Читать книгу Twilight Hunter - Kait Ballenger - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

JACE WAS SCREWED, so totally screwed. He slammed the door to his black H3 and moved to the driver’s side of the Hummer. Reaching for the handle, he silently cursed himself and wondered what the hell his problem was. Catch and kill. That had always been his philosophy when it came to hunting. Never once had he let one of those monsters live. Until now.

He climbed into the car and closed the door behind him. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw her wiggling in the backseat, naked breasts swaying as she fumbled against the cuffs. He shifted his weight, and his erection pressed against his pants. As much as he wanted to succumb to her beauty and the electricity that flowed between them when they touched, he knew better. He’d already thought too much with his lower head tonight.

She was right about the evidence. With no blood on her, no weapons and a different scent, there was no question she hadn’t killed that girl. But either way, letting her live was a betrayal of his job and his fellow hunters. And damn it, he sure as hell wasn’t about to change his convictions for a sweet lay. Werewolves were his enemies and always had been. He slammed his fist onto the steering wheel. The whole situation was bullshit. She hadn’t done anything wrong, so he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to kill her, but shit, she was a wolf.

He revved the engine and glanced in the mirror one more time. Her jaw clenched, pure frustration evident on her face as she continued to struggle with the handcuffs. Princess was seriously pissed off. Ripping his eyes from her gorgeous body, he pulled away from the curb and floored the gas pedal. Damn meeting started in fifteen minutes.

He patted his pocket, searching for his cigarettes, and slipped one out. He fumbled with his lighter until he finally lit up, then exhaled the smoke with the cancer stick still in his mouth.

A feminine cough sounded from the backseat. “Just because you want to destroy your lungs, doesn’t mean I want to ruin mine.”

Jace lifted the cigarette from his lips and blew the smoke into the air. “Rather demanding for a captive, don’t you think? Besides, we both know it isn’t going to kill you. You werewolves are pretty damn indestructible when it comes to drugs and alcohol.” He fought back a near laugh. He knew that all too well, didn’t he?

“I’m no one’s captive.” She glared at him in the rearview mirror.

Jace raised a single eyebrow. “Then what do you call those cuffs there?”

A deep scowl crossed her face, and even with an angry frown, she was still beautiful. “I’ll get out of here, and the first thing on my to-do list will be ripping your throat out with my teeth.”

“Feisty much?” He blew out more smoke before lifting one side of his mouth into a half grin.

“Kiss my ass.”

“Gladly.” He smirked. “Though I’d prefer to feel it first, if you don’t mind.” He checked the mirror; a blush bloomed across her high cheekbones, strong enough to show through her golden brown skin. His heart jumped, revving to life like his car’s engine.

His fingers whitened against the steering wheel before he slammed his fist into it again. He needed to focus. Meeting...meeting...meeting...man, those big brown eyes.

“Damn it.” She was killing him. She’d been around maybe twenty minutes, at the most, and already he regretted every decision he’d made thus far.

Why didn’t I shoot her in the head? Boom, problem solved.

“What’s your problem?” she asked. An electric shock zoomed down his spine at the sound of her voice.

“Captive, remember? That means you’re supposed to be quiet.”

“I won’t shut up until you gag me.”

“That can be arranged.” He puffed harder on his cigarette, filling the car with smoke.

“Try it,” she taunted.

Nothing he felt like trying, he thought. He would likely lose a finger or two in the process.

She coughed again. “Could you roll down a window or something for hell’s sake?”

He flicked the ashes out the window. “You’ve got a really big mouth, don’t you?”

“The better to rip your throat out.” She smiled, and in the rearview mirror he saw her long canines. He ran his tongue across his teeth—he had a pair of his own.

Sexy.

The word ran through his mind before he could stop it, and he instantly hated himself all the more. He thought of his mother’s face: the purple and yellow bruises that marred her porcelain skin and the wrinkles around her eyes as she sobbed. That was the night he walked out, leaving her unable to provide for her rapidly growing son, and slamming Jace with a life-long curse. Damn. He wasn’t right in the head, fantasizing about sex with one those monsters.

And as if his self-hate wasn’t enough, her voice taunted him, poking fun at his agony by driving him wild.

“You know, I—”

He stomped on the Hummer’s brakes, and the car jerked. Princess toppled halfway into the front seat, and only his death grip on the steering wheel stopped his forehead from colliding with the dashboard.

“Ow! What the—”

He turned to her, eyes narrowed in anger. Her mouth snapped shut when she met his gaze. As he spoke, his beast’s rage overtook him.

“Enough. Let’s get something straight. Unless you want a forty-caliber lodged in your skull, I suggest you keep your mouth zipped up nice and tight. Got it?”

