by Everly Frost
Whatever he is now, he is definitely not a gentleman.
“Striker?”
When he opens his mouth to speak, two sharp incisors become visible behind his lips. “I know you.”
A shiver runs to my toes, but my eyes widen with confusion. “It’s me. Peyton.”
He gives me a self-satisfied smile as his deadly teeth peek from between his lips. “Like I said, I know you.”
He lowers his head, inch by slow inch, until his cheek nuzzles mine. I gasp as his fiery skin brushes against my neck, my cheek, and my forehead. At the same time, the hand that grips my shoulder eases, his thumb drawing across my chest to my neck. It’s a possessive gesture, raw and animalistic.
I remain very still, afraid to make any sudden moves, but the pure pleasure radiating from every touch of his hands and face is unbearable, demanding a response.
So help me, I want to nuzzle him back. He’s alive and I want all of him, whatever form he takes.
I force myself to speak. “What are you?”
He growls. “I’m Striker.”
A sudden laugh grows inside me. Striker only touched me like this once and afterward he pushed me away. The way I’m being touched now tells me that this… beast… whatever he is… won’t back off. “You’re really not.”
“I really am.” The corner of his mouth touches mine, the tiniest taste of my lower lip that strikes pleasure straight through to my center. “I’m the part of Striker that he controls and hides.”
I close my eyes, trying to remain lucid as the heat and press of his body threatens to drive all rational thought from my head. At the back of my mind, one worry remains and it’s not for my own safety: I can’t see Striker’s wound because he’s lying too close to me.
I have to make sure he’s healed.
Taking a chance to place both my hands on his chest, I attempt to push him away from me, testing whether he’ll do what I want. He lifts away from me a mere inch, but then he growls and fights me, pushing back against my palms to rub his cheek against mine again.
I shove harder and he gives an exasperated sigh. “Why do you push me away?”
I give him a stern look. “I need to see your body.”
His incisors appear as his lips curve into a gleaming smile. “You can look all you want.”
His arms straighten so his chest is visible to me, but his lower half remains resolutely pressed against mine. I’m not happy with what I see. The gash has remained as deep and raw as it was in the beginning—despite the power I sense flowing through him. The edges of the wound glow hot, the dirt caught in the wound burned away, but the cut itself isn’t healing.
An awful dread spikes through me.
He’s not healing. He’s operating on remnant power. It must be one final burst.
“Do you have the power to heal yourself?” I demand to know.
He pauses for a beat, his expression hooded, before he shakes his head. “I don’t.”
My heart plummets. I stare into his serious eyes, trying to find hope, refusing to believe that there’s nothing he can do. He’s powerful and his power feels so much like mine, as if we’re both forged from fire. “What are you saying? Are you saying… you’re…”
Not coming back to me.
He drops his head to mine, brushing his lips in the lightest touch across my cheek. “I came back to say goodbye.”
I shove him as hard as I can. “No, you didn’t. You won’t!” I grab his shoulders, attempting to push him away.
He barely budges, only lifting his head.
I snarl. “Don’t you dare kiss me until you’re healed!”
When he willfully brushes his lips to mine, I thump my fist against his shoulder. My claws shoot from my fingertips and I deliberately dig them hard around his upper arm, causing his eyes to narrow.
A sob rises into my throat. He can’t have come back only to leave me. I don’t care what he says. There has to be a way. “I’m ordering you to heal yourself or I will tear you to shreds.” My voice rises. “Do it. Now.”
He gives me a perplexed look. “You love me.”
Rage fills my head. “I hate you! I hate you more right now than I ever have. More than I’ve ever hated anyone.”
A growl builds in his chest. His lips draw back in a threatening snarl. His teeth lower to my neck, but this time they brush against my veins, a threatening nip. “You don’t want me to die.”
I grit my teeth in the face of danger. “I’m not afraid of you, Striker.”
