by Larissa Ione
What if the howls weren’t wolves? What if that was how the poachers signaled one another? Yet another howl, this one so close she jumped, rang through the forest. Oh, God, she wasn’t going to make it even a mile before someone or something caught her.
Reluctantly, she turned back to Riker. Lying there unconscious and with a trickle of blood streaming from the corner of his mouth, he still managed to strike fear into her heart, but without him, she didn’t stand a chance.
Calling herself all kinds of crazy, she crossed the distance between them and crouched to light another candle. Under the cast of the flickering light, she peeled back the soaked gauze covering Riker’s wound. Blood and air sucked in and bubbled out of the puncture with every labored breath. This was not good, and the situation became a lot more not good when she slid her gaze upward. His trachea had cranked hard to the left side of his neck, flanked on either side by distended veins that bulged up from under the skin. Dropping her ear to his chest, she cursed. The diminished breath sounds in his right lung confirmed her suspicions.
Tension pneumothorax.
Her vampire-physiology schooling had included medical classes, and Riker’s signs and symptoms were straight from the basic trauma manual. Under normal circumstances, a vampire could survive, but there was nothing normal about these circumstances, not when Riker’s natural healing ability was being compromised by the acid she’d dosed him with.
Hastily, she rummaged through the first-aid kit, cursing at the contents. She wasn’t a medical doctor, but with her knowledge of vampire anatomy, she figured she could perform a minor operation if she had to.
But not with gauze, dull scissors, and tweezers.
Shoving the first-aid kit aside, she dug into the bag of remaining supplies. Water, protein bars, a pad of sticky notes, more candles, and a blanket that might come in handy later, but they weren’t going to help with Riker’s out-of-control bleeding now.
Which left her with no choice but to handle the boric-acid poisoning.
Closing her eyes, she flipped through mental files pertaining to the development of the antivampire powder—basically, mace for fanged people—and the cure. Although the highly concentrated boric-acid powder was now in use by both private citizens and law enforcement, Nicole had, only days ago, signed off on large-scale production of the antidote for distribution to the public.
She remembered that day clearly, because a few hours later, she’d been informed that dozens of vampires had been executed in the very lab where the antidote had been perfected, supposedly on her orders.
It had been sunny outside. She’d been planning the company Christmas party, even though it was still months away. She’d even made a teeny origami Christmas tree.
And then Chuck had burst into her office to show her the video of the vampires being dosed with boric acid and left to die in writhing agony in their cells.
Nicole had thrown up in the garbage can next to her desk. When she’d finally stopped heaving, she’d gone on a rampage that included firing most of the staff at the Minot lab facility. Then she’d been forced to hire them all back when Chuck shoved a signed execution directive under her nose.
The signature had been hers. It didn’t matter that she swore she hadn’t signed the order. What mattered was that suddenly, she’d had her eyes opened to a reality she hadn’t wanted to face. How many vampire test subjects had suffered in Daedalus labs in order for her company to profit from the weapon she’d used on Riker? How many vampires had died horrible, excruciating deaths?
Nicole had dedicated her life to saving humanity from the vampire scourge. But right now, as she looked at Riker, helpless on the ground, and thought about Lucy, who only wanted candy, not blood, Nicole couldn’t work up any pride in what she’d done.
Riker gasped, spitting blood onto the cave floor, and she shoved her shame into a box to be explored later. She couldn’t be responsible for killing him. Not with a Daedalus weapon, anyway.
So the antidote . . . She bit her lip, her brain working a million miles an hour. A large percentage of the cure contained calcium carbonate as a neutralizing agent. Calcium carbonate was often used in antacids. A frisson of hope shot through her, and she dug through the first-aid kit again, hoping like hell that vampires used Tums.
Nothing. Dammit. She stared at the candles while her mind spun like a centrifuge. In the background, Riker’s breathing grew more labored. He had a couple of hours at the most.
