Rhyannon Byrd - Primal Instinct 05 (8 page)

Kierland knew he’d surprised her again by the
tightening in her shoulders and arms. Her expression was a mixture of wariness
and alert focus, as if she were trying to identify the danger in the situation.
“Since we don’t have a problem, I’m not exactly sure what you mean.”

A rough, gritty bark of laughter rumbled in his chest
as he crossed his arms and propped his shoulder against the front of a massive
mahogany armoire, leaving no more than a handful of feet between them. “You
honestly think we’re going to be able to spend this much time together and not
kill each other?” he asked, lifting his brows.

Either that…or screw each other to death, he thought.
Both were a possibility. Though he was strongly leaning toward the second,
given the fact that it was all he could think about. All he could ever think
about when he was close to her. And God did that piss him off.

What made it even worse was that she usually did her
best to ignore him, acting if she wasn’t affected by his presence at all. He
couldn’t even use his heightened sense of smell to detect her arousal, like
he’d used to, knowing she’d become a master of control over her body these
days. She’d worked hard to perfect her masking skills, since she’d known she
would need every advantage if she was going to survive as a Watchman.

And yet, there were times, every now and then, that
Kierland could have sworn she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. At least
for a good, hard, sweaty go between the sheets, though she buried it beneath
the sparks and anger that always flew between them, their encounters forever
laced with bitterness and frustration.

But it hasn’t always been like that.

Popping his jaw, he hated that those silent words were
true. There’d been a time when he and Morgan had been…hell, he didn’t know what
to call it. Friends? In a way. For a while, he’d have even been willing to bet
his soul that she might feel more for him than hunger and lust, but then she’d
gone and hooked up with Granger, on orders from the Consortium, since they’d
thought the headstrong vamp might be more willing to follow their orders when
under the influence of Morgan’s tender, sensual persuasion. The affair had
started just days after Nicole had been murdered, and Kierland had been forced
to struggle with his rage at the same time guilt was tearing him apart. To see
the girl who’d fascinated him in ways that no other woman ever had—the girl he
should have already claimed as his own, if he’d had that choice—all but whoring
herself out with the arrogant vampire had been too much for him to handle.

The months that followed had only deepened his
resentment, as he’d been forced to watch her fall in love with the bastard.
It’d been like having a knife dug into his heart, over and over and over. As a
result, his emotions where Morgan was concerned had become a crazy, chaotic
blend of anger and guilt and loss that continued to rage within him to this
day.

Of course, she’d never had any idea how he’d felt
about her. He supposed he should have been thankful for that little triumph, but
it left a bitter, sour taste in Kierland’s mouth.

“Well?” he prompted, anticipating her response.

The uncomfortable rise of color along the delicate
crest of her cheekbones would have been a satisfying sight, if he hadn’t found
it so damn alluring. “I’ve never really understood why you hate me so much,
Kierland. But I’m willing to put our differences aside for Kellan’s sake. Are
you?”

“You’re not leaving me much choice, are you?” he
asked, sliding her a hard smile.

“I could have just taken someone else with me and left
you out of the loop completely,” she drawled, almost as if purposefully goading
him. “So why don’t you drop the jackass routine and be thankful that I’m
letting you come along?”

“Thankful?” he choked out, amazed she had the audacity
to stand up to him. Not that he could fault her for it, since he would have
reacted the same way. He also couldn’t deny that it was sexy as hell.

“Yeah, thankful. As in you should be appreciative of the
fact that I’m willing to take your crap for Kellan’s sake. You might try out
the concept of gratitude sometime. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m out of
here.”

She turned to leave, her hand already on the door
handle, when he said, “Damn it, Morgan. Stop.”

“Send me a text if you want to meet for breakfast,”
she threw over her shoulder.

“Christ, will you just stop? You’re bleeding.”
Kierland chalked up the gruffness of his voice to anger, because it sure as
hell wasn’t concern.

And just who am I trying to fool?

