Touch of Surrender

by Rhyannon Byrd

  She closed her eyes, feeling as if her blush would burn its way through his sweater, and she knew he could feel the heat. “Please don’t make me talk about this,” she said in a muffled voice. “I can’t explain, because I don’t understand it myself.”

  Ashe seemed to ponder that for a moment, before saying, “So then there wasn’t an undying declaration of love, I take it.”

  Bitterness flavored her low laugh, and it was a moment before she was able to swallow past the knot in her throat, somehow managing to state, “He wants to screw me out of his system.”

  He tipped her chin up and smiled down into her face, his eyes glittering with a strange blend of wicked humor and a shadowed kind of sadness. “Well, I could have told him that’s not possible.”

  Morgan rolled her eyes. “You know you don’t want me like that anymore.”

  Snorting, he said, “You know so much, do you?”

  “Despite the heat burning in your skin right now,” she murmured, placing her hand against the side of his warm throat, “you know I leave you cold, Ashe.”

  “It didn’t have to be that way.” His voice was low, careful…as if he was taking extra care with his words, but then he always did take care with her. Taking her hand from his throat, he held it in his and ran his thumb across her knuckles, his voice a dark, velvety rumble as he said, “I still believe that if you’d been able to give me your heart, I’d have started the burning.”

  The “burning” for Deschanel males began when they met the one woman who was meant to be theirs for all eternity. Although they could take or borrow “heat” for a time from their non-Deschanel lovers, only their life-mates could initiate the permanent change within their bodies that would banish the cold forever.

  Softly, she argued, “I don’t believe it would have worked that way, Ashe. Someday you’ll meet a woman who sets you on fire, and then you’ll understand the difference.”

  His lips twitched, a wry smile touching the corners of his mouth. “You don’t know everything, Miss Smarty Pants. If you looked at me the way you look at the wolf, I’d probably go up in flames.”

  Morgan was still shaking her head when he asked, “Was he gentle with you?”

  “What kind of question is that?” she spluttered, her face burning as she pushed away from his chest.

  “Sounded straightforward to me,” he rumbled, his grin turning wicked. “Now let’s hear you give a straightforward answer.”

  A heart-pounding silence, and then she finally choked out a response. “Gentle is definitely not a word I would use to describe the experience,” she told him, keeping her gaze focused on the strong shape of his chin, too uncomfortable to look him in the eye.

  “Good.”

  Raising her brows, Morgan couldn’t help but give an amazed laugh as she lifted her gaze to his. “And this from the vamp who treated me like something that might break every time he touched me.”

  Rolling one muscular shoulder, Ashe stated, “That was what you needed back then.” He rubbed his thumb against the corner of her mouth, then teasingly brushed his fist against her chin. “But you’re different now. Stronger.”

  “Not that strong,” she groaned, any pleasure she’d felt in his words fading as she thought about what’d happened at the club. “I was a total wreck tonight, Ashe. And I seem to be freaking out on a regular basis now, even when I’m fighting, which has never happened before. The past few days have been so embarrassing.”

  “It’s probably just the stress that you’re under,” he told her, his deep voice warm with concern. “And you know damn well that it’s not something for you to be ashamed of. Christ, what you went through was a nightmare, Morgan. It’s a miracle that you even survived.”

  With her stomach in knots, she argued, “I’ve been under stress before, and it’s never been like this.”

  “Yeah, but these past few months have been rough. You’ve been worried about the war, and now you’re worried about Kellan. Though I guess it could also have something to do with the wolf,” he suggested.

  Her eyes went wide. “What would Kierland have to do with it?”

  A slow grin crossed Ashe’s mouth. “Think about it, sweetheart. When you’re around Scott, you probably use so much of your emotional energy fighting your feelings for him, you end up not having enough strength left to hold off your panic, the way you’re usually able to do.”

