Escape (Project Vetus Book 1)

by Emmy Chandler

“He’s got some kind of weapon,” the long-haired man holding my left arm says. “Or he’s…wearing some kind of weapon.”

  “Let her go,” Carson growls, his voice so low and gravely that the syllables seem to run together. But the gist is clear.

  The man with long hair lets go of my arm and shoves me at the short-hair man who has my other elbow. I try to pull free, but that asshole won’t let go. He hasn’t yet figured out just how much trouble he’s in.

  On the edge of my vision, in what’s left of the moonlight, the long-haired man and the tall man approach Carson, their chests puffed out, as if he’ll be intimidated by that kind of bravado. He steps out of the shadow of the building, and I realize that the “weapons” they think he’s wielding are actually growing from the undersides of his forearms. And his face looks oddly…heavy. Thick.

  Carson lunges forward and kicks the tall man in the chest. Tall Man stumbles backward, then loses his balance, and as the long-haired man moves in for a blow, Carson ducks. Then he swings his left arm up, elbow bent, and moonlight highlights the long, serrated, fin-shaped blade growing from his forearm as it slides across the throat of the man with long hair.

  Carson spins out of the way as blood sprays the grass and the crumbling sidewalk. Choking, the long-haired man grasps for his neck, trying to breathe as blood leaks between his fingers. And as his tall friend gets to his feet again, the long-haired man collapses in a patch of rust-colored dirt. Flat on his face. Unmoving.

  The tall man stares at his dead friend for a second. Then he runs screaming straight at Carson, as if to tackle him. The short-haired man tries to pull me toward the woods, but I dig my heels into the dirt and turn back to Carson as he spins, turning away from the tall man. He throws his left elbow back and up, and moonlight highlights a wicked curved spine protruding from his elbow just before it slides through the tall man’s shirt and into his chest. Angled up, behind his sternum.

  Carson twists his arm, compounding the damage, then jerks his arm forward, pulling the spine loose.

  The tall man collapses with a gruesome hole in his chest. Blood wells from the wound with each beat of his heart as he takes his last few breaths.

  “Let her go,” Carson growls, already focused on the man clutching my arm even as his friend lies dying.

  The short-haired man releases my arm. “Sorry, man,” he says. Then he shoves me at Carson and takes off running toward the woods.

  “Stay,” Carson grunts at me. Then he races after the fleeing man, moving with an eerie speed and grace. He tackles his opponent to the ground, then he sits on the man’s back and begins pummeling his skull.

  Every punch lands with a thud and the gruesome crack of bone.

  “Carson!” Horrified I jog closer until I can see that the side of the man’s skull has been cracked open like a thick egg shell, and with every blow, Carson is destroying more of the dead man’s brain.

  And he is dead. There’s no doubt about that. Yet Carson keeps punching.

  “Stop!” I shout, my voice half-choked with shock. “What the hell?”

  “They hurt you.” He finally goes still, then he stands slowly and turns to face me, and even in the deep shadows, I can see that there’s still something wrong with his face.

  “I’m fine.” I mean, I’m thoroughly traumatized, but physically unharmed.

  “They touched you,” he growls. “They tried to take you. They had to die.”

  I’m not going to argue. We have a no-tolerance policy on assault at the Sorority. But no one there would have kept beating a man’s head in long after he was dead.

  And suddenly the reality of what just happened hits me like a blow to the chest. I turn to where the two other men lie on the ground. Covered in blood. Sliced up and stabbed by weapons growing from Carson’s body. He didn’t just kill them. He slaughtered them. Coldly and efficiently.

  “What the living fuck?” My words have no sound. My lungs are empty. Carson took out three men in less than a minute. Without even breaking a sweat.

  “Lilli, breathe.”

  “Don’t fucking tell me to—”

  He steps closer, into a pool of moonlight, and I get a better look at him. At the monstrous parts of him that only come out when he needs to fight.

  His beautiful face now has pronounced ridges above his eyes, on the sides of his forehead, and on the outside of his cheeks, as if his brow, his temples, and his cheekbones are…swollen. The cumulative effect makes his features look heavy and prominent. Strong and aggressive.

