Too close.
Marty was on his feet, his eyes darting around. That weird, eerie glow was back, and he was snarling, growling. No human throat could make that sound.
Not human, not human.
Something buzzed in her ear and she jerked her attention away from Marty, focusing on Sanders. He stood just a few feet, glaring at her. His mouth was moving. Vaguely, she realized he was talking.
Her ears tried to process what he was saying, without success.
Of course it didn’t help that she couldn’t seem to really focus on him.
Somebody was coming.
Him.
The man she’d sensed.
The power.
Him . . .
her tornado.
Her eyes flicked all around the room, lingered on the window. Her breath caught in her chest.
It was like she had tunnel vision—all she could see was the window. And then, she couldn’t see at all as the glass exploded inward. All around her, people jumped. The men at the doors swung their guns toward the windows. Somebody shouted. Everybody was surprised.
Except Morgan and Marty.
Marty was already on the move, pulling away from the window with fluid, inhuman grace. His eyes shot to Morgan. Energy crackled inside him.
Danger. Danger.
Her mind screeched out the warning. She flexed her hand, let the heat of fire flood her. She held it at bay, watching Marty from the corner of her eye. But then, she forgot all about him. It didn’t matter that everything inside her screamed that he was dangerous—deadly.
Silence fell, and her breath caught in her throat as she realized a man had come through the window. Fast . . . so fast her eyes hadn’t been able to track him. He stood there, head bowed, hands closed into fists.
Sanders swore and then barked out an order.
There was an odd popping sound—the guns. The guards had shot him . . .
No!
She stared at the floor, bracing herself to see his bulletriddled body.
But he wasn’t there.
Holy shit, where is he?
She backed against the wall, swallowing the knot in her throat as she scanned the room. There was a crack, followed by a thud. That was all she heard—she saw
nothing
.
But two of the guards lay dead on the floor, their eyes staring sightlessly at nothing, their heads at an odd angle.
He broke their necks, she realized.
There was another sickening crack, and this time, she saw just the rush of movement—a blurred shadow, a shadow that moved faster than any human possibly could.
Now all four guards were dead, leaving only Sanders and his so-called associates. Sanders stood cowering in a corner, clutching a gun in his hand.
Darkness edged in on her vision and she sucked in a breath, rubbed at her eyes. She wasn’t going to pass out . . . but then she realized, it wasn’t
her
.
The room was darker. Almost bathed in twilight, even though the lights blazed brilliantly overhead.
A low growl rumbled through the room, and she edged away, creeping along the wall.
Something silver flashed, caught her eye. Morgan whipped her head around.
Marty.
He shot Sanders a dark look and growled, “I told you that you didn’t know what you were messing with.”
He swiped out a hand—fast, so fast. Morgan just barely saw the movement. Then all she saw was the spray of blood gushing from Sanders’s throat.
She sucked in a breath. What in the hell had she just seen?
“Stay the fuck away from me,” she warned, lifting a hand as Marty moved across the floor toward her.
“You want to get out of this alive, you’re coming with me,” Marty growled.
“I don’t think so.” That cool, collected arrogance settled back over her shoulders, a comforting cloak. She felt like a stranger in her own skin—yet oddly . . .
whole
. “Trust me,
you
don’t know what you’re messing with. You might think you do, but you’re wrong.”
He snarled. The bones in his face rippled. He turned his head, cracking his neck. When he looked back at her his eyes were glowing again and she’d swear his teeth were longer. “Stupid little witch, you really think you can handle me? Or
him
? ”
She hurled fire at him. As he jerked back to avoid it, he nearly tripped over the body at his feet.
Morgan stared at the dead man, dazed. She hadn’t even seen him go down. It was the third man who’d been at the table with Sanders.
Now only two men remained, Marty and the silent fourth man. That one was just a few feet away from the door, creeping closer and closer to it and swearing in Spanish. As their gazes locked, something ugly flashed through his eyes.
“Puta.”
He spat it out, his voice harsh with terror. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun, leveled it at her. “What are you doing?”
“She isn’t doing it.” It was a low, rough voice . . . the sound of it was oddly familiar, and it sent a shiver down her spine. “I am.”
Marty swore. He shot her a narrow look and said, “We can’t survive this if we fight each other. Help me deal with him and then you can do whatever the hell you want.”
“Shut up, wolf. You’re already a dead man.” Abruptly, the shadows darkening the room were gone and she could see him.
The man . . .
She sucked in a startled breath as she caught sight of his face.
She knew that face.
She’d seen it in her dreams damn near every night. She’d forgotten so much of her life, ever since she’d woken up in front of that ramshackle little house, with Jazzy hovering over her. But she hadn’t forgotten
him
.
He moved then, and once more his body was nothing but a blur. The man holding the gun cried out, jerked his arm up. A split second later, the gun was torn from his hand. Morgan dodged as it crashed into the wall next to her with so much force, the drywall split.
In the time it took for her to look from them to the gun and back, the fourth man was dead.
Now it was just her, trapped in a room with a living, breathing machine of death and Marty with his freakishly glowing eyes and teeth that would look more at home in the mouth of a tiger.
