my Norwegian.

I give my best effort to hang on to modesty as I fold myself inside the plush interior.

Tor Aros waits inside.

Like a cat catching sight of a mouse, his energy seems stretched taut, reaching for me on invisible strings.

His eyes flare as they settle on my figure. Tor leaves nothing untouched or unseen.

“Hello,” he says in a rich baritone timbre, sliding forward and capturing my hand.

He kisses it as he did earlier today. This time, there is electricity like a painful spark.

His eyes meet mine over the bend of my hand.

Just as the exchange might become uncomfortable, he gently places my hand against my knee. “How are you this evening, Ms. Dahlem?”

My lips lift. “I am well, Mr. Aros,” I say, ducking my head slightly.

“Tor,” he says. A whisper of brows meet, then his face clears.

My smile widens. “Greta.”

“Touché,” he says.

I swing my slim briefcase around and begin to fiddle with latches.

“No, Greta. Let us wait on things of business until such time after we've dined.” His deep auburn brow rises in question.

“Sure,” I reply a little breathlessly.

He's so handsome, I feel like the oxygen is depleted in the back of the limo.

I try to not to stare—and lose that battle soundly.

Tonight the suit is soft black, so cool against his warm skin and hair. His brown eyes blaze into mine across the seat. It feels as though we're mere inches apart instead of almost four feet.

“Champagne?” He indicates the bucket behind him.

I shake my head. Just seeing the bottle makes my heartbeat skate erratically.

Alcohol equals waking up bound and afraid. It brings the night of my graduation from the U Dubb into glaring full-color recall.

“Greta?” he asks. Concern floods his eyes.

I've let too much show. I control my expression. “Nothing's wrong. I just… I'm not a big fan of alcohol.”

“Easily remedied.”

“No, I don't want to impose.” I hold up a palm, see the nearly invisible wrist scar, and drop my hand into my lap.

But Tor is already turning to a concealed compartment underneath the seat.

He pulls out another bottle, very similar to the champagne.

“Grape bubbly?” he asks with a smile.

I nod.

It beats my normal apple.

He refills the empty spot in the small ice box with the champagne and pops the cork on the grape juice.

He fill a tall glass with a fragile stem then pours one for himself.

“A toast,” Tor says.

My brows pull together. “To what?” I ask with a laugh.

“The future. Your Roffe fabric is all a formality.” He waves toward my briefcase in dismissal.

I lower the glass, and he shakes his head.

I lift it again, and he clinks our crystal together. It's made of fine flint that rings from the touch. When the sound grows silent, he says, “I knew I would use Roffe when I first researched the company. They're a good fit for my needs. Small enough for quality control and customer service of the caliber I wish. And they can provide the most updated line.”

He lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, underscoring his reasoning.

I take a small sip.

Our gazes lock over the rims of our glasses.

“Then why…?” I begin, letting the base of the glass rest on my knee as the limo rolls smoothly to a stop.

“You, Greta. I needed to meet you.”

I'm confused. Tor is way too forward to be merely a client. Yet, there is something magnetic about him. When he speaks to me, I feel as though I am the first person he's ever spoken to. I feel as though I will be the last, as well. The Alpha and Omega.

It is the strangest sensation, a kind of nameless charm. There is no antidote for it, no counter. As if he’s spun a spell, I am captured in the manic eye of his charisma.

I maintain marginal rationale. “Why did you need to meet me?” I ask in a mild voice, fighting the drug of his presence.

His fingers touch my knee lightly.

I should be on guard.

Tor Aros hits many of the triggers from the attack. He's tall, white, and good-looking.

Somehow, being with him doesn't make the alarm bells ring. He’s confident and seemingly innocuous.

Maybe he is a part of the fantasy of Club Alpha.

I can get well.

Even if nothing happens between him and me, maybe I can heal enough to be ready for anything else life throws at me.

I'm zoning, and he answers the question I forgot I posed.

“You called to me. From America. I knew we were kindred, meant to meet.”

“How? No, I'm sorry. That's too weird,” I say, coming to my senses. I don't believe in insta-anything. Especially now. Life has been an apt teacher.

He shakes his head, squeezing my hand, and brushes his fingers against my knuckles. “I knew your parents many years ago. Before… I am sorry. I know it is a delicate subject. I knew them before their deaths.”

My heart sputters to a faltering stop. “You did?” I fight not to move away and gather myself deeply inside again. I stay at the top of my consciousness. I don't hide from this new revelation—a possible new hurt.

“I promised your father I would look after you.”

I study him more closely. I realize he's older than I first assumed.

“And here you are, quite well. Though I must apologize.”

I gulp. “For—” I clear my throat. “For what?”

He looks down for a moment, spinning the stem of the empty glass. His face is serious as his gaze collides with mine. “Not being there to protect you two years ago.”

My fingertips go numb as my stomach hollows out. It's too much.

He knows.

I don't know how, but he does.

I snatch my hand away and cover my face with my hands.

Tears escape from between my fingers. Wet shame ruins my careful make-up job.

I don't resist when Tor pulls me into his lap, holding me while I sob.

He strokes my back, whispering soothing words in my mother tongue.

CHAPTER NINE

Paco

I sweep Amelia against me. “Do not cry, chica. They will not harm you.”

Water swarms her large brown eyes. Her mother cleaned and cooked in this house before her. Amelia is only a handful of years younger than I am. We practically grew up together.

The narco are sloppy.

The beautiful young woman they plan to coax me away from paradise for—she is unknown to me.

Amelia, and a handful of other relatives, I hold very dear. A little homework on their part would have revealed that basic fact.

So why am I traveling to the frozen north to murder someone I've never met?

Because I will save her, not end her.

The narco believes I am their puppet. How wrong they are.

I set Amelia away from me, handing her my silk handkerchief. “Keep it, as a token.”

Amelia sniffles, clutching the deep-emerald material. “It won't mean anything if they come back and hurt me, Paco.”

I sigh, resting my forehead against hers. I kiss each cheek, wiping a stray tear away with my thumb. “Go to Lo De Marcos, Nayarit. Take a holiday. I will have Moises watch over the house.”

She nods quickly, backing away.

“Si, okay.” She glances at Tallinn, who grins back at her, a slash of white teeth in his open face.

Tallinn switches to Spanish.“Got to run, Paco.” His voice sounds apologetic, but his eyes are serious.

Amelia giggles.

“What?” Tallinn asks, large hands coming to rest on his hips.

“You just said you have to use the bathroom with your Spanish, my friend.”

Tallinn's dark skin turns brick red. “Well damn, I thought I was showing the linguist moves.”

My lips twitch. “Not quite yet.”

My attention returns to Amelia. I grasp her hand, pressing forty thousand pesos inside, and close her fist around the colorful currency.

She gives a small sob, her hand convulsing around mine. “It's too much.”

I shake my head. “Not nearly enough. Take it. Leave now. I will phone you when it is safe for your return.”

Amelia looks from me to Tallinn.

She nods then throws her arms around me.

“Cuídate, Paco.”

“I'll be careful; I promise.”

She wipes her eyes and swallows.

I turn away, hating to leave. Yet conversely, I’m thrilled to begin this journey. Is this a maneuver of Club Alpha? If it is such a powerful entity that it can manipulate the highest degree of criminals in all of Mexico, what other means are at their disposal?

Tallinn and I slip into the limo then make the half-hour trek to the airport, where my private jet is waiting.

I have never been to Norway. It's always been a distant place of icebergs and a frozen people.

But one pulse of heat burns bright, warming me.

If my future is there, I go where it leads.

*

Norwegian is not one of the four languages I speak. I get by quite well in French and Portuguese, and only a linguist could hear my accent in English. Though I've been told my Spanish warms my English when I am angry or fatigued.

I will work to appear as American as I am able on this journey. An American will be far less conspicuous than a Mexican.

Tallinn has determined to be a pain in my ass the entire way, grilling me hard on slang. I have never delighted in engaging the vernaculars of American speech.

I tap the fingers of my left hand on my thigh. My right clutches the only glass of alcohol I'll allow myself, needing to stay sharp. Flying is a necessary evil.

“Paco, my man, let's go over it again.”

I palm my chin, and my face tilts to the side as I bob my head.

“Don't give me that blank look. You need to stay focused. Committed. Like when I make you lift weights.”

Ah yes, that. The weight lifting, though effective, is akin to flossing teeth. My mind weeps from the boredom of it. At least while I run, my mind is free to wander. On the mat, I engage all my senses, like a full-sensory plug-in. Weightlifting is utterly flat.

During a run, I puzzle through the myriad of different projects I have at coffee plants around the world: how to manage more effectively, troubleshoot problems, and come up with formulas for the future. I’m always thinking.

The weightlifting provides physical results, but my mind shrivels.

I sigh.

“You speak so formally, it's a dead giveaway you're not American to your core.” He thumps his chest with a fist.

I give him a sharp look. My hand falls from my face as I straighten in the plush airplane seat. “I am not. I'm Mexican.”

“Well that dickhead, Manuel, seemed to think you were something else.”

“We're a great mix of peoples in Mazatlán. Many of us are from different origins.”

“Right,” he says in a slow drawl, “see my point?”

Turbulence makes my whisky slop over the rim. I grit my teeth.

I want to murder the pilot. It's not sane or rational, obviously—without him, who would fly the plane?

Tallinn chuckles. “Love that you get all worked up with flying.”

“Worked up?”

“See?” Tallinn points to me as Tiffany wipes up the spill. “You need to pay attention to the way people talk.”

“I pay attention to what warrants it.”

“God!” He slaps his forehead. “You're a lost cause.”

I glower at him.

“Save the smolder for the ladies, Paco.”

“I'm not smoldering.” Even I can hear the insult in my voice.

Tiffany laughs.

My face swivels in her direction.

Light pink floods her cheekbones. She nods, her fingers covering her mouth. “Definitely smoldering.”

“I might get a fat head with that kind of talk,” I joke softly.

“Might? Ha! Have one…”

“Quiet,” I warn Tallinn in a growl.

“Uh-huh. You're dragging my butt to the Netherlands for what? To…” He flicks a glance at Tiffany.

“That's all, thank you,” I say to her in a not-too-subtle dismissal.

Tiffany knows better than to sulk over my need for privacy. How many on-call jobs pay a person eighty thousand dollars a year to fly two dozen times?

None.

She leaves without protest.

Tallinn leans forward, letting his hands dangle between his muscular thighs. “Like I was saying”—he jerks his thumb in the direction of where Tiffany left—“before the hottie took off—you're supposed to kill this girl. And I know you're not going to do anything to her.”

I nod. If Tallinn knows, the narco must suspect. Still, I've never displayed backbone in all the years I've worked with them. I was rich, and I paid. Period. It was traditional, and it kept my family safe.

“They tapped you to kill her for what reason?” He frowns. “They're watching her. It's Club Alpha. I know it. It's too weird not to be.”

“Perhaps.” My gaze prowls the clouds as they glide by. There is reason in the madness, and it's my job to think through each mystery to reach the prize at the end. The journey so intriguing.

“What?”

I turn back to Tallinn. “I'm not convinced of anything. Club Alpha does not have the means—I wouldn't think—to use high-ranking criminal entities to perpetuate a ruse of this scale.”

“Oh, Paco.” Tallinn shakes his head, grinning.

I don’t see the humor. “Hmm?”

“It's the way you talk—you can't be American. It's a no.”

I sniff, grabbing his thigh in a pincer grip.

He howls.

“Believable now?”

His hand covers mine, sliding up to my wrist. He circles it in a vise of steel. I release his thigh, twisting my wrist in a vicious circle against his dominant grip.

“Hey!”

He takes his hand back.

Tallinn chuckles, sliding his palm down the thigh I clamped. “You're aggressive enough to be American.”

I lean back. “I left Mazatlán when I was eight. I was boarded in a prestigious East Coast Ivy League preparatory school. I've the bearing of the highly educated; it's not a sin to speak formally.”

“No, but it's not going to make anyone believe your cover, Paco. And while we're talking about it, you're not going to introduce yourself as Francisco, are you?”

My eyes tighten. “What is wrong with my name?”

Tallinn leans back, folding his arms across his chest. “All four.”

He has a very small point.

“Paco is the only casual thing about you. Let's keep it.”

“Oh, well thank you for your permission.”

Tallinn's face morphs into a slow grin. “You are most welcome.”

I frown.

He points at me. “Got ya.”

I roll my eyes. Incorrigible.

*

Tallinn roams our vast hotel room. The penthouse suite encompasses the entire top story of the hotel.

The view is incredible, even to my indifferent gaze.

I feel ashamed that I have envisioned the north as cold and desolate. Its beauty is not easily quantified. Austere and green, the city of Oslo hovers below us. The sea beyond is a blanket of sparkling blue water surrounded by jewel-like trees. Rooftops in an assortment of colors dot the way to the shore.

Norwegians are extremely conscientious about their history and environment. The hotel is built using the indigenous stone and styled after the architecture of the surrounding historic buildings.

It's quaint.

However, I feel as though I live my life with a void in my soul. I am supremely content. To the uninitiated, contentment is happiness. I may be self-contained to the extreme, but my life continues to gray at the edges.

A life not shared with a love is not worth living.

Now that I am partaking in the dangerous illusion of Club Alpha, I can't deny my motivation.

Loneliness.

No amount of money will buy happiness.

“Damn, this place put the S in swank,” Tallinn says, fingering the thick coverlet hugging the king-size bed.

I feel for the envelope inside my suit coat and pluck it out. I take the woman’s photo and address and set it on the night table. “It's great.”

Tallinn laughs. “That's a start. You almost sound normal.”

I snort.

“Tallinn's funny, huh?” He nods. “I know, king of comedy.” He beats his chest with his fists in the parody of a giant ape. He gives me a narrow-eyed look.

“Let's lift.” He waggles his brows.

I groan. “I have less than fifty hours to locate this woman and save her. Say nothing of jet lag.”

“Whah-whah. Listen, white knight, I am here to tell you that you need backup. Let's hire some muscle. I'll get weapons. They'll be watching, true? Isn't there some crooked doc at the ready to pronounce this poor chick?”

Yes.

Tallinn scrutinizes my cautious expression, expounding, “So, they must have done a little bit of homework on you. They know you're a moral guy. You'll charge in there and save the girl, and they'll gun you down, frame you for some bullshit.”

My own words to Zaire come back to me: I have agreed to a no-liability clause against you, even in the case of my death… “Why?”

“Don't be naïve Paco. It's so not you.”

The wheels of my mind turn quickly. “The coffee plants.”

“Exactamente.”

I wince at his accent.

Tallinn glares. “Stoner doesn't do everything plus wipe my ass, Paco.”

My eyebrows bounce. “Stoner?”

“Rosetta Stone.”

I laugh, getting a visual of the educational foreign language computer program handing over neatly folded toilet paper.

“If they get your rich butt out of the way, and frame you for something they don't want to take the heat for, they can get their paws on your coffee.”

“So… temperance?”

Tallinn nods, looking mildly relieved. “Yes. We don't go running in there, playing grab ass. Our butts will get shot off. They'll win.”

We exchange a look of understanding. “It could be Club Alpha. Part of the fantasy.”

He shrugs. “Want to take that chance?”

No. I scrub my face, giving a small decisive shake of my head.

“Can you call this Sebastian dude and find out?”

I laugh. “Absolutely not. He will give the answer he said he would.”

Tallinn cocks his head to the side, his brows meeting. “What's that?”

“I don't know.”

Tallinn grunts. “Well, that's fucking unhelpful.”

I grin at Tallinn's unspoiled commentary. “Yes.”

We stand together in contemplative silence.

“The hell with it. Change, then we'll wreck their fancy pants gym.”

I stretch, and my button-down silk shirt catches on the waistband of my suit pants.

“Work it out, Paco. I know there's a ravenous bad ass in there, begging to come out and bring it.”

I strip off my jacket then lay it carefully on the bed.

I say nothing.

Tallinn turns the knob.

“That's what I'm afraid of,” I admit quietly.

He winks at me. “Don't be afraid. Fear's for chumps. Meet your potential straight on. Go hard.”

He shuts the door, leaving me in the witch's cauldron of my thoughts.

CHAPTER TEN

Greta

October 7

“I am so sorry, Greta. Forgive me.” Tor touches the top of my hand lightly then spreads a linen napkin over his lap.

I cast my eyes to my folded hands. I resist wringing them by a thread.

“It's fine. You just surprised me.”

“Greta.”

I lift my head. His gaze imprisons me, and I glance away.

“Look at me.”

I do.

“It's not your fault.”

The rape.

I fight a lump in my throat. “I know that.” But I still feel the sting, even after two years.

“Men are meant to protect women, not harm them.”

I nod. Intellectually, I get all this. But my body remembers, and it reacts for me. No matter how often I tell myself that every guy I meet is a new guy, guiltless of what transpired against me, I shy away.

And Tor made a promise to my father.

“Your father hung on for two weeks.” His eyes search mine. “It was in that time he begged me to look after you.”

I give a slight frown. “I never knew you were acquainted with my parents.”

His eyes flick away as he recalls the obviously painful memory.

“My father was deeply committed to your father.” He gives that elegant little shrug again. “When my father passed, leaving my mother and siblings to fend for ourselves, I took over his holdings, such as they were.”

I give the first genuine smile of the evening. “You've done so well.”

“Not as well as your father,” he admits.

I slowly shake my head. “If my father had not been so dedicated to his work, so sleep-deprived, he would not have lost control on the E6.”

“It was an accident. They say he fell asleep for a mere instant…”

“I know. I remember.” I suck in a shuddering inhale, “He blamed himself.”

“Unavoidable. A man likes to believe he can always skirt death. Especially for those he loves.”

I nod. I remember my dad's last moments so well. He had every tube and wire strung to him—the last tether of his life.

His ability to talk left him early on.

I'll never forget his eyes. He’d seemed so desperate to tell me something, but writing was out of the question. Both hands were broken during the impact.

In the end, internal bleeding stole his life. Fluid in his lungs drowned him.

I give Tor a watery smile. “Thank you so much for making sure my dad could rest in peace. I'm sure it was a solace you provided him.” I squeeze Tor’s hand, and he turns mine over.

He runs a hand over the worst scar.

The plastic from the zip ties nearly severed my hands from my wrists. It's a wonder I have the use of them.

I shiver when his finger leaves the proof of my decimation.

*

“Why didn't you just tell me the real reason I came to Norway?” I ask. “I never even showed you the swatches!” I exclaim in disgust before a small laugh escapes me.

The gentle roll of the limo tugs at my belly. I place my palm over the top of it.

Tor smiles. “And what would you have done? That intimate and powerful of a confession cannot be given over a telephone call, you must know that.”

I study him. “I wouldn't have come,” I admit.

He nods. “You work tirelessly. You would not have given yourself permission, Greta.”

“That's true.” I bite my lip, wondering if I have the guts to ask.

He watches my expression carefully. “Go ahead. Ask me anything.”

Tor crosses a long leg over the other, and our knees almost brush.

He's so intense. His eye contact is the longest I've ever encountered. Unlike most people I meet, whose eyes just glance at me, he holds my gaze.

It's disconcerting—and riveting. His presence is tangible. I feel as though when I leave Tor, a part of him will follow me. Like an echo of his presence.

I ask, “How do you know I wouldn't come?”

“Your father.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

Tor chuckles, running elegant fingers down the center crease of his charcoal pants. Bright-scarlet thread winds a geometric pattern in the sliver of socks peeking from underneath the cuff of his slacks. Italian leather shoes so fine that they look like slippers swing lightly as he speaks. “He told me so much about you and your exploits in the States, I feel as though I've always known you.”

I lean forward, elbows to my knees, and cup my chin. “Really?” I'm a little surprised Father would share this. He was private. Secretly, I'm delighted he was proud enough to mention me to others.

He nods with a hint of a smile. “You were the apple of his eye. Your father gave me much helpful advice, which I used to progress my manufacturing.”

I smile. Taking his hand, I give a hard press of fingers then move to release it. He surprises me by lifting my hand to his lips. He turns it over at the last second. He drops an incredibly intimate kiss into the center of my palm. Heat and breath leave their mark against my flesh, and his gaze finds me over our linked hands.

“However”—his fingers slip from my hand, leaving trails of fire—“it is his remarks about you that intrigued me.”

Oh my God, which part?

“You were the only child of a great man. He held nothing in higher esteem. I would have seen to our meeting much sooner, but after you began university, if it hadn't been for the incident…”

The incident.

His brow creases. “I felt there needed to be an interlude of… healing.”

I nod, not trusting any words I might say.

I sway as the limo rounds the last bend and halts slowly.

He leans forward, body erect. “I need to ask you something of critical importance.”

I inhale a painful breath. I might not be ready for a question after his last statement. I just might not. I take a deep breath anyway, taking a leap at brave. “Okay.”

“Could you—would you—be willing to court me?”

I feel myself give a single slow blink. Court me? Who uses that expression anymore? Why would he want me?

Filthy.

Whore.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Tor's face is suddenly in mine. His deep-brown eyes are amber fire, owning my gaze, not letting one thing interrupt the moment.

He grasps my hands and slowly takes them away from my ears. His light cologne fills my nose.

“Is what I said so abhorrent to you that you cover your ears?” Tor asks softly.

My hands fall, and he cups my face. I feel small inside their grasp.

“No,” I admit.

His eyes search mine. “Then what is it, Greta?”

“I've never had a boyfriend.”

Shame like hot lava flows over me, scalding the inside of my skull. Liquid fire burns through my veins.

He pulls my face forward to gently kiss the tip of my nose. “You are a beauty, Greta. It will be fine that I am your first. Trust me.”

He isn't my first. Four other men came before him.

Gia would say it doesn't count.

I swallow so hard, I hear my throat click.

His finger runs the length of my neck then rests in the hollow, where a frantic heartbeat flutters beneath my skin like a captured wild bird.

“Let me in, Greta.”

I stare at him for a full minute, measuring him. Finally, I nod and wind my arms around his neck.

*

Tor doesn't let me go until my hotel room door closes behind me.

Our fingertips part through the crack as I shut the door.

I sigh, twirling in my high heels. The spikes stab the carpet as I dance in smooth rotation. The skirt of my dress flows around my legs, swishing to an abrupt halt as my legs press against my bed.

I plop down. A smile like a permanent smear covers my face. A giggle escapes me, and I kick off my pumps, throwing myself backward on the bed.

Sublime.

It's the only word that covers the evening. And I survived it all.

Words were said that should have shredded me and cut me asunder. Instead, I feel fresh skin covering the raw wounds of my psyche.

Bliss.

Maybe this Club Alpha thing is really going to work?  I'm only into it a week and already, this might be something that works. It all makes sense. A man who knew my father, whose father worked with my father? Perfect.

Good-looking and deep? Maybe he's too old.

Nah, I laugh aloud. Not too old. There's no way he's past thirty-five so I'm safe there.

I should call Gia.

I pluck my smartphone out of my nude clutch. Low battery.

That's dumb. I root around my suitcase until I find the charger. I plug it in, and a bar at the top blinks to orange, showing active charging.

I sit on the bed, massaging my toes. I untie my dress and carefully hanging it up in the closet. I close the wardrobe door, and the integral mirror reflects my image.

I look at my body. The small scars encircling my wrists are the ones that show.

I scrutinize the rest of me. Nude stockings closely match the ivory skin of my long legs. A simple garter anchors them in place. The push-up bra matches, its lace strategically covering the very peak of my nipples. I am not muscle-bound, though I work out. I have that crazy figure that doesn't build muscle well.

Gia says I'm lithe. It's a slick term for skinny.

Sudden anxiety settles in the pit of my stomach.

I unbraid my hair. I try not to wear it down if I can help it. If it's not loose, there is nothing to pull.

I turn away from my image, working on not remembering feeling my scalp on fire as my head was jerked back by all that platinum hair.

Easier said than done.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Paco

October 8

Tallinn works my body until every part of me trembles with exhaustion. We finish the last set, and he claps me on the back.

I'm fairly certain I hate him right now.

We both stare at the floor-to-ceiling mirror

He tugs on the short tail of my thick black hair.

“See?” He swings his palms out. “Look at the effects of my awesome handiwork.”

My critical eye roams down my physique.

I am bulkier. There is no doubt. Am I stronger? Yes. We have been boxing and hitting the weights for weeks. A different physique is overtaking the former.

How Tallinn has become a pseudo-adviser escapes me. It could be the sheer amount of time we spend in close proximity to each other. However, I suspect it might be our absolute opposite personalities that play the largest part. That he seems summarily unimpressed and unaffected with my vast wealth is refreshing. Human nature does not breed indifference to wealth, but greed to accumulate it.

I grab a hand towel off the metal rack and throw it over my shoulder. “I don't like what I need to do for the strength.” I tip my head back, gulping half the bottle of water in a single pull. I dab the only clean corner of the towel against my mouth.

Tallinn watches me carefully. “No pain, no gain.” He chuckles. “Don't tell me you haven't ever worked your hiney off at the dojo?”

“Of course,” I shrug, capping the water and tossing it into a container marked recycling in Norwegian. “However, at this level of proficiency, the hardest work has been accomplished, and I simply maintain.”

“But you still have to work it, right?”

I give him a sharp glance. “I do.”

Tallinn shrugs. “So this is the same, but you're having to start from the ground floor. You're limping along because your cardio and hand-eye kicks ass. But your boxing skills aren't there for jab and strikes with fists. You're all reliant on your kung fu mojo.”

“Limping along? Kung fu?” I miss sputtering by a hairsbreadth.

“Yeah.”

“Ah—no, my friend. Karate is not kung fu.”

Tallinn snaps his fingers. “You need help with idioms too. ʻLimping alongʼ is a pretty common American expression.”

“I have not been exposed to a variety of expressions.”

Tallinn scrubs his scalp in a rough double swipe. “No shit.”

I smirk. “You speak so naturally.” A rare pang of envy snaps through me.

“We can't give you my level of slang, with the way you speak.” He sighs. “We'll try to interject a little bit of loose verbiage. Cursing, too.”

“I curse.”

“When?”

I walk toward the door. “When I need to.”

“You know what I think, Paco?”

“You will tell me, regardless,” I throw over my shoulder.

“I think the right set of circumstance will make you go animal.”

The weight room door shuts with a clank behind us, and I walk toward the elevator and hit the button. We step inside, then the doors whoosh closed behind us.

The elevator begins the forty-floor ascent.

A few seconds of silence hold between us. “I feel like a sleepwalker in this life,” I admit quietly.

Tallinn grunts. “See? That's what I'm talkinʼ about.” His shrewd gaze envelopes me. “That's why you signed up for this Club Alpha gig. You have the dough.” Tallinn holds up a finger, ticking off his points with his opposite hand. “You're bored with the status quo.” His gaze is steady on mine. “And like the rest of us dudes, you want a chick who actually digs you for who you are, rather than what you bring.” He rubs his fingers together in a parody of wanting money.

