Bad Moon Rising (The Crown's Wolves)

by Zoe Forward

  “We’ll see who wins then, won’t we?” She followed her temporary companion into the gaming area, past the muscled ogres securing the entrance to the room. The guards nodded to the lady and barely glanced at her.

  Her target kept his full concentration on the five poker players surrounding him. A scattering of onlookers watched, including several conspicuous bodyguards and elegant women. An eerie quiet surrounded the table.

  She gave the model-perfect redhead hovering behind her guy a smile with a tinge of threat. The woman backed up a step with her hand against her throat and rushed away.

  Guess she excelled at throwing a scary face.

  She had maybe seven minutes, probably less, to inspire this stranger to leave with her.

  His concentration didn’t deviate from the game. The stakes were raised, and all the players put an obscene amount of cash, not chips, into the pot.

  Her heart pounded. End this game. Look at me!

  Maybe she was here to save him from whatever would kill the cheap-cologne guy upstairs, if the vision was of the future and that future was tonight. If a shooting was about to happen upstairs, she preferred to be far away from here when it kicked off.

  All of this strategizing meant she believed the awful images.

  Her stomach clenched when her cell phone vibrated against her breast, most likely another tick tock reminder. Got it.

  His gaze slid sideways and scanned around the table, as he glared through unruly, dark hair that fell over his face. The instant his crystal blue eyes met hers, they sucked all thought right out of her head as if draining a tank dry.

  Awareness raced down her spine and through her limbs, tingling all the way to her toes. Details of him sharpened into fine focus. She saw the faint wrinkle lines next to his eyes and the dampening of sweat on his upper lip.

  His posture stiffened for an instant before he returned focus to his cards and competition. Did that mean he recognized her? Her pulse hammered inside her ears.

  Get him out of here.

  But how?

  A player called for a show of cards. Every person around the table flipped to show their hands, ending with the man seated across from her target, who revealed a winning royal flush.

  The winner claimed his pot with a fair amount of drama and accolades. Gathering up her nerves, she moved to stand next to her target, draped her arm across his wide muscular shoulders, and leaned in to whisper close to his ear with the small silver hoop. She spoke low enough that those closest couldn’t overhear. “We must leave. Now.”

  Simple. Direct.

  It didn’t have a hint of sexual suggestion, but it also didn’t give any clue of intent. He might not like that.

  If it didn’t get him moving, she’d somehow have to drag him out of this building.

  She stared for a few extra heartbeats at the way his dark shirt clung to his pecs, outlining every muscle. Seems she was a sucker for muscles. And tattoos. Dark, complex tattooed lines and shapes peeked out of the top of his shirt, along with the right amount of sprinkled chest hair. She wondered if the designs stretched across one shoulder or both or maybe it simply traveled south… His lower belly was as sculpted as his upper chest.

  Incredibly sexy.

  His brows rose.

  Caught staring. Her face scorched.

  His piercing, light blue gaze trapped her in place, shooting a shiver down her spine. From just his frank expression, he communicated he wasn’t someone to fuck around. What you saw is what you got. Oddly, she liked that he might be like that.

  Maybe she should switch tactics and appeal to his hero instinct.

  Nope. He qualified as the antihero who’d be more likely to shove a knife in her gut.

  Best to go with a straight shooter approach.

  She lowered her voice and spoke directly into his ear again. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

  Now she needed to convince him she wasn’t crazy, and to do what she’d asked.

  He regarded the low dip of her top as if her breasts were a part of his decision. That pissed her off. But she forced another “nice” smile and whispered, “It’s important.”

  She still had no clue of his decision.

  He slid his hand around her waist and dragged her onto his lap. His skin had touched her arm. Yet, she didn’t get any death vision about him. What a relief, even if she didn’t understand why not. Thank God it didn’t happen with everyone.

  She felt dwarfed next to him. The heat from his solid thighs distracted her. The smell of bourbon and something all him made her light-headed. Pheromones, her brain supplied. Whatever it was ignited awareness of everything about him—his strength, his ruggedness, and the potential for pleasure.

  Out loud, he said, “Such a filthy mouth for one so exquisite.”

  That voice—although not familiar, with its low bass, smoker-quality raspiness and British accent—resonated deep in her gut.

  She was pretty sure “we must leave” and “it’s important” didn’t qualify as filthy. This was all show for those around the table. Why?

  He drew her tight to him and laughed as if she entertained him.

  Her stomach twisted, caught between the urge to pull him out of here before their countdown hit zero, and the instinct to play along.

  The phone vibrated another tick-tock warning against her chest. If he didn’t start heading for an exit soon, she’d haul him upstairs.

  She threw her arms around his neck, the soft dark hair at the back tickling her hand, and on the pretense of kissing him, whispered, “I will drag your ass out of here if you don’t start moving.”

  He gave her a wicked once-over and announced to the table, “I’m out.”

  The slick man she gauged to be of European origins seated across the table, the pot winner, assessed her with a dark, soulless glare. He cocked his head. A small smile teased his lips.

