Kiss of a Dark Moon (21 page)

H
e made it to the cabin in seconds, the rage churning through his gut intensifying as he saw brake lights glowing in the sultry dusk air.

Springing forward, he landed beside the driver's door as she was backing from beneath the tin-roofed carport. Kit jumped and cried out at his sudden appearance, slamming on the brake. He tried the door handle.

“Unlock the door or I'll break the window and pull you out.”

She hesitated only a moment before putting the vehicle into Park and shutting off the engine. With a wary glance at his face, she unlocked the door.

He yanked it open and hauled her out. Without a word, he dragged her toward the cabin, stepping over bodies as if they were no more than litter in his way. And that's all they could have been. All his attention, all his fury, was caught up in Kit.

He slammed the cabin door behind them and flung her on the bed.

She immediately rose up on her elbows, her eyes skimming over him, the barest hint of light flickering in their green depths. “You're covered in blood.”

He didn't spare himself a glance. “Leaving?” His voice escaped in a growl as he came down on the bed.

Her throat worked as she inched back. “You shouldn't be surprised.”

He cocked his head. “No.” But he could still be angry. “I shouldn't.” He straddled her, settling his knees on each side of her hips. Her head fell back on the bed to glare at him.

Her nostrils flared. “You reek of blood.”

“That's what happens when you kill a pack of lycans hunting
you
—who want to kill you.”

He shrugged free of his jacket, flinging it violently to the floor. Grasping the hem of his shirt, he pulled it over his head and let it join the jacket.

She quivered beneath him, eyeing the breadth of his chest. “I never asked you to protect me.”

“You never asked for any of this, did you? But you have it. This is your lot. NODEAL, EFLA. The Marshan Prophecy.” He leaned over her, bracing his arms on either side of her head, coming closer with each word he uttered. “Life as a dovenatu.
Me
.”

With that final word, his lips swooped down and claimed hers. His hands tangled in her hair, holding her still for the assault of his mouth. He swallowed her gasp, delving his tongue into the sweet heat of her mouth, tasting her desire, her anger…her fear. A fear that she tried suppress with her prickly exterior, her tough-girl façade.

That fear cooled his anger as nothing else could, made his hands soften their tight grip in her hair. As if his mother were whispering in his ear, urging him to control the beast, to shove it back into the dark, his lips gentled, nipping gently, coaxing forth a response.

She arched beneath him, purring like a stroked cat. Her female scent undid him, the faint powdery odor of her soap—and something else, something that was innately Kit.

He shed her clothing—and his—his hands moving in a rapid blur.

She rose up to meet his first thrust, fingers digging into his back, scoring his flesh in savage swipes. His head flung back as he moved, taking her hard and fierce, claiming her with a driving need. He had never taken a woman with such ferocity before—a mortal woman. But with Kit there was no holding back.

His hands covered her breasts, squeezing, kneading, rolling the distended tips.

A sharp keening rose from her throat and he drove into her harder. The sound of her desire, the feel of her soft heat tightening like a fist around him, milking him for all he was worth, pushed him over the edge.

Releasing a cry, he shuddered, spilling himself inside her. Sated, he collapsed over her, his hands still holding her, luxuriating in the soft texture of her flesh.

Only a moment passed before she slipped out from under him. Donning her shirt, she sat on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the mattress, knuckles whitening.

“Are you no more than an animal?” she whispered. “You knew I didn't want to do this with you. Not again. I told you that.”

Bitter cold washed through him at her scathing words—followed by the savage burn of the beast clawing through him.

All his life he fought to make a difference, to make his mother proud, to prove to her that he could overcome the darkness. That he lived only in the light.

And Kit refused to see that. Refused to recognize that there could be something between them beyond animal passion. That he—she—was more than an animal, more than a beast. He rose from the bed in one fluid motion. Picking up his discarded jacket, he pulled his revolver free.

Facing her, he grabbed her wrist and forced her to her feet, slapping the weapon into her hand.

“You think me an animal?” he demanded, his voice thickening, a warning. The beast lurked close. But he didn't care. Let her see it. She did anyway. Whenever she looked at him, it was all she saw. All she would ever see. “You think I'm the same as them? A mindless killer?”

She looked from the gun to him with unsure eyes. Her mouth parted, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Despite himself, his gut tightened, responding to the sight.

Shoving the unwanted feelings down, he tossed out “Then do what you do best.” He nodded decisively at the gun in her hand. “End this. Put me out of my misery. And yours. If you think I'm a soulless killer, then that's what you should do, right?” At her stunned silence, he barked, “Right?”