Or a wolf . . .
Marty looked at her as shadows descended on the room. Blind terror flooded his eyes and he demanded, “Don’t just fucking stand there!”
But Morgan couldn’t do anything else.
Once more, that comforting confidence was gone and she could barely breathe, could hardly think. The fear that lived inside her screeched, demanded she run.
Run
, she whispered to herself.
He’s going to kill everybody here. That’s what his kind does . . . they kill
.
His kind . . .
“Not
his
kind
, ” another voice whispered.
“Their kind kill . . . and
our
kind kill
them
. ”
Pain swamped her, drowning out the voices in her head. Groaning, she grabbed her head. “Shut up. Shut up.
Shutupshutup
,” she rasped, her voice rising with each word until she was screaming.
The pain in her head intensified, nearly doubling her over.
Run.
But she couldn’t move a muscle.
Not to save her life.
She looked around the room, searching for him. Marty was edging toward the open window. She could just barely make out his form, but the other man . . . she couldn’t see him. Couldn’t sense him.
And then he was
there
, standing between Marty and the window.
“Time to die,” he said softly.
Marty growled. The muscles in his body tensed and she held her breath, certain he was going to leap for the other man.
But he did a backflip—son of a bitch, a fucking
backflip
—in her direction, landing just a few feet away.
The man’s eyes flicked toward hers. She sucked in a breath and retreated until her back hit the wall. As the shadows once more faded from the room, she squeezed her eyes closed. Marty turned toward her and the man whispered, “Don’t. Keep away from her . . . run now, and maybe you’ll live another night.”
Marty stilled, glancing from the man to Morgan. She couldn’t hide her fear, not now. She watched as his nostrils flared. Smelling her. Then he smirked.
“You want her? Fine, vamp. She’s yours.” He shot Morgan a look and said, “Stupid bitch. You should have listened to me . . . you might have stood half a chance.”
Then he was gone, disappearing out the open window with blinding, blurring speed.
She was alone with him now. She was surrounded by blood and death, staring into eyes of soft, velvety brown and listening to her heart race. Fear lay in the back of her mouth, a nasty, metallic film. She swallowed past the knot in her throat.
Was she next?
Yes, you stupid bitch. You’re next. If you’d gone with the wolf, you might have lived through this.
It was an angry whisper, full of hate, mockery and derision.
You should have run and now you’re gonna die.
“No,” she whimpered.
Yes . . .
After all, she was in here with them . . . earlier, she’d killed a man. Last night, she’d killed a man. God only knows what she might have done for these bastards, if it meant keeping her sister safe.
Her skin prickled and she sucked in a breath.
The scent of him flooded her head. Male musk, soap, something else . . . something darkly seductive, something she could come to crave. She clenched her hands into fists, tight, so tight her nails bit into her flesh. Then she made herself open her eyes. She wouldn’t see him, she thought.
Not until he was on her—ready to kill her.
But she did see him.
He stood right there.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough to kiss.
And then he
was
kissing her. Those hands that had so easily ended lives cradled her face, gently, reverently. His lips brushed against hers and her mouth opened on a gasp. His tongue traced her lower lip, and then gently, slowly, oh so slowly, he deepened the kiss. His hands tangled in her hair and tugged her head to the side, arching her neck.
Morgan groaned and leaned against him, opening her mouth wider. Then she slid her tongue out, rubbed it against his. He caught it between his teeth and bit down gently, so gently.
Trembling, she reached up, clutching at his shirt, wiggling closer. She tangled her fingers in the worn, faded cotton stretching over his chest and pushed up onto her toes.
More . . . she needed more.
Something sharp sliced over her lip—a hot, quick flash of pain. The man’s body shuddered, and then he tore himself away.
Caught off balance, she sagged and fell against the wall. Her body ached. Her nipples stabbed into the silken material of her bra and between her legs, she was wet, painfully empty.
He stood on the other side of the room, staring at her. For one split second, it seemed like his eyes glowed . . . sunshine gleaming behind black glass. Then he lowered his lashes and when he looked at her again, his eyes were dark, velvety brown . . . beautiful, but completely normal.
His face.
That angelically beautiful face . . .
“Son of a bitch,” she whispered.
Her dreams.
Morgan’s breath caught in her throat and she tore her eyes away from him. It was either that or pounce on him. And while pouncing on him held an awful lot of appeal, her brain was still reeling from what had happened in this room.
He had just killed six men. Quick as a blink. With his bare hands.
Well, no. Marty had killed Sanders.
Lowering her eyes, she looked at each of the bodies and then back at the only man left standing. “You killed them. All of them.”
His only response was a slow blink. Thick, curly lashes lowered, shielding his eyes for just a brief moment and then he was staring at her again.
“Am . . . Am I next?”
He cocked a brow and then he spoke. For a few seconds, she was too drunk on the sound of his voice to hear the words . . . slow, warm and heavy, with that lazy drawl of the South. It stroked over her senses like a velvet glove. If she were a cat, she might have purred and rubbed up against him, hoping he’d say something,
anything
else.
Then she blinked and understood
what
he had said.
“Some people deserve to die. I just gave them what they deserved,” he said.