To the friends who listen to my constant yatter about characters and plots even though it must drive them mad, to Milly for always being there, and to Holly for all your help. Thank you.
Chapter One
Darce’s head hurt as he swam up through the foggy, drugging layers of unconsciousness. Hurt? Understatement of the fucking year. There were some pains that were instantly recognizable by the sufferer. The unmistakable burning slash of a cat’s claw or the insidious slice of a papercut. The brain automatically picked up on lack of pain that followed a more serious injury, adding the thought “oh shit, that’s going to hurt” before the pain kicked in. The body and mind knew the throbbing, nauseating ache that accompanied a bad hangover. And Darce, someone used to a life of violence, recognized this one.
His eyes closed, he lay still and waited for the pain to ebb. The sharp pain radiating out from the side of his head was consistent with a hard blow from the butt of a rifle. It was a pain he knew but very much wished he didn’t. In fact, he’d have been happy to have gone through life without finding out how it felt to be hit in the side of the head with a blunt object, but the fates had other plans for him. Bitches hadn’t even sent him a memo so he could call in sick on the FUBAR crapshoot his life had become.
The fog in his head receded. Enough for him to make out two people carried him, one shorter than the other. His inner wolf growled but Darce silenced it with ruthless control. Until he knew what was going on, faking unconsciousness was his best option. Unconscious men were less of a threat. Out cold, he couldn’t shift, couldn’t let the beast within out to wreak havoc. Conscious and faking it? Even if it was going to be a holding his head, half-hearted sort of havoc, he could still go Freddy Krueger on the humans around him with fatal consequences.
For them at least.
“…cks sake, what do they feed these guys?” A voice, male and pissed off, broke through the fuzz and got Darce’s attention.
He frowned to himself, probing the black spots in his memory. Fading in and out that way wasn’t good. If he’d been human, he’d have been in serious shit. Head injuries could screw someone up big time. It had been his main worry when he’d joined the army—that he’d get shot in the head and end up a vegetable.
That was before.
Before, winding up comatose or—God forbid—dead were the worst things he could imagine. Now he knew better. A word loomed in his mind, larger than life and twice as terrible, nightmares clustering around the letters like dancers around a premier league footballer in a strip joint.
Project.
In the world of the Project, even death wasn’t permanent. But you sure as fuck didn’t want to come back the Project’s way.
He lurched to the side as one of the carriers lost its grip, dropping his legs and slamming his heels into the ground. A warm body crashed into him, the sharp stink of sweat and aftershave crowding into his sensitive nostrils.
“Crap.”
Clothing rustled and tension ramped in the air. Darce sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, and his new companion was shoved off him in a rough movement.
“For fucks sake, Wilson. Don’t get so close. Do you want your damn throat torn out?”
The voice was female, angry and very familiar. Still feigning unconsciousness, Darce frowned and probed the black spots in his memory. Why was it familiar? It couldn’t be Nic—it was too rich and lyrical for the rough-edged female wolf. In fact, it didn’t sound like a Lycan voice. The particular note all wolves acquired after their change was missing.
She moved, stepping over him. Her pant leg brushed his arm and her scent exploded around him. Blood, dirt and lust. He took a sharp breath. Memories of the last twelve hours ripped through his mind like a film on fast-forward, burning the fogginess out of his brain.
The hospital. Barred windows and restraints on the bed. Silver burning through his veins, eating away under his skin like acid. The moon above calling out to him, playing peek-a-boo from behind the clouds. Jack’s face hovering over him, distorted and strange, as though he looked out through a fish eye lens. Shouted commands he couldn’t hear over the roar of his wolf.
More…more…more.
Pain and fire. He pushed the sedative out through his pores, each beaded silver droplet sweating agony until he lay exhausted on the floor. A seductive-sweet scent. That of a woman, Jack’s woman…Jack’s mate. The first mate any of them had found. Lycans around him as they planned to escape before the Project teams arrived in gunships and transport carriers.
Then it was too late to leave. To run…escape into the wilderness. But this time the Project brought more than pain and terror with their soldiers and the walking corpses they used to clean up their messes.