“I know you aren’t.” His eyes burn me as he pushes up on his fists as far as he can go while still pinning me. The way his gaze rakes over me again is confusing. Does he hate me right now or lust after me? I can’t tell which.
His shoulder heats beneath my palm, his power glowing where my claws rake his skin. Or maybe… it’s my power glowing.
I sense my hair spread out across the bed as I press my other hand to his chest. Glistening strands of my hair rise up around my face and my claws appear on my left hand too, threatening to tear him to shreds.
“Listen to me carefully, Striker Draven. If you die today, I will follow you into hell itself and drag you back here.”
His snarl becomes sharper, the predatorial glint in his eyes a deadly threat. “You can’t win this, Peyton.”
A frustrated scream rises to my lips. I told him I’d rip out his heart, but it turns out he’s still ripping out mine, slowly and painfully.
The glow suddenly fades from his eyes. “It’s time to let me go.” He searches my eyes as he brushes the hair from my cheek with a sigh. “I’m tired of fighting.”
I try to drag air into my lungs. “Then stop.”
He’s confused. “That’s what I want to do. I want to give in.”
“No… Striker… stop fighting me.”
I never thought I’d meet someone who has built more defenses around their heart than I have. Striker protects his emotions with electric fences that have machine guns at the top to keep everyone at bay, slaying anyone who gets too close.
He needs me to stop fighting against him… and start fighting for him.
I’ve felt his power transfer to me when we fought each other and I’ve sensed mine transfer to him. I’ve healed myself when he kissed me and, even though the power to heal is all mine, it was triggered by the emotions I felt when he was physically close to me. He makes me stronger. My hate for him makes me stronger.
I have to believe that I can make him stronger too.
Retracting my claws, I slide my arms around him, drawing him down to me so his chest rests on mine. It’s difficult—his body is so heavy—but I wriggle my legs out from under him and curve them around his hips, pulling him closer than he was before.
Refusing to close my eyes, levelling my gaze with his, I draw on every shred of power inside me, focusing on the rage I feel at losing him, focusing on hating him with all my heart and soul.
I speak with all the vehemence and fury that burns between us. “I will heal you and bring you back to me, Striker Draven. I want you, like you, love hating you, love fighting you… love kissing you… want to walk out of here with you… one day… together…”
The heat between our bodies increases. My skin prickles, my stomach hurts, but my heart hurts more.
The crease in his forehead deepens.
He starts to speak, but I continue. “I won’t let you push me away. I won’t believe you next time you tell me I don’t mean anything to you. I’ll hear what you really want to say—that you need me—and I’ll wait as long as it takes for you to trust me. I won’t give up on you. I’ll protect you, and defend you, and I’ll tear apart anyone who hurts you.”
My power drains from me as I speak, flowing through my hands. I don’t know if it’s enough. I don’t know if he’ll let me heal him. I don’t know if I even can. “Please… choose… me.”
His gentle breath tickles my lips. “You… will defend me?”
“Yes,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut now. “Alway
s.”
“You like me.”
“Yes.”
His touch is soft, a questioning kiss, the growl fading from his voice. “You want me.”
“More than a little.”
His body shifts above mine before his arms slide beneath me, lifting me up so that I sit straddling him. My hips settles against his as if we’ve sat like this a thousand times before. As if it’s where I belong.
His arms tighten around me as I open my eyes, a question on my lips.
The fiery lines in his skin are fading, their glow sinking into his face, shoulders, torso, and arms again. He rolls his shoulders a little as his back shifts, returning to its former shape, the bony protrusions jutting from his spine retracting. His hands soften against my back and his incisors withdraw behind his lips.
I hold my breath as a new glow spreads from my fingertips and passes across his chest. His wound begins to knit, flesh and skin slowly pulling together. Pressing my hand firmly to his heart, I seek a beat beneath my palm. His wound will leave an awful scar and the flesh is vulnerable, not completely healed but…
Finally. Finally I sense a heartbeat.
