by Donya Lynne
Tristan stepped forward. “Micah, just let us in. Don’t cause any more trouble than there already is.”
Trace appeared in the hall behind him. “What’s going on?”
Micah held his arm up toward Trace, not wanting him to come any closer. If Stryker, Devon, or Bauer made a move, shit would go down and create a bigger disaster than they already had. “Nothing, Trace. Just hang, okay?” He turned his attention back to Tristan. “He was following your orders.”
“I know,” Tristan said.
To Stryker’s credit, he hung back, letting him work things out with Tristan. Bauer and Devon stood on either side of Stryker, hands on their side arms, ready to go bodyguard at a second’s notice.
Sam came around the corner, stopping behind Trace, worry on her face. “Micah, what’s going on?”
“They’re here to arrest Trace.”
“Why?” She grabbed Trace’s arm and stepped closer to him. Micah could see concern raging in her mind and wished there was something he could do or say to calm her.
“Because he followed Tristan’s orders.” Micah threw an accusatory glance at Tristan.
“What?” Sam looked confused.
“Never mind,” Micah said. Then he looked between Tristan and Stryker. “If you arrest Trace, you have to arrest me, too. I knew about what was going on between Io and Miriam, and I helped.”
“But you didn’t actually break the law, Micah,” Stryker said. “Trace did when he altered the king’s guards’ memories.”
“At my order,” Tristan said, tossing a challenging look at Micah as if to point out that he was, in fact, owning up to his part in what had happened. “So, I’m under arrest, too, in a manner of speaking.”
“A manner of speaking?” Micah scoffed and stepped in front of Trace, blocking anyone from getting by. “I don’t see you shackled, Tristan.”
“No, but I’ll be reprimanded.”
“Yeah, and Trace will be arrested and put into containment. I can see what’s going down.” Micah tapped his temple.
“I know you can.” Tristan sighed. “But believe me, this isn’t easy for me, either.”
“Fuck you.” Micah glowered in disgust and looked down, jacking his hands up on his hips.
Micah had pulled Tristan’s ass out of the fire and saved his life more times than he could count back when Micah had been in charge of the King’s Army. Tristan had joined his and Malek’s company soon after Micah had become old enough to go into battle. In truth, it was Micah who should be in charge of the team now, not Tristan, but things had gotten fucked up after Katarina’s death, and Micah had found himself lucky to even be allowed to continue on in AKM for all the hell he had put the others through. Still, after saving Tristan so many times, couldn’t the guy return the favor and pull Trace’s ass out of the sling just this once?
“Fuck!” Micah pounded the side of his fist against the wall. There was nothing anyone could do. He couldn’t fix this without causing even more trouble for everybody.
“I’m sorry, Micah, but we have to take him in.” Stryker looked over Micah’s shoulder and addressed Traceon. “Trace, I need you to come with us.”
Trace looked from Micah to Stryker, then back to Micah.
“I’m going with you,” Micah told him, holding his gaze in a solemn, silent oath. “If they take you, they take me.”
Trace looked at Sam, who immediately protested as she reached for Micah with one hand while keeping hold of Trace with the other.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Trace said. “It’s my fault.”
“No, Trace. You put a lid on that shit right now. This is not your fault. You were only following orders, and as far as my going with you? It’s my choice. I won’t let you go without me. You got that?” He wrapped his arms around Sam and kissed her forehead. “We’ll be fine, babe. I’ll take good care of him.”
Stryker stepped forward to bind Trace. Sam winced and looked away.
“I’ve got him.” Micah took over and swiped the binders from Stryker without asking, and then turned toward Trace, whose hard, pale eyes lifted without emotion to his.
As soon as their gazes met, an unspoken submission passed from Trace to him, making Micah’s inner dom stand up and take notice.