They’d brought her with them. Her. His mate. A creature of the Project like him, but not the same. Pain and elation wrapped around his heart. He had a mate, her scent cleaving to his heart in an instant. But she was a Blood. The enemy. Bloods hated Lycans as much as Lycans hated Bloods. Hatred and fear of each other was instinctive, cell deep.
They’d killed the RAs she’d sent in and Jack’s mate had led the pack to safety through the earth. They’d run through the forests, staying in the shadows, holing up because Lilly was human and needed rest. Deep in the embrace of the trees and nature they’d hidden well, but the Project had found them… She’d found them. His mate had found him.
He’d brought the enemy down on them, but he wasn’t sorry. How could he be sorry when she’d followed him?
His mind filled with images of her. Tall and lean, her slender figure packed with curves that made his mouth water. His interest in her primal and male as she flashed her fangs and claws at him. God, imagining those cute little fangs buried in the thick muscles of his neck had gotten him hard.
The scene changed. Him over her. Victory and lust surging through him, he leaned in to claim his prize—a taste of her soft lips. Her black eyes flashed with amusement before pain shot through his skull and dropped him into darkness.
Fuck. Of all the stupid, fucking rookie mistakes to make. He’d been so focused on her he’d forgotten she had troops with her. The humans no match for him…unless he took his eye off the ball. He was a fucking idiot. Distracted by a woman. He lay still when she’d stood over him, her voice raised at the soldier who had dropped him.
“He’s out of it, Major…” A new voice, male and young. “Damn mutt’s not doing anything for the foreseeable future. I cracked him a good ’un on the skull. Be surprised if he ever wakes up, to be honest. I ’eard bone crunch. He’s harmless.”
Oh great, just freaking great. No wonder he had a pounding fucking headache. Sounded like the dumb-fuck human had tried to perform brain-surgery via rifle butt. Luckily, Lycans were more resilient. A skull fracture was well within his wolf’s ability to heal.
The memory of Jack’s voice filled his mind and his lips quirked.
If we’re lucky, maybe it will knock some fucking sense into him.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Wilson. He’s a Lycan. He’s not harmless. Even tied up, naked, he could find at least seventeen ways to kill you,” his ladylove replied, anger in her tone. Even without opening his eyes, Darce could imagine her straddling his body, her hands clenching and un-clenching at her sides while her eyes flashed with fire.
“Forget any nonsense you’ve seen in films. He’s a killing machine. You cracked his skull? Great. When he wakes up, he’s going to be a pissed off killing machine. One I have to deal with. So congratulations, you pissed us both off. Now fuck off before I rip your head off instead of his.”
Darce cracked an eyelid open in time to see Wilson stumbling backward, shock on his baby face as he put a sensible distance between himself and the vampire. Christ, the guy looked all of twelve. Where was the Project getting them these days? Kindergarten?
“Fucking idiot,” the female Blood groused to herself, her voice too low for the hovering human to hear. She bent over and hooked her hands under Darce’s arms again. He kept silent, his body lax while she dragged him across the dirt and grumbled about incompetent humans all the way.
She paused for a second, and then hauled him upward. Strong hands found purchase on his clothing so she could manhandle him up and over onto a hard surface. He wasn’t a small man, so even though he knew she was a Blood, he’d have been impressed at her strength. Would have been if he weren’t face-down on the metal bed of what appeared to be a troop transport. Fan-fucking-fastic. He was all for getting new designs on his body to complement his current ink, but floor markings on his face weren’t ideal.
“Damn great lump. What the freaking hell do they feed you?” she muttered again, grabbing his shoulders and flipping him over. He landed back on the floor with an “ooomph” as the air whooshed violently from his lungs.
He opened his eyes at the same moment she grabbed his wrists and slapped cold metal bands around them. The next second, she yanked his arms up over his head and locked them into place on the side of the cabin.
“Oh, handcuffs. Kinky,” he drawled, making her jump. “If you wanted to get down and dirty sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.”
Wilson, hovering by the tailgate, snickered. “Yeah, like a dog would be any good in the sack.”
Darce cut him a swift look. “That’s not what your mom said—”
The Blood moved, lashing out and cuffing him above his ear. Darce yelped, swore and ducked his head to avoid a repeat performance. “What the fuck… This is prisoner abuse. I demand a retrial!”