I breathe out my relief.
He’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Tears flood my eyes and I can’t stop them. I want to pull him close, kiss his lips, press my cheek to his…
“I do,” he whispers, “I choose you.”
Sheer terror fills his eyes as soon as he speaks but he doesn’t look away.
I lean forward, very carefully, to kiss him. I don’t know how I did it, how I healed him. I don’t know if I could ever do it again, but I know that I want him in my life, imperfections and all. The warmth of his mouth is nearly my undoing, but I need to speak for my heart before I speak for my body. He’s more open to me than he’s ever been and I need him to know how much that means to me. All I want is truth between us.
“I will hate you furiously to the end of my days, Striker Draven. With all my heart and soul.”
He strokes my hair, winding his fingers into my braid, a gentle caress against my neck as he lowers his mouth to mine, fitting our lips together perfectly.
I tip my head back and sigh. Wrapping my arms around his back, I trace his muscles, easing out the tension I find in them. I love the way he relaxes into my touch, closing his eyes and soaking it up.
“I’m a Fury,” I whisper against his mouth.
He smiles. “I’m a Hellhound.”
Of course he is. We’re both creatures of violence and retribution.
He groans. “I want to stay right here with you, but we can’t.”
I stay close to him, stealing this moment, stretching it as long as I can. “We have to fight now.”
Stroking his cheek, I study his eyes. He’s weary, still healing. He needs time that we don’t have. It’s mid-afternoon and the others have until the evening, but we can’t leave it that late. My promise to defend him was not an idle one. I will have to watch his back closely in his weakened state.
“I’ll fight with everything I’ve got,” I say. “I won’t hide my power anymore. I won’t ask you to reveal what you are, but—”
“It’s time to show them what I am,” he says. “It’s long past due.”
He lifts me up off the bed, keeping me close, neither one of us wanting to part. With a sigh, I force my feet to the floor, but as he takes my hand, I catch sight of the ceiling.
“Wait,” I say, harnessing my power to fly upward, release my claws, and drag them through the rune above the bed, scratching through it. The awful sucking feeling fades and then disappears telling me that the magic has been destroyed. The hateful rune helped me, but I’m done putting up with it.
Striker’s gaze follows me upward, his lips parting as he watches me move. I give him a smile as I float for a moment, relishing the sense of weightlessness I feel in the air while my hair rises around me.
He gives me a quizzical look when I return to his side. “Why did you do that? It’s not like you’ll be sleeping in here tonight.”
I blush. “Where will I be sleeping, Striker?”
“Far away from here.”
Oh. He means we’re getting out of here, not that I’ll be sleeping in his bed. I shake my head at the way I feel disappointed by that, trying to laugh at myself. I guess I’ve really got my priorities straight.
His lips curve. He pulls me close, his eyes burning with an even brighter flame that tells me his power is regenerating quickly now. “What I mean to say is, far away from here in a bed that belongs to both of us.” His gaze softens. “I should be afraid of you, Peyton Price. You see into the heart of lies. You see me as I am. You are fury and vengeance, but I want you in my life like I’ve never wanted anything.”
“Then… will you fight at my side, Striker Draven?”
The flame in his eyes blazes. “Hell, yes.”
39. Peyton Price
We prepare ourselves quickly. Our plan is simple: get the other students out of the dining hall and make it to the front gate. Whether we can pull it off is another question. We consider whether it would be better to head for the back of the Academy instead—Striker will need to pull apart the iron bars either way—but we don’t know anything about the supposed creature in the forest. Given that trucks come in and out through the front, we have to assume there are barriers along the front entryway that will keep whatever is in the forest away from us.
“I’m not afraid of fighting it, whatever it is,” I say.
He gives me a laugh. “You’re rarely afraid. That’s a Fury trait.”
I wink. “I am the monster in the dark.”