I can't deny his logic. “A crude assessment, but accurate.”

Tallinn spreads his hands away from his sides. “All dudes have the same issues, rich or poor, ugly or handsome, smart or dumb. Everybody wants love.”

“True.”

I stare at the little LED squares on the ceiling of the elevator. Without turning my head, I ask, “You will find guards and guns?”

“I already have, Paco. What are you paying me the big bucks for?”

My head drops, and I level my gaze at him.

“Listen, I already have people in place watching for this girl.”

My eyebrow cocks. “Her name?”

“Lisbeth Wesbestad,” he says, butchering the pronunciation, and continues, “Five-ten, one hundred forty-five pounds, blond hair, blue eyes, twenty-four. Industrial executive. She's a brainiac, too, Environmental Science PhD.”

I whistle softly. “That is very young to have that level of education.” I tap a finger against the cold steel of the bar bisecting the interior of the elevator. “Norwegians are very concerned about their homeland,” I reply, wishing it were so everywhere. I throw a strand of escaped hair over my shoulder. “She is safe then?”

Tallinn nods. “For now. How much time do we have?” His question feels like a confirmation.

The clock runs in my mind. “Less than forty hours. Some of it was wasted with working out while a young woman's life is in danger.”

Tallinn presses the red button at the control panel, and the elevator lurches to a halt.

“Here's where you're wrong, Paco. It's a well-known fact that routine keeps a person solid. Like a rock. As your personal trainer—and I'm no dumbass—I say you need to be wrung out, spent. Then rest. Eat. Then attack.”

I can't hide my frustration. None of this has unfolded as I believed it should have. “I wanted to get to her, do what must be done.”

His finger lands on my chest and I tense. “And you hired me to hone you that last bit—keep ya in one piece.”

I dip my chin. “Yes.” I retreat a step within the confined space.

“You didn't hire me for my finesse or prowess in etiquette. I am rough, tough and get the job done—no matter how brutal. And I don't take on clients, even those who pay mid-six figures, unless they have that core I need.”

“Core?”

“Yeah, Paco. There's got to be that primal male inside. It's buried in a lot of modern guys now. Some couldn't find it with both hands. But you”—he gives me a knowing look—“you have it. And between Club Alpha and me”—he puts the finger he'd stuck in my chest against his own—“we'll bring it out like a wild animal.”

“This will make me whole?” I ask with an amused lilt.

But Tallinn's face is solemn. “Yeah. Lots of guys never wake up from that sleepwalkinʼ thing you were talking about. They don't become who they were meant to be. You will. And—you'll get the girl.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

He slaps the red button and the elevator moves toward the final five floors.

“It is, if you go with the flow. Just let shit go down.”

The elevator dings on floor thirty-nine. The doors flow apart and a woman stands at in the opening.

The resemblance is so striking, she must be Lisbeth.

My reaction is startling, as well. My breath rushes out of me as though I’ve popped a balloon.

“Hello,” she says in Norwegian, and I stand before her in a stupor.

I am never tongue-tied.

I feel Tallinn's eyes on me as I say nothing.

“Hey,” he says in English.

The door tries to shut, and Tallinn slaps it with his palm. “We're going up.”

He’s still in English, though we're in Norway. I wake up, scowling at him.

But her dulcet tones reach my ears like a melody I've been waiting for my entire life.

“Down.” She laughs, and it's musical.

I blink as though I’ve been punched.

Tallinn gives me a jab in the ribs.

“Hello,” I bark reactively, and she turns to look at me full on.

Tallinn depresses the door-open button.

I swallow hard.

“Hello,” she says again, this time in English, sticking out an elegant, slim hand.

I hesitate for a long second then take it, and our eyes meet. A zap like an electrical current flares between us and her deep blue eyes widen.

“Francisco,” I say, not wanting the contact to end.

Tallinn groans.

“Paco,” he corrects me from the background.

She smiles, and I cannot help but return it. I feel as though the sun has found the cloud I've been using to hide.

“Greta,” she says, giving my hand a slow pump.

“Hate to break this up, but in or out, guys.”

We turn to Tallinn and he laughs.

“Or stay!” He backpedals.

I shake my head, clearing the fog. “I'm afraid I'll have to go clean up,” I say, making a stab at the casual speak Tallinn berates me with.

Her eyes move over my informal gym attire. When they come back to my eyes, I see heat there.

Or maybe it's wishful thinking.

Another radiant smile splits her face. “Glad to see you're into hygiene, Paco.”

I'm suddenly self-conscious. “Yes,” I mutter.

“Good, it's wonderful to have met you. However, I'm—I need to be somewhere shortly.”

I take in her outfit.

Breathtaking.

An all-cream suit encases a build like a dancer's. A light-peach blouse peeks out from beneath sculpted lapels. She wears high heels that make her just an inch or so shorter than I.

Greta is made of ice and light. She calls to me.

The timing couldn’t be worse. I am destined to save… I can't recall her name at the moment.

A chance meeting in the elevator doesn't change that most basic fact that I’m on a mission, even if the woman has blanked my thought process.

That ghost in my memory seeps inside my thoughts. I beat it down, stepping back. “Of course, you look lovely.”

A fine blush tints her cheeks, though she does not appear demure. Her bold eyes, a deep and abiding cornflower blue, meet mine. “Thank you, Paco.”

She glides into the elevator, and we step out.

“We'll catch the other on its way up,” I say unnecessarily.

Our fingertips slide apart, and I watch her face through the gap as the elevator doors close.

At that moment, I realize we were holding hands the entire time.

“Wow.” Tallinn rocks back on his heels as he surveys the stainless-steel doors.

“Yes,” I say.

“She is the hottest thing in Norway. Just sayinʼ.”

Agreed.

At first, I don't reply. “I have Lisbeth.”

Tallinn cups his chin. “Maybe.”

I begin walking to the elevator that will take us the final floor to the top.

We move inside, and the doors close. Tallinn hits the button twice and we ascend in a slow glide.

“What do you mean maybe?” I ask, rotating my neck from the tension of the weightlifting. After the mystery woman—after everything—a stupor covers me like a cloak. I'm befuddled. I shake it off, trying to force its grip from my mind.

“You sure you can't contact this Sebastian guy?”

“I'm certain. It's part of the mystique, Tallinn. It's what I signed up for. Intrigue—unpredictability. It's part and parcel of the fantasy.”

“And this is supposed to flesh out whether the woman is the right one? Sort of like a pressure cooker?”

A small smile erupts. “Yes. Every scenario presented is hand-engineered—tailored, if you will—to the individual. Myself, the woman. It is meant to help me choose.”

“Help her choose,” Tallinn says, swiping the key card.

I incline my head. “Yes. Though I'd say it should be mutual.”

“It might not turn out like you want.”

I walk into the suite behind Tallinn and stop short.

“Holy crow!” Tallinn says.

I scan the suite, leaving no stone unturned, no piece of furniture untested.

The sound of Tallinn's ankle gun escaping its holster causes instant tension to course through my body.

He kicks the door open wide. It slams into the wall as he sweeps the weapon in front of his body.

“Paco, stay there.” His voice is low and careful.

I back against the door until I feel the solidness against my spine.

Three minutes feels like three hours.

Tallinn returns from his adjacent suite.

“It's clear.”

We survey the damage, our gazes seeking the same thing.

It’s missing—the photo of the woman.

Gone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Greta

A text dings and I look down at my now fully charged phone.

Zaire Sebastian: Hello, Greta. How you doing, darlinʼ?

Me: I'm fine!

I think of Tor, and a soft smile breaks the seal of my lips.

Zaire Sebastian: Great.

Me: Can I ask questions now?

Zaire Sebastian: You may, but I might not answer them.☺

I stare at his smiley face emoticon and scowl.

Mysterious jerk.

Me: Fine, nevermind.

I sigh.

Zaire Sebastian: Take heart, sweet thing—it's all part of the CA experience.

Right.

Me: Okay, ttyl.

Zaire Sebastian: Take care, Greta.

I've been with the Club Alpha fantasy for over a week and haven't felt as though it's very dangerous. I think back to some of the questions posed on the twenty-page psych evaluation. There was no mistaking that it'd been exactly that.

Some of the questions gave me pause. So did the rigorous physical paces they'd put me through.

So far… I'm on cloud nine. I met Tor!

My smile is crooked. He didn't even look at my swatches.

A new notification dings. It’s from Charles Oppenheimer, my boss. A flutter of apprehension floats inside my stomach.

Charlie: Hi, Greta.

Me: Hi.

Charlie: Wow, you do move fast! Excellent work.

I wrinkle my nose.

Me: What do you mean?

Charlie: You got the Aros deal!

Relief and elation vie for position inside me. I squeal in delight, jumping up and down.

Me: Really?

Charlie: Yes! Negotiations are in full throttle, thanks to you. When are you scheduled to return?

I bite my lip. I've got the deal nailed, though not thanks to my business savvy. Other things are at play here. But I would bet Charlie doesn't know that.

I begin to tap out a response and a second text appears.

Charlie: You deserve it—why don't you stay an extra week?

That gives me two weeks in Norway. It'll be long enough to explore what's really happening between Tor and me.

I nod, realize he can't see me, and let my fingers fly over the virtual keyboard of my smartphone.

Me: I'd love to, thank you.

I manage that instead of a hell yes!

Charlie: Terrific, see you before Halloween.

I frown. I'll be home before then.

I shrug.

Me: See you then.

I swipe my phone with my finger, telling it to hibernate, and set it on the nightstand. I have another date with Tor—a real one. No business, just… I don't even know what. Excitement threatens to scoop out my insides, and I dance over to my closet to look at outfits.

I think of my past and how I left Norway for an exclusive American girls’ boarding school in my teens. I didn’t sneak out with boys like a lot of the girls did. Sometimes, I think I am the most boring girl in the world.

Then the news came of my parentsʼ accident. I was already attending the University of Washington by that time.

Mum died instantly, and Father had lingered, as Tor mentioned—just long enough to feel like goodbye never came.

It was awful.

The attack happened so close to their deaths that I felt as though I’d drowned in a river of grief—for the loss of my parents and the robbery of my innocence.

I shove the memories aside for now. Gia would be so disappointed that I'm “dwelling,” as she calls it.

I give one last cursory glance to the dreamsicle outfit I chose. I suppress a giggle.

I'm all cream and peach. Good enough to eat.

I do a small whoop, wrapping myself in the newfound confidence of a sealed business deal.

I’ve found a man I might actually trust enough to like. Something I take a chance on might actually work. I hum an off-key tune as I leave the hotel room, feeling happy.

*

I glide down the hotel corridor, my mood unstoppable. My suite shares the entire floor with only one other. I briefly consider what it'd be like to own the entire top floor for my stay.

I briefly contemplate who's up there.

I reach the elevator and push the down button.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide apart with a whisper. I start to step inside as two men move to get out.

I don't believe in a physical reaction when meeting someone for the first time. I'm excited about the subtle chemistry that's going on between Tor and me—like a slow burn.

The man who stands in front of me is internal combustion.

An inferno.

Well over six feet, he wears clothes so sweat-soaked they cling to every sculpted bit of his body. I stand in the elevator's threshold stupidly, hanging onto my composure by the barest margin.

He seems as taken aback as I am, and he doesn't say anything, assessing me as I do him.

His eyes are the most arresting thing about him. Thickly lashed in black, they are so green, I'm certain he's wearing contacts.

Then he blinks.

No. There's just a man this gorgeous in existence. Who's breathing in the same space I occupy.

He commands the molecules of the moment.

His black hair is tied at his nape, giving the illusion of short hair, and his face is naked of distraction. His features are sculpted and masculine; a square jaw connects in a deep cleft at his chin.

The moment spins out as I sense a subtle tenderness from him in the same way I ignored the primitive warning my subconscious tried to give me the night of my attack. I don't know how I sense it but I do.

A woman should listen to her gut. Men do.

All these thoughts race through my head in seconds.

A strong sense of déjà vu has me stumbling deeper into awkward territory.

I jerk myself together. “Hello,” I say in Norwegian, though he looks exotic enough to possibly be… Spanish? The engrossing emerald of his eyes throws me, and that subtle sense of memory overlap washes through me again, though how would I ever forget him if we'd met?

I stick out my hand, and he envelopes it inside his own, giving it a slow handshake.

“Francisco.” His voice threads through me, pulling things down low.

I suppress the reaction then say hello again in English.

The second man says in the background, “Paco.”

I barely even notice him.

The name Paco suits the man in front of me. He has an easy but elegant casualness.

I inhale deeply.

“Hate to break this up, but in or out, guys,” the muscle-bound guy behind Paco says.

We both look at him and he chuckles. “Or stay!”

The two of them seem very different but somehow close. I can't figure it out. Paco is all lean, built sophistication, and the other guy is rough at the corners.

A tense silence covers us.

“I'm afraid I'll have to go clean up,” Paco finally says. This time my perusal is warranted because he brought attention to himself.

His hand is large around mine.

I swallow back fear. Hands are a problem.

My gaze shifts to Paco's face. It's nothing like the faces of the men who attacked me. High, broad cheekbones speak of European descent, and his eyes are large and well-spaced. His mouth … God, his mouth.

I could kiss him. I could.

Instead, I give him a smile. “Glad to see you're into hygiene, Paco.”

Light color warms his dusky complexion. “Yes,” he says quietly.

I feel a pang of regret. I hope I didn't make him feel… bad. “Good,” I say quickly, back-pedaling. “It's great to have met you. However, I'm—I need to be somewhere shortly.”

I need to meet Tor—my actual date.

So why can't I make my feet move?

Paco steps aside, sweeping his palm in front of me and says,  “Of course, I don't mean to make you late.” His eyes move to my body, consuming me with the intensity of his gaze. “You look lovely.”

I hear, I want you.

Or that's what I want to hear.

His words send a thrill through me, resonating in the place I never let anyone touch. But I fight the other impulses too. Shame, fear and excitement collide in a mixed-up knot of confused emotions.

I stare for a moment longer, and I'm suddenly aware I can see deeply inside this man, as though he allows it.

Or maybe there's a man out there who is just that genuine.

I feel heat in my face and resist touching my flaming cheeks. “Thank you, Paco.”

He begins to move through the open doors. “We'll catch the other on its way up,” Paco says as he and the other man exit.

I feel a tug.

It's only then I realize he didn’t let go of my hand the entire time we spoke.

It felt so natural.

Our grip loosens as the elevator begins to close.

One green eye bores into me through the narrowing slit of the elevator doors, as though he'll etch the memory of my face into his mind. Then he disappears behind the steel.

My finger shakes as I depress the lobby button.

I back away from the softly illuminated panel until my butt smacks the bar inside the elevator.

My mind dissects the three minutes I spent in Paco's presence. I glance at the hand he touched, softly curling it into a fist and laying it against my heart.

He is the one on the top floor. He's staying in a suite that costs three thousand dollars a night.

Who is Paco?

*

My composure returns during my short ride to the ground floor, where I attempt to shake off the disconcerting chance meeting inside the elevator.

The heels of my shoes echo hollowly as I walk across the antique marble floors in the lobby.

Tor's limo is waiting at the curb of the hotel.

I take in his sheer physicality as he leans against the sleek car. Feet are crossed at the ankle, and muscular arms are folded across a barrel chest.

I've known him for thirty hours and feel as though I’ve cheated on him with a rich guy I met in the elevator. I know it's not rational. But I'm in unfamiliar waters. I nervously stroke my hands down my wool-blend cream slacks. The material is itchy against my palms.

Tor has shown me compassion and presents a link to my family. He already knows the thing I can't bear to tell anyone. There are so many firsts that I don't need to address with him. It makes things easier.

His eyes move down my outfit in clear approval. And even though it's light for the season, I wear what showcases my coloring. For someone as pale as I am, colors are limited. Woman who think being a natural blonde is so great haven't tried finding colors that work.

Can't help what you are, only who.

“Greta,” Tor says with a smile, pushing off from the side of the limo, and strides to my side. He places one flat palm on my lower back as the other finds the hollow between my shoulder blades. He kisses each of my cheeks, lingering a moment longer than protocol dictates. He's so tall, I rise on tiptoes to meet his embrace.

I'm a little breathless. After meeting the enigmatic Paco minutes ago then being in the presence of my first legit love interest is bordering on sensory overload.

“I know it is late for a supper, but may I interest you in a dessert and coffee?”

The venue is not as intimidating as a formal-length dinner would be, and I hide my relief behind a smile. I nod and slip my arm through his, immediately impressed when he opens the door for me instead of waiting for his driver. He's obviously wealthy but somehow prefers to manage the little things by himself.

Father was wealthy but understated. I was raised with those precepts. I'm somewhat indifferent to wealth, though the trust I will inherit on my thirtieth birthday will allow me long-term security. I have a feeling of accomplishment because I've worked for what I have. After a certain amount of money, I don't think a person spends differently. Of course, I wanted independence, and Father fostered it.

He set me free to seek my own path, and for that, I'm grateful. His lessons are part of what hurts so badly now that he's gone. Father is not here to see me triumph over the worst of challenges. Overcoming my fear will be the greatest.

I smile up into Tor's face as he guides me safely into the limo.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Paco

The Norwegian police are accommodating. They question me and quickly ascertaining my involvement, or lack thereof.

My panic is its own beast. Concern for the welfare of a woman I've never met consumes me.

Lisbeth Wesbestad must be in grave danger. While Tallinn and I were working on my brawn, someone was tearing apart my room—looking for something. I know exactly what.

Tallinn entered her address into his smartphone. But not before someone else took her photo, and the information attached, from the nightstand.

“Sir?” the officer says to gain my attention.

I blink, swimming out from my thoughts to meet his eyes. “Yes?”

“I was asking how long you intend to stay in Norway.”

I think quickly. “At least a week.” My mind strays unerringly to the girl from the elevator then returns to Lisbeth. “Perhaps longer.”

He hands me a heavyweight paper card. Recycled paper, of course. I feel myself take it as though moving underwater. “Please contact us before exiting Norway, Mr. Castillo.”

I nod. “Certainly.”

The officer takes a look around the once-pristine hotel room and shakes his head in apparent disgust.

He and the other officers move out the door. A fine layer of fingerprint dust coats every surface, making all the edges of the room appear grimy.

Our bags are strewn about; my personal things have been pawed through.

However, I am not about things. But people.

The important documents I take everywhere with me are secure in the hotel safe. The vagrants made short work of the room in the ninety minutes Tallinn and I were working out in the gym. They were about ease, not robbery.

The police were baffled over my wallet being intact. Ten thousand dollars in US currency and even more in large-billed pesos are still secure inside my billfold.

No, the motive was an entirely different from robbery.

I am certain it is related to Club Alpha. But as Zaire was quick to mention, I’m pressed to discern what is random circumstance presented by life and what is at the hand of Zaire Sebastian.

The last officer leaves.

Tallinn presents me with a key card to the new room we’ll be staying in.

“This has to be part of the fantasy,” Tallinn says, stuffing his own card in his pocket.

I shrug. “I believe so, but I'm not utterly certain.”

Tallinn cracks a smile. “That's the fun. For you.” He points a finger.

My eyes take in the ruin of my belongings. “This”—I wave a palm in the air—“is not fun.”

Tallinn cocks an eyebrow. “But you're not bored, are you?”

“No.” I'm troubled.

“Let's get to the new room. They have people who'll collect the junk and get it in our room.”

I retrieve my passport and the bulk of my cash from the compromised safe and follow him out.

“What of your weapon?” I ask as we draw nearer to the elevator.

“How about: where's your piece?” Tallinn says, stabbing the button on the elevator.

I exhale in a rush. “I did fine with Greta.”

“No.” Tallinn laughs. “She is fine. I don't know about you.”

I laugh, slipping into the elevator. “Touché. I'll make a supreme effort to speak more casually.”

“Just while we're here, fancy pants.”

I roll my eyes, jerking my soft-leather briefcase onto my shoulder by its long strap.

“What is that?” Tallinn asks, pointing to my briefcase as it lays at my left hip, strap crossing my body.

I think of it briefly in Spanish then switch to the clunky English translation. “A soft briefcase.”

“A murse,” Tallinn says with a snort.

I frown. “I'm not familiar with the term but it sounds derogatory.”

“Oh yeah, it is.” He laughs like a bleating sheep.

I frown. “Wonderful. Explain.”

He does.

“This is not a female's handbag.”

Tallinn's lips quirk. “Uh-huh.”

“You're insufferable,” I comment, meaning it.

“You need me.”

I have no doubt of that. “Yes,” I reply. A thought occurs to me. “Do we have adjoining suites as before?”

Tallinn nods. “You sick of me already?”

I grin so hard my face hurts. “Oh yes. However, I think the night's young and we'll be using your GPS know-how to find Lisbeth.”

“On it.” His eyebrow sweeps up. “Wasn't that weird as hell, seeing the chick in the elevator looking so much like the target?” He scrubs his face. “Wow, totally.” His eyes slide to mine. “The dudes I have in place haven't seen a thing from our girl.”

“That doesn't mean she's safe.”

“True, but Manuel's narco losers haven't made a move either. Looks like they're giving you the time, Paco.”

A ragged exhale leaks out, sounding as weary as I feel. “How generous of them.”

I think of how odd the resemblance is between Greta and Lisbeth. I consider it all the way to the new room on floor thirty-eight. I stop hard at the door when Tallinn opens it.

I turn suddenly. “What if Lisbeth isn't the one?”

His face fills with denial. “Nah, you were given her name, her address by that asshat narco, right?”

My disquiet deepens. “Yes. But if this is a Club Alpha machination, I might have been set loose in the maze like a clever mouse.”

Tallinn walks back into the hall, his eyes scanning the vicinity. I ignore his cautious study for my safety as my mind turns over the different pieces of the puzzle I find myself in.

“He would not make it too easy. And this presents that way.” I pace inside the hotel suite while Tallinn looks both directions in the hall, closes the door, and bolts it from the inside.

“Hold up.”

I stop as he searches for more trouble.

“All clear.”

I feel my shoulders drop, becoming aware of the tension they held. I nearly succumb to the sensation of walking an unseen tightrope that never ends.

Tallinn unstraps his ankle holster and latches it around the bedpost. I note the butt handle faces so that he could reach it while at rest.

“Before you shower…” Tallinn begins.

I groan and hold up a palm, dropping to the floor.

“Just because your shit got tagged, doesn't mean I go soft.”

“Of course not,” I say between push-ups.

At one hundred my breathing comes faster. At two hundred I begin to labor.

“No rest for the weary, buckaroo.”

I give him the middle finger, mid-push up.

He claps in glee. “Nice! The class act slips.” His eyebrows dump above his eyes, low and hard. “Now it's one-handed. Show me what you got.”

Sweat runs into my eyes as I shake from the three hundredth push-up.

“Stop.”

I gasp, moving to stand. The blood rushes to my head.

Tallinn faces me, his fist to his heart. “Bud, you're all guy somewhere in there. Sebastian has begun the unveiling of all those layers. And I'll coax it along.”

He winks.

“Now—let's shower and do some reconnaissance.”

*

Tallinn walks in a tight, prowling circle around me, and I turn with him, my eyes following his location.

“You trust me but don't give me your back. Interesting.”

“It's nothing personal, just training,” I reply.

I’m wearing the outfit he brought for me, which makes me feel like a fake ninja. I tell him so.

He guffaws.

My hands go to my hips. “We have a young woman to save, if you recall.”

“And you will thank me that you're less visible. Now stop being a candy ass, and let's get going.”

My stomach feels slightly bloated from the room service order I just consumed. Even though I ate lightly, the day's chaos has taken its bite out of my normal center of calm.

I walk out, with Tallinn following. My soft-soled, all-black shoes make no noise. I wear a second-skin mock turtleneck, which is also black. Pants with a painted-black belt buckle solidify the monochromatic look.

We slip into an unmarked SUV, and Tallinn drives.

Though he’s driving on what would be the wrong side of the road in America, he doesn't have any trouble.

Tallinn makes it clear that we'll need to be a half mile out from the target's house for unnoticed entry and escape.

I feel very conspicuous as we park the car and exit. Two men dressed in all black out for a midnight stroll in mid-forties weather? It doesn't seem believable.

It seems, as it is, nefarious.

With his ultra-dark complexion, Tallinn is the one who blends with the night.

“Come on,” he says, moving into the nearest alley.

Cobblestones slick with the beginning of icy weather threatens our footing, but Tallinn has outfitted the soles of our shoes with stout tiny rubber pegs. They tear through the slickness but are not long enough to impede speed or make the noise that taller grippers would.

The cold seeps into my bones like icy leeches made of smoke. My warm-blooded roots rebel.

“It's damp,” I mention quietly.

“There's no staying dry here.” Tallinn stretches out an arm as we come to the back of a house. Small windows, illuminated softly, watch us like eyes.

Tallinn sends a cautionary look my way.

“Let's just get a feel for the area, the moment.”

I smirk, asking quietly, “What? Is this getting in tune with my inner male?”

He nods, as serious as I've seen him. “It's saved my ass many a time. Just sit here before you go in for the kill, so to speak,” he says quickly. “Close your eyes and listen. Open your senses. Forget the cold, the sound of the water. Listen for all things furtive.”

I raise an eyebrow at his vocabulary.

“This is where I have excellence, Paco. This is why you hired me. Listen. React.”

I inhale deeply then let it out in a smooth rush. I lean tighter into the crevice between the two clapboard homes. I hear far-off ships on the water. A distant bell tolls. A can rolls across the alley; the patter of scampering feet follow it.

There. I turn my head in the direction of that small sound—a noise, deliberate and stealthy. My instincts flare like a flame lit.

Left.

Air pressure moves in front of me and the fine hairs of my body rise as my eyes snap open.

She comes for me, all blond braided hair.

Her hair is all I can see, for she wears black, as well.

For one terrible moment, I take in Tallinn's still form.

Then I'm fighting for my life.

*

I catch her foot as it sails with breakneck speed for my head. I twist as it smacks my palm, numbing my arm to the shoulder. The maneuver takes down my assailant.

She counters, spinning with my twist, and kicks me in the jaw with the other foot as she falls.

I lean back, defaulting to karate as I take my next breath. Her palms slap the stone, arresting her descent.

I retreat, dropping to a defensive stance—palms opposite each other, one foot forward.

She arches, springing to her feet, and runs for me without pause.

I prepare to use her momentum.

At the last second, she veers to the left, wrenching my elbow. I drop the arm she’s gripping, take her by the neck in a strong V hold with my free arm, and toss her.

She keeps her hold on my arm, and her body weight topples us both.

I've landed thousands of time—on the soft dojo mat. I land and roll expertly.

My ribs instantly bruise, though.

I suck her against my body. I am not on this earth to abuse females. I know it like I know I'm alive.

And I've never felt more alive than I do at this moment.

She fights me, throwing her head into my forehead. Stars burst in my vision as my ribs sing.