  Intimidating.

  Though the longer I stare, the more certain I become that the bitch of a scientist who did this to him was actually trying to shore up his defenses. Bigger, denser bones must be harder to break.

  And yet beneath all that protective bone, I can still see the face that looked down at me while he was buried deep inside me. The silver eyes that held my gaze. The beautiful mouth that—

  His nostrils flare as he breathes in through his nose. “You’re aroused. Does that mean you’re okay?”

  That means I’m fucked up. Three dead men are not sexy. Crushed skulls and slit throats are not sexy. And before this moment, I would have said that thick ridges of facial bone aren’t sexy either. But he’s right. I’m wet.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Lilliana,” he growls as he reaches for me, but I backpedal, horrified all over again. He’s covered in blood. “I… Are you okay?”

  “I told you I’m fine.” I shouldn’t have come out here by myself at night. After the storm, those men probably saw the light from our flashlight and thought they could take our shelter. And our…me. “What…?” I grab his hand, and try to ignore all the blood while I process what I’m seeing.

  His four largest knuckles—on each hand—have grown wicked, one-inch spikes, like pointed bones extending from his fists. The spikes are covered in gore, from having punched through that man’s skull, which means they’re clearly harder than actual bone.

  Than human bone, anyway.

  “Holy shit,” I murmur as I run my index finger over one gory point. “She did turn you into a weapon.”

  “I’m your weapon, Lilli,” he growls, as if there’s been some kind of change in his throat as well. “Don’t tell me that means nothing to you. I can smell the truth.”

  “Okay, yes, strength is hot. I never said it wasn’t.” Strength wielded in my defense is so fucking hot I’m pretty sure my panties have been burnt into nothing but the memory of singed thread. “But that doesn’t… I mean…” Oh, hell, I can’t even remember what I was going to say.

  I reach for his face, to feel his oddly swollen cheek, then I snatch my hand back without making contact.

  “It’s okay.” His voice is a soft rumble in the air between us. “You can touch me. Anywhere. Any time.” He takes my fingers in the relatively clean palm of his hand and rubs the rough pad of his thumb over my knuckles. “I am yours.”

  Holy fuck, that’s hot. Even coming from a man with blades protruding from his arms. Especially coming from a man with blades protruding from his arms.

  He smiles, as if he knows what I’m thinking. As if he can…smell my interest. And of course, he can.

  “I…okay.” I stare at his face, focusing on a spot free of blood, and gingerly run my fingers over the new ridge high on the outside of his cheek. It’s hard. Smooth, as if his body isn’t familiar with the concept of a five o’clock shadow. It’s definitely defensive in nature. But it doesn’t look as odd as it did a minute ago. Up close, I can see that the bone is just an extension of his normal face. Just a thickening of his features.

  He’s still beautiful.

  I still want to sit on his face.

  Damn it. No. Focus, Lilli.

  But then Carson pulls his shirt off and begins mopping blood from his face and neck. Which is when I realize that his chest and shoulders have taken on an odd texture that almost seems to shine in the moonlight. As if he’s grown armor plating, right on his skin.

>   He sees me looking. Of course he sees me looking. He took off his shirt so I would look. “Come closer. You may inspect me.”

  “I may…?” I frown at him. “You talk weird, when you’re channeling this beast. Do you know that?”

  He looks puzzled for a second. “My thoughts feel different too,” he admits. “There’s only me in here. But sometimes I feel like I’m sharing both my body and my mind with a total stranger. You’re the one thing we agree on, Lilli. You, and getting off this rock.”

  “I…” I don’t really know what to do with that information. So I refocus on this weapon he’s become. This weapon he’s wielded on my behalf. “Knuckle spikes,” I say, and he wipes his left fist relatively clean for me to inspect.