She shook her head, the movement almost imperceptible, so it looked like she was trembling. Maybe she was. Shit. She peeled herself off the floorboard and retreated back to her spot without another word. He hit the gas again and sped toward the council’s warehouse four blocks away.

The small sniffle he heard behind him ripped at his heart. He tried to ignore it and focus on driving. Another sniffle. He couldn’t help himself. He checked the mirror.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, staining her perfect face. Her legs were hunched up to her breasts, and she was staring at the floor. His heart ached, threatening to explode. She was naked and vulnerable, and he’d just issued her a death threat. A wave of guilt shot through him as he thought of how he’d roughed her up in the alley. He really was a worthless bastard. He’d sworn to himself that he would never be like his father, never hurt a woman, but in the end he was no better than his asshole dad. Did it matter that she was a werewolf? She was still a woman. The angel and devil on his shoulders duked it out. He wasn’t quite sure which one was calling him a jackass. Maybe both.

Speeding around a final corner, he spotted the abandoned warehouse where the council held its meetings. He drove to the entrance and parked the H3, glad he had tinted windows. Before he chanced doing something stupid, he twisted the rearview mirror away from him, so her reflection wouldn’t tear him apart.

He stepped out of the car and glanced back at her. “This car is alarmed. Open a door, shatter the glass, fuck with the wiring, and the noise will wake the dead. That’ll bring me and three other supernatural-hating sons of bitches running.” His gaze raked over her nude form. “Unless you want that kind of attention...”

He slammed the door and walked toward the warehouse. Never in his life had he wanted to attend a council meeting so badly.

* * *

JACE STRODE INTO the rusted, run-down warehouse as he pulled yet another Marlboro from his trench coat and stuck it between his lips. Looking up from his lighter, he glanced at the three other hunters. Damon was sitting at the far end of the table, his hands folded together on his lap as he shot daggers at Jace with his ice-blue eyes. The usual warm fuzzy welcome.

The massive building was empty save for the single table, several overhead drop lights and the mounds upon mounds of old crates they’d put in to make the place seem more like an actual warehouse. Someone would be hard-pressed to find the switch that opened the door to the hidden room that held the Rochester division’s headquarters, unless they moved a hell of a lot of wooden crates. Even if they located the keypad, they would still be faced with the code and the body scanner.

Damon spoke. “You’re la—”

“No.” Jace held up one finger, cutting Damon off. He took a long pull on his cigarette, exhaled, then glanced down at his watch with a smug grin on his face. “Now I’m late.”

Damon’s face hardened into a frozen mask, but Jace knew the overwhelming anger that lay beneath that cold, impassive stare. Jace felt rage—it was in his blood—but Damon took angst and made it into a lifestyle. Head of the council and the fiercest vampire slayer Jace had ever seen, Damon Brock never smiled, and he sure as hell couldn’t take a joke.

“Sit down,” Damon ordered.

Jace flopped into one of the hard, metal chairs and propped his dirt-covered boots on the table. David sat at Damon’s right side with his large hand covering his black goatee as he snickered.

Jace nodded in his direction. “How’s it going, Big Daddy?”

“Not too bad, sugarplum.” A smirk crept across David’s face, reaching all the way to his black eyes.

Jace had never seen a woman who didn’t give David the “look” as soon as she met him, taking in that dark hair shaved close to his head, near-black irises, golden skin and chiseled features, scanning up and down his tall, massively built body, lingering on his massive shoulders and irresistible grin. But the entire time Jace had known him, David had had only two things on his mind: toasting demons and banishing their sorry asses back into hell, and Allsún, a girl he would never have again.

Jace and David exchanged smirks. David may have kept Jace in check and coming to meetings, but he wasn’t beyond goofing off a bit to grate on Damon’s nerves. Damon always responded as if they were undermining the entire division, making it almost impossible to resist fulfilling his paranoid expectations at least occasionally.

A grim look crossed Damon’s face. “What have you two been doing in your spare time?”

Jace fought not to roll his eyes at the predictable question. Damon was always suspecting him and David of conspiring over something. “Getting more action than you, that’s for sure,” he said. As a matter of fact, he could think of a very naked, gorgeous woman he would like to get some action with at that very moment. He shook his head. Now was definitely not the time. “Of course, none of us is getting as much as Shane over there. Ain’t that right, kid?” He winked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if you mean sexual intercourse, then no.” Shane fiddled with the buttons on his dress shirt. Though he was dressed to a nerdy tee, as usual, behind his gold-rimmed glasses and shy attitude there was a fighter in there, and Jace knew that if Shane would just ditch the specs and let loose, his problems with women would be cured.

“Come on, Shane. One of these days you’ll need to get familiar with the ladies.” David lightly punched Shane’s arm.