Her elbow plows into my tense stomach, knocking the breath out of me. I tighten my arms like steel bands, capturing hers against me. I move my head when she would stun me again.

“Stop!” I yell in English into the chilled silence of the alley.

She stills.

We breathe harshly together. My head throbs, and my ribs constrict painfully underneath her body.

My hard hold continues.

“I will not hurt you,” I say in a hoarse whisper.

The quiet between us holds weight.

“You were not sent to murder me?” she asks in a voice I feel  I've heard before.

I was.

I lie, but it is the truth as I know it. “No. I am here to save you.”

Another tense beat of silence sweeps between us.

She shudders, seeming to relax, and I release her.

She stands, and the streetlight casts its blue light on her face. My mouth hangs agape. I forget Tallinn is a few meters away. Dead or alive—I do not know.

I am speechless with surprise.

It is Greta, the girl from the elevator.

Shame fills me that I hurt her.

“I am Lisbeth,” she announces quietly. “I imagine you knew that.”

I go from shocked guilt to instant confusion. I shake my head as I stand, never taking my eyes from her form.

“No. I did not.”

Tallinn groans. Gracias a Dios. He will survive to annoy another day.

I don't look away from the woman who claims to be Lisbeth—the woman I'm supposed to murder, came to save instead, and who almost had me at her mercy in an alley in Norway. An environmental scientist who is expert in hand-to-hand combat?

The question I ask as I look into her face: Who is she?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Greta

I twist the stem of the water glass between my fingers, and glance at Tor through my lashes.

“You were sneaky.”

His expression blanks. After a moment, emotion flows over his features like water.

“Ah,” he says, tipping his head back as understanding lights his eyes. “I was underhanded.”

I think. “Not exactly, but close.”

“English is challenging. There are ten different words with as many shades of meaning for the single definition.”

I laugh easily. “So true.”

Leaning forward, I manage to resist the last crumb of my dessert off the plate. Norwegian baked custard is one of my favorites. My love for the creamy delicacy can be compared to the Americans’ love of mac and cheese, but in dessert form.

“You didn't tell me you'd sealed the deal already.” I don't accuse him, but I'm curious. Tor is an enigma to me.

He shrugs a shoulder, and an image of Paco superimposes itself over him, stealing the gesture. I shake my head a little, as though I can get rid of him.

No luck.

I shouldn't be distracted by guy A when I'm out with guy B. Bad Greta.

“I did not. My assistant did.”

I lean back, resting my elbow over the back of my chair. The silk of my thin blouse draws taut across my breasts and Tor's eyes track the movement.

I smile, feeling confident in a new way.

It's liberating—fan-effing-tastic. “A technicality, Tor.” I raise an eyebrow. “You made Charlie's day, and mine,” I admit. My happy bubble just can't be popped.

He spreads his hands out at his sides inoffensively. “I aim to please.”

The gesture triggers something.

My lungs suddenly hold scorching breath.

Tor sits up straighter, his relaxed expression becoming alarmed.

Something hidden and deep stirs. Like a fabled monster, it rises from the depths of my emotions, and my body bucks, remembering.

No sound.

Noiseless raw fear saturates me.

They move around me, securing my hands tightly to the bottom of bedposts—and am summarily ignored.

Bright light tosses its uncaring glare on the scene of my degradation.

I look down my body and see the first man.

His penis stands at rigid attention, and I can't… free myself.

Though my vision swims because of the drugs they fed me, I scream, loosing a shriek of unfiltered despair.

He moves between my legs; the proof of his torture bobs obscenely as he draws nearer.

His hands spread apart as his mask, a grotesque parody of a clown, cocks to the side as though considering my worth. Then an open palm lands on my cheek, silencing me instantly.

The taste of copper pennies fills my mouth.

I can't move as he tears into my unprepared, dry body.

The next scream is smothered by a gag. His sweat drips on my body like the salty tears I can't shed.

“Greta!” Tor calls loudly above me.

My eyes roll in their sockets, seeking his.

I blink, lying on the floor of the restaurant while strangers stare down at me.

Tears are cooling against my hot skin as they slick my face with their liquid sadness.

“There you are,” he says gently and scoops me up against him. “I-I am sorry. I don't know what happened. I was unsure what to do.”

Panic attack with a chaser of blackout to seal the emotional deal. My next breath rattles loose.

Tor stands with me in his arms. He looks around at the audience, and a hot tide of shame floods me.

“I think she's all right,” he says in Norwegian, and I allow myself to settle against him.

I'm always spent after an attack. I haven't had one in three months. I thought they were done.

Obviously not.

“Please, Tor, set me down.”

Without a word, he does.

His hands stay on my shoulders and I repress a shudder as I regulate my breathing.

I spot a softly lit sign with a woman's outline in a skirt. “I'm going to the restroom,” I say in English and he nods.

“Do you need me, Greta?”

Our gazes meet, and I offer a weak smile, shaking my head as I walk slowly to the bathroom.

I ignore the stares of the curious, keeping the door in sight as though it’s an SOS donut tossed into a stormy sea.

I open the door, move inside, and close it before throwing the bolt. The flat of my palm rests against the smooth birchwood veneer. My forehead is hot against its coolness.

I stand for seconds that become a minute.

I push away, walking mechanically to the wash basin, and turn on the cold water tap.

Two bright spots of color decorate my cheeks as though I've been slapped. The rest of me is ghostly pale.

I splash the rushing water over my face then drink some from my cupped hands.

This has to stop.

The problem is with the triggers themselves. I don't always know when some innocent smell or gesture or random sight will cause me to tumble down the slippery slope of memories. My exhale shudders out of me.

“Greta?” Tor asks through the door.

I realize I made a rhyme, and a hysterical bubble of laughter leaks out.

God.

“Just a moment,” I manage.

I can feel him waiting just outside the barrier between the outside and the cocoon of the bathroom. I have to face it all.

The knob is cold, my fingers icy.

I twist the knob and robotically open the door. His arms are spread wide, hands gripping the threshold. He studies my face, missing nothing. “Let's leave, Greta. I'll have Oliver drive into the city. We can talk.”

I don't know if I want to talk. I feel terrible, unsexy and unnerved.

I open my mouth to give him this version of my thoughts, and he puts a gentle fingertip over my lips. “Don't say anything. I would have to take you back to the hotel in any event.” He leans in; he's so tall, his forearm braces his body as his mouth tickles the shell of my ear. “Let me help you, Greta. Let me do as I said I would.”

His promise to my Father.

As I nod, my hair comes undone from the ornate twisted and shaped braid at the nape of my neck. I let the curtain of my hair shield my face, and Tor steps back. “Please.”

I crane my neck to look at him. My trust is so unsure. “Okay.”

He takes my elbow and leads me out of the restaurant.

*

Black sky stretches before us. Splotchy, midnight blue and true black mingle with stars scattered over the velvet of their union.

I shut my eyes, letting the smooth ride of the limo soothe my torn nerves.

Tor's voice breaks in. “Talk to me, Greta. What happened at the restaurant?”

“It's from the attack.” I understand I'm being vague. It's a means of self-preservation. Gia would recognize it a mile away.

“We were enjoying dessert, Greta.”

I hear his frustration in those five words. I open my eyes, and Tor leans forward, grasping my hands.

He waits.

I brace myself. “They didn't talk. They wore masks.”

I swallow hard, flicking my eyes to his, then glance away. “My senses were deprived. It has been difficult to give the police anything to go by.”

“Your attackers—they remain at large?” His voice is devoid of emotion.

My breath freezes inside my lungs. I grapple, using the centering techniques Gia taught me.

My eyes are wide, and Tor moves closer.

“No, let me deal with it.” I inhale deeply, centering myself with my go-to memory—the good kind.

I envision that long-ago summer day. My legs are pumping in the swing as Father’s strong arms push me higher. Butterflies twirl beyond the tips of my toes as crickets make the music of the season. The sun heats my skin slowly. The fragrance of summer is all around me: grass, flowers, a child's sweat, and soap. Strong hands brace my back then leave it with each push.

My heartbeat returns to normal. I open my eyes and can finally look Tor in the face.

Inhale. Exhale.

“Yes, they're somewhere.” I shrug, twisting my hands ceaselessly. I flog the panic that threatens to rise with acknowledging the one horrific fact. “Without an ID, voice recognition—they used…”

I can't say it.

“Protection?” Tor supplies in a matter-of-fact way, which I'm grateful for.

“For themselves. They didn't have me in mind at all.” I shiver, cupping my elbows. It keeps my restless hands busy.

One did not. He wanted my defilement complete.

“DNA would be a way for their capture,” Tor says thoughtfully.

If he were in the system.

I nod miserably, not meeting his eyes. “Yes,” I whisper. “Now, all I have are these strange triggers. Fragments of memory, nothing concrete.”

“Greta.”

My gaze moves to his face. Pools of light cast by the streetlamps strike his features rhythmically as the limo speeds along.

“They say scent is the strongest memory trigger of all.”

I don't reply.

Tor knits his fingers between his knees, and they dangle there. He points to me with them steepled together. “It could be these criminals will yet be brought to justice. Say the police have suspicions…”

A smile crosses my lips briefly at his language gaff. “Suspects.”

He inclines his head. “Yes, suspects. They have suspects, bring them in. They are blindfolded, and you could get close enough to…” He doesn't finish his thought.

The idea of scent recognition is actually a brilliant—though terrifying—idea. Panic edges in, but I beat it into submission again. I try on a smile. “You know, that's the best thing I've heard in a long time.”

Tor smiles back, and I realize it's been a miserable date for him. I freak out—then we talk about my gang rape. Then he comes up with the first decent solution I've heard—ouch.

The cops just sort of gave up. My assailants hadn't spoken. They'd camouflaged themselves. They'd worn condoms and gloves—except for one, whose DNA couldn't be typed. It had been brightly lit, but none had any identifying marks I could remember.

What I did know is all four were Caucasian, with blond hair and eyes in shades of the sea. Not innocuous. Deadly. Cold.

They beat me into unconsciousness. I can't touch on the memory of how I was found for even one moment.

“Greta.”

The police discovered me naked, violated and with an IV bag of saline solution pinned to my arm. Their intent was to wreck me, but keep me alive.

Absolute success.

“Greta?”

I look up from my hands. My fingers are clenched so tightly the knuckles have bled to white.

He covers my hands with his own. I notice their size and push away the negative images of hands on my body without my permission.

This is Tor.

He made a promise of protection to Father. He's a client.

I grab his hands like a lifeline and smile. “Thank you.”

He raises my hand to his mouth. “No thank you is necessary, Greta.”

His lips are warm on my skin.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Paco

She is as lovely as her photo. She also looks exactly like Greta.

Lisbeth Wesbestad scrutinizes me as closely as I do her. Tallinn walks toward us.

“Well that hurt like a bitch.” Tallinn gently rotates his neck, hand at his nape. “Did you judo chop my ass?” He gives Lisbeth an accusing look.

“What?” she asks, a quizzical wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows.

I step away, wincing slightly at my body's injuries. “Definitely,” I answer with a single sarcastic word.

Lisbeth puts slim hands on her hips. “This is not the place for disseminating information.” Her Nordic accent is light.

I agree.

Tallinn scans the area. “Yeah.” He shoots a sour look at Lisbeth.

“Greta, right?”

It is not just me who sees it.

Lisbeth's eyes round. “What did you say?”

Tallinn rolls his eyes. “Listen, lady, we just met you in the elevator earlier. I remember you said your name was Greta. I'm thinking you're not gonna forget my man here, Paco.”

Her face turns to me, utterly blank of understanding. “I have never met either one of you. And if I had, I would not soon forget.”

I shake my head, noting subtle differences. “This isn't her, Tallinn. She speaks differently. Moves differently.”

He circles her, and she pivots to keep her eye on both of us. “Not going to do you like you did me, sister, but man—it's almost irresistible.”

“Do not put that on me. You two were skulking in the dark, dressed like hoodlums.”

I laugh in disbelief. “Really? And you just happened to be here at the same moment, partaking of a similar activity, attacking first Tallinn then myself.” My hand comes to my chest then falls away. I shake my head. “No, tell us what is really happening here. And do not think to censor it. I believe we're beyond that.”

“Give it to us straight.”

She frowns.

“Tell us the entire version of the truth,” I clarify.

“First, who are you?” she asks.

“I am Paco, and this is my associate, Tallinn.”

She wags a finger at us. “You two don't impress me as being friends.”

Tallinn grunts. “I'm his guard.”

Lisbeth chuckles. “Excellent job back there.”

Tallinn's hands fist. “Don't push it.”

She whistles. “I live for pushing it, as you say.”

I can see that.

I hold up a palm to stave off their apparent animosity. “Do you have a place we can go and talk?”

“Yes.” She turns and strides away.

We follow.

She moves through the dark; only her blond hair guides us. Tallinn and I are constantly on guard for whatever other surprises might spring before us like ghostly jack-in-the-boxes.

After twists and turns so numerous we lose our sense of direction, she leads us to a small stone cottage crammed between two great houses. Stilts hold their fronts over the water. The waves lapping at the great wood poles are the only noise in the clinging silence.

Lisbeth enters the back door of the small stone house and jogs down a staircase of rock so steep, it's more a ladder than true stairs.

As we descend, absolute darkness engulfs us. The scent of the place is musty. I can smell the sea leeching through the stone walls.

Sudden, harsh light blinks on.

Lisbeth is holding a kerosene lantern high and to her left. The brightest part spears her temple like a glowing wound.

Taking in my surroundings. I squint at the sudden brightness. We appear to be in a loose catacomb of stone tunnels.

“A little further,” Lisbeth says and Tallinn shrugs. He moves first, and I follow. A minute of travel ends at a stone archway. I am well and truly lost now.

Lisbeth sets the lantern on a roughhewn wood table, so ancient it has grooves where a thousand elbows have rested.

“Sit, please.”

I observe Tallinn's uneasy scan of the only exit.

She sighs. “Father can't protect us anymore,” she says as introduction.

“Okay,” Tallinn throws up his hands. “Color me confused.”

Her gaze nails Tallinn. “You thought I was Greta?”

We nod.

“When I was very small, Father and Mother separated my twin sister and me. At the time, he was the wealthiest clothing merchant in Norway. He was very protective of us.” Her blue eyes look down at her feet, and she shakes her head softly, as though wiping away mental cobwebs.

Her head rises, and those blue eyes pin me to my seat.

“Greta Dahlem is my sister, and she has been told I died.”

I internalize my shock, thinking of the woman in the elevator. She looks exactly like Lisbeth, but Greta possesses a vulnerability that is absent from Lisbeth. I can't name what it is or why, but it is there.

“Father made sure to hide one of his heirs—as a protective measure.”

“Why?” I ask, intrigued, despite the million questions fighting for position inside my brain. I shift my weight, my ribs creaking with the movement. I clench my teeth against the discomfort.

“He was partnered with someone he did not trust.” She paces back and forth. “He felt that hiding one of us would protect his line. Father had me classically trained in combat and weaponry and schooled in science, as well.”

“That we know,” Tallinn interjects in a sour voice.

Her features sharpen at his inference. “Then you must know my name's a fake.”

“We know Paco has been sent to kill you.”

Lisbeth looks unsurprised by Tallinn's words.

“I am supposedly a relative of yours,” I add.

She gives an inelegant snort. “Absolutely not. You're a Spaniard, or possibly French. There is not a drop of Nordic blood there.” She flips her palm at me, and I see a faint bruise on her forearm. I remember spinning her with that arm.

Guilt rushes in, but I squelch it. Lisbeth would have taken me out if she could.

“I don't know; Paco's a tall dude.”

She ignores Tallinn. “Who sent you?”

Tallinn gives a rough grunt at her dismissal.

“The drug criminals of my country.”

“America?” she asks.

“No, I am Mexican.”

“You do not have the look of a Mexican.”

“I know,” I concede.

She paces away, hand cupping her chin. “Something is not right.”

Tallinn laughs, giving her his version of disdain. “Oh, really? Ya think?”

She returns his look with one of her own. Then shifts her laser stare to me. “So you came to save me like some American superhero?”

It sounds ridiculous when posed like that. “No. I-I wished to solve the mystery. The narco has threatened to make things unpleasant if I don't murder you.”

Her features arrange into a classic expression of confusion.

“But why would a Mexican drug cartel concern themselves with an heiress in secret?”

“For reasons unknown. But it behooves us to find out. They have outed you to us, and who knows who else.”

Lisbeth puts her nail into her mouth and gnaws at it. The apparent habit is the first nervous gesture I've witnessed during our brief acquaintance. “I received a message that my cover was blown and assassins were on their way.”

Tallinn sits up straight. “When?”

Her gaze lights on him. “Two days ago.”

Tallinn and I glance at each other. “Somebody's playing us all. Lisbeth has been in secret all this time, her identity protected until forty-eight hours ago. You were pegged to do her at the same time? It's too neat.” Tallinn throws up his hands. “How this Greta chick is involved, I don't know.”

“Wait,” Lisbeth asks, holding a hand up. “I've just now thought of it. How are you acquainted with my sister?”

“The one who thinks you're worm food?” Tallinn drawls, folding his arms across his barrel chest.

“That's not helpful,” I comment.

Tallinn's expression melts to sullen. “We met her at the hotel. She looks just like you,” Tallinn says.

“Obviously, we're twins.”

I study her face, hitting on something. “That is not the concern, is it?”

Lisbeth meets my stare openly, naked fear making her beauty ugly.

I push off from the brick wall I was leaning against. “What is it?” My eyes score her features.

“She is in terrible danger here.”

All the connection I felt with Greta for the three minutes of surreal time in the elevator crashes into me.

The irony is: I have none with Lisbeth.

I grip her shoulders, and she smacks my hands, spinning away.

“Why?” I ask through my teeth. “What makes it so?”

Her formal English is enunciated with curt syllables. “Because it was my father who told me she was safe, but only if she remained in America and not return to Norway, and I stayed hidden.”

“I'm lost,” Tallinn says from behind us.

She exhales in a rough rush of anger. “Father and Mother were in a terrible auto accident just two years ago. Mother died immediately.” The solemn confession creates a tense silence before she continues, “Father… lingered.” Lisbeth swipes at eyes that bleed water. Her sadness etches a pathway down a face hardened by the life she's lived. “He lost his voice. But before he did, he told me his suspicions.”

This is the crux of it. I know it.

“Father’s business partner had threatened him with mortal harm if he didn't relinquish majority stock in the company.”

“What did your dad say?” Tallinn asks.

She laughs. It is not a happy sound, but a mournful one. “No, of course,” Lisbeth whispers.

My mind gives birth to a dark idea. I can't stop it. “When did this business partner give this ultimatum?” I ask.

Her gaze finds Tallinn first then lands with unflinching intensity on me. “Two days before the crash.”

We stare at each other. “It was no accident,” I state with certainty.

“Yes,” she agrees.

*

The correct thing to do in this circumstance would be to confess my participation in Club Alpha to this woman.

She is in hiding, and her sister, a woman I can't wipe from my mind, is in imminent danger.

However, it is unclear if the entire scenario is part of Club Alpha’s scheme. What is certain: I’m too profoundly entrenched to extradite myself at this point. The narco threat is like a noose around my neck while a woman who is obviously not a relation has just revealed that an old business partner who might have murdered her parents has possibly targeted her sister for revenge.

Essentially, Lisbeth lives only due to her anonymity.

What of Greta?

Lisbeth breaks into my thoughts. “I have not even dared to Google my sister. I know nothing of her life in the States. I'm worried, now that she's here in Norway, there is some way that my father's old rival will find her.”

Tallinn puts his hands on his hips. “Okay, why does hurting Greta make any difference? Your dad said no to the shares.”

Lisbeth nods. “Yes.”

“As his business partner and minority shareholder, upon your dad's death, ownership of the company would automatically default to him.” Tallinn lifts his shoulders and lets them fall sharply.

I frown, trying to make sense of it all. “It must have. Forgive me—your parents are dead, so Greta's endangerment, your hiding, should be a moot point in the now.”

“He is dead.”

“The dude who was the minority shareholder?” Tallinn asks.

She inclines her head. “He died shortly after my parents’ accident.”

Tallinn swipes his head in an irritated caress. “I'm confused.”

Lisbeth sighs, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, and the motion instantly reminds me of Greta, though Greta's hair had been in a braided knot of some kind.

“My parents”—Lisbeth ducks her head for a moment—“were killed.”

Tallinn nods.

“Then shortly after my father passed, his partner perished in an accident, as well.”

I frown, cupping my chin, and stand. I step away as the wheels of my mind spin. “What type of accident?”

“Chartered jet. He was killed, along with the small crew.”

My hand falls. “I don't like it. It's too much coincidence.”

“Got to agree with you, Paco. I smell a rat.”

My eyes shift to hers once more. “Who is bequeathed your father's holdings now?”

“I am in hiding, and as of now, if I do not reveal myself, it could only go to Greta. Billions.”

Tallinn's eyebrows jerk at the sum of inheritance.

My expression mirrors his. Lacing my fingers on my head, I walk the length of the stone basement. The unpleasant smell of seawater and decay fills my nose. I pace back and forth, putting a puzzle together in my mind. I can't force the narco-murder-relative-extortion angle to agree, but the potential of a billion-dollar inheritance fits.

The promise of money moves humanity to vileness.

“Does Greta know she is the sole heir?”

Lisbeth nods. “She must. As far as Father led her to believe, everything was held in trust for her until she reaches age thirty.”

“She is unaware of the bad intentions of this business partner?”

“I think Father meant to explain things to her after our twenty-first birthdays—but he passed before he could.”

“What's this jag-up's name?” Tallinn asks.

“The minority shareholder?” Lisbeth asks.

We nod.

“Ole Aros.”

Gooseflesh breaks out on my body. I know this is critical, but I haven’t figured out how everything fits together.

Tallinn's uneasy glance finds me. “He's dead, though,” Tallinn clarifies, also mining for the entire story.

“Yes,” Lisbeth replies, her gaze shifting to mine. “You've thought of something?”

I nod. “Aros is dead. Is he survived by anyone?” My voice is sharp.

“Yes, he has one son.”

“Who?” I ask.

“He isn't involved in the business directly. He owns a small, elite textile company. It manufactures wardrobes essentials for the extreme outdoorsman.”

I wave my hand at her words, and her full lips thin.

“What if he still holds his father's minority shares? And Greta is unknowingly sitting on his slice of the pie?” I say.

She shakes her head. “It's been two years since their death. He would have made a move by now if it was his intention.”

“I don't think so. If he were smart, it would be all about timing. Perfect timing.”

“But you don't fit, Paco. Your part doesn't make sense in this,” she says in clear frustration.

Club Alpha. Or not?

Tallinn delivers a knowing look in my direction.

“I have been put here for a reason. I don't know the why yet—I can't connect all the dots, as the Americans say. But I won't leave it now. I have hours to fulfill the deed I was tasked with.”

“My murder?” Lisbeth's lips curl.

I chuckle, though nothing is funny. It's merely a release of nervous tension.

“Yes. They've provided a doctor who will validate your death.”

“Hmm. How long do we have?” she asks us both.

Tallinn answers, “Almost a day before they begin to hurt Paco's people.”

“We don't have much time, then.” She looks between the two of us. “Someone knows who I am and has gone to great lengths to compromise my identity.”

I swiftly tell her about the break-in and her stolen photograph.

She exhales in a hiss. “My anonymity is totally blown then.”

“Maybe we can smuggle her into the hotel?”

I laugh then sober, giving her critical eyes. “Maybe we can.”

“We can't stay here,” Tallinn says, giving the room a look of clear distaste.

“I accept,” Lisbeth says.

“What?” I ask.

“Your help, though I have a place I can hide away that no one will think to find me.”

She removes a phone that uses a pre-paid card. “Give me your number, and I'll text you for a meeting point.”

We exchange numbers.

“This cloak and dagger is chill and all, but this is real danger, Paco. I can't keep you safe if I don't even know what to look for.”

Our gazes meet. “I understand. But this is bigger than me.”

Lisbeth stares at me. “I feel as though I'm missing something.”

I shake my head. The more complicated my involvement in this affair, the more I realize how little I understand what's happening. The woman I thought was the object of Club Alpha is not she.

Greta is the one.

My very bones thrum with the knowledge. She doesn't know what comes at her from all directions.

I don't reply to Lisbeth's fishing comment as we move back through the snaking tunnels underneath the cottage. When we exit the steep stone staircase I take a deep, cleansing breath of the chilly air, relieved to be free from the cloying subterranean space.

“Greta doesn't know she's in danger.”

Lisbeth shakes her head. “We don't know she's in danger; we suspect it. But whoever was responsible for the deaths of my parents, and possibly Ole Aros, will be aware of Greta.”

“We can't just bust in and freak her shit out.”

I look at Tallinn, trying to silence him with my eyes.

Lisbeth sighs. “I have been waiting my entire life to reunite with my sister. I don't want our first glimpse of each other to be ruined by circumstance.”

“Sometimes we cannot choose what fate has ordained,” I say.

She casts a speculative glance my way. “That's cryptic.”

“He's that way,” Tallinn says. “What's Arosʼ son's name?”

We're already parting in the alley where we first made our violent contact.

Lisbeth turns, her face shadowed. “Tor Aros.” She walks away.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lisbeth

“Bury it,” I groan, loving the feel of all his brutal length stabbing deep inside me. His ownership.

His deceit.

My hands are zip-tied to the bed rails as Tor abuses my body, and I spread my legs to allow whatever he delivers.

“You are so much more agreeable than your sister,” he comments softly, banging me so hard, my womb trembles at the intrusion, begging for the pounding to stop.

It won't. Tor will not stop until his needs are satisfied, and my own deviant ones are sated.

“Did the spic and nigger believe your tale?” he asks against my temple as he slams into me.

I can't breathe as his hand wraps my throat, squeezing gently as he speeds his tempo, hurting me as he shoves so far, the bruising of injury radiates from my core to my extremities.

Stars burst in my vision as my throbbing pussy builds to the shattering orgasm that hovers at the edge of an explosion. A release brought on by pain and oxygen depravation—those are my needs.

Tor knows them intimately.

My fingers curl around the metal bars of the headboard. The beat of the curving metal top against the wall vibrates my eardrums.

His large hand squeezes harder.

I manage a strangled yes as my answer.

He spears his cock in a final thrust, and a gurgled choke of true pain escapes me. Tor smiles down at me, pinching my esophagus savagely, stealing my breath. Then he stiffens like a muscled plank above my body. Semen gushes like heated water, and he releases my throat as my own orgasm crashes into him like opposing waves meeting the same shore.

“Ah!” I rasp in a hoarse shout of miserable ecstasy. My bulging eyes flutter shut, and a sigh of pure contentment eases out of my abused throat.

Fantastic. As always.

He cuts the tie that binds my hands with a blade from the nightstand. His hands slide down my body, and he flips me over, twisting my arms above me. His tongue is already at my entrance, lapping up his own cum and the juices of my quenched arousal.

