His Dark Bond (5 page)

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Authors: Anne Marsh

BOOK: His Dark Bond
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He inhaled sharply, acknowledging the thick, hot swirl of pheromones filling the car. Brothers could scent her, too. Hell.
Nessa St. James was meant for one of
them
. Not him. He didn’t want a bond mate, couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t kill her if he took her. And there was no way in hell he merited a soul mate.
Taking one last, deep breath, he put the seat’s length between them and stared out the window at the streets sliding past. Hurting Nessa St. James wasn’t part of the plan.
Not yet.
C
HAPTER
F
OUR
Z
er tapped the leather-duster-wrapped bundle tossed over his shoulder. Not a particularly elegant mode of transport, but Nessa had made her choice when she’d refused to get out of the SUV. From the muffled squeak of outrage, he’d been patting her ass. Too damned bad. Deliberately, he stroked a hand over those smooth curves. Yeah, definitely ass. Smooth. Warm. Deliciously feminine. The unknown brother who took her would be a damn lucky male.
The bouncer guarding G2’s door let them in without hesitation, but there was no missing the spark of curiosity or the lazy, sensual appreciation in the male’s eyes as he got with the program. He acknowledged Zer’s entrance with a hard nod of his head and then turned his eyes straight back to the street. Good male. There shouldn’t be any trouble here, in the heart of Goblin territory, but no one survived three millennia by being careless.
He took the stairs two at a time, deliberately tightening his arm when Nessa St. James picked up the pace of her struggles. She wasn’t stupid. She knew she was good and trapped. Plus, Nael and Vkhin were hard on his heels, the brothers flanking him. Even if she got free of Zer, she wasn’t going anywhere.
Keying the combo on the access pad outside his door, he pushed open the door with a booted foot when the light glowed green. Zer had kept a suite of rooms above G2’s for the last decade. Most of his brothers had their own lairs scattered around M City, and the suite here was one of several he maintained. Not a home—just a place to lay his head when he was done hunting. He’d never let himself forget that this place, this world, was temporary. Somehow, he was getting them all back home.
He stroked his leather-wrapped bundle again. He had the means to win now.
He’d forgotten what it felt like to succeed, damn it. The slow, hot curl of satisfaction unfolding in his gut. It was a shame that Nessa St. James was going to be the one to pay the price for that success, but he’d make it up to her. She’d have the favor to look forward to, and that had to be a powerful incentive.
He moved swiftly through the suite, past the unused cozy grouping of sofas—because none of the Fallen were given to sitting around and chatting—and dropped her onto his bed. The bed wasn’t the black leather and sleek chrome Nael favored—minimalist crap picked out from a magazine spread. No, Zer had chosen Russian antiques, the really old ones that belonged in a damn museum, because they reminded him of the country estates and hunting lodges he’d favored four hundred years ago. Estate-sale relics that smelled of lemon polish and age. Downright feudal, as one of his brothers had pointed out, but he was no interior decorator—he was the sire. He
was
feudal.
The duster wriggled with feminine indignation, and he sprawled in a large leather armchair beside the bed, watching. Hunting dogs had scratched deep gouges into the surface.
“Out,” he said softly, and, behind him, Nael and Vkhin took their cue, vanishing swiftly. The door clicked quietly behind them as
she
scrambled out of his coat, her eyes shooting daggers across the thick velvet counterpane at him.
“You killed someone. You killed that ... that man in the lecture hall.”
He laughed. “I did, baby, but he and his pals had to die. They came after you.” He could read the truth on her face. She wasn’t used to viewing her life as a battlefield, but he was. Every choice, every move he made was another move in the chess game he was playing with the Archangel Michael. “And he wasn’t a man. He was a rogue.” She frowned, so he plowed on with the explanation. “A rogue is a Fallen angel who’s gone that one extra step. He’s drunk a few souls dry, and he’s addicted to the taste. He’ll keep on killing to satisfy that thirst. There’s no rehab for that kind of sickness.”
“So you just killed him.” She didn’t look as if she found his explanation particularly convincing, but that was her problem. Not his.
