Black stars exploded in Peter’s vision. He dropped to his knees, almost losing his grip on the gun. McCoy snatched a handful of his hair and jerked him to his feet, hammering a punch straight into his gut.
“McCoy!” Yolanda’s cry cut the air, high and wild. “Stop it!”
“What’s the matter, Vischka?” McCoy chuckled, stare boring into Peter’s as he yanked him bodily from the ground by the hair. “You got to liking the taste of this pathetic human?” He ran his tongue over the tips of his teeth. “Finally found someone who likes you for who you are—a soulless bitch?”
Hot agony tearing at his scalp, Peter glared up at McCoy. “Bet I taste better than you, McCoy,” he growled, and clamped his hands down on each side of McCoy’s fist, grinding the man’s knuckles together.
A roar of surprised pain burst from McCoy and he flung Peter away, eyes molten pits of rage. “You fucking bastard!”
Peter stumbled to a halt against the wall, desperate to stay on his feet. The top of his head felt like it had been torn off. He gave McCoy a wide grin, shoving the revolver into the waistband of his jeans with a deliberate show of contempt. “O’Connell told me I wouldn’t need a weapon to beat you. Looks like he was right.”
McCoy’s face warped with red rage. “Why you insolent fucking bastard!” He charged forward, body shifting mid-stride. Transforming into a colossal, terrifying wolf.
The surreal thought—not again—whipped through Peter’s head once more before he dropped to the floor and rolled aside.
McCoy, or rather, the slathering, snarling creature he’d become, landed on its muscled hind legs, its clawed feet shattering the marble in the exact spot Peter had stood but a second earlier. It spun, red stare locking on him. With a roar so loud the chandelier rattled, it threw itself at him, claws sinking into his shoulders. Flipping him onto his back, the creature snapped at him.
Peter twisted his head to the side, hideous agony tearing through his cheek as McCoy’s teeth ripped a chunk from his face. He smashed his arms upward, palm heels punching into the creature’s neck. It recoiled, eyes bulging, a choked gurgle sounding in its throat.
Blood streaming down Peter’s cheek, his head, body and face a screaming world of pain, he shoved his feet into McCoy’s gut and kicked out. “Get off me!”
The creature staggered backward, shallow breaths rasping from its throat. Its body shuddered and, as Peter scrambled to his feet and pulled the revolver from his waistband, its muscles bulged and contorted, molten red eyes locked on him, teeth lengthening into horrific fangs.
Peter’s heart froze. Oh, fuck.
“STOP!” Yolanda’s scream cut the air.
She moved—a black and blonde blur—and threw herself at McCoy’s arched back. The creature lashed out and Yolanda went flying through the air, smacking against the far wall with a crunch.
“Yolanda!” Peter shouted, watching his partner slump to the floor in a limp heap.
The creature turned back to him, a deep hideous sound rumbling in its chest.
Peter glared at it, fury boiling his blood. “You fucker! You’re laughing!”
He raised the revolver. Aimed it at the werewolf’s heart…and it charged him. With a savage swing of its arm, it swiped his gun from his hand, dislocating his shoulder in a bone-cracking snap and sinking its claws into his neck before he could squeeze the trigger.
It rammed him to the wall. Again. Again. Showers of plaster and concrete dust rained down upon him, choking him as surely as McCoy’s claws strangled him. Right arm dangling free by his side, sickeningly unattached, he flailed with his left at the hand closing down on his neck. Struck out at the creature’s face, its bunched shoulders.
Another one of those hideous chortles sounded in its throat, and it squeezed its fingers harder.
Peter stared at it, the world growing faint. “Laugh at this,” he muttered through a thickening grey fog, and rammed his shin straight up into its groin.
A howl rent the hallway. McCoy reeled backward, grabbing at its fur-covered genitalia.
Sucking in lungful after lungful of air, Peter searched for the revolver. There. Near the swords.
He lurched forward, vision blurred with pain, blood still deprived of oxygen. Five steps, Thomas. Just five steps.
An ear-shattering snarl filled the hallway and Peter’s throat clamped shut. He spun around. In time to see McCoy launch himself into the air, teeth bared, claws extended…
“NO!” Yolanda yelled. And threw herself at Peter.
It happened in the space of a heartbeat.