She held the gun limply in her hand, staring at it as if she had never seen one before, as if she did not know its function.

“Do it!”

She jumped.

Impatient, he grabbed her hand and forced her to point the gun at his chest, its barrel cold and hard against his heart. “Shoot me. I'm a monster, right? A soulless demon. You've said as much.” He flexed his fingers over hers, bringing the barrel against his chest. When she tried to tug her hand away, he jabbed the gun against his flesh, digging the barrel in. “C'mon,” he barked. “Make me pay, Kit. Maybe that will reverse your curse. Have you thought of that yet? Let's find out, eh?”

She blinked, and he realized she had not considered this possibility. “Maybe that's what it takes.” He shrugged as if it were a small matter and not the end of his life they were discussing. “Maybe. Kill the source of your curse and you'll be free. That's how it works with full-breed lycans, doesn't it?”

Suddenly pale, she nodded, mouth parted with words that would not come.

“Find out, then,” he snarled, jerking her hand, tired of her denouncing him and hurling insults. The time had come for her to decide where they stood. He knew she wouldn't shoot him. He just needed her to realize it, too. Hopefully with that realization, others would come, too—such as her not really considering him on the same level as a full-breed lycan.

“Shoot me,” he invited. “If I'm such a bad guy, shoot me, Kit.”

A small, strangled sound escaped her mouth. Her fingers stretched wide, lifting off the gun. Still he held her hand, forcing her to hold the gun.

“No?” He shook his head. “Strange. I thought you were trained to kill monsters.”

He turned his back on her. With rough, angry movements he dressed, noticing that she followed suit, moving slowly, head bowed, silent as death. He tossed her his keys.

She caught them with a fumble. Her forehead drew tight in confusion. “What are these for?”

“You want to leave?” he asked. “Go.”

She would never accept his help. Accept him. He could try to teach her his ways, but she would fight him at every step—and hate him in the process. He saw that now. Saw that he had to release her.

“You're letting me go?” she whispered.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “That's what you want, isn't it? Your freedom.” He waved to the door. “Go.”

She moved toward the door, her steps a slow shuffle. “You're letting me go?” she repeated.

He nodded, resisting the urge to place himself between her and the door. He had to do this. For her.

Some of her spunk returned then. Lip curling over her teeth, she asked, “What? Is this some kind of trick?”

“No trick.” He waved at the door again, the gesture mild, at odds with the emotions churning darkly through him. “Go on.”

She opened the door wide, letting the early night inside the room. Chirping crickets sang out as she looked over her shoulder at him, a question still in her liquid-green eyes. Her lips worked, clearly searching for words. “Good-bye, then, Rafe.”

“Good-bye.” He nodded stiffly, the words thick as rocks filling his mouth and throat—and just about as unsavory. “Take care of yourself, Kit. Because I won't be there to look out for you.”

Color spotted her cheeks. “I don't need you covering me.” Her chin lifted higher. “I don't need you at all.”

Then she was gone.

Without shutting the door, she hurried down the porch steps, skirting the dead lycans and vanishing into the deepening night.

He listened, following her movements, the light fall of her feet on the ground as she walked, forcing himself to stand still, to not go after her. His hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into his palms.

A door slammed shut. The Hummer's engine purred to life. Rock and gravel crunched beneath rolling tires, the rumble of the engine fading as she drove away.

Into certain danger. And out of his life.

K
it. This is unexpected. I thought you'd be in New Mexico by now. Shopping for turquoise or horseback riding or…something,” Darius murmured with deceptive laziness. Only the sharp glitter of his pewter gaze sliding over her told a different story.

Something dark and menacing lurked in his eyes as he surveyed her from head to toe with languid slowness, crossing strong arms over his broad chest. Deceptive indeed.
Languid
was a word that could not be applied to him. He reminded her of a snake coiled hidden in tall grass. A secret killer.

With her newly honed senses, she could almost
smell
how dangerous he was, how capable of destruction. The hair at her nape prickled. She was abruptly reminded that he was alleged to have killed Étienne Marshan. True or not, it would take a lycan of extraordinary power to kill the world's first lycan.

Sliding her hand in her pocket, she caressed her mother's necklace, gaining strength from the feel of it. Perhaps unwise, but she had returned to the motel Rafe had taken her from the night the lycans attacked and retrieved the cross before heading to Houston. She had to. Feeling it close gave her courage now.

She had also called Gideon and assured him she would meet him in New Mexico at the end of the week. Once there, she would explain everything to him. Once she spoke with Darius to see if there were some way out of the mess her life had become. In person. Not over the phone.