Her black on black eyes sparkled with anger and fire. “I don’t give a fuck who or what you are. I’m freaking sick of ‘your mom’ jokes. So can it already. Both of you.”
The barked order was authoritative and issued with an obvious expectation of compliance. Both Wilson and Darce dropped their gazes and muttered “Yes, ma’ams” before Wilson disappeared from the tailgate, leaving Darce and the Blood alone.
He struggled to a sitting position against the side of the truck, let his body relax and watched her. He’d thought she was beautiful on first glance—from a distance—but now, up close, she was breathtaking. Tall for a woman, but she’d still have been petite compared to him with her head reaching his jaw. She was the perfect size for him to wrap in his arms. Small women were great, but he hated getting a crick in his neck when he had to bend down to kiss them. With her, there would be none of that. She was just the right height.
Her lips pursed as she sat back on her heels and reached for a case on the other side of the vehicle. She dragged it to rest near her thigh and flipped it open. She cut a glance at him while she rifled through it. He grinned, not bothered that she’d caught him watching her.
“So…you going to tell me your name? Or should I keep calling you pretty lady?” he asked, sucking in a breath as she reached out to touch his face and the vicious wound there. Caused by her claws before he’d been clocked by the guy with the rifle butt, it burned when she pulled the edges of the torn flesh.
“You’re healing fast.”
She ignored his question, reaching back into the medical kit to pull out antiseptic swabs. Not bothering with gloves, she tore the packets open with her teeth. Those tiny little fangs flashed at him for a second before she leaned forward to clean the wound.
Darce swore, pain arcing through him as the wet wipe hit the cut flesh. “I was! What the hell are you using? Hydro-fucking-chloric acid?”
“Oh, grow up. It’s a little cut. You’re lucky I didn’t gut you.”
“Lucky? You call this lucky?” Darce squirmed like a kid whose mother scrubbed at stubborn spots of dirt on his face with a handkerchief. In his head, his mind turned over ten to the dozen. She’d dropped him, yes…but what had happened to Lillian? She’d gone running off into the forest alone. Unprotected. With him down and out, had the Blood gone after her in a crazed fury?
He pulled in another deep breath and rolled it over his tongue. Tasting and scenting the air at the same time in a way he hadn’t been able to do when he’d been human. His wolf rumbled within the confines of his body, pushing up enough to search through the myriad of scents for Lillian’s. There was blood, both human and Lycan. His, mixed with the deep, rich scent of the earth and the tang of tree sap. But not Lillian’s blood. He breathed a sigh of relief. She’d gotten away. And he knew Jack. Now that he’d found his mate, the Captain would tear the forest apart looking for her.
Captain…
The word brought him back to the present. He looked back at the woman sitting next to him while she rifled through the medical kit. Studied her while her attention was on something else. She frowned as she concentrated, the small expression fascinating him and sparking a whole host of erotic fantasies centered on her lips.
Wilson had called her Major, so she’d been a career soldier before she’d been turned. Nothing sexier than chicks and guns. Add in the aura of command a senior officer had…heat rolled through him, sending delicious shivers along his spine. God, she could order him around as much as she liked. Tie him up, tie him down. He’d let her do whatever she wanted.
She sat back on her heels, and her movements caught his attention. Graceful but too smooth for a human, she’d clearly given up any pretence of being Homo sapien. It suited her. He liked it, way more than was healthy. She lifted her hands and all his instincts went on red-alert.
“Hey, hey, doll. You only have to ask. No need for the big stuff,” he commented, his voice light and joking to cover the wariness in his every cell. She ignored him, shaking the small vial in one hand before she fitted the point of the syringe against it.
The sharp, wrong stink of the sedative the Project used on his kind filled the transporter as she pierced the rubber seal. The trace amount released when the needle slid through the protective layer was minute but it didn’t matter. Not to Lycan senses.
His wolf stilled, all its concentration on the silver hanging in the air. She withdrew the syringe, tapping the side to release any trapped bubbles. A press on the plunger sent a dribble of the stuff sliding down the needle like a melting gobbet of ice-cream on the side of a sundae glass.
