BloodMarked (The Fraktioneers Book 1)

by Lu J Whitley

  She wished she remembered it.

  Wincing as her feet traded carpet for cold linoleum, she tried the knob of the bathroom door. Pulled. But it was stuck tight. She shuddered to even think what kind of ‘natural glue’ might be welding together door and jamb. She put her shoulder to the door, every muscle she had protesting the movement, and threw her full body weight against it. The door flew open, and she tumbled gracelessly into the room. Catching herself on the faux marble vanity just before she crashed to the floor. Her bladder contracted painfully.

  She quickly dropped trou… or panty… and got down to business. Her eyes almost crossing with relief. Midstream, a muffled sound from behind the shower curtain caught her attention. Shit! Shit! Shit! She tried to, she didn’t know, pee faster? Quieter? Both? She finished, flushed, and then immediately regretted the second, stilling and holding her breath for any change in sound. When no one pounced, Norman Bates style, from behind the curtain, she hastily washed her hands and retreated back into the bedroom. What the hell was she gonna do now?

  What was she going to do? “Hah!” She grabbed the heaviest thing she could find, a smoky glass ashtray – it wasn’t like the room was a treasure trove of weapons – and headed back to the bathroom. This time, she wasn’t in a sneaky mood. Clutching the ash tray in one hand, she ripped aside the shower curtain and prepared for battle.

  It didn’t come. The big… so so big… man sleeping in the bathtub kept right on sleeping. Like she didn’t even exist. The nerve!

  Thin shafts of sunlight from the other room pierced the darkness just enough to illuminate his sleeping form, clothed from the waist down in solid black like the soft shirt she was currently draped in. Her anger deflated a little. At least he’d left her his shirt. He could’ve used it as a pillow. Hell, he could’ve taken a pillow, but he didn’t. And squeezing his big body into that tiny hotel bathtub couldn't have been comfortable. He could have shared the bed with her. There'd been more than enough room. Well... She looked down at his booted feet, kicked haphazardly over the side of the tub. Maybe not more than enough, but enough anyway. And there was no way - on this Earth or any other - she'd kicked this man out of bed.

  She followed the line of those feet with her eyes. Up his long legs to a deliciously bare set of ab muscles that would’ve put an entire Olympic swim team to shame. And she loved her some swimmers. His defined chest rose and fell with the even rhythm of sleep, so she continued her perusal. Up over the pale expanse of his wide shoulders. The strong column of his throat. To a face that she could only describe as beautiful. Not in a feminine way. No, he was unquestionably male. Seriously male. He was all masculine angles. Solid square jaw. Full pouty lips that might’ve looked feminine in any other face. His long Roman nose was crooked at the bridge from what must have been one too many blows to the face. It was the face of a fighter. Even softened by sleep. His long lashes fluttered as his eyes darted about behind heavy lids. A muscle in his jaw ticked in time with the grinding of his teeth. It wasn’t a peaceful sleep. Maybe he had nightmares too.

  What drew her most was his hair. Impossibly long and smooth, it trailed in silky golden ripples over his shoulders. Probably reaching near the small of his back when he stood at his full, considerable height. And the guy must have been close to seven feet tall.

  She wasn’t used to feeling small in a man’s presence. Greta was 5’10”. Tall by anyone’s standard, and she certainly wasn’t built like a supermodel. She’d never been referred to as small or petite, and she likely never would. She was solid. 'Built like a brick shit-house,' Papa had always said. Amazonian was the word her mother used. Big was what they meant. But she was okay with that. She was fit. Strong. Curvy, in some places. Maybe a little too cookie concentrated in others. She’d certainly never met a cookie she didn’t like. Still, she hadn’t been a complete alien to the dating scene. She’d had boyfriends, but none of them had a hundredth of the raw masculine air that was radiating from this man’s sleeping form. It was, in a word, captivating.

  Greta stood, fisting her hands at her sides. Trying to keep herself from descending on him and running her fingers through his shimmering amber hair. And licking his abs. Priorities.

