Blood Law (8 page)

Falon’s
knees and elbows shook. His strong hand slid along her back and around to her
chest, where he splayed his fingers across her breasts, maintaining her balance
for her. She would need it. When, in a slow in and out motion, his finger moved
inside of her, Falon’s body jelled.

Hewn
thighs pressed against the back of hers as his big body hovered above her. His
breath was as ragged as her own. The slick sounds of her juices as his finger
moved rhythmically in and out turned her on. Wildly her hips pumped against his
hand. She rose higher than a kite, warm and cold and hot all at once. Every
sense flared more acute than ever.

He
bent low over her and nipped at her shoulder blade. The action was, in many
ways, more intimate than his finger inside her.

Desolation
engulfed her when he withdrew. She cried out, but his large hand stayed her
hips. He was not leaving her. Hard, thick heat pressed against her wetness. She
pressed back into him, her need for his cock driving her mad. She felt drugged,
out of control, and more wanton than she ever thought herself capable of being.
He nuzzled the back of her neck, his breath warm, his lips warmer, his tongue
searing. Teeth pressed against her jugular.

He
nudged into her. She held her breath.

Wild
sensations swirled in exciting disarray inside of her body—sensations she’d
never dreamed existed. His teeth pressed more firmly against her skin just as
he moved deeper inside her.

Her
breath sloughed in and out before she sucked it in and held it again. Her
entire body trembled violently with anticipation. He was just on the precipice
of taking what she had never offered a man.

Then,
it was taken.

His
teeth pierced her skin as the cock inside her pierced her hymen. She opened her
mouth to scream her pleasure and her pain, but no sound came forth. Her body
was too racked by a catastrophic wave of pleasure. Falon’s eyes flew open, then
she squeezed them shut, overwhelmed by the sensations running rampant
throughout her body. His hips thrust in an agonzily slow undulation. Finally,
her voice. “Faster!” She couldn’t stand the blistering tension in her womb. It
needed to be consumed so that it could consume her. Wildly, he pushed in and
out of her. In a primal, sweaty dance of give and take, they mated.

She
came in a blistering orgasm, so deep and so powerful she screamed until her
throat was raw. He bit her again, this time not releasing her until his body
bucked and he howled with his own earth-shattering orgasm.

MILES
AWAY FROM where Rafael found his pleasure, the golden eyes of a wolf snapped
open. Unsure why he had been woken, the black wolf snarled, leaping from his
bed in one swift, elegant movement, then catapulted through the open window to
the roof. Raising his snout, he faced north to the shrouded moon that would
soon be overtaken by the sun. He grinned a wolf grin at the thought, knowing
exactly what kind of suffering the Blood Moon would bring.

Suddenly,
the wolf inhaled the musky scent of mating. It taunted him, causing his blood
to still. His heart stuttered and twisted with pain. He howled in both denial
and anticipation.

Rafael
had found his mate.

Even
now, he was experiencing the kind of joy that Lucien never would again.

Once
more, Lucien threw his head back and howled, a long lone howl.

Defiantly,
he pushed his own grief aside. Revenge would soon be his.

This
time when he howled, it was a horrific, fearful sound.

It
carried north to the other compound. His brother would hear, and when he did,
he would know Lucien knew.

He
howled again, this time in joy.

An
eye for an eye.

’Twas
the way of the pack.

Blood
Law.

FALON
TRIED TO open her eyes, but the pressure on her lids was too great, as if
sandbags had been plopped on her face. Just the slightest movement, and her
eyes burned, felt gravelly. So heavy, so . . . She yawned and stretched. Her
right hand touched something big and warm . . . and . . . furry?

She
jackknifed up and immediately knew three things. She was naked. She was in a
strange bedroom. And from the scent in the air and the ache between her thighs,
she’d been properly fucked. But by who?

Movement
to her left caught her attention and she turned, instinctively moving slowly.
“Holy sh—!”

