Soulbound: A Lone Star Witch Novel (38 page)

Our mouths meet in a frenzy of lips and teeth and tongues that weakens my knees even as it sends heat tearing through me. I stand on my tiptoes, press my body against his, wrap my arms around his shoulders. I want to be closer, need to be closer. If I could climb inside him, at this moment I swear I would do it. Declan must feel the same way, because he turns, backs me up against the wall. Pins me against the wall and plasters his body to mine.

I feel him, hard and hot, between my legs and I squirm in an effort to get closer still. He groans a little at the contact; then his hands are on my ass and he’s boosting me up so that I can wrap my legs around his waist.

I jerk my mouth from his, rain kisses over his cheeks, along his stubbled jaw, down his warm neck until his shirt gets in the way. Frustrated, I yank at it, and to my shock it tears, right down the middle. I barely have time to register the fact that I have actually ripped his shirt—magic had to be involved because I know I’m not that strong—before he’s doing the same to my own. Seconds
later my bra follows the shirt and then he’s back, his broad, muscular chest pressed against my breasts.

“I need—”

“I know what you need,” he growls, and this time it’s his mouth racing over every part of me he can reach. He pauses at the sensitive spot behind my ear, at the hollow of my throat, before sliding lower. He captures one of my nipples, pulls it into his mouth, and I explode, orgasm tearing through me on a ragged scream.

He doesn’t stop, just keeps kissing and licking and touching and nipping at me until I’m worked up all over again. “I need you,” he whispers against my mouth. “I need you, Xandra.”

“Then take me,” I tell him, tangling my fingers in the cool silk of his hair. “Now.”

His control snaps and he reaches for my jeans, rips them off as easily as he did my shirt. Then he’s fumbling with his belt, tearing open his own jeans. And he’s inside me, filling me up with his heat and magic and the deep, dark power that’s so essentially Declan.

I cry out at the feel of him—it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. My own magic rises up inside of me, tangles with his. It blends and grows and changes until all that I am, all that I have inside of me is somehow twisted up with all that he is.

It’s powerful, overwhelming, exhilarating, terrifying all at the same time. “Declan!” I clutch at his shoulders, hang on to him with every ounce of strength I can muster. “I’m—”

“I’ve got you, baby.” His eyes meet mine. “I’ve got you.”

And just that easily I shatter. His lips crash down on mine and seconds later, he follows. As he does, the magic blasts through me. Rich, intoxicating, irresistible.

Just like Declan himself.

W
hen we can move again, which takes a few minutes as his legs are as shaky as mine, Declan stumbles to the bed, throws back the covers and then places me in the middle of the mattress. He climbs in beside me, pulls me back into his arms.

“Don’t leave,” I tell him, resting my head on his chest so that I can feel the rapid beating of his heart.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

He brushes a kiss over my forehead. “I promise.”

I hear the truth in his words and relax, let myself slide softly into sleep.

I wake hours later, clawing desperately at the hands wrapped around my throat. Someone’s on top of me in the darkness of my room, his hips between my legs, his large callused fingers around my neck.

I try to scream, but there’s little air in my lungs—and no way to get the sound around the hands slowly strangling me to death.

Panic shudders through me. I buck and twist, claw and pinch, but he’s immovable. Resolute. Even when I manage to grab on to his index finger and pull back until I hear a very distinct crack, he doesn’t falter, though he does curse in a low, agonized whisper that sounds vaguely familiar to me.

I scratch at his hands some more, arching my back and
lifting my hips in an effort to dislodge him. And that’s when I feel him—really feel him—for the first time, naked and aroused between my legs.

I scream.

I scream and scream and scream, but it doesn’t matter. Barely a wheeze passes through my compressed throat.

Declan. Where’s Declan? I reach a hand out to the other side of the bed, but it’s empty. Once again, I’m alone with a madman.

My attacker laughs, even as his fingers tighten, squeezing the last drops of air out of my lungs. Then he’s slamming himself inside me, ripping me apart with heavy, nightmarish thrusts of his hips, over and over again.

I reach for my magic, but it’s not there. Nothing is but the pain and the horror.

