Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
In some small, withered part of him that still remembered what it was like to be normal, he knew what she was and why he was so drawn to her. He’d always known.
But it was an unmitigated disaster to have it confirmed.
Sloane threw himself away from the door. Clawing at his helmet, he released the latches and hurled it down the empty hallway. It landed somewhere far away with a crash, the compromised glass shattering, but he didn’t care. It was useless anyway.
He’d never fully appreciated how the helmet and its filters protected him.
It’d always seemed like over-cautiousness on the part of their handlers, this terror that they’d be slaves to their pheromones one day.
He’d had his visor broken before and it’d never been an issue in combat or any other situation.
But of course, everything was different with Cecilia.
Sloane dug his claws into his sweaty hair and sank into a crouch against the wall opposite the bedroom. His chest heaved with every desperate breath as his body rebelled.
Every cell popped and bubbled. The fine strands of his muscles seized one by one. His fingertips burned with exquisite pleasure-pain as his claws retracted for the first time. Every sense sharpened as his brain rewired itself.
In a single breath, he’d gone from her protector to her greatest threat.
My consort, he thought, fighting the urge to crawl back to the door, to her. My mate.
Sloane didn’t think he’d ever been hysterical before. Not since he was five, anyway, and taken from his parents. But the panic that eclipsed him as he realized what he’d done was close to it.
All elves knew the Pull. They knew what it meant when their claws slid back into their fingertips and their insides burned with need.
It was the singular bond born in an inescapable chemical reaction, one that tied consorts together for life.
Constant contact and pheromone exposure was a necessity.
Without it, an elf would gradually die or become insane. Both were common.
It was their greatest weakness, and one they’d gone to great lengths to hide from the other beings of the world. Fracture’s handlers had always warned them about the signs, and what they should do if they suspected they’d had contact with their consorts: run.
They were too dangerous for mates. They couldn’t be trusted. They could offer nothing — not affection, not family, not stability. And the risk of what the hormone imbalance might do to the members of Fracture were too high for anyone with a brain to accept.
But he’d ignored all the signs. He’d stalked her. He’d brought her to his home. And now he’d sucked in lungfuls of her potent scent and tasted her skin and—
Sloane didn’t even realize he’d crawled on his hands and knees to the door until he got there. The urge to be near her was a wild, roaring thing in him. Hearing her screaming and banging on the door, knowing he was the cause of her distress, made him want to claw his own flesh in recompense.
I’m sorry, he silently moaned. Sweat dripped down the slope of his forehead to fall from the tip of his nose as he battled every ancient instinct demanding he soothe her.
What did he know about soothing anyone, anyway? Nothing. The most he could offer her was isolation.
Sloane pulled himself away from the door. Putting distance between them was as unnatural as yanking out his own fangs, but he did it. For her.
Protecting her had been his obsession and perhaps the only worthwhile thing he’d ever done. He wasn’t going to give that up now.
His skin crawled as he climbed to his feet at the end of the hall. His broken helmet lay against the wall, the shattered glass visor staring up at him impassively. The steady beep of the internal alarm was an accusatory rhythm.
He couldn't recall a time in his adult life when he’d made so many mistakes that could’ve got him killed. Any plasma damage to a helmet meant immediate replacement. That was standard protocol. He knew better. But he’d gone in there anyway, risking not just his own safety, but hers.
Can’t protect her. Can’t be a good mate. Fuck. Fuck!
Unable to stand the sound of the alarm a moment longer, Sloane kicked the helmet as hard as he could. It crumpled under the force of his steel-toed boot, its sleek form crushed like one of the Pink Pop soda cans that sat so innocently on the kitchen counter.
The alarm guttered out.
It was a lucky thing he kept a spare in his armory. Gods only knew what he’d do if he smelled her again, or if he had to face her without the protective barrier of the smoky glass visor.
Sloane stalked toward what was once a soldier’s sleeping quarters.
Another lock guarded the door. He hadn’t thought much of it when he installed it, other than the fact that it was standard protocol to lock up unused weaponry, but now he was grateful for his foresight.
