Broken Heart 08 Must Love Lycans (12 page)

“I’ll take him first.” Ruadan grabbed hold of Damian and they both almost instantly turned into a shower of gold sparkles.

Adulfo dumped his gun; then he strode toward me. “You are my father’s,” he said, “so you are my family, too. Welcome,
Frau
.”

“Um … thanks.”

He nodded stiffly and then stepped near the other man. “Let’s go, Lorcan.”

I watched as Lorcan put his hands on Adulfo’s shoulders and then they were gone with a gold-sparked
pop
!

“It’s been a very strange day,” I said to my rescuer. I was trying to absorb everything happening, and I felt close to fainting.

“’Tis about to get stranger,” he said with a smile. “Hold on t’ me, and close your eyes tight.”

I did as he asked, wondering if maybe I was still in my sick bed having another dream. Maybe no one had escaped at all. I was trapped in this Wonderland, spinning from one weird adventure to the next, doomed to never find my way back to the reality I had known.

“Kelsey! Hold!” yelled a strident voice.

I looked over my shoulder and saw Sven and two guards running toward us. One stopped to check on the prone form of Jarred, but Sven and the remaining man continued on full throttle.

“Hang on,” murmured Patrick.

I felt a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. It suddenly burst into a thousand pinpricks, which felt uncomfortable, but not painful.

I heard a popping sound. Something solid and hot slammed into my shoulder. Agony ripped through me—sudden, intense, unrelenting. I heard Sven yell, “Don’t shoot
her
, you fucking idiot!”

Then my entire being exploded.

 

“Patrick!” The female’s concerned cry was the first thing I heard when the world swirled back into solid form.

“Sshh, Jess. She’s the one injured.”

My eyelids fluttered open. I was still in Patrick’s arms. My shoulder throbbed in excruciating pain. Something warm and sticky dribbled down my stomach and soaked my clothing. I sagged backward and saw the crimson stain on Patrick’s shirt.

“I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I’m sure some soda water will take that right out.”

Patrick stared at me, and so did the pretty brunette clutching his shoulder.

“Give her to me, damn it.” Damian’s strong arms slid underneath me and he yanked me out of Patrick’s embrace.

“Turn your neck.” The gentle command came from the brunette. I did what she asked and I felt something wet and cold slapped against my skin. There was a blaze of heat—and I swear I heard a
snick
. Then it was over.

Damian whisked me away, and I got a vague impression of white walls and long hallways.

“I don’t think my rescue is going very well,” I told him. “Then again, it is my first time.”

He looked at me, one dark brow arched. “You are trouble.”

“And you like trouble?”

“Not particularly.”

I sighed. “Then you should probably drop me off at the nearest bus stop. Because I’m not very good at being good.”

“No bus stops.” He entered a small white room that smelled like antiseptic, and then he laid me on a soft, narrow bed. He sat down next to me. “We will discuss your inability to be good later.”

“Spankings don’t work,” I said morosely. “Just so you know.”

He gaped at me for a microsecond, then something like speculation entered his eyes. “Perhaps we’ll test this interesting theory of yours later.”

“What theory?” I asked, perplexed.

He flashed me a grin, and then pressed the back of his hand against my cheek. “Lie down,” he directed in a soft voice.

I hadn’t realized that I was leaning up on my elbows. I collapsed onto the bed, and pain shot through me. “Ouch!” I touched my neck where the brunette had slapped on whatever-it-was. “What did she put on me?”

“It’s a temporary tattoo,” he said. “It allows you to stay within the protection of the town’s borders.”

“What town? Where are we?”

“Broken Heart, Oklahoma.”

Memory flickered. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t that the town that got blown up after a gas leak? The whole place got turned into a crater.”

“That’s what we wanted the humans to believe. The Invisi-shield gives the impression that nothing is here, but there was no gas leak, no explosion. We are hidden from the human world.”

“Oh.” I touched the tattoo on my neck again. I was getting all kinds of lovely additions to skin. “Better than shock bracelets, I guess.”

“You are not a prisoner,” he said. “You are a guest.”

“Well, it’s not like I have anywhere else to go. I won’t return to the clinic so they can finish me off.”

“Dante has no intention of killing you,” he said. Then he offered gruffly, “Do not worry. The doctor has been summoned.” Damian grabbed the edges of my blouse and ripped it open. The fabric fluttered onto the bed. I looked down and studied the quarter-sized hole in my upper shoulder; blood gurgled from it. The flesh around the wound was blackened, as though it had been burned. Despite how bad it looked, the agony was receding.

“That’s not normal, is it?” I asked.

“It’s not a bullet wound. More like a … laser.”

“Oh. I’ve never been shot before so I’m not sure what to expect.”

Damian’s gaze flickered with what I pinpointed as guilt. “It seems you’re experiencing many firsts today,
Schätzchen
.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?” I narrowed my eyes. “Does it mean stupidhead in German, or something?”

“Or something.”

“Your cheerful manner certainly helps allay the pain,” I chirped. “Why, I bet you’re the best candy striper in this hospital!”

He glared at me. And I smiled widely at him. Sometimes the best way to disarm someone intent on being grumpy and ill mannered was to be terrifyingly sweet. I’d learned this particular technique in dealing with my mother’s constant criticisms. She hated when I responded to her sour comments with sugary responses. It was very difficult to harangue someone who agreed that she was every bad thing you’d said and more—especially when expressing such sentiments in a relentlessly cheerful tone.

He lasted a full twenty-eight seconds (which was eighteen seconds more than my mother’s record) against the inanity of my smile. His eyes dropped to the wound, which had, to my relief, stopped bleeding. Then he studied my blue lace bra rather intently. He went completely still. His gaze was riveted to the scar visible above my left breast. The blood drained from his face. “How did you get that?”