  I take his hand as if I’m going to kiss it, but instead, I run my thumb around the base of the largest of the pointed, bony protrusions, striated with thin ridges that are now crusted with dried blood. And…brain matter. I can’t see as well as I’d like, even with the moonlight, but the skin around the spikes looks…enflamed. Yet there’s no sign of trauma to his skin, as there would be if the spikes had actually cut through his flesh. Instead, they seem to have come through seams in his knuckles. Which I noticed earlier, but mistook for scars from fighting. “Do they hurt?”

  “They ache, when they first…show up. And when it rains. Which is part of how I know when a storm’s on its way. But they’re incredibly efficient.”

  “I can see that. And this is armor?” I reach out to touch his chest, and he spreads his arms to give me full access.

  “Effectively,” he says, as I run my fingers over the rough surface of his left pectoral. “They’re actually very thick skin growths. Like large, hard callouses. They won’t stop a laser, but they’ll stop most blades. And small caliber projectile bullets.”

  “Your skin is bulletproof?”

  “Small caliber,” he repeats. “The armor is also on my shoulders and parts of my back.”

  I trail my hands over the hard, rough, well defined bulges of his shoulders, then down his arms, where the skin is smoother. Then I start over at his chest and move down his torso, which is when I realize that the callous plating, for lack of a better term, also extends in ridges over his abdomen, exaggerating his already impressive six-pack.

  Yet the armor and knuckle spikes aren’t the most intimidating aspects of his altered physique.

  “And this?” I lift his left hand, angling his arm so that moonlight falls on the serrated blade running nearly the length of his forearm. Both forearms.

  “Bone blades,” he says. “Though these, like both the knuckle spikes and the elbow spire, aren’t made of human bone, but out of whatever bone-like biological material the beast had. In whatever his actual form looked like.”

  Based on what I’m seeing now, I’m picturing something covered in wicked spikes and patches of natural armor.

  “It’s sharp, but also hard.” Carson lifts his arm so I can get a better look at the blade. “Dr. Brennan’s tried several times to pierce or shatter it, but so far nothing short of a laser round has done any damage.”

  “Laser round? She shot you?”

  “Several times. But she already knew the plating was bullet-proof, from previous test subjects. However, she did cut off Everett’s left elbow spike with a laser saw, just to verify that she could.”

  “That’s psychotic.”

  He shrugs. “That seems to be somewhat of a gray area, in science.”

  I squint at his elbow, trying to get a good look at the “spire” still protruding from it, but the moon is setting, and it’s too dark. “Come inside with me.” I grab his hand and start tugging him toward the building.

  That soft thrumming begins low in his throat again, and what’s left of my underwear spontaneously combusts, right there in my pants. “Watching me fight turned you on.” It’s not a question. He’s making a declaration. And he sounds distinctly happy about it.

  “That is not what’s happening. I just want a better look at you.”

  “Likewise. We’ll both strip.”

  “I haven’t grown any new parts since the last time you saw me naked,” I point out as I tug him through the front door.

  “I don’t mind. I like your old parts.” He pulls his hand from my grip, and I hear a soft sliding sound as I step into the bedroom where his flashlight still stands on the floor.

  “What did you just do?” I demand as I grab the light and shine it on him. Sure enough, the knuckle spikes and bone ridges are gone. As are the bone blades and elbow spires. “Carson, I wasn’t done looking.”

  “You know my terms.” He grins. “You show me, and I’ll show you.”

  “This is extortion.”

  He shakes his head. “Extortion requires a threat. This is bargaining.”

  I cross my arms over the front of my shirt and scowl at him.

  Carson shrugs. “I’d rather strip you myself, anyway.” He steps forward, already reaching for the ripped hem of my shirt, and I step back, pointing one finger at him.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  He’s on me in an instant, pinning me to the dented metal wall, his body a mass of warm muscle pressed against me.

  “Carson!”

  He grabs my arms and pins them to the wall over my head, and when I open my mouth to yell at him, he swallows my complaint in a kiss that leaves me panting. “If you want me to stop, just say so,” he growls into my ear, as his erection presses against my thigh. “But you have to mean it.”

  “How will you know if I mean it?” Damn it. Why is my voice so breathy?

