Chapter 3 #2
The young cop hovered beside him and Peter gave him a quick look. “Yes you can.” He crossed the room, stepping over upended side tables, shattered lamps, gutted cushions and their exposed innards on his way to the sofa. Something had caught his eye. Something…
He stopped at the overturned piece of furniture, the overpowering stench of urine almost making him gag.
Which was saying something, considering he’d grown up crutching sheep.
Crouching down, he ran a slow inspection over the abused sofa, feeling his chest grow tight.
Reggie loved the sofa. It had been their great-grandparents’ and their father told—to their mother’s absolute dismay—quite a bawdy tale of Reggie’s conception involving the old, paisley-covered cushions and too many bottles of champagne.
She’d be heartbroken to see it in such a degraded state.
Yeah, but what caught your eyes? What made you come over here?
A frown pulled at Peter’s forehead and he reached out, removing something small and soft from the armrest of the sofa.
This is what caught his eye. Still crouching, he studied the tuft of grey fur, rubbing the soft, almost silken strands between thumb and forefinger.
An animal had been laying on the sofa recently.
He brought the tuft closer, eyes narrowing at the still slightly tacky, faint crimson stain coloring a few of the soft strands.
A bleeding animal. He flicked his gaze to the sofa, knowing what he hoped to find wouldn’t be there.
Shit.
Either the Irishman he’d heard talking to Rex had taken the cushions or whoever destroyed Regan’s house had. Peter’s gut twisted. Something told him it was the latter. It seemed they didn’t want the cops finding the injured animal’s blood.
And yet they piss everywhere?
Peter’s frown deepened. Something very odd was going on here. And Reggie was right in the middle of—
A gunshot shattered the air.
Peter sprang to his feet, spinning toward the direction of the report, Glock drawn.
“What the fuck was that?” The young cop screeched, aiming his weapon—waveringly, Peter was disgusted to see—at the kitchen entryway.
Gun raised, breath even, Peter crossed the room, staring hard at the opening before him.
“There it is again!” Paterson’s gun swung wide, aimed straight at Peter’s feet.
Peter dropped his gaze to see what Paterson was about to shoot and the breath gushed out of him in a raw laugh.
Lips twitching, he dropped into another crouch, scooping up the long, grey-green, scaly creature casually walking toward him.
“G’day, Rex,” he said, lifting the lizard up to his face to give it a slight smile.
“You wouldn’t be able to tell me what happened to that sister of mine, would you? ”
Rex looked back at him, flat tongue flicking out in nervous, little jabs at the air.
Peter’s smile disappeared. “No. I didn’t think so.”
Shit.
Regan opened her eyes. Slowly. She peered around the dark room, squinting at the thin shards of bright light pushing through a narrow crack in the curtains on the far wall. Where was she?
She pressed her palms to the spongy mattress beneath her and struggled into a sitting position, taking in the kitsch, framed prints on the wall and the sunken bed beside her.
A hotel room? Was she in a hotel room? The sound of traffic hummed beyond the walls; cars, trucks, motorcycles, and behind those typical urban noises the distant cries and squawks of seagulls. God, she could be anywhere.
Swinging her legs around, she placed her bare feet on the floor and pushed herself upright. Black swirling stars filled her head immediately and she flopped back down to the bed, a dull throb pounding up her jaw into her temple. She lifted her hand, running her fingers along the aching beat.
Damn it! He’d hit her! He’d actually hit her.
“I’m sorry about that.”
The softly spoken words with their even softer accent caressed her ears and she spun around, staring through a fresh wave of black stars at the man sitting in the armchair behind her.
At some stage he’d found himself some clothes.
A pair of very faded blue jeans hugged his long, lean legs, emphasizing the corded strength of his thighs and impressive bulge between them, and a black Ramones t-shirt covered a torso Regan remembered being hard and smooth and wonderful to touch.
A squeezing sensation rolled through her belly into the warm centre between her legs.
Regan scowled. Goddamn it! The man had kidnapped her and here she was feeling horny?
She steadied herself on the bed, giving her abductor a mean glare.
“Yeah, well sorry doesn’t cut it, mate. If you wanted me to leave that badly you could’ve asked. ”
To her surprise, the man laughed, the sound rich and relaxed. “I did ask. You decided to make a phone call, remember?”
Regan closed her eyes. Shit. Peter would be going out of his mind. Probably had the entire Sydney City Police Force out looking for her.
