Scorpio Sons 4: Chase: (SF/Shifter Romance)

SCORPIO SONS 4:

CHASE

NHYS GLOVER

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. With the exception of historical events and people used as background for the story, and those in the public domain, the names, characters and incidents portrayed in this work come wholly from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

Published by Belisama Press 2015

© Nhys Glover 2015

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OTHER BOOKS BY NHYS GLOVER

ANCIENT ROMAN HISTORICAL ROMANCES:

Liquid Fire

The Barbarian’s Mistress

Lionslayer’s Woman (Sequel to Liquid Fire)

White Raven’s Lover (Sequel to The Barbarian's Mistress)

The Gladiator’s Bride

WEREWOLF KEEP TRILOGY:

Guardian of Werewolf Keep

Imprisoned at Werewolf Keep

Defiance at Werewolf Keep

Insane (A novella)

NEW ATLANTIS TIME TRAVEL SERIES:

Nine Lives (Cara/ Jac)

The Dreamer’s Prince (Jane/ Julio)

Savage (Faith/ Luke)

Shared Soul (Maggie/ Travis)

Bitter Oath (Liv/ Rene)

The Titan Drowns (Eilish/Max, Karl/Lizzie, Pia/Marco)

The Key (Kat/Bart)

Pieces (Krista/Dirk)

Second Chance (Bree/Hakon)

Watcher (Jin/Rafe)

Vision of You (Ellen/Duke)

Osiris (Takhara/Dan)

Causality (Willow/Jarvidh)

SCORPIO SONS SF/SHIFTER ROMANCE SERIES:

1: Colton

2: Connor

3: Cooper

4: Chase

5: Cameron

OTHERS:

The Way Home (Ghost Romance)

Caught in a Dream (SF Romance)

Labyrinth of Light (New Age Inspirational Non-Romance)

Ten years ago, Southern San Francisco Hinterland

"Woooohooo!" yelled fifteen-year-old Chase Scanlan, riding pillion on his best friend's motorbike, arms extended like airplane wings as he embraced the wind and the speed.

This was living! This was what life was supposed to be about! Not duty; not politics or business; not the fucking-end-of-the-world, save-the-planet, aliens-under-the-bed shit he was forcefed every minute he spent with his father. Fun, freedom, LIFE!

Why couldn't his dad just let him be a kid for a while? Why did he have to be
The One
, like Neo in
The Matrix
movies? He deserved to have a little fun. He
deserved
it. Wasn't he the fucking perfect son the rest of the time; top grades, elite athlete, and impeccable manners? Didn't his father know that all work and no play made Chase a very dull boy?

"Stop wobbling us!" Mike yelled over his shoulder.

Mike Tanner had turned sixteen three days ago, and had just gotten his licence that afternoon. Euphoric, gorged on success and freedom, Chase's friend since kindergarten had called him up at midnight, a little stoned and ready to spread his wings.

And that's what they were doing, spreading their wings as they flew like the wind down the Pacific Coast Highway – without helmets, without leathers. Illegal and loving it!

While Chase continued to whoop with joy, Mike gripped the handlebars of his Yamaha a little tighter, his shoulders tensing up. He was still a little unsure of himself, especially at speed, but the pot had at first relaxed him. Now it was wearing off.

Mike would get more confident the more he rode, Chase decided sagely. If Chase had learned one thing from his father it was that practise made perfect. So, the longer they rode along the dark highway, the glowing moon full and round in the inky sky, the better he'd get.

Still staring at the moon over the glistening ocean to his right, he began howling like a wolf. Chase wasn't sure what happened next. One minute the bike was upright; the next it was sliding sideways, listing badly to the left as it skidded, the tyres frozen in place, squealing as they left rubber along the road.

Something exploded inside him, taking control of Chase's mind.

Something feral and powerful and frightening.

As the bike careened along the tarmac on its side, Chase found himself kicking free of the machine and his friend. Curling up like a basketball the moment he hit the tarmac, he rolled, the momentum carrying him all the way to the gravel on the side of the highway. The sound of screeching metal was deafening, as were the squeals of tyres and breaks as a big-rig swerved across the road, trying to avoid the bike.

Chase hurt everywhere. His brain refused to do more than communicate sensations in microscopic detail: pain in his shoulder, his back, his head; gravel in his face; splintered shafts of agony in his chest that made breathing almost impossible; the stench of burning rubber, of blood and fuel.

And fear.

As his body finally came to a standstill, he drew in one sobbing, agonised breath.

It was a relief when the darkness finally claimed him.

Four Years Ago, St Petersburg, RUSSIA

Her 'Protector' lumbered up the wooden staircase outside her door. Any moment now she'd hear the key turn in the lock and the light from the dingy hall would spread into her garishly decorated prison.

Sometimes he'd bring her gifts, silly, childish things; other times he'd bring her food enough to last her the time between his visits; sometimes he brought drugs that would numb the pain so his mauling was less onerous; sometimes he brought nothing and she had to put up with him using her body as if it was nothing more than a receptacle for his lust. And sometimes, the worst times, he'd bring his friends and they would laugh as they shared her between them; leaving her in agony for days afterwards.