Yolanda crashed into him, her long-fingered hands—the very hands only hours earlier she’d danced over his thigh—flattening against his chest, sending him sprawling to his ass. He skidded along the marble floor, back smacking against the wall, stare fixed on the horrific sight of his partner landing on her feet. Turning into McCoy’s attack, blue eyes wide. Furious. Sad.
Unable to look away, incapable of doing anything but, he watched as McCoy’s jaws closed around Yolanda’s smooth, creamy neck and tore it open.
“Yolanda!” he screamed.
He lurched to his feet. Stared in horror as the massive creature thrashed its head from side to side, ripping Yolanda’s throat apart, blood and saliva coating its muzzle, the walls, Yolanda, in glistening red splatters.
Blue eyes bulging, body wracked in spasms, Yolanda hung in McCoy’s grip, growing more limp with each violent shake of his jaw. She reached out a hand to Peter, fingers spread.
Heart squeezing, breath rapid, Peter spun around. Fuck! The revolver was too far away. His frantic searched fell on…
Leaping forward, he snatched one long-bladed sword from the wall with his left hand. Turned back to McCoy. To the sight of the creature bathing itself in Yolanda’s blood. “Hey, dick-head,” he shouted.
McCoy lifted his blood-soaked head, twin orbs of glowing red insanity turning to him…
And Peter swung the sword, its weight heavy and powerful, slicing its long, deadly blade straight through McCoy’s neck. Decapitating him.
McCoy’s head fell one way. His body another.
Both returning to human form before they hit the floor. Both motionless. Dead.
For a split second, Yolanda hung suspended on the blood-soaked air, before, with a wet and seemingly boneless thud, she fell to the ground.
Peter dropped the sword and leapt to her side, his knees slipping in McCoy’s, Yolanda’s and probably his own blood. “Yolanda,” he cried, grabbing at her still hand with his left, threading his fingers through hers. “Yolanda?”
He stared at her, refusing to look at the gaping mess of her throat.
“Damn it, Detective,” he ground out, squeezing her hand harder. “Don’t fucking ignore me!”
“Found it impossible…ignore you.”
The gurgled words were soft, almost impossible to hear, but Yolanda’s all the same. Peter swallowed, staring at her. “Jesus, Yolanda. Your throat—He almost tore it out.”
She shook her head. Ever-so slightly. “Will heal,” she whispered. “It may…while, but…will heal.”
“Jesus, Yolanda,” he murmured again, dropping his forehead to her chest. “I don’t know…”
“You are…not allergic…puppies, are you?”
Her husky question made him lift his head and he squeezed her hand. Relief and pain and worry crashed over him. Tears threatened to fill his eyes. “Jesus, I hope not.”
“This…good.” She smiled softly. “I told you you should trust me, Detective,” she whispered, fingers weakly squeezing his hand back. “You…listen to me from now on, yes?”
He returned her smile, incapable of doing otherwise. “Yes.”
Her eyelids fluttered closed, the grip on his fingers growing stronger by the second, and her smile stretched a little wider. “Finally, you see reason.”
* * * *
Declan sniffed at the steel table centered in the middle of the almost empty room, his tail swishing in agitation. Regan had been there
. Her delicate scent teased his senses. He moved his muzzle down to the manacles, her sweat strong on the cool metal arc. She’d been angry. Very angry. He tasted her rage not just on the air, but on the steel as well. His tongue lolled past his teeth in a bleak grin. Good. Hopefully, even Nathan Epoc would be wary of an angry Regan—whether strapped to a table or not.
He turned, studying the open door on the far side of the room. The Eudeyrn Alpha’s arrogant stench permeated every molecule he pulled into his lungs, like an acrid mist that made it difficult to breathe. He snarled, detecting a concentrated band leading from the table to the door. Focusing his nose on its path, his tail thumped once, wolfish grin growing wide with satisfaction. Under the thick conceit of Epoc’s scent lay a tinge of apprehension. Cold and niggling.
He crossed the small space to the door, the click-click of his nails on the chilly, marble floor the only sound in the room.
It hit him. Abruptly and inescapably.
As he passed the threshold into a long, dimly lit corridor.
Fear. Absolute fear.
Regan’s fear.
Whatever lay at the end of the corridor, whatever Epoc was doing to her there, she was petrified.
