Hunted

by Rebecca Zanetti

  His wrist rotated, and he shoved the blade into the lock, twisting until scraps of metal fell onto his face. He jabbed the blade up harder. The lock released with a snap. Sparks flew as the rope unraveled. Like a newborn foal, he dropped to his knees into a pool of his own blood, prickles detonating along his neck and shoulders.

  Conn? Where the hell are you? Moira snapped words into his head like a drill sergeant counting push-ups. Jesus. He was half-dead here. Shouldn’t the woman be whispering sweet nothings into his brain ... cajoling him to return to her?

  Hold your horses. Eyeing Marcus with distaste, Conn grabbed the shifter by the shoulders. His fangs shot down, and he dug them into the panther’s neck, drinking deep, allowing the nutrient-rich liquid to balm his insides, if not his outside yet.

  A jolt of power washed through his body. His connection with Moira snapped closed. Damn. He actually felt bereft.

  Energy filtered up Conn’s spine, even as he tossed the shifter away. The spicy taste of panther, especially male, lingered on his tongue. He needed a mint. Taking a deep breath, sending healing cells to the worst of his wounds, he patted Marcus down.

  Oh yeah. Conn slid a cell phone from the shifter’s back pocket, flipped it open, and dialed.

  “Kayrs.” Only someone who knew Dage well would recognize the stress and fury riding under the king’s low tone.

  “Kayrs28877.” Conn gave the ALL RIGHT code and edged out of the cell, grabbing the metal bat in his free hand. He shook off the remains of his kidney to the ground. Into the phone he growled, “Miss me?”

  Two beats of silence. “Are you gone?” Rapid typing echoed across the line.

  “Funny. Don’t know where I am, could probably use backup.” Even with the panther’s blood, the wound in his leg still bled. Not as bad, but it sure wasn’t closing. His vision still wavered. Maybe he wasn’t as immune to the drugs as he’d hoped.

  “We’re tracing your location now.” Dage’s tone rose slightly and his footsteps pounded across the distance. “I’ll teleport when we get a lock and the others will meet us via air.” He paused, the sound of a belt hitting the floor.

  “No. I don’t know what I’m facing.” Conn shook his head. Dage could teleport, but no metal or weapons of any kind could arrive with him. “Come by helicopter, scout the area.” He grasped the doorknob, slowly twisting.

  “No.” Dage used his king voice. “Do I need to bring Talen?”

  “No.” Teleporting together would greatly weaken Dage. “If you’re showing up, I need you in top form.” Conn didn’t argue further. Nothing on earth would keep his brother away. King or not.

  Tugging the door open an inch, Conn set his stance and eyed the silent room beyond.

  Movement sounded through the phone, and Talen’s voice rose over the typing of keys. “He’s here.” Tapping echoed. “Compound in the Rocky Mountains, thirty minutes from Denver.” The cocking of a gun overrode the keyboard. “There’s one building dug into the mountain. . . guarded by three men outside.”

  Relief filled Conn. At least they knew where he was.

  His relief quickly slid to dread as he scouted his escape route. “Ah, you need to stay away.” His eyesight had returned to the point that he could decipher laser triggers set throughout. A keypad protruded from the wall next to his head. If a blast hit just right, it might blow him to pieces. “The place is wired tight—the room I’m in and probably the outside, too. Tell Moira—”

  “Tell her yourself,” Dage growled. “Talen, bring up the building in infrared.”

  Ah, Dage’s new toy. “That won’t help me at this point. I’m going to blow the place, and hope the explosion sends me sky-high and not to hell.” Conn tried to contact Moira directly, but only static met his attempt. If he lived through this, they really needed to work on that skill.

  “That’s a stupid idea,” Dage muttered.

  From behind Conn.

  Conn whirled around, his eyes wide. “You stupid idiot. You could’ve put yourself down right in the middle of the laser zone.”

  An outside door opened, the daylight making the red beams disappear. A shifter entered on the other side of the room, his eyes going wide at Conn in the doorway. He yelled a warning, pivoting and running back out. “Blow the building! Blow the building!”

  A rumble filled the earth.

