Drew’s voice, pleading and confused, a rattle in it that scared Lindsay.
“I’m sorry,” he cried—then thrust up with all his strength.
The blade punched into his throat, like an iron fist. He felt the blunt force of it first, then the sharp agony of the skewering of his tongue. His vision greyed and a dark ocean roared in his ears.
Mercer was screaming at him, clutching him. Dimly, he felt the blade come free, a warm metallic wash of blood in his mouth and throat. He fell to his knees, Mercer going with him, taking his weight.
He was dying, and quickly. Drew might even outlast him.
But then fingers were fumbling at the back of his neck, a tiny scrabbling sensation that had his wolf bounding up in him, rushing to the cliff-edge of his humanity, and when the collar came free—his wolf leapt.
The shift surged through him, so swiftly that Mercer had no time even to drop the silver collar before the wolf was tearing out his human throat. So powerfully that, even as Lindsay’s beast went back in to finish this—for it was an execution now—his own wounds were healing with astonishing swiftness.
Mercer tried to shift. Lindsay felt the shimmer of energy in the air as Mercer exerted his wolf, but he had never been a swift shifter, and weakened as he was, his wolf was unable to manifest. He stared at Lindsay’s beast, his gaze anguished, his scent sour with fear. His vocal chords were gone already but he begged with his eyes. Did he beg to be spared? To allow to heal? Or for a swift merciful death? Lindsay’s beast neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was that Mercer was a threat to his mate. Snarling, he bent his head and finished the job, gnawing at Mercer’s throat with his powerful jaws till he severed the spine entirely, ending him forever.
The rattling sound of his mate’s breath had him lifting his head and turning.
Drew was slumped against the wall, watching Lindsay with wide, terrified eyes. His hands were pressed to his stomach, red and slick with his own blood. Lindsay bounded over to him. At Drew’s look of panic, he stilled, an arm’s length away, watching him—hismate—with his intent wolf’s gaze.
The air was thick with scents but all he could smell now was Drew: his blood, his sweat, his fear.
Drew swallowed. “L-Lindsay?”
He padded closer, lowered his head, stood quiet as Drew lifted one bloody hand and gently touched his thick, soft fur.
His mate’s touch was like a benediction, and he let out a low rumble of satisfaction, rubbing his head against Drew’s hand. Then he stepped closer, tenderly nosing Drew’s jaw, cheek, ear.
Drew let out a tiny gasp, almost of laughter. “Lindsay,” he whispered. And his hand was on Lindsay’s powerful neck, caressing him, fingers twisting into the thick ruff of fur.
Lindsay had always wondered what the Urge would feel like.
He had never imagined it would feel like love.
When Lindsay pulled back to look at his mate, Drew’s gaze was soft on him. He looked at Lindsay almost with reverence. Wonder. Lindsay didn’t want Drew ever to stop looking at him like that, but there was no time. Even now, Drew was taking another of those rattling breaths that told Lindsay death was coming.
Rubbing his head against his mate’s cheek one last time, he turned his muzzle... and sank his teeth into Drew’s throat.
“No—ungh!” Drew was incapable of physical resistance and his cry of protest was weak, but the shock and betrayal in his voice shredded Lindsay’s heart to pulp. Even so, he forced himself to bite deeply, savagely—this could not be done gently.
Drew’s blood pulsed in his mouth, a wondrous and oddly familiar flavour that Lindsay somehow knew nothing else would ever match. That he might roam the whole world in search of and never find again.
Carefully opening his jaws, he pulled back. The wound was brutal and bloody. Drew’s eyes were open, but he was in a kind of shock, staring blankly, his face white and bloodless. Working quickly now, Lindsay’s beast licked the wound thoroughly, pushing his tongue into the gory mass of flesh to spread his spit around.
By the time he raised his head, Drew’s eyes were closed. Whining softly, Lindsay sniffed him. He was alive still, but barely.
Exhausted, Lindsay collapsed onto the floor.
The shift back to his human skin took several long minutes. At last, though, he was on his feet and at Drew’s side, checking he still lived. The pulse in his neck was feeble, but the bite was already closing, the flesh around it bright red and hot—good signs all. Gently, Lindsay pulled Drew’s hands from his stomach. There was no more blood slugging out of the sword wound, which was good, though he’d already lost far too much for Lindsay’s liking.
He needed Francis, and Wynne. First, to get Drew safe, then to deal with this mess.
His whole body ached as he rose to his feet and crossed the room, stepping over his own shredded clothes to where Cruikshank’s body lay splayed across his desk. He quickly found the key ring and ripped it from the chain securing it to Cruikshank’s waistcoat, carrying it over to the heavy, locked door. There were too many keys on the ring, but at last he had the door open. It swung, heavy on its hinges, hitting the wall on the other side with a dull thud.
He wove his way unsteadily towards the front door, hoping he would not have to go too far to find Francis. Hoping the scents released by the opening of the strongroom would reach him quickly.
There was no sign of Meek or anyone else as Lindsay staggered, naked and blood-streaked, down the corridor. Scenting the air, he discerned the house was empty—presumably, Cruikshank had dismissed his servants for the evening. Mercer would likely have demanded as much. Lindsay hoped none of them would return for the next few hours.
Lindsay opened the front door and the night air chilled his naked body. He gazed out onto the brand-new, empty street. The street Drew had built. So clean. So elegant and rational.