I quake from the aftershocks of his wet torture.

Tor plunges the length of his wet tongue inside me, and I shudder. A post-coital tremble of tiny orgasms shiver along my inner walls, softly clenching around his hot, wet organ licking at my slickness and his sticky residue.

“You taste so sweet with my seed, Lisbeth.”

I plunge my fingertips in his hair, pressing his face deeper into my heat.

It is as though we were made for each other.

We hate the same.

We fuck the same.

We are the same—two halves of one whole.

*

I press my forearm against my flat stomach. The steady heartbeat in my abdominal artery remains elevated, though our sex is long past.

Tipping my head back, I purse my lips and softly push out a loose smoke ring

“That will kill you one day,” Tor comments casually, running his fingertip the length of my torso. I tense when his ghostly touch passes against a sensitive rib.

“Did that Spaniard damage you, my flower?” His voice is deadly, though his touch is tender.

“No more than you damage me when we fuck, Tor Aros.”

I stab the cigarette out in the heavy crystal ashtray sitting atop a seventeenth-century shaving table.

Before my next breath, my chin is in the viselike grip of his large hand.

Pale-green eyes blaze at me without the camouflage of his brown contacts. Anger that surfaces too easily swims in irises like luminescent emerald fire encased in ice.

The tips of his fingers heat my flesh as his head cocks to the side, regarding me with cold features. “I give you every bit of what you ask for. I am the only one who knows what you need. That Spanish prick does not get to touch you—mar your skin.”

His fingers release me suddenly as his finger stabs me deep within.

I gasp at the suddenness of his digit’s intrusion. “This”—his finger swirls inside, hooking a tender and sensitive spot then dragging deliciously against it. I sigh—“is mine, Lisbeth. No other man shall fuck you.”

My eyes flash at his. “Yet you fucked my slut sister.”

His finger slides out of me, and he sucks on it as I lose myself in the swimming depths of his gaze. I watch in rapture as his finger plows in and out of those lips that just ate at me—a parody of our coupling.

He releases the index finger from his mouth with a wet pop, so loud in the silent room.

“She was no slut when we degraded her in every way we were able.”

I smile. It pleases me when Tor rehearses the degradation of Greta, the unworthy bitch.

He flips on top of me, easily caging me with his huge body. And for a man so big, he is nimble—and dangerous. Tor flicks his tongue along the seam of my barely closed lips, and they part.

“You taste like the ashes of vengeance, Lisbeth.”

I bite his lower lip, stopping just shy of breaking the skin.

He growls.

“And we are this close to having it all,” I reply in a low voice.

The stubble on his chin is very red, unlike the subtle deep auburn of the hair of his head. He rubs the sharp hairs along my cheekbone.

“I am aware.” Tor kisses the tip of my nose, and I hold my breath for more punishment, but he is too spent for his normal games.

Playing the winsome white knight would be too much for most, but for a man of Tor's culpabilities, it is exhausting.

He flops over on his back, staring at the ceiling.

I look, as well, taking in the hand-painted watercolors from three hundred years ago—a time when such things were commissioned and took two years in the making. Plump cupids rest with arrows hocked, ready to slay their intended victims.

My lips curl. If I could simply pierce Greta with my arrow… But I don't desire speed. I want a creative, tortuous end. It is the only finality to close the circle of my hate forever.

Tor rises onto an elbow and plants his head in his palm, studying me. “You do not think it was unwise to show your hand with—”

I vehemently shake my head. “Don't behave as though you're confused, Tor. Say their names.” My lips quirk.

It is Tor's singular flaw: he thinks with all his white Danish glory that somehow he is superior. When in reality, the victor will resolve to be—whoever that might be, whatever race that winner might happen to belong to.

Winning is dominated by only the best.

“You're not perturbed I race name, are you? Because I would expect political correctness from anyone but you.”

My brows come together, and I roll my eyes. “No. Castillo and his little slave friend, Tallinn, are inconsequential. What troubles me is this narco from his country.”

“He is not a Spaniard. He is Mexican?” Tor says, though I know he is aware.

“His ancestral people came from Spain, I presume.” I wave my hand. Who really cares? I find it tiresome that Tor does. “We'll swat them like flies. And Paco believes that I am the female I behave like.”

Tor's hand smooths down my naked side, then his finger presses with sudden viciousness against the knot-like bruise I couldn't block Paco from delivering.

I hiss, and he grins. “Does it hurt?” he asks softly.

I glare at him. “You know it does.”

“I will pull his legs and arms off like a gnat for touching what is not his.”

I melt at his words, meeting his sea-green eyes, so vibrant resting within a face with dusky skin. “Don't let your size make you complacent, Tor.”

“I am Danish. Size is our gift.” His voice is proud.

A frustrated sigh escapes and I answer with a dangerous amount of sarcasm, “Yes, it is wonderful that you're two meters tall.”

He makes a space between his index finger and thumb a hair apart to indicate he is actually a little taller.

My slight frown deepens though I ignore his boasting. “Castillo is a threat. He held back with me—I could not have taken him.” I fold my arms, and my breasts jiggle with the suddenness of the movement.

His gaze latches onto my nipple for a moment before he pinches it.

Thoughts of the Spaniard vanish as my legs widen to accept whatever he offers.

His eyes are hooded with desire, and the green of his irises darken to emeralds kissed by midnight.

“So greedy for pain, Lisbeth.”

My eyelids droop. “Yes,” I breathe.

“I will kill this Paco slowly.” Tor twists my nipple in emphasis, and moisture floods the inner folds of my sex.

I begin to pant, and he moves on top of me. The tip of him is already hard and eager for more punishment of everything that is now soft and tender between my legs from our last encounter only hours before.

He fists my hair, holding my head.

Tor punches his cock inside me, and I shout at the sensation of being filled too quickly with too much girth and length.

“And then I shall rape your sister again before the life leaves his body, so that he may partake of her defilement.”

He rocks out then savagely penetrates me again.

I can't help it—I orgasm at his words as he rocks forward, hitting the mouth of my womb with such force that I give a choked half-scream with the weight of the pain and the pleasure of my coming around his cock and milking the sickness that is Tor.

I will finally get all that I have always deserved.

Money.

Adoration. A man who was born to complete me.

And my relation will get what she deserves—a fitting end to her position, which is beneath me.

*

“How was it left with Greta?” I ask.

Tor swivels his head to look at me, cleaning his weapons in the nude.

I never become tired of the sight of him. His long body sits perched above an array of knives and two guns. Biceps flex, and triceps bunch in ripples of muscled flesh as he uses a long slim pipe cleaner to get at every nook and cranny of the barrel of a gun. He sets aside each weapon as he finishes.

Tor practices shooting almost daily. He handles knives slightly better than I do, and they're all custom-made for his hand, weighted for throwing.

I ache between my legs, helpless to resist him. I have no self-preservation when it comes to Tor Aros. A sane woman would move heaven and earth to leave him.

I know that my crazy is all that keeps me sane.

“She thinks I am her staunch defender.” He chuckles.

I join in. “Perfect.”

“I will meet with her again.” He looks up from beneath his ginger lashes as I gaze at him. “I have asked to court her.”

The breath leaves my body. Rage infuses the very pores of my skin, leaking out of me like poisonous geysers of hate.

He. Is. Mine.

Tor's eyes roam my face, and he licks his lips as though catching residual delight from something he’s tasted. “So dangerous. If I did not know what you are inside”—he touches the spot of his muscular chest with the gun above where his heart is, leaving a spot of gun oil—“I would fear for my safety. For all my size, you would be a formidable opponent.”

He speaks the truth.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall. That is how Tor originally engineered our meeting—on the mat.

We met as opponents and became lovers, of a sort. When he felt the time was right, he broached the subject of a union other than fucking and fighting, one steeped in vengeance and monetary glory.

He thought to kill both Greta and me. Instead, I became his greatest ally.

My dreams of torture, murder, and eventual riches matched Tor's so perfectly, we laugh at the coincidence of it all now.

But there is no such thing as coincidence, only providence.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Greta

“Oh my good Lord, ʻcourtingʼ?” Gia asks slowly.

“I kid you not—verbatim.”

“I don't know—”

“Come on, Gi, this is the real deal. You've been pushing me to date-actually date—and Tor falls into my lap. He's warm; he knew my parents. He's Danish, so I'd be overcoming my issues with the Caucasian male…”

“I wish I could meet him,” she states in a flat voice.

I can tell, even with the thousands of miles that separate us, she's biting her nail. “But?”

“I don't know; he seems too good to be true.”

“Is this a psych thing? Or is this a woman thing?”

“Women's intuition.” I hear the white-noise buzzing of our cells, international calling notwithstanding.

Now it's my turn to bite my nail. I gaze up at the ceiling, lying on the cushy bed in my hotel room. I can still feel Tor's lips on my hand where they brushed my knuckles.

I shiver. “You told me to follow my gut.”

“I did.” Gia sighs. “It's just—what about this Paco fella?”

Now there's where my gut gets flustered. “Yes. I felt something there, too. For a stranger. In an elevator. It was the weirdest thing on the planet.”

“Is it the same as Tor?”

Definitely not. “Paco was combustible. I mean, I felt like I'd stuck my finger in a light socket.”

Gia laughs. “Doesn't sound very pleasant, Greta.”

“No!” I laugh, too. “I made that sound bad. What I meant was there's that enigmatic chemistry you spoke about in our sessions. That I'd know it when it struck.”

“And Tor?” Gia asks instantly.

I hesitate for a couple of seconds.

“Can't take back the pause, Greta.”

I nod, though I know she can't see me. “He feels safe, exciting. He's handsome.”

“That's all greeeaat,” Gia says with mild sarcasm. “But there's plenty of men in the world who would love to pair up with the Nordic goddess.”

I smile. “Right.” My sarcasm isn't mild.

“Listen, Greta, I just want you to be cautious. This thing with Tor is moving quickly. And I just—I hear something in your voice when you talk about Paco that seems real.”

I shrug. It didn't go anywhere. I met him in the elevator, and it was instant perfection—physically. And knowing my background, that's saying something. But Tor is here.

Tangible.

He made the first move, and I need that. I tell Gia.

“I'm still not convinced. Text me every day. And Charlie gave you an additional week as an Atta Girl?”

“Yes. I—”

“You feel proud of yourself?” Gia interrupts softly.

“Yes,” I whisper back, slightly ashamed.

“Don't own false guilt, Greta. You earned this client. It doesn't matter that he wants to get into your panties…”

I bark out a laugh. “Uh-huh.”

“Doesn't he?”

I think about the heat in Tor's eyes and the possessive way he held my hand as his lips pressed against my sensitive flesh.

“Yeah, I think.”

“Okay, I'll try not to overthink it, and you'll go slow. If a trigger comes again, you know how to manage it.”

“Tor saw me through that.”

“Which I like. He gets a Gia brownie point.”

“But not enough to give me the sign of the cross or something.”

Gia laughs. “No absolution. Not yet.”

“Why are you so cautious now?”

I can feel her shrug.

“Don't know,” she admits slowly. “I guess I'm more of a control freak than I knew. And there's the Club Alpha possibility in all this somewhere.”

I open my mouth to reply when a knock raps against the solid birchwood door of my suite.

I sit up in bed, my brow knitting. “Gotta go. Someone's at the door.”

“Oh? Who is it?”

“Nosey,” I say, slipping my heels on from my date with Tor, and walk to the peephole.

Paco.

Oh my God. Heat flushes through me like water down a drain.

“It's Paco.”

I hear a sharp intake of breath. “Hot. Damn. I'll let you go, but you text me the minute he leaves. Be careful.”

A second knock has me jumping in my heels. “I thought you liked the sound of Paco,” I say as though I'm in a trance.

“I do. It doesn't mean I'm not cautious.”

“Okay.” Without looking at my cell, I swipe Gia's image away and slowly open the door.

*

Paco

My eyes say they are the same. These two women are identical twins, separated by so much and so little.

But my heart knows the difference. Greta harbors a gentleness that is utterly absent in her twin. As though my body is reading my mind, my ribs twinge from Lisbeth's torso strikes.

“Hello,” she says hesitantly, a question in her clear, melodic voice.

My heart picks up beats it didn't have before, beginning to hammer.

I ignore the physical excitement of my body.

My eyes take in her beautiful outfit, including the heels that make her within an inch or so of my six feet and three inches.

But it's her knuckles bleeding to white as they grip the edge of the door that gives me pause.

“Hello,” I say, putting my hands in the pockets of my slacks. My appearance is a decided improvement from before, when I was sweat-soaked and as appealing as a spoiling tomato.

“May I come in?” I ask softly.

Greta's eyes widen. “I don't know you, Paco.”

I rock back on my heels. True. “You do know me. We met on the elevator.”

I give a sly smile.

She grins in return. “That's true.”

Greta does not trust easily. Fear edges her eyes, making them tight. Her irises are no longer the easy sky blue but a deep, troubled sea within the storm of her face.

I touch her hand, and her grip tightens on the wood. “Come to the rooftop then.”

I retreat a step, and she raises her eyebrows before finally giving a nod of agreement. “Hang on a second. Let me get my keycard.”

I wait, watching her slender body weave through the low, minimalistic furniture of her suite.

My new penthouse suite is one of two on the thirty-eighth floor. The rooftop terrace is above the damaged suite I had occupied on the fortieth.

She moves toward me, and I admire the subtle sway of wool-encased hips and wonder on the chill that awaits.

I open my mouth to remind her to bring a coat, but she's already out the door and closing it behind her.

“What is this about?” she asks, walking beside me to the elevator.

I feel my lips curl. “It is not obvious?”

Her face floods with subtle pink color, but she asks, “What country are you from?” It’s not an accusation, but a natural, unfettered curiosity, which appeals to me.

Greta is not pretentious. It's refreshing.

“I am Mexican.”

Her smile instantly warms my skin.

Her happiness at my revelation surprises me. “What is that smile for?” I select the up button on the lighted keys.

“I-I think it's wonderful to meet new people, is all,” she answers softly, but her eyes shift away. When they meet mine again, I see more within those depths, but nothing she's willing to vocalize.

The elevator doors part, and we step inside.

Silence reigns as we make smooth progress to the rooftop.

“Where's your friend?” Greta asks.

“He is nearby.”

The soft whir of the elevator's smooth ascent whispers between us.

“Cryptic,” she comments.

I hold her eyes, thinking of Lisbeth's same choice of words earlier, and gooseflesh springs over my skin. “Truthful. He is my guard, but I have asked for privacy in this conversation.”

“So it's not the pleasure of my company.” Her voice sounds bruised, and I want to immediately wipe away the words that caused the hurt in her comment.

“Very much. But after we talk about the things I must say, you might never want the pleasure of mine again.”

Her pale eyebrows pull together as the elevator dings.

We walk out together unto a slate stone patio. Stars twinkle in a night free of light pollution.

Norway dims the lights in the evening.

The bones of pergolas are bare of foliage this late in the year, but they hold gnarled vines. Party lights sway in the chilly breeze, casting a glow over the stone and wood.

“It's beautiful,” Greta comments quietly, her eyes everywhere on the roof. She shivers, and I shrug out of my coat.

I hold it out to her with a finger.

She instantly backs away, and I frown, wanting to know the reason she behaves like a dog that’s been kicked too many times. I am unafraid to ask tough insights I gain through observation. “Is it because I am a man or because you do not know me?”

I appreciate that she does not pretend to misunderstand me.

“Both,” she says in short reply. She snatches the proffered coat as though she doesn't wish to give herself time to change her mind. She slips it over her silk blouse, and the sleeves reach midway over the tops of her hands.

Greta flaps her arms like a bird at her side, and I burst out laughing.

“It does not fit,” I acknowledge with a nod.

She shakes her head. Wisps of hair that are silvered by moonlight flutter beside her temple, and I stifle the urge to tuck them behind her ear.

“No, but it's warm.” She bites her lip, seeming to consider something, then she meets my eyes. Her chin kicks up, and I see the spark of personality she hides. “It smells like you.”

I throw up my hands. “I hope that is an improvement over before.”

I can see her blush even in the minimal light from the swag lighting. “I like the way you smelled. Then.” Her eyes meet mine. “And now.”

I don't hold my breath, but it feels like a weighted lump inside my chest. “Yet you're too fearful to allow me inside your room.”

She nods slowly.

“Prudent,” I say, moving away, giving her the space I sense she needs.

“I like you, Paco. But I don't know you. I feel like you're a good man…”

“But what do I want?” My lips quirk.

Her eyes inspect the tips of her high heels. “Yes.”

My palms dampen. “Club Alpha.”

Her face jerks up, eyes rounding. “Yes.”

“I am a player.” My gaze holds her prisoner, and adrenaline swamps my chest, making breathing a chore. “Are you, as well?”

“Yes,” she answers without hesitation.

Good.

My shoulders drop, the tension easing.

“Something has come to my attention.”

She pulls a face of such pure confusion, I chuckle. “Besides the fact that we've met within two weeks of Club Alpha's quarter?”

“Beside that.”

“What?” Greta asks, more relaxed now that she knows I'm another player.

“Your sister.”

Her confusion turns to disbelief. “What would my sister have to do with Club Alpha?”

“I have made her acquaintance.” I do not reveal how that came to be. That Greta might be in grave danger. That Tor Aros is the primary suspect. That I am not in league with the police. That I have no proof. Or that I'm supposed to kill Lisbeth—or her.

I do not voice the mess of my thoughts.

Greta clears her throat disdainfully. “That is not funny, Paco.”

She begins to take off my jacket, and I react instinctively, grasping the lapels with my hands and pulling her forward.

Her fear is palatable.

My desire to protect Greta and have her close to me is a compulsion I cannot ignore.

I will not.

“Greta,” I say softly.

“Let go of me,” she says in a tight voice.

“She has been in hiding all this time—lived an alternative existence from your own. Now she is in danger, and so are you.”

This close to her soft, fair skin, I can see her pulse leaping in the hollow of her throat.

I lean closer, and her head tips back.

She ceases all my thoughts. I've never been with a woman whose mere proximity is so dangerous to me. But Greta is that.

And more.

I cannot stop the words. “Do not fight what is between us, Greta.”

My nose presses against the crook of her neck, and I stop fighting what I've longed to do since we met in the elevator.

I press my lips to skin meant for my kiss.

“No,” Greta says, but her hands grasp the back of my neck, pulling me tighter against her.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Seconds pour into a minute, and I begin to pull away from the only fragrance I ever hoped to smell.

“Don't stop.”

Her acquiesce breathes over my skin, and small hairs rise to her nearness and her words.

I slide my hands underneath the jacket, and my fingers spread at her lower back, pressing Greta into my body.

She sighs, and I eat the sound with my mouth.

Her inexperience is evident—at once potent and intoxicating. I lead, marking her with my tongue. The heat of our kiss ignites a dormant switch inside me I did not know existed.

“Greta,” I say between kissing her lips, the corner of her mouth, and across her face.

My hand escapes the tangle of my jacket and grasps her nape.

Dazed eyes of midnight glitter up at me with unconstrained desire.

“Yes.”

I press my forehead against hers. I want her.

But not like this. If she still wants me after what I tell her, then it is fated. If she does not, I am not meant to have her. I disentangle from her.

Greta's soft eyes are languid. I recognize the look of a woman who would say yes to anything I asked.

An exhale of pure frustration slides out. “I must come clean, as the Americans say.”

Greta seems to shake the wisps of desire away with difficulty. The guarded look I've so quickly come to dislike rolls over her features like soiled water.

“Come clean?”

“I have been sent to kill you or your sister.”

She laughs in disbelief. “You're no murderer. That I know.” She folds her arms, giving me a look of disappointment. “And Lisbeth died as an infant—crib death. So you're also incredibly misinformed. Player or not.”

Greta slides her arms out of my coat and hands it to me.

I silently take it back.

She turns her back to me, already making her way toward the door leading to the terrace. “It's beyond preposterous.” Her fingers lightly touch the lips I just kissed. “I can't believe I just fell into your arms.” She shakes her head, clearly embarrassed. “Dumb, Greta.”

“Do not regret our instant attraction. Follow your heart, Greta.”

She crosses her arms. Looking so lovely and fragile, she stands with distrust cloaking every angle of her face. “I suppose there's more revelations?”

“Tor Aros,” I say, dropping the most real and present danger like a silent bomb. She must know.

If she does not believe me about her sister, Greta must be warned about the possible snake in the grass—or the fjord.

She strides back to me, her heels clicking against the stone like an ominous heartbeat. “He's a client.”

“He's involved in your father's death,” I say without my usual tact.

Her safety is more important than my desire for civility.

Greta's slap rings against my flesh, swinging my head with the force. “Tor is not involved,” she says in an angry voice.

Hot rage boils before I can soothe myself. I grab her wrist, feeling the small bones beneath my fingers.

She tugs, but I tighten my grip. Her eyes widen at my strength.

She had not minded it while I held her.

I duck my face, bringing it close to hers as my own anger matches hers. “He might be. Have you considered foul play? Ask him when his father, the minority stock holder to your father's company, died.”

I release her wrist, my face stinging. My pride hurts worse. A beautiful woman who has the most powerful chemistry I've ever experienced in my life wants this other man.

This debajo.

Greta swings her arm away, rubbing her wrist, though I know my grasp was not tight enough to damage her. Women are to be cherished. Greta incites protective instincts to a degree I did not realize I possessed.

“Not that it's any of your business, but Tor took an oath of protection with my father.”

“Paco doesn't know,” Tallinn says from beside me.

I whip my face in his direction, giving him a look that would silence the diablo.

But the devil himself couldn't silence Tallinn.

“What?” Greta asks, taking a step backward at Tallinn's sudden appearance.

“Dane-boy Tor Aros wasn't around protecting you when you were gang-raped two years ago? Right, Greta?” he asks with a calculated menace that undoes me when I witness her reaction.

Her face pales before my eyes. Her stillness is terrible—unnatural.

“No,” she whispers, shaking her head swiftly as she stumbles backward. To escape us.

To remove herself from the presence of Tallinn's words.

His words obviously make so much sense to her that they are a poison in the guise of grief, spilling blackness over my mind and heart as I wonder what put it there.

When Greta topples, I am there to catch her.

I feel as though I always have been.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Lisbeth

“Take your mouth off me,” I say, using the fat end of my lipstick tube to apply an additional layer of the barely there pink lipstick.

Tor neatly steals my breath, jamming a finger inside my pussy from below. “Accept my kisses or take whatever I give.” His rough digit stabs and pulls inside, and my walls pulse once around the intrusion.

He won't keep a bit of himself to himself.

Tor enjoys the game of unraveling me, and I relent, helpless to give him a final no.

I pretend that it is because I want it. And most of me does. But the other part of me—the tiny bit that is so much like him—recognizes the superior predator in him and knows what he is truly capable of.

A thin barrier protects me from becoming what Greta is to him. I must show no weakness.

My head kicks back as I come, and his frantic fingers dig inside me.

The fully extended tube of lipstick falls, smearing an iridescent pink line as it hits first the quartz vanity then smudges its wax along the fancy little stool I haven't used.

I could not be seated with Tor's face buried between my slick folds.

“Yes,” Tor hisses. His dangerous green eyes move to my face, his mouth poised over my labia.

He parts my sex, his teeth pressing against the delicate skin as he holds my eyes prisoner.

I grab his shoulders. “Tor, please, let me finish this.”

“I want you to be…” He appears to think over his words, though I know Tor thinks over nothing, always knowing instead. “Off-kilter for this meeting, to seem unsure. And you—” He licks and bites along my skin, and I shudder with mingled pain and arousal.

His finger hooks inside me, and I gasp.

“Lisbeth, you are anything but uncertain.” His hand turns, and his thumb enters my ass. He lifts me until my toes skim the floor.

“Spread yourself, Lisbeth.”

I do.

And Tor does unspeakable things, things he's never done before.

*

I cry after he's through. Tor's never hurt me like he did this evening. But he knows what I need to experience to behave in an authentic way.

I am an hour from seeing my sister for the first time since we were separated as infants. Oh, I've seen plenty of her in ways she could never know.

I've had a front-row seat to the depths of her depravation. I’ve hated her triumphs and rejoiced at her failures.

But this…

This meeting, which an unsuspecting Paco orchestrated, this will be the coup de grâce.

I needed Tor's abuse.

I limp to my wardrobe and grab the tube of ointment I keep for such interludes with Tor, when I must persevere in order to grow.

I whimper as I apply the soothing balm to my most intimate parts. My hands are shaking when I am through.

They do not come away with blood, but I have never been used so viciously. And I am tender.

I am also ready.

There will be no fighting tonight, only lying.

Deceit is a dance I execute expertly.

*

Greta

I come to slowly. From the fog of my mind, handsome features move together.

First they are only a blur, then they solidify into skin kissed by olives, green eyes that are brilliant and deep, not pale and frightening, and hair so black that it rivals a raven's wing.

A dimple where an angel kissed him graces a square jaw. Paco's heritage is on every chiseled inch.

I ache to touch him.

Then my memories rush into the vacuum of my empty mind: my dead sister has come to life; Tor is supposedly a criminal.

I stiffen and a sigh breaks the seal of Paco's lips. I try to sit up, and the room spins.

Tallinn's dark hand offers water, and I take it in greedy gulps. My eyes trace over where I find myself—in my own room.

So much for safety. I tried to meet with Paco on neutral ground, only to find myself inside my room with two strange men.

Paco leans back, and my hands find their way to my sides.

I caress the coverlet nervously.

He watches me with careful eyes. I can't read his expression, and I find I want to, very much.

My gaze shifts to Tallinn, and my stomach twists with apprehension.

“How long have you known?” I ask.

He throws his palms up by his head in the universal move that says, “Don't shoot the messenger.” Tallinn appears shamefaced, ducking his chin. “I'm his bodyguard, Greta. I need to know what I can about everyone he meets. If it matters, I've known for a while, and didn't say anything.”

My fingers bite into the cloth. “Why?” I ask softly. He could have told Paco from the get-go that I was damaged goods. I can hear Gia's protests at my thoughts, but I tamp down on her internal monologue.

“Need to know.” His dark eyes meet mine. “It wasn't important that Paco knew.” He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Then it was.”

Tears spill over my lashes, and I cover my mouth with my hand.

“Tallinn doesn't wound intentionally.”

In my wavering vision, Paco shoots Tallinn an incendiary glance. Tallinn clears his throat, glaring back at the one he protects.

I let my trembling hands drop. “Now you know,” I say softly. My embarrassment is so deep, there's not a breath I can take without the taste of it between us.

I look into his eyes, steeling myself for the condemnation. But there is only quiet compassion. A breath slides out that I didn't realize I'd been holding.

Paco clasps my hands in his own and raises them to his face in a gesture not unlike Tor’s—but somehow so different. A soft kiss that is hardly more than warm breath shivers across my skin. “The crime against you changes nothing.”