  A bitter tang saturated her mouth. She’d cut out the asshole’s throat if he tried to touch her. Could she do that? A mental image of a blade she knew to be the “right” blade filled her mind. She knew how to do far more than balls strangulation, it seemed. Put badass offensive moves on her list of skills.

  The grip around her waist tightened, forcing her attention.

  He lifted her off his lap and rose. Tall and broad, he towered over her at what she guessed was at least six-foot-four, even though she wasn’t a shrimp, estimating herself close to five-ten. The picture on her phone hadn’t prepared her for the sheer power of him.

  He locked her hand in a crushing grip, far from a light, suggestive hold. As they wove through the subbasement crowd, he never let go or eased up.

  At the top of the stairs, back on the loud dance floor, he yanked her into a dark corner free of bodies and spun her, one hand still gripping hers and the other suddenly holding a knife tight against her neck. “How’d you find me? Are you bait to lure me out and kill me?”

  The brief flare of hope that he might recognize her and help her fill in her memory gaps fizzled when he twisted the knife. The brutality in his eyes said death came easy to him. She’d be but another number on his hit list.

  He pressed tight against her but didn’t hurt her. “No one knows I still exist.”

  He could kill her. Right here. Right now. But something made him hesitate.

  Him holding back meant he wasn’t a soulless assassin.

  She wriggled her hand free of his hold. “Let me get something out of my pocket. I swear, it’s not a weapon.”

  He didn’t give her permission, nor did he remove the knife. Once she retrieved the lighter, she flicked the flame on and off twice, as “Unknown” had instructed.

  The knife disappeared, but he pressed a hand into her chest to mash her against the wall. The grip wasn’t crushing. Yet, it contained her. In a hiss of breath, he asked, “Where’d you get that?”

/>   “I did what I was told. Now, do whatever you’re supposed to do to allow me to remember my past.”

  “What?” His face scrunched up. An errant bit of unruly hair fell across his forehead and tickled the point at the top of his sculpted nose. Cameras must love his symmetry and angles.

  “You know me, right? You know who I am? Is Nova actually my name? Have we met before? Please, I need to remember.”

  “I don’t know you,” he said.

  He didn’t know her? He had to. Her phone vibrated against her racing heart, likely another countdown warning.

  Task accomplished. She’d gotten him out of the subbasement. Did she need to get him out of the club for the miraculous recovery of her memories?

  “Why was it important I leave downstairs?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.” She wanted to text back “Unknown” to report her success, but, “Unknown” probably wouldn’t respond. She’d replied to the texts the moment she woke up and never got anything back. “I think we have to get out of the club. Something might be about to happen.”

  His head whipped to the side to search the dance floor. “I have business to attend to. You’re going to stay put until I finish. If you don’t—”

  “If your knife comes out again, I’ll shove it in your heart,” she interrupted.

  “I like a good fight.” He leaned in. The air bristled with energy. His bourbon breath saturated her nose. “I don’t lose.”

  She stared into his bottomless blue eyes, feeling breathless and tingling all over. But not in the least intimidated.

  Hoarsely, he said, “I’m also very good at hunting once I have the scent of the one I need to catch.”

  “If I ran, it’d be a challenging hunt for you.”

  His gaze dropped to focus on her lips. Her mouth went dry, like a desert. Was he going to kiss her? She wasn’t opposed.

  Nerves tightened her stomach as she envisioned her mother turning in her grave at the thought of such a violation of etiquette as an illicit kiss in public. Violation of etiquette? Was this a memory? Hot damn. How was it wrong to kiss this exceptional man? Right on the heels of that revelation came a buttload of stubbornness to do exactly whatever the hell she wanted.

  She remembered her mother, not by an image, but with the idea of propriety. This deep-set sense of decorum seemed antiquated, not something belonging to the twenty-first century.

  She’d remembered something! This man might actually be the key to her past without the need for a chemical antidote. Maybe this is why she had to find him and get him out…to get him alone.

  If a kiss could open her mind to remembering, then she was all in. Hell, memory crisis aside, she wanted to feel the power of him against her. Lips…his tongue—both were a tempting start. Should she initiate this kiss or let him? She waited.

  Nothing happened.

  He didn’t move.

  “You should be frightened of me,” he whispered, a noise she shouldn’t have been able to hear over the pulse-pounding music but did.

  “I’m not.”

  His large frame and broad shoulders invaded her space, his forearm grazing hers as he leaned in. “Are you sure?”

  She leaned a bit closer to him, reveling in the way the heat of his body warmed her to the core. “I could kick your ass before you took your next breath.”

  His lips twitched upward. “You hold onto that optimism.”

  That smile. Devastating.

  “I think you’re the one who’s a little bit scared.” Her heart beat wildly against her rib cage. “Are you absolutely sure we don’t know each other? That we haven’t met before?”

  He frowned, his brows drawing inward to the point a small wrinkle formed on his forehead. She couldn’t tell if it was the confusion of someone who knew her and wondered at her asking, or a stranger trying to convey a no. She’d have to get him alone and clarify. Guess she’d be joining him outside of the club.