Kit stopped into the center of the vast sunken living room and glanced around at the expensive furniture and art framing the walls. She didn't need to know anything about art to know they were all priceless works. And old. No doubt as old as the lycan himself, who lived in Houston's high-end River Oaks. Darius had probably known the artists.

Her thoughts drifted to Rafe. Was he accustomed to such finery? The gulf separating them yawned ever farther, convincing her she had done the right thing by leaving. Even if he had turned her into a creature like him, she was nothing like him. On any level. She never would be.

She'd never been to Darius's home before. Wouldn't have dreamed of accompanying Gideon or Claire on their visits to evaluate the progress of his research. But she knew where he lived, had made it a point to find out. If he ever fell off the wagon, she wanted to know where to find him.

Again Darius's rich, formal tones rumbled over the air, reminding her that she had not answered him. “Kit?”

She tore her gaze from an elaborate tapestry hanging on the wall.

He did not look as she had remembered him. Oh, he still seemed dangerous, still had the appearance of a caged predator. But his chilly pewter gaze did not illicit the usual feelings of hatred in her. For the first time, she felt pity for him, a tormented soul with no say in his damnation.

She dragged a deep breath into her lungs and looked away from his harshly handsome face, accepting the sudden glaring truth. She had changed. In more ways than one. Why else would she be here? Seeking help? From the one person whose help she had stubbornly refused in the past. Even when Gideon had always insisted that Darius could teach her more about lycans, teach her to be a better hunter.

“What's happened?” He frowned, those eerie eyes narrowing on her. “I thought you were leaving town? What are you doing here?” His nostrils flared ever so slightly, and he took a step closer. She heard him inhale, drawing in her scent. His eyes seemed to glow brighter. Her stomach quivered, her response primal, unwanted as he took yet another step closer, an encroaching wall of heat, overwhelming her with his nearness. “What's happened to
you
?”

She shivered and pulled back her shoulders, alarmed that he would immediately be able to sense that she had changed, that she was different. The fault must lie with her. With her inability to camouflage herself. She winced. No doubt one of the many things Rafe had insisted she needed to learn.

She picked up a bronzed figurine of an armored knight from a side table. She turned it over in her palm. It looked very old, the details blunted from age. “What do you mean?”

“Something's different.
You're
different.”

She set the figurine down and looked directly into his silvery gaze, lifting her chin. “Tell me about the Marshan Prophecy? About dovenatus?”

For a moment, the hard mask of his face cracked. Surprise flickered across the hard lines of his face, a muscle feathering in his square jaw an instant before the mask fell back into place again. “How did you hear of that? Who told you?”

She crossed her arms and cocked a brow, waiting for him to put his finger on what precisely was
different
about her.

It did not take him long.

He slowly looked her up and down. “You?” he demanded. His silver eyes drilled into her. “How can that be?”

“Apparently I descend from the Marshan line. I'm one of the
lucky
females EFLA is determined to eliminate.”

He nodded slowly. “I see. You're a descendant of Étienne Marshan.” He searched her face, and she wondered if he saw a resemblance to the lycan he had allegedly killed.

She shrugged. “Or rather, Christophe Marshan.”

He nodded. “Now it makes sense why they want you dead so very badly.”

She felt her features twist with bitterness. “Apparently the prophecy that has everyone gunning for me has already come to pass. Hybrids have been alive and roaming around for over a century.” She laughed mirthlessly and dropped onto a buttery brown leather couch. “I'm a dovenatu. But by no means the first one.”

“Dovenatus already exist?”

“Yes. Two brothers. Twins. Their mother was attacked by a lycan nearly a century ago in a small village in Spain.”

“These brothers. You've met them?” Darius sat across from her on the ottoman, his large shoulders tensing beneath the black linen of his shirt. “You know where they are?”

She thought of the last time she had seen Rafe, his face hard, his dark eyes remote. As much as she swore to detest him for all he had done to her, the image would stay with her until the day she died—along with his taste, the feel of his lips on hers, the memory of them together, the sensation of his hard body over her, in her…

She brushed her fingers against her mouth as if she felt him there.

Shaking her head, she dropped her hand from her lips. “I've met only one of them, the one that turned me. His name is Rafe Santiago. The brother is in Europe somewhere.”

Darius rubbed the hard line of his jaw. “Do you realize what this could mean?” He motioned behind him. “He may possess the answers I need. A blood sample from him—and you—and we may be able to create a genetic history.”