I shake my head. Everything is moving too fast. I don't know who I can trust.

“Listen to me, Greta,” Paco says.

I meet his bottomless stare. “I don't think I can stand any more revelations, Paco.”

“I am more sorry than I can say.” Then he tells me what happened to him in his home country.

The Narco. Their bribery. His people will die if Lisbeth isn't killed.

Or is it me? I ask.

He gives a soft shake of his head. “They only know of her. But if they knew of you? Would it not be the same consequence?” His question is pertinent, inciting me to agree.

“Probably,” I admit, searching his clear, dark-green eyes. I can't lie—his looks put me at ease. It shouldn't be that simple. But from him and Tallinn, who are both men of color, I don't feel criminal intent.

Not that I had before, when an unknown man roofied my peach schnapps. Of course, before I didn’t know about roofies or how they blend so seamlessly with alcohol.

My throat makes a snapping sound as I swallow the painful memory, and Tallinn shoves the glass of water back in my face. I smile gratefully and take a small sip.

I clasp the heavy smooth tumbler between my fingers, grateful for something solid to hang onto.

“So now what?” I ask, hating the broken note in my voice.

Paco strokes my knuckles lightly, and my skin rises in responsive pebbles of flesh. My mouth trembles, and water fills my eyes.

The man moves me. It's undeniable.

But distrust is a burr in my brain. I don't know if I'll ever have one without the other.

Paco allows me my emotions and doesn't comment on my response to him.

Instead he drops the bomb. “Lisbeth has agreed to come here and meet with you. Then I must take her to a preordained doctor.”

I gulp again, sucking in precious oxygen. My head spins with what he's told me. “I-I can't believe Lisbeth is alive.”

Paco looks me dead in the eye. “She will not be for long if we don't circumvent the people that would see her—or you—dead.”

He squeezes my hand.

“I—Father did not say that she was alive. It was—” I flick a glance at Tallinn, then my eyes return to Paco. Tallinn must already know about my inheritance. If he knows about the attack, he'll know this. “I was to inherit his company at thirty.”

Tallinn shrugs. “Public knowledge with a little digging. Also, now that Lisbeth has revealed herself, a simple DNA sample will prove her as your twin, and she would stand to inherit, too.”

I look down at my hands woven together with Paco's. “Five hundred billion.”

Tallinn whistles, and Paco's eyes shoot daggers. “Sorry, dude, that's some cold hard cash. Very attractive to anyone. Just saying.”

“Well, do not say. Greta does not need—” Paco lifts a shoulder, his hands still twined with my fingers.

Our pulses beat together, the inside of our wrists touching.

“I'm okay.” I focus on my breathing. “So if Lisbeth can be what? Crossed off as dead? Then they'll be happy? What about her claiming the inheritance?”

“What are your feelings on this matter?” Paco asks cautiously.

That's a no-brainer. “I could care less. I think she should have her half.”

Paco relaxes, and I look between them. “What?”

Tallinn and Paco exchange a glace. “Lisbeth is very different from you.”

I stifle a snort. “Ah, no. We're identical twins.”

Tallinn looks uneasy.

My body stills. “What do you mean ‘different’?”

Tallinn's dark face tightens. “She was raised like a hardened assassin. She kicked our asses when we came up against her.”

“Kicked your ass, Tallinn.” Paco's lips lift at the edges.

Tallinn scowls at Paco. He whips his face my way, and I try to hold back the laughter, but it bursts out of me.

“Yeah, yeah, yuk it up. That's right. But that bitch can maim a fella.” He scrubs his nearly bald head.

My smile fades. “Why would she try to hurt you guys?”

Paco straightens, slipping his fingers from mine.

I miss them—and his touch.

It concerns me how needy I am for this guy I just met. I should be thinking about Tor and about the fact that a sister I thought was dead isn't.

“She knew someone was seeking her out. She thought we were them.”

“And now?”

Paco smiles. It utterly changes the hardness of his face into something wild and exotic.

I smile back.

“She wants to know her sister.”

My sister is alive.

“And we want the narco to think we did her in,” Tallinn adds.

Paco gives Tallinn a long-suffering look.

“So”—Paco turns his attention to me again and lifts my cold hand to his warm lips—“this is not a solemn occasion, but one of reuniting.”

I nod, though I'm unsure.

I've never been one to listen to my gut, but all that's changed over the past two years.

“Okay.”

A soft knock on the door startles me.

Paco nods at Tallinn.

“On it, bro.”

Paco shakes his head, but his affection for Tallinn is obvious.

I swing my legs to the edge of the bed and smooth my shaking hands over my wrinkled lightweight wool slacks.

I looked so beautiful for Tor. Now I look like a crumpled tissue.

“You are beautiful, Greta,” Paco says, seeming to read my mind.

He's too perfect, like a fairy tale.

But that's what Zaire Sebastian promised. For fifty million dollars, I had a shot at perfection. Not all claims are real; some are purely fantasy.

I turn as Tallinn opens the door and a stranger glides through the door. She’s not really a stranger, for she looks just like me. But her eyes are cold, like ice that thaws but never truly melts. Or maybe it's just a trick of the light, because in the next moment, strong arms wrap around me, and there's wetness at my neck.

Our sadness and joy mingle.

Slowly, my arms come around my sister. It's beautiful to have found her.

And terrifying.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Lisbeth

Seeing someone who looks as I do is so strange. She moves her body in the same way and uses the same mannerisms.

I have stared at my reflection more times than I can count, but nothing compares to seeing skin and bone, blood and will encapsulated in a moving, talking, thinking being who is your mirror image.

I release Greta, feeling her soft feminine body slide away, infinitely grateful for the honed athletic body I possess. I wince slightly as I shift my weight, and only the black American is the wiser. His brows come together, noting my mysterious discomfort.

I imagine he attributes my stiffness to our prior fight, where his fists were insufficient to conquer me.

Cock and tongue do a better job.

If a man brings his physicality to the equation, I will always be the victor. But in sex, he might win. Tor has.

I spin in a slow circle, noting the exits, windows, and the stance of the men. Greta has been long dismissed as a threat. Now is the time for me to play the sister.

I cup Greta's face. “I am sorry.”

Her beautiful face, so personifying Norway in its smooth, high-boned, and aquiline arrangement of features. Her platinum hair and clear-blue eyes draw together in a frown of confusion.

“What-what could you possibly be sorry for?”

I shake my head, aiming for demure and finding the pain of my sex helps that along nicely. I bite my lip, eyes cast downward. “I could have reached out. Sought you. But I was too frightened.”

Greta grasps my hands; hers are like ice.

Sometimes extremities are a tell. Greta seems as though she has awoken from a shock.

I flick a calculating glance of at Paco.

My little Spanish dog must have barked about me to Greta. Most recently. I allow my attention to return to Greta.

“Why would Father separate us? Why would he tell me you had died?” Her lip quivers.

I give her a gentle smile, though shaking her is what I really want to do.

There will be time later for all the plans I have for Greta.

“He said he must choose. When I was old enough to understand, he conveyed that his prominent financial status was too risky a threat of exposure, and his two children would be in danger.” I glue my eyes to hers. “That there were those who would use one child against the other. He had me trained to protect myself. And his plan was when I came of age, he would reintroduce us.”

Greta pulls back, looking numb.

I lean closer. “He thought that we could be sisters again. My role would be protector, and yours would be to run the company.”

“The school,” Greta gasps, realization swarming the clear blue of her eyes, making them murky with understanding.

I nod. Now she finally understands the sacrifices involved. And if she does not, she soon will. “He groomed us like protégés.” I add unnecessarily.

Her eyes search mine, and I push false warmth into my usually cold gaze. Her face confirms how my efforts soften the words of my carefully contrived story.

“My boarding school—”

I shrug. “I am the mercenary. You are the scholar.”

“I have nothing of consequence,” Greta says, casting a nervous glance at Paco.

Ah, the Spaniard does not know that Greta's wealth hasn't bought her into Club Alpha.

I viciously suppress a smirk. I'm well aware of the soulmate fantasy for billionaires.

Ridiculous.

I'm not privy to how Greta came to have a slot in the game. It is apparent that Paco does not know her lack of wealth. How attractive would Greta be if he knew that she was not wealthy?

Yet.

Suddenly her love or supposed attraction could be attributed to her want of Castillo's wealth.

Tor orchestrated the timing here. His sources were enough to manufacture the seemingly coincidental events. If it were up to Tor, Greta would have already been dead two years before.

But he spared her for me, for now.

“But why?” Greta asks.

I suppress an eye roll. She is nauseatingly naïve. Her innocence grates on my nerves.

Of course, it may be because I never had any innocence of my own.

Tor met me through unconventional means before I was of age then raped me into compliance—and eventual alliance.

When he was through shaping me like clay into the creation of his making, I was the mercenary soldier Father longed for, though I belonged to Tor. I feel as though I always have.

I remember Greta's question, giving a half-smile of apparent lack of understanding. “I do not know. I think, in his way, he meant to keep us safe. Keep the line of his blood strong, the company's heart beating when he was no longer here.”

Paco interrupts, “I think it's time to talk about falsifying your death to this doctor.” His eyes find mine, and I keep my face impassive.

Greta looks at Paco, as well, her eyes soft. I realize that Tor has not fully captured her heart. Why? He commands everything with an iron fist of manipulation. Something has been said.

By whom?

My eyes narrow on Castillo. Tor dismissed him too easily. But this Mexican coffee mogul has fashioned his wealth into an un-mined diamond.

It is not because his intellect is deficient.

I shift my gaze to the American. He behaves like a rough baboon. But beneath his harsh and boisterous exterior is a sharp mind. His gaze doesn't leave mine. Tallinn is not stupid, either.

He must die first.

I nod. “Yes, you've told Greta about the narco?”

Tor is dealing with that complication. It must be part of this Club Alpha interference. Still, I can't complain outright; Club Alpha offered camouflage and validity to our appearance. The involvement of the fantasy “game” is what has Castillo and Greta in a state of constant question about what is false and what is real.

Greta's staring at me. I understand why.

I surveyed her on film, in grainy cinematic life, before seeing her in the flesh.

She has never laid eyes on me.

Of course I would be a novel sight.

Look away, dear sister, for I will be the last sight that fills your vision when you take your final breaths.

*

Paco

Tallinn's eyes shift my way, and I ignore him. I know what he is telling me with his gaze.

He does not like Lisbeth.

I should be happy that the woman who is a player in Club Alpha, and the survivor of an unmentionable crime, has found a long-lost relation.

But Zaire Sebastian made a great many things clear. Among them was the idea that nothing is what it seems.

Lisbeth Wesbestad is layered.

Greta is not. And if she is, they are all layers that I want to explore.

Lisbeth is deadly.

Maybe that is why the narco want her dead? Has she insulted the wrong set of ears?

“I know where the doctor is,” Tallinn says.

“Can we pay this doctor off?” I ask Tallinn.

Tallinn nods. “He's a real piece of work, but the narco probably didn't grease his palm the way you could. They wanted you out of Mexico; they want her”—he stabs a finger in Lisbeth's direction—“dead.”

Greta makes a low noise of distress, and I go to stand next to her. “I can't. I just met her. You guys are talking about her dying.”

I take Greta in my arms. Without shoes, she’s so tiny that she fits against my chin perfectly. My eyes meet Lisbeth's over her shoulder.

Her gaze is perfectly blank. But her eyes hold the tightness of injury. I can identify the subtleties of hidden pain anywhere, on anyone.

I have suffered many injuries in my time. No one gets to my level of self-defense without experiencing pain. I feel the frown on my face. We could not have hurt her too badly. Yet Lisbeth does not move with the grace she did hours ago. She moves as though wounded. Her gaze falls from mine as if she's too nervous to hold it. I know that is not the case.

This woman is nervous for nothing.

I lean back, framing Greta's face in my hands. Her skin is too pale, and splotchy patches of pink dot her cheeks.

She is unwell.

The news has been a shock.

The horrible event Tallinn revealed has scarred her. Reliving it again in front of two men she doesn't know worsens it.

Greta just met a sister she presumed lost.

Now she knows that without a payoff to a crooked doctor, Lisbeth faces death.

What Greta must be made to understand is that her death will not happen while I take breath.

I softly stroke Greta's bottom lip with my finger.

“Let me do this for Lisbeth.”

“For me,” Greta says with a lilt, pressing her lips against my finger.

I nod. “What is wealth without wisdom?” I ask.

*

“Stay, Greta.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and I silently curse. There is no good solution.

I have engineered a net of safety within the parameters I'm able.

Greta's head dips, and Lisbeth's hand falls on her shoulder. “Paco's right. I am the one they're after, the one they know about. I will accompany Paco and Tallinn. He can pay this doctor. The narco will be satisfied that I no longer exist.”

“It will simplify things,” I say, glancing at Tallinn, and he nods, gathering our things. My eyes return to Greta's.

Tears gather like liquid aquamarine in the corners of her eyes. They shimmer but do not fall.

For too many years, I've tied the man that I am to civility. Tallinn has taught me things with our training that I didn't know I was capable of physically. What he couldn't have known was that a man cannot change the shell without also altering the creature that lies within.

Like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly, I endeavor for beauty, but danger and stealth are the weapons inside the armor of my soul.

“I'm not some child that needs to hide from danger, Paco.”

Greta doesn't pout.

Lisbeth squeezes her shoulder. “I'll be back, and we can talk until the wee hours of the morning. But let me resolve this. If this one thing can be put behind us, we're free of that cloud of disaster.”

Greta stares at Lisbeth. “You won't get hurt?”

Lisbeth smiles, offering the first natural expression since our acquaintance. It makes all others prior to this one suspect.

I frown. I can't put my finger on the source of my discontent.

“Let's go, Paco,” Tallinn says, throwing a gear pack my way.

I deftly catch it with one hand then shrug it on between my shoulder blades.

Where we're going, we'll blend.

Greta doesn't ask for reassurance. I turn back and look at her regardless, then grasp the back of her nape and pull her against me.

“Do not leave the room—for anyone.”

I said words that should offend, but Greta merely nods at my barely veiled command.

I fight the whisper inside my head that says the same word over and over.

Mine.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Greta

Call me.

I swipe send with a thumb, and my text pings off into the ether.

My hand is still pressed against the closed door Tallinn, Lisbeth, and Paco just exited.

I lean my forehead against the warm wood surface.

Gia's going to poo her pants when she gets wind of the last twenty-four hours of my life.

I can't even make sense of it all, and it's mine.

A sigh of exhaustion slides out of my spent body. Carrying my cell, I pad to the luxurious bathroom.

The quartz is cold beneath my stockinged feet. I curl my toes, and the chill of the stone leeches up my legs. With a shiver, I cross the sterile grayish flooring and turn on the hot water tap. Perched along the rolled porcelain rim of a tub so large, I see it could definitely hold two.

I think of Paco.

Instantly an image of Tor floats over Paco's, and I feel heat flush my cheeks in a mixture of shame and uncertainty.

My fingertips swirl in the heated water. I finally want a man.

Tor is the safe choice. He's a known commodity: client, a friend of the family, and a gentleman. And even though I sank into a trigger the size of the Grand Canyon while in his presence, it's not the first time that's happened. It probably won't be the last.

I test the temperature of the rising water. I spot a large bottle of fragrant bath crystals then glide to the double, low-slung vanity. I lift the glass lid, dip a small ladle into the jar, heft out two heaping spoonfuls, and pass the spoon through the spray of hot water.

I float away, a prisoner of my own mind, as I watch the scented water mingle like hot smoked ice.

My exhale is soft inside the quiet of the bathroom, with only the tub basin filling for background.

Tor will court me. Paco acts as though I'm already his responsibility after a coincidental elevator ride and a meeting with a sister I thought long dead.

The night sky fills my mind—black and limitless. I think of the passionate moment on a chilly, star-filled terrace.

I shudder, feeling as though a goose just walked over my grave.

I'm beyond happy to know Lisbeth is alive.

So why does my chest get unpleasantly tight when I think of her? I should be having thoughts of all the questions and closeness her existence could mean for my future. A sister lost, now found? Maybe I'm just off because of everything weird that's going on right now.

Everything will be better once I can talk to Gia. She can help me make sense of the events that are piling up.

I turn the blast of hot water to a trickle, turning on the cold tap. Frigid water joins the scalding water. Steam rises, and I douse my finger as I drown in my speculations.

Disrobing, I toe the water and hiss at the heat before sinking my foot to the ankle. With a resolute shrug, I fold my lean body into the bath and give a shaky exhale as the too-hot water rises past all my most sensitive parts, especially the one I avoid both in the mental and the physical.

Was it only hours ago that I gave Tor yes as my answer?

But my body wants Paco. Just thinking about the man makes me hot in one place, and one place only. That place has been frozen in stasis for two excruciating years. Now it thaws—because of Paco.

I bite my lip, glancing at my silent cell. Smoothing my hands down my sides, I split my legs.

I don't want to think about Paco and Lisbeth visiting a corrupt doctor who's going to validate her phony death to faraway drug lords.

I'm not dwelling on what my relationship might be with Lisbeth.

I don't want to think about Tor's face when I said yes to his question of courting. It'd been the safe response.

Instead, my fingers find my most intimate part, and I think of Paco, his tenderness, and the animal that lurks behind his emerald eyes.

I tentatively spread my labia, and a little pant escapes me. I plant my feet at the edge of the tub's rim, and the cooler air of the bathroom kisses the tops of my feet.

Bringing my hips up, I feed my mound to the top of the water, allowing the hot water to cup my ass and the colder air to breathe over my clit.

I'm suspended, my body at the surface. My finger finds the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden and so long untouched, damaged and used from before.

I lift the tiny hood, and the air snakes between my clit and my finger. I begin to slowly swirl my finger against myself. I moan from the pure tactile sensation of pleasure, the freedom to have a moment of sexual gratification that wasn't torn from me.

My hips buck as my tempo increases. The water undulates with the tempo of the slight rise and fall of my hips.

Ragged, urgent breaths fall on my ears, and I realize with a kind of delayed surprise that they are my own.

Water slops over the rim.

Heat suffuses my body as I rise toward the crest of a powerful wave of my pleasure.

I insert a finger to the knuckle.

My tight walls squeeze around my finger in a single, powerful pulse that seems to pull the digit deeper, and I whimper, pumping once.

The wave of my orgasm crashes over me, hitting the shores of my mind and exploding the guilty thoughts of everything into oblivion.

I think of nothing.

My core pounds out its pulses at my attempts of self-titillation.

But it is Paco's face I fantasize about.

It was his finger, and not my own, that entered my willing body.

It's Paco I think of, not Tor, as my body settles and my heartbeat finally returns to a sane rhythm.

*

My smartphone rings as I’m wrapping my hair in a towel.

I tighten the sash around my waist, feeling more relaxed and free than I ever have.

Well, not true. The freest I've felt since then.

I scoop the cell up off the back of the tub.

I frown at the water droplets littering the glass surface.

Dammit, got carried away.

I swipe with a smile, my parts feeling better for having some attention. And I feel better for having the bravery to allow myself to revel in sensations I've been too scared to explore again.

“Hey,” I say.

“Greta,” Gia says, and I hear the smile in her voice. “I rate a call instead of a hasty text?”

I grin. “Yes.”

“Everything okay?” she asks.

I hear the care inside the question, the concern underneath what should almost be part of a typical greeting.

“It is, but there's something I need to tell you.”

“Shoot.”

I tell her everything.

I omit the sex I had with myself. It's too delicious and private to share. Anything that makes me feel that happy and good is positive. Even I know that.

Gia's silence is long. I open my mouth to ask her if she's still there.

“I am liking everything less and less. I'm thinking I need to fly to Norway.”

Oh. “No! I can't be a baby, Gia. You've given me the tools. Now I need to use them. I can't have you traveling internationally because you're worried. You sponsored me for Club Alpha. Now it's time to let it play out.”

“Okay,” she says slowly, “I'll give you that. Your voice, your words, they all agree with how I think you're progressing. It's the men that have me on edge—and your sister. That is the strangest revelation I've ever heard. So unexpected. It makes me feel uneasy. And that's not how I should be feeling presently.”

My brows come together. “Maybe I put a spin on it all because it's such a fucking shock. I mean, Father told me Lisbeth was dead. I knew I had a twin, but I've always been told she died when we were babies. Then this chick shows up. And she's me, right? But not.”

Goosebumps break out over my bare legs and arms as I recall our surreal first meeting just a couple of hours ago.

I nibble on my lip. Were they able to pay off the doctor? I wonder suddenly.

Gia shatters my thoughts. “Definitely. And if Club Alpha wasn't in the mix, I'd book you a flight right now.”

I give a tiny laugh. “It is crazy sounding.”

“Crazy—and you know how much I loathe that word—”

I snicker.

“Doesn't even cover it,” Gia finishes, ignoring my humor. “But when Club Alpha is added to the equation—and Paco admits he's a player—I think you're safe to explore this path, where it might lead you. But I don't like the sister.”

I don't stifle my snort. “God, Gia. It's my sister!”

Her silence is deafening. “And she didn't just reach out to you beforehand why? I mean, what was holding her back?”

“I'm not sure,” I admit. Disquiet tingles along my spine, raising the fine hairs of my body. I can't let my worry over what Paco's trying to accomplish make my nerves raw. Not after finally tasting a little bit of calm. Letting go of the hardest part of that knot of anxiety has been hard-won.

“I'd find out.”

I'll ask Lisbeth when she returns. If she returns.

Someone knocks at the door of the suite. My mind hits on Paco immediately. But I realize he probably didn't get all his nefarious stuff out of the way this soon.

I'll feel better once he, Tallinn, and especially Lisbeth return safe and sound with good news.

I won't entertain an alternative outcome.

I remember the essence of Paco's words when his large hand gripped my neck. Don't leave your room for anything. For anyone.

I should have felt threatened by Paco's words, the implied command behind each syllable, and his touch.

Instead, I felt safe.

“Hang on,” I tell Gia.

I stride to the door, the ties of my expensive, in-suite robe fluttering behind me as I walk. I tilt my head to the side, and close an eye, searching the peephole for whoever's on the other side. Guilt swamps me as Tor fills the distorted view through the convex circle of glass.

I still throb from what I did while thinking of Paco.

Now Tor stands outside the door, a small smile etching his lips.

Damn. My hands fist, and I hesitate.

I consider Paco's words, his insinuation about Tor, and my half-dressed state.

The hell with it. I won't be rude to the one person Father entrusted with my protection. I can't live in fear forever.

I'm not sure what Tor is to me yet, but he just might be a guardian angel. How can I say no to the role he might have in my life?

Pushing the lever down, I pull the door open. He leans against the jamb, taking in my flushed cheeks and damp hair tucked inside a plush cream towel, Lastly, his eyes travel to the lack of exposed cleavage in my tight robe.

My hands knot at the lapel, and I give a tight smile. “Hey, Tor.”

“Greta.”

His eyes skate around my room, warm chocolate irises against skin barely within Caucasian norms. His intense gaze dives back to me. “Alone?” he asks.

“No,” I say coyly, swinging the door wider with a smile. “You're here now.”

Tor passes through the threshold, and I softly shut the door behind us. I made the right decision.

Paco and Lisbeth will be busy, and I can figure whatever this is out with him, like Gia said.

Oh my God!

Gia.

I race over to my cell and slam it against my ear, heart thumping.

“Greta?” Tor's voice rumbles in the background.

He sounds close. I hold up a finger.

“Gia!” I say breathlessly.

“Okay, now that's just discourteous, Greta.” I envision her folding her arms. “I know when I'm second fiddle,” she huffs, but I can tell she's playing with me a little.

“I'm so sorry, Tor was at the door…”

Pain erupts as my head is flung into the door jamb of the bathroom. My palm slaps outward, hitting the wall, and my body swivels like a marionette on a wire.

I fall against the wall, both palms flat against the textured surface of the plaster. Warm liquid trickles down my temple, clouding my vision.

Tor looms over me.

I blink stupidly at him.

Gia is screaming from my dropped cell.

Tor smiles, picking up the cell and swiping her image away. His head shakes very slowly from side to side. “No.”

“What?” I ask from my smothered mind, though my body knows. An elephant plants its ass on my chest, and my breath whistles through a rapidly narrowing esophagus.

His slap crushes my face against the wall, and my cheekbone bounces against the surface. Agony bleeds into my facial bones, and I cry out.

“No hysterics, fitte.”

It registers Tor just called me a cunt in Norwegian.

I begin to slide down the wall, my head spinning.

Tor wears gloves—a little detail that escaped my attention earlier.

My memory supplies the rest.

Mewling, I scramble past him as adrenaline surges through me, making my limbs heavy and my mind unnaturally sharp.

But he's nearly a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier.

He kicks me from behind, and I fly forward. My chin bounces on the plush carpeting.

He lands on me, shoving his erection between the crack of my ass, and I scream as my cell phone starts shrieking Gia's ring tone in the background.

His breath whispers against my ear like a breeze of terror. “That pathetic wop friend of yours doesn't know when to be silent.”

He seats his penis deeper, I feel him spread my ass apart through the layers of clothes.

No, no—no!

My hoarse shout swells out of lungs flattened by his weight, silenced before it’s born.

He throws my cell phone against the wall. I slam my eyes shut as the impact shatters the glass.

The ringing falls silent.

“Do not move or make a sound, or I will impale your ass with my dick. Are we clear, Greta?” he asks with horrible intent.

I nod vigorously.

I can't do this.

He flips me over, ripping my wrists above my head.

Warmth spreads beneath me, and his mouth twists in disgust. “You're a disgusting whore.”

I’ve wet myself.

My body's natural need to hold urine has fled. I'm so debased by fear, I can't think.

But out of my mouth come words wrenched from my soul: “I'm not a whore.”

Tor sneers, taking the time to tear something out of his eyes one-handed.

He tosses away tiny bendable contacts. Pale-green eyes stare down at me, and my breath catches.

I'd know that gaze anywhere.

I've seen them through a mask before, but those four sets of eyes are burned into my brain for all eternity. One of the sets gazes down at me now.

Rage fills the nooks and crannies of my mind, overriding the fear. My anger overflows, and I spit in his face. This man raped me two years ago.

He's got it wrong. “Nothing you can do to me will make me a whore.” My voice shakes. Adrenaline, terror, and the sharp-edged knife of rightful anger cut into him.

Tor smiles and raises his fist.

“You have always been a whore, and now you will be my whore.”

My consciousness is shattered by his fist. As I slip away my one thought is of Paco—and what could have been.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Paco

Tallinn claps me on the back, and I tense. I have been anxious since leaving Greta. I would give much to have stayed by her side. But without trying to pay this doctor off for his silence, how can I face Greta?

It would be akin to killing her sister—again.

Tallinn's hand falls. “Jumpy, Paco.”

I simply nod.

Lisbeth sidles beside us silently. Our backs skate along another waterfront house's clapboard exterior. The gentle sounds of the sea lull me, but do not lessen my awareness of the danger of our mutual goal. This house looks like every other one in the row of brightly painted sea cottages.