Ever since the night he and Sam had seen Trace at the BDSM party, and Micah had been invited by Trace’s domme, Mistress Diamond, to join her in working Trace over, Micah had exercised a measure of his dom prowess over Trace. Simple shit, such as making Trace sit on the floor next to him like a dog or cuffing his hands behind his back and forcing him to watch Micah make love to Sam or even to watch him work Sam over in his dungeon. But Trace had yet to give himself completely to Micah, and Micah hadn’t pushed, despite wanting to take Diamond’s place as Trace’s full-time—and only—master. Micah could only do so much with Sam, but Trace was a treasure trove of dom-worthy submissive that Micah wanted to sink his teeth—or rather his whip—into.
But with one look, right now, this very moment, Trace told Micah he wanted the exact same thing. So, why hadn’t Trace taken that step with him? Why hadn’t he asked Micah to give him exactly what it seemed he wanted? If only he could see inside Trace’s thoughts the way he could everyone else’s, finding answers wouldn’t be so damn hard.
His brow furrowed as he eyed Trace and stepped forward, the binders held out in front of him. “Trace?” His tone was clear. They would discuss this as soon as they had the chance.
A flicker of understanding echoed through Trace’s eyes, but he refused to look away. Bad little submissive. “Micah.” He slowly raised his arms in front of him, his hands in loose fists, palms up. He looked almost eager. “Cuff me, Micah.” Trace nudged his joined arms forward. “Bind my wrists.”
Micah heard the excited thoughts racing through Sam’s mind. He had talked to her at length about wanting to dom Trace, and she had made it clear that the idea turned her on, even though she felt like a freak for admitting such a thing. As she watched Micah lift the binders to Trace’s outstretched wrists, she instinctively knew what was happening between them, and her thoughts tittered excitedly, even if the circumstances were less than agreeable.
Micah glanced from Sam back down to Trace’s wrists and wrapped the plastic binder strip around them, then pulled the end through as the plastic zipped over itself, the loop tightening. When he finished, Trace kept his hands extended and pushed them into the air.
“What?” Micah said.
“Too loose.” Trace pushed his hands toward him again.
Micah’s eyes narrowed. So Trace wanted to get things started right now, did he? He grabbed the end of the pull strip then licked his lips before yanking the cuff tighter. “You dare question me, slave?” He spoke quietly, leaning toward Trace, who dropped his gaze to the floor almost shamefully.
Sam’s mind ran rampant with cautious excitement, but the minds of Stryker, Tristan, and the others shifted uncomfortably. They could tell something else was going on between Micah and Trace, but weren’t sure what. Micah was picking up a lot of What the fuck? from them.
He tightened the binding further, causing Trace to grunt and wince then let out a sigh that sounded more like relief than suffering as he lowered his wrists. “No.” He paused. “Master.”
Ah, so there it was—what Micah had wanted to hear.
Stryker cleared his throat as if he were interrupting two lovers saying goodbye. “Okay, let’s go.” He kept his gaze down but urged them toward the door.
Micah and Trace exchanged glances one last time then Micah turned and kissed Sam.
“We’ll be back soon, babe.”
Her eyes sparkled knowingly. Micah had a new toy to play with, which meant she did, too. And no matter what happened with Trace’s arrest, they both knew that this was what they had been waiting for.
CHAPTER FORTY
Apostle had just finished reviewing his plan with Chez and Jarek when a knock came on his hotel room door. With just a thought, he morphed back from his blue-skinned dreck fo
rm to the human form Bishop had assigned to him. The itching began instantly and he tugged the T-shirt he’d changed into away from his body as he pushed away from the round table where he, Chez, and Jarek had been going over details.
“This is probably Bishop’s lackey,” he said.
Chez and Jarek looked on with interest as he approached the door, apparently curious what kind of vampire Bishop would have in his employ.
When Apostle opened the door, an unremarkable vampire holding a plastic case bowed his head at him.
“I’m Jessup. Bishop sent me.” Jessup didn’t wait for an invitation into the room, walking in straight away.
Something was off with Jessup. He seemed too docile, too calm, as if he had been trained not to disobey.
Probably one of Bishop’s experimental subjects. Apostle wondered if Jessup had been subjected to the scorpion torture test, too. He could see how a weaker-minded vampire could be tamed or brainwashed with such torture.