  The explosives detonated.

  Heat flashed through the space.

  The world burned.

  Chapter 22

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Conn grabbed the King of the Realm and shoved him against the wall of the strategy room in the Oregon headquarters. Fury burned him hotter than the inferno they’d just wisped through. The scent of scalded hair assaulted his nostrils. They’d barely made it.

  Dage knocked him back, his normally bronze face pale. “Get off me. You weigh a ton to transport.” He kept the wall up with his shoulders, sagging against it. The fire had singed the side of his shirt, and raw, red skin rippled across one hard forearm in a burn deep enough to showcase white bone. His eyes blazed a furious blue. Never a good sign.

  “You’re the king.” When the hell would the man realize that? Conn’s heartbeat slowed to a normal pace. Pain flared back to life. He shifted his weight to his good leg, striving for nonchalance.

  Talen shrugged out of a bulletproof vest from behind a thick table scattered with battle plans. “You both need a vein.” His jaw was set, his hair tied back. His older brother had been preparing for a fight.

  “My blood’s better.” Jase replaced the safety on his gun, placing the weapon on the table. He yanked up a shirtsleeve to bare his wrist.

  Kane snorted. “No, it’s not.”

  Conn held Dage’s gaze, anger spiraling higher when his brother lifted an eyebrow in challenge.

  The king cleared his throat. “You want to fight about it?” Anticipation tipped his upper lip. “I’ll wait until you’ve recovered, of course.” He cut his eyes to Conn’s still bleeding leg, tracking several other injuries in his perusal back to Conn’s face.

  Asshole. When was he going to realize his life meant more? Conn allowed a slow smile to cross his face. “No, I don’t want to fight. But I’m telling Emma you did.”

  Dage’s nostrils flared. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.” Conn took a second to appreciate the quickly veiled panic in his brother’s eyes, then dust mites danced across his vision. “What the hell?” He swayed. “Crap.” Then, darkness.

  Moira settled into the overstuffed chair, her gaze on the half-naked warrior on the bed. Their bed. The bedroom held the scent of sage and gunpowder, the hand-woven Irish rug matching the down comforter. Three oil paintings lined the wall, all midnight scenes of her homeland showcasing a full moon. He’d decorated the room with her in mind.

  They’d hurt him. Fury burned along her skin, crackling with an audible pop. Raw wounds dotted his chest and abdomen, no longer bleeding but swollen with angry bruises. Jase had shoved his wrist in Conn’s unconscious mouth, so at least he’d gotten some blood to heal.

  “Moira.” His voice rumbled her name, his incredible eyes opening. “Lose the anger, Brat. I need happy thoughts.”

  She couldn’t help the smile. What a smart-ass. “You think you’re in my head now, do you?” He bunched to sit up, and she jumped toward the bed, pressing down on the unwounded part of his chest. “Oh no, you don’t.”

  His hands encircled her wrists. A gleam filled his eyes. With a sharp tug, he landed her on top of him. “Hello.”

  She scrambled to sit up, away from his injuries. Anger burned right to desire. He’d played her. “You’re hurt, damn it.”

  One dark eyebrow rose in that arrogant face. “You said I could snack on you.”

  Well, the man had needed blood. She nodded, trying to tug one wrist free.

  “Nope.” Tightening his hold, he lifted his hands above his head, tugging her flat against him, chest to chest. “Hmmm. Very nice.”

  Moira fought the flush trying to he
at her face, her nipples pebbling against his heat. A warming began to hum in her core. “Conn, you’re injured.” Her voice emerged breathless and much too weak.

  “So be gentle with me,” he murmured, his lips wandering across her jaw to torture her earlobe. “Skin like the softest of thoughts. Smooth as my mother’s Irish porcelain.” He nipped, the small bite flaring her marking to life. “Yet so much prettier.” He dropped his head back down, his gaze caressing her face. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in my three hundred plus years, Dailtín.”

  The sincerity, the simmering desire in his tone flared her need to life. Emotion she neither wanted nor needed pricked tears at the back of her eyes. “I hate that they hurt you, Conn.” While she batted the tears away, they survived thick and full in her voice.

