FALL (The Senses) (46 page)

After she was
released from the hospital, the dreams had begun with the obsession over the
man in her paintings. It was as if he was begging her to discover who he was.
She thought painting him would get him out of her system—instead it intensified,
the urgency to paint him again and again. Desperation was strongest after the
sun set, keeping her awake to stare at his portrait hanging over her bed. Some
nights she sat on the floor cross-legged, staring at him as if waiting for him
to say something. Like that would ever happen.

She grabbed a
new canvas from her closet and propped it up on her easel. She pressed Play on
her stereo and Hinder’s “Lips of An Angel” blasted. Pulling the pencil from her
hair, she began sketching. Her hand moved with precision, knowing what it was
drawing, having done it repeatedly. She ignored the red paint drying on the
floor, the ruined canvases scattered in every direction and the promise to stop
thinking of him. The buzzing began singing its familiar song.

She was so immersed
in her drawing that she failed to notice the male figure standing in the
shadows, his vivid green eyes flashing.

STEP (The
Senses Book 2)

Chapter 1

Rayne huddled on the bathroom
floor, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them. The footsteps drew closer.
Fear tore through her insides like a helicopter blade. She rocked back and
forth, tears streaking her cheeks.

The steps stopped.

She raised her head and gasped.

“Fuck, babe,” Chocolate Eyes
said, stepping forward. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet off the
tiled floor. “You look like crap . . . worse, actually.” He wiped her tears
with the calloused pad of his thumb. “You want to get out of this pisshole or
not?”

He came back? For her? This had
to be an aftereffect of the drugs her husband forced her to take. A
hallucination. Chocolate Eyes had escaped the compound with his friend Ryker
weeks ago.

He grabbed her chin and forced
her eyes to meet his. “Are you hurt?”

She stared, transfixed, heart
pounding so violently she feared it would break through her ribcage. His
fingers dug into her flesh and he gave her a shake, eyes glaring and fierce.

“Answer me,” he growled. “Do I
need to carry you, damn it?”

“You came back,” she whispered.

He ignored her statement.
“Listen, woman, I don’t feel like becoming some guy’s lab rat, so goddamn
answer me?”

“I . . . no . . . I can walk,”
she said. Just dizzy, weak and scared as a guppy in a tank with a piranha.
Anton always said she was pathetic.

“You still want out of here?
Cause if you don’t, damn well tell me now.”

“I . . . I hate him,” she
blurted. Why did she say that? He didn’t ask her that.

His grip on her chin eased while
his eyes flashed darker, if that were possible. “Yeah, figured that. And I’ll
take that as a yes.” He grabbed her sweatshirt draped on the sink and pulled it
over her head. “It’s cold out,” he muttered. His gaze roamed from her head down
to her feet and back up again. “Walking won’t cut it, can you run?”

Could she? She had no idea. Her
legs felt like uncooked spaghetti ready to crack in half at the slightest push.
Her heart pitter-pattered erratically having to work hard to keep her body
functioning. She was falling apart, so probably the truth would be a firm no,
but she nodded anyway.

Their eyes met and he paused and
then nodded as if satisfied that, regardless of her lie, he thought she’d be
able to at least keep up. He straightened and strode out of the bathroom, knife
in one hand and a gun holstered to his right hip.

He opened the door to her room
and she wondered how he managed to get past the code box. How had he even known
where she was in this place? Had he wrestled the information out of Ben? Or
Anton? Were they dead?
Please let them be dead.

“Keep close,” he ordered in a low
gravelly voice. “Lag behind and I’m not coming back for you. Understand?”

She nodded. She didn’t dare
believe they’d escape. No, she’d go because if Chocolate Eyes managed to get
her outside, she’d at least have the chance to feel the wind in her hair, the
rain or sun on her skin. That was worth anything. Being locked up in a
windowless room for weeks felt as if she was suffocating beneath a blanket of
soil.

His eyes watched her for a moment
as if sizing her up, wondering if he’d just made the stupidest mistake of his
life. He muttered something incoherent, then stepped out into the corridor.

He grabbed her hand, hot rough
skin enclosing her fragile bones in a tight grip, and tugged her forward. They
ran down the sterile hallway, hesitating at every intersecting corridor—there
were three of them—as he watched the cameras up in the corners. She followed
him like a loyal puppy on a leash, uncertain where or how they were going to
get out of this place, but trailing behind regardless.

Taking the elevator would be out
of the question as it was a deathtrap on cables, and the south stairs led into
the main living quarters. The guy had done his homework—triple marks on the
intelligence scale—as getting into or out of the sub-basement was no easy task.

He stopped dead and she collided
with his broad back. Something cold was pressed into her hand—knife. He glared
at her as if to say
shut up and just do as I say,
and then opened the
door to the stairwell. He waited a few seconds listening for footsteps, and a
few could be heard from the two floors below them. She began to back out when
he grabbed her arm without turning around.

He nodded to the camera up in the
corner that was slowly turning in their direction. “It hits us in five seconds
and then all hell is going to break loose. We can’t go back the way I came.
There is no other way. We haul ass. Don’t stop no matter what you hear or see.
Get outside and run to the north wall—that’s on the far right of the
gate—someone will be there to help you.”

Climbing over the wall was
impossible. She knew from experience. Even with a rope to haul her up the
twelve feet it would take too long, considering Anton’s buffalo guards would be
hunting them like dogs. A bullet could travel fast and far.

He grabbed her hand and tightened
it on the hilt of the knife. “Use it. Don’t hesitate, for fuck sake. Jugular.”
He pointed to the scar on his throat where someone had obviously tried to do
the same thing.

Just the thought of slicing the
knife across the throat of another human being made her stomach lurch. Could
she end a life? She’d done it once before and swore never to do it again, but
if it meant escape? Freedom from her husband and what he had in store for her?

