He gives me a narrow look. “You know that I understand—intimately—how lethal you are. You're a proficient level 10 for fuck's sake, Narah. They don't hand those assessments out like candy.”
“So what's the issue?”
“Selfishly? You die—I die. True death. Secondly, I enjoy our clever repartee far too much to have all that excitement end prematurely because your stubbornness wins out over logic.” He cocks an eyebrow. “A trend amongst your gender,” he holds up a palm before I can protest, “overall.”
My mouth clamps shut.
I blow out an exhale. “Fine. I will tell the studs, but I want to nail this case first.”
Murphy eyes swing to the ceiling again. “Lord have mercy! You heard me, but you don't listen.”
“I know,” I reply softly. “But I have to help Talyn.”
“Why?” Murphy seethes. “She's a Lycan's change. She's that Merck fellow's responsibility.”
I nod hastily. “True. But she didn't believe me.”
“Believe you?” His eyes slit, shoulders lifting in a small shrug.
“Believe that I could protect her—save her.”
Murphy sighs, his gaze pointedly moving around the destruction of Talyn Phisher's home. “And we can't. She's in too deep—Lanarre royalty? Even Merck admitted she was the strangest change he'd ever had. And the complication of the Masker...”
“Mutable.”
His eyes darkened. “That too.”
I grab a handful of my pale braids and toss them behind my back.
“If Casper finds out you've gone off the rails you won't have to worry about not having told the gents your news.”
My gaze latches onto his.
“He'll terminate your employment without a thought. You can't go solo on this, Narah. This case no longer falls under client needs anymore. Once you and I—as your partner—though I feel like a tolerated sidekick—discovered that Talyn was a Lycan hybrid, our duty was done. Lycan politics don't impact Final Enforcement's ever-changing model. We distribute justice to the criminals our lovely police force doesn't want to dirty their hands with. We help humans who have problems of the supernatural variety.”
I blink. That's the longest speech I've ever heard Murph make. “Until the circle closes,” I reply.
Murph nods. “Yes. Until our obligation comes to its natural end. Which it has. We've already used Enforcement resources for clean-up. Now you're saying we need to find Talyn. It's clear that others were here.” He gives an abbreviated laugh, stabbing his eyes at the mess all around us. “They fought. And now Talyn is gone. And it is abundantly clear that Merck—and Arden—for that matter, will not stop chasing Talyn until she's transitioned. Let. It. Go.”
My hands go to my hips, and I dip my chin.
I struggle internally with not following through. My nature intrinsically sees a task or promise through to the end. Possibly because no one saw anything through for me. All promises broken.
Until I was turned and mated by vampires.
I wish I could let it go. Let Talyn's life come to whatever conclusion fate has in store for her.
“You can't let go,” Murphy says softly.
I lift my head, giving Murph level eyes. “No.”
“Fuck it,” he says, taking my hand, he hauls me out of Talyn's busted up digs.
“Where are you taking me?” I yank my hand out of his.
We turn to face each other.
“If you're committing possible suicide, I might as well have some skin in it.”
I jerk my chin back. “Huh? You've lost me.”
“I might be a lot of things, but saving my own skin is top on the list. I might actually live to see the next night if I help you get this out of your system.”
“And if I say no?”
Murphy steps into my space, looming over my small frame. “You tell me to piss off, and I'll run straight to the boys and let them in on your secret.”
“Bastard.”
“Yes.” He jerks his head in an enthusiastic nod. “But someone has to look out for you since you won't.”
“And look out for you,” I say, sarcasm like thick honey on my tongue.
The corners of his lips turn up.
I shove him good-naturedly in the chest and he stumbles back. “Hey!”
“Let's go, ya brute.”
I wink.
He glowers.
10
Talyn
“So—what? Duncan was always a derelict criminal, bent on kidnapping me?”
Drake's head kicks back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Pretty much.”
I sigh, tipping my head back against the wall. “The whole ʻasking me out on a dateʼ after work out at the gym?”
“Ruse,” he replies in a bored tone.
“God.”
“Not a believer, I'm afraid.”
