Hunted

Chapter 22

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Conn grabbed the King of the Realm and shoved him against the wall of the strategy room in the Oregon headquarters. Fury burned him hotter than the inferno they’d just wisped through. The scent of scalded hair assaulted his nostrils. They’d barely made it.

Dage knocked him back, his normally bronze face pale. “Get off me. You weigh a ton to transport.” He kept the wall up with his shoulders, sagging against it. The fire had singed the side of his shirt, and raw, red skin rippled across one hard forearm in a burn deep enough to showcase white bone. His eyes blazed a furious blue. Never a good sign.

“You’re the king.” When the hell would the man realize that? Conn’s heartbeat slowed to a normal pace. Pain flared back to life. He shifted his weight to his good leg, striving for nonchalance.

Talen shrugged out of a bulletproof vest from behind a thick table scattered with battle plans. “You both need a vein.” His jaw was set, his hair tied back. His older brother had been preparing for a fight.

“My blood’s better.” Jase replaced the safety on his gun, placing the weapon on the table. He yanked up a shirtsleeve to bare his wrist.

Kane snorted. “No, it’s not.”

Conn held Dage’s gaze, anger spiraling higher when his brother lifted an eyebrow in challenge.

The king cleared his throat. “You want to fight about it?” Anticipation tipped his upper lip. “I’ll wait until you’ve recovered, of course.” He cut his eyes to Conn’s still bleeding leg, tracking several other injuries in his perusal back to Conn’s face.

Asshole. When was he going to realize his life meant more? Conn allowed a slow smile to cross his face. “No, I don’t want to fight. But I’m telling Emma you did.”

Dage’s nostrils flared. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.” Conn took a second to appreciate the quickly veiled panic in his brother’s eyes, then dust mites danced across his vision. “What the hell?” He swayed. “Crap.” Then, darkness.

Moira settled into the overstuffed chair, her gaze on the half-naked warrior on the bed. Their bed. The bedroom held the scent of sage and gunpowder, the hand-woven Irish rug matching the down comforter. Three oil paintings lined the wall, all midnight scenes of her homeland showcasing a full moon. He’d decorated the room with her in mind.

They’d hurt him. Fury burned along her skin, crackling with an audible pop. Raw wounds dotted his chest and abdomen, no longer bleeding but swollen with angry bruises. Jase had shoved his wrist in Conn’s unconscious mouth, so at least he’d gotten some blood to heal.

“Moira.” His voice rumbled her name, his incredible eyes opening. “Lose the anger, Brat. I need happy thoughts.”

She couldn’t help the smile. What a smart-ass. “You think you’re in my head now, do you?” He bunched to sit up, and she jumped toward the bed, pressing down on the unwounded part of his chest. “Oh no, you don’t.”

His hands encircled her wrists. A gleam filled his eyes. With a sharp tug, he landed her on top of him. “Hello.”

She scrambled to sit up, away from his injuries. Anger burned right to desire. He’d played her. “You’re hurt, damn it.”

One dark eyebrow rose in that arrogant face. “You said I could snack on you.”

Well, the man had needed blood. She nodded, trying to tug one wrist free.

“Nope.” Tightening his hold, he lifted his hands above his head, tugging her flat against him, chest to chest. “Hmmm. Very nice.”

Moira fought the flush trying to heat her face, her nipples pebbling against his heat. A warming began to hum in her core. “Conn, you’re injured.” Her voice emerged breathless and much too weak.

“So be gentle with me,” he murmured, his lips wandering across her jaw to torture her earlobe. “Skin like the softest of thoughts. Smooth as my mother’s Irish porcelain.” He nipped, the small bite flaring her marking to life. “Yet so much prettier.” He dropped his head back down, his gaze caressing her face. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in my three hundred plus years, Dailtín.”

The sincerity, the simmering desire in his tone flared her need to life. Emotion she neither wanted nor needed pricked tears at the back of her eyes. “I hate that they hurt you, Conn.” While she batted the tears away, they survived thick and full in her voice.

His gaze softened. “Ah, darlin’. I’m fine.” The hold on her wrists loosened, and he brushed the curls off her face.

“No you’re not. The doctor examined you while you were out.” For over an hour. “You lost most of your liver and both kidneys.” How hard they must’ve hit him to cause such internal damage. Rage and helplessness commingled until she felt small. So small.

“Moira. Livers and kidneys grow back. Give me a couple days and I’ll be good as new, ready to chase down the entire clan. I’m healing as we speak.”

Vulnerability kept her immobile. He’d been hurt, yet she needed comforting. “This ... you ...” Confusion had her biting her lip.

Understanding lightened his eyes. “It’s all right. You don’t always have to be so damn strong.” One broad hand caressed from her shoulder down to her hip in one smooth stroke. Soothing. Kindness and understanding in such a deadly package.

The tears won the internal battle, escaping to slide down her cheeks. She didn’t know any way but the truth. And the truth was scaring her to death. “I’m not weak, Conn.”

He tugged her to straddle him. “No, you’re not.”

A slight shift of his hips had her atop his groin, safely away from his abdominal wounds. She wiped tears off her face, refusing to roll her eyes. Safety didn’t exist when Connlan Kayrs had a plan.

