by Susan Laine
Chapter One
GOD, my head.
Gabriel King opened his eyes, but only blackness greeted him. At first he thought he might have gone blind. But his lycan heritage would have healed him from any damage to his eyes. No, he concluded he had on a blindfold.
Gabe tried to move, but found he couldn’t. His hands and arms wouldn’t budge, and neither would his legs. He felt cold metal wrapped around his wrists, arms, waist, legs, and ankles, keeping him restrained in place. Enforced steel-titanium alloy most likely, Gabe ventured a guess as he tested the shackles that didn’t give him even an inch of mobility to work with.
Because he could breathe normally and didn’t feel anything else over his face, he knew there was no hood, blanket, or bag covering his face. Taking a good sniff, he learned several things at once. First, other than the scent of his own masculine sweat, there were no other odors lingering. A confined, sterile space, he surmised. Second, there was a very low hum in the cool, dry, recycled air from a ventilation system.
He had been positioned on his haunches, torso upright, with his hands held up above his head and apart with a metal bar. The platform where he had been restrained was definitely moving. A vehicle of some kind, perhaps a truck, he suspected, as there was a faint echo around him indicating an empty space. The lack of other human sounds told him he was the sole occupant.
Holding back a sigh, Gabe understood that this was no chance abduction.
He was held by specifically designed restraints in a clean environment, and they were on the move. All of it suggested a definite plan coming to fruition in a short amount of time. Gabe had been purposely taken, and a mobile place had been built to keep him captive and transport him to a destination wholly unfamiliar to him.
Everything suggested these people knew he was a werewolf, and they had taken all possible precautions to prevent Gabe from escaping.
Fear gripped his heart and made his stomach churn with burning uncertainty and then with ice-cold nails to rip his self-confidence to shreds.
After shaking his head to clear away the mists of concern and self-doubt, at least metaphorically, Gabe refocused on his surroundings. Leaning his head back a bit, he felt cold, smooth metal behind him, against his scalp. And the wall was shaking slightly. Gabe was certain that meant a well-maintained asphalt road, perhaps a highway since there were few to no turns he could feel.
He tried to listen acutely, but even with his werewolf senses, he could hear no roar of traffic, no people talking, no machines, not even the car’s engine. Could the vehicle be sound-proofed? That seemed like overkill, but then again, Gabe was a very powerful lycan.
Suddenly there was a new sound: sharp hissing.
Gabe took a breath, and immediately his eyes began to droop and sleep invaded his brain, his awareness turning to mush. Gaseous sedative, he realized. His captors must have some kind of medical indicators attached to him to discern he was awake. It was cold, detached, and professional.
Gabe fell into a drug-induced, dreamless sleep.
UNAWARE of the passage of time, Gabe awoke to a sudden jolt as the vehicle beneath him ground to a halt. He could barely keep his eyes open long enough to yet again see only the black blindfold, and his body felt sluggish and unresponsive. Whatever they had given him was potent stuff, perhaps genetically modified specifically for him.
My family must be going mad with worry.
At least he had one asset working for him. Since the Great Unveiling, there had been attacks against mythical creatures revealed in the world. Two years ago another lycan, a female, had been kidnapped in order to force her to bestow her wolf bite on a group of men seeking immortality. She had managed to escape, and in the process, she had killed three of them while wounding four others. Later the courts had set a precedent by ruling it self-defense.
So, if Gabe got free from his bonds, he could kill or disable his captors in self-defense.
But he was not a killer. He was just a cowboy, for God’s sake, raising cattle on a ranch in Wyoming. Sure, he was a werewolf, but he was no one important. And despite the sorry situation he found himself in, he wasn’t positive he could kill his captors even if the opportunity presented itself. As the eldest of the King siblings, he had been a peacemaker his whole life, the one others sought to calm themselves down. As a Beta of his pack, he had a responsibility to stay levelheaded and not allow his animal instincts or beastly emotions to dominate him.