Damon frowned. “If all of you would stop goofing around, we’ve got a bunch of mutilated dead girls to talk about.”

Like he would ever forget that vicious mess he’d encountered in the alley, Jace thought, and pulled hard on his cigarette. “Mutilated dead girls—way to spoil the mood.”

Damon’s eyes narrowed into thin slits, his permanent grimace still in place. “Mouths shut and weapons in the bin. You know the drill. McCannon, you first.”

Damon grabbed a plastic bin from the floor, placed it on the table and pushed it forward. All weapons went into the bin before anyone was allowed to enter the HQ room. Standard protocol given the scanners they had to pass through in order to enter.

Jace pulled out his gun and unsheathed his dagger. He slapped both on the table and pushed them toward Damon.

Damon shot him a glare. “All of it.”

Jace frowned. He reached toward his ankles, feet still on the table, and removed two more daggers. “There.”

“David, your turn,” Damon said.

David stuck his hand down his shirt and pulled out a large Star of David necklace. He set it on the table before he emptied the contents of his pockets: multiple vials of holy water, a small collection of gold religious relics, several knives and finally a bag of salt. Rochester’s premiere demon exorcist, David Aronowitz, was more likely to be found wandering heavily armed through the city’s underground scene than wearing a yarmulke and keeping kosher. Unknown to the tiny ninety-five-year-old grandmother he adored, David regularly filleted demons Rambo style for a living.

David leaned his elbows on the table. “That’s all I got, D.” He shot Shane a glance. “You next, buddy.”

Shane pulled his basic nine-millimeter handgun from its holster on the side of his dress pants and carefully placed it on the table. He grinned for a moment, like he was finished, before he put his hand up. “Oh, sorry, I forgot—just one second.” Twisting in his chair, he unsnapped the flap of the messenger bag hanging from the back of his chair. With a loud boom, he dropped a massive book on the table.

Jace chuckled, and David belly-laughed right along with him.

David rested his head in his hand as he continued to laugh. “Shane, how many times do we have to tell you that a book is not a weapon? The scanner won’t even pick it up.”

“I beg to differ. It’s actually a very powerful tool. This book contains mounds of information about the rituals of pagan religion. It comes in quite handy when...”

He continued rambling while Jace stubbed out his cigarette. Dr. Shane Gray specialized in all things occult and studied the nastier ends of human society. But while his multiple Ph.D.s proved he had a lot of brains, he’d acquired jack shit in terms of street smarts.

“If you look at this page here, it shows you the diagram of the—”

Jace plucked his flask from his pocket and unscrewed the cap. “Come on already. If the kid thinks the damn book is a weapon, let him check it. He’s gotta have something other than a gun. It proves he’s got brains. That’s one hell of a weapon in my opinion.” He took a swig of the whiskey and felt the burn slip down his throat. With the way the evening was going, he would need a lot more alcohol to drown out the nightmares. Damn things had plagued him nearly every night since his dad left, and on the nights when his inner beast surfaced, it was nearly impossible to find any peace. That, combined with his thoughts continuing to wander to the divine woman in the backseat of his car, who happened to be a werewolf...well, best to start drowning the beast now if he had any hope of sleeping tonight.

Damon banged his fist on the table. “Would you all quit chatting like schoolgirls and get a move on?”

Jace dropped his boots off the table. “Why’re you in such a hurry?”

“Efficiency,” Damon said. He slapped a stake, a crucifix, two daggers and a handgun on the table, before he unsheathed a short but sharp steel-bladed sword from a holster on his spine.

Jace raised a brow. “Overkill much?”

Damon shot Jace a look of annoyance. He quickly placed all the weapons into the bin, taking special care with the sword, the knives and the glass vials. Everyone stood from the table and walked, with Damon leading the way, to the far side of the room, where David moved aside several large wooden crates, revealing a small switch in the wall.

When Damon flipped the switch, a small section of the metal-panel wall slid open. A small keyboard popped out, and Damon punched in the code. There was a swish as a compartment opened, and then Damon lowered the bin inside. Once the weapons were secured, the hidden entrance on the warehouse wall folded open. Damon stepped inside, then stood stock-still as the laser scanner ran over his body.

“Cleared,” an artificial voice said.

Damon moved past the portal, and the other men took turns following him through the scanner. When they finished, all four of them descended the basement staircase into the control room at the heart of their operation. Multicolors flashed across the array of screens connected to the computer database. The Execution Underground bosses never skimped on their tech budget.

Damon’s expression was all business as he took his regular seat. “We need to focus our efforts on the case of these mutilated women.”

Damon’s voice droned on, and Jace fought to pay attention. What if she got loose? He would be screwed. She would tell the local packmaster that he had moved into the area, and then all the damn monsters would be on the lookout for him.