“There will be more rogues. There always are.” He shrugged. And he’d kill each and every one of them. That was truth she could take to the bank.
Instead of looking grateful, however, she looked even more horrified. He should have expected her reaction. She was human. Until today, she’d gone about her life ignorant of the role she was about to play.
Ignorant of one inescapable fact: she was a pawn.
And, since he could not allow Cuthah to control or destroy her, he would put her into play. He would match her with one of his brothers.
“You can’t go around killing people.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, deliberately playing with her.
“Rogues don’t count.”
Her face froze. It was too bad, really. Her smile would have lit the room, but she wouldn’t smile for him. So, fine. Fortunately, he didn’t need her smiles. All he needed was her body. Her soul. And a few words.
It didn’t take her long to battle back, though. “Call MVD,” she ordered, sitting up straighter. “Let them handle it.”
“There is nothing they can do.” He didn’t even have to lie, because that was the honest truth. There was nothing M City’s paranormal police division, MVD, could do here. The fact was that MVD was outmanned and outgunned. Good for picking up the bodies, but not so good for putting them down. Fortunately, she had him and the Fallen to see to her protection. “You stay here. With us.”
“You bastard.” Her fingers curled into the pillows on top of the bed, and he wondered if she was going to throw a pillow at him, because he could see her visibly reaching for control. He liked seeing her on his bed. “Take me back. Now.”
She stayed on the bed, though, and he figured that was telling. Her body accepted that she wasn’t getting past him, even if her mind was having a hard time playing catch-up.
He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. Eyed her slowly. Even all mussed up and heated, she was lovely. Her hair had uncurled completely from its disciplined chignon, delicate wisps caught along her jaw. She was beautiful, right down to the pink flush on her cheekbones as she glared at him.
“I told you.” He didn’t usually have to repeat himself, but somehow he didn’t mind making an exception for her. Because it riled her up. He was a bastard, but he found that feminine resistance damn sexy. Since she wasn’t going to be his, he figured he was entitled to a little payback for the work he’d done to get her here. So he’d enjoy all the outrage she wanted to throw his way and drink it in, just a little. He had to wonder, though, what she would think if she knew that he could taste her anger, and it was ambrosia. “You stay here.”
Her eyes flared, and he drank more deeply. Feminine outrage. A flicker of—not fear, but discomfort. Something had changed between them during the car ride. Curiosity. Heat. He leaned forward. “You’re going to bond with one of my brothers. All you have to do is choose.”
Zer slid the little white lie in without blinking. Humans knew about the bond mates. Hell, they lined up and volunteered to
become
bond mates. The soul mates, however, were a carefully kept secret. Almost no one in the human world knew about soul mates because the Fallen didn’t advertise that possibility. That knowledge was a dangerous liability—and the mother of all bargaining chips.
Plus, soul mates were forever. Nessa St. James was already reluctant—so how much more reluctant would she be if she knew she was trading away her life and not just a handful of days, weeks, or months? She’d find out when she found out—and it would be her mate’s problem. Not Zer’s.
“You realize,” she said, laying out her objections in those cool, measured tones that didn’t match her rumpled appearance and that had him wondering what she’d sound like when she came, “that I have research. A laboratory to run. You keep me here, and you destroy months’ worth of my work.” She huffed out a breath, her hands reaching up automatically to fix her hopeless chignon. “I’d be likelier to smuggle nuclear warheads into the heart of the White House. And last time the Russian legislature tried to do that, they failed.”
Yeah, he remembered that particular bloodbath. Not as if his kind hadn’t had a hand in it. One of those damn Goblin favors, but having the politicians in your pocket was a useful thing.
He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her. “Yeah. Like I said, not something I’m interested in. You want to use it for pillow talk, you go right ahead—after you choose one of my brothers.”