He rubs my arms, a tentative gesture. It will take time for us to figure out how to act around each other now, what kind of physical touch is acceptable.
“Even so,” he says. “I don’t expect our passage to the gate to be easy. If we make it there, we don’t need to face another challenge so quickly.”
We hurry down the corridor, but I keep Striker in my sights at all times, watching him for signs of fatigue. The dining room will be full of compliance officers, so our first step is to ascertain which teachers are in there too. I’m guessing Ms. Sparrow, while Osprey is likely to be in the west wing somewhere. Ms. Hawk, Ms. Vulture, and Mr. Mallard are indeterminate. I’ve rarely seen them in the dining room, but this is an unusual situation.
Before we descend the stairs, Striker stops me. “The magic from their wands won’t touch you when you release your power, but you have to fully transform. I will too. None of the compliance officers controls instinctive magic, but we’ll have to watch out for Osprey.”
Instinctive magic is only controlled by a rare handful of very powerful witches who don’t need wands to harness their power. I’d like to believe that Osprey’s power is strictly contained to a wand but we can’t underestimate her like she’s underestimated us.
When we reach the first floor landing, moments away from gatecrashing the dining room party, Striker murmurs quietly, “They left me right here to die.”
I grip his bicep, leveling my gaze with his, my voice a bare whisper. “That was their mistake.”
He gives me a quick, firm nod.
Then he waits and I love the way he’s willing to let me go first. I cast him a sideways glance from beneath my lashes that he returns with a sudden hint of heat.
As I glide down the last set of stairs, my feet are light and whisper-quiet. I haven’t released my power much at all—I don’t float—but what little I have released gives me buoyancy that allows me to tread without sound, one bare foot at a time.
I allow my senses to expand, listening carefully to all the sounds around me. My hearing magnifies while my sight sharpens. I can suddenly see, in detail, all the imperfections in the wooden doors opposite us, the grooves in the floorboards, and sense movements right and left. Immediately to our right, the Founder’s room is empty, but farther along the west wing, I sense the separate movements of three bodies. They’re teachers, judging by their footfalls; one coul
d be Ms. Hawk since she wears boots like the compliance officers. Sounds higher up tell me someone is on the second floor in the west wing—another teacher not wearing boots.
“One teacher upstairs. Three in the west wing,” I whisper. That’s four teachers, including Osprey. “The only one I don’t have a location on is Raptor.”
Striker nods and I step carefully around the corner into the empty entrance. We’ll have to hurry now. From here, we can be seen all the way down each straight corridor. This place is like one big rectangle. The only places to hide will be rooms along the way.
I’m done hiding. Myself. My power. My heart.
Striker’s palm brushes between my shoulder blades, a quick affirmative touch. He has my back.
I break into a run, quiet as a panther, while Striker speeds behind me, his movements quiet and controlled.
Reaching the dining room, I slow down, approaching cautiously. I press my hand against the wooden door and listen.
There are so many bodies inside the room—compliance officers and students—that I can’t distinguish them. I’ll have to get better at using my power, but for now all I know is there are at least forty people inside.
“Time to make an entrance,” Striker murmurs at my ear, causing heat to rush to parts of my body that shouldn’t be engaged right now. We could be about to die. Kissing him should not be at the forefront of my thoughts.
He adds, “I’m looking forward to this. My beast has been dying to get some air.”
His beast. My fury.
I give him a smile as I push on the door and stroll inside, casual as a summer breeze.
Ms. Sparrow stands at the head of the room, her back to us. Each student sits at their allocated tables, but unlike at dinnertime, they’re bent forward across the table in front of them, their arms stretched forward and wrists shackled by glowing ropes that are anchored to the table’s surface. In that position, most of them rest their heads against the tabletop, their faces turned to the side. Compliance officers line the walls like usual for a lockdown, except that every one of them has their wand out.
The students must assume that we’re teachers coming in because they don’t look up when the door closes behind us.