Shaking his head, he watched as she stopped in the
open doorway and looked over her shoulder. “Bleeding? Where?”

“Below your left shoulder blade. It’s already soaked
through your shirt.”

“Crap.” She frowned, her voice soft as she said, “I love
this shirt.”

He shook his head again, torn between exasperation and
the fact that she was utterly adorable in that moment, though he’d have cut out
his tongue before he admitted it. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, and it’s
the shirt you’re worried about?”

“I’m a woman,” she grumbled. “I care about my clothes.
So sue me.”

“The jackals must have gotten you with one of their
claws. You need to have it bandaged.”

She turned her head to the side, but not before he
caught the warm flush that crept up her face. “Don’t worry about it,” she said
huskily. “I’ll live.”

“I’ve got my first aid kit,” he told her, heading
toward his bag. He’d left the leather bag sitting on the bench at the foot of
the massive bed that was covered in acres of raw silk, and his kit was always
stored in a side pocket whenever he traveled. “Take off your shirt and I’ll put
something on the cut.”

She snorted, her voice choked as she responded, “I
don’t think so.”

With his kit in the battered, but healing hand that
he’d smashed against the brick wall of the garage, Kierland walked toward her.
“Either you do it, or I’m doing it for you.”

“Over my dead body,” she drawled, lifting her brows.

“Damn it, I’m not coming on to you.” Gruff, controlled
words that made her eyes go wide again. “I just want to see your back,” he
added, motioning for her to turn around. “Go into the bathroom.”

“I’m hardly going to be felled by a scratch.” She
didn’t sound happy—sounded embarrassed, even—but she did as he said. He
followed her to the opulent bathroom, the warm midnight blue tiles and marble
counter and sinks seeming to fit her style a hell of a lot better than they fit
his. Kierland didn’t know why he chose to stay in this particular hotel, since
he always felt out of place, afraid he was going to accidentally break
something if he wasn’t careful.

Pulling the heavy length of her hair over her opposite
shoulder, she turned and gave him her back, then began to lift her shirt. Kierland
knew he should offer to help her, since the action was no doubt pulling on the
wound. But he was locked in place, held transfixed by the sight of her naked
back as she lifted the shirt higher…higher. Smooth muscles flowed up the length
of her spine, supple and lean, the delicate lace band of her bra almost the
same color as her flesh. The slice from the jackal’s claws was long and
shallow, slashing across her left shoulder, the crimson line making him wish he
could tear into the bastards all over again.

Finally shaking himself out of his daze, Kierland
helped her pull the shirt over her head, then tossed it onto the counter. “That
was the dirtiest I’ve ever seen you fight tonight,” she murmured, a slight
tremor moving through her body as she lowered her head, waiting for him to get
on with it.

“I didn’t have time to be chivalrous,” he rasped,
holding a thick washcloth beneath the hot-water faucet. “Those assholes
would’ve liked nothing more than to get their claws into you.”

She gave a soft, feminine snort. “One of them did,
actually.”

“You must be masking pretty strongly to have covered
the scent of your blood from me.” He wrung the washcloth out, laid one hand
over her shoulder to hold her steady, then pressed the cloth against the
bleeding wound as gently as he could. “If you weren’t, I would have picked up
on it the second you walked into the room. What’re you trying to hide?”

“It’s habit. That’s all.” She drew in a deep,
shuddering breath, and surprised him by saying, “Do you realize this is the first
time we’ve been alone together in…God, it’s been years.”

Kierland grunted in response, not trusting what might
come out of his mouth at that particular moment. The skin beneath his hand was
soft and silky, and as he carefully cleaned the edges of the cut, it occurred
to him that this hadn’t been his brightest idea. He wasn’t some green-eared
innocent, for God’s sake, and had seen far more than his fair share of naked
female bodies in his lifetime. But they hadn’t been Morgan, damn it, and that
seemed to make a hell of a difference.

