Embrace the Night (7 page)

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Authors: Crystal Jordan

BOOK: Embrace the Night
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Peyton stood with his hands in his pockets, a cool expression on his face as he looked at her. Some instinct tickled the back of her mind and built until her shoulders twitched in discomfort. She dropped her phone back into her purse, trying to busy herself until the odd feeling faded.
It didn't fade. Instead it increased by the moment, some whisper-soft niggling growing to a harsh scream until she was all but shaking. She didn't know what it meant, what to do. Was it about Alex?
Danger.
The word was clear as a clarion bell in her mind. Her gaze snapped to Peyton, but he wasn't looking at her anymore; he had tugged aside the blinds on the kitchen window to peer outside. Werewolves and vampires were both telepathic, but that hadn't sounded like his voice in her head.
“Peyton, is everything all right?”
He sighed, but didn't turn around. When he spoke, his tone was weary. “Everything is fine, Dr. Standish. Exactly according to plan.”
“What plan?”
There was a knock on the backdoor before he could reply, and he went to open it. A small woman stood under the mellow glow of the porch light.
The instinct howled in Chloe's mind, the words becoming crystal clear.
Danger. danger. Danger! RUN!
And then she knew what it was. Her usually dormant precognitive ability. She had clairaudience—and the voices in her head were warning her of oncoming peril. She didn't know what the danger was, but only a fool ignored her precognition. She lurched to her feet, staggered under the pain of what felt like unused muscles coming to life, and overturned her chair as she searched for a way out. There was only the backdoor and the door that led to the living room, both of which she'd have to get past Peyton to use.
They were on her before she could react. The woman hit her with a spell that left her stunned, the magic reverberating through Chloe the way only a Fae could make it.
Chloe barely managed to keep her feet under her, her body wanting to collapse under the force of violent, ugly magic. Her tongue felt awkward, too thick for her mouth as she looked at Peyton. Her voice was a mere breath of sound. “Why?”
He shook his head, what might have been regret flickering in his gaze before a hard mask settled over his features and his lips pulled back in a snarl to bare his wolf fangs. He reached her side with a speed that left her dizzy, and then he struck her with just the tips of his fingers, almost gently, and she lost consciousness.
She woke up bound to her chair by metal handcuffs and magical restraints. She didn't know how much time had passed. An hour. A minute.
All she did know was pain. It pounded through her in endless, agonizing waves. Black spots swam before her eyes, and she prayed for death . . . or a return to unconsciousness, whichever came for her first, but they wouldn't let her rest, wouldn't let her pass out, wouldn't stop.
She told them everything, her every secret, every lie, every half-truth.... She left nothing out; they wouldn't let her. And still it wasn't enough. If the spells would have allowed it, she'd have told them anything they wanted to hear. Anything. Even if it wasn't true. Just to make the pain stop.
Sweat slid in cold, sticky rivulets down her skin. It burned her eyes and blurred her vision. Every breath was a torturous rasp of air. Her head lolled on her shoulder, and she hadn't the energy left to lift it. The metal handcuffs were bronze, an allergy to all witches. They'd scorched her flesh, rubbed her wrists to ragged, bleeding patches of skin, but other than that, she was physically unharmed. It did little to ease the way she ached from the bones out.
Voices murmured around her, and she was no longer sure if it was Peyton and the Fae woman or the clairaudient voices in her mind. It didn't matter, but she clung to the question as if it were the key to saving what was left of her sanity. And maybe it was.
Another spell lanced through her, making her body arch away from the chair, rip against the restraints that bound her. A howl that wasn't quite human wrenched from deep within her. More pain. Her throat was already raw from all the talking, the begging. The screaming.
She knew she was losing it when his face appeared before her, the cynical gray eyes, the squared jaw, the lips just a little too full for his chiseled features.
“Merek,” she breathed.
And then she knew no more.
They'd muffled the sound of her screams.
If Merek hadn't decided to get a better look at the house, he never would have peeked through a gap in the blinds to see her strapped to the chair. Arching, tears flowing down her cheeks, her mouth opened in what looked like a silent shriek.
He exploded through the door, past the warding spells that had been placed on the building, his rage and terror lending him extra power. The percussive boom of the ruptured spell shield made his ears ring, but his weapon was already up and leveled on the two Magickals looming over
his
woman.
The Fae had sweat pouring down her face, her breathing shallow and ragged. No doubt from the energy she'd spent torturing Chloe. His teeth bared, and he squeezed off a shot, aiming for her heart.
It never touched her.
Peyton looped his arm around the woman's waist, spinning her out of the bullet's path. Chloe's chair was knocked over, tumbling until it hit a wall. With a leap, the wolf had himself and the woman into the living room. Merek's next shot caught Peyton in the back, and he stumbled, a howl tearing loose. He hit the front door, ripping it off its hinges. Then he and the woman were gone, the werewolf's speed making it impossible for Merek to follow.
He might have attempted it, but it would have meant leaving Chloe alone. He couldn't do that. Holstering his weapon, he lifted both hands to cast a temporary warding spell over the house. No one less powerful than him could enter, and even then he would know his shield had been breached. His hands were shaking when he dropped them to his sides. A part of him stood back and wondered what the hell had happened to all his steely discipline when the fate of one slender woman could make his hands tremble.