“Jace, get your head out of your ass and focus,” Damon barked. “This concerns you more than anyone.”

Jace looked up and frowned, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. Someone needed to teach Damon a lesson in manners.

After several long seconds of glaring, Damon turned back to the group. “As I was saying, the deaths started nearly three weeks ago, and that’s just here. It could’ve been going on in other cities around the state or even the country for months, even years. The frequency is escalating, which means we’ve got to end this, and soon. Not only for the sake of the victims, but to save our own asses, as well. We can’t have HQ breathing down our necks and finding out how infested this city is with supernatural scum. Four young women, mutilated and dead, means—”

Jace sighed. “Five.”

Damon closed his mouth and the room fell completely still. Jace stood and leaned against the nearest wall.

“Right after David called me about the meeting, I found her in an alley. Same M.O.—ripped to shreds and then raped while she bled out.”

Damon’s hands clenched into fists. “You’ve had three weeks. Three weeks to find this son of a bitch, and yet innocent girls are still being murdered on your watch.”

The anger Jace directed toward himself and his rage at the killer combined with his current frustration and bubbled beneath his skin. Had the Mateba been clipped at his side, a bullet would already have zoomed straight through Damon’s smug face.

David and Shane glanced away from the argument in progress, uncomfortable with the skyrocketing level of anger on display. They busied themselves pretending to multi-task. Shane started scribbling notes on his paperwork, and David fiddled with the items surrounding his computer as if counting paperclips was an extremely important task.

Jace pointed straight at Damon. “You can’t pin this on me. You aren’t out there every night trying to track this monster down. I’m the only one working this damn assignment.”

“Because it’s your area of expertise,” Damon said.

Jace pushed away from the wall and straightened to his full height. “Just because the guy’s a werewolf, that doesn’t make it solely my problem.”

“What if he isn’t a werewolf?” Shane interjected.

Jace’s head whipped in his direction. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Shane ignored his pissed-off tone and continued. Sometimes the kid had more guts than Jace gave him credit for.

“I mean, have we really considered the possibility that this could be something else? Maybe that’s why you’ve had such difficulty catching him?”

“Shane has a point,” David said. “Have we really thought about it? We need to keep our minds open. For all we know, it could be some bastard who likes to pretend he’s the new and improved Ted Bundy. He could be human.”

Jace slammed his fist against the wall. “I know this is a werewolf, all right?”

Shane piped in again. “But how can you be certain if—”

“I’ve never been so certain in my damn life. The way this shithead rips open his victims isn’t possible with human hands or human weapons—or human teeth. So unless he’s siccing a pack of rabid dogs on these girls after he rapes them, then there is no damn way this is anything other than a werewolf attack. Everybody got that?”

David moved to stand at Jace’s side and slapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Why don’t you call Trent tonight and see if he’ll check it out? Maybe it’s some other kind of shifter. He’d know. We can talk to him and Ash when they get back from helping the Brooklyn division catch that ghost shifter. They’ll be at the meeting tomorrow morning.”

Jace gritted his teeth together and kept his jaw clamped shut. He thought of the female wolf out in his car. What the hell was he going to do with her? He pulled at his sleeve and hoped to hell that the blood from his wound wasn’t seeping through his trench coat. At least the wound was starting to knit itself back together. He could feel it.

“While we’re at it, why not have Shane take a look, too? Maybe this has to do with the voodoo stuff he likes so much,” David said. “I’ll go with you, Shane.”

Shane smiled from ear to ear. He didn’t get to do much out in the field, and Jace could tell he was stoked. “I can examine the scene for any possible evidence of occult ritual activities. But you know, rarely is there actually a—”

Jace let out a low growl. “The cops have probably stumbled across her by now. Though even the beat cops avoid those back alleys, so who knows, maybe you’ll get lucky and find her the way I did—legs spread, heart missing and organs thrown around like fucking confetti over the asphalt. So once you’ve all taken a good long look and made a spectacle of this poor girl’s corpse, why don’t you give me a holler so I can say I told you so?”

Damon glared at Jace, his high cheekbones casting shadows across his features, hollowing him out like a dead man. “If this is a werewolf, you have one week from tomorrow before HQ takes over the investigation and I have to replace you on grounds of incompetence. They’re breathing down my neck as it is, and they’re not going to sit back and do nothing if civilians keep dying,”

“That isn’t gonna happen. I’m the best damn werewolf hunter on the East Coast, and you know it, Damon. Don’t give me that shit.”