She spat like a cat hitting water. “Look. I’ve dealt with your type before. My dean is a dick, pure and simple. He has no interest in answering academic questions—only thing he wants to hear from me is how he can line his pockets with as many research dollars as he can grab. I show him once and for all the commercial potential of my research, I’ve got him. Conversely, if he can’t see his way to making a buck, I’m dead in the water. No support. No lab. Nada. And your pulling me out of my lab right now isn’t helping me sell my case. Private backers—they’re going to hold me to the same standard.”
“You want money, we can give you money.” Everyone—everything—had a price tag. He knew that better than most.
She ignored him as if he was offering her a dead fish. “You know how long I’ve spent working on my research? I’ve tested the waters. Given papers. Sat on panels. I’m on to something, and I know it.”
Right. He settled back, because he didn’t think she was going to stop anytime soon. No, she was just getting warmed up, and it seemed a shame to spoil her rant.
“I’m not some consultant you can ‘borrow,’ Zer.” Hearing her say his name sent a little curl of satisfaction zinging through him, even if her next words were an unpleasant surprise. “I don’t want your checks. And I certainly didn’t want your interference. You think I don’t know precisely what would happen?” Those magnificent eyes narrowed. “You’ll take control. I’ll lose control. Money always ensures that equation.”
Damn right he was taking control. And it had absolutely nothing to do with money.
“Opening the funding tap?” she continued explaining in those low, modulated,
sexy
tones, her hands efficiently weaving and plaiting, restoring order. “That’s the same futile kettle of fish. You fucked this up. You brought me here.” Her hands dropped from the now-perfect-again hair, crossing over her chest. Yeah, if looks could kill, he’d have been well planted, because those eyes were measuring him for a coffin.
“You fix it,” she demanded.
“I could, baby—” He stretched slowly. “But I don’t want to.” He smiled, slow and hard. He decided he didn’t care if he scared the fuck out of her or not. “Make me.”
Yeah, he was done negotiating. His professor needed to accept some cold, hard facts, no matter how unpalatable she found them. He came down over her, covering her on the bed to keep her in place. Of course, she bucked against him, as if she were big enough to throw him off. No chance of that. Threading his fingers through hers, he slowly drew her hands up over her head.
“You listen to me now.” The perfect chignon was unraveling again, he noted with satisfaction. “You’re not in charge here. I am. And I think you like being kidnapped. Do you like to play sexy little games with your lovers, baby?”
“No.” She glared up at him, shaking her head, so he captured both her wrists in one hand and threaded his free hand through that hair of hers. Checkmate, he thought with savage satisfaction. Just to prove his point, he lowered his mouth to hers, nipping at that naughty bottom lip of hers with a sharp, hot kiss. Her breathy little inhalation had him wondering if he was going to be able to stop.
God, she tasted so
good
. The females Nael chose had always been older, if not in biological years, then in experience. They’d seen it all, done it all, and they’d made their price tag perfectly clear. Nessa St. James was all fear and indignation, a sweet, feminine anger—coupled with a deliciously unwanted erotic thrill. She didn’t want to want him, but she did, and he could taste it as clearly in her soul as he could feel the sweet, hot warmth of her body curling toward his.
He wasn’t sure which emotion tasted sweeter. Fear or desire.
Wrapping one large hand around her waist, he pulled her closer. She was too important to risk. And that wild, feral part of himself wouldn’t let him lose her. He was going to keep her safe.
For someone else.
She shoved against his body with her own, demanding space, and he bit back a groan. “It’s not safe around you,” she accused.
“No.” He shook his head slowly. He’d give her that much of the truth. “But we’re not the problem. You are.”
She shot him another glare. “No one wants to kill me. On the other hand, someone clearly has it out for you. I’d like to be left out of this.”
“You think it was an accident that rogue ended up in your lecture hall?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” She was connecting the dots, though, even if she didn’t want to.
The rogue in Nessa’s lecture hall had long since stopped fighting.
“He came for
you
, baby. He’s an assassin, and he was sent to kill you.”
“Prove it.” The professor was back.
There was no way she hadn’t heard about the murders that had plagued M City in recent months. No one was that isolated. “Three months ago,” he began, “there was a series of murders. A recent immigrant. A stockbroker’s wife.”

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