Turning back toward the kitchen, he found Chloe struggling against her bonds. He stroked a hand down her shoulder. “I've got it.”
“Thanks,” she grunted, going limp against the awkward position. “I . . . don't have the energy to cast a spell to get loose.”
Her wrists were blackened, blistered, and oozing blood around the cuffs, so he knew they were made of bronze. As a warlock—a male witch—he was deathly allergic to the stuff, too. He was careful not to touch as he waved a hand to unlock them. His jaw locked as rage whipped through him. The bastards had used
bronze
on her.
The cuffs fell away, clattering against the linoleum. Then she was in his arms, her soft body pressed to his harder planes, and it felt so fine he almost groaned. Burying his face in the curve of her neck, he inhaled the scent of her. She was alive, and she was here. His brain was having trouble absorbing that reality. “Chloe.”
Clinging to his neck with surprising strength, she dragged in great, shuddering breaths. They should get out of there in case Peyton came back to finish what he started, but Merek couldn't make himself let her go. Just another minute. He swallowed, pressure building behind his eyes.
She drew back until she could see his face, and the naked vulnerability there made his gut clench. “How did you . . . What are you doing here?”
“I followed you, but they were damn good about shaking someone tailing them.” He stroked her ebony hair back from her face, the silky strands damp with sweat. “I'm sorry it took me so long to get here.”
“You made it before I lost my mind. That's soon enough.”
He winced at the bleak, utter certainty in her voice. From what he'd seen, she was right. They'd had every intention of ripping into her mind until there was nothing left. The darkness of those spells still lingered in the air, sent chills down his spine. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “We need to get you out of here, sweetheart.”
She nodded, pushing herself slowly to her feet. A soft chuckle bubbled out of her when he hovered, his hands outstretched to catch her like he would for a child just learning to walk. “I'll be fine, Merek. No permanent damage was done. Physically.” She swallowed hard. “I'm really, really glad you're here.”
He jerked her back into his arms, needing that contact. His heart hammered in his chest. Gods, what would he have done if he hadn't gotten here in time? Another loss he couldn't have prevented because of a blankness in his fucking precog
gift.
She trembled against him, a violent shudder racking her body. “Oh, gods. I was sure I'd gone crazy when I saw you here.”
“Sweetheart, I—”
He didn't get a chance to respond before she pressed her mouth to his. He stiffened, but her fingers shoved into his hair to hold him tight, and the feel of her lips against his registered over his shock. Then it was all over. His arms banded around her, pulling her closer. The fear and the need to confirm in the most basic, carnal way that she was safe and sound overruled his better judgment. She bit his lip, her movements as frantic as his, and he could taste the terror she'd been through, her need to forget.
One hand lifted to cradle her head, the silk of her hair spilling through his fingers. He tilted her face up and took control of the kiss. His tongue traced the seam of her lips until she parted them for him. He plunged into her mouth, the taste of her lush and female on his tongue. A low groan shook his chest, and he hauled her closer.
She twisted to get nearer, as desperate as he was to reassure herself that everything was all right. Her fingers skimmed down his arms, around his waist, over his ass, up his back, everywhere she could reach. Her touch had a predictable effect on his body. His cock went hard, his body ready and willing to give her anything she wanted.
Cupping the smooth curve of her buttocks in his hand, he lifted her into his body until he was right where he wanted to be—or as close as he could get when they were still dressed. He could feel the heat of her sex through their clothing as they rubbed against each other.
Releasing his grip on her hair, he let his hand drift down until he cradled her breast. Her tight nipple jabbed into his palm. He grunted in satisfaction at her eager response. He stroked the little nub with his fingers, pinching it, toying with it until she writhed against him. She whimpered and tried to climb him, her body straining against him, her leg wrapping around his to pull him closer.
It was all he could do not to back her against the nearest wall and take her.
Shuddering, he broke his mouth away from hers. “We can't.”
“Why not?” Her palm slid between them to cup his cock and rub it through his pants.
“Gods,” he groaned, and he couldn't keep the torment from his voice as he thrust against her hand before he forced himself to stillness. “Because I'm a big enough idiot to turn you down, but not a big enough asshole to take you up on your offer. And I really, really want to take you up on your offer.”
“So take me up on it.” Her breasts brushed against him with each panting breath, and her eyes were wild. “I'm offering. I'm not protesting. I want you.”
He caught her fingers and removed them from his cock. Each digit was puffy and swollen from bronze damage. That brought a cold rush of reality in to chill his ardor. “We have to get out of here. We're not out of danger yet.”
Her head tilted as if she was listening to something. Then she blinked, nodded, and dropped her hands. She stooped down to scoop up the scattered contents of her purse and hooked the bag over one shoulder. “Okay, let's go.” She gave him a sturdy nod. “Luca went to get my godson, Alex, so we need to find them. If I wasn't
safe
in a safe house, they certainly aren't.”
Dropping the shielding spell on the house, he led the way out, palming his pistol from its holster and keeping a death grip on her forearm, careful not to touch her chafed wrists. “Luca can take care of himself and your godson. I'd trust him with my life, unlike Peyton, who I didn't know. Right now, I'm taking you to the hospital.”

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