We come to the front door. Chill and damp creep into my bones; my southern heritage protests the Nordic bite.

Tallinn peers along tall and narrow sidelights, murky with filth.

“Stand-up establishment.” He snorts softly, giving the dirty glass pane a gentle tap.

Lisbeth cocks a brow in Tallinn's direction.

This expression, I know. “It's of ill-repute.”

“Clearly,” she says with a snide thread in her voice.

Tallinn rolls his eyes when she turns away.

Americans are so distrusting. I do not need Tallinn to tell me that he is—What would he say? The idiom comes to me: not a fan of Lisbeth.

We know little about Lisbeth. However, knowing she is Greta's sister is enough for now.

“Let's go around back.” Tallinn jerks his chin, indicating a narrow deck that runs the perimeter of the seaside shack.

I glance down. Barnacles like rotting teeth cling to slick wood pilings driven into an unforgiving sea.

The sea of my home has always calmed me. The frozen ocean below riots around the pilings, lifting angry fingers of water toward the dilapidated shack, churning beneath our feet.

Lisbeth is already moving in her sure-footed way, seemingly oblivious to the slickness of the boards that serve as a walk leading around to the presumed back entrance.

I am last to traverse the antique moorings.

Tallinn is between us as Lisbeth rounds the back.

Only her profile is lit. Seeing half of her pale face has a strangely prophetic feel, unease are like talons digging into my psyche. The urge to contact Greta surges through me like a compulsion.

Tallinn gives Lisbeth a direct look. “Knock like we discussed.”

Lisbeth gives a curt nod as her reply. She knocks four times in quick succession then silently counts out five seconds before knocking once more. We wait.

My apprehension swells like the tide below.

“What is it?” Tallinn asks, studying my expression.

“I do not know.” My foreboding is both tangible and inexplicable. I cannot articulate my feelings, though they are real.

He shakes his head, his brows coming together. The whites of his eyes appear to float in the haziness that borders sea and night. “You know. Spill the details, Paco.”

Shuffling sounds of dragging feet come from behind the door, and Tallinn straightens, forgetting his request. Our attention is now riveted to the back entrance. The distraction temporarily dispels my unease as we move closer to the door. It opens a crack.

The palest blue eye that I've ever seen peers out. A sliver of the man attached to the eyeball resembles a mad scientist. And that assessment might not be too far from the truth.

He is not of high moral character; that much is certain.

The Americans are fond of saying “don't judge a book by its cover.”

But in this case, I am free to do so.

*

After staring with his one, unnerving sky-blue orb for nearly a minute, he swings the door wide, allowing us entry.

Lisbeth enters first, then Tallinn and I follow.

“You come here to do the deed, do you?” the doctor's sly voice is remarkably like one I would expect to hear on a radio. Broadcaster smooth.

His dulcet tones are in direct conflict to his stooped posture, his riot of white hair, and his advanced age.

Elders are treasured in Mexico. The lack of nursing homes speaks to their value in my home country. A Mexican can guess the age of an older person within a year or two. We care; therefore, we know.

This man has to be in his late eighties, possibly early nineties. I don't know if he is Norwegian, but his accent lends bite to the English—it is not his first language.

Knowing four languages has advantages other than the obvious. I am able to identify other languages, even though I may not speak them. His native tongue eludes me.

The doctor picks up a lock of Lisbeth's hair, studying the soft platinum silk before letting it drop. His eyes roam her face like the touch of a ghost over a desecrated grave. “A shame,” he concedes absently.

His manner chills me.

“I do not intend to kill her,” I say.

“Not awkward—not at all,” Tallinn murmurs behind me.

The doctor's bushy eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Oh?” His eyes flick to Lisbeth again, gauging the knowledge of her own impending death. Noting her smooth expression, he harrumphs. His gnarled hand palms his chin. “That will not please our mutual friends.”

Lisbeth is nonplussed but holds her normally sharp tongue in a show of restraint that seems odd, given our short acquaintance and the ferocity of her character.

Tallinn crosses his arms, and the old man appears to take him in for the first time.

The doctor's face screws into a look of disgust.

Tallinn notices. His eyes on the doctor, he says to me. “Lots of bad vibes around here, man. Just sayinʼ.”

The doctor's lips twist, then he turns his attention back to me, dismissing Tallinn's presence.

“What is your proposal? You have come within the preordained window of time. I have prepared a room for our fair girl to be laid out. So that I might—” He clicks his tongue in parody of an old-fashioned camera shutter clicking to a rapid tempo. “Take many beautiful post-mortem shots for our mutual acquaintancesʼ satisfaction.”

He says beautiful as “beau-tee-ful.”

Lisbeth's lips lift in a sneer.

I hold up a palm, attempting to diffuse anything before I can negotiate. I badly wish to return to Greta. “How much money will it take for you to fabricate a photo shoot?”

Now it is time for the doctor's mouth to jerk into a rough smile. The expression does not reach his eyes. His gaze narrows into two glacial slits of condescension and greed, a look I'm intimately familiar with. “Much.”

“How much?” I grow tired of the games.

He names a figure, and I can feel Tallinn's indignation like a pulsing heat at my back, even though he says nothing.

But is there any price too high for sparing a life?

“Agreed,” I say without hesitation.

He says nothing for a swollen moment. “She will stay here. I will apply make-up that will give her the look—” He chuckles in apparent delight, though nothing is remotely funny. “Of the recently departed.”

Tallinn grunts in annoyance, which I ignore. I will allow his grievance because I cannot allow my own. It's not a luxury I can afford.

Greta.

My mind's eye blinks, and she fills my mental vision. “How long?”

The doctor is not a stupid man. “Three hours. No more.”

“I don't like it,” Tallinn states immediately.

“Stay here then, my friend.” The doctor's eyes hold challenge.

Tallinn rises to the bait. “Love to. But I'm watching my homeboy here.”

He jerks a thumb at me.

I sigh, hanging my head.

“Lisbeth?” I direct in soft question to her.

She inclines her head.

“Are you willing to let this man make you into a corpse?” I can't keep the dryness out of my voice. All of this borders on ridiculous. But it is a necessary evil on so many fronts.

She eyes him with clear disdain. “I think I can manage one old man while he plays make-up artist.”

The doctor scowls, grunting with obvious offense, and turns to me. “The funds will need to be wired. Immediately.”

And that is how easy it is to manipulate agreements. A cool ten million moves obstacles as though they never existed.

The doctor shuffles to another room. Five minutes pass before he returns and stands before me, holding a slip of paper with his handwritten information.

Tallinn accesses my Swiss bank account via his smartphone. He turns it to me, and I tap in my pass codes three times.

I answer numerous questions to withdraw money in the amount we agreed upon. I interpret the doctor's chicken scratch from the bit of torn paper and transfer the funds.

The silence stretches like a limb pulled to far; amputation is inevitable.

Finally, I receive confirmation of funds transfer and exit the system. Tallinn takes his phone back and slides it into a hidden pocket in his all-black jacket.

“Excuse me while I confirm the monies have been transferred.” The doctor is gone for another five minutes. My body is so tense, my teeth ache from the tightness in my jaw.

When the minutes lengthen to ten, Tallinn begins to look anxious—more anxious than usual and not half as anxious as I feel.

“What's taking that old geezer the time?” Tallinn mutters.

What indeed?

Lisbeth gives Tallinn a look of strained patience.

The doctor returns, his pace a crawl. “Done.” He gives Tallinn a look of intolerance then includes me in the gaze. “She stays—you go. Three hours.”

I hesitate.

I've paid him off. It almost seems too easy. Like all the years of paying off the narco without incident, until one year it all changed.

Would this change, too? Would I come back to a dead Lisbeth? A kidnapped one?

“Paco, we've done what we can. This chick can handle herself.” Tallinn grunts. “Let him work his creepy death magic, and we'll get her later. Simple.”

I rotate slowly, giving him the weight of my eyes. “Nothing is simple.” Life is fashioned to be complicated. It is the rule of our time here on earth, not the exception.

Tallinn nods in acknowledgment. “True, but I liked my pessimism better than your glass is half-full shit.”

“Just go. I'll be fine. You will see—this will work out for Greta's benefit and my own.” Lisbeth lightly touches my arm. “Thank you, Paco.”

The doctor's face fills my vision. I fight to not step away from his corrupt presence. “I'll return in three hours.”

He spreads his twisted hands. “I will be finished.”

I walk out of the shack and gratefully suck in lungfuls of air. The smell of the sea is so overpowering that I feel as though I swim as I breathe. Salt and the putrid smell of dead ocean vegetation strangle my senses.

“This place gives me the fucking heebie-jeebies. Let's rock.”

Tallinn says it best.

We walk back to our vehicle parked nearly a mile away. Our silent stroll is deliberate.

Each step deepens my foreboding.

I’m not worried for Lisbeth. Tallinn is correct—she's lethal. Especially because of her feminine form, she would take any number of men by surprise. Lisbeth and Greta share a fragile appearance. And that is all they share.

Tallinn drives me back to the hotel in tense silence. We’re both lost in dark thoughts.

“Paco!” he calls as I leap out of the car before it rolls to a stop.

I hear the beep of the alarm when Tallinn locks the car as I stride inside.

Pounding footsteps follow me to the elevator. His hand inserts itself as the elevator doors shut, and he squeezes inside, glaring at me.

I ignore him.

The floors light as the elevator ascends.

The numbers skip eerily past where a thirteenth floor would be and proceed directly to the fourteenth and beyond.

My frown deepens.

A hand lands on my shoulder. “Paco.”

I fight not to toss his hand from me. “I'm fine. I need to see Greta.”

His hand falls away. “Dude, she's sleeping.”

I hastily glance at my sports Rolex.

2 a.m.

I find I don't care. I won't have peace until I see her. Those blue eyes like the waters of the Caribbean, with lashes like sugar sand lace.

An elevator has never taken more time.

The doors part with a metallic sigh, and I step out. My eyes instantly sight her door—which hangs ajar.

I don't realize I'm running until Tallinn is beside me, a gun naked in his hand.

I move to the door, and he shoves me out of the way. I grunt as I hit the jamb with bone-shattering impact.

He goes in first and slams the door wide.

A silent pop like a stone punching into still waters comes from my left.

Tallinn drops like a mighty tree.

I freeze inside the doorway while a pool of blood spreads beneath Tallinn.

The sight of him bleeding out on the ground shocks me to stillness. I realize in this treacherously suspended moment that I love this crude, raw, and brutally honest man. He is so much more than my guard.

The passage of air when the bullet pierced the darkness makes my training taking over, but too late.

Men move forward—four in total.

I do not recognize them, but we speak the same language: that of the body and battle.

In the end, no amount of expertise can equalize four against one.

Not when I am met with a similar skill level.

I break bones—faces—and draw blood.

In the end, I fall.

My thoughts before consciousness leaves me are not of my mortality.

Greta is the singular heartbeat of my wakeful mind. When that leaves, her ghost follows me into darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Greta

My eyes snap open.

Alert.

Ready.

Bare concrete walls greet my fuzzy vision. A naked bulb tosses its glare across every surface. A shadow from a wooden corner chair stretches toward where I lay like a bony embrace.

My body's so numb with my fear, it surges through my veins alongside my frozen blood.

I'm too smart to move my head. I know I'll either barf or pass out. Some people might take a second to come to themselves after being hit in the head.

All I remember is before.

I won't panic. I remember where that got me last time. Gia's voice surfaces like a phantom sliding over my clammy skin.

There's nothing you could have done, Greta.

I swallow against the dryness in my throat, and a tiny bit of surviving saliva catches. I tug at my wrists and ankles.

Locked.

A tear I can't afford to shed slips from my eye. It sears a brutal trail of fire over the injuries on my face.

The zip ties are savage plastic against my tender, scarred skin.

Surely Zaire Sebastian couldn't have thought this was a Club Alpha feature.

Gia promised me that triggers wouldn't be allowed. This is so far beyond a trigger that I can't breathe.

This is a replay of my prior torture.

My breath hitches in an incomplete sob. Another tear joins the first. I bite the inside of my cheek until the taste of metal clings to my gums and teeth. Crying won't help me escape.

Survive, Greta.

The sound of water is all around me, disturbing the tomblike silence like being entombed in a boat without windows.

I blink back tears. Gia knows I've been hurt. She'll get help. I roll my lip between my teeth, thinking of the obvious.

Maybe help won't come soon enough.

*

When Tor strolls in, I don't dignify his presence with even a flicker of acknowledgment.

I grit my teeth.

I've spent the last hour looking at the four cement walls and smelling my own dried urine.

I know a few things.

I'm near the water. I can smell and hear it all around me. Moisture seeps into the corners of my concrete prison like saltwater tears. The bare bulb that hangs above me, illuminates the damage of my body.

My face feels distended, and I can't see through one of my eyes. I know that my cheek has swollen into the eye socket where Tor tossed me into the wall.

Curiosity burns like a virus in my brain; however, I remain silent. My chin throbs, and I give thanks to an uncaring God that the floor in my hotel room was carpeted.

“Greta,” Tor calls softly.

Fucker.

A traitorous tear of frustrated rage slides down my face, though my lips are tightly clamped.

His fingers are suddenly on my tender chin, viciously turning it, and I cry out, despite my best efforts not to.

“You will give me your full attention.”

I stare into his cold green eyes, like a sea robbed of warmth.

I'm reminded of Paco's bright-emerald hue. Open, glittering with his joy of being alive and, so I believed, in my closeness to him.

Unlike Paco’s, Tor’s green eyes are glacial, closed with indifference, and shimmering with his intentions.

I've learned a lot from a gaze. “Fuck you,” I say between my teeth.

He slaps my abused cheek, and my head whips into the mattress. My instant agony is a muffled wheeze between my teeth.

“A love tap, Greta. Have you already forgotten the feel of my fist?”

I hate that my voice is small. “No.”

“Then you will do what I say.”

“Why?” My one eye follows him as he clasps his large hands behind his back, straightening above me.

I breathe easier when he's not hovering above me.

Blood runs down my face, pooling in the hollow of my collarbone.

I want so badly to protect my body, to cover it, that my skin crawls with the urge.

Tor appears to sense my thoughts in an unwanted pulse of telepathy.

“You are quite naked, Greta.” His voice is a soothing drone. He grins, his teeth looking vaguely vampiric inside his cruel features.

I stiffen.

His eyes move over my form, lingering at my crotch.

I've never wanted to hide more than I do in this moment.

“Why are you here?” he asks in a mocking tone. “Why did I take you two years ago? Which question would you like answered first?”

Take me? Like what—to a picnic? No, gang rape is not something Tor gets to gloss over.

He speaks in a completely reasonable tone of voice, as though I'm not tied off in a cement basement somewhere.

“Why did you rape me?” Tears gush, flowing down my cheeks. I can't contain the memory of how injured I was—and still am.

Like liquid grief, my tears flow out of me like an unending river, burning over my abraded face, sealing the wounds with my despair.

Of course, Tor is unmoved.

“I am indebted to someone for the dismantling of you. Piece by delectable piece.”

What? “Who?”

He holds up a palm, slightly reddened from beating me. “In good time.” His mouth screws into a tight twist of lips.

Tor steeples his hands beneath his chin as though in prayer. I know this man hasn't prayed a day in his life.

“Our fathers were in business for many years. When my unfortunate psych evaluation came to my father's attention…” Tor hesitates for a few seconds, appearing pensive. “Along with certain proof of my deviant inclinations, he would have me put away. Disinherited.” He shakes his head.

The wetness of my memories dry on my cheeks before the testimony of his words. I listen while I hate him. His deceit. My vulnerability.

“I couldn't have that,” he says in soft reflection.

The pieces of the puzzle come together in macabre synchronicity. “You killed our fathers?” I ask slowly, suddenly remembering how badly Father had seemed to want to tell me something on his deathbed.

Tor drops his hands, rolling his eyes. “Your stubborn father would not die in my conveniently contrived vehicular accident,” he remarks with a tone of feigned patience.

Tor shrugs, and a hysterical bubble of laughter rises in my tight throat.

He notices my expression and gives curious pause before continuing, his head cocked to the left. “So, for what a lubricated autobahn could not accomplish, a goose-down pillow sufficed nicely.”

My stomach twists painfully. “You suffocated my father?” I whisper, though in my gut, I already know.

Tor shoves his hand in the pockets of his slacks, drilling me with his eyes. “Sure.”

Sure?

I swallow, and the dry click is the only noise besides the drip, drip of water finding its way into my new hell.

Keep him talking. “And your father?”

“His jet accident was engineered with more care. I am not—as you Americans say—a slow learner.” He's not telling me all this to purge his soul.

Tor is going to kill me. I feel it to my marrow, and my bladder clenches with the surety of my inevitable death. It's what might happen before my death that has me soaked in sweat and trembling.

Tor is freely confessing because there will be no accountability for his actions. He claps his hands together, and I jump. The plastic teeth of my bindings bite into my skin, flesh scarred and sensitive from the last time.

The wounds of my mind run deeper than those of my body.

“Let us get started!”

“Started?” I manage through my tight throat.

Tor's chin jerks back. “You speak French?” he asks suddenly.

Enough. I nod with automatic slowness through my puzzlement.

“Déjà vu, Greta,” he says quietly and winks slyly.

Chills sweep down my naked body. “No,” I deny.

“Why—yes,” Tor says, genuinely perplexed. “Did you believe I played with you, elicited trust, braining that pretty head of yours and then bringing you here to confess my sins?”

Tor cups his elbows, rocking back on his heels while he guffaws in chilly false humor.

No, I didn't think that. I hadn't gotten that far.

I've been far too preoccupied with my injured and vulnerable state and the potential for things worse than what I've already survived.

I squelch my fear. “Tell me why I've been tortured and beaten. Now that you've killed our fathers, you can have your father's inheritance. I'm unnecessary in all this.”

He shakes his head. The dark copper of his hair glints under the sick yellow light cast by the florescent bulb softly swaying above my body. “No. Father was brilliant. He disinherited me. Between my unusual hobbies being revealed and my IQ, it's my belief that Father thought I was too much a risk to let roam free, or bequeath me a dime.” He gives a dark chuckle. “However”—he swings a palm dismissively—“provisions were made to the finest sanatorium in Europe.” His mocking gaze finds mine. “Only the best nuthouse for an Aros.”

Oh my God. One eye bulges in terror; my other remains swollen shut, but uninvited tears leak out.

Tor is legitimately crazy.

I force my body to be calm. Knowledge is power, Greta. “How is keeping me helping you?” I'm so proud that I can keep my voice steady.

The first genuine smile I've ever seen—because all the smiles that fell on me before now were a mask—lights his face. “This is the part that is so delicious to me, Greta.” He's impassioned, beginning to pace the small room. “Upon your death, the trust—as all Norwegian trusts are fashioned—falls to the next living relative.”

I know he's circling some insane revelation while I lie here, beaten and naked, smelling like piss. Hate infuses me with courage. I state the obvious, my heart racing, “We're not related.” I strain against my bindings.

His eyebrow pops. “True.”

Tor's malicious grin reappears; he clearly relishes the cleverness of his secret. “However, my wife will be taking care of that small detail.”

Sweat rolls from my bound hands to my elbows. “Wife?” Someone's married to this monster?

“Ah,” he says softly, “I see from your disgusted expression that you can't imagine anyone being joined with me.” He wags his finger. “Me, either. However, how wrong we both are. I have found my other half. She allows my ways and accepts…” He inhales deeply, muscled chest expanding. “My needs.” Tor's last words are spoken almost reverently.

“So you're going to-to—”

“Kill you,” Tor finishes pleasantly, lips curled in a satisfied smile.

I blanch. “Why?” I ask quietly. “What have I ever done to you?”

“It is not personal for me, Greta. It is personal for the woman I love. Your death and degradation is a means to an end. Your torture and ultimate death will give her joy, and—we will benefit tremendously.

“Everyone will believe we eloped. Your death will not be revealed. And we will—another wonderful expression I steal from the Americans—ride off into the sunset together. I will be rich, and my beautiful bride will be happy.” He sighs in utter contentment. “And it will be fun.”

Fun?! My mind spins. How? What?

A dull knock falls on the door. “Ah! My bride has arrived. I won't keep the two of you apart another second, now that you know the entire truth.”

Tor swings the door open, and Lisbeth passes through the rough opening.

Her eyes land on me trussed up on a mattress, urine and tears drying on my naked flesh. A slow smile takes over her face.

That's when I know.

My capture, my systematic rape two years ago—was never for Tor. He was only a vehicle of emotional and physical destruction.

It was Lisbeth. My own sister instigated the torture that crushed my body and soul.

I shut my eyes, wishing for death. Underneath that, I wish for Paco.

“Well hello, Greta. We meet again.”

“Love, why are you…?” Tor asks, wafting his palm around her face.

Lisbeth looks like a corpse.

Through the mud of my thoughts, I think of Paco’s plan to pay off the doctor. He must have somehow disguised her. Now she's free of the threat from the narco. Paco probably believes he saved my deserving sibling, that he saved the day.

Not that I would ever be a damsel in distress.

My status has just been elevated to something above that. The clock of my life is ticking, counting down like an expertly crafted bomb.

Every piece of their elaborate plan is falling into place like dark puzzle pieces raining inside my head.

Lisbeth stands to inherit everything if I no longer live. They kill me, and she gets everything using my name. No one will question anything. She looks exactly like me.

Tor is her husband, so in a finely engineered plan, he will gain his rightful inheritance through marriage. By Norwegian law, the next of kin will take hold of the estate. Lisbeth only has to wait until she's thirty, and every cent will be hers.

“I don't understand.” Actually, I do. But I'll never accept it.

Lisbeth arches her perfectly sculpted platinum brows. I shiver, essentially looking at myself. God help me if I ever look like her or that I could mold my expressions into ones as cruel as the one she wears.

I know when there's no hope. I swallow past my fear. “Fine, kill me. But why hurt me,” I finish in a low voice.

Lisbeth paces over to where I lay, her eyes roving my naked form. I feel the heat rush to my skin, and I'm sick over my embarrassment. Why should I even care if this woman sees me naked?

My tears begin again. Because she should love me. And somehow, her hate and need for revenge make everything hurt so much more.

Lisbeth's eyes rake me with contemplative intensity. “If I didn't despise her so much, Greta's shame would be charming.”

“I think I recounted the sweetness of taking her virginity,” Tor reminds her adoringly.

My eyes close. I feel so violated. Tor recalls the robbing of my innocence as though it were just another day. Any day.

But to me, it is a day I'll never forget.

“Yes,” Lisbeth hisses. Her rich, blue eyes narrow as they gaze down at me. “But you made her your slut.”

Tor gives her a smile full of soft tenderness and lifts his shoulder.

I shudder at their exchange.

“I did. Along with help from a few friends.” He gives a crooked little “aw shucks” grin.

Lisbeth ignores Tor, moving closer to my position.

I flinch.

“I hurt you because Father chose you,” she says in fierce answer, her fists balled at her sides. “How were you any better? More worthy.”

She kicks me so suddenly, I'm unprepared, and I hear, and feel, a rib give. Lisbeth knocks the wind out of me, and I can't even clutch my side, protect myself.

Instead, my uninjured eye burns with unshed tears. My breath is imprisoned in my chest, and I don't even have the strength to gasp. White searing pain lances my chest.

Tor puts a cautionary hand on her arm. “Now, Lisbeth. You can be an audience to the next event, but if you hurt Greta too badly, she will, unfortunately, pass out.” Tor's voice holds a pout.

My breath returns, wheezing between my teeth. I hate them.

Lisbeth is breathing heavily, obviously excited by my pain. Her eyes are clear. “Can't have that.”

“No, we cannot,” he agrees.

Additional precious oxygen floods my lungs, and I swallow air like a starving woman.

“When do the men arrive?” she asks, eyes still riveted to my abused face, the ghost of a grim smile touching her lips.

Men?

The hard-won air leaves my body in a sudden gust, and I whoop in another swollen breath that tastes like dirty seawater. I splutter, fighting the desperate breath because each one is agony as it expands my lungs.

Tor smiles down at me. “Shortly.”

Lisbeth takes his hand and places it against her cheek. His large hand palms her face. “I love you,” she breathes in a sultry whisper.

They kiss, twining together like poisonous vines.

Their rapturous embrace symbolizes the loss of my hope, and my body relaxes. I can't stay in adrenaline-fueled fight or flight indefinitely.

At some point, I have to come apart.

Closing my eyes, I allow the chill to overtake me as my mind shuts off.

I don't truly feel Tor give a brutal pinch to my nipple—the numbing of my soul has begun—nor do I hear their voices murmuring together like conspirators.

My ears are full of the sound of the sea, shuffling underneath me like a pillow of desolation.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Paco

My dull senses spark to life.

Every bit of my body is tight with injury, sluggish with reaction, and burdened with healing.

I keep my eyes closed, lying perfectly still and hanging on to the fact that I'm still alive.

Tallinn did keep warning me.

He said that there was an animal inside me—a primal, raw, and savagely instinctual animal that slept, waiting.

I feel him now—prowling.

That part of me slept through my life until now.

Maybe Zaire, a friend from my early childhood, always saw that buried part of me lurking in the shadows of the civility all men have been molded into.

The owner of Club Alpha has either given me the greatest gift of my life or delivered the greatest finale.

Bindings cut into my wrists and ankles. I know by the feel that they're plastic, not a tie made of organic material.

I might have been able to work with rope, twine, or something that could be stretched to opening.

My eyelids slowly rise. Both are swollen. I can still feel the imprint of a heel on my face.

The sea is the first sound I'm consciously aware of. It drifts underneath my body. The noise is almost like the breathing of a sentient being. The sound beckons, as though it yearns to lull me back into sleep with an embrace like the grave.

I fight the pull, fully opening my eyes to scan my surroundings.

Tallinn's dead. The phrase breathes through my mind like stolen wind. That realization pauses my perusal for a bloated moment I can't spare.

If he is dead, what would Tallinn wish for the most, if he were here—right now? My life.

I continue my perusal of the “room.” The space is really a box of concrete. Water creeps in at the corners, and a bare bulb swings slightly in an invisible current of air that slips through the poorly insulated area. I shiver from the cold as I spy the single exit. A five-panel wood door completes the prison. No windows.

My eyes trip over the slumped form of a man in a stool. He's leaning into the corner, muscular arms folded in, head tipped back into the crack formed by the corner of the wall.

Soft snoring is the second sound I hear, as though the sea and this man have contrived a discordant melody.

I finish my scan of my accommodation as my eyes fall to the door again. One exit.

I shift slightly and wince. I'm so sore I don't know which of my injuries is worse, the ribs? Head bashed in—the slit of one of my eyes, impairing my vision? Too numerous to choose just one.

But that I've not been killed doesn't bode well. One can't torture the dead. It would have been far easier to kill me. Therefore, if I’m still breathing, I must serve another purpose.

