Rage & Killian (10 page)

A low, feral growl rumbled in Rosalie’s throat. Maybe the male wasn’t an enemy to
Karen
. Was this a meeting of lovers? Did the rat have a human male lover?

“Stop!” Karen called as the male swam away from her, toward the shore. “You’ll be killed the second you step foot onto the Wildlands.”

Rosalie’s puma grinned.
Or maybe even before that
.

Her cat leapt from the flora and raced to the shore. The second the dark-haired male was out of the water, she attacked. Teeth sank into wet T-shirt, and with a growl of fury she dragged him onto the mossy bank.

But he was no fragile human with dead instincts. In seconds, he rolled away and sprang to his feet. Wasting no time, Rosalie’s puma leapt onto his chest and sent him stumbling back. Cursing, he pushed her away, then found his footing again. Wet, his T-shirt clinging to his hard muscles, he crouched into a fighting position. Deep blue eyes raging at her, taunting her, his lip curled. He wasn’t remotely afraid. He knew how to fight. Had been trained to fight.

Her Pantera heart sank while her cat’s boiled.

He knew how to fight a Pantera.

She snarled and once again leapt at him, claws extended. He ducked, then flipped her over his back. Recovery was less than five seconds, and again she attacked. This time he turned to face her and swipe her legs out from under her.

Fuck you, Human.

The rat, Karen, was on the shore now, and as thunder boomed and lightning flickered in the sky, she tried desperately to calm the situation. But both Rosalie’s puma and the man were oblivious. They were circling each other now, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared.

“I don’t want to hurt you, kitty cat,” he said, his tone dark and dangerous as his blue eyes hardened. “I just want to see—”

Rosalie didn’t let him finish. She sprang forward and took him out at the ankles. This time, the man went down. All six foot three inches of muscle and bone. She wrestled him to his back, then stood over him, pinning him to the cold ground. For a few brief seconds, she stared down at him in the quarter moon’s cloudy light. Every part of him was hard, from his mouth to his eyes to his body. He was wet, his short black hair plastered to his head. And scented of sweat and the bayou. Some females might call him…
sexy.

Rosalie would call him dinner.

“Fucking cats,” he growled. Then Rosalie’s legs were suddenly thrust apart, hands closed around her throat and she was being rolled onto her back.

Panic flooded through her and she unleashed her claws, tried to reach his flesh. Any bit. Draw blood. But…no. Goddess, no. He was so strong. Shockingly strong.

She tried to turn her head, get her teeth on him, in him…

Fuck!

Poised above her, his massive, unyielding body weight pinning her cat down, he stared at her. Intently. Curiously. With those blue shark eyes. “I’ll let go, Kitten,” he whispered. “If you sheath your claws, close your mouth, and listen to what I have to say.”

Hatred threatened to consume her…the puma. A human was not only demanding things from her, but he was imprisoning her. Her nostrils flared. Her puma had never felt such a desire to draw and consume blood. If this bastard thought she would ever allow herself to be imprisoned again, he was an idiot.

“What do you think, Kitten?” he said, his tone low with warning, his hard body digging into the flesh of her cat. “Can you control yourself?”

Rosalie granted him the puma’s equivalent of a fuck-you grin, then followed that up with a quick and painful butt to the forehead.

The shock was immediate. The pain, too. He cursed, but his grip on her never wavered. Who the hell was this man? That he could contain her? A deadly beast of a Hunter? That he could suffer the pain she inflicted and not retreat?

And why hadn’t she scented him when he was in the bayou with the rat?

Shit. The rat
. Rosalie glanced around. Gone. Unbelievable. Or maybe not… It had abandoned a Pantera. What did she expect from a hybrid? From something developed in that goddamned lab. Mercier would’ve ripped this man apart then laughed as he fed on the bastard’s heart.

The puma’s insides deflated in instant pain. Unfortunately, the emotion caused not only her instincts to slow, but the man to get the upper hand.

He’d pulled some type of thin rope from his back pocket and was binding her puma’s wrists. She roared into the cold night air for her fellow Hunters and fought against the rope. But it was too late.

“You give me no choice, Kitten,” he said. “You drew first blood. You won’t get another chance to touch me.”

Touch you? Oh no, Human. Consume you is what I want. What I’ll have the moment you turn your back. Or expose your jugular.