A loud clank sounded when heavy doors opened, confirming Gabe’s notion that he was held in the back of a truck. Hard boots with metal tips hit the floor and approached him.
“He’s awake,” a man’s voice said gruffly, without a trace of compassion. This was the voice of a professional for whom a person was just like any other piece of merchandise to be hauled around. “I’ll tranq him.”
“Don’t bother,” another male voice said curtly. “He’s not going anywhere. And the owner will want to see the puppy up and about.”
Gabe’s mouth wasn’t gagged, so he could’ve spoken to them, shouted for help, or even growled. But he saw little point in attempting any of those things. If these truly were consummate professionals, possibly hired mercenaries, they wouldn’t answer his questions or show any signs of empathy. If he screamed out, they’d hit him or use the tranquilizer gun on him. And if he growled like an animal, they’d probably laugh scornfully—and then clobber him unconscious.
Instead of dealing with the men, Gabe took a sniff of the air rushing into the back of the truck, trying to ascertain where he was from the smells reaching him. The sharp fragrance of coniferous trees at the ranch had changed into sugary, sweeter deciduous trees and rich smells from wet soil. Perhaps it was an estuary, a delta, or a swamp, Gabe thought, now more worried, knowing he was definitely not in Wyoming anymore, but in a southern state, like Louisiana, Mississippi, or Alabama.
Gabe was far away from home turf.
Someone was close to him. The creak of leather combat boots and the rubbery squeak of some kind of hard-plated body armor were loud in his ears, and the smell of coffee and sweat came through clearly. Also, there was a tension in the air, not quite as thick as what you could cut with a knife, but palpable nonetheless.
I make them anxious.
“Keep still, mutt,” the man said, practically grunting his words out.
Gabe could discern no accent in his voice, nothing to indicate his origins. He could have allowed himself to get provoked and still keep an emotional distance, but thanks to the fresh air and new stimuli, he had regained his strength and awareness. The effects of the sedative had completely worn off.
One mistake from any of these men would be their last.
Wind was rustling in the trees and the scent of jasmine reached him in gushes of wet warm air. Absolutely in the South, he thought, wondering who that far away could possibly know he was a lycan. In his many wandering years centuries ago, Gabe had traveled all over the South, but he had not been there in several decades, fifty or sixty years at least, not since WWII.
Then, in a blink of an eye, everything changed.
He caught a new scent, bewildering and bewitching, alluring and arousing. Gabe was instantly rock-hard in his jeans, his whole body craving, his senses on high alert. He might not have ever been on the receiving end of this particular scent, but he knew instantly what it meant.
My mate is near.
The nearest man tested his shackles. “He’s secure.” A pause was followed by a light chuckle, bemused. “He’s real calm too—for a little bitch.” Inwardly, Gabe grinned. Only female dogs were bitches, and regardless of the suggestion, the ridiculous taunt missed its mark by miles.
“Keep your opinions to yourself. He’s a person too.”
There it was, Gabe felt, and closed h
is eyes to relish the sound of his mate’s voice.
The nearest man laughed derisively. “Wanna pet, pretty boy?”
“Come closer and say that again to my face, motherfucker!” As he spoke, his Irish accent was pronounced, and Gabe could imagine how that tongue forming those fierce words would curl around his own in a feral display of passion.
Oh yes, his mate was indeed a man. However, he was clearly a man with a rash temper and the physical strength to respond to danger, because the other man snorted, but in a conciliatory tone that indicated he was backing off.
It was interesting but didn’t bode well for their relationship. A man who spent his time on the wrong side of the law as a volatile and combative mercenary would not have been Gabe’s first choice for a mate. In fact, a man like that wouldn’t have been on the list at all.
Yes, that type of man would be Gabe’s opposite and could therefore complement him. But even though he had never had a mate, Gabe knew that stable, lasting relationships were built on a foundation of commonalities, not differences.
