Primal

by Lora Leigh; Ava Gray; Jory Strong; Michelle Rowen

  Five minutes left.

  I returned to my office building, which not only housed Lambert Capital, the investment and financial analysis company where I currently temped, but also a small pharmaceutical research company, a marketing firm, and a modeling agency.

  “Hold the elevator,” I called out as I crossed the lobby. My heels clicked against the shiny black marble floor. Despite my request, the elevator was not held. The doors closed when I was only a couple of steps away from it, a look of bemusement on the sole occupant’s face who hadn’t done me the honor of waiting.

  One minute left.

  I nudged the up button with my elbow and waited, watching as the number above the doors stopped at the tenth floor, ISB Pharmaceuticals, paused for what felt like an eternity, and then slowly descended back to the lobby. The other elevator seemed eternally stuck at the fifteenth. Another bank of elevators were located around the corner, but I chose to stay where I was and try my best to be patient.

  Finally, the doors slid open to reveal a man who wore a white lab coat and a security badge that bore his name: Carl Anderson. His eyes were shifty and there was a noticeable sheen of sweat on his brow. My gaze dropped to his right hand in which he tightly held a syringe—the sharp needle uncapped.

  That was a safety hazard I wasn’t getting anywhere near. What the hell was he thinking, carrying something like that around?

  Glaring at him, I waited for him to get out of the elevator so I could get on, but he didn’t budge an inch.

  Behind thick glasses, his eyes were steadily widening with what looked like fear, and totally focused on something behind me. Curious about what would earn this dramatic reaction, I turned to see another man enter the lobby. He was tall, had a black patch over his left eye, and wasn’t smiling. Aside from that, I noticed the gun he held. The big gun. The one he now had trained on the man in the elevator.

  “Leaving so soon, Anderson? Why am I not surprised?” the man with the gun growled. “No more fucking games. Give it to me right now.”

  I gasped as Carl Anderson clamped his arm around my neck. The tray of coffees went flying as I clawed at him, but my struggling did nothing. I couldn’t even scream; he held me so tightly that it cut off my breath.

  “Why are you here?” Anderson demanded. “I was supposed to be the one to make contact.”

  The gunman’s icy gaze never wavered. “Let go of the woman.”

  My eyes watered. I couldn’t breathe. My larynx was being crushed.

  “But she’s the only thing standing between me and your direct orders right now, isn’t she?”

  “And why would you think I care if you grab some random hostage?” the gunman growled.

  Random hostage?

  Panic swelled further inside of me. I scanned the lobby to see that this altercation hadn’t gone unnoticed. Several people with shocked looks on their faces had cell phones pressed to their ears. Were they calling 911? Where was security? No guards approached with guns drawn.

  Fear coursed through me, closing my throat. My hands, which gripped Anderson’s arm, were shaking.

  “We can talk about this,” Anderson said.

  “It’s too late for negotiations. There’s more at risk than the life of one civilian.”

  “I thought we were supposed to be working together.”

  “Sure. Until you decided to sell elsewhere. Hand over the formula.”

  “I destroyed the rest.” Anderson’s voice trembled. “One prototype is all that’s left.”

  “That was a mistake.” The gunman’s tone was flat.

  “It was a mistake creating it in the first place. It’s dangerous.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point?”

  “You’d defend something that would just as easily kill you, Declan? Even though you can walk in the sunlight, you’re not much better than the other bloodsuckers.” The man who held me prone sounded disgusted. And scared shitless—almost as scared as I felt.

  Bloodsuckers? What the hell was he talking about? How did I get in the middle of this? I’d only gone out for coffee—coffee that was now splattered all over the clean lobby floor. It was just a normal workday—a normal Tuesday.

  More people had gathered around us, moving backward toward the walls and door, away from this unexpected stand-off, hands held to their mouths in shock at what they were witnessing. I spotted someone from the office to my left rounding the corner where the other elevators were located—it was Stacy with an armful of file folders, her eyes wide as saucers as she saw me. She took a step closer, mouthing my name.