She leaned over him, her expression one of distaste, and she reached out to manipulate his raised arm. The instant she touched him, her colder-than-human hands gentle but determined on his skin, his wolf lost it. It snapped and snarled within, taking everything Darce had to keep control. Sweat beaded on his skin as he forced the creature back, gritting his teeth against the pain until it felt they would shatter under the pressure.
“You don’t need that, doll. I’ll be a good boy,” he promised. He’d promise her whatever she wanted to keep that needle away from his skin. To keep the silver out of his veins. “I’ll even roll over and let you rub my tummy if you like.”
He pleaded with his eyes, looking up through the long strands of dark hair that covered his face. His best “puppy dog” look. He’d been good at it before literally becoming part-dog. Wolf. Whatever.
She paused and he caught his breath, holding on to his human form like grim death. He couldn’t change in here, not with the wolf so panicked and her in here with him. Blood she might be, but he wouldn’t risk hurting her. A two hundred plus pound wolf freaking out in a small container was a recipe for a world of hurt.
“Please, don’t do this.”
Shaking her head, she grasped his arm in a vice-like grip. He clamped his teeth rigid again. His control slipped and his wolf charged the small gap, desperate for release. Desperate to escape.
His teeth lengthened, slicing through his gums and filling his mouth with blood. Breathing through his nose, he pulled her scent deep into his lungs and held rigid under her hands. A part of his mind found comfort in the contact, soothed by the touch of the woman who was his mate. It didn’t last long.
The needle punctured his skin, sending fire streaking through his veins as she depressed the plunger.
Chapter Two
It was like kicking a puppy.
Lips still tingling from the kiss he’d given her before Wilson had clocked him with the rifle butt, Antonia pressed the plunger and started to shove the sedative into the Lycan’s vein. She felt the slight resistance when she pushed but schooled her movements to avoid shattering the delicate syringe. She’d broken a lot of things when she’d first been turned—glasses, mugs, even a shower handle once—so she knew to be careful.
Her nose wrinkled at the slight hint of silver hanging in the air, the trace elements of the small stream of fluid she’d let escape with the air bubbles. Bloods weren’t as susceptible to silver, but it didn’t mean she wanted any on her skin—or getting into her bloodstream if she crushed the glass syringe in her hand.
Her patient gasped, closing his eyes as the stuff hit. His head jerked back and slammed into the side of the truck so hard she winced. His back arched, the arc one of pain while every muscle and chord stood out in high relief on his bare chest and neck.
Toni moved with him, hand hard on his arm to keep the needle in place. He wasn’t trying to buck her off. The movement was instinctive—a reaction to the sedative. His feet scrambled on the metal floor, trying to find purchase while she pushed the plunger home with a click.
At the sound, she pressed her lips together, unwanted memories assaulting her of the days after her own infection. Memories of lying on a trolley, scared out of her mind while the scientists ran endless tests and gave her antidote shots. The soft click of the plunger as she held onto the hope that for once, fate would be kind. That the collision in the corridor which had left her with more holes in her arm than a sieve had been harmless. That somehow the sharps scattered about her feet and those of the medical technician didn’t contain what was stamped in big, black letters on the side.
BD-15.
The guy had freaked out, brushing the needles embedded in his arm with something akin to a moan of terror. The blood had drained from his face as he looked from her to the door behind them. It was yanked open, armed guards piling through the gap. Their weapons weren’t held at their sides anymore, but trained on the two of them.
She’d known.
Instantly.
Even though they’d run all the tests and reassured her the virus didn’t take every time—and back in the first days of the camp it hadn’t—she’d still known. As she lay studying the ceiling, she felt the virus moving around her body, like ice circling her blood. Then it had started to burrow into her tissues.
The foot traffic had slowed, the faces around her changing, becoming grim. She’d ignored them, preferring to look at the back of her eyelids rather than see the mixture of pity and scientific interest. So she pretended to doze when guards had entered the room to stand silently by the door.
It had been all downhill from then. Medical personnel had given way to lead scientists. By the time the virus had begun to chew at her insides, turning her guts into a seething mass of fiery snakes, she’d gone from a patient to a subject.