One of the candles flickered, spitting a drop of wax down the side of the white pillar.
Ash.
Son of a bitch, of course!
“Hold on, vampire.” She darted to the cave entrance, hesitating only a second to listen for the poachers before creeping out into the twilight to gather an armful of twigs, sticks, and rotted wood.
She hurried back inside, but her heart sank at the sound of Riker’s uneven respirations filling the cave with an ominous death rattle. He didn’t have much time.
Adrenaline and fear made her hands shake as she used the wood and a candle to start a fire that was no larger than the burning end of a match.
“Come on,” she urged the tiny flame, but it seemed the fire had its own slow agenda.
Dammit. Had this been any other situation, she’d have burned the sticky notes, too. But vampires were so sensitive to chemical vapors that even minute quantities of the chemicals used to process paper could further damage Riker’s already compromised lungs.
Forcing herself to stay positive, she turned to check on Riker just as he hissed in pain, lips peeled back to expose fangs streaked with his own blood. His mouth twisted in a silent snarl, and instinctively, she leaped backward, her heart thundering in her chest. Jesus. Even hovering near death he was terrifying.
But he was hovering near death, and as he settled down with a low moan, she got her anxiety under control.
He might be a vampire, but right now, he needed help. She inched closer to him, her fingers flexing as if eager to touch him. He’d been gruff with her, threatening, a little rough, even. But he hadn’t harmed her . . . yet. She couldn’t help but wonder why, given that he seemed hell-bent on blaming her for every wrong done to vampires, including the death of his mate.
And what was up with that, anyway? Why would he blame her family for that incident, when he was the one who had driven the blade through Terese’s throat?
Something wasn’t adding up, and Nicole hated secrets, hated unknowns. Even as a child, she’d wanted answers to everything, had loved Nancy Drew and wanted to grow up to be a private detective.
Terese’s death and the slave rebellion changed all of that.
Riker groaned, his big body shuddering. His misery skinned her alive. It didn’t matter what he was or what he’d done. He was hurting, and it was her fault. A strange sensation, one she hadn’t felt in twenty years, coursed through her veins and straight into her heart: true compassion for a vampire.
“Damn you,” she muttered. “I’m sure you’d just as soon eat me as look at me, and here I am feeling sorry for you.”
Very gently, she placed her palm on his sternum, feeling his chest rise and fall in a halting rhythm. His heartbeat was strong, but his skin was chalky and hot. Shifting, she put her fingers to his throat and winced at the bounding pulse. A low, pained moan vibrated all the way up her arm and once again crept into her heart.
She glanced over at the small fire. “I’ll be right back.” She had no idea if he could hear her, or if he even cared that she’d be back, but for some silly reason, she wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.
Cursing herself for a fool who was probably saving the life of her own murderer, she tore open a packet of alcohol swabs and tossed the contents. The fire hadn’t even come close to burning all the plant matter, but she used a stick to scrape up what little ashen cinders she could get into the little foil packet. Next, she dusted off a flat rock and dumped the warm ash onto it. With another rock, she ground the would-be medicine into a fine powder.
; She returned to Riker, cradling the pulverized ash in her palm. “Hey.” She eased down next to him and tilted his head up. “I’m going to need you to breathe this in.”
He thrashed, slamming his arm into hers and dumping half of the precious ash out of her hand. She tried again, with similar results and what would no doubt be a knot on her elbow later.
“I guess we do this the hard way,” she muttered.
She straddled his broad chest, using her thighs to hold him still. The moment he exhaled, she gripped the back of his head and lifted it until his nose was in her palm. When he tried to squirm away, she held harder.
“Riker, settle down, okay? I need you to inhale for me.”
She wasn’t sure if he heard, but he sucked in a huge breath, the rush of air sounding like it had come from someone who had been holding his breath underwater for an hour. Ash shot into his mouth and nostrils, and then he was coughing, bucking under her, and clawing at his throat. For a split second, his eyes opened. Misery and accusation whirled in the silver depths, gutting her.