“What’ve you got there?” Apostle shut the door and shifted back to blue, nodding at the case Jessup still held.
“It’s a collection kit. I was told we were retrieving blood from a vampire?”
“Yes, we will be. We’re waiting for her to contact us. When she does, you’ll go to room nine-oh-nine and join our associates to wait for her. I assume Bishop provided you with something to knock her out.”
“Yes.”
“Can I have it?”
Jessup set the case on the bed, popped open the latches, and pushed back the top. The inside was lined with foam and several empty vials were situated in pre-shaped spaces, along with two syringes and a tiny bottle of blue liquid. Jessup pulled the liquid and one syringe out.
“Jarek.” Apostle took the items and looked over his shoulder.
Jarek stood up. “Yes.”
“Take this to Grotek and Chane.” He handed over the bottle and syringe. “When Miriam makes contact, I want them to make sure she gets a dose of this instead of cobalt. After they confirm she’s unconscious, we’ll go in and get her blood.
Jessup looked between them as Jarek made for the door and left the room. “I also have orders to remove us from Grotek’s and Chane’s thoughts so they can’t rat us out if they’re caught.”
“Good. I had hoped you’d say that.” Apostle grinned.
He had every intention of making sure Grotek and Chane got caught. If he framed them, it would tie up the incident with the king’s daughter in a nice, neat bow. The king and his enforcers would think they had the perpetrators and there would be no reason to look further for those responsible. It was a perfect plan. Apostle would get her blood, he and Jessup would never be implicated, Grotek and Chane would take the fall, and Bishop would get what he wanted: pure, powerful, vampire blood to create whatever Frankensteins he was working on in his lab.
“Now what?” Jessup looked around the room.
“We wait.” Apostle arched an eyebrow at the small vampire.
“Is she on her way?”
“No. We’re waiting to hear from her.”
“How long?”
“As long as it takes.” What was with the twenty questions? “If that means we wait a week, we wait a week.”
“What if she never shows?”
Apostle deferred to Jarek, who shrugged. “I can’t see why she wouldn’t.”
“But if she doesn’t…?” Jessup looked between Apostle and Jarek.
Apostle sighed. “Then we’ll come up with another plan. Satisfied?” Stupid, curious little vampire.
Jessup’s forehead creased, but he nodded tightly. “Yes.”
This just didn’t add up. A vampire working with Drecks? Sure, it had happened, but it was rare, and Jessup didn’t seem the type.
“Tell me, Jessup, why are you working with us?”
Jessup cocked his head quizzically and made a face. He appeared confused, as if Apostle’s question confounded him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…well, you’re a vampire, Jessup. We’re drecks. Don’t you think it’s unusual for a vampire to be working with drecks?”
Jessup frowned and looked down at his arms, his head tilting from side to side as if he was working through a problem. Then he glanced back up, his eyes clear and his face calm. “I’m sorry. What did you ask me?”
Apostle exchanged glances with Chez, whose eyebrows popped up as if to say he wasn’t going near this one.
“Never mind, Jessup.” Jessup had obviously undergone some type of intense programming, but Apostle wouldn’t pursue the matter further. The less he knew about Bishop’s experiments, the better. “Why don’t you have a seat and rest up while we wait.” He gestured toward the bed.
With a nod, Jessup shut the case and lay down as if just the mere suggestion that he rest made him tired. Creepy.
Apostle rubbed his palm over his arm uncomfortably, staring at Jessup, trying not to shudder at the memory of Bishop’s scorpions stinging him over and over. Yes, he was fine not knowing the details of Bishop’s experiments. Totally fine.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Miriam stayed glued to Io’s side as the guards dragged him up the steps and inside her home. Well, her father’s home. She didn’t consider this place her home anymore. Her father stood like an impressive but pissed off statue in the center of the grand foyer, his arms linked behind his back and his booted feet planted two feet apart on the tile. His brilliant blue eyes—so like hers—radiated a fury she had never seen in him.