Next
to her, a big tawny-colored dog lay on its stomach, its muzzle resting on its
paws. Even as her skin skittered with goose bumps—even as she thought, Dog?
That’s no dog . . . it’s a freakin’ wolf—it lifted its regal carry-on
luggage–sized head so its deep turquoise-colored eyes were level with hers,
gleaming with both an intelligence that defied the species and a masculine
laconic ease.

She
scooted slowly away from it, not liking the way its gaze followed the blanket
as it slipped to her waist. She quickly yanked it up so she was covered. “Nice
doggy,” she whispered, feeling around for her clothing. The beast growled low,
barely audible, deep in its chest. Falon froze and swallowed hard, trying to
remember what happened and how she had gotten here, wherever here was.

She
had been hungry. Had gone to Delico’s . . .

She
stiffened as the horrible images of the previous night flared in her memory
banks.

Mr. D
dead, that Conan guy and then the other one. The pain Conan inflicted. And
those crazy mental lightning bolts! How the hell had she managed to pull that
off? Were the planets cosmically aligned?

She
pushed back in the bed as panic overcame her. That big blond dude in black
leather with the double swords. He’d killed Conan, right there on the street.
Then he’d picked her up; she’d been too terrified to run. Had she fainted? She
must have. It was the last thing she remembered. Self-recrimination slapped
her. Why hadn’t she tried the mental lightning bolts on him? And run. Oh, wait,
she couldn’t run.

She
flexed her right foot. No pain. What the hell? Conan had shredded her Achilles,
and—she looked down at her chest. Reached her hand over her shoulder and
touched her shoulder blades. She’d been torn to shreds. The pain of the wounds
excruciating. Now, not even a tingle. Had it all been a dream? She shook her
head, closed her eyes, and told herself it had to be a dream. A terrible,
terrible dream. She opened her eyes, wishing to be back in her dingy one-room
hovel.

But
she wasn’t. It had all happened and, somehow, she had survived it. Instead of a
dream, her life had become a nightmare of biblical proportions, and now she was
in bed with the big bad wolf. Only, who and where was his owner?

She
glanced past the wolf to the windows. Sunlight streamed in, warming the large
room that screamed testosterone. Everything in it was big and sturdy, including
the bed she lay in. It was double the size of a normal king, supported at each
corner by thickly carved oak totem pole posts. Handmade Indian rugs covered the
rich hardwood floor, their crimson and black accents echoed in the heavy
earth-toned drapes. Under different circumstances, she would have reclined back
on the comfortable mattress and enjoyed the atmosphere. Instead, despite the
warm decor and the sunshine blazing through the glass windowpanes, she
shivered.

Delicately,
she sniffed. Her sense of smell heightened. There was a particular scent in the
air—the musky scent of sex and something else, something dark and male that
immediately had her picturing the sword-wielding blond.

Falon
shook her head, rubbing the heels of her hands into her eyes. Realization
struck. “Oh, no!”

The
blond dude.

This
was his place! She inhaled sharply, the musky scent of their sex clogging her
throat. She lowered her hands, her eyes narrowing when she spotted the spots of
crimson on the rumpled sheets. She groaned. Proof positive. He’d—he’d had his
way with her! And his way had probably been every which way she could imagine
and then some.

Even
her own thoughts made her cringe. At twenty-four, Falon certainly wasn’t the
world’s oldest virgin. It would have been easy to blame that fact on her
wandering lifestyle, since she was never in one place long enough to find a man
she was attracted to and wanted to have sex with. But the truth was, it had
been her choice. Call her old-fashioned, but she’d wanted love first, and she
knew she’d never find love while she was running. But she had hoped that, one
day, she could stop running and that maybe . . . well, maybe she could have a
semblance of a normal life.

The
only normal thing about her life and where it had landed her today was how abnormal
it was and how complicated it had suddenly become.

Anger
flared in her chest.

It
wasn’t the loss of her hymen that upset her but the fact that he’d taken it.
She didn’t have much in this life, but her body, her right to choose who and
when she slept with someone—that was one thing she’d always had and fought hard
to keep. That bastard! Now she didn’t even have that to give.