That was the worst. That was the worst by far.

But tonight the sounds of his bear-like steps told her he was alone. Her body was still sore and bleeding from the last time, but that wouldn't matter to him. It never did. Although he called himself her Protector, told her loved her, and said he'd proved it by keeping her from having to whore herself on the streets as the other girls did. None of it was true. She knew this because she’d been owned by other men like him in the last two years. All she was to him and his kind was a pretty doll that took their fancy for a while.

For a long time now she'd been working a spring loose from her bed. Her plan had been to use it to somehow unlock the door. But when those men had left her broken and bloody on the bed three nights ago, a new imperative had entered her head.

No more!

The key turned; the light spread in from the hall. He lit the little lamp he always brought with him and stood it on the table in the centre of the room. After locking the door, he pocketed the key.

Stumbling drunkenly – because she knew he was drunk by the stench coming off him – he made his way to the bed and collapsed on top of it, face up.

Huddled against the wall next to the bathroom, she fingered the almost straight piece of wire in her hand behind her back

"Malyshka, come here. I have need of you tonight," he slurred.

When he was like this he was clumsy and rough. Her body screamed at the idea of having to bear his touch again.

She sauntered forwards, head down, long straggly blonde hair falling across her budding breasts. In summer he left her with no clothes. In winter he gave her just enough to keep her from freezing. But a Russian summer was not often mild, and mostly she huddled under the thin blankets trying to keep warm.

Finally she reached him, knowing just how long she could stall before he grew impatient and sat up, ready to grab her. If she was going to do this thing, she had to do it while he was lying down. He was weakest like that.

A sickening drunken leer crossed his face as he saw her coming closer. His thick-fingered hand gestured her to come nearer. And she did.

As he made a grab for her, she raised her right hand, clasping the wire like a knife. She drove it unerringly into his left eyeball. She felt the pop as the wire passed through the eye and into the squishy brain-matter beyond. He uttered no more than one cut-off cry as his other eyeball bulged in surprise.

Anna was no stranger to blood. She'd seen a lot of it in the last two years; some of it hers, some of it belonging to the other child-prostitutes she'd shared a hovel with between Protectors. One little boy had died in her arms, the blood from his brutal rape pooling around them both.

But this blood and gore splattered her face and sprayed in her mouth. She felt like she was drowning in it.

No time to panic now, though; time for that later, when she made good her escape. She didn't even know how she was going to do that. Her plan had extended no further than stopping him from taking her again.

What if someone came looking for him before she was gone? Would they kill her for what she'd done? Her Protector was part of a gang of very bad men. If any of them came here looking for him, she was as good as dead too.

Would that be so bad? There had been many times since her parents' death that she'd prayed to join them. But somehow she survived. Something inside her willed her to survive.

Clothes. She needed clothes. The only clothing in the room was on his back. Could she pull off his thin, summer-weight sweatshirt? He was a big man, it might cover her to her knees, and she could always roll up the sleeves. The sweater was already covered in blood, shiny black against dark, lint-covered fabric. But it would have to do.

Pulling the sweatshirt off over his head took a long time. His dead-weight was too much for her at times. But she struggled on until she had her prize. As she slipped it over her head, she almost spewed. It stank of blood and alcohol and sweat. Overpowering. Like when he held her down.

When she'd washed her face and hands in the small sink in the bathroom, the dark blood swirled down the stained bowl until it disappeared. As clean as she was going to get, she returned to his body and dug into his pants' pocket for the key to the door. That was easier to get, as was his wallet.

There was money in the wallet, a lot of money. Was it enough to get her away from this nightmare? She couldn't go home. Ukraine was a long way from here, she knew. And there was nothing for her there anymore anyway. Her parents were dead, along with her little brother. They'd died in a house-fire when she was on an overnight trip with her school.

When she came home she was taken to an orphanage. She'd been twelve years old; a lifetime ago. Two winters and two summers ago.

As she unlocked the door and began to open it slowly, unsure what she would find beyond it, she felt her heart lift for the first time in what felt like forever. She was free.

She would face the pain and fear no more!

The men were upon her before she realised they were coming. There was no time for screaming; no time for flight. Dressed in black, they charged into the room, took one look at the bed and then one look at her.

"Shit!" the man closest to the bed said. "She got to him first.
I
wanted the pleasure of watching that bastard die."

Her brain couldn't keep up with what was happening. These men were not part of the Protector’s gang. They dressed too well, smelled too good. Yet they were hard men, frightening men.

"Bring the girl," the leader said, striding back towards the door.

That was when she started to struggle and scream. Not again! She hadn't killed one man to immediately become the possession of another. Or more than one. How many were they? Three? Four?

A calloused hand closed over her mouth, not harshly. Warm arms held her gently but securely. "There, there, little one. You are safe now. It took us a long time, but finally we found you. You're safe now, Anna."

Safe? Could she believe the man with gentle hands? She didn't know. But darkness was closing in on her. She had reached the end of her strength. The man who held her had to be her strength now.

Would he be her new Protector?