Granted, it was nearly impossible to cool, calm, or regulate the puma in that moment. It wanted only to struggle, get free, fight.
Kill
. But Rosalie had forced herself inside its brain now, and she knew that none of those things would happen if she continued to thrash and snarl. She pushed deep inside herself, to the cat’s heart, trying to urge the puma to stop fighting. But it refused her. It was her alpha now. Had been for weeks. It ran the show, and it wasn’t backing down or playing dead. Even to get the upper hand.

As her puma snarled and fought and wriggled against the hard, wet earth, the man pressed on. He was shockingly strong and incredibly fast. In under thirty seconds, he had both her back paws tied together, as well as her front.

Panic sliced through Rosalie as she fought for movement. Being bound, contained. It reminded her…

Tears scratched her throat.
Her
throat this time. Not the puma’s.

No. Stop and remember where you are. The Wildlands. Not in that—

“Fuck no,” the man growled, his eyes searching hers before moving over her puma’s face. “I’m not turning into this. Those pieces of shit…”

Pain lanced through her, stealing her breath. Pantera. Puma. What was she? Her eyes clamped shut.
Oh Goddess. Goddess, no, please…
But it was happening anyway. Her fur stood on end and her bones started to ache. Without her consent. A shudder built inside her and she felt her cat’s thick skin shrink. Tears pricked her eyes as claws, sharp and protective, drew back into the beginnings of fingers. She gasped for air, a strangled cry into the heavy early winter air.

“Shit,” uttered the man.

For several brief seconds, Rosalie lay there, naked, her back to the hard earth, her wrists and ankles still bound. On any other night, she’d be fighting, scrambling to get loose, cursing and snarling at the intruder. Promising him a long, arduous death. But not tonight. Humiliation and pain and grief anchored her body to the ground, stiffened her spine. She was that prisoner of the lab again.

Slowly, she allowed her eyelids to lift. Stunned, confused, almost guilty blue eyes blazed down upon her. They held hers momentarily, then blinked and started to descend. A quick sweep. Down her body, then back up again. Assessing. Almost…professional. And yet Rosalie didn’t miss the shards of heat he hadn’t been quick enough to hide.

Naked. Female.

She couldn’t care less. She had never been a prude. With or without fur, she was Pantera.

As he stared at her, Rosalie took stock of her situation. No longer did those ropes encircle thick puma limbs. On her female wrists and ankles the coils were loose. He hadn’t noticed. Her mind revved.
Keep his eyes on yours as you slowly slip from your bindings
.

As she moved a centimeter at a time out of the ropes, she stared at him. She despised the way he looked. How tall he was—all the hard muscle, the close-cropped black hair, and the arrogant, sharp-angled face. But she especially despised those blue eyes. They changed too swiftly. From blank to predatory to thoughtful. As if he had a soul—or worse, a conscience.

Rosalie knew there were humans living in the Wildlands. Good, decent, kind humans. But they were all female. The men…well, every single human man she had ever known was a terror. Unfeeling. Sadistic. Would do anything to get what he wanted no matter who got in the way or who got hurt.

Like our friend here.

Ankles and wrists free now, Rosalie held her position. The man was staring at her mouth. Like he was hypnotized.
Fool
. With barely a breath, she attacked. Her knee slammed into his hard stomach just as the heel of her hand thrust up into his chin. A grunt of pain met her ears, but she didn’t stop. Squeezing him tight, she rolled hard right, and once he was on his back she dropped down on his chest and wrapped her hands around his neck, her thumbs instantly pressing into his windpipe.

Shock and fury registered first in those blue eyes, then, as his eyes flickered down her body to her breasts and belly and sex, desire blazed.

Fuck you, Human
, she thought blackly even as her body betrayed her with a wash of sexual awareness.
You don’t get this. Me. Ever.

No longer bound, no longer a prisoner, it was the easiest shift in the world. From Rosalie back to her puma. And the cat ruled. It was alpha. It carried the anger with no grief. It desired blood, not touch or taste or connection. It was the ultimate strength.

With a flourish and a snarl of fury, the cat emerged. Claws dug into thick muscle, and mouth opened to reveal sharp, impressive teeth—ready…so ready.