  His gaze softened. “Ah, darlin’. I’m fine.” The hold on her wrists loosened, and he brushed the curls off her face.

  “No you’re not. The doctor examined you while you were out.” For over an hour. “You lost most of your liver and both kidneys.” How hard they must’ve hit him to cause such internal damage. Rage and helplessness commingled until she felt small. So small.

  “Moira. Livers and kidneys grow back. Give me a couple days and I’ll be good as new, ready to chase down the entire clan. I’m healing as we speak.”

  Vulnerability kept her immobile. He’d been hurt, yet she needed comforting. “This ... you ...” Confusion had her biting her lip.

  Understanding lightened his eyes. “It’s all right. You don’t always have to be so damn strong.” One broad hand caressed from her shoulder down to her hip in one smooth stroke. Soothing. Kindness and understanding in such a deadly package.

  The tears won the internal battle, escaping to slide down her cheeks. She didn’t know any way but the truth. And the truth was scaring her to death. “I’m not weak, Conn.”

  He tugged her to straddle him. “No, you’re not.”

  A slight shift of his hips had her atop his groin, safely away from his abdominal wounds. She wiped tears off her face, refusing to roll her eyes. Safety didn’t exist when Connlan Kayrs had a plan.

  His fingers tightened, keeping her hips in place. “What are you so afraid of, Moira?”

  “Losing myself.” The words emerged soft and fast, so much truth in them she caught her breath.

  “Maybe you’ll find yourself.” His eyes closed.

  “The Nine is considering withdrawing from the Realm.” There. She’d said it.

  “I know. They had a preliminary vote before Grace was kidnapped.”

  Surprise shot through her followed by a smoldering hint of temper. “You sound as if you’re discussing the weather.” He’d known. Yet he hadn’t said a word.

  “Just the facts.”

  “So what’s your plan here, Conn? You know my job.”

  “No plan. For now, the Nine is scrambling and can’t make a cohesive decision.”

  He was wrong. The Nine could withdraw should the present members vote to do so. “What does that mean?”

  “We hold tight until they make a decision. When they do, then I’ll neutralize you if necessary.” His voice slurred on the second part of his statement. “Make no mistake, you and I remain solid even if the rest of the world blows up. We start at that point, then move outward.” He inhaled through his nose. “We might have to table this philosophical discussion.” A cut on his right shoulder mended shut.

  She’d kick his ass for the neutralizing threat later when he was feeling better. “You still need blood.” Rumor had it hers was magical.

  A smile threatened his full lips. “Is that an offer?”

  She thought about it. Need flitted along her nerve endings. “Yes.”

  His eyes flipped open, shooting silver through the green. “Well, now.” Slow as a summer dream, he slid one arm behind his head. “I accept.”

  Even injured, even exhausted, the man held an edge that whispered a warning. Most predators did. Her thighs warmed, a sensation she welcomed much easier than the vise squeezing her heart. “You want my neck?”

  His lids half closed. “No,” he murmured very softly. “I want all of you, Moira.” A deep breath lifted her to settle back in place. “For now, your neck would be enjoyable.” Twin fangs dropped low.

  A guttural growl escaped him and she shivered. Fighting the urge to clear her throat, fighting the need to run, she gingerly set her hands on either side of his wide shoulders and leaned down. He threaded his free hand through her hair, tightening his hold and turning her head to the side.

  Something natural, something feminine in her sighed, relaxing. He had her. And deep down, where certainty lived, she knew he wasn’t letting go.

  His rough tongue rasped from her collarbone to the underside of her jaw. A quiver swept her skin, followed by a blast of heat. She pressed down against him, core to core, softness to his hardness. He was hard. For her.

  Her eyes rolled back in her head. The tiniest of whimpers escaped. “Please.”

  As if he’d been waiting, he struck. Deep and fast, he gave no quarter, drinking. Taking. Owning. His hold tightened. A rumble filled his chest, an animal appeased.

  She arched, her body tinder, his mouth a match. Thoughts faded like old memories, worries fled as if chased. Nothing in reality, nothing in imagination, could compare to the sensation of her mate taking her blood. Her limbs softened, yet she shared power with him. Power flowing from him bolstered her. Energy, raw and pure.