Tossing the bloodstained washcloth into the sink, he
reached for one of the plush hand towels to dry her back. Then he took some
bandages from the first-aid kit and began applying them to the slice in cross
sections so that it would stay closed. As he finished the last bandage, his
gaze wandered over her smooth shoulder, up to the feminine curve of her throat
and his mouth watered like a starving man standing before a banquet of
succulent food. Though he didn’t need blood for feeding, in the way that the
Merrick and Deschanel did, he still wanted the taste of it. The feel and the
warmth of it sitting in his mouth. Wanted to know what it would be like to sink
his long fangs deep into that pale, petal-soft flesh and have the warm rush of
her blood spilling over his tongue.

Kierland locked his jaw and tried everything he could
think of to keep his gaze from shifting to that bathroom mirror, where her
reflection was just waiting for him. Calling to him. He thought about her and Ashe
together, his stomach knotting as he imagined them wrapped around each other,
going at it hard and fast. Thought about the fact that she was no doubt still
in love with the bastard. Thought about how she had thrown herself at the cocky
vamp, when Kierland had needed her most.

But in the end, none of it was enough, and he lifted
his gaze, staring with hot eyes over the top of her head, his gaze locking onto
the mouthwatering sight of her breasts encased in that sheer, flesh-colored
lace. If he’d ever seen anything more erotic, he couldn’t remember it. He must
have made some kind of hungry, guttural sound, because her gaze shot up. She
caught him staring at her reflection in the wide mirror, the soft wash of
golden light spilling from the overhead lights lending an amber glow to her
skin. His jaw clenched as he waited for her to say something cutting or snide,
but she appeared speechless, her breath coming in sharp, jerky bursts that made
him think of how she would sound when he was covering her with his weight,
pressing her down, driving his body into hers with a hard, relentless rhythm.

“You might be a kick-ass little soldier, Morgan. But
the lace suits you,” he managed to choke out, the husky words scraping his
throat.

She opened her mouth, but still didn’t say anything.
Or maybe she couldn’t. Her chest rose and fell with the rushed, hectic cadence
of her breathing, her gray eyes swimming with confusion.

Kierland allowed his greedy gaze to drift lazily over
her front, sliding it down the smooth plane of her stomach, the gentle flare of
her hips, the feminine curve of her hip bones, and the hard-on that had started
the instant she’d stepped into his room thickened, straining against the fly of
his jeans. He flicked his gaze back up, snagging her drowsy, heavy-lidded
stare, and the corner of his mouth pulled into a tight, wry smile. “Still gonna
stand here and tell me we don’t have a problem?”

“I…” She broke off, swallowing, her pupils so dilated
they eclipsed the gray, leaving her eyes dark with a hot, feral look of hunger.
She took a shivery breath and licked her lips. “I don’t know wh—”

The sudden rapping of knuckles against his door cut
off her words, and they both flinched, taking hasty steps apart from one
another.

“That’s gonna be room service,” he said, sounding like
he’d gargled with gravel. “I ordered us some dinner, thinking you might be
hungry.”

She grabbed her shirt and turned away, quickly pulling
it back over her head. Kierland waited until she was dressed, made sure his
shirttails were covering his fly, then went and opened the door. The waiter
wheeled in the food cart, and Kierland handed him a tip before shutting the
door behind him.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked, thinking
that Morgan had followed him into the room, but when he turned around, there
was no one there. He walked over to the bathroom, but it was empty, so he tried
the door that separated their rooms…and found that the handle wouldn’t budge.

The woman had gone back to her own room.

And she’d locked the bloody door behind her.

“Shit,” he muttered, pushing his fingers through his
hair while he tried to make sense of the strange, almost edgy feeling in his
gut. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since earlier that
day, and he made his way over to the table, sitting down in one of the leather
chairs. As Kierland began to eat, he didn’t even taste the food, his gaze
sliding to that locked door, again and again, while a single thought kept
working its way through his mind.