“Please, Jace, no reason to use so much humility.” Damon wrenched open a drawer and pulled out a large stack of papers. “This meeting is over.” He turned away from Jace and glued his gaze to the pages. “All of you fill out your damn paperwork so HQ can have their damn signatures, then scan it into the computers and go home. David, I need the updated report on that Vetis demon possession, and someone call Trent and tell him to get his shit together and give me some notes on the influx of shifters. I want to know why the hell, on a regular basis, we’re being overrun with freaks who shift into alley cats. And while you’re at it, tell Ash I need a report from him on the haunting in that old psych ward.”

Jace fought hard not to put his fist through one of the computer screens. “Why the hell did we have a damn meeting if it’s only going to last ten minutes? You could’ve picked up a phone if all you wanted was to verbally ream my ass.”

Damon didn’t look up. “Perhaps it would have lasted longer if you hadn’t pissed me off.”

Without another word, Jace strode out the door, and back up the stairs.

David called after him. “J., I’m—”

The large metal entrance to their haven slammed in its frame, cutting him off. The cold air of the unheated warehouse hit Jace hard. He exhaled and watched his breath swirl in the overhead light, like steam from his anger. His thoughts flashed through the night’s events, and he frowned.

Mutilated dead girls, a pissed-off werewolf hunter and a naked vixen. Not a good combination.

* * *

DAVID SAT DOWN at his desk and stared at the back of Damon’s head after Jace stormed out. Another meeting, another “my dick is bigger than yours” contest between Jace and Damon. They might as well pull their cocks out for everyone to see so they could settle the battle once and for all. Damon’s constant harping on Jace’s every move was getting old.

David crossed his arms over his chest. “Why do you have to bust his balls like that? You know it only makes him want to challenge you more.”

Setting down his pen, Damon looked up from his paperwork. “David, it would serve you best to keep your mouth shut.”

David threw up his hands in surrender. Man, was Damon good at overreacting. “Look, I’m just trying to promote some camaraderie here.”

Damon turned and glared at him with his piercing, ice-blue eyes, then returned to his reports. “When I want your input, I’ll let you know.”

David frowned. He swore Damon lived with a permanent stick shoved up his ass. It would explain the pissed-off attitude 24/7. But pissed off or not, there was no way he was about to let Damon dismiss him that easily. “HQ encourages all hunters to form alliances with each other. We’re an international network, not a bunch of loosely affiliated individuals. Their words, not mine.”

Damon threw his pen onto his desk, his jaw clenched tight. He turned to David again. His eyes narrowed with a look of sheer annoyance. “I suggest that unless you want to join Jace on the fast track to losing your job, you shut the hell up while you’re ahead.”

David gripped the edge of his chair. He was willing to put up with a lot of bullshit, but leader or not, no one talked to him like that, and no one threatened his job.

Standing, he pointed at Damon. “Don’t think that just because I’m not as rebellious as Jace that means I’m gonna sit here and take your shit. If that’s the game you wanna play, then so be it. But my ass is covered. I’ve never stepped a foot out of line, and you know it. Can you say the same?”

“Are you implying that I don’t follow protocol?” Damon asked.

David shook his head. “I’m not implying anything. I’m saying that a hunter who does everything by the book is a good hunter. A hunter who throws the book at others like it’s the damn Torah is covering up his own mistakes by pointing out others’.”

David walked toward the door and paused, then glanced back. He couldn’t let Damon’s threats go any further. He’d taken it one step too far this time. “I’m calling your bluff, Damon. You can’t and won’t fire Jace, because he really is the best damn werewolf hunter on the East Coast. We all know he’s not exaggerating when he says that. It’s pure fact, and if you take him off the case just to prove your own stupid point, you’re a fool and those girls’ blood is on your hands. And you won’t fire me, either, because where are you going to find another demon hunter with my kind of experience? When you find someone who has known how to summon demons and sense demonic possession since they were five, you let me know. Then I’ll start being afraid of your threats.”

David turned to Shane and nodded for him to follow. “Come on. We’ll go examine the crime scene again, since our leader here can’t trust the judgment of his expert hunters.”

Shane’s eyes widened. Without a word, he snatched his messenger bag off the back of his chair and hurried after David.

Damon didn’t bother to say a word.

* * *

FRANKIE THREW ALL her body weight against the H3’s window. Her shoulder hit the glass and sent pain surging through her torso. She maneuvered her hands onto the handle one more time and pulled. Nothing.

“Damn it,” she said into the silence.

She rested against the seat, the leather sticking to her naked skin despite the cold temperature. She let out a loud huff. Locked up in a hunter’s car, and every escape route she’d tried thus far hadn’t worked.

To think, this morning she’d been bitching about how quickly her hair and nails grew during her estrus. Normally she loved going to the salon for a mani-pedi, but having to do it every couple of days got old fast. She was eternally ungrateful to her werewolf ancestry for saddling her with the problem. That had been her worst concern during the day. Well, that and the whole Alpha-mating thing. Boy, had that come back to bite her in the ass.

