Hawk's Revenge: Lone Pine Pride, Book 3 Page 15

  Images from the bloody fight in the barn rose vividly in his mind—only this time instead of faceless Organization prisoners lying on the floor with their bowels ripped open, it was Rachel’s wide brown eyes staring lifelessly up at him.

  Adrian shuddered. “She wouldn’t,” he repeated, as if repetition could make the words true.

  “What did you expect? That you’d keep her tucked away in your little hideaway forever? Good plan, champ.”

  “Am I dismissed?” he snapped.

  “Are you reporting to me now? I thought you were all I’m not part of this pride.” At his glower, she shrugged. “Sure, you’re done. Go pee a circle around your doc.”

  Adrian didn’t dignify the parting jab with a reply. He turned and began jogging toward his cabin. It had been hours, far longer than he normally went without checking on her. Sure, she’d had a bear guarding her most of the day, but he was young, and if Kathy was back at the main compound telling everyone Rachel was helping her, then the others had probably left as well. Rachel was alone. Locked in the cabin. Defenseless.

  And Dominec hadn’t been at the riot.

  Dominec, who could easily track her back there along one of the scent-trails she’d left when Adrian had guided her blindfolded through the woods.

  Dominec, who had already made one attempt on her life.

  Tired though he was, Adrian poured on a burst of speed, sprinting dead-out toward the cabin.

  “Rachel!” He bellowed her name—as if that would help if she was being dismembered—and took the cabin steps in a single leap. The lock wasn’t on the door and his panic escalated to critical levels as he yanked the door open and charged inside.

  And there she was. Sitting at the table. Calm and cool and collected.

  The fear that had driven him instantly morphed into a blinding rage, latching on to the nearest excuse. He slammed his hands down flat on the table, bending down so his head was on her level.

  “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rachel had barely had time to process the panicked shout outside before Adrian was bursting through the door, surging into the room like the devil himself was at his back. It was late, far later than he normally arrived with her dinner, and he looked like hell—exhausted and covered with flecks of rust-brown dried blood. He’d staggered to a stop, his eyes glowing more hawk-like than ever as his gaze raked her from head to toe and back again. A thousand expressions flickered across his face before they were all swallowed in a dark scowl.

  She’d been sitting at the table, wondering if she could use toilet paper and eyeliner to make a list of procedures for Kathy to give the pride doctors as a starting point, mentally composing her thanks to Adrian for allowing her the visit. Before she could ask him what had happened to leave him looking like he’d been in a bar brawl he was in her face, snarling accusations.

  “I don’t know what you—”

  “You think an Organization doctor can just start running fertility experiments on shifters here and no one will mind?”

  “Former Organization doctor,” she snapped, rising to her feet, her spine straightening as she realized what had twisted his feathers. Lord, why was it always like this with him? Just when she thought they were making progress, he had to take seven steps back from trusting her again. “And I’m not experimenting on her. I’m helping her. Like she asked me to.”

  “You think everyone here is going to care about that distinction? Do you know how many shifters only see an Organization doctor when they look at you?” He prowled around the table and she retreated instinctively, forcing herself to stop as soon as she realized what she was doing, her calves pressed against the low futon mattress.

  “Isn’t that what you see, Adrian? Isn’t that why I’m your personal prisoner up here? Because I’m the Evil Organization Doctor Who Can’t Be Trusted? When are you going to stop painting me with that brush? Yeah, I betrayed you when we were a team, but you left me behind too. I thought I was going to die and I never blamed you.”

  He stopped, close enough to box her in but not touching. “Is that why you’re bringing it up now? Because there’s no blame?”

  “I’m only saying neither of us is perfect.”

  “I never claimed to be.”

  “No. You just wanted me to be. Because if I was a saint and I loved you, then it absolved you of all your sins and you must be a good guy after all, right? All those people you were ordered to kill as a sniper, you were forgiven if Rachel the Madonna loved you.”