Chocolate Eyes glanced up at the
camera for a few seconds then shoved her ahead of him. “Go!”

She ran as hard and fast as she
could. Her legs shook, knees wobbled, and her lungs cried for more oxygen as
the panic ate it up. She tripped on a stair and began to fall forward when his
hand grabbed her elbow. His momentum kept them going as he half dragged her up
the stairs.

She stopped at the door leading
into the hallway of the ground floor. A piercing alarm sounded. Running. From
all directions. The place would go into lockdown.

One more hallway. Steps away from
feeling the sun or the rain beating down on her again. All she needed was a
minute of freedom; sixty seconds of breathing fresh air; feel the wind caress
her skin like a gentle hand.

“I . . . I don’t have the code,”
she said. Anton had changed them after the escape of the Senses, and this time,
he hadn’t given them to her.

He gave a curt nod. “Figured
that. This doesn’t always work with security systems, but it did on your cell.
If it doesn’t, get ready for one hell of a fight.”

He called it a cell. Cold,
sterile with nothing personal. Since she was four years old, her bedroom had
been four walls, a bed and a bathroom. Once, Roarke had given her a book—
Outlander
by Diana Gabaldon. She’d read it a hundred and fifty-two times and would have
again if her husband hadn’t found it beneath her mattress.

He let go of her elbow and stood
in front of the code box. His face became a mask of concentration. Lips pressed
into a thin line, jaw tense, eyes focused.

Shouts. Running. Alarm blazing.

Chocolate Eyes stood calm and
composed, staring at the code box. What was he doing?

She gasped as his eyes began to
change, melting away the chocolate until they were solid gold with a red dot in
the center. Her eyes darted back and forth from the code box to him.

Footsteps running up from the
basement.

Shouts.

The buffalos were going to be on
them within seconds.

The box began to burn with
intense heat like an element on a stove. The numbers disappeared under bright
orange heat, and smoke billowed up from the back of it. A click sounded, and
the door unlocked.

Oh my God. Could Senses do that?
How could he do that? What had his eyes done?

He yanked her through the door,
down the hallway and then pushed her ahead of him. “Go,” he ordered.

She hesitated, seeing him pull
his gun from his holster and aiming it at the deserted hallway behind them.
What was he doing? There was no one there. Suddenly, two men came barreling
around the corner, and he fired off two shots. Both went down in quick
succession. She stumbled forward.

He’d killed them. Blood. There
was blood on the floor and . . .

“Go!”

She ran, her stomach heaving, her
mind screaming.

She looked over her shoulder. He
had his back to her with his gun aimed at the stairwell they’d just vacated.
The door opened, and the gun went off again.

Don’t look. Keep going. Just
keep moving your feet.

Almost there.

“Stop,” Chocolate Eyes shouted.

But it was too late. She rounded
the corner into the foyer and slammed into a rock-solid chest. Arms locked
around her, and her heart sank as her eyes met the cold unrelenting stare of
Ben.

No, her mind screamed. No. She
was so close. Too close. Not now! Her grip tightened on the cold hard handle of
the knife. She closed her eyes and raised her arm. Go for the jugular, he’d
said.

Ben grabbed her wrist and
chuckled. “I don’t think so.” He twisted her arm until the knife clattered to
the floor.

“Let her go, Neanderthal,”
Chocolate Eyes said, gun pointed at them.

Ben raised his brows and gave a
half grin as if he enjoyed every second of this. And he did. He was sick inside
that massive bullhead of his. He obeyed no one except Anton. He’d rape, kill,
torture, anything Anton asked of him, and he’d enjoy doing it.

Ben turned her around so her back
was up against his chest, placed his gun to her temple and cocked it.

“You won’t kill her,” Chocolate
Eyes said. “Her husband will have your balls in a vise if you do. So I’d advise
letting her go before I kill her myself. No sweat off my back.” Chocolate Eyes
readjusted his aim and pointed at her head. “I live. She dies.”

Oh God.

****

“Just one taste, my sweetness. That
is all I ask. A drop to ease my suffering.”

Delara rolled her eyes, laughing.
“Your self-control is that of an ant at a picnic. One taste and you’ll be back
for more, and I’ll become a dried-up piece of beef jerky.” One taste and she’d
be breaking a law of her kind—thou shall not willingly allow a vamp to drink
thy blood. Vice versa was a bigger no-no. Balen knew that firsthand. Actually,
sleeping with the enemy was no better, Delara thought.

“Mmmm, I like beef jerky,” Liam
said as he slid his hand down her inner thigh and back up again. “And I like
you.”

He liked that she was a Senses
and against the rules. Blood—her nickname for Liam—might be on a sort of truce
with the Senses, but he was a vamp and could never be trusted.

“A lot,” he continued, while his
fingers trailed to the V he just minutes ago had sunk into with mad furious
passion. Shit, she needed to get up and out before he coerced her into staying
another five hours in bed. “Stay the night,” he said, lowering his lips to her
neck, his velvet tongue sweeping across her heated skin.

So not happening. Staying the
night spelled, in big bold letters, Relationship. She caught his hand in a
vise-like grip. “Can’t. Have CWOs to hunt. Short-staffed tonight and it’ll be
noticed if I don’t report in.” The Center World Others were being pests lately,
and the newspapers were filled with missing persons and gravesites robbed of
bodies . . . go figure.

“To Waleron?” He raised his thin
dark brows as he leaned over and met her eyes. And what magnetic eyes—brilliant
charcoal gray that curved downwards in the outer corners, like a sad puppy dog
in a window. Deceptive, she thought. And irresistible when accompanied with the
smooth delectable skin of his face. “Manipulator of the century,” Liam drawled.