Bound Guardian Angel

by Donya Lynne

  She groaned as the residual effects of Jack Daniels filtered through her brain. Or maybe it was the remnants of her brain that were filtering through the residual Jack Daniels. She couldn’t be sure, because, yeah, she’d shredded a few to a million brain cells with her frat-party drinking binge this morning.

  Good thing her vampire genes could replace them as fast as she destroyed them or she would be nothing but an incoherent smudge of flesh and bone.

  At least her head no longer felt like a hundred of those stubby, pellet-shaped Minions were inside her skull dancing to disco music, but her stomach still felt sour. Ironic that she couldn’t feel anything that happened to the outside of her body, but everything going on inside felt magnified by the power of ten.

  She rolled herself into a sitting position and rubbed her eyes before blindly reaching for her cell phone, which she vaguely remembered setting on the corner of the coffee table before passing out. Her hand landed on polished wood. Opening her eyes, she saw that her mobile wasn’t there.

  “Looking for this?”

  She turned toward the sound of Micah’s voice. He was standing in the doorway leading down the hall. He was holding her phone, and from the way his finger was slowly scrolling up the screen, he was reading her messages.

  She lurched toward him. “What the hell—” A million ice picks dug into her brain, making her rethink movement, talking, and even breathing.

  She clutched her head and sank back into the couch, propping her elbows on her knees as she cradled her forehead in her palms. She would have whimpered had Micah not been there.

  “You’ve been a busy little bee.” Micah’s booted feet broke into her field of vision as he stopped in front of her.

  She groaned when what she really wanted to do was snatch back her phone and punch him for violating her privacy.

  “What are you doing with my phone? Why are you reading my messages?” Out of the corner of her eye, she spied the aspirin and bottled water sitting on the coffee table, just past Micah’s left leg. Her mouth was as dry as scorched cotton, but she refused to show weakness in front of him, even if she was doubled over with the hangover headache of death.

  Micah reached down, grabbed the bottle of water, and tossed it onto her lap before sidestepping away from her toward the chair she’d sat in last night as she’d expelled her past to Sam.

  “Someone had to answer your phone,” he said. “It’s gone off three times in ten minutes.” He dropped his ass into the chair. “What the fuck are you doing messing around with Grudge Match?”

  Her head shot up. She instantly regretted it as pain speared her left eye from the inside out. “What do you know about Grudge Match?”

  “I asked you first.”

  Really? He wanted to play that game?

  Giving up all pretenses that she wasn’t hurting as badly as she was, she picked up the bottle from her lap and twisted off the lid. Just feeling the cool water wash down her throat was enough to make her sigh in relief.

  After guzzling half the bottle, she wiped the back of her hand over her mouth and glared at him as best as she could under the circumstances, which was to say she probably looked more like a blind Chinese crested than a pissed-off vampire with an attitude problem.

  “Technically, I asked you first, asshole. If you recall, I asked why you’re reading my messages?” She reached for the bottle of aspirin and popped off the cap.

  “I told you—”

  “You told me my phone was going off, not why you decided it was okay to read my messages.” She tossed two tablets in her mouth and quickly washed them down before continuing. “You could easily have silenced my phone without violating my privacy.”

  Micah raised his hands, palms out. “You got me. I was spying. Sue me.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Fine. Now tell me what the hell you’re doing messing around with Grudge Match.”

  “Sorry. No-can-do. Members only.” She flashed him the sweetest smile she could muster with tiny trolls hammering at her brain with what felt like jagged pickaxes.

  Micah blew out an abrupt huff and held up her phone. “Who’s this Digon? And what’s this about an audition and something called the gauntlet?”

  Just how far back had he read in her texts? “Why the hell do you want to know so badly?”

  “Because I’ve been hearing about Grudge Match for months and haven’t figured out a way to infiltrate.”

  Cordray swallowed the last of her water. “That’s because you don’t know the secret handshake.” She gave him a saccharine smile and batted her eyelashes, even though the slight movement played hell with her headache.

