Savage Betrayal: Savage, Book 2 (2 page)

The use of her first name threw her. She’d always been Agent Masterson, or just Masterson, to them. Somehow, hearing her name on his lips and having him here in her garage added an intimacy to the situation that was far too much of a threat. It made her too damn vulnerable.

Grace folded her arms across her chest and shrugged. “So that’s why you came? Why you snuck onto my property and broke into my garage? To ask when I’m coming back to the agency?”

His gaze darkened, became unreadable. No. That wasn’t the only reason he’d come today. She sensed it by the slight tension that had invaded his body.

“Did the agency send you? The boys?” Boys was a loose term she gave to her fellow agents, because they were fierce, full-grown men.

“Everyone’s concerned,” he admitted quietly. “But I came on my own accord.”

Why?
The question hovered on the tip of her tongue as her stomach did some weird little flipping motion. He’d come on his own. For what purpose?

“We should talk.” He gestured toward the south end of the garage. “Think we can head over to your house? Have some coffee or something?”

Invite him into her home for coffee. The whole scenario was so normal. Non-threatening. And yet the idea of it had her wanting to shake her head and bark out a refusal.

She’d do it, but on her own terms.

“Let me finish this last piece first.”

Chapter Two

In the handful of months he’d worked with Agent Grace Masterson—and on every dangerous mission they’d been on together—Darrius had never seen any indication that she was capable of fear. Not even during that God-awful week…

Until tonight, when the terror had been radiating off her in nearly tangible waves.

He watched as she strode past him toward a fire burning in some type of oven that glowed red, her chin lifted and her gaze unreadable. He allowed his gaze to follow the curve of her body. Her chestnut-brown hair was fastened on top of her head in some sort of loose bun, which exposed the graceful curve of the back of her neck and a tattoo he hadn’t realized she’d had. A small, blue flower that looked vaguely familiar. Probably something native to the Northwest.

His gaze slipped lower to her outfit. He wasn’t used to seeing her in clothes that showed off her form so well. In work clothes it was easy enough to write her off as a scrawny white chick. But what she was wearing now…
damn
.

The purple tank top she wore hugged decent sized breasts before disappearing into the waistband of her jeans. Jeans that he had to wonder how she even got into. They were skintight, clinging to gently flaring hips, a curvy ass he hadn’t seen coming, and then molding down her slim legs. The look was a little too girl-next-door slash sex-bomb, right down to the scuffed up, stained sneakers on her feet.

Uneasy that he was becoming all too aware of Agent Masterson’s chick side, he cast another glance around the garage.

The building was hot, and no doubt the heat came from the oven she was currently pulling some metal pipe from. On the end of the pipe a ball of orange glowed molten.

“Holy shit. What is all this?” His gaze shifted to the shelves on the wall, and to the variety of blown glass.

“Glass blowing. It’s a hobby of mine.” Masterson nodded her head toward the fire. “That is a glory hole—and no jokes please.”

His mouth curved in amusement, because she obviously knew a dirty reply had been on his tongue.

“And this—” she lifted the pipe slightly “—is a blowpipe.”

She went silent as she dipped molten glass into what looked like crushed blue glass, rolling it around before walking back to the glory hole and placing the pipe and glass back inside.

Amazed and a little nervous she had such a dangerous-looking hobby, he shook his head. “How the hell did I not know this about you, Masterson?”

“I don’t exactly put it on my resume. Now, quiet for a minute. I like to work in silence.”

He kept his mouth shut, but with reluctance. From the way her small, defined muscles rippled in her arms, he knew the pipe was a hell of a lot heavier than it looked. It also just affirmed what a strong, hard woman she was, in and outside the agency.

Obviously deeply committed to what she was doing, she seemed almost unaware of him as she took a seat on a bench. Masterson braced the pipe on a ledge and grabbed some hollowed out wooden bowl type of thing.

Darrius was completely entranced as he watched her shape the ball of glass before she set it down and picked up something that looked like tweezers.

Deftly, and with the ease of a professional, she pinched and poked various parts of the glass, until it began to take on the unmistakable shape of a flower.

Then she grabbed another tool and began pulling and turning. The glass stretched, looking as pliant and sticky as taffy, becoming the stem of the flower.

It almost looked innocuous, but he wasn’t stupid, that shit was hot.

Finally she moved across the room and gently removed the flower from the pipe. He followed her over to the table and stared down at the creation.

“That was pretty fucking amazing, Masterson.”

“Thank you.”

“What do you do with those anyway? Just blow them for fun?”

“Hardly. There’s a small shop in Issaquah I’m contracted with who sells my flowers. I guess they’re pretty popular.”

He gave a slow nod. “I can see how they would be. They’re nice. And if you enjoy doing it, why not? Nice little side biz.”

“Glass blowing is therapeutic for me.” She hesitated. “My dad was a glass blower by trade and had his work in several galleries in the Pacific Northwest. I used to sit in here and watch him create. It could be snowing outside, but he’d have the doors open and fire from the furnace kept the garage warm.”

“Did he create flowers too?”

“No. He did bowls and vases. All kinds of utilitarian type of items that people get all excited over.”

“So why flowers for you?”

Her delicate mouth curved into a slight frown. “I don’t know, actually. It’s just always been what I was driven to create.”

But obviously the flower held some meaning to her, because she had a tattoo on the back of her neck that damn near matched it.

His gaze scanned the shelf, noting the similarities in her work. “And it’s always the same type of flower? The same color?”

“Yeah. I guess that’s weird.”

“Nah, actually it’s pretty cool. I’m glad I had the chance to see this side of you.”

She made a barely audible
harrumph
, and the smile she flashed him was strained as she cleaned up her stuff and turned things off.