Trying to tell from what he was sensing where his mate was, Gabe turned his head to focus his werewolf senses, but a sharp slap on his head snapped him out of his attempt, and he lost track of his man. Pain radiated through him, but was gone in a heartbeat, and clarity was restored.
“Be still, pardner,” the man sneered at him with an exaggerated Western accent.
Gabe wasn’t fazed by the words of a stranger, let alone an enemy. This man didn’t care who Gabe was, and every jeer was just his professional courtesy, so to speak. Mentally, Gabe shrugged it off and tried to relocate his mate with only his hearing and sense of smell.
But whoever his mate was, he was gone. Gabe couldn’t sense him anywhere. Cursing inside, he knew better than to move again, which would incite the retaliation of the mean man at his side. For this man, cruelty was a part of his job he obviously took to like a fish to water. So Gabe forced himself to take a calming breath and resigned himself to wait for what was to come.
It was silent again. The men didn’t speak. Gabe could tell there were at least four of them, three who had spoken out loud—one of them being his mate—and one who had not said a thing. But Gabe could smell the differences in their natural odors even though his mate’s lingering scent dominated his sensory awareness and left him yearning for more than the whiff he’d gotten so far.
What did these men want? The King family was wealthy and renowned, so ransom could be a reason. But considering all the security precautions in place, Gabe suspected that his being a lycan was the more likely reason. So, the question wasn’t what these men, who were clearly mere hired guns, wanted, but who were they working for?
“The car’s coming. We can take him outside.”
Gabe’s heartbeat sped up as his mate’s voice came closer. His throat was drier than a desert, and his hands were sweating. It was hard to concentrate on anything other than his mate inching nearer.
Then, the touch.
His breath hitched when his mate’s fingers made contact with the skin of his wrists. All the fight left him, which under the circumstances wasn’t good at all. But Gabe couldn’t help the reaction; it was so instinctive and natural. Then the blindfold was removed, and through the dark blond strands of his hair, he got his first glimpse of his mate.
The man was tall, lean, and strong, like a racehorse, powerful and quick on his feet. His dark hair had been shaved into a crew cut, giving him a hard countenance emphasized by his streamlined musculature and angular bones. Wearing black army-style clothes with a ceramic bulletproof vest, also black, and an assortment of other body armors, and almost casually carrying a Heckler & Koch MP7, this man was as professional as the other man, but unlike his more ruthless colleague, his features were either schooled not to reveal emotions or he felt nothing special about this assignment.
Well, that was going to change.
As Gabe gazed into the man’s clear blue eyes, it was there—the strong, immediate connection.
The undeniable recognition that Gabe knew was a turning point.
WHAT. The. Fuck?
For the first time in his life Kieran Knight was mesmerized. He had not been on the recovery team but functioned as a backup on a nearby rooftop, his experience lying in, among other things, sniper rifles and long-distance accuracy. This was the first time he’d been close to their target, one Gabriel King, son of Rebecca and Daniel King, the owners of the Howling Creek Ranch and Alphas of their pack. Gabriel King, age indeterminate, best guess three to four hundred years, dark blond hair, dark brown eyes, six-six and two-thirty-five.
All that was statistics. What was in front of Kieran was something else: powerful and alive, beautiful and perfect….
The raw physical reaction overpowered his rationality. He couldn’t breathe, and he shuddered down to his very core. He had never understood what it meant for a heart to skip a beat at the sight of another human being—but now he did. He felt like his heart had jumped from his chest up to his throat and lodged itself there, making it impossible to swallow or breathe.
Those brown eyes peered up at him, as if they held within them a secret just out of Kieran’s reach. He felt that gaze all the way down to his toes, but the sensation centered in his groin, pooling at the base of his stomach like boiling lava. He was sweating profusely too. Despite being caught in the grip of that primal gaze, Kieran took note of the bulging muscles of the man’s ripped physique, the sun-kissed skin, and the laugh lines around the man’s eyes.
Gorgeous.
