by Nancy Gideon
Charlotte . . . I’m here for you.
Nothing.
Why couldn’t he find her? Why couldn’t he feel her? Panic whispered words he refused to hear. His aunt wouldn’t have harmed her. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps she was unconscious. He wouldn’t entertain any other reason as he trod down on the accelerator, slinging gravel in his wake. Breathing deep, quieting his aura, he tried again, letting his senses float free to catch the scent of his mate.
Charlotte . . .
Her response hit sudden and hard, a mind-blanking jab to the temple that knocked sight and breath from him.
Max!
As his hands and mind slackened, the vehicle veered sharply, nearly bouncing off the narrow two-track, its low-slung belly scraping up stones and clods of grass before he regained control.
The connection ended, but it was enough. As he wiped the trickle of blood from his nose, a relieved smile flashed. She was alive, and he’d have her back. Soon.
Max held tight to that as the past suddenly rose before him. The small house still stood, faded, patched, and now wearily crumbling within the protective circle of a listing iron fence. There was no welcoming driveway, just a rutted path along which Marie and her young son had once dragged a body wrapped in their living room rug to the swamp that swallowed the evidence of Max’s first kill. That night revealed the truth of what he was. Not human. Not normal. Something else, something . . . more.
No movement stirred those faded curtains that had long cloaked their secrets within his childhood home. The rusty gate groaned but allowed him entry to both past and hopefully future.
– – –
Genevieve Savorie entered the sad little shack where her nephew had been raised, eager to finally put her plans in motion. Fear didn’t necessitate the presence of one of her best men behind her, holding a powerful lantern as well as a silver-loaded handgun. One couldn’t be too careful with the likes of Max Savoie, even if he’d promised surrender.
Green eyes gleamed from the shadows as her sister’s chair creaked to and fro. When he didn’t speak, she smiled and goaded, “How do you think this ends, Nephew?”
A flash of his toothy smile. “With one of us leaving. I can’t afford to let that be you.”
His confidence, even under circumstances he couldn’t survive, should have prompted another chuckle, but her throat suddenly dried. “Really? How very ambitious of you considering this little hovel is surrounded by my men.”
“I’m not afraid of you or your men. But you should be very worried.”
She grabbed the lantern from her underling, thrusting it forward so an aura of light surrounded him where he sat calmly rocking in that dilapidated chair. His rumpled black hair, weathered face that featured his mother’s green eyes and father’s sly smile, wearing a white dress shirt open at the neck and cuffs, tucked into loose jeans. And those damn red tennis shoes.
Genevieve Savorie squared up to her impressive height, svelte figure draped in a Dior ensemble of the same pearl grey as the tasteful orbs around her neck and in her ears. The likeness to her sister faded as a malicious smile spread. Her stare flashed a glittery silver. “How amusing that you still think you have a say in what happens here. This city you adore is about to be mine. All these unworthy lives you protect are going to bend or be broken. The freedom you boast of is an illusion.”
Max chuckled, earning her suspicious scowl. “You’re the one who is deluding herself. My people aren’t going to become your slaves. They’re done wearing collars and doing tricks for the amusement of their supposed betters.”
His relaxed pose unnerved her into snapping, “Why is that?”
“Because I know the truth.”
Though the room’s air lay heavy and stale, a chill swept over her skin. “What truth is that?”
“Who we are and how we came to be. A line that leads to the one who should lead, and that, dear aunt, is not you.”
Her lip curled back. Pleasantry fell away. “Give me the letters your dear neighbor died to protect.”
Max struggled to conceal the pain of that coldly delivered fact. The only memory of kindness from his past was gone, leaving nothing to hold him to this place. Reaching into the leather coat he’d hung on the back of the chair, he withdrew an envelope, letting her snatch it from his hand before turning away to consume its contents. He watched as her shoulders stiffened.
“What is this?” Genevieve snarled, head jerking from side to side as she followed the flow of lamenting words from a lovelorn male to his heart’s desire. Written to that female who was not her as she’d planned, but instead, her sister, Marie. Crumpling the dry paper in her fist, she whirled in fury. “This is not what you promised me!”