He burst into a dead sprint, ears back, teeth bared. His right hind leg began to throb, rivaling the pulsing ache in his chest from Peter’s bullet, but he ignored both. Worry ate at him. Took massive chunks from his control with each pounding beat of his heart. The corridor twisted, grew darker, and then he rounded a corner and a sprawling room opened up before him. The main wall was made entirely of glass revealing the moon-reflecting waters of Sydney Harbor beyond. Two enormous, low-hanging crystal chandeliers flooded the room with warm, golden light, illuminating the large four-poster bed standing on a centre dais. Beside which stood Nathan Epoc. Holding Regan, naked and trembling, close to his wiry body, a large syringe pressed into her neck just below her right ear.
Declan skidded to a halt, his paws slipping on the smooth floor. He stared at Epoc, locking his focus on the smugly smiling man. If he looked at Regan he would lose all control. The overpowering tang of her horror filling the room almost pushed him to the next stage of his transformation as it was. He had to keep it in check. For her sake and his own.
“We’re so glad to see you, O’Connell.” A smirk creased Epoc’s smooth, unlined face. He moved slightly, pressing the syringe harder into Regan’s neck. “I was just telling this delightful young woman here how boring it was without you.”
Epoc gripped Maggie’s elbow, his claws sinking into her flesh, his canines lengthening with each chuckle slipping past his lips. “She’s been a wonderful test subject, Onchú,” he said, eyes boring into Declan’s, “but now with you here, finally in my control I don’t need her anymore.” He flicked a silent message to McCoy and the loup garou lashed out, ripping Maggie’s throat out with his claws.
Time froze. Maggie’s eyes met Declan’s. And then her head lolled forward. There was a sickening, wet tearing sound and, with a dull thud, it dropped to the floor, her beautiful, blue eyes staring sightlessly up at Declan. “NO!” he screamed. He leapt forward, the primeval werewolf, the ancient monster, bursting free. Gone was the world. Gone was Declan O’Connell. All that existed now was heart-crushing pain. And the hungry, demanding, insatiable blood-lust for revenge…
Declan held himself still, ears flat, tail motionless. His blood boiled. His muscles tensed, the monstrous beast pushing at his control, fighting for release. Epoc returned his level stare, the hand on Regan’s arm closing tighter on the smooth column of her biceps. From the corner of Declan’s eye, he saw Regan flinch, but he didn’t move. He needed to focus.
He concentrated his strength—his croí—on his form. A ripple went through his body. His limbs tingled. His muscles shifted, and he stood. On two feet.
“Ah, the man of the moment,” Epoc sneered. He flicked his gaze over Declan’s body. “You seem to be missing some clothes.” His eyebrows shot up. “But gained some new wounds to go with the scars I’ve already marked you with.”
Declan gave him a toothy grin. “Well, you know me, Epoc. I’ve never been one for material possessions.”
Epoc puckered his lips, his golden eyes turning to Regan with deliberate malice. “No, you’ve always been one for possessions of the heart, haven’t you.”
Hot anger crashed through Declan but he remained motionless.
Epoc laughed, the sound soulless and smug at once. “Such a familiar situation we find ourselves in, isn’t it, Onchú. Me, holding the woman of your heart, you standing there, as useless as ever.” He pulled Regan closer to him, and for the first time since entering the room, Declan let himself really look at her.
She appeared almost catatonic, her eyes glazed, her body somehow limp, despite standing.
He sucked in a sharp breath and turned back to Epoc, jaw clenched, fists balled. “You know I’m going to kill you, right? I mean, surely you’re not that dumb?”
Epoc’s smile grew wider, teeth glinting in the warm chandelier light. He moved his head, ran his nose slowly up the side of Regan’s face until his mouth drew level with her cheekbone, his amber gaze still locked on Declan. “She smells almost as good as your sister, O’Connell. For a human. Just as feisty too, I must say.” He flicked out his tongue and ran it in a small line up to Regan’s temple. She flinched—the only sign she registered he was there at all.
Declan suppressed a growl. He couldn’t move. Not until he knew she was safe. Regan…?
He strained to hear, to feel a response. Nothing.