  Morgan started to respond, thinking he just might be on to something, but her words got lost behind a long, exhausted yawn that caught her by surprise. “Sorry,” she murmured, covering her mouth as she yawned again. The comforting combination of the warm hotel room and Ashe’s strong embrace were lulling her to sleep, her system crashing now that she felt safe and secure.

  The vampire’s deep voice was hypnotically soothing as he pulled her against his chest. “Shh. Just try to get some rest, honey. We can work this all out later. Right now you need some sleep.”

  “You won’t leave?” she whispered, her eyes so heavy she could barely keep them open, the emotional strain of the past few days suddenly catching up to her.

  Stroking her back, he told her, “I’m staying right here.”

  “You’ve always been too good to me,” she said sleepily, cuddling against Ashe’s warm chest, his arms cradling her in a strong, protective hold.

  But it was the Lycan’s grim, gorgeous face that Morgan saw when she closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Wasteland

  Tuesday evening

  KIERLAND FIGURED IT WAS A TRUE measure of his madness that Morgan looked mouthwatering even when wrapped up in layers of winter clothing. Though most of the clan species could withstand the cold better than humans, the three of them had still needed sweaters and jackets for their journey through the severe climate of the Wasteland.

  They’d begun their journey in the early hours of the morning and had headed north by train, making excellent time into Norway. Thanks to the humans who’d allowed him to take their blood the week before, Granger was able to travel in the sunlight, since the Deschanel could temporarily “assume” certain traits of those they fed from. Kierland didn’t understand exactly how it worked, but apparently some species, like humans, could give the vampires the ability to walk in the sunlight for up to a week. And seeing as how it would never become lighter than a dusky twilight in the Wasteland this time of year, Granger’s aversion to sunlight wouldn’t be a problem once they were there.

  Having never before traveled into the Wasteland, Kierland had been unsure how it would work, but Granger had known of the easiest, southernmost entry point, which had saved them hours of travel time. Protected by spells that made the region invisible to humans, the Wasteland was a vast, bitterly cold prison that “shared” physical space with the Scandinavian forests surrounding it. Kellan could have probably spouted a more elaborate, technical explanation, using words like “dimension” and “time/space continuum,” but then that was Kell for you. His brother always had been too clever for his own good, and Kierland could only pray that Kell’s keen intellect would be enough to keep him alive in the coming days.

  And when he finally got his hands on him, Kierland was going to plant a kiss on the idiot…and then kick his ass for scaring the ever-loving hell out of him. Then, when his brother had picked himself up off the ground, he was going to kick his ass all over again for putting him in this untenable situation, where he was stuck with Granger and Morgan. His resentment towards the vamp grew with each step they took, while his hunger for the female Watchman seethed beneath his skin, turning him inside out.

  Once they’d entered the Wasteland, Morgan had set the direction they would travel, following the “pull” of Kellan’s blood that would eventually lead them to him. After hiking for five solid hours—Granger’s knowledge of the dangerous lands keeping them in so-called neutral territory that had yet to be claimed by any exiled families—they’d finally stopped to make camp in a small snow-dusted glade, all of their tempers on edge, ex
haustion already taking its toll. It was cold, dark and windy, flurries of snow whipping down from the slate-gray sky, the rugged terrain a combination of steep hills and thick forest, making it impossible to use any kind of mechanical transportation, such as snowmobiles. But even if the land had been clear and flat, the spells that made the use of cell phones impossible within the Wasteland had a similar effect on engines. As a result, they’d been forced to travel on foot, their equipment limited to what they could carry on their backs.

  Though he and Granger had been doing their best to ignore each other, the Deschanel turned away from the small fire he’d just started in the center of the glade, leaving Morgan kneeling beside the crackling flames, and headed toward the place where Kierland stood. When the vamp came to a stop no more than a few feet away from the massive, towering pine tree that Kierland was leaning against, he met the Lycan’s belligerent glare and muttered, “I got a weird feeling we were being followed a while back, but haven’t been able to pick up anything specific. You?”