His fingers tightened, keeping her hips in place. “What are you so afraid of, Moira?”

“Losing myself.” The words emerged soft and fast, so much truth in them she caught her breath.

“Maybe you’ll find yourself.” His eyes closed.

“The Nine is considering withdrawing from the Realm.” There. She’d said it.

“I know. They had a preliminary vote before Grace was kidnapped.”

Surprise shot through her followed by a smoldering hint of temper. “You sound as if you’re discussing the weather.” He’d known. Yet he hadn’t said a word.

“Just the facts.”

“So what’s your plan here, Conn? You know my job.”

“No plan. For now, the Nine is scrambling and can’t make a cohesive decision.”

He was wrong. The Nine could withdraw should the present members vote to do so. “What does that mean?”

“We hold tight until they make a decision. When they do, then I’ll neutralize you if necessary.” His voice slurred on the second part of his statement. “Make no mistake, you and I remain solid even if the rest of the world blows up. We start at that point, then move outward.” He inhaled through his nose. “We might have to table this philosophical discussion.” A cut on his right shoulder mended shut.

She’d kick his ass for the neutralizing threat later when he was feeling better. “You still need blood.” Rumor had it hers was magical.

A smile threatened his full lips. “Is that an offer?”

She thought about it. Need flitted along her nerve endings. “Yes.”

His eyes flipped open, shooting silver through the green. “Well, now.” Slow as a summer dream, he slid one arm behind his head. “I accept.”

Even injured, even exhausted, the man held an edge that whispered a warning. Most predators did. Her thighs warmed, a sensation she welcomed much easier than the vise squeezing her heart. “You want my neck?”

His lids half closed. “No,” he murmured very softly. “I want all of you, Moira.” A deep breath lifted her to settle back in place. “For now, your neck would be enjoyable.” Twin fangs dropped low.

A guttural growl escaped him and she shivered. Fighting the urge to clear her throat, fighting the need to run, she gingerly set her hands on either side of his wide shoulders and leaned down. He threaded his free hand through her hair, tightening his hold and turning her head to the side.

Something natural, something feminine in her sighed, relaxing. He had her. And deep down, where certainty lived, she knew he wasn’t letting go.

His rough tongue rasped from her collarbone to the underside of her jaw. A quiver swept her skin, followed by a blast of heat. She pressed down against him, core to core, softness to his hardness. He was hard. For her.

Her eyes rolled back in her head. The tiniest of whimpers escaped. “Please.”

As if he’d been waiting, he struck. Deep and fast, he gave no quarter, drinking. Taking. Owning. His hold tightened. A rumble filled his chest, an animal appeased.

She arched, her body tinder, his mouth a match. Thoughts faded like old memories, worries fled as if chased. Nothing in reality, nothing in imagination, could compare to the sensation of her mate taking her blood. Her limbs softened, yet she shared power with him. Power flowing from him bolstered her. Energy, raw and pure.

Elemental.

Primitive.

Everlasting.

Sharp fangs retracted and he laved the wound, sealing it. A deep sigh escaped him. “Damn, woman.” His lids drifted shut. The hand in her hair loosened, and he tugged her to his side, rolling to tuck her in. His breath evened out in deep sleep.

She sucked in air, vulnerability skating through her. The man had taken more than her blood. Very few, if any, people could handle Connlan Kayrs. She wasn’t one of them. Her back to his heated front, the temptation to sink into him, into his vision of the world, was almost too much to deny. Even worse, a part of her, a much larger part than she liked, wanted to please him. Wanted to make his world true.

It was that thought that had her sliding off the bed and running for the door.

She made it to the corridor, her eyes darting for the nearest exit in the rock walls. She had to get out of there, flee to the surface. The hour had to be close to midnight. The moon beckoned. Her boots echoed against the stone floor as she ran, finding the stairwell. Two steps inside and she collided with a chest that might as well have been a rock wall.

An “oof ” escaped her as she bounced back. Only the quickest of reflexes helped the king grab her arms, keeping her from slamming into the metal door behind her.

Like a rabbit in a snare, she struggled, panting.

He released her, stepping back. “Moira.” Acceptance and understanding filtered across the king’s face. “Feeling trapped, are we?”

“Yes.” She gulped, trying to stem the panic rippling under her skin.

Dage studied her, a slight smile hovering on his lips. “Want to fight?”

“Fight?” The King of the Realm wanted to fight with her?

“Sure.” The smile erupted, a gleam in his eye. “We have the best sparring mats around. Kell has trained you, no?”

Yeah. Till she bled from the ears. “Maybe a little.”

The king had dimples.

Interesting.

He grasped her arm, all but tugging her down the stairs to the next level, which he opened onto a massive gym complete with tumbling mats. He shut the door. “Whenever I’m feeling the weight of this life, I hit something, usually Conn.” Cheerful anticipation lit the king’s words. “So. Gloves, knives, what?”

Emotion rose hard and fast within her. “Nothing. We fight free-form.” The need to hit overwhelmed her. He may be trying to help, but the vampire was about to get his ass kicked.