“Isn’t it? Evidence of his undying devotion to my mother? Isn’t that what’s behind your determination to end everything that reminds you of them together? They had no happily-ever-after for you to envy. Crushing us won’t replace the punishment you wanted them to suffer.”
She inhaled sharply and blew out a breath between clenched teeth—along with her churning emotions—leaving the cold, detached enemy he rightfully feared.
“How did you come by this supposed truth, and why would I believe it?”
“My father left me a letter, too, one that confirmed Dr. Duchamps’ study of our heritage. You remember Susanna, don’t you? You respected her enough to allow an invasion of our territory to snatch her back into your labs. Well, she’s made it her life’s work to separate out the building blocks of our genetics. With the help my father’s information provided, we have our answer.”
“If you have proof, show me.”
Genevieve never expected him to slowly remove another piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans. The light she held stuttered as he unfolded it and held it out for her inspection.
“That’s a copy. The original in my father’s own writing is safely tucked away.”
She snatched it, devouring the words in a disbelieving frenzy. As she did, Max reached out along the psychic link between him and his mate to reassure himself that she was near. Nothing. No hint of her close by, just a void. He cast out again, extending his reach. How could that be? He’d know if Genevieve was holding her. Even if unconscious, at this close range he should have been able to take her scent, feel her aura.
Unless, she wasn’t . . . alive.
His aunt finished reading, her breaths as unsteady as her hands. A convulsive move crumpled paper but couldn’t erase the truth.
“Who has the original?” Her demand rippled with desperate menace. “Tell me, or I will carve that child out of your whore’s belly right in front of you!”
Just the proof of life he needed.
The one thing she never expected was his low chuckle and the chilling claim, “This is my world. You have no power here.”
As Max rose from the old rocker, the doubts and fears of a small child fell away from the determined male he’d become.
“Where is my mate?”
The soft chuckle rumbling in Genevieve’s throat slowly rose into a spiteful laugh. “Your mate? So close and yet so impossibly far away. I’m not without my own special tricks, Nephew. I’ve hidden her presence from you, but there’s no need to continue that illusion. She no longer matters. Jeffrey, my associate, took the information we needed and should be working on it now in our labs in the North.” The sight of Max’s slow smile froze hers.
“Your man Maitlin never reached Chicago. He was detained and unfortunately didn’t survive a meeting with MacCreedy.”
Face mottling with rage, Genevieve snarled, “Go get her then.” She gestured behind her, toward Mrs. Pelletier’s empty house across the road. “Or should I say what’s left of her. She was dead the second you walked into this room. I’ll retrieve what I need from her corpse. Enjoy your victory.”
– – –
Charlotte . . .
Pain sifted through woozy eddies of awareness; physical twinges capped by cramps of stark emotion. Cee Cee lay still, concentra
ting on first things first.
She’d been drugged. Tendrils still drifted through her system, suppressing alarm, dulling reactions as she assessed her situation. She wasn’t in the comfort of her own bed, that much was obvious. The coverings beneath her stank with age and disuse, air in the dark room stale from lack of circulation. Her ankles and wrists were tied, arms drawn behind her back, numb at first then tingling with unpleasant shocks as she tested the bindings.
A deep pull of oxygen seared her dry throat. She fought the spasm of coughs, fearing she’d betray she was awake before learning more about her circumstances.
What the hell happened?
Raw emotions rose on a flood of returning memory. Crossing the street . . . a hand reaching from an open car door, grabbing, pulling her inside . . . then nothing until the whisper of her name.
Max!
Tortured by horrible scenarios, she thrashed on the bed, fighting the bindings along with her fears until a sharp cramp wrenched through her abdomen, stilling her in a panicked instant.
The baby!