“Easy, vampire.” She pulled his hands away from his neck and held them against his chest. He was strong, though, and she had to plaster the weight of her body on his to ease his struggle and keep him from tearing at his own skin. “I know it hurts, but the ash is working.”
She hoped. God, she hoped. If she’d made things worse, she’d never forgive herself.
Gradually, he stopped fighting, but he kept hold of her hands, even when she tried to extricate herself from his grip. Between her thighs, he was hot, his body so wide she figured she’d feel the tug of tightness in the morning.
Dear God, what would sex with him be like, if just holding him still gave her muscle strains? And why in the world would her mind go there?
Maybe because there was some truth to all of the talk about vampires being supersexual creatures. A friend of hers had once said that the ugliest man on earth would be hot if he had fangs. And if he had the extremely toned body that came as standard issue on all vampires. Daedalus was still trying to figure out the biology behind that.
Had Riker always been cut like a superhero—or super villain—or had he been molded into one by the turning process?
Either way, she had Supervamp beneath her, his bare chest under her palms . . . when only hours ago he’d wanted to kill her. And she’d nearly killed him.
With a light, faltering touch, she skimmed her hands over his rock-hard abs and up to his shoulders, telling herself this was part of a medical exam, but when she reached his left bicep and found the tattoo there, all pretense went out the window. She was flat-out curious about his body. Oh, she’d studied vampires in class and lab settings, but this time, her focus was more personal. This time, she wanted to learn about the individual vampire, not the species as a whole.
Beneath her fingers, the tattoo seemed to pulse as she traced the curved lines of the sideways crescent moon circled by a serpent. The design was simple but elegant, and she wondered what the meaning behind it was.
“MoonBound,” Riker rasped. “It’s our symbol.”
Startled, she jerked as if she’d been burned and peered into his eyes. The dull, tarnished silver reminded her how close to death he’d been. “Thank God,” she breathed. “You’re okay.”
“How?”
“I neutralized the effects of the boric acid with calcium carbonate. Ash,” she explained. “Now that your body doesn’t have to fight the toxins, it can heal the other wounds.” She grabbed a bottle of water from the bag of supplies next to her and held it to his lips. “Drink.”
He took greedy, long gulps, draining the bottle in a matter of seconds. Once finished, he closed his eyes, perhaps in relief. His hand squeezed hers . . . in gratitude? Flustered, she remained frozen, even when he moved his hand to her thigh. He seemed to have no problem breathing now, his chest rising in a steady rhythm, but she had stopped taking in air the moment he touched her leg.
She struggled to catch her breath as his hand drifted up to her hip. Then higher, easing along her waist and rib cage, and when his thumb brushed the side of her breast on its trek north, she finally sucked in a cool, desperate rush of air.
His fingers slid over her collarbone, finding her throat. The pad of one finger scraping her scars brought an involuntary flinch. Riker’s eyes popped open. No longer dull, they shone with an eerie light, all marble gravestone under the full moon.
For what seemed like hours, she stared, mesmerized. It wasn’t until she tried to swallow—and couldn’t—that she realized he’d wrapped his hand around her throat with a viselike grip.
Firmly but gently, he pulled her so close that the heat of his breath fanned her cheeks. “Why,” he growled. “Why did you save me?”
She was beginning to wonder the same thing. “Because I’m not the killer you seem to think I am.” And if I have any hope of surviving the poachers, it’s with you.
In an instant, he flipped her and came down on top of her, his heavy body flush against hers, his hand still on her throat, his hips pressing down between her legs.
“What I think,” he said in a deep, guttural voice, “is that you’re going to regret not letting me die.”
BETWEEN NICOLE’S LONG legs was the last place Riker thought he’d be today. Of course, he hadn’t thought he’d be poisoned, stabbed, or shot at, either. The day was full of surprises, and it was only early evening. There was still time for a meteor to land on top of him or some shit.