Since he looked as though
he’d
been shot and I couldn’t very well admit a dream goddess zapped me, I said, “College indiscretion.”

“Explain this … indiscretion.”

“Drunken lark with my girlfriends,” I lied. “Never mix tequila with a tattoo parlor.” I gazed at him solemnly. “It can lead to regrets.”

His expression offered skepticism. He opened his mouth, no doubt to begin another round of interrogation, when the door opened. I looked up and saw another Damian—and then
another
—stride through the door. Damian placed his hand over the scar, his palm centimeters away from my breast.

The other Damians stood at the end of the bed, arms crossed as they stared at me. Their gazes skimmed my blue bra, and both men noted the way my (sorta) Damian was touching me. Obviously he didn’t want his clones to know about the mark.

“What?” I asked to draw their attention away. I frowned down at the bra. “If I’d known I’d be showing off the girls, I would’ve gone with the black lace.” I looked up. “What do you think?”

They had matching grins.

“I like her,” said the one on the right.

“Can we keep her,
mein bruder
?” asked the one on the left.

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,
I thought. Who would show up next? The March hare?

Damian ignored his brothers, no doubt from habit. “Where is Dr. Clark?”

“Delayed.” The man on the right executed a formal bow. “I am Drake.”

“And I am Darrius.” He dipped his head.

“Triplets,” I said.

“Yes,” said Damian.

“And you were firstborn,” I murmured.

He looked at me askance, but I sent him a blinding smile. He actually flinched before he looked away.

“Would you guys mind if I covered up?” I asked pleasantly. Damian couldn’t conceal the mark forever, and honestly, the warmth of his hand (not to mention its location so near my breast) was making me shiver. “Not that being injured and exposed to strangers isn’t fun and all.”

“Turn around,” he told his brothers.

Their grins widened before they pivoted. As soon as their backs were turned, Damian helped me tuck under the single white sheet that covered the bed. He pulled it up to my chin, probably hoping to cover up evidence of the mark. Then he drew my hair forward so that it shielded my neck—and his bite—as well.

I felt like evidence at a crime scene.

Drake and Darrius turned around and both were eyeing me with interest. The door opened again, and a tall man with short blond hair and kind blue eyes strode inside. He had that doctor air about him, probably due to the white lab coat he was wearing. “Good evening, Damian,” he said. He smiled at me. “I’m Dr. Clark. Let me have a look.”

I could tell, even without dipping into my empath abilities, that Damian was reluctant to give the doctor access. I wasn’t sure what the rules were for werewolves, but I had a sneaking suspicion that him claiming me had flipped some kind of possessiveness switch. Staking territory—like when dogs peed on trees. Oh, great. He was the dog. And I was a urine-soaked tree.

“Move,” I told him rather grumpily. “Or would you prefer I bleed to death? That would solve your problems, wouldn’t it?”

He blanched. “You are not a problem.”

“Then move!” I yelled.

Damian shoved himself off the bed and went to sulk in the corner. His brothers watched our interaction with a combination of surprise and humor. The doctor’s gaze widened, but he said nothing. He sat on the bed and peeled the sheet down. I clutched the right side so that it covered the scar. He examined my wound, but didn’t touch it. He frowned.

Crap. It was never good when a doctor frowned.

“Don’t you have anywhere else to be?” asked Damian. His question was directed toward his brothers.

Drake pretended to think, one finger on his chin. Then he shrugged. “No.”

“Me neither,” said Darrius with a doleful shake of his head.

Damian glowered at them, but they countered with innocent expressions and beatific smiles. I decided that I liked the pair of them. Anyone unafraid to give Damian shit was okay in my book.

“I need to clean the wound,” said Dr. Clark. “I’ll get some supplies and return shortly.” He glanced at me. “Do you need anything for the pain?”

“It doesn’t hurt that much anymore,” I said.

“Hmm.” He leaned down to take a closer look. Then I saw his gaze shift. “What’s this?”

He moved my hair aside to view the bite mark.

Damian growled.

Dr. Clark looked over his shoulder. “Is there a problem?”

“He has issues with other men touching me,” I said. I glanced at Drake and Darrius to see what teasing gestures they’d make now. However, I found them staring at their brother, concern and shock mirrored on their faces.

“You
marked
her?” asked Darrius.

“You were trying to hide it,” accused Drake.

Thick ropes of anger spiraled out from all three brothers. There was no shielding myself from that kind of triple fury.

“You’ve claimed a human,” said Darrius in a shaking voice. “What have you done,
mein bruder
?”

Chapter 5

“I
don’t need to explain myself to you,” said Damian viciously. His gaze was on the doctor’s fingers, which were resting lightly on my collarbone. “Could you
stop
touching her?”

“I can’t help her if I can’t touch her,” Dr. Clark said reasonably. He drew the sheet up to my chin, winked at me, and then got up. “I’ll be right back.”

He glanced at me, then rounded on the brothers. “Behave.” Then he strode out the door—leaving me at the behest of three angry werewolves.
Nice bedside manner, Doc.

I didn’t understand the reason for everyone’s distress, but I totally got that Damian had done something important—and unusual. And they didn’t even know yet about the serum or Jarred’s belief that Damian’s bite had morphed me into a werewolf.

“She doesn’t understand, does she?” asked Darrius. His solemn gaze met mine. “My brother’s bite is an ancient and powerful protection. It means he’s claimed you as his child—or his
mate
.”

I tried to ignore the way my stomach lurched. “Oh. Um—” Sooooo not gonna address the mate issue. “He bit Adulfo?”

“Yes,” answered Damian. He was glaring so hard at his brothers, it’s a wonder they hadn’t melted from the molten anger directed at them. “He’s my adopted son—and my heir.”