  “I’ve had a similar feeling,” he admitted, while part of him objectively observed, slack jawed, the fact that he was talking to Ashe Granger in a semi-casual manner. But he didn’t want to waste time fighting with the bastard when they were in such hostile territory, the danger increasing with each step that they took into the vast wilderness. “You think we’re just projecting?” he asked. “Looking for trouble because we haven’t found any yet?”

  A wry smile touched the vamp’s mouth, and he laughed as he ran a hand over his short hair. “Could be. God knows this place has always given me the creeps,” he murmured, casting a rueful look across their bleak surroundings, before locking his gaze with Kierland’s again. “But I was wondering if you think it might be those Death-Walkers you’ve got coming after you? Gideon told me about them the last time we talked.”

  Kierland shook his head. “Unless they’ve managed to mask their scent, we’d know, because they smell like something that’s been left to rot in the heat. Even out here, where the snow and the constant winds make tracking near impossible, we’d be able to tell if they were close. But, I’m not sure if they even have the balls to follow us too deeply into the Wasteland.”

  The vamp gave another gritty laugh. “Pretty sad when a bunch of rotting psychopaths have more sense than we do, huh?”

  “Lately, it feels like everyone and everything has more sense than I do,” he muttered dryly, surprised to find himself momentarily bantering with the guy.

  “I know the feeling.” Granger worried two fingers against his shadowed jaw, then gave a firm nod. “I’m going to run a perimeter and make sure there’s nothing too close, just to be safe. Even without the possibility of Death-Walkers, Casus, Kraven and Collective soldiers coming after us, we’ve still got to be on the lookout for the vamps who live in this shit hole. With the way we Deschanel can mask our scent, they could be right on top of us before we even know they’re there. And from what I’ve seen of them, the vampires imprisoned here are more trouble than we need at the moment.”

  The vamp made his way back to the fire and spoke briefly to Morgan, then headed into the thick forest, leaving them alone. Kierland remained against the tree, just watching her, while wishing he’d remembered to pick up some cigarettes before they’d set off. God only knew that he needed one, his system so jacked up it was a wonder he could stand still.

  She had a tired, kind of tense expression on her face as she stared into the flickering flames, her mind obviously a million miles away, leaving him free to stare, soaking in the fine-grained beauty of her profile. As he stood there, fighting to hold himself away from her, he couldn’t help remembering the phone call he’d had with Quinn when he’d left her room last night.

  Left her room, and headed down to the bar by himself…leaving her in the arms of another man.

  After choosing one of the booths in the far corner of the dark, wood-paneled bar, Kierland had just lifted his Scotch to his lips when his phone rang. A half-minute later, after he’d explained where he was and what had happened, he’d downed the contents of the highball and muttered, “What is this? The conference call from hell?”

  Quinn and Aiden had given dark laughs at the other end of the line, then continued to accuse him of being a stubborn bastard, one who always refused to practice what he preached. Though he wanted to argue, badly, he couldn’t. Kierland knew his friends were right. He had no problem dishing out advice to the men who were like family to him, but hell if he ever applied that advice to his own circumstances.

  The conversation had continued with claims that he was being a “hypocritical jackass” and a few sharp, guttural warnings that he was going to lose her, for good, if he wasn’t careful. Of course, Kierland’s bitter response was that he couldn’t lose something that had never been his to begin with. Then he’d added, for good measure, the fact that he had no desire to saddle himself with a woman like Morgan Cantrell for the rest of his friggin’ life, to which his friends had responded with another round of biting accusations.

  He’d shot back that she was probably still in love with Ashe Granger.

  They’d argued that if Kierland wasn’t man enough to fight for her, then he didn’t deserve her.

  Digging his fingers into his tired eyes, he’d finally snarled that they didn’t know what the hell they were talking about, after which they’d both called him an uptight control freak—one who would never learn to be happy if he didn’t get rid of the stick up his ass. Since the conversation was obviously going nowhere, Kierland had changed the subject, telling them of Morgan’s theory about the Dark Markers possibly being the keys that would open the gate to Meridian. Their attention diverted, the Watchmen had grilled him for details, and they’d found themselves engrossed in a tense discussion about the war.