  Something nagged at the back of her mind, though, telling her to run. To be afraid. She pushed it down and locked it up tight. How many times in life was she ever going to be in a hotel room, albeit a nasty one, with a man who looked like that? Seriously. Like she was going to turn tail and run.

  ★ ★ ★

  Ragnarsson came to with a start. Burning lines of sunlight set fires in his skin and pulled a sound from him that was a cross between a lion’s roar and a little girl crying. He didn’t have the time or inclination to be embarrassed as he surged from the cracked porcelain tub and slammed his full weight into the door.

  He pulled in a deep breath, willing his body to heal the angry welts across his chest and stomach. Rookie mistake leaving the door open. Fucking sun. He leaned back against the door, eyes closed, and pulled in another inhale. Instead of the cleansing oxygen he was expecting, he breathed in a scent that rocked him back on his heels, slamming him with a wave of heat that had nothing to do with the motherfucking daylight.

  He’d trapped himself in the tiny bathroom. With Greta. And the delicious scent of her arousal. Shit.

  When he’d reached the end of his energy reserves last night, and the coming sun had forced him to go to ground, he’d found this place. It was a shit hole. He knew it. Wished he could’ve taken her someplace nice. Not that he didn’t have the money, but, when you were on the run, you took what you could get.

  He’d thought about getting them two rooms. A bed of his own. But he couldn’t leave her alone to wake up in an unfamiliar place, so he’d settled on the one, carrying her sleeping body to the room. Gently, he’d removed her blood and ichor soaked clothes, rinsing the rest of the offending muck off her sleeping body with a stack of towels he’d found in the room’s closet. And he’d set her in that bed, looking so beautifully peaceful it had hurt his heart, and other parts of his anatomy, to walk away. Not to lie down beside her and pull her into the protecting circle of his arms. But he’d done it. For her.

  He shook his head, trying to clear the smell of her from his nostrils, but it did no good. Gods, she was damn near edible. His fangs stung to break free and sink into the heat of her. That’s not all he wanted to sink into her. Waves of heat burned down his abdomen. Settling low. He was an asshole. He knew it. Couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  She had to have been standing there for quite some time, judging by the depth of the newly healed scars on his torso. And if that intoxicating aroma was any indication, she’d been thinking less than pure thoughts. About him? He tried not to puff up like a fucking peacock at the idea.

  Through their renewed connection, he could feel her. His blood pulsing through her veins to the rapid beat of her racing heart. He basked in the warmth of it. The pleasure. Why the Hell had he ever run from that feeling? The testosterone high was addictive.

  Want, the beast in his head chimed in, souring his stomach. He shook his fevered head again.

  Get a grip, he scolded himself. Never mind the feeling. She had no idea who he was – the last time they’d met in person she was five. She had no idea where she was. And she’d lost her mother the night before. And he was the one who'd shot her. A fact that Greta had reminded him about every five minutes until she’d finally passed out and stayed out.

  He’d consider himself lucky if she didn’t kick him in the balls again. He reached down and adjusted himself. Right now, he was considering himself lucky that in the near blackness she wouldn’t be able to see the head of his thick erection peeking over the waistband of his cargo pants. Just to say hello.

  Speaking of saying hello. “Hello,” he grumbled, taking a bracing breath and waiting for an answer that didn’t come. Well. Shit. Maybe she passed out again. He opened his eyes, and she was right in front of him. So close he could have kissed her if he leaned forwa
rd a little… Nope. He cleared his throat, hoping it would clear some of the lusty fog that filled his brain as well. Not likely. But it was worth a try. The sudden sound made her jump backward, clambering blindly to put her back to a wall and take a defensive position. He was reminded, as well as he could see her, his eyesight easily making her out in the dark, she couldn’t see him at all. In the most soothing voice he could manage, he purred, “Listen. I’m not going to hurt you.” He reached out toward the switch that controlled the overhead fan/light combo. “I’m going to turn on the lights, okay?”

  “N… No.” She tried to move back farther, but found only wall. Her only option was to curl in on herself, using his shirt as a protective shell.