  He backed away from the futon and her, raking both hands through his short hair. “Don’t talk about love with me.”

  “Why not? Because you hate yourself for still being in love with me?”

  “Stop.” He growled. “No fertility treatments. End of discussion.” He turned away, as if they were done and she grabbed the object nearest to hand—which unfortunately was just a pillow—and chucked it at the back of his head.

  “This isn’t your call!” she shouted as he spun around hissing in anger after her pillow-assault. “It’s Kathy’s body. Kathy’s baby. Kathy who trusts me to help her. It doesn’t matter what you want.”

  “I can keep you here where Kathy can’t reach you.”

  “Why? So I can be useless and bored? This is what I’m good at. It’s what I was hired for and here I can actually do some good with it. Let me.”

  “It isn’t safe. Do you want to get yourself killed?”

  Rachel froze, realization pulling the stopper on her anger and letting it leak out of her like water down a drain. He wasn’t trying to punish her. He was trying to protect her. She’d thrown the words about love at him on impulse, but there must be some truth there. He was determined to hate her, but couldn’t help worrying over her. Lord, what a mess they had made of things.

  If only he would let himself see what he still felt for her.

  “Why did you send Kathy and the others to see me today?” she asked softly.

  He turned away, moving to the sink and running his hands beneath water that must have been icy, scrubbing at the rust-brown flecks caked on his skin.

  “Adrian?”

  “To distract you,” he answered without looking at her. “Keep you busy so you didn’t try to break free and get down to the main compound.”

  “What’s going on at the main compound? What happened today?”

  “There was a riot,” he said, still without looking up from scrubbing his hands. “Some of the recently released shifters managed to get into the building where the Organization prisoners were being held.”

  Rachel hissed in a breath. “How many were killed?”

  “Not quite half. Nine of twenty-two. Leaving a lucky thirteen.”

  “Including me?”

  He looked up then, frowning at her as if she’d said something disgusting.

  “Aren’t I one of them? Isn’t that what you’re worried about? That no one will see a difference?”

  “Some won’t.”

  “So show them I’m different. Don’t treat me like a prisoner. Let me help Kathy.”

  He shook his head, turning back to his hands—which were now as thoroughly cleaned as Lady MacBeth’s. “I can’t protect you down there.”

  “Adrian, for the last three years I lived with the knowledge that every day when I got to work my employers might decide that today was a good day to kill me. A little danger is nothing novel.”

  He didn’t react. Washing, always washing.

  Rachel played her last card. “Am I really any safer here? Locked in a box? Easy pickings?”

  His hands went still. A moment later he shut off the water and grabbed the ragged kitchen towel. He winced and Rachel zeroed in on his knuckles. “Are you hurt?”

  He neatly folded the towel and tucked it over the edge of one cupboard. “It’s nothing.” He tri
ed to dismiss her concern, but she caught his hand, cradling it between both of hers as she examined the swollen area.

  “You should have this X-rayed. It could be broken.”

  “Shifters heal quickly.” He began to pull his hand away, but she gripped his wrist firmly.

  “At least let me wrap it. You won’t do anyone any good if you keep reinjuring it because you’re too stubborn to get it looked at.”

  He grunted, but reached into his pocket with his uninjured hand and pulled out a key ring, extending it to her. “There are bandages in the trunk.”

  She moved cautiously—no sudden moves, as if he was indeed a bird of prey who would be startled into flight. He sat on the futon and she withdrew the supplies from the trunk which seemed to hold a bizarre mishmash of possessions—an extra pair of boots, a well-worn spy novel, a lumpy black duffel bag and a white box with a familiar red cross on the front—all lined up with military precision. Adrian’s things. Was this all he had in the world?

  She retrieved the first aid box and popped it open. Laying the bandages on the bed, she sat tailor fashion in front of him and drew his hand into her lap, gently probing the injury. It was almost definitely broken, and she wanted to push him to get it seen to properly, but shifters did heal rapidly. It was possible if she bound it today, it would be as good as new in a day or two.