  “Jesus, would you quit being so difficult for once in your goddamn life and tell me what you know?”

  Wiping the smile off her face, she squared her shoulders. “Give me back my phone, and I’ll think about it.”

  “Fine. Christ!” He tossed the phone at her.

  She caught it and shot him a wicked scowl. “Are your only two decibel levels blaring and deafening, with a side of obnoxious? Or do you think you could manage something more—oh, I don’t know—quiet and polite? And would it hurt you to say please and thank you once in a while . . . in a voice that isn’t encroaching on space shuttle launch?”

  “Would you just fucking spill . . . please?”

  She tapped her screen and pulled up Digon’s messages. “I said I’d think about it, not that I would.”

  Micah grumbled something unintelligible that sounded like a sentiment about how he felt sorry for Trace and couldn’t understand why Sam liked her, but half the words came out sounding more like growls than decipherable English.

  But she was too busy reading Digon’s texts to pay him much mind. Grudge Match’s next gathering was in two nights. He’d sent a separate message with a schedule for the next month, including dates and locations. The fight club apparently rotated venues to keep themselves as clandestine as possible, so a new schedule was sent out every month.

  “What’s going on up here, Micah?” Sam said, appearing in the kitchen, wearing jeans and a fitted T-shirt. “I could hear you all the way down in the basement.”

  Cordray lifted her head. “See?” She flung an I-told-you-so look at him and said, “Space shuttle launch.”

  Micah exhaled heavily, shook his head at her, and leaned back in his chair. Keeping his gaze locked on hers, he tilted his head back and said over his shoulder, “Sorry, babe. Just trying to figure out why I even bother trying to be nice to this witch.”

  “Micah . . .” Sam shook her head disapprovingly.

  “You call that being nice?” Cordray said. “You read my messages without my permission and boss me around like I’m one of your personal informants, and you think that’s nice?”

  “Micah, you didn’t . . .?”

  He glowered across the coffee table at her, his jaw rigid, face shaded dark pink.

  Sam poured a mug of coffee and brought it into the living room, extending it toward her.

  Grateful for something stronger than water to help the aspirin kill her headache, Cordray took the mug. “Thank you.”

  Sam turned on Micah, her hands on her hips. “You need to apologize to our guest.” Then she returned to the kitchen and started pulling out pans and skillets to make breakfast as if she expected Micah to do as she said without question.

  Eyes narrow, his expression tight, Micah gritted his teeth as he stared at her.

  “Now, Micah,” Sam said as she pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge.

  He frowned and glanced to the side. “I’m working on it, dear.”

  Cordray imagined that apologizing to her felt about as comforting to Micah as the asteroid crashing into the earth millions of years ago had felt to the dinosaurs.

  He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then blew it out. “I’m . . . sorry.” He cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. “I’m sorry for reading your messages. And for bossing you around.” His eyes narrowed as he glanced away. “And
for yelling while you’re obviously feeling like shit.” The corner of his mouth quirked as if that secretly delighted him and he’d been talking loudly on purpose.

  “You can be a real ass, you know that?” Cordray said, tucking her phone in her pocket.”

  “So they tell me.”

  Sam returned to the living room with another mug of coffee and handed it to Micah like it was a reward. “Thank you for apologizing,” she said lovingly, bending down to kiss him.

  He turned his face up to hers. Before their lips met, he said, “Anything for you, baby.”

  She gave him a light pat on the cheek as her mouth lingered on his, and then she pulled away. “Yeah, well, it would be nice if I didn’t have to remind you to be nice as often as I do.”

  “But then I’d miss out on these little rewards you give me when I apologize for being bad.”

  Sam rolled her eyes and grinned as she shook her head. “You’re such a difficult man.”

  “Male.”

  “Whatever.”

  As they kissed again, Cordray dropped her gaze into her mug of coffee, feeling like an intruder. Watching Micah and Sam’s dynamic as a mated couple reminded her of how alone she was.

