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He penetrated the various mists cloaking the Militia Warriors on the dance floor. She didn’t seem to be there. However, the club was deep and there were many hidden alcoves and way too many booths.
His mind touched female after female. He picked up each woman’s scent and cast it aside again and again, his search specific, his hunger rising, his fangs lengthening. Where was she?
Thorne’s commanding voice thumped the bar. “Leaving in four.”
When Kerrick turned around to face him, Thorne shifted to look up and met his gaze. Kerrick pulled his lips back over distended fangs and growled deep in his throat. His consciousness shuffled off to a distant part of his brain and watched this unheard-of behavior in astonishment.
“What the f**k?” Thorne muttered, leaning back. He grinned. “No f**king way. Medichi, Zach, you tracking this?”
Kerrick turned away.
He had to find the woman.
He stepped past the bar. He smelled the trail coming from the direction of the booths straight across from him.
His blood boiled. His shoulders hunched. His muscles flexed and twitched, ready to engage in battle over what he knew in the depths of his being belonged only to him. His wing-locks itched, ready to release full-mount, to catch her if he needed to.
“I’ve got your back.”
Kerrick whirled and glared at Thorne. “Do whatever the f**k you want. Just keep away from the woman.”
Thorne nodded. “Understood.”
Kerrick wanted to knock him flat … for no reason. He shifted back around, his hands closing into heavy fists. He flexed his wing-locks.
The row of booths was jammed with people, coming and going. The wet sounds of sex slugged at his ears and ratcheted his temper up a notch, and then another. He didn’t know what he would do if he found her engaged in any of these acts.
He sharpened and lengthened his vision.
Halfway down the crowded row, the path cleared and he had a perfect view of a tall woman who faced two Militia Warriors.
Alison.
Alison.
Time froze; his feet as well. He couldn’t move. He could only look, wonder, crave, stunned like a beast caught in the headlights.
She was sexy as hell with soft crimped curls dangling past her shoulders and down her back, so different from the tight, controlled twist at the medical center. She wore a short black skirt, which revealed long legs that kept on going. Her scarlet halter was cut low enough to expose a swell of high firm br**sts. God, her beauty lit up his head. His body followed. He craved her.
The trail of her scent reached him and struck hard. Woman and heady lavender formed a cocktail and set off grenades throughout his suddenly starved body.
Breh-hedden ripped through his head.
Bonded-mate.
In a fraction of a second he slid his mind over hers, pressed hard, broke through her shield—damn, what power—and finally read her. She stumbled because of it but at least now he knew what was going on.
She had come to the club because of a series of dreams and because of the card he’d left her. So he was right. She had been in the middle of a call to ascension. She’d also come in hopes of a slow dance against a hard male body. He could give her a slow dance and anything else she wanted.
He also read the lustful state of the warriors who had tried and failed to sink her into a seductive thrall. He had to get her away from them. The muscles in his arms tightened and a maroon haze clouded his vision. His mind shouted to her, Come to me now.
She shifted her gaze to him and looked him up and down. The lights flashed erratically in the dark club, and his vision adjusted for every discrepancy. The sun might as well have illuminated her every feature. Her cheeks turned a dusky rose, her lips parted, and her breathing grew shallow.
Oh, yeah, she liked what she saw.
His mind reached for her again, Come to me, Alison.
Much to his shock, she shot back, And who the hell are you to command me?
Damn, she didn’t remember him. He wished now he hadn’t sliced her memories. Still, he had no intention of arguing with her.
He lowered his chin and moved with preternatural speed. He intended to rescue her from the unwanted attentions of the two males and to claim her for his own. But by the time he reached her she had disappeared. She had folded from the club.
He clenched his fists again, drawing his forearms up at the same time. Sonofabitch. Though he had the capacity to mentally trace her path, he couldn’t give pursuit because he couldn’t fold from location to location. Goddammit. He stood within an arm’s reach of his woman yet because of his folding weakness, she might as well have been in Paris or Beijing rather than f**king Phoenix One.
Unfulfilled need raged through his body. He lifted his head and roared at the ceiling, the full-throated cry of a male caught in the hard-core grip of breh-hedden and unable to complete the act.
The maroon sheen darkened his eyes further. His neurons scrambled. His thoughts lost all remaining sequence. The two Militia Warriors, smaller in stature than any of the Warriors of the Blood, backed away. Thorne shot in front of them and shouted, “Fold! Now!”
Kerrick slammed into Thorne as he reached for the warriors, but grabbed air. He turned to Thorne and lifted his fists ready to do battle. Thorne caught one of his bunched hands in a powerful grip, held on, then folded them both out of the Blood and Bite.
Kerrick blinked. A new location. He vaguely recognized the Cave, the place where the Warriors of the Blood went just to chill, usually after a night of battling.
There was no lavender here, and in quick stages his consciousness returned.
More figures entered the space. A wall of hard male bodies appeared, some in flight gear, others dressed in cargoes and tees like he was. Some smiled. Others watched, stunned. His mind opened suddenly. He recognized the men, warriors all—Thorne, Medichi, Luken, Santiago, Zacharius, and Jean-Pierre. His Brothers of the Blood. What the hell was he doing here?
“Get him a drink,” Luken called out.
“I’m on it,” Medichi said, heading to the bar opposite the pool table.
* * *
Liaison Officer Havily Morgan knew she could make a difference in the war, if given half a chance. She was sure of it. She felt it to the tips of her fingers, to the ends of her toes.
Central had just called. The Supreme High Administrator had finally summoned her, and though the hour was late, nearly nine o’clock, she didn’t care. At long last her chance had come to begin her campaign.
She stood in the center of her living room, a hand pressed to her chest, her heart ramming out a fast cadence. She was dizzy, excited … and, yes, relieved.
