Declan bared his teeth, his growl low.Deadly.
“Revenge is but a sweet thing, isn’t it?”Epoc stepped from the looming darkness surrounding them, his smooth pate gleaming in the silver moonlight.Even in human form, he stank of deranged insanity.Eyes glowing with an unnatural power, he stared at Declan, making Declan’s hackles rise.“How does it feel, knowing your sweet sister is the property of my clan, O’Connell?That I can taste her whenever I want.That I candowhatever I want to her and there’s nothing you can do about it?”
White rage tore through Declan but he remained motionless.The knife at Maggie’s throat punctured the skin directly above her jugular.All it would take was one quick slash and she would be dead.He couldn’t risk it.
“Dec…” Maggie’s cry was cut short.McCoy yanked her back against his body, wicked-sharp canines flashing as he laughed a silent laugh.
Epoc’s own laugh wasn’t so silent.He stared at Declan, dominance oozing from him in waves.“So sweet.So innocent.To think, she actually believed McCoy loved her.To forsake her own clan to be with the werewolf of her dreams…” He laughed again.“She came willingly, do you know that, O’Connell?She followed McCoy like a love-sick puppy.”The laugh turned to a snort.“Not sure she loves him now, though.Not after everything he’s done to her.Everything he’s let be done to her.”
“They shouldn’t have expelled you,” Epoc continued, eyeing Declan closely.“It left her lost, looking for an emotional connection.Someone to love after her brother was removed.”
“Help…” The raw sob burst from Maggie’s lips.McCoy’s fingers sank deeper into her breast, his face as expressionless as a mask.
Fury overwhelmed Declan, made his muscles coil.The screaming desire to tear the Scottish mongrel’s throat out consumed him.In one snap of his muzzle, the bastard would be nothing but a twitching corpse on the ground.
But for the knife…
“She puts up a fight, Onchú,” Epoc continued, glowing golden eyes flaring brighter.“Every night she fights.What my pack does to her.What I do to her… in my lab.Such ferocious spirit.If it weren’t for the blood in her veins, I’d consider letting her live.But of course, I can’t do that.She is, after all, a filthy Onchú bitch.She doesn’t deserve to live.”Epoc’s teeth glinted as he gave a wide, reassuring smile.“But don’t worry.I’ll let you watch McCoy fuck her before I gouge out your eyes.Then it’ll only be her screams you have to listen to as I drain her very essence from her worthless body.”
It was too much.Declan couldn’t bear it anymore.
Blood scalding with indescribable rage, he leapt, teeth bared.And landed on…soft cushions.
Declan snapped awake, chest heaving, heart hammering, images of Maggie crashing through his pounding head—a tsunami of torturous memories.He stared at the sparkling chandelier hanging above him, totally disorientated.Where the fuck was he?Whenthe fuck was he?
He struggled up to his elbows, the blood in his veins feeling like boiling acid.Fuck.His body was on fire, the wound in his side an inferno of agony.Gingerly, he moved his hand to the rupture, its poisonous heat baking his fingertips.He traced the fused knot of angry flesh, wincing at the hot pain stabbing into his gut with the delicate contact.The epidermal layer was healing, but the flesh and sinews and muscles beneath… Damn it, he was in trouble.
Slumping back to the cushions, black pain folding over him in a greedy wave, he rolled his head to the side, trying to remember where he was through the dark fog reaching out for him.
Luxury.An expansive room.White marble and gold…
A woman walked into the room, pulling his blurring vision.A woman with long, firmly toned legs, and long, thick brown hair the color of burnished chestnuts.A woman with a torn tank top knotted between high, full breasts, a flat stomach and a phone in her hand.
A woman he should know…
Regan.
Arresting light-green eyes fell on him and she froze.“Declan?”
Worry etching her beautiful face, she dropped the phone and ran toward him.He tried to smile, to tell her everything was fine,notto worry, he was fine, but before his lips parted dark, hideous fingers of pain curled around his being and pulled him under.Into the fog.The dark.Into the hideous memories of Maggie and Epoc and McCoy.Into Hell.
The caller ID came up “private.”Whoever had called him had done so from an unlisted number.Peter frowned at his cell’s screen.No message, no voice.Just a connection cut before a word was exchanged.
Something to do with Reggie?
Perhaps.Could also be his ex-wife.He still hadn’t returned her earlier call, a fact she would be psychotic about by now.
No.It was Reggie.Peter’s gut clenched and he stared harder at the silent cell phone in his hand.
“Who was that?”
Yolanda’s voice—like smoke and honey—jerked Peter’s head up and he shoved his cell into his jacket pocket.
She stood in the doorway of her bedroom, the black linen she’d worn previously replaced by a snug white t-shirt and faded denim jeans.Jeans, he couldn’t help but notice, still unzipped.He saw a flash of a tattoo low on her belly, just below her navel—a full moon?Silvery clouds?—before lifting his gaze to her face.“No one,” he answered.“Wrong number.”
A knowing smile curled her lips and she leisurely zipped up her fly.“Really?”
He scowled.“Yes.Really.You doubting me?”
