by Avril Ashton
"You're mine,” he growled into her mouth.
Voltaire chuckled. And you're mine.
Tightening his arms around her, he rubbed his cheek over her face and chest. Voltaire pressed closer, rubbed her tits over his chest, then proceeded to bite the shit out of his neck.
"Ow."
She licked the spot, then leaned away to meet his eyes. “So what you're saying is you're the only one allowed to bite?"
He laughed. “No, you can bite me all you want."
"I'll hold you to that.” Voltaire jerked her chin forward.
"What?"
"We have a visitor, and she's still wearing your scent."
* * * *
What the hell was Aimee doing here? Blake had broken things off with her weeks ago. Damn. Not good.
You're fucking right it's not good. Voltaire scrambled off his lap, his cum running down her thighs. He watched as she fumbled around in the duffel bag and pulled out some clothes.
His mate. He couldn't wrap his mind around it.
And you won't unless you deal with the bitch creaming for you downstairs. She wiped herself off, then dressed in a pair of dark jeans and sat on the bed to put on her shoes.
Blake got to his feet with a curve to his lips. He'd never get used to having her in his head, but he liked her territorial attitude. Fuck, he'd snagged himself a mate.
Whenever you're finished feeling proud of yourself, I'm ready. She stood by the door, arms folded, clothes perfectly in place. The hair gave her away. Her white tresses were a mess—it looked like someone had been combing through it with their fingers.
He pulled on a fresh pair of sweat pants and slipped on the same T-shirt. At the door, Voltaire wrinkled her nose.
Men. She walked out of the room with quick strides and Blake hastened after her. She descended the stairs first, with him right at her heels. All the noise from the handful of patrons in the room ceased when she reached the bottom of the stairs.
Blake met the eyes of one of the men seated at the bar. “Where's—"
"Bitch.” Aimee was a blur of red hair as she sprang forward and slapped Voltaire in the face. His mate's whole being froze.
"The fuck?” Voltaire touched a hand to her cheek. “Did this...person just hit me?"
Aimee didn't appear to have a self-preserving bone in her body. She stood in front of Voltaire with her hands on her hips, green eyes flashing. “Yes. He's mine, bitch."
Voltaire grinned. “Aw, hell, no."
Aimee went flying through the air and landed on top of the bar. Blake opened his mouth to warn Voltaire not to hurt her too badly, but changed his mind. Aimee deserved whatever his mate decided to dish out.
Whatever Voltaire had done to Aimee, it prevented her from moving. The female shifter lay half on, half off the bar in mid-shift—her claws and fur were visible on her upper body—with a very sharp blade stuck in the air inches from her throat.
Blake strode to the centre of the room. Clapping his hands, he brought everyone's attention to him. Not an easy thing—all eyes were riveted on Voltaire. “Allow me to introduce my mate, so mistakes like this don't happen in the future."
Voltaire flipped her hair over her shoulder.
"This is Voltaire.” He caressed her face with his gaze and she reciprocated with a twitch of her lips. His wolf stretched. That woman brought contentment. Hell of a thing. “I'm choosing to do so to erase any doubt of who she is to me and what she can do."
He broke their gaze, directing the last part to the room at large. “Some of you may have already heard of her. If you haven't, this is your lucky day. She's known as the Death Bringer."
Gasps and growls rang out. He heard the questions swirling around in their heads—The most feared woman, the deadliest Para out there was his mate? How had that happened
Voltaire blew him a kiss and walked over to where she'd flung Aimee. Plucking the knife out of the air, Voltaire spoke to the female wolf. “Now, you. This isn't about Blake, because he was never yours. He's always been mine, even when he was throwing his cock your way.” She traced the curve of Aimee's cheek with the tip of the blade. “You can't slap your Alpha's mate and get away with it, so you tell me what your punishment should be. Stop your heart with a look? Carve B hearts V into your cheek?"
Aimee whimpered, her entire body trembled, but she didn't move.
"V, let her go.” Blake put a hand on her shoulder. “I think she gets the point."