I fight anyway, digging my nails as deeply into his skin as they can go. He curses, but doesn’t pull away. Instead the pressure around my throat gets worse. And I start to fade away.

My heart, which has been pounding like a metronome on high since the moment I woke up, falters.

My vision, already impaired by the darkness of the room, goes gray.

My head spins, my brain working frantically up until the moment it seems to shut off.

And my body, my terrified, trembling body, releases, the tension draining away even as he continues his assault.

The entire world goes black.

I wake to darkness, a scream trembling in my abused throat.

For long seconds I don’t move. I can’t. I just lie in the dark, sucking in gulps of air, with fear a wild-eyed monster inside of me.

Everything hurts. My throat, my arms, my already abused ribs. My upper thighs. My—

I cut off the thought, refusing to go there now. I can’t. Not if I want to hold on to the tiny strip of sanity I’ve still got.

My breathing finally evens out and I hold my breath, listen intently. If there’s someone else in the room, I want to know about it before I do anything stupid. I don’t hear anything but my pounding heart and the wind whistling by my bedroom window. Still I don’t relax. I can’t.

Reaching a hand out to what I hope is my nightstand, I fumble it up the lamp until I get to the switch. It’s right where it’s supposed to be, and as I click it on, I’m both thrilled and horrified to find myself in my bedroom. In my bed. Alone. The room looks exactly as it did before I went to sleep, except my clothes are folded neatly on the chair near the window and Declan is gone.

But I knew he was gone before I even regained consciousness. If he was still here, the attack never would have happened. He wouldn’t have allowed it.

I try to think, try to reason things out, but I’m dizzy and confused and more terrified than I want to admit. I can still feel him on top of me, inside me.

Shoving the covers off, I shift so that my feet are on the cold cement of my floor. Then I push myself up and stumble to the bathroom on trembling legs.

As I splash cold water on my face, I tell myself that it was just a dream, just a nightmare. That it didn’t happen. But when I glance down at my naked body, I see twin rivers of blood sliding down my inner thighs and I know better.

I want to cry, want to rage. Want to turn on the shower and step inside, letting it wash away everything that has just happened to me. But I can’t. Because it didn’t just happen to me. It happened to someone else, too. Some other woman lived through what I just did, only it was worse for her because he was actually there. Actually inside her. For me, it didn’t really happen.

I repeat the words again and again, turn them into my mantra.

It didn’t really happen.

Didn’t really happen.

Didn’t happen.

It just feels like it did.

Why wasn’t Declan here? Why didn’t he protect me from—

I slam the thought back, lock it away. I can’t afford to go there. Not when the compulsion has just started burning inside of me. Declan must have had a good reason for leaving, could even now be on his way back to me. Besides, I don’t need him to take care of me. I can take care of myself.

I grab a washcloth from the towel rack, wipe the blood and other fluid up from between my thighs. As I do, I refuse to think about what that other fluid is.

When it’s gone, I grab a towel, wet it. Rinse myself. Again, the need to dive into the shower overwhelms me, but I ignore it as surely as I’m ignoring everything else. Because this time, while I don’t know how or why, I do know that what I felt was different. It wasn’t an echo of the past, wasn’t bruises after the real damage had been done.

This time what I had felt had happened in real time. I don’t know how I know, but I do. Which means that while I felt that bastard strangling and raping me, he was actually strangling and raping someone else. Which means, if I wasn’t out that long, that he is probably still with the body. Which also means, if I’m very, very lucky, I have the chance to end this tonight. Now.

The compulsion is already on me and I know I’m minutes away from being dragged out of the house by it, whether I want to go or not.

I head back into my bedroom, call Nate. When he answers, sounding wide awake and completely pissed off, I tell him, “I had a vision.”

“What? When? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’m calling you now. Come get me and I’ll take you there.”

“Is she already dead?”

“I think so.” My heart breaks as I admit that I’ve failed again. “But I think it just happened. He’s probably still with her.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

That might be too long. Already, pain is burning through me, sizzling along my nerve endings. “Hurry.”

