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Oh, there was. He could free her, for one thing.
Larkin went very still as she felt Holt’s psyche push at the mental wall she’d erected. She would have done her best to strengthen it if it wasn’t essential that she didn’t waste any psienergy right now.
His brows slid together. “That barrier of yours should have weakened at this point. You apparently made sure it wouldn’t be easy to tear down.” His eyes narrowed. “You truly were determined to keep me out, weren’t you?”
Absolutely. That was why it worried her that she could feel her psi-energy leaving her in tiny little dribs and drabs. The wall would soon buckle under the strength of his mental shoves if she didn’t hurry to free herself.
Once more vigorously attacking the net with her beak and talons, she ignored his put-out you’re wasting your time sigh.
He idly adjusted his cufflink. “I will cut away the net once we’re at my home. I have a cage in my cellar that prevents telepathic exchange. Once inside it, you’ll be able to shift back to your normal form.”
Larkin wasn’t sure what bothered her more—that he planned to put her in a fucking prison of some sort, or that he seemingly felt she should be thankful that the net would be replaced by a cage.
Well, no one was going to coop her up anywhere.
She’d get free of this net. She would. And then she’d go to Teague—no other eventuality was acceptable.
It was killing her that she had no way of knowing if he was okay. The battle was likely still waging—she couldn’t imagine that it would be over so fast. Not when it seemed inevitable that Ronin would have turned up with a small army, the coward.
“You’re no doubt thinking that Knox will suspect me of being responsible for your disappearance,” Holt mused, leaning back against the van, still oh so casual and oh so confident that he had the upper hand. “I’m sure he will. Just as I’m sure he will come to my home in search of you.”
Knox wouldn’t pay Holt a mere visit to look for Larkin if she disappeared. No. He’d shit fury all over this fucker’s doorstep, sure to the bone that it was the cambion who held her captive. Knox wouldn’t care to ask questions. Wouldn’t bother to tread carefully. Wouldn’t give one shit that there was a chance he was wrong, because killing Holt would be nothing to him in any case.
In sum, the cambion had signed his death warrant by taking her. If she didn’t kill him, Knox would.
“He won’t find you. Nor will Tanner, if that is your hope. The cage will even keep a hellhound’s nose from sensing your presence.” Holt inched up his chin. “Face it, Larkin, you have no way of escaping me. Stop fighting. Accept your fate. Accept that I am your fate—always have been.”
She had no need to accept anything. Because she knew something he didn’t.
He carried on talking, pressuring her to cease opposing him; to resign herself to the situation; to see that this was ‘for the best’.
She ignored him . . . right up until his mind once more tried bypassing her protective wall.
Satisfaction flashed across that face she wanted to slap. “Ah, the barrier is not quite as well-fortified as it was before. The process may be slow going, but it is working.”
It was, dammit. It was working well.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then all but attacked the net. No, she was not bonding with this motherfucker. She’d be stuck with him for life, even if she never became his captive. Because she wouldn’t be able to kill him in revenge. To do that would be to quite possibly kill herself—anchors generally didn’t survive the breaking of an anchor bond, at least not without turning rogue, so she’d need to keep him alive.
She couldn’t stand the thought of having a connection with him for the rest of her days. It made her skin crawl and her belly do a slow, nauseating roll. Her demon would for sure—
There was a slight give in the net. As if a seam somewhere had popped.
Larkin’s pulse did an excited leap. She forced herself not to go to work on the material with a renewed, energized effort. It would make him suspicious. She couldn’t have that.
So she kept chewing and raking at the same pace as before, letting him think she was merely refusing to accept that her attempts—in his point of view, at least—were fruitless.
They had never been fruitless. He simply hadn’t known it.
The truth was . . . a demonic harpy eagle could chew through anything, even if that ‘anything’ was boosted by power or magick.
The same applied to a few other breeds of demon who could shapeshift into avian forms. None of them advertised it, since it gave them an edge in certain situations—such as the one she was in right now.