  Without pain killers, it had to hurt, but Adrian didn’t make a sound as she wound the bandage snuggly over his knuckles, bracing the broken bones in place. How often had he been injured with no one to tend to his wounds?

  He didn’t look at her, watching her hands moving over his, but for once his gaze didn’t feel cold. A strange sort of truce existed between them as she worked. She found herself working slowly, wanting this moment to last longer. She secured the end of the bandage, letting her fingers linger, a light caress over his wrist, the back of his hand. When she heard his breath catch, she dared to lift her gaze to his face, he was close, his eyes all hawk as they fixed on her lips. She let her own gaze fall to the firm line of his mouth, leaning toward him. “Adrian…”

  It was just a kiss. But nothing with Adrian was ever just anything. Their lips brushed gently, hesitantly, both of them hyperaware that the slightest misstep would shatter their fragile truce. And she didn’t want anything to break this moment. She lifted a hand and traced the hard plane of his jaw, his stubble rough against her fingertips. She deepened the kiss, sliding her tongue along the smooth inside of his lip. He groaned. The entire world seemed to shiver and hold its breath.

  And then he lifted his head.

  “I’ll take you down to the infirmary in the morning.”

  Frustration spiked. “Adrian. That wasn’t why I kissed you.”

  He pulled away as if he hadn’t heard her, standing and striding to the door.

  “Adrian!” The padlock clicked shut after him.

  Part of her wanted to celebrate. This was progress. But another, larger part of her ached. Would he ever stop walking away from her?

  A low, distressed sound reached through the night and Rachel cracked her eyelids, blinking sleep away as her half-awake mind struggled to identify the noise. It came again, raw and edged with fear. She rolled to the edge of the futon, searching out the source, and came fully awake as she identified the lumpy mass sprawled blocking the door as Adrian’s sleeping form. He twisted restlessly, caught in some nightmare as another low, ragged sound ripped from his unwilling throat.

  For a moment she was too shocked to move. He’d been guarding her sleep like this without her knowledge. Perhaps all week. She would never understand this strange man who would look at her like a murderer by day and watch over her each night. Who brought her presents—which he refused to admit were presents—and then turned around and snarled at her when she so much as brushed his hand.

  He groaned again and she sat up in bed, wondering if she should wake him. Was he dreaming of the Organization? He may lash out at her if she woke him, but she couldn’t leave him in that dream world where he was obviously in pain when she might be able to help him.

  Rachel slipped out of bed and crept across the icy floor on bare feet, half-expecting him to come surging awake at every creak of the floorboards, but he was too deep inside whatever nightmare held him. She knelt at his side, careful not to loom over him, and touched his arm—gently at first and then more firmly when he didn’t respond. His skin was warm beneath her palm, warmer than human, and harder, like the muscle was closer to the surface, barely contained inside his skin.

  “Adrian.”

  His eyes moved rapidly behind his closed lids, but they didn’t open.

  “Adrian, you’re dreaming. Hawk.”

  He jerked, flailing wildly, striking her across the cheek and throwing her away from him, eyes still squeezed shut.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Adrian. Hawk.”

  She was calling for him. He heard her, would know her voice anywhere, but he couldn’t reach her. He was back in the prisoner barn, but it looked wrong. Stretched. Rachel was vulnerable—outside the cell where the other prisoners had barricaded themselves—but with every step he ran, the distance between them seemed to grow longer. The footing was treacherous and he slipped, going down in a mess of blood and gore, something slick tangling around his ankles. Intestine, he realized, kicking at it, bile rising in his throat as she called again, closer this time. He looked up and could almost reach her, almost touch her, but then Grace was there, smacking his hand down with a swipe of her claws. We aren’t doing enough, she said. Kye’s face swam in front of him, fangs bared. Xander. Brandt. Roman. All those he’d thought were friends barring his way, forcing him away from her, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the blood-slick floor.