  No, please don’t come any closer, I thought frantically. Don’t get hurt.

  Where the hell was security?

  I shrieked when I felt a painful jab at my throat.

  “Don’t do that,” the man with the gun, Declan, snapped.

  “You know what will happen if I inject her with this, don’t you?” Anderson’s voice held an edge of something—panic, fear, desperation. I didn’t have to be the helpless hostage in this situation to realize that was a really bad mix.

  He had the syringe up against my throat, the sharp tip of the needle stabbing deep into my flesh. I stopped struggling and tried not to move, tried not to breathe. My vision blurred with tears as I waited for the man with the gun to do something to save me. He was my only hope.

  “I don’t give a shit about her,” my only hope said evenly. “All I care about is that formula. Now hand it over and maybe you get to live.”

  The gunman’s face was oddly emotionless considering this situation. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt, which bared thick, sinewy biceps. His face didn’t have an ounce of humanity to it. Around the black eye patch, scar tissue branched out like a spider web up over his forehead and down his left cheek, all the way to his neck. He was as scary-looking as he was ugly.

  “I knew they’d send you to retrieve this, Declan.” Anderson’s mouth was so close to my ear that I could feel his hot breath. His shaky voice held a mocking edge. “Who better for this job?”

  “I’ll give you five seconds to release the woman and hand over that syringe with its contents intact,” Declan said. “Or I’ll kill both of you where you stand. Five … four …”

  “Think about this, will you?” Anderson dug the needle farther into my flesh, prompting another wheeze of a shriek from me. “You need to open your fucking eyes and see the truth before it’s too late. I’m trying to stop this the only way I can. It’s wrong. All of it’s wrong. You’re just as brainwashed as the rest of them, aren’t you?”

  With his chest pressed against my back, I could feel his erratic heartbeat. He feared for his life. A mental flash of memories of my family, my friends, sped past my eyes. I didn’t want to die—no, please, not like this.

  “Three … two …” Declan continued, undeterred. The laser sighter from his gun fixed on my chest.

  Several onlookers ran for the glass doors, and screams sounded out.

  “You want the abomination I created that goddamned much?” Anderson yelled. “Here! You can have it!”

  A second later, I felt a burning pain, hot as fire, as he injected me with the syringe’s contents. It was a worse pain than the stabbing itself. Then he raggedly ripped the needle out and pushed me away hard enough that I went sprawling to the floor. I clamped my hand against the side of my neck and started to scream.

  The sound of a gunshot, even louder than my screams, pierced my eardrums. I turned to look at the man who’d just injected me. He now lay sprawled out on the marble floor, his eyes open and glassy. There was a large hole in Anderson’s forehead, red and wet and sickening. He had a gun in his left hand, which he must have pulled from his lab coat when he let go of me. The empty syringe lay next to him.

  Declan went directly to him, gun still trained on the dead man for another moment before he tucked it away, squatted, and then silently and methodically began going through the pockets of the white coat.

  My entire body shook, but otherwise I was frozen in plac
e. There were more screams now from the others who’d witnessed the shooting as they scattered in all directions.

  Declan swore under his breath and then turned to look directly at me for the very first time. The iris of his right eye was pale gray and soulless, and the look he gave me froze my insides.

  My throat felt like it had been slit wide open, but I was still breathing. Still thinking. A quick, erratic scan of the lobby showed where I’d dropped my purse and the coffees and pastries six feet to my right. Most of the people in the lobby were now running for the doors to escape to the street outside. A security alarm finally began to wail, adding to the chaos.

  “You—” Declan rose fluidly to his feet. He was easily a full foot taller than my five-four. “—come here.”

  Like hell I would.

  The elevator to the left of me opened and a man pushing an empty mail cart got off. The murderer’s attention went to it. I took it as the only chance I might ever get. I scrambled to my feet and ran.