Nicole lay beneath him, her throat throbbing under his palm. To her credit, she wasn’t freaking out. If anything, she seemed annoyed.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well, what? Do I regret not letting you die? You’d love for me to say yes, wouldn’t you? All your preconceptions about me would be confirmed.” Scowling, she flattened her palms against his chest and shoved.
Amused by her pathetic efforts to dislodge him, he grinned. “Not by a long shot. I have a lot of assumptions about you. Few are flattering.”
“You are such a dick.” She struggled like a rabbit caught in a snare, but he controlled her easily, sinking more of his weight onto her smaller frame.
Big mistake. He might not like her, but he hadn’t been in this position with a female in decades, and his body didn’t care what he thought about her. All it cared about was how her curves fit against his hard muscles and how her pelvis was rocking against his. It also had immense appreciation for the way her magnificent breasts rubbed against his bare chest.
He slid one hand to her butt to hold her still, but all he accomplished was putting her sex in direct contact with his. He also discovered that her ass was rock-hard and a nice handful.
“Stop that,” he ground out.
“Screw you.” She bucked harder, and he hissed at the blatantly sexual motion. Behind the fly of his jeans, his rapidly swelling cock rubbed against her smooth slacks, creating a blistering friction that made him light-headed with sudden need.
“I mean it, Nicole.” His sexed-up voice was gravelly, rusty from disuse. “Stop thrashing.”
She sank her nails into his chest and tried to push again, but the little pinches of pain only added to the soaring pleasure as lust surged through him, hot and potent.
“Or what?” Almost before the words were out of her mouth, it became very clear to her what was going on. He saw it in the way her expression went slack and her skin flushed pink, felt it in the sudden taut set of her muscles. “Oh,” she breathed.
God, she was a study of female perfection right now, with her hair fanned out in a messy pool on the ground, her panting breaths, her full lips open and glistening. She looked like a woman who needed a mattress, a lot less clothing, and a male willing to use every dirty trick in the book to make her mindless with ecstasy.
Braced on one elbow, he eased his hand around to the back of her slender neck to where her spine met her skull. With one swift thrust of his fingers into that spot, he could kill her before she knew what happened.
Or he c
ould stroke the soft skin and thread his fingers through her silky hair.
This was stupid. It was completely crazy and inappropriate that his body was responding to her at all, let alone with a powerful rush of desire that had him dipping his head toward that perfect mouth. He wondered how she’d taste, wondered if her kisses were as sweet as the decadent nectar in her veins. The very thought made his body burn.
Without thinking, he brushed his lips across hers. Beneath him, Nicole stiffened, and when he did it again, this time with an even lighter touch, she let out a gasp. Under his thumb, her pulse ticked madly, and the scent of her anger and fear blended with a subtle note of arousal.
Instantly, his body burned hotter. He needed more. Much more.
He sealed his mouth over hers, groaning as he tasted his first female since Terese’s death. Her lips parted slightly, and the warm, wet recess of her mouth drew him deep. She was soft all over but firm enough in the right places for him to know instinctively that she could take him at his roughest. His wildest.
He shuddered at the direction his thoughts had taken. They couldn’t do this. He’d never been the type to have sex with a female he didn’t like, no matter how hot she was or how much she revved him up.
Growling with frustration, he kissed her harder, which made no sense, and he knew it. Or maybe it did. The kiss was punishing, brutal, because, dammit, it was her fault he was between her legs in the first place.
Nicole’s breasts pressed into his bare chest as he shifted, moving against her in a primitive surge that made them both moan.
More. He gripped her hip and tucked her more firmly under him.
More. He dragged his mouth along her jaw. She smelled so good, so feminine. He moved his mouth to her neck, and instantly, she went taut and recoiled.
Right. He was a vampire. Worth about as much as a stray dog. And this stray dog was humping her leg. She must be mortified.