  He tried to pretend the thought of her wearing his shirt and little else didn’t make his heart do back-flips inside his chest. “Why not?” He went to take a step forward, wanting to reach out for her, but he thought better of it and stopped himself. “We’ll be able to talk better with the lights on.” Or at least she would. He could see just fine, but he wanted her to see him. As stupid as it sounded, he wanted her to look at him, see him as a fine piece of man meat, and find out if they could get back to the state she was in before the acrid stench of fear had crowded out the scent of her delicious arousal. Great plan.

  “Um, I’m not really wearing any clothes, and I don’t fucking know you.” The words were hard, gritted out.

  Well, okay. Angry was better than scared. He could handle angry. “Greta,” he started, but she cut him off with a sigh.

  “Look. I don’t know where you picked me up last night. But apparently I was waaaaay too drunk. Obviously something happened… and that’s… that’s fine. I don’t blame you. Hell…” She let out a wistful sigh, and if he hadn’t had superhuman hearing, he probably wouldn’t have heard it. “I wish I remembered it. But like I said… Me… Wasted. You probably were too, judging by the hangover. Never seen anyone that light sensitive before.” She chuckled nervously and reached up to thread a shaky hand through her short hair. “We’re hunky dory as far as I’m concerned, but I… I really need you to let me out of this room.” She was speaking in a soothing voice, like she was trying to calm a frightened animal.

  He couldn’t help but smile at the irony of the turnaround… until what she’d said finally sunk in. “Wait,” he blurted. “You think we had sex last night?” Gods, he wished. But, what?

  “Oh…” Was that hurt in her voice? “I just assumed… since I was…” She motioned at herself, picking up the shirt that hung nearly to her knees and wringing it between her hands.

  “Fuck, Greta! Don’t you remember ANYTHING that happened last night?”

  “No.” She shook her head in the dark, even though she must’ve thought he wouldn’t be able to see her. He watched as she stood there. Eyes pressed closed so tight. Her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth, as if she was willing herself to remember.

  ★ ★ ★

  Christ, why couldn’t she remember? Greta worried her bottom lip between her teeth, nearly biting hard enough to draw blood. So they hadn’t had sex? He’d been pretty adamant on that point. But why bring her to a cheap motel and strip her if he didn’t plan to have sex with her? Oh god, had she puked on him? Or herself? And he’d had to clean her up. That would explain the anger, but she didn’t even remember going out. It wasn’t something she did often.

  C’mon, Greta. What was the last thing she remembered? Getting to Walmart. Yes. Payphones at Walmart to get a cab home. To…

  “Oh my God!” Greta’s eyes popped open in the blackness. She could just barely make out his big form in front of the door. “Mama,” she whispered. She shook her head, clearing out the fog that had hazed over her memories. The kitchen. Those awful yellow eyes. Everything came back so quickly, she felt like she needed to bend over and put her head between her legs to keep the world from spinning. She choked back a sob. Mama was dead. No nightmare this time, though she couldn’t help pinching herself just to make sure. But she was awake. Alive. And her mother was truly gone.

  Her mother had once said, as long as she had a roof over her head, a full belly, and Mama at her side, she had everything she needed. At this point, she was 0 for 3.

  No matter how much industrial sanitizer she could find, she could never go back to that house. Not even to scrape together the few things she had to call her own through the years. She hadn’t eaten in… she didn’t even know how long. And Mama… Greta was all alone in the world.

  Well, not quite alone. She was painfully aware that she was in a pitch-black bathroom with her mother’s murderer between her and the door. And he wanted her for what? Not sex it seemed. But Greta didn’t really want to stick around to find out what else he might have up his sleeve.

  Her grief would have to wait. Without pausing to think the plan through, Greta vaulted off the floor and sped past the hulking male form toward the door. Her hand was on the knob, turning. Yes!

  Strong hands grabbed her around the ribs. She struggled and squirmed. Landed a deep bite on his forearm when he was dumb enough to let it come within striking distance of her teeth, drawing blood. And oh, the taste of that blood. So sweet. She moaned as she swirled it in her mouth, savoring. Swallowed. Then spit. Christ, Greta, get a grip! Eww.