He had the feeling this wasn’t something she shared with many people—or even wanted anyone to know about. But he’d blown that secret out of the water when he’d busted into her garage today.

He’d come here early this morning prepared for her to be a bit standoffish, but not prepared for an ambush of half-assed traps on her property. Or for her to fire a fucking bullet at his head through the door.

Mother fucker.

He reached behind him and plucked what felt like a thin needle from his shoulder area. And maybe not all her traps had been quite half-assed.

“So you wanted coffee?” She arched a brow and walked past him. “Come on, let’s go.”

He followed her outside the garage, his shoes crunching on the fallen, frost-covered leaves.

“So, what the hell is up with Fort Knox-style lockdown on your place?”

“Just being cautious.” She shrugged and came up beside him as they crossed her lawn toward what looked to be the main house. “Sure didn’t seem to slow you down any, though.”

“I’m P.I.A. You should know better.”

“So it would seem. I’ll have to tweak a few things.”

Hmm. Any more tweaking and he might lose an arm next time.

She opened the door to her house and strode inside. “I know I said coffee, but I don’t drink the stuff. But I’ve got tea—hot or iced—and all kinds of fruit and yogurt for a smoothie.”

“Really? I haven’t had breakfast, and now that you mention it—”

“On second thought, don’t say smoothie because that’ll take far more energy than I’m willing to give you right now.”

He laughed softly. This was the girl he was familiar with, hard and sarcastic, not really that liberal with the warm and fuzzy.

“Tea is fine. Hot, please. It’s cold as fuck outside.”

“Well, that’s kind of a backward analogy, because one would think fucking would be hot, but okay. Have a seat.” She went to work filling up a kettle of water.

Darrius pulled out a chair at the round four-person table and sat down. He did a quick appraisal of the kitchen that was so tidy it almost seemed staged. Healthy food everywhere. Most of it fruit and veggies she could grab on the go.

And yet… He drew in a slow breath again and nodded. Maybe she had a small sweet tooth, because he’d bet his last paycheck she’d made oatmeal raisin cookies recently. Which was an image that didn’t really come naturally.

Agent Masterson seemed the type to be far more comfortable with a Glock on a firing range than with a Kitchen Aid making cookies. Maybe they were store bought.

“So how are you?”

She turned from her spot at the stove at his question and watched him. “What do you mean?”

“Come on now, the question isn’t exactly challenging.”

She didn’t even blink. “I’m doing just fine, thank you very much.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Masterson. We’re friends. I’m closer to you than any of the other guys on the team.”

The kettle began to whistle and she turned away again, busying herself preparing their tea. He watched in fascination at the little metal ball she scooped loose tea leaves into. No pre-made tea bags for this one.

“Hilliard, I’m friends with everyone. I try not to play favorites,” she murmured. “But really. I’m fine.”

Like hell she was. Despite her positive words and casual demeanor, he could sense the turmoil inside her. Smell the fear just below the surface. She should have realized that too, should’ve known he’d never believe the lie. But then, she seemed to be throwing the lies in his face like verbal roadblocks.

Maybe he’d be more inclined to believe them, or believe there was a hint of truth to them, if he hadn’t been there that night. Hadn’t held her in his arms when she’d been at death’s door.

The memory of it slipped into his thoughts, momentarily taking his breath away. She’d been so still. So pale. He’d heard her heart slowing. A few more days with that drug in her system and Grace Masterson would’ve had her name engraved in the memorial plaque at headquarters.

How the hell had she ended up involved in such a shady ordeal? It still blew his mind—the idea that shifters had willingly volunteered, accepted money, to be part of what could only be described as a horrific experiment to annihilate the species.

And Grace Masterson had been one of six to volunteer—though only five had come out alive, and it wasn’t the drug that had killed him, but another P.I.A. operative on their team who’d been protecting the woman who was now his mate.

“Here you are. One mug of tea for my uninvited guest.” She set a steaming mug in front of him. “Do you need cream? Sugar?”

When she moved to turn away, he caught her wrist, stopping her retreat. Her pale blue eyes widened and panic flickered in them.

“Thank you. The tea is fine as it is.” He stroked his thumb over the pulse in her delicate wrist, felt it pounding faster than it should’ve been. “But you’re not, Grace. You haven’t spoken to anyone about what happened a couple months ago. Or how the hell you even got involved in such a mess. Why don’t you try talking? Try talking to me.”

Darrius watched the myriad of emotions flicker across her face.

Shock, pain, rage and fear again. He could pretty much pinpoint each one, and likely why she felt it, especially the rage. People didn’t bring it up, didn’t dare talk about it.
So how dare he?

He could see the question in her gaze, the sudden rigidness in her shoulders, and yet she didn’t pull away or try to remove his hand from her wrist. She seemed too stunned.

Everyone had been tiptoeing around the victims. Even though each one had been sent a request to be interviewed, none of them had agreed.

And what could they do? They couldn’t force it. The line was a bit finer with Grace, because she was a federal agent. What she’d done could impact her job, and the consequences of her actions had still yet to be seen.

The most messed up thing about it was the whole experiment had been legal.

Though they’d wanted to prosecute the bitch behind it all, she’d covered her ass by having the shifters sign a contract indicating they knew exactly what they were doing and the risks involved.

Thankfully the drug hadn’t worked, but instead whatever had been given to them caused them to shift almost continuously between wolf and human. It had nearly killed all the victims. Including Grace.

“I just don’t understand why you did it. Why you would willingly sign up for such a messed up thing?” He shook his head. “You’re a shifter, being part wolf is in your DNA. Why the hell would you sign up to be given a drug that tried to subdue that side of you?”