Kieran sighed at the sight, then quickly shook his head and forced the thoughts out of his mind. This man was their prisoner, their ticket to job completion, their paycheck. This man came with a price tag attached, and Kieran could not allow personal attraction to get in the way. Before becoming a hired gun for the rich, the powerful, and the totally evil and corrupt, he’d fought in the fucking IRA, for God’s sake! He was no pansy-ass poofter….
But his conviction that the job came first rang hollow as Kieran saw the flicker of light die in the man’s dark eyes as they lowered to the floor. The resignation coming from Gabriel as his shoulders slumped was too much for Kieran.
I can’t do this.
He had no idea where the thought came from, but wherever and from however deep it did emerge, that single resolution dominated him from then on.
Kieran’s creativity worked on overload as he scrambled to find a coherent and workable strategy to destroy everything he had worked and bled for over the past three years. But as it stood, the realization that he had zero regrets about consigning himself to this future path was so fierce and compelling that nothing else existed.
How can I do this without getting myself or him killed?
Kieran got up from his previous hunkered position to release the wide, bracelet-type restraints from the metal bar to which they were attached, keeping the prisoner’s hands apart so there was no chance he could break free. Kieran had fought against a lycan twice, both times with about two dozen men at his side. Both times they’d lost more than half the men.
But this man, Gabriel King, was different. He was cool and composed. He didn’t try to fight back or break free. He silently and calmly waited for what was to come. How could Kieran relay to Gabriel without words that he was on Gabriel’s side?
God almighty, I’ve gone off the deep end for sure.
Once Gabriel was freed from the bar, there was still a chain that kept his wrists locked together. Both Kieran and Slade, the other merc who had accompanied him into the truck, took a few steps back, held their automatic weapons tighter to their chests, and pointed them at Gabriel to avoid any possibility of responding to a threat too slowly or too late. Neither of them was taking any chances with their quarry.
Only, Gabriel did nothing. Slowly, as if showing the men he was no danger, Gabriel got up, using his bare toes to lift him from his position sitting on his haunches. His bound hands lowered to rest in front of him as he stood in nothing b
ut blue jeans and a brown-plaid shirt, but he made no sudden moves, nor did he test the solidity of the restraints.
Kieran couldn’t understand the man’s placid behavior. Could Gabriel still be under the influence of the drugs? He should not have been if they had timed the dose right, and considering the amount they were paid for being professional, they could not have gotten it wrong.
Perhaps his defeatist attitude was because of Kieran.
Half-hard in his pants, Kieran backed up so he could keep his eye on Gabriel but at the same time take a sharp look outside. There were three men holding position behind the truck, one of them being Deck, the commander of their mercenary team. Kieran went over the possibilities in his head, discarding them just as fast. Because of Gabriel, they were all on high alert, and getting the drop on them would be next to impossible.
Yet, the thought of not helping Gabriel, or his dying, made Kieran’s stomach clench and the pain in his chest tightened to a strangling grip.
God, no.
He had to help Gabriel—or die trying.
STARING at the cool gray polished floor of the truck was the only thing that kept Gabe holding onto his precious self-control. His mate was so close that he was ready to pounce on the guy. That impulse was driving him insane with want—and the timing could not have been worse for these sorts of feelings.
But did the other man feel the same? Gabe had seen how the man’s blue eyes had widened and then grown darker as his pupils dilated with something akin to need. He had smelled arousal in sweet male musk and known he’d had an effect on the mercenary. Yet, the moment had slipped away and vanished, along with Gabe’s hope of silently communicating to his mate that they were meant to be together.
For all Gabe knew, the man didn’t even know what a lycan mating was.
“There’s a good puppy,” the cruel merc taunted from his side, chuckling low. “He’ll make someone a great pet. So docile and obedient. Roll over! Bark! Woof-woof!”
After nearly four hundred years, getting Gabe upset was well-nigh impossible, and he had other priorities at the moment anyway. He had to escape—but how? Though no longer attached to the truck wall, Gabe still had his hands, arms, legs, and ankles bound, so he was going nowhere in a hurry.