Lifting my head, I gaze down the length of my body and see I have been deposited on a soiled mattress. I look first at my feet then slowly check every inch of myself on the way up.

I wiggle my toes. One shoe is missing. I frown, absurdly offended by the missing footwear. Lifting a knee, I stifle a groan. I recognize a deep contusion when it presents itself.

I finish my analysis and lower my head.

The snoring of my “guard” continues.

I center my body, letting my mind shuffle through my thoughts like a deck of cards—remembering what I've been taught.

“Paco, in the unlikely event your Latin ass is restrained—” Tallinn chuckles. “I want you to do this, assuming you've been bound in front of your body because they're lazy.”

I lean back in my desk chair, watching Tallinn through hooded eyes. “And you wouldn't be flajo?” I smirk.

His grin looks like a baring of teeth, but his eyes glitter with interest. “Lazy? Not on a bet. Not where torture's involved.”

I frown, not understanding the expression, though the meaning is clear.

“Come here.” Tallinn cups his fingers in a come-hither gesture.

I stand and smoothly walk to his position.

“Arms up.”

I lift my arms.

“Wrists together.”

Our eyes meet.

I don't like the promise of being bound.

Tallinn smiles. “See?” He wags his fingers. “A real guy isn't going to voluntarily let anyone tie them.” He chuckles. “Unless it's a hot chick. We'll make exceptions for the females.”

My lips quirk. I put my wrists together.

“Very civilized of you, Paco.”

The hint of my smile vanishes.

The long plastic opaque cord tightens with the sound of a reverse accordion.

The plastic bites into my flesh. I flex. Nothing moves or gives.

“How do you plan to escape?” His eyes regard me like twin discs, in a shade of brown so dark they war with black, the whites like snow.

“If you were to do your job, escape tutorial would be unnecessary,” I point out.

Tallinn's face falls into grim lines. “I will do my job. But if someone interrupts me while I'm doing my job, then you learn this until I come and rescue you.”

“Hmmm.” I twist and bend my wrists.

Nothing.

I am not a weak man, in part because Tallinn has encouraged cross-training in a way that causes me to hate him. I also deeply respect the man.

Tallinn watches my novice attempt and makes a low noise of dissatisfaction. “Nah, that's for sissies.” His eyes find mine again.

I glare, and he chuckles. “You'll have to hurt yourself to escape. There's no out that feels good in this scenario.”

He raises my bound arms above my head. “Now pretend that you're trying to meet your shoulder blades.”

I bunch my shoulders together tightly.

“Now take your hands down like you're doing a judo chop.” I smirk then do as he says, arresting my momentum at the waist.

“Good,” Tallinn says thoughtfully. “Now, on the third time, instead of stopping your downward stroke, swing outward, hard. Like you're one of those swan divers.”

Tallinn jerks his thumb toward the perfect view I have of the cliff.

My eyes take in the lithe form of a diver as he prepares to plunge. His arms swing out like slashing knives in opposing directions. They meet in a perfect diamond of precision to slice the ocean's surface below.

I turn back to Tallinn, lifting my bound wrists like a hammer above my head. My shoulder muscles contract with the awkwardness of the constrained movement.

One.

I raise them again.

Two.

The air of my bound limbs brushes past my face. I bring my arms down in a fast downward movement.

Chop. Three.

I snap my wrists apart, and the zip tie peels away, lashing my flesh as it does.

I hiss, rubbing my tender wrists and looking at my instructor.

He lifts his palms inoffensively. “Get Away from the Bad Dudes 101.”

I scowl at him, my anger dissipating when I see the severed plastic lying at my feet.

One side of my lips twist.

“A plus, Paco.” Tallinn winks.

I do what he taught me, casting a furtive glance at the sleeping man.

I only need my hands free to kill him.

I'm not saddened by that knowledge that I’ll have to take a life. The awakened part of me is invigorated by his imminent demise.

I lift my arms, swinging sharply upward.

Back. Forth.

The third time has the plastic tie streaking off like a sprung rubber band. I tense at how loud the plastic is in the quiet of a room where the only sounds are waves lapping and the soft snoring of the muy flajo guard.

I stare silently at the strip of shredded milk-white binding sitting between us.

I flip over on the mattress.

The material is covered in rust-colored stains and other bodily fluid filth. It appears as though this place has been used for prior engagements.

I stand.

Pins and needles of returning blood circulation drives slivers of pain into already abused muscles and joints. My opponents were quite thorough, though I killed two of my assailants before they took me down.

A smile I didn't think was possible covers my face. I won't be fighting to defend. I will be fighting to incapacitate.

I take in my still-bound ankles and search my weaponless body for a means to free myself.

Hopping off the mattress, I swing wildly with my arms to regain my balance. I steady, my eyes flicking to the sleeper.

Low snoring continues. I look at the man, so peaceful in his unconscious world. My eyes lovingly trace each thing I can use to kill him. Finally, I spy a tightly bound ponytail at his nape—the handle of his destruction.

I bounce over to him, using my arms like a circus tightrope performer. When I'm a half meter away, his eyes spring open.

His hand is clearing the jacket where his gun lies as my left palm flattens against the side of his jaw in a move that looks as though I'm pushing his face away.

I shove hard to his left as my opposite hand grabs the ponytail and jerks in the opposite direction, swinging his head hard.

A new noise fills the echoing space: a definitive crack, but his weapon landing on the floor with an unmistakable clatter has me warming my hands in his pockets, in search of a knife.

My fingertips brush metal. I jerk the knife out of his pocket. He slumps forward.

I bend over, flicking the blade as I do, and cutting the tie between my ankles.

The door slams open behind me, and I pivot like a dancer, diving the two meters onto the mattress, using it as a springboard, and hitting the assailant as a bullet misses me by inches.

I slap the arm holding the gun sideways, knocking it away.

He plays into my strike by trying to hold onto the gun. I crush his instep with the foot that still wears a shoe. He howls, reflexively bringing the butt of the gun down on my head.

Ducking, I stab his throat with my knuckles, and as he rears back, I lift my elbow like I'm getting ready to fly, smashing into his nose.

Blood sprays, and I dip as his gun hand begins to fall. Chopping the wrist, I take the gun from his loosened grip and bring the butt down on the back of his neck.

He falls, and I whirl to face the welcome of a darkened corridor, lifting the barrel like an extension of my arm.

Agonized screaming plows through me.

My intellect is in denial, but my heart knows who is making those crazed sounds.

Greta.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Greta

“No!” I scream as the first of the men flood into my prison.

“She is as I remember her,” one says with barely contained excitement.

They don't wear masks this time. That's how I know I'm not meant to live.

Lisbeth smiles down at me in a dreamy way, and I scream louder.

Her happiness dissolves into irritation. “Shut her up.”

“With pleasure,” the second man says, coming to the side of the mattress.

Pale eyes like the fjords of my homeland measure my fear, feeding off it.

I remember it all. Every fingerprint. Every uninvited penetration, pinch, and tweak. Every fist.

Tor grins, slowly sucking his index finger into his mouth and removing it. He presses the wet tip to Lisbeth's forehead as though marking her. “All will be well, my bride.”

Lisbeth's face tightens with the ugliness that lives inside her. “I want to kill her. Please, fall short of all that you plan, so I may deliver the killing blow.”

“Patience,” Tor whispers in placation, his eyes sliding to me.

My bladder seizes and I squeeze my thighs together.

I can't believe there are human beings who would plan this. Hate fills Lisbeth's expression, and jealousy burns in her gaze.

My vision trembles, eyes skating around the room. All I see are the men who raped me two years ago and left me for other men to find.

Bleeding. Naked.

Desecrated.

I won't do this. I can't live through the suffering again.

I've never been with a man by choice. Paco's face fills my mind in brilliant clarity.

I would have been with him.

The first criminal touches my bare ankle, not with force. It’s the barest caress, like an inference of contact.

His touch is heavy on my skin as I yell in a hoarse shout. All my anguish fills the timbre of my voice, and Tor grimaces.

The hand tightens like a vise.

I close my eyes as I feel the coldness of a metal blade cut through the binding at my ankles.

My screams grow louder when the other man takes hold of my opposite ankle.

I kick when they spread me.

*

Paco

I am very disciplined.

And that is good, because when the woman's screams reach my ears, it takes all that I am to not rush headlong into the room where her obvious torture is taking place.

Instead, I install myself against the damp, cold stone wall.

A blistering scream of agony echoes, dying down into an echoing whimper.

Words come to me. The single syllable is the same in so many languages.

No, no, no… no.

Spoken with a soft and terrible urgency, that's all I hear. Her fervent denial rings in my ears, my hands slick against the warmed metal of the gun. I shove it in the waistband of my slacks.

Tallinn's words come to me.

Leave emotion at the table, Paco.

I could, but that was before—before my true self awakened. I feel fully in the present, for the first time.

It's exhilarating. Frightening.

Utterly real.

I soundlessly approach the threshold, where I hear voices. Something about the quality of one speaker halts my progress. I remove the gun from my waistband.

Lisbeth.

She carries on a normal conversation while another woman is nearby, in misery and fear.

The cogs of my mind run smoothly. Many things clang into place. Some stop up, not fitting; the rest come together with uncluttered precision. Unheeded subconscious warnings swim to the surface: The sheer coincidence of Lisbeth's timely appearance. The tie to Greta's father. The family’s ties to Tor.

His tie to both women.

At a masculine chuckle, my head whips to the sound. My hands steady on the gun, I ease the barrel along the threshold of the doorjamb.

I will always be impressed with myself for the rest of my life because of how I react next.

I do not move the sight even a hairsbreadth when I take in a beaten Greta. Blond silk fans around her head. Angry welts and cuts are random accessories on the perfection of her face. One blue eye stares upward in numb horror as a man, naked from the waist down, prepares to impale himself inside her.

My breath stills as I count the men. One at each ankle. One in the center.

My eyes flick to the couple who watch.

A man who stands at nearly six and a half feet tall, with deep copper hair seems to languish at the sidelines with Lisbeth in audience—chin in palm, as though considering Greta's torture in casual regard. I pause for a fraction of a second at the sight of him. A trembling memory skirts the edges of my mind. I dismiss it.

No one hears me when I enter the room. The gun is my announcer as the shots reverberate in the enclosed space.

A hole blooms like a bloody flower in the center of the lead rapist's torso.

Greta's mouth parts, her lips quivering, as her arms helplessly jerk against the loosened bindings.

She turns her head as globs of flesh splatter around her like a brief squall of blood-soaked gore and his body falls beside hers.

The two at her ankles jerk their heads up in eerie unison.

I let the gun do its work, sighting them both and double tapping first one then the other. The tip of the gun smokes.

Lisbeth is suddenly there. A grin like an insane clown’s is fixed on her face.

I send the business end of the gun into her in a purely reactionary blow, and it takes her by surprise, as she did me. Lisbeth's nose is shattered, and I know from experience that blood is a hindrance in a fight. I worsen it by smashing the palm of my free hand into her face.

I don't intend to kill her. But she will be stopped.

The man with deep-red hair comes at me like my partner in a waltz.

A dance for my life.

The man inserts himself between us and flings my arms to the side in a counter so instinctive and fast, I don't have the time to be embarrassed I didn't anticipate it.

A soft whimper interrupts our silent battle.

There is more at stake than me and all that I've been to this point.

The man sneers, growling, “Give me everything you have, stupid Mexican.”

I know him, my mind whispers.

I bounce back, using footwork so rewarding to learn with Tallinn as my teacher.

I jab his square jaw in a hard punch. He grabs my forearm, twisting it. His strength is immense; his body leverage is superior and threatens to twist my arm off at the socket.

Instead, I move with him and lean into the move, spinning to give him my back at the last moment, my gaze awkwardly glued to him.

His eyes widen in surprise, and I ram my leg back, leaving my arm loose within his grasp as I take out the knee.

He falls, his knee collapsing. He tumbles silently, wrapping massive arms around me, and I land backward, palms slapping the  cement floor.

A crack sounds to my left and Lisbeth appears above me, a broken piece of a wooden stool raised high in her hand.

I roll hard to the right to avoid the downward swing. It’s a rudimentary counter maneuver. It always works.

The man holds me.

A flash of naked flesh streaks by. Another bludgeoning tool hits Lisbeth in the side of her beautiful face.

Her cheekbone splits. Lisbeth blinks. The bone of her face appears to glow in the strange light of the prison above the sea. Her eyes seem to float for a moment above the wound. Greta's fierce face is suddenly behind her twin. Two faces have never looked more alike—or so very different.

I don't tell her no—my eyes say yes.

Greta swings again as Lisbeth turns to defend her charge.

The ragged edge from the same broken stool leg catches her in the throat just right. Lisbeth grabs her own neck, blood spraying between her fingers like water from a faucet that won't stop leaking.

The man howls, trying to spring to his feet.

I note with fierce satisfaction that the knee I took out inhibits his mobility.

Greta does the rest, bashing him in the teeth with the weapon she used on Lisbeth. She slips on the blood-slicked floor then rights herself.

A tooth flies from the blow, landing on my chest. It looks very white on the black of my shirt.

“Die!” Greta shrieks in the man's face.

I stand as he reaches for Greta, his mouth a bloody grin of determination.

Wide blue eyes regard me over his shoulder, spilling numb terror down her face in tears she doesn't realize flow.

I give the most deliberate strike I've ever delivered in my life to the back of his neck.

He turns to face me. Something vital is obviously broken.

Using my entire body and mind, I strike again. He gurgles deep inside his ruined esophagus.

As he falls, Greta is revealed fully.

The piece of my missing soul—found.

His body lands with a thud between us. Blood soaks into my sock.

Greta stands before me, naked, battered—and so beautiful I could cry.

Alive.

When police move into the building, I don't notice.

I'm holding the woman I was born for.

*

“Mr. Castillo,” the Norwegian officer begins in perfect English. “Or do you prefer Español?” His dark eyebrows hike. It's a misconception that all people of the north are light complected. Some are very dark, and this officer of the law is a perfect example.

I sigh, my eyes gritty with exhaustion. I am tired of talking. I swipe a hand over my face, rough stubble rasping over my shredded hands, just beginning to scab over.

The only one I wish to speak with is Greta. Instead, I reply, “English is fine, officer.” My eyes flick to his badge. Fett.

He gives a sage nod. “You have been quite gracious in light of the ordeal you and Ms. Dahlem have been through.”

Quite. “I want to see Ms. Dahlem,” I repeat in a flat voice.

He glances down. His uniform is less crisp than it was ten hours ago when they stormed the seaside holding.

I close my eyes briefly at the memory of Lisbeth's extreme plan to kill her sister.

When I open them, Officer Fett is simply staring openly at me.

I palm my face again, bone weary. I feel dirty and unkempt.

I’m lucky, though.

I blink once.

He closes his notebook, tapping it once.

My eyes spring open.

His smile is genuine. “I think we have all that we need here.”

My surprise must show.

“You fell asleep after I asked my final question.”

I give a tired laugh. There is nothing funny, but somehow, that's what comes out when I'm extremely stressed.

“I said, Ms. Dahlem is under light sedation in the attached medical facility.”

I stand abruptly, and Officer Fett moves away warily.

Apparently, the police had been briefed on the savagery of my systematic killing of everyone.

Except Lisbeth.

Greta had done that. And though it is an awful summation of events, Lisbeth was deserving of the end that Greta gifted her.

“Has she? Was she?” I can't finish with the word violated.

Did I arrive before that? My mind supplies the beaten, bloody image of a naked Greta.

“No,” he gives in curt answer.

A breath of relief whistles from between my teeth. She deserves to be protected. No one will ever hurt her again.

His eyes meet mine. “She is not well, Mr. Castillo. Ms. Dahlem was taken and subjected to a horror—from what I understand—she has already been a survivor of.”

I can only nod. There is no answer for what Greta managed to move through emotionally.

“It was only her American friend, a Miss Gia—” He shakes his head, unable to remember her surname.

Township, I supply internally. “Go on,” I encourage impatiently.

“It is her friend who alerted us. Then we found your injured guard—”

“Is Tallinn out of ICU?”

His brow furrows for a moment then smoothes. “Yes. Robert Tallinn?”

I nod.

“Mr. Tallinn was very lucky,” he says gravely. He swings a palm at the door of their orderly, comfortable interrogation room.

“Let me take you to see your friend.”

It took believing that Tallinn was dead for me to realize he was more friend than guard.

I've been blind and now I see. So much.

I stay him with a hand. “My friend and my future wife.”

Fett's smile is tinged with sadness. “That is the hope for us all. Friendship and love.”

True.

But I've never been more sure of anything in my life. I know something that's even more definitive than Club Alpha or the intentions of the two criminals who planned an innocent woman's death.

Greta is meant for me.

It took destiny and submitting to who I really am for me to acknowledge love is possible, especially for me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Greta

Soft sobbing wakes me.

Like a boat coming to shore, sadness eases the edges of unnatural sleep like waves lapping at the hull of my fogged brain.

Slowly, my eyelids lift. Gia comes into focus, and if I wasn't so thick with whatever's floating in my system, I would jump out of bed and hug her. Instead, I just stare quietly, taking in the scene. My face and ribs ache. But otherwise, I feel okay.

Gia's soft crying is because of what could have happened. Again.

But it didn't.

I don't have to be a genius psychologist to understand that she blames herself. It's in every line of her body shaking with her sobs of regret.

My gaze takes in the room. Still in Norway.

But a hospital is a hospital. The smells are the same worldwide—medicinal, sterile, and final in some indefinable way that makes me sad.

I must have made a small noise because Gia's hands fall from her tear-stained face, and she stares at me for an entire second before she launches at me.

“Greta!” she cries.

I open my arms, and she lands on top of me, her chest still heaving with sobs. “I'm so sorry! This is all on me…”

I'm weak from exhaustion and really cool meds, but I manage to pull away, looking into her face.

I softly shake my head. “No. I wanted to do Club Alpha.”

Gia's face screws up in a crooked look of bewilderment. “What?” She sinks slowly into the modern chair beside my bed. More like a perch, it fits the room's décor but looks unbearably uncomfortable.

“Some of this wasn't Club Alpha, Greta.”

It's my turn to pause. I hike myself up. My head swims, and I breathe through the sudden vertigo.

Her hand touches my forearm. “You okay?”

I nod, taking measured breaths. “What part?” I grip the armrests of the hospital bed.

“I spoke with Zaire, and he said the game is over—officially.”

I roll my eyes, taking stock of my beat-up body. “Good goddamn thing.” A single tear rolls out without my permission. Gia's sad gaze tracks it as a shaky exhale plows out, running over the top of my escaped emotions.

“The entire thing was a setup.” A small smile hovers over her full lips.

“Which part?” I spy water with a bendy straw and carefully lift the cup, sipping delicious liquid down my parched throat.

“The narco—everything.”

Instantly, I remember the Hispanic men in the stairwell and recount the incident to Gia.

“Zaire,” she says with a knowing smile.

My mouth hangs agape. “So, he engineered the Mexican drug cartel to falsify everything?”

Gia lifts a shoulder. “Actually, he did more than that. Zaire hired some of their people to travel to Norway to oversee things, without knowing Tor and Lisbeth's roles.”

“But they knew?” I ask.

Gia nods. “Tor and Lisbeth somehow knew of Club Alpha. Their plan was intertwined with Zaire's—without his knowledge. It's been determined the pair used Club Alpha as a way to see their sick plan through.”

My mind is spinning. “The doctor?”

Gia's lips flatten. “Dead.”

I suck in my next breath. “He was supposed to falsify that Lisbeth had been killed for the narco—by Paco.”

Gia nods sadly.

“Lisbeth killed him.”

“Yes.”

My mind is reeling. “The men in the stairwell?”

“They found Tallinn. They were watching you, not stalking you.”

I shake my head, leaning back against the pillows. The web is too tangled for me to unwind. “What about the almost rape?” I ask in a voice barely above a whisper. My eyes are trained on the ceiling, but tears like fire sear a path down my face. I'm helpless to stop them.

I can't get the memory of their touch out of my head.

Gia's voice shakes slightly. “Obviously, Zaire wasn't part of anything to do with perpetuating violence against you. The plan for Club Alpha was going to be much less violent… the narco angle was a plot device to throw you and Paco together.”

Paco.

The last scene plays in my head like a bad horror movie as I see my naked self stepping up behind Lisbeth and bashing her in the head with a discarded piece of stool. Then I use it on Tor. His tooth lands on Paco. I’ll never forget the way Tor looked at me with murder in his pale eyes.

I shiver, and Gia opens her mouth. But I speak instead, banishing the memories for the moment, “So my own sister wanted me dead, and Tor was what? Along for the ride?”

The betrayal is the worst. Tor had already raped me. For her.

I shudder.

And he planned to again, with Lisbeth watching the entire time. My death and her inheritance by default wasn't enough for an explanation.

Gia explains the rest: her plan to claim my identity, her marriage to Tor, and how that nicely secured their mutual fortunes.

So Tor was telling the truth.

Lisbeth needed to exact revenge because our father had randomly chosen me as the public heir. Lisbeth would have needed to wait for the same acknowledgment.

It wasn't in her nature to wait.

The room is silent when the last word of explanation drops from Gia's mouth. When she asks quietly if I've heard from Paco, I shake my head.

After all this Club Alpha stuff, nothing has come of it.

Poof.

Fifty million dollars for a fantasy that doesn't come true.

Gia takes my hand. “He saved you.”

I nod.

I have my life. Even though it's empty.

Then I say the thing that's most important. “And I saved myself.”

We smile at each other just as the door opens.

Speak of the devil.

Paco walks in, and my heart comes alive.

*

Paco

“That bastard Zaire,” Tallinn says then coughs, grimacing at the movement.

I lean forward to adjust his pillows, and he says, “Fuck off, Paco—I'm not a pussy.”

I grin, doing it anyway.

“I know you are not a pussy,” I reply, and he shakes his head at my terrible manipulation of the word. “But you did take a bullet for me.”

His smile fades, as does mine.

“Worth it,” he says.

I touch his hand briefly, and he smirks. “Don't get all sappy on me.”

I incline my head, putting my fist in front of my mouth. “I would never dream of it.”

Tallinn sees that I'm covering a smile. “Yeah, ya would. You're all Latin and that. You guys get all smoochy. I've seen it with my own eyes.”

I roll mine. “I think you're doing just fine, friend.”

Tallinn scowls. “What? That's it? I get a short little visit, pat on my hand, and off you trot? Nope.”

My chin dips lower, and my fist falls, revealing the humor I can't hide, the excitement thrilling through me.

Tallinn squints suspiciously. “What?”

“You will be released shortly, yes?”

Tallinn nods. “Yeah. Can't wait to bust outta here. Fucking hospitals—creepy. Even if the Norwegian chicks are hot and they have to take care of me.” He waggles his eyebrows.

I grin. “Then I cannot be detained. I must see Greta.”

Tallinn's expression sobers instantly. “How is she?”

Officer Fett expounded on what Zaire could not. The events of the past few weeks are so layered, I don't know where to begin.

Tallinn must see some of it on my face. “Just give me the bottom line. Reader's Digest style.”

I do. All of it.

After a half an hour passes, I finish.

Tallinn gives a low whistle. “Wow, that's the short version?” He laces his fingers and stuffs his knotted hands beneath his head, grimacing. “You can't make that shit up.”

I give a listless chuckle. “No. Zaire apparently pays off the Narco better than I.”

“Yeah.” His eyes slide to mine. “What about those freaks, Tor and Lisbeth?”

“Dead.”

Tallinn snorts. “Never did warm up to that bitch.”

I would agree.

Tallinn blows out a rough exhale. “Did they work Greta over again?”

I shake my head.

“But she's probably still messed up.”

I nod. I don't think there's any way she couldn't be.

“You killed Tor?”

A spontaneous smile lights my face.

Tallinn laughs. “You found him, Paco.”

My eyes sharpen on his face, slightly startled. “Who?”

“Your inner animal.”

His hand rises, closing into a fist.

I bump it. It's immature to celebrate the taking of a life. But it feels so innately right—and good. Tor Aros was an evil human being. He'd irrevocably wounded a woman that I'm bound to.

Or that is my hope.

I stand up. I'm determined to find out.

Tallinn's eyes hold knowledge. “Do it, man. Show her your worth, Paco.”

“There is no showing my friend—only doing.”

Tallinn smirks. “Then what are you doing here with my hairy ass? Get doinʼ.”

I move away without a word, shutting the door silently behind me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Paco

I splay my fingers on Greta's hospital door before entering.

After exchanging a nod with the lawman guarding the door, I gently push. The heavy door whispers open, and I see a woman, with coloring not unlike mine, perched beside Greta. She does not seem surprised to see me, and she stands.

She marches up to me, her head level with my shoulder, and puts her hands on either side of my face.

Surprise holds me still. Shock freezes me when she kisses me on the mouth. It's not a sexual press of lips but a robust greeting.

She rolls back to her heels. “There!” she announces.

Greta laughs in the background, and confused, I take in their amused expressions.

“I just wanted to put a lip-lock on the man who saved my friend.”

My face heats, and I fight the urge to scrub a hand over the hot flesh.

“I'm Gia,” she says, sticking out her hand.

Ah. I take her hand and give a single shake and drop it. “I am Francisco Emmanuel Lewis Castillo.”

Her hand goes to her hip as an ebony eyebrow shoots up. “Huh.”

My lips twitch. “You may call me Paco.”

“Well thank Christ! That other bunch of names is a mouthful.”

Very American. A laugh parts my lips, and she grins. Her smile fades as she grips my shoulders.

Her lips brush my ear. “Take care of her, or I'll cut off your nuts, capiche?”

I whisper back without missing a beat, “If she will allow it.”

“See that you do.”

“Gia, please don't threaten Paco.” Greta’s eyes move to mine, swimmingly blue and intense. “I think he's proven himself.”

“Mhmm.” She says as though unconvinced.

Gia gives me one more death stare, as Tallinn would call it, and leaves through the door I just entered.

Greta and I are alone.

Finally.

The silence is tense.

“Kind of awkward,” Greta comments, high color beginning to spread over the abrasions of her face.

I shrug, stuffing my hands inside the pockets of my slacks.

Awkward doesn't concern me. Not anymore.

“They—” Her throat convulses. “They gave me a shower.”

Her discomfort is evident in the way she knots and smoothes the sheet between her slender fingers.

I don't know what will be too much. My heart already beats inside the palm of her hand, though she remains unaware.

My body stays rooted across the room.

I will not push, though every fiber of my being would be holding Greta now at her command—were she to ask.

Our gazes lock.

Tears begin to flow out of her eyes, coloring the hospital gown to a deep blue. “I-I am so ashamed.”

My feet take me across the room in two strides. Every bit of me is tense, and I say with quiet fierceness, “You have nothing to feel ashamed about. Nada.”