  Then Dominec was there, his scarred face half-feline as he loomed over Rachel. The tiger dug his claws into her abdomen and twisted. She screamed and Adrian threw off the friends who would hold him back, fighting away their clawing hands. He reached for talons and wings. His hands instantly elongated, the tips sharpening to razor points. A familiar pain split his shoulder blades, wings bursting forth, but they felt wrong, diseased. He tried to flap them, tried to lift his partially shifted body above the fight to get to Rachel, a pool of blood rapidly expanding around her, her mahogany eyes dimming, but with the first downward thrust the bones of his wings snapped, the agony piercing as the brittle bones shattered and his feathers fell to stick in the gore at his feet. He called again to his hawk, but his wings dissolved, crumbling, the pain crippling. He screamed in a thousand points of pain as she said his name again, this time through lips white with blood loss, her eyes already dead as Dominec licked the glistening red of her blood from his claws. He’d failed her. Again.

  “Adrian. You’re having a nightmare. Please, wake up.”

  He felt hands on him then, shaking. Heard the sound of another heartbeat racing alongside his own. Rachel.

  He jerked awake—one moment wrapped in the bloody remains of the dream, in the next splayed on the floor of the cabin, Rachel crouched over him, gripping his shoulders, her face a mask of worry. Alive.

  He lunged for her, needing the feel of his arms around her more than he needed his next breath. She flinched at the sudden movement, but didn’t try to pull away when he buried his face in her hair, breathing her in, holding her close. He could feel her surprise in the slight stiffness of her shoulders, the careful way her arms closed around him in return. He whispered her name, his lips stirring the hair beneath her ear, and that wary stiffness melted away. She sank deeper into his arms, all warm, soft femininity—and so heartbreakingly alive.

  It wasn’t a matter of conscious thought to lift his head and seek out her lips. It was the completion of a compulsion so irresistible the lack of it would have been unthinkable. She was smooth and sweetly yielding against his mouth, accepting all the desperation and tenderness that surged through him. He held her ever clo
ser. There could be no distance in a kiss like this, no barriers between them, even air. She squirmed against him as if she could climb inside his skin and Adrian coaxed her mouth open, thrusting inside to claim all that she was with a sweep of his tongue. She tasted like heaven—strawberries, the lingering mint of toothpaste and something else. Something that was singularly hers. For the first time, he wished he were a different kind of shifter, so he could bathe in her scent, roll himself in the taste of her.

  He slipped his hands beneath her flannel pajama top—hating himself for giving her something that covered her lush body so completely. Her skin was silk as he stroked up her back and she gasped, arching her body against his.

  He claimed her mouth again, diving deep. He tried to reach her gorgeous breasts, but the damn flannel got in the way. Adrian gripped the shirt in both fists and yanked, sending buttons flying until her lush, delectable curves were his to feast on.

  “God, I missed you,” she breathed as he bent, palming and massaging her breast, his tongue teasing the nipple with delicate flicks before sucking it fast and hard into his mouth just how she liked it.

  She was a finely tuned instrument, and one he remembered exactly how to play. His free hand slipped down the front of her pajama bottoms and found her, wet and willing. Still laving her breast, he gently flicked her clit, making her cry out and twist in his arms, then soothed her with long, sweet strokes, delving his fingers into her sweet, tight channel, and she keened, shoving her pajamas down her hips and kicking them off.

  Her fingers yanked at the drawstring of the slacks he’d been sleeping in, shoving down his pants until she found her prize, her fist wrapping around him with the perfect pressure. “Fuck.”

  “Condom?” she asked breathlessly and he swore again. They’d always been careful before. For all he knew he and Rachel weren’t even genetically compatible and shifters weren’t susceptible to human STDs, but they could be carriers for them and as a non-human Adrian couldn’t exactly get a blood test at a local clinic. He’d always protected her.