And with good reason?
She flicked a shuttered gaze to the man watching her. She didn’t know. Yet.
“I truly am sorry about the jaw.” The Irish lilt played over her senses like a feather and she suppressed a shiver. She really needed to get her act together. Who knew what he had in store for her? “But we had to go. I couldn’t wait.” Grey storm-cloud eyes grew intense. “We couldn’t wait.”
Regan edged into a more comfortable, but easy-to-spring-from position on the bed, checking out how close and easy to reach the phone was in case she needed to swing it. “What are you?”
The blunt question didn’t seem to offend him. In fact, those defined lips curled into a small smile. “Apart from a freak, you mean?”
Regan didn’t bat an eyelid. “Yes. Apart from that.”
“A werewolf.”
It was Regan’s turn to laugh. “Oh, right. A werewolf. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”
The man’s smile stretched wider. “I thought it was pretty obvious myself, love. Considering one minute you were stroking my fur and running your fingers up and down my four legs—which I enjoyed immensely, I might add—and the next I was standing before you on two. Furless.”
A very large, hard lump suddenly stuck in Regan’s throat and her head swam again.
The memory of the wolf’s unusual humerus and pelvic bone crashed over her, as did her surreal response to the animal’s inherent power.
Her skin prickled into clammy gooseflesh.
She stared at the man still watching her from his chair, her pulse a rapid hammer pounding in her neck. “Holy shit.”
The man’s smile turned dry. “There’s nothing holy about werewolves, love.”
Frazzled anger shot through Regan and she gave her abductor a glare. “Stop calling me love.”
Even blacker eyebrows shot up, a light she could only describe as mischievous glinting in his grey eyes. His smile grew wider. Wolfish. “And what would you be having me call you, then?”
“My name’s Regan.”
With a speed she’d seen from him before, both as man and wolf, he was on his feet, across the short distance between them and beside the bed. He extended his right hand, the mischievous light in his eyes now devilish. “Declan O’Connell. Your kidnapper for the day.”
Regan ignored his hand, even as a tight, wet heat unfurled in the pit of her stomach at his proximity.
His clean but musky scent threaded through her breath and she pressed her thighs closer together, trying her best to ignore the constricting pressure between them.
“For the day?” she repeated, looking at him squarely in the face.
“So this is just a twenty-four hour thing? Like a twenty-four hour flu?” She paused. “Only more annoying?”
The man—Declan—chuckled, but Regan didn’t miss the dark tension in his gaze. “Perhaps ‘for the day’ was a poor choice of words.”
Regan clenched her fists and jaw. “Perhaps you should tell me what the hell is going on. Because at this point in time, I’m very close to picking up the phone and braining you with it.
Hard.” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m still not convinced this isn’t all just a bad dream left over from my run-in with Epoc’s security guards. ”
Strong fingers pinched her shoulder before she could move. “Feel that?”
Damn, he’s fast. The thought sent a chill straight up her spine. How the hell was she to get away when he moved like a…
Like an animal?
Stomach fluttering, Regan looked up into the smoldering grey eyes. Damn it, she was in trouble. A heavy lump formed in her throat again and she swallowed. “What’s going on? No bullshit, no Irish charm, okay?”
Declan’s face turned serious and he perched on the edge of the bed, studying her with a look so intent the muscles in the pit of her stomach twisted.
“Nathan Epoc is a lycanthrope. A werewolf. The Alpha male of the Eudeyrn clan, an ancient and sadistic pack. He’s been experimenting on our species for centuries, trying to perfect a way to extract our croí, our life essence.
” His expression turned deadly and for a brief moment his grey eyes shimmered with a rancorous silver glow.
“The process drains the victim of their life-force, sucking their spirit from their body in an agonizing and protracted process until they’re an empty, inert shell.
Not dead, but not living either.” His eyes slid to her.
“The dog you tried to save in Epoc’s lab was in the early stages of the extraction. ”
Stomach churning, Regan stared at Declan. Disbelief and horror coursed through her veins. She shook her head. “But that dog was a German Shepherd, not a wolf. You said…”
“I said ‘trying to perfect’.” He swallowed, Adam’s apple rising and falling with the harsh action.
“Every living thing has a life essence, Regan. Epoc has killed more than one animal, more than one person, to reach the stage he’s at now.
The dog was in the latter stages of the procedure, the last animal tested, before the bastard moved onto his real subject. ”