Marked by Moonlight (13 page)

She tore free of her captor's gaze, no less magnetic for his brown-colored contacts, and searched for a glimpse of Gideon again. She spotted him rolling on the ground, locked in struggle with another lycan.

“Don't worry about the human.” Hard fingers dug into her cheeks, forcing her to face her attacker again. “Tony will take care of him. Right now I want to get to know you better.”

Fabric ripped. It was an ugly sound. Frightening. Violent. Her hands dove for the tattered scraps of her halter top.

“Why are you fighting it?” he demanded, seizing her hands and squeezing the bones of her wrists until she feared they would snap.

“Come on, baby. I could smell you a mile away.” He cupped her chin, cold fingers fanning her cheek possessively as he nuzzled her neck, his wet breath rising hot and rancid to her sensitive nose. “You're hurting for it. Let me make you feel better.”

His mouth covered hers, his fetid tongue pushing past her teeth. Claire gagged, her stomach rolling at the disgusting taste of him. Hands, hard and cruel, grabbed her waist and hefted her on top of a nearby hood. She cried out as her bottom slammed down on unforgiving steel.

A strange, animal-like cry rose up from deep in her throat. She raked her nails down his face in a savage swipe, his blood coating her palms. He snatched hold of her wrists and yanked them high above her head.

A fierce instinct burned through her blood. With a growl, she bared her teeth and sank them into his arm. Cursing, he dropped her wrists. She took advantage, curling her hand into a fist and striking him so hard his head snapped back. She surged against him, trying to throw him off her. But he was strong. Shoving her down on the hood, her head smacked steel, stunning her motionless as he fumbled with the hook at her waistband. His triumphant cry stabbed the air. Her zipper sang out as he tugged at her pants, his jerks frantic. The fabric was too tight to slip off with ease, so her body slid up and down the hood with each rough yank.

A million stars stared down at her, the twinkling dots of light mocking her as her head cleared and she renewed her struggles.

This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

A sudden crack of gunfire shattered the air. Her gaze sought Gideon. He stood several feet away, his gun in his hand, a lifeless body at his feet.

Her attacker spun around between her thighs, a deep growl vibrating from him at the sight of his fallen comrade. “You'll beg for death before I'm through with you,” he ground out.

Before he could make good on the threat, she sprang on his back. Wrapping her arms around his throat, she squeezed with all her strength. He thrashed side to side, trying to toss her off him.

Suddenly another shot split the night. Both she and the lycan fell back from the force. Air rushed from her lungs. Pinned beneath the dead weight of him, Claire pushed at his body, struggling and choking on a mouthful of scraggly hair that fell in her face.

With a grunt, she flung him off her and sucked in sweet gulps of air as she zipped her pants back up.

Gideon snatched her hand and pulled her off the ground. Her gaze landed on the sprawled bodies. She lifted her gaze to him.

Eyes on the building in the distance, he spoke quickly, “I didn't have time to attach the silencer. We gotta get out of here.”

The warm hold of his hand on hers felt wonderfully reassuring and she tightened her grip, hurrying alongside him, glancing one last time at the two bodies. “What just happened?”

“We were ambushed.”

“You killed them,” she murmured as they neared the Jeep.

“No. I didn't,” he said without breaking stride. “They were already dead.”

She released his hand when they reached the Jeep and barely had both feet inside before he gunned the engine to life. They tore out of the parking lot, tires spinning and gravel flying.

“Their fate was sealed the second they became infected,” Gideon said. “A long time ago, I'm guessing.”

She looked away from the road to stare at his profile, absorbing his words before she announced, “Then I'm dead, too.”

He glanced at her, the lights of an oncoming car casting the hard lines of his stern features into relief. “Not yet. I wouldn't help you if you were.”

She shook her head and stared ahead, the streetlights narrow streaks of rainbow flying past. “I don't understand. Why are you helping me at all?”

“Maybe I've gone soft. Maybe I've gotten tired of killing and felt like saving a life instead. Maybe you're…”

“I'm what?”

He shook his head, whatever he thought to say held in check.

Claire hugged herself, her fingers digging into her arms as she recalled the brutality of her attack. “I'd rather be dead than become like them.”

“If it comes down to that, I'll pull the trigger myself.”

She glared at him. “So you've said.”

He was so cold. So calculated. And in that moment, she hated him for it. Even if she knew he couldn't afford to be any other way.

 

Gideon glanced at her as she crossed her arms in a noisy huff, clearly offended by his bluntness. He sighed. It wasn't as if he would enjoy ending her life. Not hers. Not Claire.

There had been a time when he enjoyed the hunt, relished the kill. Each successful mission avenged his parents. At least when he started out, when he was young, that was the case. He hardly slept, hardly ate—only hunted. His sole purpose had been to hunt and destroy. And standing over each of his kills, he had imagined that dead lycan to be the one who infected his mother.

Lately, that driving need to annihilate lycans had vanished. Partly because he now accepted that they could never totally be eradicated. His efforts only added sand to a constantly widening hole. Lycans had walked this earth for generations. They were a finely honed species, built to endure the expanse of time, built to withstand NODEAL and the other underground societies created to hunt and destroy them.

The most he got out of the hunt anymore was a minor sense of accomplishment. That he had performed a small, necessary service for society. Gideon realized, however, that he wouldn't even have that peace of mind if he destroyed
her
. He would only feel failure. And, he admitted, a sense of loss.

