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They wouldn't have, he realized only then. They hadn't come here to hurt anyone, not even him, except he'd forced their hand. They all stared, Mathias Rowan included, gaping wide-eyed and slack-jawed at Tavia Fairchild in all her transformed magnificence.
Crouched low, her long, jeans-clad legs were bent, bare feet ready to spring. Her loose hair swung around her shoulders like a caramel-colored mane, untamed waves barely concealing the amber blaze of her eyes. She hissed, lips peeled back to expose the twin fangs that gleamed as bright as diamonds and sharp as daggers. Between the deep V of her black sweater, her dermaglyphs were alive with furious color, churning like a tempest written on her smooth, pale skin.
There could be no mistaking what this female was: dangerous, stealthy, utterly lethal Gen One Breed.
And hotter than hell itself.
The three warriors from the Order seemed to shake themselves back to their senses all at once. They spoke in nearly perfect unison, Tegan, Niko, then Hunter, one after the other. "Holy - "
"Fucking - "
"Shit."
Renata was still staring, vaguely shaking her head in disbelief. Her fine jet brows lifted then and a smile began to twist the curve of her broad mouth. The sight of her relaxation - the wry humor in her shrewd gaze - diffused the tension in the room by huge degrees. She glanced from Tavia to Chase, then back again to Tavia in utter amazement. "Now, that's what I call making an entrance."
DRAGOS STROLLED into the video conference with his lieutenants more than forty-five minutes late.
His lack of punctuality accomplished a couple of things: First, it never hurt to remind his underlings that they served at his whim and convenience; more important was the fact that his tardiness gave each of the four remaining members of his original circle ample time to reflect on their slightest missteps and fret over whether one of their heads had landed on his chopping block.
That particular concern carried even more weight, considering the fact that each of his lieutenants on-screen was attended by one of Dragos's personally selected Hunters. If the lieutenants gave him reason to doubt, it would take less than a second for any one of the Gen One killers standing at their sides to dispatch the problem permanently.
But no one's head was in jeopardy here tonight.
Dragos's rage was centered wholly on the Order. It was because of them that he'd met one setback after another. Because of them that his operation was splintered and limping now, all his good work and promising experiments halted or destroyed. Because of them that he'd been forced to accelerate his plans where humankind was concerned.
Instead of waiting until he had all of his Minion players in position around the world - an objective that would only get more difficult with Lucan and his warriors breathing down his neck, driving him to ground at every opportunity - Dragos had decided the time for waiting was over.
He took his seat at the head of his long conference table, facing the wall of monitors mounted in front of him. Four screens showed the faces of his lieutenants: Arno Pike of the Enforcement Agency in Boston; Ruarke Louvell, longtime Agency director from Seattle; reporting in from Europe was Moric Kaszab of the Agency in Budapest; and, last, Nigel Traherne, a well- connected, well-heeled Darkhaven leader from London and the only one of Dragos's surviving circle not intimately associated with the Enforcement Agency.
There had been three others in this cadre at one time, ultimately unworthy males who'd met their ends in various violent ways. Dragos had personally seen to that. The names - Fabian, Roth, and Vachon - hardly registered to him now. They were dust under his boot heels, insignificant.
Gone and forgotten.
What the eight of them had shared in common, Dragos and his inner circle of seven loyal foot soldiers, was their second-generation bloodlines and, more crucially, the unshakable belief that it was the Breed - not humankind - that deserved to rule this orbiting clump of rock. For many long decades, they'd worked together, plotting and conspiring, secretly fueling the operation's vision with materiel, personnel and funding, intel and support. Everything Dragos asked for, including their unwavering allegiance.
The four standing by on video now still held to the belief that Dragos's vision for the future was the only acceptable one. They believed in him as their leader. Their eventual king. So long as they did, and until they proved to be ineffectual or a liability to his goals, Dragos would permit them to live. He might even make good on his promise that they would enjoy some of the spoils soon to come.
Very soon, he thought, hardly able to contain the excitement that coursed through him when he considered the chaos he was about to deliver on the world.
"Gentlemen," he said, giving them each a nod of greeting. "We have waited a long time for this moment. But no more. I've summoned you all tonight to let you know that our triumph is finally at hand."
Cold smiles and eager gazes met the comment. Dragos let the current of dark excitement settle in for a moment, reveling in his power. Although his decision earlier tonight had come on the heels of outrage and vengeful impulse, he'd had time enough to consider all the ramifications of the Armageddon he was about to enact. If it had seemed a fitting solution before, now, with a cooler, more calculating head, he was even more convinced it was time to throw down the gauntlet.
"Each of you in this meeting was brought into my trust because of a common resolve. A dream we all shared, to design a world around our own ideals. Our own liberties and laws. We are close, my comrades. Close enough that it would be unthinkable that our vision for our world - for the future of our very race - should be derailed by the Order or the fools who would ally with them." He scanned the faces of his lieutenants, pleased to see the rancor simmering in more than one pair of narrowed eyes. "With victory in our grasp, we cannot afford to let it slip through our fingers. Our time of hiding and planning and waiting is over." Dragos slammed his fist on the table in front of him as he rose out of his chair. "I'm sick to death with all of it! The time has come to make this goddamn world bleed!"
Three of the four Breed males staring back at him gave assenting nods at this explosive declaration of war. Dragos's breath sawed in and out of his lungs, rekindled fury making his veins prickle with violent impulse. That smoldering aggression deepened when he looked to Nigel Traherne and found the Londoner frowning, his fair-haired head shaking slowly in quiet dissent.
"You have something to say, Mr. Traherne?"
Nigel cleared his throat, looking suddenly uncomfortable. As well he should. "If I am correct in assuming what you have in mind, sire ..."
The words trailed off, unnecessary to complete. Everyone assembled in this room understood precisely what he was suggesting. It had been the operation's worst-case scenario option all along.
"An act of this magnitude cannot be undone," Traherne cautioned. "I have to wonder if, perhaps ... sire, I fear that recent setbacks in your endeavors to acquire the American senator and clear the path into other areas of human governments may be pushing you into somewhat rash thinking."
"Rash thinking." Dragos grunted, his fists braced on the table, knuckles crushing the polished wood. He fumed over the challenge to his authority. The foolhardy dissent. But he refrained from lashing out. Barely. "Do I seem rash to the rest of you?"
One by one, the other three lieutenants weighed in with their support.