  Mates held a certain magic over one another. As soon as the mating bond connected them to each other, they ceased being separate entities, becoming one that dwelled within two bodies. Well, maybe not exactly like that, but close enough to generalize that that’s what happened.

  Mates could locate each other across vast distances as if guided by a homing beacon, as Io had with Miriam. They could feel when the other was in trouble, even if hundreds of miles separated them. A male’s mate held incredible power over him, such as Sam did with Micah. She snapped her fingers, and he jumped. She told him to apologize, and he did. She was his conscience, and he was her champion.

  Seeing how enchanting they were together made her angry. She wanted what they had, and—damn her traitorous heart—she wanted it with Trace.

  But she was still too damn scared to open herself, especially to him. The way they lashed out at each other like two tomcats fighting over territorial boundaries warned of pending doom. What if she invited him into her bed? What if the sex was as epic as she suspected it would be? She had damn near detonated in the hallway as he kissed her last night, so sex would probably send her into a nuclear meltdown. What if that happened and she found the most unbelievable pleasure she’d ever known, allowed herself to fall in love with him, and then he realized she wasn’t his cup of tea?

  Or worse yet, what if he found his one true mate and left her? He’d made it no secret that he didn’t like her, but sex was sex, and if it was one thing she had learned by penetrating Trace’s thoughts, it was that he had never found arousal outside the playroom. But he found it with her. She had seen his erections straining his jeans. She’d felt his hard length against her when she awoke to find him on top of her, and again last night in the hallway as he pressed her against the wall. Of course he would entertain the possibility of having sex with her when she could arouse him in a way no one else could. Trace could choose to enjoy the benefits of their physical connection for as long as the whim carried him, and when the novelty wore off, he could walk away. Where would that leave her?

  In a useless, unfeeling heap in the forest, that’s where.

  Been there, done that. Bought the T-shirt, wore it, burned it. Upgraded to body armor.

  She had spent centuries erecting the walls protecting her, forging her prickly, aloof demeanor to keep everyone at arm’s length. Now, she’d found someone she wanted to pull closer and didn’t know how. She no longer possessed the social skills required to invite someone into her private space, even if her fear abated long enough to let her.

  “If you guys are finished sucking on each other’s faces . . .” she said pointedly.

  Sam pulled away and smiled, her cheeks flushed. “Sorry.” She straightened. “I’ll let you two chat.” She caressed Micah’s shoulder as she turned and went back to the kitchen.

  “So,” Micah said, his tone milder, “please tell me what you know about Grudge Match.”

  Cordray hugged her coffee mug as if it were a lifeline. In a way, it was, because every sip made her head hurt a little bit less.

  “Honestly, not much. Yet. But I’ve only been to one meeting.”

  “How did you get in?”

  Cordray gave a halfhearted shrug. “They’ve got a website.”

  Micah’s black eyebrows furrowed sharply as if he didn’t believe her. “I haven’t found one.”

  She would have laughed if she didn’t think it would make her head blow up. “It’s called the Dark Net, Micah.” She snapped her fingers in hurry-up fashion. “See if you can keep up with technology, big guy.”

  “I know about the Dark Net.” The hint of chagrin in his eat-shit expression told her he just hadn’t thought to check it and felt like an idiot for not doing so.

  “Yeah well, you should spend some time there. You’d be amazed what you can find out.”

  “I’ll bet. Now, could you get on with it before you bore me to death?”

  She rolled her eyes. Males could be so testy about bruising their egos. “I hit up their site, and lo and behold, they have an interest form to become a member, so I filled it out. Who knew it would be that easy?”

  “They must be desperate if they accepted you.”

  “They just know talent when they see it.”

  “Whatever. So, then what?”

  Talking to Micah was like talking to Trace, only not as fun. “After submitting my application, I waited a little while then got an invitation to run what they call the gauntlet. It’s their initiation. If you make it through the gauntlet, you’re in. If you don’t”—she made a sad face and waved her fingers in a bye-bye motion—“too bad, so sad, sorry about your luck, but you’re out.”