Because Claire Morgan had gotten under his skin.

She had infiltrated his resolve to keep their relationship impersonal. He wanted her. He pounded the steering wheel with his fist and pushed the impossible thought from his head.

Tonight, when she'd hinted at the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her father, he had experienced a violent impulse no less savage than that which drove lycans. He wanted nothing more than to drive across town and beat the shit out of the bastard with his bare hands. For hurting Claire, for reducing her to a ghost that clung to shadows rather than stepping into the light, for failing to be the father he should have been, the kind that made her know how special she was. He took a curve a bit too fast, hugging the guardrail, his back right tire lifting.

Sitting rigidly beside him, she looked nervously between the road and him, as if expecting him to crash into the guardrail. Realizing how fast he drove, he eased his foot off the accelerator. No sirens chased them. They were safe. For now.

He shook his head in disgust, thinking back to the two lycans. They mustn't have been in the club. They carried themselves like predators, like lycans. The sight of them would have immediately put him on alert.

“I killed them both,” he spat out. His goal had been to keep a lycan alive for questioning. “Now we've got nothing.” She jumped beside him when he hit the steering wheel a second time.

This was going to be even harder than he had first thought. Their only lead was Lenny, a dead lycan. What could Gideon do? Go around town killing as many lycans as possible in hopes of nailing the right one? That would never save her in time.

He pulled his cell out and stared at the glowing face for a long moment, debating whether to put in the call. He had left two dead lycans behind. Questions would arise within the organization. Shoving the cell back into his pocket, he muttered another curse. Too bad. He couldn't risk it. Not with Claire.

NODEAL could cope. He cringed, imagining Cooper on a rampage, searching for a rogue agent when he discovered two dead bodies with silver bullets lodged in the corpses. Two dead lycans and no one claiming the job. Cooper would go nuts.

“You okay?” he finally asked, glancing at her. She clutched the tatters of her halter top to her chest, her black satin bra peeking out. He forced his gaze back to the road, both disturbed and tantalized by the sight.

“Sure,” she said slowly, appearing to weigh his question. “I just had a werewolf—”

“Lycan,” he automatically corrected.

“Semantics,” Claire snapped, glaring at him before continuing. “I just had a
werewolf
try to rape me on the hood of a car, but I'm swell.”

“Sarcasm doesn't suit you,” he replied.

“Yeah, well, I'll deal with this my way.” Her brow scrunched and this time her voice came out subdued when she asked, “Why did he say I wanted it?”

He stared at the road, lips pressed tightly together as if he could hold back the truth.

“It wasn't just talk,” she insisted. “He really
believed
I wanted it.”

At this point, he knew he couldn't keep the truth from her any longer.

Considering the vibes she put out, the lycan hadn't been far off. She did want it. She just didn't realize it yet. Had it only been yesterday that they had nearly fucked on the floor of her family's lake house? It had taken every ounce of restraint to reject what she so eagerly offered and slam those cuffs on her wrists.

It was foolish, even unrealistic of him, but he had hoped to avoid telling her. There had been enough revelations yesterday. She didn't understand her urges. But he did. He had seen the way she responded to Mr. Black Leather Pants in the bar. The woman needed a chastity belt with one very big lock.

Hell, she could be lying on her back under him right now if he only crooked a finger. That image made him shift uncomfortably in his seat and his hands clenched the steering wheel. No way around it. He had to tell her. Then maybe she would understand. Maybe she could fight it. Because, God help him, he found it harder and harder to resist her.

“What aren't you telling me?” she demanded, her voice cracking.

“Lycans follow…primitive urges,” he began, searching for the appropriate wording.

She waved impatiently for him to continue.

“They feed and they procreate. The objective being to further the species.” He shrugged and flexed his hands on the steering wheel. “Simple, really.”

Her look told him she disagreed.

“What are you saying?” She shook her head. “I don't understand.”

And that, he guessed, was because she didn't want to. He knew her well enough at this point to realize she had a hard time accepting ugly truths.

“It's not conscious. It's instinctual,” he elaborated.

“Procreate?” she echoed.

“You know, to reproduce—”

“I know what it means,” she snapped.

“They're a pack society. A lone female of childbearing years, without any other lycans—male lycans—protecting her, is a prime target.”

She leaned back in her seat, her head bouncing against the headrest several times. “Unbelievable. I'm a sex target,” she muttered. Her head shot off the seat, apparently struck with a sudden thought. “And you sent me out tonight without telling me any of this?”

“I wanted you calm.”

“I could have better prepared myself.”

“It would have gone down the same. You were already freaked out enough. Now look at you. You're hysterical.”

“I am not hysterical,” she said tightly, trying, he guessed, to keep herself from yelling and lending credence to his claim. “So you're saying that as long as I'm without a pack, every werewolf we come across will want to jump my bones?”

“Pretty much.”

“Great.”

“And you haven't exactly helped the situation.”

“What is
that
supposed to mean?” she demanded, her look indignant.

“You've…embraced your urges.” He wondered why he even mentioned it except that he was annoyed at her total naïveté. Was she completely unaware of the signals she put out—how she looked, how she moved, how she affected him?

“How?” Her lips worked like a fish's, searching for words. “I don't have any urges.”

He laughed as he turned into his driveway. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she countered.

He shut the motor off and faced her, the leather creaking beneath his shifting weight. “Yes. You do.”

She shook her head again.