Blood Ties Book Two: Possession. Jennifer Armintrout
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and ready. He could take her. He knew she would let him, but then what? He couldn’t kill her. He didn’t have the strength.
His mind reeled again. He didn’t need such a shameful memory hanging around his neck. He had to get under control.
She trembled beneath him, looked up at him with her wide, innocent eyes. He couldn’t help himself. He slid his thumb over her slick flesh and leaned close to her face to hear her soft, stifled moan.
“I loved this part,” he whispered against her ear, still rubbing her as she rotated her hips against his hand. “But it wasn’t the best part.”
“What was?” She didn’t want to know, that much was evident from her tone, but at the same time he knew her curiosity was too great. It was the same with all of them. Their curiosity was their downfall.
“The best part…” He nipped at her throat, avoiding that horrible, guilt-inducing bandage there, and slipped one finger inside her. “The best part was biting them and listening to them die as I used them.”
She tensed. Her body offered too much resistance as he pushed the digit in farther. She was a virgin.
Nausea clawed his guts, and he withdrew, rising to his knees. He’d expected it, of course, but not the shame that paralyzed him. Where had it come from, when he’d been doing so well?
She sat up, a momentary frown crossing her face before she reached for him. Too shocked to resist, he sat motionless as she covered his mouth with hers.
It was as if he twisted helplessly in a powerful storm, relying on a woefully inadequate tether to anchor him to solid ground. He’d had this feeling before, this desperation for human touch that mirrored hers. He’d learned to guard himself against it. The crushing rejection on her face when he pushed her away shot suspicious pain through his chest. It steeled his resolve. “I won’t let you whore yourself to me in return for false affection!”
Her hurt boiled over into rage. “Why? You did it for all those other girls! You did it, then you killed them! Why not me?”
“Is that what you want?” Now that he’d touched her skin, heard her soft moans in his ear, the thought repulsed him. Perhaps he had more in common with those needy girls than he’d wanted to admit.
“I want to get it over with!” She flailed her arms and legs like a child having a temper tantrum as she screamed in frustration and despair. “I’m dead already! I just want to get it over with!”
Cyrus paced at the end of the bed, his heart hammering his ribs. How did one deal with humans when they lost control like this? In the first hours after he’d become mortal again, he’d felt panic and terror. He’d prayed for death. He knew her pain. If he could take it from her, he would.
In the weak moonlight that lit the kitchen area, he spied a block of knives on the counter. As soon as the Mouse was dead, he would have peace again, inside and out. No more doubting himself, no more fighting this frightening new humanity.
His anger dried up as her own temper subsided into small, childish sobs, and he felt like a monster again. No, monster was too strong a word. Craven. That described him better. Craven, to cower before such a formidable opponent as a weeping woman.
“Don’t cry.” He said it harshly, but he knew it was not a command she would obey. Cursing, he wrapped his arms around her shaking body and pulled her close, as if he could absorb the pain radiating from her.
“I’m just sick of waiting,” she sobbed against his shoulder. “I’m so scared, and I’m sick of waiting.”
He held her until dawn, though she’d cried herself to sleep much earlier. As sunlight filtered through the small, basement windows, the stupidity of his actions came crashing down on him.
You’re pathetic. It was his father’s voice, not his own, that echoed through his head. Look at you, staying at her side like a whimpering puppy.
As much as he hated the voice, he knew it was right. There was no room for his conscience in this place.
Still, he couldn’t tear himself from the comforting warmth of her body. And that frightened him more than any words his father might use to shame him.
In med school, I dreamed of one day owning my own practice. I’d envisioned exactly the right colors and furnishings to put my patients at ease as they waited to be seen.
The general should have called me for pointers. The waiting room of his office was as stark and white as the rest of the Movement’s underground compound. The general, however, took “stark” to a whole new level. Two cold, stainless steel chairs were the only furniture in the room. The fluorescent lights were so bright it seemed the place glowed, and the walls blended seamlessly into the floor, giving one the impression of floating in a void.
Like purgatory, only with folding chairs.
Max sat beside me, drumming his fingers on his thighs. “We weren’t supposed to keep him waiting, but he’ll keep us waiting?”
My nerves were too fried for me to bother concentrating on Max’s sarcasm. I’d anticipated the general would be a hard sell, considering the way Max and Anne had spoken of him, not to mention the fact he’d been the only staff member I’d heard of so far with a military rank before his name.
Of course, Max kept reassuring me things would be fine. I really wished I could believe that, but when the door to the inner office opened, I wanted to run.
My stomach returned to its proper latitude as my eyes bugged out of my head. A woman, tall and slender, dressed from neck to toes in black leather, strode through the door like a Bond girl. Her deep gold gaze slid over us, her slightly upturned eyes deadly serious. Her black hair fell down her back in a perfect, waist-length braid. She growled at us as she passed.
Max’s face flashed into feeding mode, his upper and lower jaws elongating to form a vaguely porcine snout with dripping canines. He snarled viciously, then his face returned to normal as quickly as it had changed.
The woman didn’t acknowledge him again, and when the outer door clicked shut behind her, he stood and kicked the chair. “Bitch!”
“What was that about? Bad breakup?”
Judging by the look on Max’s face, my humor was not appreciated. “That filthy dog? She wishes.”
I held up my hands. “Hey, I don’t know her, but I should inform you that it greatly offends my sense of sisterhood to hear you call another woman a dog.”
“That’s what she is.” He pointed accusingly to the door. “A stinking werewolf. The day the Movement let them join the ranks, I should have turned in my resignation.”
Morbid curiosity forced my gaze toward the closed door she’d exited through. “What is your thing against werewolves?”
“It’s not my thing against werewolves that makes me dislike that one. Bella DeCesare. She’s a real bitch.” He winced at the terminology. “Breton gives her all sorts of prime assignments, flies her all over because she’s his only assassin who can travel commercial. He says it’s because she’s got the best kill record of all the werewolves in the Movement. I say he’s boning her.”
“Nice.” I remembered Cyrus talking about lupins and how they’d distanced themselves from their more primitive cousins, but the way he’d described werewolves had made me picture hairy, half human beasts loping around in the woods, preying on innocent campers. The woman I’d seen had been anything but primitive. “So, they play for this side, as well. There were some lupins at Cyrus’s house, but I wasn’t sure exactly who they were.”
A look of utter disgust crossed Max’s face. “Let’s limit your use of that name to about zero times a day. But she’s not a lupin. She’s a werewolf. According to them, they’re not inter-changeable terms.” He sounded as if he didn’t care two figs for their differences. “They’re not as different as the lupins