  Micah scoffed. “Well, if you made it through, so can I.”

  “Yes, but I had an advantage.”

  “Wait, let me guess. You really are able to turn men to stone with one look?”

  “Micah . . .” Sam warned.

  He threw his hands up in surrender. “Hey, she set herself up for that one.”

  Sam huffed and rolled her eyes before tossing poppy seeds into what looked like pancake batter. The scent of freshly grated lemon zest drifted on the air, and a bright-pink salmon fillet sat on a cutting board on the counter beside the batter bowl.

  Was Sam trying to become the next Bobby Flay or what?

  “Funny,” Cordray said to Micah, “but no, I can’t turn men to stone. Not anymore, anyway. Back in the day, though . . . that’s quite another story.” She winked at Sam, who lifted her gaze from the bowl of batter she was folding poppy seeds into and giggled.

  Micah spun around. “I heard that.”

  Sam blew him a kiss as she scooted the bowl aside and went to work on the salmon. “I love you, baby, but you know I appreciate a good sense of humor.”

  Micah exhaled heavily as he faced Cordray again, one brow arched, his stare glassy and unimpressed. “Okay, fine. So what advantage did you have that I don’t?”

  “Ask Sam.”

  “Sam?” Micah glanced over his shoulder again.

  Sam looked up from shaving paper-thin slices off the fish. “Me?”

  “Yes.” Cordray nodded once. “What I told you last night. You know, about what happened to me? How you were able to hit me without hurting me?”

  “You hit her?” Micah asked, jacking his thumb in Cordray’s direction.

  “Uh . . .” Sam’s face flushed, and she briefly glanced down. “I guess you could say that.”

  “And I missed it?” Micah looked back and forth between them. “Damn. I would have paid good money to see that.” He smirked at Cordray.

  “I bet you would,” Cordray replied.

  “Okay, so what does my mate punching you have to do with you having an advantage?”

  “Sam?” Cordray raised her chin at her.

&n
bsp; Sam met her gaze then looked at Micah. “She can’t feel.”

  Micah’s frown was almost comical. “You can’t?”

  “Nope. Not a thing.” Cordray took another sip of coffee. “So, when some guy as big as a skyscraper punched me, I was able to keep on going. You, on the other hand, you’ll feel it.”

  “Only if I let him hit me.”

  “Are you saying you’re going to request an audition?”

  “Maybe.”

  Sam didn’t even blink. Apparently, she was already used to Micah putting himself in harm’s way and coming out aces. Then again, the guy was pretty badass, as far as fighters went. And he had been for as long as Cordray could remember.

  She’d never crossed paths with Micah in her youth, but she’d known of his reputation. Everyone had. She also knew that he’d been one of her father’s most coveted warriors. He’d even had a hand in training her brother. If only he knew as much about her as she did about him, maybe he wouldn’t be so quick to criticize and discredit her.

  “I’m not sure what good it will do, since I’m such a new member, but I could e-mail Digon and vouch for you,” she offered.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because it might make it easier for you to get an invite. Grudge Match has a thorough vetting process to screen candidates. Since you’re a member of AKM, that might make them wary. And let’s face it, your reputation does precede you, Micah.” His shoulders lifted almost proudly, but before he could say anything, she quickly added, “Which could be to your detriment. You’re a hothead, and you’re also keenly devoted to King Bain and the vampire way. That could be enough to make them reject you.” She paused, knowing on one hand that she shouldn’t be telling Micah any of this, but knowing on the other that if Micah was allowed into Grudge Match, the two of them could work together to find the bad eggs in Digon’s club. Bad eggs who were using Grudge Match to help supply Bishop with test subjects for his experiments. Members who could provide more direct clues to Royce’s involvement. Maybe even Digon himself was guilty, but she doubted it. That wasn’t the vibe she got from him. But if he was guilty, and the entire fight club was one huge sourcing pool, if she and Micah worked together, they could strike a major blow to Bishop, Royce, and whoever else was working to weaken the vampire race.