“Did you know I passed Maggie around my clan?” Epoc commented, returning his full attention to Declan. He unfurled one finger from his hold on Regan’s arm and drew a tiny pattern up and down her arm. “She was a tasty bitch. And a wanton one. She begged for every sexual depravity known to man and lycanthrope.” He smiled again, canines now long and curved. “But you would know that, wouldn’t you, being her brother and all.”
Fury, like a scalding river of lava, flooded through Declan. The primal beast locked within his body roared for release. He clenched his fists harder, struggling to control it, the stinging puncture wounds of his own lengthening nails in his palms only feeding the creature’s rage. He narrowed his eyes, studying the man before him. Epoc was baiting him. Taunting him to react.
Don’t let him. Focus. You lose control, Regan will die.
“Pity you couldn’t save her,” Epoc murmured. “The same way you’ve failed entirely to save this female.” He smiled, saliva-slicked incisors flashing. “Have you truly smelt her since slinking into this room, O’Connell, or have you been too focused on me?”
Declan’s throat clamped shut. Still staring hard at Epoc, he pulled in a deep breath.
And smelt Epoc’s saliva on Regan’s flesh. His mark imbued in her sweat.
“She is a delicious one, I must say,” Epoc went on, eyes blazing, thumb growing white on the hypodermic’s plunger. “And a screamer. My ears are still hurting with how loud she screamed as I stuck my fingers, my tongue in her cunt. I’ve never had so much fun on my bed.” He paused, expression melodramatically curious. “Have you fucked her on a bed, Onchú? Or was it just in the cars you stole and the homes you broke into?”
Declan ground his teeth, his heart thumping in his chest so hard he could barely breath.
“I must admit,” Epoc continued. “I can see your attraction to her, despite her human DNA. She has a tight, wet cunt that’s heaven to eat. Like mulled wine. I smelt you there, but, like you yourself, your mark was weak. It didn’t take much to replace it with mine. A quick thrust here, a bite there.”
“Keep talking, fucker. Every word’s just another reason to tear you apart.”
Epoc chuckled. “Hmm. Still the hero, I see. Good to see love hasn’t made you soft. Although, I’m not sure the female here shares the same feeling. She wasn’t happy with you at all while I entertained her on the bed. Cursed your name every time I touched her.” He paused, eyes flaring with cold, smug triumph.
“Much like your precious sister.”
The snarl burst from Declan’s throat before he could stop it. His muscles bunched. Flexed. Fury consumed him. The antediluvian creature in his blood bellowed and he let it. Welcomed it. It was time to succumb to its…
Declan.
The soft whisper tickled his mind.
Declan.
He flicked his stare to Regan, icy hope stirring in his chest, and found her staring back, green eyes shining with pain and anger and intractable fortitude.
Shut this fucking bastard up, please.
Declan returned his gaze to Epoc, a slow grin stretching his lips “Actually, Epoc, I think it’s her name you’ll be cursing.” And he transformed.
The very second Regan snapped her leg up and stamped her heel down hard on Epoc’s foot.
Regan stumbled away, staring dumbstruck at the sight before her. Declan, or rather, the great, grey wolf he’d become, slammed into Epoc, front paws thumping against the smaller man’s chest with an audible crunch. Epoc fell backward, stunned disbelief on his face. He staggered once under Declan’s weight before, with a shudder and an ear-shattering growl, transforming into a black wolf larger than a buffalo.
The two animals snapped and tore at each other, saliva and blood splattering their muzzles and thrashing bodies. Epoc’s bulk dwarfed Declan’s, but Declan was quicker. Each time Epoc lashed out at Declan’s neck, Declan whipped it away, flinging the wolf off him and snapping at its exposed belly.
Frozen to the spot, Regan watched. The icy sting of Epoc’s hypodermic radiated up into her head and she pressed her hand to her neck. He hadn’t injected her—she didn’t think—but her neck hurt like hell from the needle’s brutal puncture. A small trickle of blood seeped from the tiny wound, probably caused by the needle’s abrupt withdrawal when he’d jerked away from her. It was nothing however, compared to the bloody gashes and gouges the two werewolves inflicted on each other now.
Howls and snarls rent the air. Turned the room into an aural nightmare.
Declan pinned Epoc to the floor, front paws driving into his shoulders, muzzle clamped shut on his throat. He thrashed his head side-to-side, fresh blood spurting past his fangs and curled lips, staining his fur a dark crimson.
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