Yeah? You think she won't come back the first chance she gets to prove something? Then I'd have to slit the simple little fucker's throat, and where would that leave us?
"We'll be fine. Always,” he reassured her. She leaned in to him, looked into his eyes, and smiled.
Aimee moved her legs, heaved a shaky sigh and leapt off the bar. Her fur disappeared, claws retracted. “Um—I'm sorry for—um—hitting you."
Voltaire waved her away. “Save that for someone who gives a flying fuck. Now raise up outta here before I forget my man wants you breathing and slit your throat."
Aimee ran out of the door. Blake pulled Voltaire into his arms and kissed her deeply.
Can you believe that bitch had the fucking nerve to hit me?
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Chapter Nine
* * * *
Voltaire sat at the bar, legs crossed, staring off into space. After the interlude with Aimee, Blake had cleared the place and locked up. Now, he sat next to her in silence. She heard his mind working overtime, trying to find an explanation for her sudden quiet. Since he'd chased everyone off, she hadn't said a word.
Marcus's killer could very well have been under their noses the whole time. Why hadn't she thought to consider Czion? He'd been in the same training sessions as her—although he hadn't completed the programme. After whatever happened between him and Remi, he'd left. But he still knew the basics, he could perform the mind death. He'd been in Aimee's mind and hadn't even bothered to cover his tracks—Voltaire had followed the haphazard trail to see that the jaguar shifter had been whispering in the female wolf's ear, subtly pushing her to confront Blake and Voltaire when Aimee didn't want to.
That was the only reason she hadn't gutted Aimee for that suicidal stunt. The nerve. Now she had to let Blake know Czion might be the one who had killed his best friend. A task requiring a stiff drink.
The wolf surged close to Blake's skin. Voltaire felt its restless worry and tried to ease it.
I'm fine. She grabbed his hand and brought it to her lips. “I need my cell phone—it's upstairs."
The tension around Blake's mouth eased a little. The wolf quieted. “Do you want me to get it?"
"Yes.” She nodded. “Thank you."
His gaze lingered on her face, then he brushed her lips with his. Her eyelids fluttered as she returned his kiss. After a moment, he broke the kiss and sauntered away. Voltaire kept her attention on his gorgeous, retreating ass until he disappeared from view, then she closed her eyes and called up the mind link only elite PSC agents had. It was their special in-house communication, accessible only by the best of the best, and known only to a select few insiders.
Czion wasn't too hard to find. He was out hunting, alone. Behind her closed eyelids, Voltaire saw him in jaguar form, sleek and powerfully built, black as night—a rare colour in jaguars—running through the woods. She waited until Czion's jaguar was ready to pounce on a deer and seized control of the animal's mind, freezing its body in mid-flight.
Trapped inside the jaguar's body, Czion struggled fiercely, putting up a brave fight, trying to sniff out the danger around him. But while Czion remained a powerful being in his own right, he was no match for the Death Bringer. She knew the instant he sensed her presence—he ceased all fight.
What are you doing, V? Inside the jaguar, his voice was a rumble.
I could ask the same of you. You've been fucking with what's mine, and that's unacceptable. She searched out the jaguar's heart and tightened a fist around it, mentally squeezing.
Czion panted around the pain. What the hell are you talking about? The jaguar growled and snapped its jaws at the empty air—it could move no other part of its body.
You killed Marcus van Treble. I want to know why. Didn't you think I'd find you?
A red haze covered the jaguar's vision. Rage and confusion. Genuine. What are you talking about? I didn't kill van Treble. I haven't killed—except to eat—in a long time. I promised—He cleared his throat, from pain, or discomfort she couldn't say. I promised Remi I wouldn't, and I haven't.
She frowned. You really have a hard-on for her, don't you? Mentally, she shook her head. Those two were a mess. Marcus van Treble was killed with the mind death, and only a very few of us know how to administer it. I felt the presence of a PSC agent around his dead body and now I see you've tampered with the mind of Blake's ex. What should I think, Czion?"