  Too late. The distraction was all he needed. One strong arm banded around her hips. The other tucked neatly underneath her breasts, trapping her arms at her sides, but staying down low enough that she couldn’t bite him a second time. Smart. He squeezed slightly. Not hard enough to hurt, but the tightness against her chest was enough to let her know she wasn’t going to be getting away until he was ready to let go. So she dangled there, her back nestled against his front. Her feet at least a few inches off the floor.

  She realized she may have underestimated his size. Just a tiny bit. Asleep in the bathtub, he’d seemed big, with his long legs and engineer boots hanging well over the edge. But behind her, holding her up as if she was a rag doll, he was… massive. He felt like a wall of hot, rippling muscle at her back. And she didn’t hate it.

  Of course she hated it! Lack of oxygen must have been clouding her judgment. A dose of self-loathing provided the adrenaline surge she needed. Her arms and legs were useless from this position, caught too tightly in his grasp. So Greta went to Plan B. With all her strength, she slammed her head backward. The sickening crunch of cartilage giving way telling her she’d scored a solid hit.

  She was prepared to spring, take any opportunity if he released her even just a fraction. But he didn’t let go. If anything, his arms wove tighter, binding his body to hers so tightly she could feel the individual muscles tensing in his chest and abdomen as the bastard started laughing. At her.

  Oh. No. He. Didn’t.

  Rage and lingering grief, and a few other emotions she would never admit to, swirled through her gut. Greta let out a wail any highland banshee would be damn proud to own up to. Then she laid into him. Kicking back at his shins. Clawing at the arm that was creeping underneath the edge of the long T-shirt, which was now rucking up around her hips with her movements.

  He just kept laughing.

  Bracing her feet on his legs for leverage, trying to pry off that rock hard arm that encircled her ribs, she pressed her ass back against him. Wait...Was that… a gun… in his pants? If it was, the asshole was packing a shotgun. That had been fired recently. Because it was HOT.

  Her lips quirked in a satisfied grin. So much for him being disgusted at the idea of sex. She shook her head, but not in time to stop the moan that slipped past her lips. Stupidity: The first stage of grief. He stopped laughing. The sharp intake of breath made his abs quiver against her back. And he dropped her like a hot stone.

  Victory! And disappointment. But no time to waste. While he was still distracted, getting as far away from her as he could (and good riddance), Greta whisked past him through the door, and without giving a thought to her state of dress, she ripped open the outer door to the room and surged out into the daylight. />
  She heard a brilliant string of curses behind her, some of which she’d have to remember so she could use them later. He was hot on her heels, but if she could just get a little bit farther…

  His big hand circled her wrist, slamming her to a stop so fast she lost her footing. He held her up, though. She never hit the dirt. He pulled her back into him and used her as a… shield? All the while, the endless tide of cursing never ceased. He must’ve finished a discourse in at least four languages before he’d dragged her struggling body back to the door and shoved her through it. He shut and locked the door behind him, trapping them in again. He shot her a disapproving look that quickly lost its power as he faltered, leaning back against the painted metal and sagging slowly to the floor. Out cold.

  If she thought she’d have been able to move his big body, she might’ve tried to escape again. But the thought died as the smell of singed flesh filled her nostrils. Little spirals of steam wafted up from the big man’s exposed skin. Everywhere the sun had touched him, raw red welts raised up like rivers of molten lava. Tiny shafts of light, stealing through around the heavy curtains, hit his skin, and she saw the flesh crackle and split before her eyes.

  “Shit,” she exclaimed in a very calm, ladylike manner. She grabbed the hideous orange bedspread, ripping it free of sheets and mattress, sending wads of bedding cascading to the floor. Tossing the heavy fabric over the curtain rod wasn’t the easiest thing she’d ever done, but she had it finished quickly enough, making sure to stuff the thing in around all the nooks and crannies so no light would get through. The only problem now was, she couldn’t see. At all.