Trembling all over, Cee Cee lay still, breathing shallowly as pain tightened, twisted, then slowly released like an opening fist. With slow, measured breaths, she calmed her thoughts until shaking eased and fear became manageable. When no worrisome symptoms followed, a quiet prayer escaped on a sigh. She refused to consider what impact the drug might have on her unborn child, compartmentalizing it away for another, safer moment. Their escape was her primary concern.
Charlotte!
Max’s voice filled her head. She almost called out aloud before realizing he’d used their bond to communicate. His scent rushed over her in an urgent caress, as calming as the stroke of his hand.
Before she could communicate what little she knew of her situation, a dusty shaft of light filtered in from the opened door. A single figure in black filled the space. Quickly, Cee Cee sealed her eyes shut and forced slow, regular breaths, feigning unconsciousness. His lengthy study moved over her, as unnerving as a caress, but finally he stepped back, and the door closed once again. Spurred by the impending threat, she began working her bindings in earnest.
It wasn’t her life she feared for, at least not immediately. They’d take her North as an incubator for their true agenda, one that involved the combined genetics of her and Max’s families. She refused to pursue that, needing her energy to escape. But the ties failed to loosen, and her time trickled away.
A crash in one of the other rooms was followed by bumps and bangs of vigorous combat. Not Max. She’d know if he was near. She wiggled and pulled against the bindings on her wrists, abrading skin, hoping lubricating blood could help her escape. Then a whisper of fresh air made her pause, drawing her attention toward the heavily draped window where curtains lay still. As she frowned in uncertainty, a shadow rose right at the edge of the bed. A rough palm sealed in her gasp of alarm.
“Hey, mama,” came a low whisper. “Thought you could use some help.”
A quick pull of Cale Terriot’s blade freed her. Instead of gushing thanks, she hissed, “Did you bring one for me?”
His smile flashed wide and white, but before he could respond, his brother Rico came crashing through the door, grappling with one of her captors. Two more filled the frame.
So much for small talk.
– – –
Genevieve turned toward her man at the door to order Max taken, only to find him sprawled motionless on the floor. A silent figure stood in his place.
Terriots!
No, another male, tall, lean, fierce, and common. How had he gotten so soundlessly through the men she’d posted right outside?
Panic fell before blinding fury. Features warping into that hideous beast within, she swung back around, her intention of ripping through her nephew met by another harsh surprise.
Max’s fist to that snarling visage dropped her to the floor. The moment her lights went out, his snapped on. His senses cleared from whatever spell she’d cast about them.
Charlotte!
Close. In danger.
“She’s in the house across the street.” Philo stepped aside before being run over. “Your aunt brought company. Good thing we did, too.”
“Keep her here. Kill her if you have to.”
Before Tibideaux could respond, Max lunged through the doorframe . . . into the center of a vicious melee.
Once unconsciousness overcame his aunt’s controlling psyche, the previously silenced night exploded with sound and action. Hand-to-hand as men and as beasts, fierce struggles filled the yard, the street, and the house across the way. Tibideaux’s Patrol against his aunt’s Trackers.
Max pushed his way through them, quickly disabling those who got in his way. He wasn’t aware of morphing into his most powerful state, that the snarls he heard were his own, that the bloodied figures falling away from him had been victims of his teeth and claws. There was only his mate and his child. And he would tear through the world to get to them.
Without thought for his own safety, he burst into his neighbor’s long-abandoned home. Heartbeats, racing and ready to explode, suddenly stopped in his laboring chest when liberal sprays of blood filled his vision.
Rico Terriot rode a black-garbed Tracker to the floor, sharp teeth ripping out an already savaged throat. Sensing another presence, the redhead rocked back on his heels then grinned ghoulishly at Max.
“Hey, Savoie. Sorry we didn’t leave you anything, but looks like you got your share already.”
“Max!”
Charlotte Caissie bulleted into his arms, filling them and his heart to near bursting.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, voice as suddenly shaky as his emotions.