  “Why do I feel compelled to touch you?” She traced his lips with her index finger. “Makes zero sense when you just threatened to kill me. But I can’t stop. You’re…mesmerizing.”

  His mouth fell open and breath whooshed out. The small bit of ink peeking out above his dark T-shirt fascinated her.

  She dropped her hand to feel the heat of his skin along its pattern, tempted to peel the shirt lower to see more of the tattoo.

  His chest heaved, lips parted, and eyes widened. No more cool control. This was the look of an undomesticated male in the grip of a desire. The look promised he’d take everything she allowed. And give back in kind.

  She could envision it vividly. His muscular frame taking charge, demanding so much, but giving with every demand. She could practically feel his teeth scraping across her skin.

  Her hearing intensified until she detected each aroused breath from him, a remarkable feat given the pounding bass of the music around them. Her vision became super sharp to the point she could see the dust specks on the edges of the molding.

  How the hell could she pick out individual dust particles? Her breathing sawed in and out of her chest, and she could feel her heartbeat in her temples. The room tilted wildly, or maybe she had—

  “Easy, tesoro,” he murmured, sliding out of the easy British accent into something that sounded almost Italian. “Look at me.”

  He shook her when she ignored him.

  “Snap out of it,” he growled. “I’m going to lose control if you… You can’t do this here.”

  Tesoro. Treasure. An Italian endearment? Maybe he was Italian, even though he had spoken with a British accent. Didn’t make sense.

  She spoke Italian, too. Interesting to know.

  She could see each individual eyelash along his lids down to its pore. Her teeth ached to nibble on his skin.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “Focus on me.” He bracketed her chin to force her to look up at him. “Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm down.”

  The freak-out receded. “Are you going to kiss me or kill me?”

  “If I wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be talking.” He placed his large hand on her cheek and gently stroked her skin with his thumb. “Non mi spingere.” Don’t push me.

  “You like being pushed.” She wasn’t joking. She also had no clue why she could understand Italian.

  “Who are you? And where did you get that lighter?”

  “You know me, right?” She readied herself for the big reveal.

  “I already said, no.”

  A definitive no? He didn’t know her? All this—finding him, getting him out of the subbasement and risking her life—for nothing? “You have to know something. I think my name is Nova, but that could be false. I was supposed to get you out of the subbasement.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are you here?”

  “I can’t remember anything. Not who I am. Nothing. You’re supposed to know.”

  He shook his head. His brows drew together.

  “I have amnesia,” she said in Italian, and held up her wrist to show off the tattoo. “Maybe you know what this means.”

  “Roman?” His face paled. He grabbed her wrist to run a finger over the blue letters inked into her skin. “That’s my name.”

  Chapter Two

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Gunfire.

  He pulled her close, up against a wall as frightened people rushed around them. “We’re going to figure this out. But I can’t leave until I get what I came for. You better hope you’re not a distraction to keep me away from it. If so, and I find out you’re against me, I’ll kill you.”

  “Why is your name on my wrist?” Nova asked, grinding her molars in frustration at the lack of answers he provided. She pushed against him for space, not that he budged.

  “Did you hear what I said?” He was so close that each word, each brea
th, tickled her cheek.

  “Your threats don’t scare me.”

  He said into her ear, “How did you know how to find me?”

  “I was told to do this…to be here, but I don’t know who sent me.”

  “You were blackmailed into finding me?”

  “Yes…no. My head.” She closed her eyelids against the pain.

  “We’re going to sort this, but later. Do exactly as I say. If you don’t—”

  “Enough with the threats. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He grabbed her hand and led her against the flow of terrified people who stomped their feet and elbowed and shoved her sides. He didn’t lose his hold on her.

  More gunfire. More screams. More bodies pushing.

  He seemed undaunted.

  If she were an ordinary person, the shooting would panic her like all these other people, but a sense of detached calm descended. Her brain argued the gunshots came from near the bar, not directed at her. The fight involved a mixture of guns, knives, and fists.

  “Who’s your target?” she asked.

  “Man in the back corner with the skull neck tattoo who’s trapped behind the bar. You stay here. Don’t move.” He maneuvered her next to the DJ stage. “If you leave, I’ll find you.”

  “If I leave, I’ll disappear.” She glared a hard-ass threat right back at him. “I came here to find you and regain my memory. I’m not about to ditch you.”

  His nostrils flared. “Stay.”

  He whirled and stalked into the fray toward his target without an ounce of fear.

  Two men attacked him. He dodged a knife and slammed a fist into one hostile, which threw the guy into a column. The second guy managed to land a solid punch into his face only to be met with an equally forceful throw to land on top of his compatriot. Three more attacked him.

  Roman fought well. Trained. Great confidence. Yet, it almost seemed as if he were restrained and not applying his full strength.

  Skull Throat watched Roman with laser focus. He rotated something odd between his fingers. Looked like a vial. A strange sensation slid over her—a combination of resignation over what she had to do and intuitive knowledge that the vial held something no one in this club could handle, especially her.