Come on, V. His pride sounded hurt. For one, you should know I have more sense than to fuck around where you lay. And second, I'm not amateur enough to leave evidence of my handiwork lying around where you can find it.
She tightened her fist, adding pressure to the heart she held in her mind's grasp. Does this mean your shit is well hidden?
Czion coughed. I'm saying that right now I have bigger things on my mind than war with the wolves.
Remi?
Voltaire felt his grimace. Among other things.
If Czion was innocent—and she was beginning to think he was—then the killer appeared to be better at this than she'd first thought. His abilities weren't limited. They still had no clue who he was.
Now more than ever, I'm positive the killer is from PSC. And he's from our inner circle, to be able to mimic your psychic trail so well. He knows us intimately, Czion, and you might well be next
Czion grunted. I'll be waiting. I'm spoiling for a fight. Would've taken you, but you know I don't hit girls.
As if you could. She released her hold on him and watched the big cat stretch its powerful muscles.
A touch, whisper-soft, feathered over her lips and chin.
Blake.
Watch your back, Czion. And stay out of my way. She severed the mental connection and took a deep breath before opening her eyes.
Blake's green gaze bored into her, concern heavily written on his tanned face.
"What's wrong?” He cupped her chin. “Are you okay?"
"I'm fine.” Voltaire moistened her lips and granted him a small smile—a precursor to the bad news to come. “I'm perfect."
His features tightened. “I couldn't find your phone anywhere upstairs."
She waved a hand. “That's okay—I had it the whole time.” Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she pulled out the pre-paid cell phone. Blake's eyes darkened, the wolf went eerily quiet, and she realised her error.
He stepped away from her, hands falling to his sides. “You're lying to me. Why?” Confusion and hurt clouded his features.
Fucking wolves and their overly-dramatic senses. She'd forgotten about that and now her mate knew she was lying to him. Sheesh.
"I'm sorry. I was talking to Czion."
Blake narrowed his eyes. The air around him stilled. “Why were you talking to Czion? How were you?"
God. He really had no idea what being in the PSC entailed. She'd have to be the one to school him. “PSC elite agents have a psychic link where we can talk to each other, find each other's location. Anywhere, any time. Call it our own personal GPS. “
Fists clenched, jaw ticking, Blake paced in front of her. “Why didn't you tell me that before?"
"I didn't think about it because I don't really use it—haven't in a long time. The link was created so we can stay in touch on our missions."
She brushed his mind with hers. Black shadows crept in, hovering on the horizon of his mind. Doubt, questioning his fragile faith in her. Voltaire bit her lip.
"But I don't get why you had to talk to Czion, what you didn't think you could tell me.” He stopped pacing and faced her head-on. “What's the secret you can tell Czion but not your mate?"
Voltaire got off the bar-stool and approached Blake with hesitant steps. She needed to reassure her mate.
"I saw—felt—something and it led me to Czion.” Taking his hand in hers, Voltaire caressed his knuckles. “It wasn't my intention to hide anything from you, I just—I don't want to hurt you more than I already have."
He wrenched his hand away and shook his head. “But you did,” he accused. “You hurt me—and us—by hiding and covering like you're doing now. Just tell me, Voltaire.” He growled the last four words through his clenched jaw.
She stared at him, teeth worrying her bottom lip. It wasn't should she tell him, because she would. The question was what bad news to tell first. Finally, she bit the bullet and blurted, “Aimee's brain has been tampered with."
His features morphed into granite. “What the fuck are you talking about?” The words were almost garbled, evidence of the wolf being close to the surface, intent on taking over. She reached a hand out to soothe him—them—but Blake flinched away from her touch.
Wow. That hurt in parts of her heart she hadn't known existed.
She gritted her teeth and spoke. “When I had her pinned on the counter, I touched Aimee's mind. The evidence of interference was right there—the intruder didn't make any attempts to hide it.” Voltaire looked away from the censure in Blake's eyes. “I followed the familiar trail and it led me to visions of someone poking and prodding Aimee into confronting you and me. Into making a scene—or maybe they hoped I'd kill her.” She shrugged. “I don't know."
"Who did you see?"