Her swollen eyes look up at me, and in that moment I would give quite a bit to kill Tor Aros a second time.

But death only comes once.

Life has given us a second chance. I will not waste it.

My fingertip traces the fine bone of her jaw, unmarred by Aros’s beating. When it nears her lips she kisses the tip, leaning the side of her face against my palm.

I sit beside her on the bed, holding her face with the greatest care of anything I have ever held in my life.

After a moment, she pushes the covers away and crawls onto my lap, curling up into a ball. I hold her as she cries against my chest.

The salt of her sadness is my redemption.

*

Greta-two weeks later

“I'm fine, I swear it,” I say into the phone. I move through the hospital's glass doors and tip my face into the sun. A last rare warm autumn day has appeared, and I suck up the faint heat with a smile.

I am free.

“You better be. And Paco better be the stud to end all studs.” Gia's words are drier than the Sahara desert.

I smile at her words.

Paco's hand is clasped in mine.

He hasn't left my side since I fell apart in his arms two weeks ago.

I inhale deeply then release it slowly.

Paco was there for every piece of me to be glued back together. He didn't run when I snotted his expensive shirt. He simply took it off.

I slipped my hand inside his sports coat, placing my palm against his bare chest directly over his heart.

His warm hand covered mine.

“I think he's okay,” I say in the present, across the long-distance connection, my eyes steady on his.

“No está mal?” Paco's eyes never leave mine as he lifts my hand to kiss each knuckle.

Just okay? I translate then giggle.

“What is going on? Are you doing some hanky-panky, Greta?”

“No,” I reply, but my voice is breathy.

“All right, get your mushy self home. Pronto.”

“Yes, ma'am.” I swipe Gia's image away without looking.

“Gia?” Paco asks without a trace of accent.

I nod. “She worries,” I answer.

“No more than I.”

I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders and touch my forehead to his chest, ignoring the pain of my face. I don't know when Paco became home for me. Touching him makes me feel as though nothing can ever hurt me.

It's amazing what some real-life therapy can do for a girl.

I pocket my cell and our fingers thread as we walk to the waiting limo.

Tallinn steps out of the passenger side and opens the door.

“Tallinn,” Paco admonishes, and I can totally tell Tallinn loves to break the rules.

“It was a bullet, not a grenade. I'm good as new.”

I think he's a little gray around the edges, but I don't say it. He's not driving, just traveling with us.

A nurse, a beautiful one, will be on Paco's private jet to take care of Tallinn. I will be going with them, as well.

Paco and I have a lot to figure out.

A good start within horrible conditions doesn't guarantee anything. But it's the most hope I've had in the last two years.

I'll take it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Paco

The wind whistles between the downtown high-rises in the heart of Seattle, twisting transluscent blond strands of Greta's unbraided hair, tossing them around her face. I tuck a clump behind her ear, and she looks up at me.

We're standing outside Club Alpha.

Neither of us knows what to say. It's been a month since the ordeal in Norway and our subsequent return to the States. Our fantasy contract is over.

Zaire always closes everything.

And he's never been more smug. I had to admit that there was a woman out there who was meant for me. I'm not sure that Greta is aware in the way I am.

Tallinn is hanging around at the hotel we have been living in temporarily. I have just returned from Columbia to oversee a new plant, and every second I was away from Greta was unbearable.

“I missed you,” she says, and my eyes widen. Greta laughs. “What? Is that such a surprise?”

“I was thinking the same thoughts.” I shrug, and she laughs again, pressing her finger in the deep dimple in my chin.

I snap my teeth at her and growl.

Greta bursts out laughing, and I pull her against me.

Slowly her natural humor and personality are reasserting themselves, and I'm grateful.

“Ms. Dahlem!” someone shouts, and I sigh.

The paparazzi. Again. They won't leave us alone, specifically, Greta. Her story of beautiful, almost-murdered Norwegian heiress is simply too tantalizing for the media to ignore.

Her fingers tighten on the lapels of my jacket as my substitute bodyguard throws up his hands. “Stand back, guys.”

I pull Greta against the side of my body as she slips on large sunglasses. Celebrities don't wear glasses to look fetching. They wear them against the blinding flashbulbs.

Greta trembles as the cameras flash and click.

Gia Township said anything sudden might trigger Greta for many months later. I loathe the insensitivity of the press as well as the greater masses of humanity who are more curious than compassionate.

“Have you considered my invitation?” I ask quietly beside her ear.

The new bodyguard swings open the door to the limo.

A photographer sticks the nose of his long lens into Greta's face, and I bash it aside before anyone can react.

Greta gasps.

I growl.

No one gets near her.

“Hey! You fucker! I'll sue you!” he screams at me.

Typical American. They can't think of an outcome that doesn't involve suing. In this way, the Mexicans are smarter. If you're enough of an imbecile to get yourself in a corner of your own making, there will be no recourse from our government, only accountability through cause and effect. That keeps things simpler.

“See that you do,” I say with a nonchalance I feel to my marrow.

Greta smiles as she slides in first.

When we're seated and the comments and bulbs are swarming outside the blackened glass of the limo, I face her.

“I've thought about it a ton, Paco.”

My heart races, and I can't catch it. Only she can. “I will.”

I pull her onto my lap, kissing the tears that fall.

Tears taste different when they are shed for happiness.

*

Greta

He doesn't push. It's not Paco's way.

I silently approach from behind. The view off the balcony of his home is beautiful.

The sun rides low in the sky, and people line the malecón to watch it sink past the horizon like a ball of scarlet perfection.

Paco wears only low-slung linen drawstring pants and slip-on sandals. His arms bunch and flex with the muscle that Tallinn keeps insisting he put on.

I can't say I mind.

I have news, and even though I figure it won't change his mind, I have to tell him.

I wear a similar outfit, but manage a bikini top for modesty's sake.

Paco has great instincts and must sense me.

He turns, elbow perching on the concrete balustrade that winds the perimeter of his travertine patio, which stretches to the very edge of the cliff, right above the devil's cave.

But we're not even close to hell.

I'm in heaven. Right here. On earth.

He opens his arms, and I step into them. His bare skin feels like muscled silk against my healed face. The steady beat of his strong heart pushes against my cheek in a rhythm of comfort.

Paco turns us toward the sea, and I watch tangerine touch the waves, impregnating them with a rainbow of scarlet, peach, and finally, violet.

I trace a finger over the intricately scrolled lettering of his tattoo. La vida loca.

Crazy life.

He captures my finger, pulling me against him.

“You know…” I break the perfect moment, sounding more coy than I feel. “I'm only after you for your money.”

Paco nods slowly, a hint of a smile warming his full lips. “Yes, I am aware.”

I pull away, and he tips my chin up. I search his bright-green eyes, made emerald by the encroaching twilight. “Do you already know?” I ask somberly.

He nods. “I knew.”

I duck my head. He's going to kick me out now. I've been in Mazatlan for nearly three months, and he's never gone past a gentle kiss, an inference of heat.

I can't be what he wants. And I don't want to be anything other than I am.

We were in Club Alpha together. Technically, I'm supposed to be of equal wealth, so that factor in a forever relationship is not part of the equation.

But I have nearly six years until my inheritance.

I suppress a shiver. Lisbeth and Tor muddied the waters. The investigation into their deaths has conclusively proven my non-involvement except in self-defense. But Club Alpha is now being upended for its part in everything. Everyone is under intense scrutiny.

I was—I am—Zaire Sebastian's first choice for Paco. Our temperaments were supposedly perfectly compatible; a deep psych evaluation said so. But I'm not rich. Not even close.

Charlie gave me a hiatus from Roffe Enterprises. But for how long?

Can a computer spit out what makes two people work? Will my lack of wealth kill perfection before it can be realized?

Paco's thumb smooths my furrowed brow. “I, too, have a confession.”

I sigh at his tender touch, waiting.

“I have met you once before.”

He surprises me. Those words were the last thing I thought to hear. “No,” I automatically reply. Paco is unforgettable.

He removes his hands from his pockets, taking mine. His grip tightens subtly.

I'm scared. What does this mean?

“Almost three years ago, while romancing a Seattle buyer for my beans, I stayed in a five-star accommodation in downtown Seattle. Something I do frequently.”

His eyes shift for a moment, observing the darkening sky.

My heart begins to pound with his impending revelation.

“Tallinn was guarding, of course”—his lips tweak—“and I was heading toward the exit, leaning toward safety, and heading back to my room for the evening.” His eyes suddenly grip mine, not letting go. “Then I saw an angel sitting across the room.” He pauses, giving weight to that last sentence.

Paco means me.

Green eyes. The vaguest memory—maybe the shadow of a memory—rises.

Do I know Paco already?

The memory slides out of the shadows like ink, taking form before my mind's eye: a crowded bar, where rich and suavely outfitted people are mingling.

I am waiting for my celebration with friends.

A handsome, exotic man catches my eye across the room teeming with the beautiful people. Boiling chemistry ignites, and I remember the urge to make a connection, or at least say hello.

Then—nothing. A simmering void of black static exists where no memories live. My next memories are stored on a mental shelf, gathering dust, because I've reflected on them long enough.

The night of my rape, Paco was there—before.

“I can't remember—” I manage to gasp out, though I do recall. I remember everything and nothing.

He holds up a hand. “The effects of the drugs that were given to you without your knowledge can sometimes overlap the consumption. Some women remember what immediately preceded the crime; some do not.” He lifts a shoulder as though to say it is not an issue.

His eyes meet mine again, blazing. “But I knew it was you when I encountered you in the elevator.” He taps his temple. “Not in the front of my brain”—he gives a small shake of his head—“but somewhere further back. It was only a passing glance so long ago, and then Aros—”

I flinch at the mention of his name, and he soothes me with a finger stroking my knuckles.

“He was leading you away.”

“You…” I struggle forward, “you tried to save me?” Could he have stopped the assault? I search his face.

“No,” he says curtly, and I can tell he holds blame he shouldn't. He casts his eyes at our twined fingers, dark lashes fanning out against his dusky skin. He releases my hands, stuffing his own into his pockets. Paco doesn't meet my eyes for a moment. His exhale is painful and harsh. “I merely inquired after you, and he replied that you were… drunk.” His voice holds the same disgust I feel.

“Of course,” I say with devastated bitterness as I continue to gaze up at him. “What does this mean, Paco? Besides—” I give a shaky laugh. “The sheer coincidence of us meeting before Club Alpha, before—all of it, and we never even said hello,” I finish in a whisper.

His eyes rise to mine, and he takes my face within his large hands. “It means, Greta, that we were meant for each other. Club Alpha was merely a device of destiny. We were fated to be together. What happened to you…” He pauses and lowers his forehead to touch mine, his fingers working in my hair as my tears soak his hands. “Was not sufficient to stop our meeting.”

I swipe my eyes, leaning away as I scan his features for untruths.

Seeing none, I say, “Do you doubt me—us?”

I can't let go and trust anyone, even Paco, unless he says the words—the right ones, especially since he knows the strange twists and turns of the last three years.

He shakes his head, pulling slightly away from me. He reaches inside his loose pants and extracts a black velvet box, which he places on the wide marble handrail. The dark cube sits against the backdrop of the softest black of early night, dangerously close to plunging to the highway and the sea beyond.

“Crazy life,” I say, my eyes moving to his chest.

He lightly touches the tattoo. “Not anymore,” he replies. “You bring sanity where there was none, Greta.” Paco cups my face again, his thumb caressing back and forth against my cheekbone. His hands are warm as he stares deeply into my eyes. “How can I doubt anything when you feel as though you are already a part of me?”

Those are the right words. Perfect words.

My eyes shift to the box, and his lips tilt. An amused expression overtakes his face, chasing away the somber mood like a fleeting breeze.

“Take it.”

My fingers shake as I lightly snatch the box of crushed velvet against my chest. My heart goes back to dancing. “It could have fallen,” I say with a nervous laugh.

His finger taps the end of my nose. “That treasure can fall, but you—you are the precious treasure.”

Tears find their way down my face, sinking into my smile.

Paco inclines his head, putting his hands into his pockets and dragging his pants lower.

I look at what's barely covered, and he chuckles.

My face snaps up. The important box in my hand is forgotten as I catch a stolen glimpse of a real-life white knight.

Mine.

I open the box slowly. It's breathtaking. Simple.

Blue.

I look quickly at him, his face is impassive as he studies every subtlety of the expressions I'm sure are crossing my face. My eyes find the huge sparkling stone again. It's shaped in a heart.

“This”—I put my hand to my chest, clutching the box—“is too much.”

He folds his hand over mine, our eyes locked. “You have it. This is only a tangible reminder.”

I frown slightly. “Have what?”

“My heart,” he says so quietly, I barely hear him.

Oh. Oh my God. “Is this?” my voice squeezes out.

I feel his nod against my head as he holds me to him. “Yes. Marry me first. The passion will come.”

He pulls back just enough to gently remove the box from my hands. After plucking out the engagement ring that's nestled inside, he slips it on my ring finger. I can't stop staring. The fading colors of the void left by the sunset caress the gem, turning it into pale water.

I breathe through my excitement. “I haven't said yes.”

Paco gives a slight smile, setting the empty box back on the handrail. “Your face does, Greta.”

And he's right.

A stiff breeze suddenly tips the box. It tumbles to the sea below, but I'm safe. Paco wraps his arms around my body, tugging me against him. We’re back to the first position—one of contentment, peace… and love.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“He what?!” Gia screams into the phone.

I pull my cell away from my ear. “You know, you're not very calm. You're supposed to be the calm one.” I say the words without emotion, but inside, my guts are roadkill.

“Uh-huh. You're making me insane.”

I notice Gia doesn't say crazy.

“Right, and you weren't sure if me coming to stay with Paco for three months was a great idea.”

I tilt my cell, looking at her irritated expression.

Facetime is a beautiful thing.

“It's not that I thought it was a bad idea. Just that so much had occurred, it might be too much for you—”

“It is,” I say softly.

Gia studies my expression. “What are you saying?”

“I have trust issues.”

“Of course, anyone would.”

“Paco knows that.”

Gia nods. “He proposed so you'd feel safe.”

“Unpressured.”

She gazes down, her lip caught between her teeth, curly hair falling around her like a curtain. “Do you think he—”

“Oh yes. I do. I want to sleep with him.” I add softly, “Badly.” Heat floods my face.

She whistles. “That's good, Greta. Does he?”

“Want to have sex with me?” I laugh. “Absolutely.”

“I have a confession.”

“Oh boy.”

She nods. “I am the psychologist who was responsible for the foundation questions in Club Alpha's questionnaire.”

“Maybe I'm slow…” I ask, confused.

“What I'm saying is, I trust Zaire. He used much of what makes me an insightful psychologist to choose possible… candidates.”

I pop my hand on my hip. “So all this blustering about Paco? What you're saying, in essence, is you hand-picked him?”

“Not exactly.”

I shake my head, the phone shooting around. I steady it. “But I'm pretty close. You came up with the meat of the questions. He and I were compatible, and Zaire used the top picks for the game?”

“That's greatly simplified, but yes.”

“So Paco's a great man. I didn't need a test, or a game, to know that.”

He saved me.

He comes to my room when I scream with night terrors. Paco has never taken anything from me. He only gives.

“Greta.”

My face jerks up, and her grainy image stares back at me. She seems to decide something. “If there was ever such a thing as a soul mate, Paco is yours.”

My lips part.

Gia waits, no doubt knowing I'm thinking.

“I don't want to wait for the wedding.”

Gia can't hide her grin. “Go get him, horndog.”

“That's very un-doctorly of you.”

“Sometimes clinical doesn't work. You have to be willing to adapt, be flexible. Be human.”

I feel myself still. Finally, I reply.

“I know.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Forever is Now

I'm so nervous.

Any woman would be. The first time a woman gives herself to a man is something that can't ever be undone.

I'm clear on one thing. I was a virgin almost three years ago. I'd let my university studies take precedence over romance. I was waiting until I was in a better place.

And that never came.

Now it has.

Paco is here. I swirl the huge vivid-blue heart-shaped diamond around on my finger, enjoying its heft, sparkle, and color. To match my eyes, Paco said.

I haven't bothered to make myself too sexy. After living with Paco, I know that he likes me as I am. My hair is loose. I haven't worn braids since I came to stay with him. Wearing a fitted nightgown is my only concession for tonight.

He's unaware of my new mindset. Paco knows only that he's marrying me in two weeks. It's all beautifully arranged—and paparazzi free. The hounds of the press will be kept at bay for our nuptials.

I take a huge breath. I hold it… then let it out painfully. I stand, leave my bedroom behind, and walk quietly to his. I stand outside his door, my hand on the solid cedar, high-gloss surface.

I open it quietly and step inside.

At first, he doesn't know I've entered, and I pause at the sight. Paco lays on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, staring out at the star-encrusted night, moonlight bathing every sculpted inch of him.

He is nude.

I swallow my trepidation.

His head turns, and he regards me standing there. Paco doesn't cover himself or move in any way.

“Greta,” he calls out in soft surprise, his rich baritone colored by an accent that I’ve noticed crops up when emotions flavor his speech.

I don't cry. I don't run. I walk to the edge of his bed instead. My gaze wanders over every inch of him. When I reach his penis, it begins to grow under my stare.

“I cannot help my reaction,” he says quietly.

“I don't want you to.” I meet his gaze head on, and he sits up, swinging his legs to the edge of the bed.

Paco breathes deeply then stands. The moonlight caresses him, washing over his lithe body, gracefully walking toward me. His erection bobs slightly as he comes to me, and my breath catches.

I never knew that a penis could be beautiful. That part of a man's body was always tied to pain.

“Yes,” I say.

“You do not have to do this. We will marry in two weeks.” His eyes search mine as my touch lands on the most sensitive part of him.

Paco hisses, heat replacing his gentleness. “I am a patient man, Greta, but your hand is on me.”

I nod. “I want this.” I squeeze him.

The walls of his demeanor crumbles. All that buried passion and patience leaves him.

He yanks me against him, crashing his lips against mine, and I groan as his tongue sinks deep, caressing the inside of my mouth. Paco's hands move everywhere there is skin to be touched. A man starving for food could not be more ravenous than he is.

I love it.

I fear it.

My nightgown sails over my head in a whisper of cloth. My eyes are tightly clenched as I wait for fingers to probe, pierce—and penetrate. Instead, the light touch of a finger skates over my collarbone, and the breath I didn’t realize I’d held eases out.

My eyes open.

Paco stares at me, his fingertips flowing back and forth over the narrow bone at my neck.

He leans close. One hand moves to my nape, continuing the gentle caress. He kisses my forehead, then his lips trail to my temple, cheekbone, and the tip of my nose.

When he reaches my lips, he feasts on the flesh, sucking, nipping, and gently biting every plump rise. “I want you,” he says, and my head tips back as he catches it with his palm. “But at your pace.”

I nod. I can't speak. Fear recedes, and the natural passion between us begins to burn like a stoked fire. He lifts me tightly against him, effortlessly gliding us to the bed.

Paco lays me down.

I fight not to cover myself as his gaze takes me in. He's seen me naked before—on that horrible night. But somehow, right now, with his bright eyes and loving hands, I feel nude instead of naked.

Loved.

He arranges my hair in a fan beneath my head then lays my arms away from my body.

He crawls over the top of me. My eyes move to his stiffness, and he hesitates.

“Don't stop,” I say, and he takes me at my word.

Paco leans over me and kisses my hands, palm facing the ceiling. His lips grace each fingertip before moving to the bend of my elbow then my chest.

When he is seated between my legs, he bows his body over mine, takes my hardened nipple between his lips, his large hand cupping my breast, and squeezes the flesh into his mouth.

I arch my back. The sensation of being pleasured is too much. I groan, and he sucks harder. Little threads of arousal pull from deep inside me, tugging at my core with each draw of his mouth on my nipple.

He moves to the other side and lavishes the same attention on my left breast. When his hand touches my mound, I suck in a breath. Paco's eyes roll to mine, but he doesn't stop, sinking a finger inside me. It is the very thing I fantasized about when I was envisioning him fingering me. “Yes?” his question is spoken softly. Is this okay?

“Yes,” I answer just as quietly.

His finger moves in and out of me in a slow pump. He moves my legs apart slowly, and it feels natural. Hot.

I spread them wider, allowing him better access to the center of me.

“Greta,” he moans against my neck, kissing softly, “you are too beautiful for words. Your body is made for mine.”

I agree without words, pulling him against me, but he resists. “Not yet.”

I lift my head, staring at him between my legs.

His eyes move to my splayed folds.

Oh.

I'm instantly self-conscious, until he gives a smile full of raw need. He wants this. Paco puts his hand on my stomach and, with a nod, dives below.

I expect something harsh and penetrating. It's my only point of reference. But his hot breath at my entrance warms me.

That is all.

Then the softest stroke of his tongue slowly licks up one side of my labia, crossing a path of wetness over my clit, and I shudder. He pauses at my reaction, inserting his finger again, and my hips come off the bed.

“Oh, God,” I breathe in surprised wonder.

His tongue glides down the other side, and my palms hit the sides of the bed as fingertips sink into the sheets. I whip my head back and forth when his tongue inches inside.

Before I can protest or analyze anything, his tongue begins to move in and out.

My hips meet his soft wet thrusts.

He tucks his hands beneath my hips and suddenly jerks me deeper into his face.

“Ah!” Pressure builds down low where his lips touch my flesh. I work my hips against him with abandon when the swelling feeling of hanging from a cliff stops.

Then I fall—crashing pleasure sweeps through my body, and his tongue eases, lapping against my entrance and running the length to the small bundle of nerves untouched before Paco's deft caress.

“Now,” he says softly as I begin to ease back into my body, the walls of my pussy still pulsing from the orgasm he just gave me.

Paco hovers above me in push-up position, and I give him a languid smile of permission. The tip of him inches slowly into me.

He's large, and I'm tight.

My eyes go wide, and he cages me with his arms, kissing me.

“Trust me, Greta.”

I widen my legs, tasting myself on his mouth, and go limp with desire. His mouth did that to me. Made me wet.

Made me want.

As I relax, he rocks deeper.

Then he's at my end. His face pulls away, and his lips lift, but he doesn't smile.

He waits.

“Yes,” I say.

Paco pulls out.

When he enters me again, I throw my head back. It's so beautiful, so complete.

He owns me in the best way, with my desire, permission, and love.

I give back what he gives me, my hips rising to meet each gentle thrust.

His pacing becomes irregular, and I instinctively know he's close. Paco is waiting for me to catch up.

He rocks more deeply, touching the same spot up high again and again.

“Harder,” I say, feeling that same golden weight begin to build as it did earlier.

Paco draws back and slams into me.

I breathe against the memories—then meet his deep thrusting. This is mine.

Ours.

He pounds into me, and I meet every plunging bit of him. The orgasm takes me by surprise, and I shout out my pleasure.

“Greta,” Paco says in a strained voice.

My eyes open, and he's rigid above me, pumping all himself into me. Hot liquid fills me, and I milk him of every drop. We're frozen together, my pulses of pleasure eating up what he gives me.

Paco covers me with his body. I don't feel suffocated by the gesture. I feel cherished.

He lays within me until he grows too soft and slips out, barely rolling off me and to the side.

His fingers scatter the sweaty strands of my hair out of my face. “Are you okay?”

I stare up at the ceiling for a few seconds, letting Paco trace the contours of my face as he waits for my reply.

“I'm so all right.”

Paco leans over and kisses my tears. He knows the difference. He tells me happy tears taste different from sad ones.

I believe him.

EPILOGUE

Paco

The narco was not invited, they do not wish to play anymore.

I look at Zaire, absently wondering what he's done there, to get that particular misery out of my life.

He tilts his hat in my direction. The motion is little more than a caress of the brim, but an acknowledgment nonetheless. The owner of Club Alpha got what he wanted.

I'm standing under an arc of flowers on my wedding day. The perfect woman will enter this artfully constructed courtyard in the next few moments, and I owe it all to Zaire and his determination to secure a happiness I could not. I share the sentiment of the other Club Alpha players—I'd do it again.

Seeing Greta enter through the tall rustic gallery doors in a gorgeous floor-length dress of soft white takes my breath, shattering the oxygen to the wind. I'm left gasping at her beauty.

My fortune.

I finger the matching wedding bands inside my pocket.

Greta's worth was never in her wealth, but in who she is.

To me.

I scan the audience as the music starts, catching Gia's eye. She winks, and I give her a nod.

Tallinn's dark presence graces the only exit. His eyes constantly rove the proceedings, though things could not be safer. I moved heaven and earth making sure of it.

The music trills, announcing the beginnings of the traditional American song “Here Comes the Bride.”

And she does.

Greta begins to walk down the aisle, and my heart swells, my chest tight with a new emotion—the only emotion.

Love.

THE END

If you enjoyed CLUB ALPHA, you might also enjoy THORN, a standalone novel of dark romantic suspense....

If you've enjoyed CLUB ALPHA, please consider posting your thoughts HERE

Acknowledgments

I published The Druid Series in 2011 and Death Whispers in the same year with the encouragement of my husband, and continued because of you, my Reader. Your faithfulness through comments, suggestions, spreading the word and ultimately purchasing my work with your hard-earned money gave me the incentive, means and inspiration to continue.

There are no words that are sufficiently adequate to express my thankfulness for your support. But know this: TDS novellas continued past HARVEST only because of you.

I truly feel connected to my readers. It is obvious to me, but I'll say the words anyway for clarity: a written work is just words on pages if they are not read by my readers. As I write this I get a lump in my throat; your enjoyment of my work affects me that deeply.

You guys are the greatest, each and every one of ya~

Marata (Tamara) xo

Special Thanks:

You, my reader.

My husband, who is my biggest fan.

Cameren, without whom, there would be no books.

About the Author

Marata Eros (the pen name for Tamara Rose Blodgett) is the author of over seventy titles, including her New York Times bestselling novel, A Terrible Love, and the #1 international bestselling erotic Interracial, and African-American TOKEN serial. Marata writes a variety of dark fiction in the genres of erotica, fantasy, horror, romance, sci-fi and suspense. She lives in South Dakota with her family, and enjoys interacting with her readers.

Connect:

MARATA EROS NEWS

TRB News

Blog

Facebook Fan Page

Amazon Author Page

Goodreads

Twitter

Pinterest

Table of Contents

- Synopsis
- Character Index
- Works by Tamara Rose Blodgett
- CHAPTER ONE
- CHAPTER TWO
- CHAPTER THREE
- CHAPTER FOUR
- CHAPTER FIVE
- CHAPTER SIX
- CHAPTER SEVEN
- CHAPTER EIGHT
- CHAPTER NINE
- CHAPTER TEN
- CHAPTER ELEVEN
- CHAPTER TWELVE
- CHAPTER THIRTEEN
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN
- CHAPTER SIXTEEN
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
- CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
- CHAPTER NINETEEN
- CHAPTER TWENTY
- CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
- CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
- CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
- CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
- EPILOGUE
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author