Secret Worlds (498 page)

Damn he smells good. Why does he smell so good?
I wonder if he tastes as good as he smells
, I thought as I fought against the urge to bury my nose in the crook of his neck and drown in the smell of him. I was distantly aware of him moving away to a respectable distance, though my elbow still buzzed with energy where he had touched me.

“Fetch her a glass of water,” I heard Johnson say, but the words made little sense to me as I stared unseeing at the fireplace, the warmth of the fire unable to pierce the cold that had descended on me, seeping into my bones.

Samson Reed. Escaped from prison.

My brain replayed the words over and over again, each repetition feeling like a nail being hammered into my coffin.

It was a name I’d hoped I would never hear again, and hearing it now was the worst kind of invasion. Even though I bore the physical scars of what had happened eight years ago, I’d managed to lock away the emotional ones, refusing to examine them. Just thinking his name sent ice cold fear flooding through my veins and made my stomach twist with nausea.

“Ah, is there a reason why there’s a dead rabbit in your sink, ma’am?” Holbrook called from the kitchen, his warm, honeyed voice momentarily distracting me from my fear.

Still dazed, white crackles dancing at the edges of my vision, I murmured, “Furry bastard kept eating my cabbages.”

“I see,” he drawled, making it obvious that he didn’t.

A few moments later he reappeared at my side with a glass of water. I was glad that my fingers only trembled a little as I took a small sip before setting it in my lap, immediately forgotten.

“Ms. Cray?” Johnson asked, and from the impatient tone of his voice, not for the first time. “Ms. Cray, do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“Hmm? Yes…I understand,” I said, my voice sounding distant and hollow to my ears, as if someone else were speaking. “Samson Reed broke out of a high security supernatural facility, and is no doubt on his way here to kill me,” I finished, turning my gaze up towards both agents, something in the depths of my eyes making them flinch.

“WE DON’T KNOW that for sure, but we would recommend that you—” Johnson began, his tone pitched low to reassure me. It wasn’t working.

Waving a hand at him I cut him off mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, would you gentlemen excuse me for a moment?”

Rising from the couch before either of them could respond, I pressed the glass of water into Holbrook’s hand and made a beeline for the bathroom, where I fell to my knees and vomited the meager contents of my stomach into the toilet.

After heaving for several minutes, I slumped against the edge of the toilet, groping blindly for the handle to flush away the evidence of my fear. Gradually I became aware of a presence behind me, the weight of his gaze palpable on my back. Rather than asking if I was okay—which I obviously wasn’t—or if I was done puking—which I wasn’t quite sure I was—Holbrook plucked a washcloth from the tub and ran it under the faucet.

Wordlessly he extended the damp cloth to me, waiting until I accepted it before stepping back to the doorway, giving me room to try and pull myself together. Wiping my mouth, I folded the cool cloth in half and then pressed it to the back of my neck, my skin clammy and feeling a couple sizes too small.

“Thanks,” I murmured, raising my gaze to his face, glad to find it devoid of pity.

“No problem,” he replied, crossing one foot over the other as he rested a shoulder against the doorframe, his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Somewhere along the way he had removed his overcoat, revealing a dark gray suit and crisp shirt with a faint blue on blue stripe. He looked utterly comfortable except for the ruddiness that lingered in the naked tips of his ears and the end of his nose.

“Better?” he asked after several moments of silence.

“Not really,” I said, removing the cloth from the back of my neck and tossing it into the bathtub, wishing that I could just climb into it and hide away from the world.

Extending a hand towards me he said, “Better not keep Johnson waiting. He’s not known for his patience.”

Slipping my hand into his, my fingers looking pale and petite against his lightly bronzed skin, the jolt of electricity passed between us again—this time stronger as his bare skin rubbed against mine. Judging by the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes he had felt it too, but chose not to comment on whatever feelings were racing through his body.