“A blood sample,” she muttered. Darius didn't want to help her. He only wanted to use her.
Screw him.

He leaned forward on the ottoman eagerly. “Where is he?”

She opened her mouth to snap at him that there were no answers, no solutions to his quest to reverse the curse and regain his soul, but then she stopped herself. Wasn't she hoping to do the same? Return to herself? Reverse what Rafe had done to her?

His silvery gaze fastened on her. “You must meet with Dr. Howard.”

“Who?”

“The geneticist I've hired to conduct research.” At her mulling silence, he continued, “This Rafe Santiago has given you a great gift, Kit.”

“A gift?” Her spine shot ramrod straight. He'd lied to her, held her captive, then freed her as if he couldn't stomach the sight of her. “To be like you? Cursed?”

His expression grew grim, the skin stretching tight along the hard lines of his face. “Still pig-headed, I see. Unwilling to change, to learn.”

She breathed thinly through her nose. His words stung. It was the same song. She'd heard it on more than one occasion from Cooper. From Gideon and Claire, when she had refused to give Darius a chance.

From Rafe.

“You're hardly cursed,” he continued. “You still keep your soul…and live in the light. Not darkness.”

Something in his voice, in the hard mask of his face, shook her. For a moment, she glimpsed the darkness he spoke of, the darkness that dragged him down every second of every day, weighing every breath he took. How many souls had he killed over the centuries? Did each one haunt him still?

Not liking the realizations she was reaching, or the way she was beginning to feel sorry for him, she turned and started to walk from the room, calling over her shoulder, “Forget I came here.”

Before she knew it, Darius stood before her, having whipped past her in a blur her eyes could hardly register.

His eyes glittered as hard as ice. “It's time you hear a few hard truths.”

“From you?” she demanded, snorting. Hot, familiar rage swept over her, heating first her face and neck, then spreading down through the rest of her. “How about I tell you a few hard truths instead?”

His face revealed nothing. Such calm irked her. He was the monster. Why should he appear so unaffected when her emotions raged out of control?

“You're a murderer, Darius. No matter how long it has been since you've killed.” She gestured wildly, knowing his research lab lurked somewhere in his spotless mansion. “All your research, all the Caltech scientists you buy can't save you. No antidote will ever give you back your soul.” Her chest heaved by the time she'd finished speaking.

He still did not move, did not speak. A damned pillar of stone.

Her heart hammered wildly in her chest. Blood rushed in her ears as loudly as cars speeding on an interstate. She forced her chin up and held his hard stare.

“Why are you here, Kit?” he asked at last. “Why did you come?”

“I don't know.” Her voice came out a choked whisper. “I thought you could help me.”

“Hybrids are an entirely different species, even if some genetic traits tend to be the same. You're not ruled by the moon or a need to feed. You can shift at will. Why not accept that you are a dovenatu and—”

She shook her head even as she thought of the last time she'd shifted. The sensation of her body stretching, twisting, tearing in pain. The terror of losing control. Losing herself.

She hadn't willed it. She had simply been too furious to stop it. Rafe had talked her through it, the warm whisper of his voice leading her past the red haze of her rage until she felt herself returning to normal, but she had left him. Her stomach churned, knotting tightly, and suddenly she feared she would be sick.

“Is it really so bad?” Darius's voice slid over her quietly, seductive as the drag of silk. “Why not embrace what you are?”

“What's good about it?” she retorted, heat swarming her face. She pounded a hand against her chest. “I'm not
me
! Not human.”

Darius's mouth twisted cruelly. “What did being human ever get you, Kit?”

She flinched as he stepped nearer, cringing as he inhaled near her cheek. His dark scent swirled around her. “I can smell him on you, this dovenatu. His scent is all over you. You belong to him now. What are you doing here?”

She gasped, her feminist hackles quivering with indignation.

“He belongs to you, too,” he added, as though reading her mind.

She stared at Darius, his words shocking and thrilling her in some buried, primal way.

He stepped back, jaw locked and resolute. “I'm sorry, but I can't help you.”

“You're not sorry.”

“If I were you, I would find Rafe Santiago again. You need him right now.” He cocked his dark head, blue-black strands of hair brushing his massive shoulders. “But then, you know that already.”

Need him
. His words burned her up, fueled her anger. They were the same words Rafe had used.

“Well, you're not me,” she snapped, loathing that she recognized a truth in all he had said.

Stepping around him, she stormed from the living room, stalking over the limestone foyer and out the front door, wondering if leaving Rafe, walking away from him, might have been the biggest mistake of her life.