A small pang hit her chest. Alejandro would never forgive her for skipping out on their arranged mating ceremony. It wasn’t his fault he’d been chosen to be her mate. He hadn’t chosen it any more than she had, but she knew he was a stickler for tradition, and leaving him at the altar had shamed him in front of the pack. She hated to think of such a strong warrior, her closest confidante, being hurt by her betrayal. She and Alejandro had grown up together. She felt she owed him more than that. But how could she take him as a mate, a husband, when she loved him only as a friend?

Pushing the thoughts from her mind, she willed her body to change. In her wolf form, these shackles would slide from her wrists, and she could launch herself at his throat with three-inch canines the moment he opened the door. Unfortunately, that opportunity had passed some time ago, quite literally, with the clock ticking past midnight. Changing now was nearly impossible with her body’s yearly estrus period, her mating cycle, kicking into gear. Not that she would have been likely to manage it anyway, not with the silver cuffs on her wrists.

But damn, she had to try something.

Think, Frankie. Think.

Trying every handle and unlock button—no easy feat while handcuffed—hadn’t yielded any luck, either. The hunter hadn’t lied—there was no way in hell she could get out of this gas-guzzler unless he allowed it.

She kicked the window out of sheer annoyance. Though it had proved impossible to break earlier, she had to keep trying. Her foot slammed into the glass. The release of tension calmed her, and she side-kicked harder, finally leaving a solid crack, but the window refused to shatter. It had to be bulletproof.

Tomorrow. She would escape tomorrow. When the mating call had passed and she was back to her full power, she would take the bastard down. She would be in top shape. Already the knife wound and her scrapes had healed, despite the weakness associated with her mating cycle. But until then, she was stuck. Damn.

“Stupid. Handsome. Kidnapping. Psycho,” she grumbled, timing a word with each blow. Cracks splintered across the glass, but it still refused to break.

“What the hell are you doing to my car?”

She peered into the front seat. The hunter was back, so quiet and stealthy, she hadn’t heard him arrive.

He twisted the rearview mirror to watch her. “I thought I told you there was no point in wasting your energy?”

“I had to try. You could’ve been lying.”

The car’s engine purred to life. He shifted into Drive, and they sped away from the warehouse. “I am not a liar.” His words sounded like a growl.

Frankie’s eyes widened. Apparently she’d jabbed a soft spot. She fought to keep a smirk off her face as she realized the advantage this could give her. She thanked herself for paying attention in psychology way back in high school, before dance became her focus.

“Well, if you’re not a liar, that must mean you’re not a bad guy, right?”

“What are you getting at?” he said, his voice as gruff and angry as before.

“I mean to say, if you’re not a bad guy, why bother taking me captive? You’re not going to kill me or you would’ve done it already.”

“Are you sure?”

The pit of her stomach shimmied like she was teaching one of her salsa classes. She wasn’t sure. But she had to take the chance. She wanted him to be good. Needed him to be good. Her life depended on it.

Right now, Mr. Hunky Hunter saw her as an object, a monster, exactly like his job told him to. She needed to humanize herself.

“You know, I’d really like some clothes. I had some stuffed in a backpack near where you caught me. I’m a normal person. I don’t usually walk around nude.”

“You do when you’re with your pack.” He pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “If you’re even part of a pack.”

She coughed, trying to take in as little smoke as possible. He smelled beautiful, but the smoke drowned out his natural scent. The man seriously needed NicoDerm CQ. He blew out more smoke, and she swore she could already feel her lungs shriveling into black prunes.

“Are you? Part of a pack?”

She stayed silent. Would he hate her more if she belonged to a pack or if she were a rogue? Considering the recent DOA rogues, she would bet on the latter.

“A rogue, huh?” He glanced at her in the mirror.

Her heart pounded faster as she stared into the reflection of his luminous green eyes. She cleared her throat. Damn hormones. “I’m in a pack.”

Her pack. Even after functioning as packmaster for three years, she still struggled to absorb the idea. But through her blood, she had birthright, and since her mother and father’s deaths, she had fulfilled her duty. No brothers, no sisters, no cousins. Just her. She was the only one left, and now the first Alpha female ever to run Rochester.

He turned to the road again, and she leaned into her seat. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer her. His gaze was focused on the road ahead of him with an intense concentration. A strand of his silky auburn hair slid across his headrest, and her fingers itched to reach out and touch it. Ruggedly handsome, the hunter looked as if he’d strolled out of one of her most intimate fantasies, and the image of her hands running over his strong, muscled shoulders shook her.