And she’d been a subject ever since.
The slump of her prisoner’s body brought her back to the present. Trying to be gentle, she kept an eye out for movement as she withdrew the needle. He might be sedated but her words to Wilson held true. Out of it or not, he was still a Lycan. While he drew breath, he’d be dangerous. It was dark in the back of the transporter but that made no difference. She could see just as well in pitch black as in daylight.
He didn’t move. His tall, leanly-muscled body was lax and at her mercy as she pulled the sharp point from his flesh. Only the smallest curl of his lip indicated he’d felt her movement. She wasn’t naive enough to believe he was unconscious. Instead, she knew the battle was focused inward, on the drugs racing through his system.
She sat back on her heels and resisted the urge to make comforting noises. What was the point? She was transporting him to base, and the Project knew he’d been holding out on them. The best he could expect was intense interrogation, Project style. Which meant they’d beat the shit out of him while his animal was locked down with silver. The worst was a silver bullet to the back of the head, and then an unmarked grave out in the desert somewhere.
No noble end for a Project soldier.
Her own grave would be out there.
She bagged the used needle with quick movements. No sense in taking chances. Grimly, she ignored the bead of blood which detached itself from the injection site and rolled down his arm. A big, fat ball, bright and luscious. Like a cherry just waiting for her to take a bite. No matter how much she needed to feed, no matter how good that drop of blood smelled, she couldn’t. Had he been human—one of her men—then yes. She’d have been all over him like a bad rash. Wrapped herself around him and rubbed her body against his before sinking her fangs into the thick vein at his throat.
He’d taste good. She knew he would. Despite the fact he was Lycan, his scent continued to taunt and tease. Her lips compressed and she shifted on the hard floor to stop the checker plate from biting into her knees. She should have worn knee pads. But no one had told her she’d be in the back of one of the transporters, shooting up a captured Lycan.
The movement had her brushing against his leg, and his scent billowed up like a sheet to wrap her in its embrace. Reaching deep inside her to reawaken the interest she’d thought dead, like her humanity. An interest she didn’t want to have to deal with at the moment. Not with the possibility of a cure almost within reach.
Shaking her head to banish the maddening scent, she tucked the yellow sharps disposal bag into a side pocket on the med-kit. Leaving the main compartment open, she shifted the kit to the other side of the truck bed. Always aware, even a slight flinch from the guy spread out over the cold metal floor got her instant attention.
As she watched, his muscles bunched and twitched, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head, like a dog in the middle of a running dream. But she knew better. This was no dream. Snarls slipped from his mouth as he fought the drugs, the corners of his lips curled back to reveal canines sharp enough to rival hers.
Her heart skipped a beat and sped up. Energy punched through her system. Should she load up a second shot? He looked asleep now but Lycans could be unpredictable. One moment they’d be so far under that the sandman would have trouble finding them, and the next wide awake and ready to go toe–to-toe with anything standing in their way.
Blood and energy surged around her body. If that happened, she would have a fight on her hands to contain him. There was no way she could let him out of there, not with Wilson and the other members of her team about. She’d seen how he moved when they’d fought—how fast and lethal. They wouldn’t stand a chance. She had to keep him in here. But an enraged Lycan, pissed off with the silver in his veins, in such close confines? Yeah, she’d be in for a world of hurt. Blood she might be, but a bruise was still a fucking bruise and would be just as painful as it had been when she was human. Especially one inflicted with the bone-crushing intensity a Lycan could muster.
Despite all that, despite the fact she knew how dangerous he was, Toni didn’t care. Her heart thundered at near human levels. Excitement, adrenaline and something else—something she didn’t want to name—filled her veins. She wanted this, wanted it all to kick off to ease the restlessness within her.
It wasn’t to be. With a rattling sigh he slumped to the side, like someone had pulled the plug and drained all the life from his limbs. Ever wary and suspecting a trick, she waited, every line of her body tensed and ready for an attack. Ready to defend herself. But the attack didn’t come. Instead he turned his head, as though the slow movement was difficult, and then dropped it back. His long, dark hair spilled over the cold metal beneath his shoulders.
