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She had cried last night when he touched her the first time. Because she had dreamed of it for so long. Because he had stroked more than just her body, kissed more than her lips. He had touched that inner core of her being that she hadn’t realized could be possessed. When his fingers had parted the folds between her thighs and his expression had hardened with lust, he had wet his fingers on her juices, then brought them to his lips, his lashes lowering sensually at the taste of her.
A second later he had dipped his fingers between her thighs again and brought them to her lips.
And she hadn’t been able to deny him. She hadn’t been able to deny him a single thing in the hours they had spent touching and tasting each other.
Everything he had asked of her, she had given. God help her if he ever had her that weak again.
She would never be able to deny him. Never be able to hold on to her pride or her soul. Because if he shared her, he would break her heart forever. But if he asked it of her, she knew she would never be strong enough to tell him no.
“God! You’re so fucking hot. So tight. So tight, Crista. So tight that when Rowdy and Natches get their dicks inside you, you’ll destroy us all… ” She hadn’t heard the rest of the statement; her mind had shut down. Her soul had withered in her chest.
She had to get away from Dawg, because if she didn’t, he would own her soul. And that terrified her more than the thought of leaving her home ever had. She would never be able to defend herself. She knew his touch now, knew his kiss, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would never love anyone as she loved Dawg Mackay.
ONE
Somerset, Kentucky
Eight Years Later
It was a nightmare.
No, it wasn’t a nightmare, because she was pretty damned sure she was awake. And in nightmares, bullets weren’t real. They weren’t real, and they weren’t exploding around the warehouse like hellish fireflies destroying everything they lodged inside.
Nightmares came with a certain understanding that it was a dream, not real. This was definitely real, and if something really good didn’t happen very soon, then she was going to have holes in her body that were not supposed to be there.
She fought to hold back her screams as bullets whizzed over her head again, popping in the wood crates around her and sending a shower of wood chips and shattered glass from inside around her head.
This was bad. Very bad. She stared around, wide-eyed and dazed, as she scrambled around more boxes, more crates, fighting for as much protection between her and the bullets as she could find.
Crista Jansen was certain her horoscope hadn’t said anything about bullets today. Something about dark knights and ill-advised trips, but there had been nothing in there about bullets.
She would have remembered.
She would have changed her plans.
Oh boy, would she have changed her plans.
Scuttling behind what she hoped was a very thickly packed crate, she covered her head with her arms as glass sprayed around her.
Those weren’t just regular bullets. Those were fast bullets. Automatic? Uzi? Something. The kind that spat fire as they pelleted out dozens of rounds at a time. And she knew because the red flashes of light in the otherwise dark interior of the warehouse were a pretty good clue.
A terrified squak, a cross between a squeak and a squawk, fell from her lips as chips of wood exploded from the sides of the crate she found to hide behind.
They were serious out there. People were killing people, and she was caught in the crossfire and wondering how the hell she was going to get out of this one.
She knew this was a bad idea.
She knew. She had felt that sick feeling in her gut the minute she stepped into the cavernous warehouse and realized the lights didn’t work. But had she, dumb ass that she was, backed out and left?
Oh, hell no, she had just pulled her penlight from her purse and trudged merrily on her way, looking for that stupid box. She told the delivery company to deliver to her home, not here. Yet when she returned home from work, what had she found? An official notice that her package had been dropped off at their local distribution warehouse and why, lookie, there had been the magical key to open the damned locker it was in.
Well, guess what? There’s no locker here, she told herself sarcastically. No locker, but plenty of bullets singing a macabre tune through the darkness.
So now, rather than collecting her belongings, she was just trying to stay alive. When did fate decide to bust Crista Jansen’s ass? For God’s sake, hadn’t she had enough bad luck in the past eight years?
This was all Dawg’s fault, she decided. Every bit of it. He lived and he breathed and because of it; fate hated her. Fate was female, right? It was probably jealous. There could be no other explanation.
This was so bad.