“No! I’m pissed as hell. Grabbed off the street like a freaking civilian!” She pushed away so he could get a glimpse of her flushed and mussed appearance. She’d never looked more dangerous or desirable. She took in his gory façade with a detailing glance and a satisfied smile. “See you’ve been busy, too.”
Adrenaline finally gave enough for him to grin. “A lot of traffic to get through outside, but it seems to be under control, a least in here.”
“Good thing he had the sense to ask for backup, huh?” Cale drawled with a wry smile as he tried the kitchen sink to find the water shut off. He settled for wiping crimson-smeared face and hands on faded curtains.
Finally reassured enough to release Cee Cee from the protective circle of his arms, Max took inventory of the surroundings. Five Trackers, three in the main room dismembered by Rico and two in the bedroom where Cale had disabled then his own mate had finished them in tandem. Weak with relief, he asked Cale to explain the additional manpower.
“Followed us in off-road. Left the bikes a ways back and came in on foot. Surprised the hell outta ′em insteada the other way around, didn’t we?” He grinned at Rico, who gave a satisfied chuckle. Then his narrowed stare fixed on Max’s. “Good to have friends.”
Max nodded, offering a relieved smile. “Indeed, it is.”
“Did she get away?” Cee Cee scowled at the thought of his aunt taking any kind of victory.
“Not even close.” Max drew his mate back into his embrace. Over the top of her head, his hot emerald gaze met those of the Terriots’ king. “I believe you had some things you wanted to say to her?”
A sharp-toothed smile spread. “Let’s go say howdy.”
– – –
The carnage outside had become cleanup. No fighter from the North had allowed himself to be taken alive. Rico grinned and fist bumped those he’d trained, so proud he almost strutted. And his eyes filled at the sight of those they’d lost.
“Helluva job, boys.”
His praise had even the injured standing tall.
The fence around Max’s childhood home had been trampled, sections broken, listing beyond repair. The weedy yard had become a burial ground for those who’d lost their lives.
“Drag their dead inside,” Max called out. “We’ll burn it over them. Time to move
on,” he told the female in his arms gently, “and leave memories where they belong.”
But as they reached the steps, that past came bursting out with an enraged shriek, an injured Tibideaux unable to catch her. Genevieve leapt from the porch at the startled couple, eyes wild and red, fangs out.
Instinctively, Max took a step back, shielding his mate with his body as Cale Terriot jumped in front of them. His fist smashed through Genevieve’s ribcage, halting her lunge mid-air as razor-sharp claws ripped the malignant heart from her body. As she collapsed to her knees while the Terriot king devoured that yet-beating organ, Genevieve attempted a last laugh at the irony before dropping lifeless at his feet.
After a swipe of his sleeve across his mouth, Cale’s ruthless smile spread wide. “Karma’s a heartless bitch,” he drawled at the motionless form, “and now, so are you.”
– – –
Hurried female voices preceded the opening of the executive suite’s door. The first of the pair made it all the way inside. The second, a few steps behind her, was grabbed by the arm and dragged across the threshold, door slamming behind her.
“Don’t struggle,” Kip warned a stunned Olivia. “I won’t hurt you unless I have to.”
Before Fran could reach the knife in her fashionably-tall boot, Colin was there to grip her wrist, yanking it high behind her back. She refused him the satisfaction of crying out. When muscles coiled to struggle, he laid the silver of his own blade lightly to her throat, just long enough for skin to sizzle beneath the chin-length cut of naturally black hair. No more dreads. No more pretending to be anything but the child of Genevieve Savorie.
“Oh, lover,” she cooed, “after all we’ve been to one another? All those tender cuddles and touchy feelies we’ve shared?” Taunting voice lowering, Fran chuckled, “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”
“Your bitch of a mother is dead.” When Colin’s cold claim earned a sharp inhale and a stiffening of her toned body, he added, “If you don’t want to join her in the next few seconds, stand the fuck still.”
Kip had Olivia by the elbows in front of him, his expression offering no quarter as he glared at the female who’d threatened his family and now smirked in the face of his fury. His mate’s sister wisely stood still and silent.