Slowly she leaned forward, extended a finger and prodded his shoulder. He didn’t move. She breathed a sigh of relief. He was unconscious.
Almost.
As she moved back, the energy in her body ebbing away, he opened his eyes to look at her. They were dark, but with a warning ring of amber. Suppressing a shiver, she matched him look for look, not prepared to back down. It didn’t matter how much silver she pumped into him—even if she used all seven shots left in the bag, the creature inside him would still be there. It would always be there. Watching. Waiting.
You’re mine.
Unbidden, his words to Kelwood chased each other around her mind like an over-active puppy chasing its own tail. She tried to ignore them. How did she know this was the Lycan who had pinned Kelwood and issued a warning for her?
He smiled, the smallest quirk of his lips which rocked her to the core, and she knew.
This was the same Lycan, and she’d become the prey.
The journey passed swiftly but time had become relative for Toni. She could zone out for what seemed like five minutes only to come to and find hours had gone by. It had freaked out the medical technicians the first time they’d ventured into her room to see why she’d missed her check-up. They’d found her staring at the wall, hairbrush in hand, frozen in mid-stroke while she pondered the meaning of life, her continued existence and why the hell she could hear a fly on the wall three rooms down.
The rhythmic sway of the vehicle and the darkness helped her semi-trance as she watched the Lycan opposite. Half slumped against the side of the truck, his occasional twitch between periods of blessed unconsciousness told her he still fought the drugs. Admiration filled her. He was a stubborn one for sure. But at least when he was unconscious, he wasn’t in pain. Everyone knew Lycans were monsters, but now she found the idea of him in pain distasteful.
Heat crawled over her cheeks, shame rolling through her with the unstoppable force of a tidal wave. She didn’t like the idea of him in pain, yet she was taking him back to the Project. She planned to trade him for a cure, knowing what would happen to him. Knowing they would beat him to within an inch of his life to get the answers they wanted, then execute him in the cold light of dawn.
She was taking a man to his death to get what she wanted.
Who was the real monster?
The scent of the forest filtering through the vents on the sides of the cabin gave way to farmland. The wilder smell would disappear when they crossed into the drier, arid wastelands around the camp. Which suited the Project fine. Miles after miles of dry, empty scrubland meant no one could watch the base. Nothing lived out there. Nothing wanted to live out there.
Her prisoner gasped again, twitching in the silver-reinforced manacles before slumping again, and lay still.
Without moving, without blinking, she watched him. He was tall, with masses of dark hair falling to his shoulders. A lock lay across his face. Had she been human, she would have been tempted to brush it away. To feel the texture of the silken strands as it slipped between her fingers. Smooth the hair back to reveal features so hard and masculine even a near-dead Blood like her felt the pull of attraction. But she wasn’t human, wasn’t anything even close, so she stayed where she was. Watching him.
The hair brushed broad shoulders which flowed down into a well-muscled chest and flat stomach. There wasn’t an ounce of body fat on him—his physique ripped enough to give even the most dedicated gym-bunny a serious case of the green-eyed monster. If he had to work out to maintain it, though, she was a monkey’s uncle.
Like Bloods, when the virus entered their system, Lycans were done with needing to exercise. Their metabolisms sped up, they lost weight, got faster and stronger—their bodies running at optimum. Perfect biological function. The fact they turned furry had been unexpected. Her lips quirked. Forget life imitating art, this was science imitating myth and legend.
Civilization was screwed.
Her gaze wandered down across his chest and paused for a moment on the flat discs of his nipples. One was scarred, the small circular indentation familiar. He’d had a piercing at some point. Had to have been before he’d been turned because it took a lot to scar a Lycan. A mere nipple piercing just wouldn’t.
Her attention moved on. It was obvious he liked tattoos—his skin was decorated with them. Tribal designs warred for space with winged daggers on his arms, and the trailing edges of the mystical symbols over his stomach disappeared under the low slung waistband of his combat pants.
Heat threatened her bloodstream again so she yanked her gaze up and fixed on another of his tattoos. Small and discrete, tucked away on the side of his ribcage but visible with his hands above his head—she recognized it instantly.