Her gaze snapped to his as he forced the words out. Anger and rage coloured his features, his eyes were narrowed and his jaw flexed.
"Um, he didn't—"
"Who, Voltaire?"
Voltaire squeezed her eyes shut at the shouted words, then opened them with a sigh. “The trail was made to look like Czion's.” Blake's jaw hung open and she rushed to clarify. “But it wasn't his, only a really good replica made by someone we both know intimately."
"Do you really believe that?” Blake's voice was pitched dangerously low. Voltaire worried for only a second before she nodded.
"Yes. Czion didn't kill Marcus."
A look of betrayal—so harsh and raw it took her breath away—crossed his face. Tears stung her eyes as he stared at her, unblinking. Voltaire didn't have to touch his mind to know what her mate felt. It was etched on his face for her to see. The hurt, betrayal, and anger. Violence simmered in the air around him, thick enough to slice through.
She felt his retreat and shook her head. “No. Don't do it.” Throwing her hands out, she pushed into his brain, ready to do something, anything to keep him from leaving. Blake let out an awesome growl, the sound almost shaking the building and bringing goose bumps to her skin. The hairs on the back of her neck stood in surrender.
"If you try any of that shit on me, I will never forgive you.” His words rumbled deep in his chest as he turned from her and headed out the door.
"Blake, don't walk away. Please. Please.” She grabbed hold of the bar, fingers digging into the wood as her knees gave out and she crumpled to the floor. "Blake."
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Chapter Ten
* * * *
For a few minutes, Voltaire sat on the floor, letting the tears stream down her face, indulging in her misery.
But she'd be damned if she'd wallow any longer. No way would that shifter of hers be allowed to think he had her shaken. Sure, she'd messed up, but he had to give her a chance to fix it.
He had to.
She got to her feet and walked around the bar to pour herself a drink—whisky to settle the nerves she'd always considered to be encased in iron. Damn shifter was turning her into a pile of something soft and needy. Tilting her head back, she poured the amber liquid down her throat and blinked away moisture. She couldn't tell if the sudden leaking of her eyes was from the liquor burn or the fear of los
ing Blake.
She did know the last time she'd cried had been the day she was taken in by the Council—her sixteenth birthday. Back then, she'd felt alone, helpless against her fate. Unable to make the moves necessary to change the trajectory of her life.
Not the case this time. Her shifter, her mate, would be made to see her regret and contrition for keeping things from him. He'd see she'd never intended to betray him—her main goal was to find his friend's killer, which would keep his people—his pack—safe.
Blake would see she'd rather die than hurt him. Her mate, her other half. Her love.
She loved him. Had been in love with him since those first images of his green eyes in her dreams so long ago. And it was time he knew. Time he understood what loving him meant for her.
And for him.
Blake's wolf took over the instant he left Voltaire's presence. Now the animal ran through the dark woods, blades of grass and twigs lashing his muzzle. The wolf remained on alert, tuned to the sounds, natural and not, around him. Deep inside the animal, Blake's heart was heavy—he couldn't believe his mate thought she could lie to him.
She'd protected the jaguar, believing him innocent. The same jaguar who had tried—on several occasions—to force a takeover of Blake's territory by ambushing members of his pack.
A rustle to the left caught the wolf's ear. A rabbit. The tiny creature froze, focused on his sound, and scented the air. The wolf opened his jaws in what could very well be considered a grin and waited. It wasn't long before the little furry creature dashed out from its hiding place and the wolf pounced, powerful jaws catching the rabbit by the neck, sharp canines tearing flesh.
The wolf sat on its haunches and devoured the rabbit, though it remained on alert for any movement or disturbance. Inside the animal, Blake savoured the taste and thrill of the hunt, and tried not to think about his mate, waiting for him back at the bar.
Would Voltaire be waiting? And had he made the right move, walking away from her? He'd been so hurt that she'd lied to him, sought to keep information from him. But most damning was this bond she had with Czion, his enemy, the man gunning for Blake's territory. Those two had a history and Blake just knew he wouldn't like the details.