The car stopped, and her whole body jerked forward. The hunter hurried from the car. A cold burst of air rushed into the vehicle as he opened the door beside her. He leaned in close and pushed the barrel of his gun into her lower back.

“You know the drill. Don’t say a damn word.”

She clamped her jaw shut and didn’t move.

“Good girl. Now get out of the car.”

Slowly she stepped out of the Hummer, praying for someone to see her and call the cops to report her for indecent exposure. Man, would she love to see a cop right now. Her captor grabbed hold of her arms and led her onto the sidewalk toward a nearby brownstone. He marched her right up to the entryway before he paused and entered the door code. As soon as the green button lit up, he pushed her inside and paraded her up the stairs.

They climbed two flights and finally reached a shabby wooden door sporting a pitted brass number six hanging a little too far to the right. He pulled a key—hanging on a chain like a dog tag—from inside his shirt and jammed it into the lock. The tumblers clicked, and he hurried Frankie into the run-down apartment.

Bleak. That was the one word to describe the small space. A flattened, faded, brown couch sat in the middle of the room, facing a T.V. From the dust on the screen, it was rarely, if ever, used. A small gas stove, a refrigerator, and of course, every man’s best cooking pal, a microwave, sat against the far wall—no division between the living room and the makeshift kitchen. An open door stood across from her, leading into what appeared to be his bedroom. The faint scent of cigarette smoke hung in the air.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” she said as he herded her farther into the apartment.

He ignored her sarcasm and used his key to lock the door behind them. “It locks from the inside, so don’t try to get out.” Standing there handcuffed and naked, she watched him wander into his bedroom, peel off his trench coat and throw it onto the bed.

She wiggled her wrists around, fighting against the handcuffs to no avail. She could already feel the silver beginning to burn her skin. What the hell was she supposed to do? Just stand and wait? She glanced up again, and her breath stopped short as the hunter turned and met her gaze. A warm flush crept through her, and a flood of heat emanated from her core. His appeal in the alleyway was nothing compared to the handsome, rugged man who stood before her now.

In the light, his dark auburn hair glistened and the vibrancy in his emerald eyes took on a life of its own. With the trench coat gone, he sported a pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt that conveniently hugged his muscular body in all the right places. She slouched in on herself, trying to hide her bare breasts. The thought of his hair brushing against her cheek while he laid her down crossed her mind.

She lowered her stare to the floor. “Um...can I have some clothes, or at least something to cover up?”

When she looked at him again, all the air rushed from her lungs. His eyes ran over her body, and she would have sworn his irises flashed a hint of gold, the familiar color of a wolf’s eyes. But that couldn’t be right. He hunted her kind. She shook her head.

Friggin’ Stockholm syndrome!

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Nothing. My mind is just playing tricks on me, that’s all.” She paused. “The clothes...uh...please?”

He looked at her for another long moment before he walked into his room. He returned with a white dress shirt extended in his hand.

She rattled her handcuffs. “A little help would be nice.”

He stalked behind her, his gait smooth and graceful like an animal’s. Yanking her closer to him, he worked at the cuffs. She stumbled and bumped into him. Her whole body froze. She clenched her thighs together as a wave of desire rolled through her, leaving her core hot and ready from the feeling of his arousal pressed against her.

* * *

JACE FOUGHT TO keep his breath steady and avoid panting like a rabid dog. He wanted to bend her over and take her right there, just like that—enter her hard and deep, reaching places where she’d never been touched. He unhooked the cuffs and held out the shirt. Princess slipped her arms in the sleeves. He stared at her with hunger in his eyes, his hands aching to run up her arms, over her shoulders and down onto her beautiful breasts.

Man, he was one sick pervert. He’d dragged her here in handcuffs, and now he was eying her like she was his own walking pin-up girl.

She finished buttoning the shirt, and he pointed to the bedroom. “Bed. Now.”

“Wh-what?” The word sounded as if she were straining for air.

He pointed to the gun still holstered at his hip. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Bed. Now.” He gave her a small nudge between the shoulders, and she shuffled toward the bedroom. He wiped his hand off like she was contaminated. Every time their skin touched an electric current jolted his body, leaving him with a strong, powerful feeling, like a freshly recharged battery.

Princess froze when she reached the mattress.

He placed his hand on his gun, ready to draw. “What the hell are you standing there for? Get on the bed.”

Without warning, she spun around and charged him, knocking into him full force and toppling them both to the ground. Shit, he should’ve put the cuffs back on her. She threw a punch and hit him square in the jaw. He grabbed her fist and pushed her away. Damn, she packed a punch. She struggled against him, holding her own better than many male werewolves he’d fought, but he shoved her hard. He had his own supernatural advantages. From the startled look in her eyes, she hadn’t expected his strength. She scrambled into a crouched position and paused just long enough for him to pull his gun.