“I am.” He’s breathless and I know he’s running.

I hang up and dash for my closet. After dragging on a pair of jeans, a turtleneck and the heaviest jacket I own, I debate between cowboy boots and running shoes. In the end, I choose the running shoes. I tell myself it’s because I need the traction, but the truth is I’m really shaken up. The last thing I need right now is anything that might better help me channel what just happened to me.

I cut the thought off again, then run into the bathroom and grab the bloody washcloth. I hit the kitchen, pull out a Ziploc bag and shove it into it, and then I’m out the front door. The compulsion won’t wait any longer.

As I head down my front walk, I fumble my cell phone out of my pocket and call Declan. Not that I don’t trust Nate, but in a situation like this, I’d much rather have Declan at my back, even though I can’t figure out why he left when he promised that he wouldn’t.

There’s no answer. Damn it. I start to turn around, to go back inside and wake up Donovan, but it’s too late. The compulsion has taken over and the only way my feet will move is forward.

I try to push through it, but I can’t. The pain is worse—like someone’s shoved razor-sharp talons straight into me and is doing his best to shred my insides.

In the end, I keep walking. There’s nothing else for me to do. I try to call Donovan, but it’s hopeless—he always turns off his phone before he sleeps. And Lily is miles away, tucked up in bed with Brandon.

I’m on my own, again.

Hunching my shoulders against the wind, I start to jog down the street. The burning is worse. Everything is worse, especially the urgency inside of me, screaming that I need to hurry or it will be too late. But I’m afraid it’s already too late.

I break into a full-out run, not knowing where I’m going. Knowing only that I have to get to North Congress Avenue.

Where is Nate? I scan the nearly deserted streets for his car, but he’s not there. Surely it’s been close to ten minutes, so where the hell is he?

The thought has barely formed before Nate’s car comes careening around the street corner in front of me, lights blazing. He must see me, because he slams to a stop in the middle of the road. Before he can even roll down his window, I’m there, hurtling myself into the car and yelling, “Go!”

He takes off.

“Where are we going?”

Here’s where it gets tricky. How do I tell Nate, who is already having a rough time with this whole psychic thing, that I don’t know where we’re going? That I can only follow the feeling inside me, which directs me where to go?

Before I can come up with a suitable answer, we pass Sixteenth Street and the compulsion gets heavier. We need to—“Turn on Seventeenth Street,” I tell him.

My voice is strained, sweat dotting my forehead and upper lip despite the cold. Nate looks at me sharply, but he doesn’t say anything. I guess he doesn’t want to risk upsetting the crazy psychic lady.

“Left on Trinity,” I call out a few seconds later and Nate makes the turn, tires squealing.

“You know, this might be easier if you tell me where we’re going,” he says. “You’re not giving much warning on where I’m supposed to turn.”

“I don’t have much warn—turn right here!” I tell him as we approach Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, pulling my legs to my chest and wrapping my hands around my knees. Maybe, if I make myself small enough, the pain will shrink as well.

We’re getting closer—I can feel it. There’s a part of me that’s thrilled that this might be it, that we may finally have a chance to stop this monster from hurting anyone else. But there’s another part of me that’s terrified, as terrified as any one of the women he’s killed. I know what he can do, have felt his blows as surely as any of his victims have. After what happened this morning, after what it felt like to be—

I stop the thought before it can fully form. I’m shaking already. If I go down that path, then I’ll be no use to anyone. And I can’t stand the idea of him getting away with one more murder. Not when I know it’s within my power to stop him.

“Turn left here!” I say as we start to cross Red River.

Nate shoots me a fulminating glare, but does as I say—even though he almost runs a car off the road in the process. “We can’t keep doing this, Xandra! Tell me where the fuck we’re going.”

And just that easily, I know. “UT.”

“There’s been a murder at UT?” Nate’s voice is urgent and I know he’s imagining the nightmare of trying to search one of the largest universities in the country. Not that I blame him. Over a hundred thousand people are on campus on any given day—between students, faculty and staff—and if it wasn’t for this compulsion, I don’t have a clue how we’d find her. Or him.