Even so, she refused to wilt in cowardice. “Father—”
“To your room. Now.” He didn’t yell or move, but the deep timbre and dark echo of his voice indicated he was not to be tested.
Too bad for him, because Miriam intended to do just that. She took a deep breath, knowing she was in for a confrontation, the likes of which resembled Mount Saint Helens erupting. “No.”
For the first time since they had entered, her father moved, his eyes flicking to hers a split-second before his head snapped toward her. “Now.” The word drew out of him like a lion’s snarl right before it attacked, long and deadly.
She stiffened her resolve and clasped her hands around Io’s arm, stepping closer to him. “No.” She matched her father’s tone, leveling her gaze on him in a challenge.
“MIRIAM! NOW!” Her father’s voice boomed as if through a loud speaker, echoing and vibrating the floor and walls.
Once the echo diminished and the air stilled, she simply squeezed closer to Io and repeated, “No.”
So, they were at an impasse. Donovan and the other guards stood behind her and Io, and her father stood in front. She had no escape any way she looked at it. She might be able to outrun the guards, but not her father, and she would go nowhere without Io.
Her father’s jaw clenched and relaxed like he was chewing on something, but she knew that just meant he was pissed off. And goody for that. Because she didn’t care. In fact….
“Io is my mate, Father. You have to honor him as my mate. It’s the law.” Her chin jutted out proudly.
Her father’s face turned crimson. “It is also the law that you are not to be touched, daughter.”
“Bullshit! Where is it written in those law creeds you pass that I am to remain untouched? Where?” She let go of Io and stormed her father like a bull. “Or that I am to be referred to as Daughter of Bain as if I don’t have a name? Huh? Tell me. Tell me!”
Her father puffed up so that he looked six inches taller. “That is the law of this house.” Again, his voice rang out and echoed. By now, it was likely that all the servants knew what was taking place and had taken cover.
“I am your daughter!” Her voice cracked as she screamed at him. “I am not one of your subjects! I am your goddamn daughter! You treat me like I’m no more than a peasant. I don’t need a ruler, I need a fucking father! Why can’t you just be my father?”
The two snarled and breathed heavily at each other, both standing firmly in their conviction but bracing for a fight.
“Take her to her room!” Her father gestured for the guards to come forward.
Before she could resist, the guards’ hands closed around her arms. Io growled dangerously low in his throat. She swung her head around, trying to break free and get back to him. Io looked like a predator, his head tilted forward, eyes narrowed on the men pulling her away. Fangs flashed as he hissed, then his top lip curled up in a snarl. He pulled against Donovan and Joseph, his muscles bunching and his neck straining.
“She’s mine.” Io’s voice was pure menace.
“She is no one’s. Least of all yours.” Her father snapped his fingers and the guards pulled her away as she kicked and screamed for her mate.
“Io!” She tried to wrench free, but it was useless. Every time she pulled from one fisted hand, another clamped down on her. She was surrounded. “Io!” Her chest ached, her heart shattering.
“No!” Io’s deep voice echoed with mated aggression.
She turned, yanked, fought with all her strength, pulling against the guards. “Let me go! I need him. I need him!”
His feral eyes locked onto hers as he doubled his efforts to break free. “Let me go. She’s mine. She belongs to me! Miriam!”
Miriam tried in vain to pull loose from the guards, but they dragged her up the stairs.
Within seconds, she was yanked out of sight of her mate. She screamed as pain knifed her chest. Half a heartbeat later, Io’s answering howl ripped her soul. If she was hurting this much, she could only imagine the pain he was feeling.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
King Bain closed his eyes as his daughter’s and Io’s cries pierced his ears. When he heard Miriam’s screams become muffled behind the closed door of her room, he opened his eyes again and looked at the crumpled male in front of him. Io had fallen to his knees, his head reared back and his cries and growls sustained by what seemed to be an endless supply of air.
“Silence him,” he said.
Donovan pulled another syringe from his pocket, bit down on the cap to pull it off, and then jabbed the needle into Io’s neck.
Within seconds, Io slumped forward, quieted and unconscious.