  “Jill!” I heard Stacy yell, but it didn’t slow me down. I had to get away, far away from the office. My mind had switched into survival mode. Stacy couldn’t get anywhere near me right now; it would only put her in danger, too.

  I left my purse behind—the contents of my life scattered on the smooth, cold floor next to the spilled coffee and spreading pool of blood. I pushed through the front doors, fully expecting Declan to shoot me in my back. But he didn’t.

  Yanking my hand from my wounded neck, I saw that it was covered in blood. My stomach lurched and I almost vomited. What was in that syringe? It burned like lava sliding through my veins.

  I was badly hurt. Jesus, I’d been stabbed in the throat with a needle by a stranger. If I wasn’t in such pain, I’d think I was having a nightmare.

  This was a nightmare—a waking one.

  A look behind me confirmed that Declan, whoever the hell he was, had exited the office building. He scanned one side of the street before honing in on me.

  I clutched at a few people’s arms as I stumbled past them. They recoiled from me, faceless strangers who weren’t willing to help a woman with a bleeding neck wound.

  My heart slammed against my rib cage as I tried to run, but I couldn’t manage more than a stagger. I wanted to pass out. The world was blurry and shifting around me.

  The burning pain slowly began to spread from my neck down to my chest and along my arms and legs. I could feel it like a living thing, burrowing deeper and deeper inside me.

  Only a few seconds later, I felt Declan’s hand clamp around my upper arm. He nearly pulled me off my feet as he dragged me around the corner and into an alley.

  “Let go of me,” I snarled, attempting to hit him. He effortlessly grabbed my other arm. I blinked against my tears.

  “Stay still.”

  “Go to hell.” The next moment, the pain cut off any further words as I convulsed. Only his tight grip kept me from crumpling to the ground. He pushed me up against the wall and held my head firmly in place as he looked into my eyes. His scars were even uglier up close. A shudder of revulsion rippled through me at being this close to him.

  He wrenched my head to the left and roughly pulled my long blond hair aside to inspect the neck wound. His expression never wavered. There was no pity or anger or disdain in his gaze—nothing but emptiness in his single gray eye as he looked me over.

  Holding me with one hand tightly around my throat so I could barely breathe, he held a cell phone to his ear.

  “It’s me,” he said. “There’s been a complication.”

  A pause.

  “Anderson administered the prototype to a civilian before he tried to shoot me and escape. I killed him.” Another pause. “It’s a woman. Should I kill her, too?”

  I tried to fight against the choke hold he had me in, but it didn’t help. He sounded so blasé, so emotionless, as if he was discussing bringing home a pizza after work rather than seeking permission for my murder.

  His one-eyed gaze narrowed. While talking on the phone he hadn’t looked anywhere but my face. “I know I was followed here. I don’t have long.” Then finally, “Understood.”

  He ended the call.

  Finally he loosened his hold on me enough that I could try to speak in pained gasps. “What … are you going … to do with me?”

  “That’s not up to me.” Declan’s iron grip on me went a little more lax as he tucked the phone back into the pocket of his black jeans. It was enough to let me sink my teeth into his arm. He pushed me back so hard I whacked my head against the wall and fell to the ground. I’d managed to draw blood on his forearm, which was already riddled with other scars.

  I scrambled up to my feet, adrenaline coursing through my body. I was ready to do whatever I had to in order to fight for my life, but another curtain of agony descended over me.

  “What’s happening to me?” I managed to say through clenched teeth. “What the hell was in that syringe?”

  Declan grabbed me by the front of my shirt and brought me very close to his scarred face. “Poison.”

  My eyes widened. “Oh my God. What kind of poison?”

  “The kind that will kill you,” he said simply. “Which is why you have to come with me.”

  I shook my head erratically. “I have to get to a hospital.”

  “No.” He grabbed me tighter. “Death now or death later. That’s your only choice.”

  It was a choice I didn’t want to make. It was one I wouldn’t have to make. More pain erupted inside of me and the world went totally and completely black.

