Her heart knocked against her ribs, and the image faded.
She was left staring at a man. A perfectly normal man, with perfectly normal features, perfectly normal smile, perfectly normal eyes . . . that
glowed
.
Morgan hissed out a breath between her teeth and retreated a step. Her back bumped into the wall. She rested her hands against it, staring into those eerily glowing eyes.
In the back of her mind, a voice spoke.
Wolf.
Then it whispered,
Be ready
.
Amusement danced across his features. Amusement . . . and hunger.
Lock it down
, she told herself.
Lock it down.
It took all her strength to look away from him. All her control not to watch him, watch and wait for the attack. Paranoia and fear bubbled inside her but she battled it down, locked it up. Feigning nonchalance, she inspected her nails, picking at a hangnail.
He continued to study her but Morgan didn’t look at him.
One of the other men at the table murmured to Sanders. He replied, his voice just as quiet. Then he glanced at her, a cold, sharp smile on his face.
She held his gaze for a moment, her brow cocked. Then she resumed her study of her fingernails.
“So are you going to tell us why I’m here?”
Although she didn’t look up, Morgan knew who it was. The quiet man. The man who looked at her with a monster staring out of his eyes.
“Of course, Marty. In due time,” Sanders answered with a vague wave of his hand.
From under her lashes, Morgan watched as Sanders leaned back in his chair and once more focused his gaze on her. The grin on his face widened. In the pit of her stomach, a cold, hard knot settled.
“I’d like you to meet my new . . . associate,” Sanders said. “Gentlemen, this is Morgan. Lovely, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” It was Marty who spoke. The sound of his voice made her gut clench with fear. “Is she a new toy? I don’t much care to take another man’s leavings, but somehow I don’t think you realize what you have here.” He paused and then said, “Why don’t you give her to me? Let me have her and we will call our debt even.”
“To the contrary, Marty, I know exactly what I have here. Shall I demonstrate?”
Morgan narrowed her eyes. “I’m not a trick pony. I don’t perform on command.”
“Oh, you will do exactly that.” Sanders narrowed his eyes. He said nothing, but the threat was there nonetheless.
She smiled.
Sanders pushed back from the chair. Over his shoulder, he said, “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me just a moment, I need to speak with Morgan.” He caught her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. He squeezed so tightly, she knew there would be a bruise. But she didn’t make a sound and she didn’t try to pull away.
She let him drag her to the corner of the room and stood there silently as he glared at her. “You will do as you’re told,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Or I will have your sister retrieved. You will not like what my men do to her.”
Staring past him, she watched Marty. He could hear them . . . she knew it as well as she knew the color of her eyes. He could hear every word they said. Tearing her gaze from him, she looked at Sanders. “I was under the impression you want my . . . help. It’s wasted having me perform like some sort of circus freak.”
“I don’t give a damn what impression you were under. You will do as you’re told. Otherwise . . . ” His voice trailed off menacingly and he reached inside his jacket, pulling out his phone. He pushed a button and held the phone to his ear. “Send Eloy up.”
The door opened and one of Sanders’s goons came in. He glanced at Morgan and then at Sanders.
Morgan frowned as she studied him.
Afraid.
He was afraid.
Sanders met him halfway across the floor.
Again, though they kept their voices low, Morgan heard them. So did Marty. But right now, she didn’t care about the weird dude with the freakishly glowing eyes.
She wasn’t there, senor. I looked and looked and waited and waited. Finally, I break into the house and it’s a mess—like the girl decided to get out of there in a hurry.
Jazzy.
Morgan had sent a man after Jazzy, but the kid hadn’t been there.
Jazzy, where are you?
But she already knew. With a deep, certain knowledge, she knew Jazzy had taken off. Torn between pride and worry, she said a quick prayer that the girl was okay.
Of course, now that Jazzy wasn’t in the picture, she didn’t have to play nice, either.
Cold, gleeful anticipation settled inside her. Some of it must have shown on her face, because when Sanders turned to face her, he retreated half a step.
“Where is your sister?” Peter asked gently.
“At home in bed, I would imagine.” She lied through her teeth and gave him a mockery of a smile. “That is certainly where I would rather be. It’s getting late. Can’t we just get this over with?”
“But you see, she isn’t in bed.” Sanders glanced at the newcomer. “This is Eloy. I asked him to go find your sister. I thought she might like to . . . join us. But she isn’t home. Tell me, where could she have gone? After all, as you said, it is rather late.”
Join us. You son of a bitch.
Rage slammed into her. Heat gathered in her hands, threatened to scorch her.
Burn.
She wanted to burn him, until he was nothing but ash. A cold sweat broke out over her, but all she did was smile and shrug. “Mama never really kept us on a tight leash. Who knows where she went? She’ll be home sooner or later.” Then she narrowed her eyes. In a quiet, cold voice, she added, “But, you really do need to know, she isn’t welcome at any party of yours. I won’t tolerate it.”
“
You
won’t tolerate it,” he echoed. A snarl twisted his face and his hand shot out, closing over her upper arm. He jerked her close and dipped his head, murmured into her ear, “You still don’t get it. You still don’t seem to understand—I’m the one in charge. And if I decide I want your sister here, your sister will be here. Now where is she?”
Fear roused. And with it, the hunger. The monstrous, excessive hunger . . . the Leviathan. It stirred inside her, stretching, reaching.
Feast.
