Chosen by Desire (35 page)

She practically ran back to the back door. Throwing it open, she went in, locking it behind her for the first time ever. She laughed shakily. Geez, she was paranoid.

She grabbed the other bags of garbage and took them out. The same feeling of impending doom hit her the second she opened the door again, but she told herself she was being overly sensitive. Squaring her shoulders, she hefted the bags outside. She set a bag down against the metal bin and stretched on her toes to push the lid up.

As she was dropping the first bag in, she felt something shift behind her. Cool air brushed the nape of her neck. Fear froze her to that spot, her breath caught in her chest.

Turn around.

Before she could move, someone pushed her into the Dumpster.

Her hands came up to keep her from hitting the metal barrier with full force. Her palms stung at impact and she cried out.

Her attacker grabbed her ponytail and pulled her head back.

Oh, God—he was going to ram her head into the Dumpster. She’d pass out and be at his mercy. Her heart pounding, she reached behind her, trying to scratch him.

He shoved her, pinning her to the awful-smelling bin with a hand at her head and a forearm across her shoulder blades. “Where is it?” a robotic voice asked.

It was him. Anger burned away the fear in her system, and a burst of adrenaline made her bold enough to play the dumb blonde. “There’s money in the register. Take it all.”

He slammed her into the metal. “You know what I want.”

Ow.
She winced in pain. “Refresh my memory.”

Her attacker shoved her again and then punched her in the kidney. “Refreshed enough?”

She gasped as the pain shot through her. It would have been so satisfying to Jackie Chan this guy across the alley. “My wallet is inside. If you—”

Grabbing her shoulder, he dragged her around to face him. Her back arched involuntarily as it hit something protruding on the Dumpster. She hissed, except it was cut off by the arm that lodged itself across her neck.

“I want to know where to find the Scrolls of Destiny.”

She shook her head. “The scrolls are myth—”

A fist punched her in her gut, making her jerk forward. Only the arm barring her throat caught her. “You found proof of their existence. I want it.”

Gagging from the pressure, she choked out, “I don’t have—”

He jabbed her side.

Searing pain shot up her body. She sagged against him, gasping for breath, for relief. Then she drew her knee up to nail him in the groin.

He blocked her effortlessly, growled, and wedged his forearm tighter into her neck.

Great—she’d pissed him off.

“You’ll regret that.” The thug’s arm cocked back, aimed at her face.

“It’s inside,” she croaked.

The leather-covered fist hovered, but then it grasped her wrist and yanked her around. He twisted her arm behind her and pushed her toward the door. “Show me.”

She tried to think of a way out, but pain muddled her thoughts.

Max.
Maybe he would arrive in time to help her.

But as she stumbled down the dark hall ahead of her attacker, she realized she’d locked the front door. Max wouldn’t be able to get in.

She was on her own.

T
he door was locked.

Max tried it again. It wasn’t closing time yet—why was it locked?

Pressing his hand to the deadbolt, he reached out with his chi and unlocked it. The click was soft, barely audible. He started to let himself in, but as he held the handle in his hand he sensed something wrong. Very wrong.

He paused, alert,
j
n ch’i
focused and ready. He didn’t hear anything, but he knew Carrie’s stillness. This stillness was unnatural.

Using the darkness of the entrance as cover, he stepped inside, careful to close the door noiselessly. He stayed in the shadows, dispersing his energy and becoming one with them as he looked around the corner.

A slim person in black from head to toe stood behind the counter, rummaging through a bag. It very obviously wasn’t Carrie. Max narrowed his eyes, recognizing him. The prowler from his house.

Carrie.
An unfamiliar feeling caused his mark to prickle. Fear—for her safety.

Surveying the room, he found her on her knees in front of the counter, one hand on the floor and the other holding her head. Blood seeped through her fingers, dripping on the ground, the iron in it pulling him.

Anger seized him.
J
n ch’i
pulsed, rising to the surface, ready to attack. He started forward, needing to go to her.

But, hands clenched, he pulled himself back.
Assess the situation first.

His gaze narrowed on the person behind the counter. The bastard was in for a world of hurt. Max just needed to leave him lucid enough to find out why Carrie had been targeted and if anyone else was involved. After that, all bets were off.

The man growled, an electronically masked sound of anger and frustration, and ducked from behind the bar.

Headed straight for Carrie.

Rage unlike anything Max had ever felt before slashed through him—worse than even that day when he discovered Rhys had betrayed him. Knowing better than to fight in anger, he focused it into
j
n ch’i,
until it was honed and ready.

He stepped out from the shadows.

The bastard didn’t see him. Intent on Carrie, he headed straight to her, shaking the bag in his hand. “Where is it?”

When Carrie shook her head, he moved to kick her in the head.

“
No.
” Stepping out from the shadows, Max gathered
j
n ch’i
and slashed at her attacker. He watched in satisfaction as blood welled in the slice-like gash at the man’s thigh.

Dropping the bag, the attacker stumbled and grabbed the wound. The bag dropped on the floor wide open, and a scroll rolled out next to it.

A scroll? Max frowned. He thought he had all of them.

They both dove for it, but the intruder had the advantage of being closer. Scooping it up, he turned to escape. And halted.

Because Max stood between him and the exit. Max grinned, cold and mean. He wasn’t going to let the bastard get away a third time.

Gathering his chi, he aimed at the arm this time. He flung his hand out, throwing a razor-sharp blade of energy.

The bastard grabbed the cut but didn’t drop the scroll. Head low and determined, he rushed at Max.

Max waited until the last possible moment to step aside and punch. It impacted harder than he expected, sinking into softness.

He frowned.
It’s a woman.

Distracted by the realization, he didn’t see the roundhouse kick until it was about to connect to his ribs, and then it was too late to do anything but flex his side. Still, it hit solid and hurt like a bitch. He hissed through his teeth.

She stepped in, arm cocked for a second strike. He blocked the chop to his throat and grabbed her.

Her boot heel ground into his foot.

“Shit.” The move surprised him into letting her go.

Not waiting, she whirled and ran through the bar and the hallway.

The back door.
He began to follow—

Carrie moaned.

He froze, torn between going after her attacker to get answers and tending to her. But in the clarity of the moment, his heart told him where he needed to be.

Turning, he knelt on the floor next to her. All the blood made him pause. Logically, he knew head wounds bled—he’d been cut enough times in sparring practice to know that firsthand. But seeing Carrie bleed scared him to his core.

Very gently, he cradled her in his lap and pushed her hand away to take a look. A lump rose around the cut, and the beginning of a nasty bruise already tainted her fair skin. Blood dripped down the side of her face.

It drove him insane. If he’d had his sword, he would have cut down her attacker, woman or not.

Carrie moaned again, and he ran the backs of his knuckles across her cheek. “Carrie, open your eyes for me.”

Her lashes fluttered. It looked like it took effort, but she opened her eyes. Pain twisted her expression, and she lifted her hand to her head.

He caught it and held it in his. “Don’t touch. It’s going to hurt.”

“It already hurts,” she said, a little slurry. She struggled to sit up. “How did you get in?”