A
sound—close to a whimper—escaped her. Horrified, she watched the wolf’s head
tilt slightly, as if in concern. It made her boiling anger ignite. She flung
back the sheets.

“Your
owner is a prick!” she seethed at the wolf dog. Although she moved slightly, he
countered, blocking her with his big baseball mitt–sized paw.

She
felt no fear, only resolve. Between clenched teeth, she said, “If you don’t
move off the bed, I’m going to call the dogcatcher, and all hell is going to
break loose!”

Interpreting
her threatening tone correctly, the wolf barked at her, as if to dare her. She
almost smiled. And that shocked her and disturbed her more at the moment than
her lost virginity.

Falon
shook her head. She had to get out of there before the wolf’s owner returned.
She didn’t want a repeat performance of last night. Didn’t want him to find her
naked. Didn’t want to see him naked—

She
shivered, and her skin flushed. She knew what he looked like naked. How warm he
was. How wide his shaft was as it cleaved into her flesh. To her horror, her
nipples tightened.

The
wolf whined, its tongue flicking out along her breast in a way that made her
shiver, and not in a bad way. She crossed her arms over her breasts and shot it
another glare. “Pervert,” she hissed, unsure whether she was talking to the
wolf or herself.

Out
of here. Now, Falon.

She
almost fainted with relief when she spied a pair of folded black jeans, a black
shirt, a pair of doeskin UGG-type boots, and socks, all resting on a chair
cushion as if they were waiting for her. Backing completely off the bed, she
groaned when her knees wobbled and her head throbbed. She raised a shaky hand
to her forehead, and her body immediately overwhelmed her with a barrage of
intense sensations. She had to pee. She was cold and hot. And she was
disoriented, that damn dog staring at her like it was human or something. Thank
God it stayed on the bed.

She
grabbed the clothes and boots to her chest, casting her gaze around the big
bedroom until she spotted a door in the corner. Please be the bathroom. “Excuse
me,” she murmured to the dog as if he could give her permission to leave the
room. She hurried past it and soundly shut the door behind her.

The
bathroom was as big and masculine as the bedroom. Timber beams supported the
rich inlaid black granite and wood-paneled walls. An oversized claw-foot tub
took up one side of the room, and a tall granite and oak vanity with built-in
drawers beneath took up a corner. A toilet and doublewide granite shower
encompassed the wall opposite the tub. Her bare toes dug into a thick alpaca
throw. One thing she could say for Blondie, he liked creature comforts, and he
liked the high-end kind. Too bad for him, but she had no intention of becoming
part of his collection.

Quickly,
she used the facilities, turned the shower on high, and let it run. Not that
she was going to be using it. She was fastidious, yes, but not insane. She
dressed, opened the bathroom’s single window, and climbed out onto the slant of
a wood shingle roof. She squinted in the sunlight. From the position of the
sun, she figured it was just before noon. She was at least two stories up, in
some kind of compound, surrounded by high cinderblock walls topped with
razorsharp rolls of concertina wire. To keep intruders out or prisoners in?

Crouching
low, she maneuvered across the roof, stopping each time a voice filtered up
from below. Once she reached the edge of the long, log cabin–style structure,
she could see the forest—and freedom—over the high-wired walls. If she dropped
to the ground, she’d have to climb the wall and take the chance of being seen
and caught. Her only chance was to go over the wire. And how the hell was she
supposed to do that? Hop over it?

Yes!
A voice inside of her matter-of-factly said.

Falon
squeezed her eyes closed. Great, now she was hearing voices.

She
looked back at the high fence. It was her only option. So be it.

Falon
moved around to the back of the structure where the rooftop edge was closest to
the fence. If she got a good running start, she could jump onto the fence, grab
onto the wire, and climb the rest of the way over. She cringed, thinking of the
pain grabbing the wire would bring. It didn’t matter. She’d take her lumps if
it meant her freedom; to Falon freedom was everything.