It wanted her to feast.
Somebody chuckled.
Marty.
She knew it without even looking. “Peter, my friend, I told you. You don’t know what you have here. Give her up before somebody gets hurt.”
You can’t have him
, Morgan thought.
He’s mine.
His blood . . . Sanders’s blood.
Morgan’s hands twitched. She could all but feel his blood on her flesh.
No.
She shoved the hunger inside and braced herself. Not here. Not now. If at all possible, she was never going to do that again.
Some part of her babbled in fear,
“But you need it
.
If you want to fight him, fight all of them, and get away so you can protect Jazzy, you need it. Take it
. ”
But she didn’t need it.
“Idiots,” she whispered. “The both of you.”
The energy, that power she’d sensed from earlier, she could feel it again, wrapping around her, warming her. Tilting her head back, she smiled at Sanders. She lifted her hand.
His eyes darted off to the side, focused on her hand. Then she closed her fingers. Inside her mind’s eye, she could see the element of air, responding to her command, closing around his throat, tightening. She could feel his skin. Feel his life.
Feel his blood.
No
. Forget the blood.
Sanders’s breath whooshed out of him in a high, tight wheeze. His face went red. With his back to the others, nobody else could see him. Nobody else could see that he was choking, gasping for air. His eyes wheeled off to the side. Recognizing his intent, Morgan said, “Try to get help, and I snap your neck. I can do it. You know that. You will be dead. And frankly, anything they might do to me would be worth it, just to
see
you dead. So don’t push your luck.” She paused, peering into his eyes. “Am I clear?”
She eased her grip on his throat.
“Yes,” he wheezed out, sucking in air through his damaged throat. “Bitch.”
Releasing him completely, she folded her arms over her chest. “You screwed up thinking you could control me.”
Keeping half of her attention focused on him, she reached out, trying to sense Jazzy. There was nothing.
Before she could panic, though, she realized it wasn’t just Jazzy she couldn’t feel. She couldn’t sense much of anything. Not outside this room.
Everything felt . . . muffled. But that didn’t make any sense. It was almost like the instincts she counted on didn’t exist. That strange sense of hyperawareness was gone. She couldn’t make out anything more than the beat and pulse of the music playing downstairs and that her head was no longer choked, clogged with the stink of others.
Her belly clenched into a tight, hard knot.
For the past few weeks, her normal state of being was
weak
and
tired
. When she was in a weakened state, she couldn’t sense as much. All of her energy was focused on just getting through each day . . . and resisting the hunger for more power.
She didn’t feel weak or tired now so she
should
have been able to feel more, a lot more. Without understanding how, Morgan knew that when she was strong, she should be able to feel her sister. She should sense the people down in the club, the people waiting outside this room. Ten minutes ago, maybe less, she
had
been able to sense those things.
And now . . . she couldn’t.
She couldn’t
sense
anything. And that was wrong.
Get ready . . . get ready . . .
Aware that Sanders still watched her, she gave him a cool smile. “Other than my sister joining us, did you have any other plans for tonight? I really am getting tired.”
He backed away. But distance helped him find some of bravado, restored that cocky, condescending arrogance to his eyes. “Oh, there were other things. I’m disappointed. I had such plans for you and your sister. They can wait, though. They’ll hold. For now.”
“They’ll hold forever.” Morgan bared her teeth at him. “My sister is off-limits.”
Behind him, Marty laughed. “She’s a cocky little bitch, isn’t she?”
Morgan shifted and looked at the other man. He met her gaze, staring at her boldly. His eyes ran over her, down to her feet and then slowly back to her face, lingering at her breasts. He smiled and stroked his tongue across his lips.
It revealed those white, gleaming teeth—teeth too perfect to be real. “So, Pete, if you’re so certain you know what you’re up against, why don’t you show us? Give us a taste.” He licked his lips as he said it. “I’d certainly like a taste . . . a good one.”
Morgan curled her lip at him.
Sanders opened his mouth to say something. His lips moved.
But Morgan heard nothing.
Something rolled through the air. Silent thunder. Electricity snapped, raising the hair on her arms, along the back of her neck. Adrenaline, hot and potent, crashed through her system.
All of a sudden, she could feel.
Feel everything. Vaguely, she was aware of Jazzy. The girl wasn’t close. She wasn’t home, but she was safe. Safe . . . and pissed off. Morgan had no more time to linger on Jazzy’s state of mind, though. There was too much going on inside her head.
She was also aware of other things.
Marty—full of a voracious, violent hunger. When he’d said
taste
, she had the sickening sensation that he had been being rather literal.
Drugs—downstairs in the club. The air was thick with the stink of it.
Blood—it clung to every soul in this room, tainting them.
And more . . . there was so much more.
Some lingering presence, a powerful source of energy that she
should
recognize, but couldn’t. She felt like she should know what it was, but she didn’t.
Whatever it was, it wasn’t here. No . . . not it.
He.
Whoever he was, he wasn’t here. He was far away. Full of energy, full of life, full of purpose. But not a threat. In her gut, she knew that.
After making that call, her mind moved on, focusing on something else, with hardly any cognizant direction from her.
Another source of energy. Another presence.
Another man.
Powerful.
Male.
And
close
. . .
Tension spiked. Energy crackled through the room, mounted. It felt like a thunderstorm . . . no. Not a storm. Something
more
. A tornado. Powerful, devastating, destructive and close.