Cecilia had proven herself shockingly resourceful, so he had no desire to see what she’d do with unfettered access to plasma weapons.
His neck heated at the memory of how his doe had gotten the drop on him. It was a small mercy that he’d likely never see another Fracture member again. If any of them found out he’d been clocked by an arrant woman with a lamp…
Letting himself into the armory, Sloane slammed the door shut behind him with a vicious growl. Heat crackled under his skin as his body urged him to go back.
He’d always heard that the Pull could be escaped if one removed themselves quickly enough, but no one had an answer for how much exposure it really took to make the bond permanent.
It felt permanent. Nothing in his body felt as it had just an hour ago. He wasn’t Sloane, Thaddeus II’s rabid attack dog. He was something infinitely more dangerous.
Hers.
But it had to be reversible. One moment of contact couldn’t be all it took to seal her fate. He could not and would not allow it.
Sometime later, he didn’t feel any better or more normal, but he couldn’t hide from her forever. The plan, if it could really be called that, was simple: he’d never breathe her in again, and he’d never, under any circumstances, allow skin to skin contact.
He didn’t bother thinking about small details like how that would work if he had to keep her under his protection for an extended period of time, or what it meant that a part of him couldn’t imagine letting her go.
He certainly couldn’t give up his duty to protect her. Not now, knowing what she was to him.
Sloane was a man of action. He handled the problems set before him and chose not to worry about the ones rushing over the horizon.
Currently, the problem in front of him was the bedroom door.
A scowl grooved his mouth behind his new visor. The colorful cardboard box he held in one hand felt incongruously heavy as he stared at the smooth gray door.
It wasn’t fear that stopped him from entering the bedroom.
It was the opposite. Sloane had never wanted anything more than to see his doe again, which was the problem.
A lifetime of brutal training had refined the instinct to reject his wants.
The more he craved seeing her again, even after only a couple hours of separation, the sharper the instinctive recoil.
But he couldn’t avoid her. He didn’t want to — even if she tried to hit him with the lamp again.
Sloane sucked in a deep breath of filtered air and swiped his finger over the keypad. When he cautiously pushed the door open, he found his doe sitting stiffly on the floor across the room, her legs tucked against her chest and her long hair disheveled.
The sight of her hit him like a truck.
Instinct roared, demanding he rip his helmet off and run to her — to crawl, if necessary. The Pull popped like bubbles in his veins, a shot of pure need that nearly overwhelmed him.
It was dark with only the twinkle lights to illuminate the windowless room, but his predator eyes had no trouble making sense of the shadows. Even with the blood splatter on her dress and the bruises that decorated her face, Cecilia was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.
He even liked the venomous glare she aimed his way.
Desperately locking down his instinct, Sloane slowly closed the door behind him. His heart hammered as he stood there, box in hand. There was a compulsion to stand at attention for her, like he’d been trained to do for all his superiors, but he reined it in.
The silence in the room was oppressive. Sloane had taken an icy shower in a fruitless effort to cleanse himself of her pheromones and his sweat, but it proved pointless. Cold sweat beaded on the back of his neck as he locked eyes with her.
He’d never been more grateful for the modulator in his helmet than when he croaked, “Do you require more medical attention?”
Cecilia’s dark brows shot up. “Are you asking if I feel okay?”
“Yes.”
This time, he didn’t have any trouble dodging the projectile she sent his way. The pink toothbrush bounced harmlessly off the door as he stepped smoothly to one side. “No, I don’t,” she seethed, “because I’m being held captive by a maniac who knows what fucking toothbrush I use!”
Sloane blinked. After a considerable pause, he replied, “That doesn’t seem relevant to my question.”
For a second, Cecilia appeared genuinely baffled by his response. “Are you kidding me?”
“No.” He glanced at the bed. Frowning, he asked, “Why are you on the floor?”
“You answer my questions and maybe I’ll tell you why I’m on the floor,” she growled, arms crossing.
Sloane clicked his tongue against the back of his fangs. “You didn’t ask a question.”