Steeling myself against the sudden and unexpected flood of warmth that settled between my thighs, I let him pull me to my feet in a smooth and effortless motion, bringing me wonderfully close to his solid chest. He seemed taller up close, dwarfing my five foot five and making me feel small and delicate. I swayed on my feet as the woody scent of his cologne washed over me, making me think of a forest, damp from a recent storm. The lingering scent of warm molasses that I assumed was his natural scent made me lick my lips. His grip on me tightened, holding me firm against the long line of his body, once against stirring the wolf within.

“Smell so good,” I muttered under my breath, the words slipping between my lips before I was able to stop them.

“Hmm?” he asked, his voice sounding as distracted as mine, the hand splayed at the small of my back flexing just above the curve of my ass.

My gaze fell on his mouth as he licked his lips, his breath hot and smelling of coffee as he exhaled a long and softly trembling breath. My wolf wanted to lick those lips, nip at them, bruise them and mark them as ours. The human half of me didn’t exactly balk at the idea either. Lifting my gaze up to his eyes I found them heavy-lidded and dilated until the deep forest green was little more than a narrow ring around his pupils.

Just as I was about to tell him to close the bathroom door and take me against the vanity he cleared his throat, managing to regain a professional air with what must have been herculean self-control.

“We should get back out there,” he said, his voice thick and heavy. Releasing me he took a step back, the heat of him quickly receding, leaving me cold and alone.

“Yeah,” I managed in a breathless whisper, unable to meet his eyes. “Let me just…um…get dressed.” Without waiting for an answer I darted past him and across the hall into my bedroom.

Shutting the door behind me I let my head fall back against the aged wood with a loud thump, a shuddering sigh flowing between my lips.

What the hell was that?

I was awash in a confusing sea of emotions—the heat pulsing between my thighs inspired by Special Agent Holbrook at war with the crippling fear roused by the thought of Samson Reed on the loose.

I’d been a sophomore at Colorado State University studying graphic design when I met Samson. I’d still been recovering from the recent loss my grandmother—the last of my family—and was unprepared for the intensity of my attraction to him. Then again, I’d been far from alone in my attraction to him—all of the girls, and a good portion of the guys, were head over heels for the gorgeous and charismatic junior. And for some reason I was unable to fathom, he had decided that he wanted to date
me
, the Plain Jane art nerd.

At the time, vulnerable as I was, I’d welcomed the affection he offered. I’d had no idea that he was a raving lunatic, or that I would be the only one of nine victims to escape his clutches alive, if not unscathed.

Absently my hands drifted to my middle again, lingering over the raised ridges of scar tissue that bisected my belly. It was rare to contract the lycanthropy virus through a scratch or bite—most werewolves were born, not turned. I just happened to be part of the lucky one percent of were victims to be turned by an attack.

No doubt he’d thought I would bleed out like his other victims, but even as had been tearing into my body with savage glee, the virus had started to spread, changing me forever. Through the miraculous healing abilities of lycanthropy, I was afforded the rare opportunity of knowing what it looks like when your insides are on the outside. It was not a memory I cared to relive.

The ensuing trial had lasted for seven painfully long months, during which I was forced to endure the media shit-storm that had made me feel like I was being brutally violated all over again. Thankfully, it had only taken the jury fifteen short minutes to return with a guilty verdict. As soon as Samson was carted off to White Sands in the desolate wastes of New Mexico I had fled the spotlight.

Shucking my robe, I let it puddle on the floor at my feet as I dug a bra and underwear out of my dresser, the drawer squeaking in protest.

I need to oil that damn thing
, I thought idly and then giggled hysterically at the absurdity of the thought.
You’re not going to live long enough to worry about a squeaky drawer!
my brain supplied oh-so helpfully.

Clamping a hand over my mouth to silence the bark of laughter, I clutched at the edge of the dresser for support, hot tears stinging my eyes and causing my breath to catch in my throat. I refused to allow my tears to overwhelm me, and instead snatched up a discarded pair of jeans, tank top, and a flannel shirt that somehow still smelled like my grandfather’s cologne, even after all these years. Pulling them on with angry motions, I choked back my tears and resolved to focus on the anger that roiled nauseatingly in the pit of my stomach.

Anger I could handle. Anger I had in spades.