He pointed the barrel straight at her head. “What the hell are you thinking? I told you not to try anything,” he growled. “Make this easier on both of us and do as I say.”

She stood as he simultaneously rose to his feet, gun still pointed straight for her. “Get on the bed. I swear, if you do anything else, I will put one of these bullets right through your skull. Don’t make me do anything we’ll both regret later.”

Her eyes grew wide as she inched toward the mattress, her hands up in surrender. “You’re not going to—”

He sighed. “I may be holding you captive, but I’m no rapist. I spend my days hunting and killing werewolves, not sleeping with them. Now, get on the damn bed. Just because I won’t take advantage of you doesn’t mean you won’t be first on my shit list if you don’t cooperate.”

She climbed onto the bed.

“Wrist,” he mumbled. She lifted her arm and he slapped the cuff on, hooking it to the headboard to chain her in place. “Don’t try anything stupid while I get the other one.”

He wandered into his closet and retrieved his only other set. When he returned, he caught her pulling against the cuffs. “I thought I told you not to try anything stupid.”

“I think sitting here and doing nothing would’ve been more idiotic. You can’t expect me not to fight.” She stopped fiddling with the cuffs and shot him a glare. “You’re so lucky I can’t shift.”

“Why do you have to be so uncooperative? Usually, following the orders of someone who’s threatening to kill you is a good idea, but you still keep challenging me.”

“At the moment you’re not threatening to kill me, you’re just standing there.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t push my buttons. I don’t have time for your crap.” He walked to the other side of the bed. Grabbing her wrist, he cuffed her free arm to the other side.

She writhed and fought against the restraints in between breaths. “And you think I have time for this? I have a life. Unlike you, I spend my time doing constructive things rather than hunting down innocent people.”

Jace strolled over to his trench coat and dug his flask out of the pocket. “Innocent? I found you at a murder scene. Your innocence is somewhat questionable.”

“We both know I didn’t do it. I was looking for the killer,” she said. “I told you. No blood, no weapons and no male equipment.”

He meandered into the “kitchen.” “You think I don’t know that? If I thought you did it, you’d already be buried six feet under.” The Bushmills sat at the front of the cabinet. He grabbed it, poured some in the flask for later and then carried the whole bottle back to the bedroom. “You may not be the killer, but how can I trust that your goal is the same as mine?”

“My goal is the same. Why else would I have been in that alley? If you know I didn’t do it, why the hell are you holding me?”

“To get to the Rochester packmaster.”

Her eyes widened, and she blinked several times. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He took a swig from the whiskey bottle. “No, I’m not. That son of a bitch Frankie Amato has got another think coming if he thinks I’m gonna take care of business for him. Every night I’ve been patrolling, looking for the sick fuck who’s hurting these women, and are any of his men out searching? No. There should be werewolves prowling everywhere, if not to help, then at least to cover his ass. Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone in the Rochester pack is doing this.”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t so biased and hateful, you’d realize that Frankie is trying his best. I volunteered to search for the killer.” Her nostrils flared as she exhaled a long breath. Her anger reminded him of an animal in fight mode—powerful and stubborn.

He scoffed. “Oh, so he sends a lone female werewolf to do his work? Where are the rest of you?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to endanger his pack members.” Her full lower lip quivered and contradicted all the fire in her eyes.

“Better werewolves than innocent people.”

She froze as if he’d stabbed her in the chest. Her cheeks flushed as her shock boiled into rage. “How can you say that? We are people.”

Jace gulped more whiskey. “Infected people.”

“We’re not infected. We can’t turn anyone into—”

“Maybe not someone who’s already been born. You can’t infect them, but a fetus, you sure can. What about all those freaking babies that you harness with your curse from birth, huh?”

The image of his father haunted his mind as he spoke—his old man’s handsome features, which resembled his own, twisted and snarling with anger as he slapped Jace’s mother around. But the worst: after all the abuse the bastard had forced his mother to endure, he’d strolled out the door and left them with nothing but scarred memories and broken lives.

Jace lowered his eyes to the floor; he could still smell the summer rain mixed with the city’s scent from the night his father left.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be one of us. How do you know it’s a curse? Some think it’s a gift.” She tugged against the cuffs, her face filled with raw pain.

“How do I know?” He started to laugh and brushed his fingers through his hair. “How do I know?” He set the bottle on the ground and stalked toward her, his gaze fixated on her large, chocolate-brown eyes. She pressed closer to the headboard as he leaned onto the bed and positioned himself over her. A shiver of power shot down his spine, and he allowed the beast to take the reins. “Because it’s my curse to bear.”

She gasped as his green, human irises transitioned to golden wolf eyes and reflected in her gorgeous stare.