  Skin & Bone

  AVA GRAY

  For those who loved, lost, and had the courage to try again

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  You first met Silas in Skin Tight; I hope you enjoy his story.

  Thanks to Laura Bradford, Cindy Hwang, Lauren Dane, Bree Bridges, Larissa Ione, Donna Herren, Jenn Bennett, Courtney Milan, and Karen Erickson. You all supported this series from the beginning, and I value your encouragement.

  Thanks to Stefanie Gostautas for her excellent proofreading.

  And thanks, as ever, to my family. Their patience and understanding make all this possible.

  Finally, I send profound appreciation to all my readers. Your e-mails mean the world to me, so please keep writing. That’s ann.aguirre@gmail.com.

  ONE

  PUERTO LÓPEZ, ECUADOR

  The whole world roared.

  One minute, Silas had a bottle of beer in his hand; the next, the cantina roof threatened to crumble down on top of him. Nearby, rubble pinned a waitress to the floor; blood trickled from her mouth. With the ceiling collapsing around him, he levered the wreckage off her and felt for a pulse. Dead. Shit. Falling chunks of cement and plaster forced him to dive for the doorway. He crouched, arms over his head, and willed the framework to hold. He hadn’t escaped from the Foundation—and put several thousand miles between him and their hunters—to die here.

  The reel of his life spun into motion, full of sorrow and infinite regret. Things he’d done and wished he hadn’t, all the faces of people he’d hurt. In particular, he could still see the blond woman, Olivia. She’d begged him to kill her, time and again. More than most, she’d gotten into his head—because that was her gift—and her curse. To this day, she still haunted his dreams, and he didn’t know how to make her go away. Maybe he couldn’t. Sometimes he thought it wasn’t even her anymore, but that her thin face personified his guilt.

  But to be fair, his dark history had not begun down in the lab. It started years before in a deserted parking garage, where a mugger demanded his wallet, and he’d broken the man’s neck. Without so much as touching him. Nobody had ever been able to explain that death; it remained an open cold case in Michigan to this day. That was when he’d known his difference ran bone deep. He just hadn’t known why until the Foundation took him.

  The tremors went on for over five minutes while he sat listening to the screams; cries of pain and horror filled what had been a bright Thursday af
ternoon. For the first time in months, he’d felt safe, because nobody knew him. He was just another anonymous expat. How ironic.

  At last, the shocks stopped. Covered in dust and debris, he staggered into the dirt street of the fishing village. The wreckage humbled him. No matter how strong or powerful you thought you were, Mother Nature delivered a crippling kick in the nuts. Most of the buildings had been constructed of lesser materials, and they lay in ruins. He had been lucky; he’d chosen the cantina for its shady interior, knowing cement and plaster kept the cool air better.

  “Por favor,” a woman begged. “Ayúdame!”

  It sounded like she was close by. God, he wished his gift had some useful secondary application, but it could be used for only one purpose—and that was why he had chosen to accept five years of abuse in lieu of revealing it to his captors. He could never allow them to learn what he could do. The price was simply too high.

  Ignoring the shallow cuts and bruises on his arms, he located the woman by listening to her intermittent calls. A fuckton of rubble had fallen on top of her, and he hesitated to start digging. He might make it worse: unbalance the wreckage and kill her. He’d intentionally gone off the grid, but now that decision carried awful weight. Out here, there was no emergency infrastructure, and no telling how long it would take Ecuadoran authorities to mount any kind of rescue. In all honesty, Puerto López probably wouldn’t rank high on their list. More populated areas required assistance first.

  Therefore, this woman had him, and nobody else. As he contemplated that, she wept in tiny choking sobs.

  Using the brute strength that accompanied his size, he pulled chunks of cement off the pile and tossed them behind him, careful not to let the load topple inward. It required great patience, but fortunately, life had taught him about timing and waiting for the right opportunity. That permitted him to be methodical: shift this, pull that, don’t let it collapse. He listened to her whimpering breaths; they weakened as he worked.