I was angry at myself for being afraid, angry at the agents in the other room for witnessing my fear, angry at Agent Holbrook for being so damned gorgeous, and most of all, angry at life for being so fucking unfair.

I wiped the dampness from my eyes, then ran my hands through my hair, trying to wrangle the dark curls into some semblance of control. I briefly thought about putting on some makeup and then dismissed the idea, not even sure if I’d know where to look for any. To say I seldom had company would be an understatement.

The intense and invasive media coverage during the trial had made me shy away from society. I’d dropped out of college and moved into the familiar old cabin that I’d inherited with my grandmother’s passing. Although I missed her every day, I was grateful she hadn’t lived long enough to witness the horror movie my life had become.

As a freelance graphic designer working through a larger design firm, I made enough money to cover the few bills I had, all while working from the comfort of my secluded home in the mountains of Colorado. I bought the few groceries I needed from the general store ten miles away in Leadville, and had anything else I wanted delivered. Through the wonders of the internet I could get anything I wanted with a couple clicks of a button without ever having to speak to a single person.

It was a secluded and sometimes lonely life, but it sure beat the hell out of living in the public eye, always being chased by the notoriety of being Samson Reed’s only surviving victim.

Emerging from my bedroom, my arms wrapped around my middle as if to protect me from the twisted ball of anxiety clawing at my gut, I found the two agents standing in my living room, their heads bent close together as they talked in hushed tones.

“So, what’s the plan?” I asked, a faint warmth suffusing my cheeks as Holbrook’s eyes settled on me, a hint of their previous heat still lingering in the dark forest depths of his gaze.

“We’re going to take you into protective custody,” Johnson said, oblivious to the heated tension passing between me and his partner.

“For how long?” I asked as I came around to sit on the couch, bouncing my foot on the rug in nervous energy.

“It’s hard to know. It could be a few days, it could be longer.”

Restlessness buzzed in my body and I rose from the couch to pace in front of the fire. “How much longer? I do have a job you know.”

I knew there was no reason to be mad at the agents, it wasn’t their fault that I had fallen in love with a psychotic monster who had tried to tear me open like a piñata, but dammit, I was angry that once again Samson was invading my life.

“That’s irrelevant,” Johnson said.

“Our main goal is to keep you safe, Ms. Cray,” Holbrook cut in smoothly.

I knew he was trying to soothe me as you would a frightened beast, and where I normally would have taken offense at such a tactic, my anxiety eased a little under his gaze. There was something about him that spoke to me, something in his eyes that reached deep down into the dark places where the wolf lived, inciting her interest as much as mine.

“Riley,” I said.

“What?”

“My name is Riley. If you’re going to be watching my back for god knows how long, we might as well be on a first name basis, right?”

“Darius,” Holbrook offered with a faint smile, while Johnson just rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Now that the introductions are over, can we move this along?” Johnson said.

Holbrook ran a hand through his hair. “Give it a rest, Harry.”

Apparently Agent Johnson’s gruff demeanor wasn’t just for my benefit.

“Harry Johnson?” I asked, my mouth twitching with the beginnings of a grin that I saw reflected on Holbrook’s face.

“Yes?” Johnson asked, his white brows knitting together in question.

“As in, Hairy Johnson?” I snickered, hysterical laughter once again bubbling at the back of my throat.

Johnson’s face darkened, his lips compressing into a thin, humorless line.

“Yes. Hilarious. Are you done, Ms. Cray?”

Clearing my throat in an attempt to swallow my laughter, I began to nod my head and then shook it as I broke down into a fit of giggles. My shoulders shook with laughter, as uncontrollable as my fear had been moments before.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Johnson fumed. “Pull yourself together, woman! There’s a deranged werewolf on the loose and you’ve got a bulls-eye painted on your back.”

Rather than helping me to regain my self-control, his words served instead to revive the fear I’d been trying to suppress. As quickly as the laughter started, it now died away, replaced by a stab of fear in my gut, and I thought I might be sick again.

Okay, so maybe I’m not as in control as I think.