  “The Death-Walkers are the element that worries me the most,” Quinn had grunted, “and not just because they’re coming after my friends. It’s the fact that they don’t give a rat’s ass about anything. Once the humans find out about them—”

  “The shit’s gonna really hit the fan,” Aiden had cut in, finishing Quinn’s thought.

  After he’d promised to watch his back and get in touch with them as soon as possible, Kierland had ended the call. He’d had another drink, and had tried to sit back and chill. Breathe. Relax. But it hadn’t worked. All he could think about was Morgan in her room, lying in that bastard’s arms. Anger and lust and jealousy were all twisted up inside him, coiling him in knots, his face hot, his grip on the highball so tight it was a wonder the glass didn’t shatter in his hand.

  Eventually, he’d given up trying to fight it and had gone back upstairs, letting himself into Morgan’s hotel room. The vamp had fallen asleep on the bed with her, still cradling her in his arms. The urge to throw the dickhead out on his ass had been nearly impossible to resist, and yet, he’d held off, knowing she needed the rest…the peace. So he’d settled down on the sofa instead. He’d felt like an idiot, but he hadn’t been able to go to his own room and leave her there with Granger.

  It was becoming clearer to him that in so many ways, he didn’t know the real Morgan Cantrell at all. He’d created an “image” of her in his mind, which he’d used as a target for his anger and frustration, but…that wasn’t the real Morgan. She was tough and could be a hard-ass when she needed to be. She was strong and fierce and could stand up to him, refusing to take his shit. But she was also kind and soft and almost…fragile. As delicate as antique lace or the furled, tender petals of a flower in bloom. As ethereal as a misty, lavender dawn…or the first glistening, shimmering rays of sunlight after a storm.

  Embarrassing, the way he was waxing poetic about her, but it couldn’t be helped. His friggin’ head was spinning just from looking at her, remembering every moment of those blistering hours in that hotel room in Weesp, his damn dick so hard he could have hammered through a bloody wall.

  She was, in reality, a complex blend of tenderness and strength—white-hot…dangerous…fasc
inating—and if there’d been a chance in hell he thought it could happen without ending in disaster, Kierland would have wanted to keep her more than he’d ever desired anything in his entire life.

  Aw, hell, he thought, scrubbing his hands down his face, his beard stubble scratching against his palms. Who was he trying to fool with that line? Just because he knew he couldn’t keep her didn’t mean he wanted her any less. He knew it was madness, but he couldn’t stop thinking about getting her under him again. And after the crazy, out of control sex, he wanted to cradle her in his arms and just hold her against his heart, telling her how precious she was…how beautiful…how brave.

  And just what in God’s name is that about? he silently snarled, digging his fingers into his eyes.

  “You seem tired.”

  The soft words jerked Kierland out of his thoughts like a splash of cold water in his face. He lowered his hands, blinking, surprised to find Morgan standing before him, staring into his eyes…waiting for a response. Clearing his throat, he shoved his hands into his pockets and simply said, “It was a long night.”

  “LONGER FOR SOME THAN others,” Morgan murmured, unable to disguise the bitterness in her voice.

  He cocked his head a little to the side, obviously picking up on the strain in her words. “If there’s something you want to say, just say it.”

  “Okay. Where did you go last night?” she whispered, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. Morgan knew she was nuts for even asking him, but she couldn’t stop herself. It had been driving her crazy all goddamn day. “While I was with Ashe? I know you came back to the room and slept on the sofa, but where were you before then? What were you doing?”

  He drew his brows together in a scowl, the brackets lining his mouth deepening with anger. “Wait a minute. Are you serious?”

  Pushing her hands into her coat pockets, she wet her bottom lip and nodded, her stomach twisting with nerves.