I narrow my gaze at him. Like Merck, this guy is super-tall, built like a pro-wrestler and maybe he'd even be attractive.
Except for the scales.
And probably a forked tongue. Wait a minute—does he breathe fire?
I shiver.
Drake sees my reaction and smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
I'm so thrilled by his amusement. I shake off my curiosity for the moment. “You know, I think you shifters have to change into an animal that actually exists. It has to be a rule somewhere.”
A smile hovers at his lips. “And you're the authority on shapeshifters.”
“No,” I say defensively, “but in our world's ecosystem, I've never heard a breath of dragons as a real species. It's just bad science fiction.”
Drake's eyebrow cocks. “Really?”
He paces away, and I admire his wonderful body. In the middle of being a hostage, a crushing warmth steals my breath, piping through my system like lava.
I groan.
Drake whirls, staring intently at me, his concern is evident. “You're close.” His nostrils flare and a disconcerting twitch of his strange yet delicately constructed ears flicks. A rainbow waterfall like a shadow of colors ripples over his flesh head to toe.
I wheeze.
“Get these restraints off me!” I say loudly, denying my sexual needs.
Drake's hands fist, his eyes furtively moving about the room.
“Please,” I beg. My crotch is on fire, I'm exhausted and dirty and so low from lack of hope I can taste it.
He seems to come to a decision and extracts a knife from his back pocket. The blade flicks out with a smooth movement of his hand.
My eyes widen at the reflection of the metal.
With large eyes and a speeding heart, I watch him come.
I went too far, I demanded, and now the Dragon shifter guy—Mutable, whatever—has decided I'm more trouble than I'm worth.
“Don't hurt me.”
He comes to stand in front of me then sinks to his haunches.
A single tear swells, tipping over the rim of my eye.
“Don't.” My voice is hoarse, my terror rides my skin, raising goose flesh everywhere clothes don't touch.
Instead of answering, Drake leans forward, his arms going behind my body. I instinctively tense just as he gives off an odor unlike anything I've ever smelled.
I relax instantly. It's air and sea and earth, wind along my nose. His scent is all these things and more.
The pressure of the ties snaps off my wrists and my aching arms fall forward. His hands move down first one shin.
“Ah,” I gurgle embarrassingly in response to his touch.
Cut.
Then the next.
When my legs are free he grasps my hands and lifts me to my feet. I come to his shoulder.
Fear sweeps in again.
More of Drake's sweet scent pumps into the air around us, assailing my nostrils, and I find myself falling forward. Into his arms.
At his mercy.
My intellect batters at the new scent drunk closing in. I'm drowning—and I like it.
I don't notice the comm
otion at first. When my feet leave the ground, my arms automatically tuck against a broad, muscular chest.
My face rolls to the flat muscles of his chest and I inhale deeply.
His scent is a drug, and I'm an addict.
A sudden crack breaks through my lethargy. My head jerks up and I peer out of the arms that hold me.
Merck and Arden burst into the room.
Oh, I think through the fog.
And they're not alone.
Enforcer Adrienne and her companion—a vampire by the looks of him—have arrived.
The cavalry is here to rescue me.
I look up at Drake and that small smile rides his full lips.
His eyes are no longer human.
“Leave and live another day.” Drake says.
The answer to the forked tongue question has been answered.
I randomly wonder how enunciating S's must be. I giggle and Merck and Arden look at me.
“This is bad,” I hear Arden say like he's a million miles away.
“Which part?” Adrienne asks as a chair sails over her head, crashing into the cheap wall and buckling it.
“The part where a dragon has claimed Talyn.”
Someone groans. I realize it's me.
Claimed?
“Oh shit.” I recognize the enforcer's voice but my eyelids are already closing. Drake's scent is so intoxicating, I feel the buzz of his nearness take over.
“Bloody hell!” another voice yells.
But I'm already fading. As another fight ensues, I vaguely wonder what escape really means for me.
The noise dims, and even that question becomes unimportant as I doze off.
THE END
LYCAN
ALPHA CLAIM 4
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“Love sears the heart immortal
The embers burnt down to the token which remains ....”
~ 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.
Lycan Alpha Claim 3 Page 4