  “You’ll smell more like anger than like sex.”

  “More like anger? Do I smell a little bit like anger right now?” I’m not even going to ask about the sex smell.

  “You always smell a little bit like anger. I’ve decided anger is the salt of your emotions.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” I pull on my arms, but though his grip isn’t tight, it is unyielding.

  “Picture your emotional state like a table set for dinner. I never know what you’re going to serve. It could be desire, with a side-dish of amusement, if I’m making you laugh. It could be frustration, smothered in egotistical pride. But—”

  “You’ve known me for less than a day,” I point out, having given up on freeing my wrists.

  “But you admit that I do know you! Which is how I know there’s always a salt shaker full of anger on your emotional buffet—sometimes you sprinkle, sometimes you pour. Either way, much like salt does for food, anger heightens all your other scents and makes you even more delicious. Until you get too…salty.”

  “When you piss me off?”

  He nods solemnly. “So far, yes, that seem to be the pattern. But until we reach that point…” He lets go of my wrists and before I can even drop my arms, he grabs the neckline of my shirt and rips it right down the middle.

  “Damn it!” I shove him back, but he’s on me again in an instant, tugging the torn material from my shoulders. “I don’t have a lot of clothes, you know!”

  “I have an extra. Besides, this one isn’t ruined. It’s just…ventilated. Like a jacket.”

  “I’m going to ventilate your head if you rip any more of my clothing!”

  Carson steps back and lets his evaluating gaze roam my body, “You would be fierce with a set of knuckle spikes!” He smiles at the thought. “Now, do you trust me to remove the rest, or would you rather undress yourself?”

  I clutch the torn halves of my shirt together. “I’m not taking anything else off until you show me your spear!”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Carson shoves his pants down, with his underwear still inside them, and suddenly his sizable erection is staring right at me, casting an X-rated shadow puppet on the far wall.

  “I meant your elbow spear!”

  “My elbow spire? That’s too dangerous to use during sex.”

  “We’re not having sex.”

  “Yes, we are. Unless you say stop.” C
arson is on me again in a heartbeat, and his hands are everywhere. Stroking. Teasing. Squeezing gently. His mouth moves down my neck in a trail of soft kisses as his hands slide around my back. My bra pulls tight for a second, then it loosens and the straps slide down my arms.

  He pulls the material free and tosses it over his shoulders as he drops to his knees in front of me, kissing his way down my stomach. When he gets to my waistband, he tugs on the front flap with his teeth until the button pulls free. Then he slides his hands down my hips, dragging the material with them until I’m standing naked in front of him.

  My hands sink into his hair. I remember that I was going to object to this, but I can’t remember why. He smells so good.

  Carson nibbles his way over the point of my right hip as his hand slides between my thighs. He groans while I fight to keep my hips from arching toward him. “You’re dripping.”

  When I only bite my lip and stare down at him, he laughs. “What, you’re not going to argue? Try to convince me you don’t want this?”

  “Why bother? I said whatever this is between us is weird, but I never said it isn’t real.”

  A satisfied growl rumbles up from his throat as he stands and lifts me. He carries me across the room and drops me on the bed, and an instant later, his warm, hard weight crawls over me.

  There’s no foreplay this time. I’m already seduced and we’re both more than ready, and a thrill of anticipation shoots through me when he spreads my legs and settles between them.

  “Mine,” he groans as he slides into me, and this time I don’t bother arguing. Let him think whatever he wants, as long as what he’s doing feels this damn good. When and if he goes too far, I’ll shove him back in line, and if need be, I’ll remind him that he likes my “fire.”

  We weren’t exactly slow and gentle the first time, but this time, there’s a sense of urgency to his desire, and I can feel my own answering it. I need this. Now. “Faster,” I murmur as he pounds into me, and I swear he’s bigger than before. I’m going to be sore, and I don’t even give a damn. “Carson. More.”

  A gruff, needy sound grinds up from his throat and I arch up to meet him over and over. I’m already so close, that intimate pressure building toward a tantalizing peak, but I need—