But just as the puma was about to sink its fangs into the male’s neck, it froze. For a voice.

“No, Rosalie.”

Master and commander.

Not Parish. That would have her puma slow but not stop. It was Raphael. Leader of the Pantera. And every male and female, no matter what form they took, listened and obeyed.

A growl vibrated in her cat’s throat. It didn’t want to obey. It wanted vengeance.

“Get off now,” Raphael continued in a voice so quietly threatening it buried itself within her.

Rosalie, the female inside the puma, tried to obey. Really. Tried. But it was…

“We have him, Rosalie,” Raphael whispered near her ear.

No. I have him. And I want his blood.

Blood for blood.

The last words she heard were, “Take it,” before something pricked the back of her cat’s neck and she was being pulled off the human, her strength—that reliable, impenetrable strength—now gone.

Chapter 2

Propped up on a hospital-type bed, Killian watched as the doctor—or whatever they called them here…Healer?— stitched him up. Three fairly deep puncture wounds on his left shoulder. That damn wildcat.

That fucking gorgeous wildcat.

Killian erased the thought from his head immediately. It had no place there. He was in the Wildlands on a mission of survival. Not to entertain attractions. Especially to a creature who’d nearly gutted him like a fish on the bank of the bayou not two hours ago.

Something flickered on inside him and he glanced up. The leader of the Pantera was now in his hospital room, standing next to one of the guards who had been stationed here since Killian was brought in.

What the fuck
? How had Killian not heard him?

Shit
…he’d felt him, though…hadn’t he?

Killian took a second to assess the man. He looked exactly like his picture. The one in the dossier kept at the lab, that is. Not the ones online or in the newspapers. Those all looked Photoshopped. His features had been softened, making him look less threatening. More approachable, for a mysterious shape shifter from a hidden world called the Wildlands. A declawed cat in an Armani suit. But the truth of it was that this guy was as deadly as the Glock Killian had lost at the bottom of the bayou a couple of hours ago. Maybe even more so.

“So,” Raphael started, looking up. His gold eyes were reserved. “Tell me, Killian O’Roarke. Why has a member of the United States military crossed the border into the Wildlands and demanded to see me?”

A muscle flickered in Killian’s jaw as he held the man’s stare. The only information he’d given the Healer working on him was his first name. “Don’t know any O’Roarke, and I never claimed to be military.”

Those eyes burned instantly. Clearly, Raphael didn’t enjoy lies or games. Or time wasted. He pushed away from the wall and came over to the exam table. He eyed the Healer. “All right, Billie?”

The woman with the dark, short hair and ivy-green eyes nodded. “Almost done.”

“They’re fine,” Killian told her, not liking the position he was in. On his back while the leader of the Pantera stood over him. “I’m an exceptional clotter.”

“Oh, yeah,” Billie answered with heavy sarcasm, holding him in place. “You’re a real super soldier.”

Her words caused his lip to curl. She had no fucking clue. “I’m not a solider.”

“Maybe not anymore,” Raphael said. “But you were.”

Killian’s gaze lifted and locked with the man.

“Everything about you says armed forces, Mr. O’Roarke. Build, attitude, fighting stance, and technique. And then there’s the tattoo on your shoulder.”

Killian’s mouth thinned. “That has nothing to do with the military.”

Pale brows lifted. “Doesn’t it?”

What the hell? There was no possible way this man could know… Killian pulled his arm away just as the Healer finished her last stitch. “We’re done. I need to speak to your leader alone.”

“No we are not, you stubborn asshole,” Billie countered, flashing him a green-eyed glare. “You need balm.”

“I wouldn’t argue with her,” Raphael put in. “Or any Pantera female, actually. You’ll just end up with—”

“Claw marks?” Killian supplied.

Raphael’s lips twitched.

“If you’re lucky.” Billie snorted as she slapped some goo on his arm then quickly bandaged him. “You’re welcome, by the way,” she added as she got up and left the room.

“Your women are…interesting,” Killian said as the door slammed shut.

“Females,” Raphael corrected. “And yes, they are.”

“Exceptionally strong. Bold. That…Rosalie.” He sniffed, remembering how the wom—
female
—had both bloodied him and sat on top of him naked without even a hint of fear or embarrassment. “Definitely beautiful, but completely out of contr—”