  Elemental.

  Primitive.

  Everlasting.

  Sharp fangs retracted and he laved the wound, sealing it. A deep sigh escaped him. “Damn, woman.” His lids drifted shut. The hand in her hair loosened, and he tugged her to his side, rolling to tuck her in. His breath evened out in deep sleep.

  She sucked in air, vulnerability skating through her. The man had taken more than her blood. Very few, if any, people could handle Connlan Kayrs. She wasn’t one of them. Her back to his heated front, the temptation to sink into him, into his vision of the world, was almost too much to deny. Even worse, a part of her, a much larger part than she liked, wanted to please him. Wanted to make his world true.

  It was that thought that had her sliding off the bed and running for the door.

  She made it to the corridor, her eyes darting for the nearest exit in the rock walls. She had to get out of there, flee to the surface. The hour had to be close to midnight. The moon beckoned. Her boots echoed against the stone floor as she ran, finding the stairwell. Two steps inside and she collided with a chest that might as well have been a rock wall.

  An “oof ” escaped her as she bounced back. Only the quickest of reflexes helped the king grab her arms, keeping her from slamming into the metal door behind her.

  Like a rabbit in a snare, she struggled, panting.

  He released her, stepping back. “Moira.” Acceptance and understanding filtered across the king’s face. “Feeling trapped, are we?”

  “Yes.” She gulped, trying to stem the panic rippling under her skin.

  Dage studied her, a slight smile hovering on his lips. “Want to fight?”

  “Fight?” The King of the Realm wanted to fight with her?

  “Sure.” The smile erupted, a gleam in his eye. “We have the best sparring mats around. Kell has trained you, no?”

  Yeah. Till she bled from the ears. “Maybe a little.”

  The king had dimples.

  Interesting.

  He grasped her arm, all but tugging her down the stairs to the next level, which he opened onto a massive gym complete with tumbling mats. He shut the door. “Whenever I’m feeling the weight of this life, I hit something, usually Conn.” Cheerful anticipation lit the king’s words. “So. Gloves, knives, what?”

  Emotion rose hard and fast within her. “Nothing. We fight free-form.” The need to hit overwhelmed her. He may be trying to help, but the vampire was about to get his ass kicked.

  Chapter 23

  Kalin nursed his soda in the worn
booth at the hopping diner, hunkered down in his new bomber jacket. He fought the urge to scratch his face. The makeup adding color to his skin itched. High school students wandered around, some playing pool, others darts. A cool hangout, although they didn’t serve blood.

  Even there, he was cold. As soon as the scientists figured out a gene therapy so his people could venture into the sun, Kalin would move somewhere hot and learn to surf—while taking over the world, of course.

  A trio of giggling girls at a corner table threw flirty glances his way. Sophomores most likely, wearing low-cut shirts they’d probably covered with sweatshirts when leaving their safe homes. Sparkly makeup coated their faces. One could pass for a clown. He fought a grin. If the twits had any idea what he could do to them. What he wanted to do to them.

  The stench of burnt hamburger formed a bad taste in his mouth. Why anyone would eat there was beyond him.

  The glass door opened, tinkling with a small bell. Peggy glided inside, brushing her hair back. Somehow the room warmed. He straightened in his seat, throwing out his chest.

  She spotted him, waving and winding through a group of boys playing darts to drop into the booth across the table. Most people, even warriors centuries older than he, faltered and gathered their strength when approaching him. Not Peggy. She moved forward like she had nothing to fear, like he was safe. The idea of protecting her from the cruelties of the world heated his skin.

  Her unique scent of roses filtered toward him, making his heart thump faster. She smiled. “Hi. Sorry I’m late. I had to help close the store.” She worked part-time for her parent’s outdoor sports store and knew everything about fly-fishing.

  “Hi.” His gaze dropped to the light blue letterman’s jacket hanging on her small frame. The male scent of sweat and cologne assaulted his nostrils. A prickle messed with the back of his neck. “Whose jacket?”