Rogue (24 page)

Damn it.
But I couldn’t help thinking it was a good sign that Marc was upset about being separated from me. If he’d taken it well, I’d have been worried.

Jace sat next to me on the couch, and Owen settled onto the love seat, but I barely noticed either of them. Apparently neither did my father. “When this is all over, we’ll revisit the issue.”

“Any room for negotiation on this one?” I asked, my voice sounding hopeless and drained, even to my own ears.

“No.” He didn’t even smile, and with an almost bitter amusement, I realized I was tired of arguing, at least for today. Marc and I could probably handle one assignment without each other. After all, absence made the heart grow fonder, right?

Or was it out of sight, out of mind?

“S
o what’s the plan?” I asked my father as Vic and Parker stepped into the room, each carrying several canned sodas.

“Michael wants to go to Jamey’s funeral,” he said, politely waving off the can Parker offered him. “So, Owen, I’m keeping you here to help me.”

Owen nodded, popping open the can Vic handed him.

“I sent Michael to sleep in the guest room. Wes Gardner will be here first thing in the morning, and Michael and Ethan are accompanying him home for the funeral.” That was standard practice whenever a Pride cat died. Each Alpha would be expected to send his own sons to represent both the Pride and the family, regardless of the inconvenience it might cause. “Did you hear that, Ethan?” my father asked, without raising his voice.

“Got it,” my youngest brother called back from the kitchen, where he was loitering.

“Faythe, when we find Andrew, I’m sending Jace and Vic out with you.”

I glanced at Jace, surprised that my father would pair us after the last time we were alone together. But then, this time we wouldn’t be alone. Vic would be with us, which brought up another question. Vic and Marc had been partners for nearly a decade before I became an enforcer, so if my dad wouldn’t let me work with Marc, why hadn’t he put them back together?

“Thanks,” I said, accepting one of Parker’s Cokes. But before I could question my father’s reasoning, Ethan came in carrying a mug of coffee. “Here you go, Dad,” he said, extending the mug. My father accepted it and nodded at Ethan in thanks.

Someone was certainly trying to get on the Alpha’s good side.

“Ethan, I want you to go to bed. We can’t afford for you to be pulled over tomorrow because you were too tired to be careful.”

Ethan frowned, scratching one bare shoulder. “You want me to go to sleep
now?
”

My father eyed the wall clock pointedly. “It’s almost three in the morning.”

“Yeah, but…” He glanced around the room, appealing silently to the other guys. No one spoke. When Ethan finally glanced at me, I popped the top on my soda and smiled at him, then took a long, slow drink. “Fine,” he muttered, and shuffled into the hall. Seconds later, he slammed his bedroom door, and my smile widened.

I was the only one who routinely argued with my father, but I wasn’t about to stick my neck out for the brother who’d bet twenty dollars that Marc would dump me.

“Michael couldn’t find mention of any women going missing tonight anywhere in Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, or Arkansas—strippers or otherwise. So the last location we have for Andrew and whoever he’s working with is Hender
son, Texas. I doubt
he’s
still there, but if the tabby isn’t there yet, I think it’s safe to assume she will be soon. So I’m sending Marc and Parker to Henderson first thing tomorrow, to look around and see what they can sniff out.”

My father watched Parker as he spoke, leaning forward to emphasize his next words. “You are to bring her in alive, and
unharmed.
We’re not sure whose daughter she is yet, and we are
not
going to risk angering the South American Prides by mistreating her without a hearing, no matter
what
she’s done. Treat her like she’s breakable. Understood?”

Parker nodded. We all nodded. Bringing in a rogue tabby would be necessarily different than bringing in a rogue tom. It only stood to reason. Yet our Alpha continued to eye Parker, as if to further drive home his point. “I told Marc the same thing, but feel free to remind him.”

My father took a long sip of his coffee, then addressed the whole room. “We’ll spend tomorrow tracking Andrew down. In the morning Faythe will call him and see if she can find out who he’s with, where they are, and what business he plans to take care of tomorrow. Any questions?”

No hands went up, and no mouths opened.

“Good. Everyone go get some sleep. But set your alarms. We’re getting an early start.”

The room cleared quickly, with my father leading the way. He took his coffee with him and disappeared into his bedroom.

I plodded down the hall in a daze, oblivious to the broad shoulders brushing past me and the air-conditioned breeze blowing my hopelessly tangled hair back from my face. I’d finally reached the end of a very long day, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of everything that had happened.

That morning, I’d been one of the good guys, traveling to
New Orleans to re-create a dead guy’s last hour in order to learn about his killer. I was relatively happy with my life, and proud of the job I was doing.

Sixteen hours later, I’d confessed to a capital crime and become the object of obsession of a psychotic monster of my own making.

But worst of all, Marc and I had…What
had
we done? We’d fought, of course. But it certainly wasn’t the worst fight we’d ever had. No broken furniture, and no blood. We were even still on speaking terms. So what was my problem? Why was I so disappointed to open my bedroom door and not see him thumbing through my CDs in a pair of low-slung jogging pants, waiting for me to loosen the drawstring and let them fall to the carpet?

It’s not like we stayed together
every
night. So why did I dread going to bed alone this time?

The answer hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs as I dropped my clothes in my hamper. For the first time since I was sixteen years old, my connection to Marc was undefined. I had no idea where we stood. We hadn’t broken up, but we weren’t exactly together, either. He was no longer mad, but neither was he
here.

I took a quick shower, trying to distract myself from thoughts of Marc by planning my upcoming phone call to Andrew. It didn’t work. By the time I stepped out onto the mat, I was replaying the fight with Marc in my head, determined to find something I could have said to end things on better, more sure-footed ground. I came up blank.

In my room again, I dressed in a pair of stretchy black boyshorts and a matching tank top, my preferred pj’s. I was running a comb through my still-damp hair when my bedroom door creaked open.

Whirling around, I found Marc watching me, eyes brooding, face somber. He stood framed by the doorway, wearing nothing but a snug pair of jeans. His bare feet were wet, and thin, short blades of grass clung to them. His chest heaved from what I assumed to be a mad dash across the backyard. Droplets of rain fell from his thick, dark curls to run down his torso, crossing the well-defined lines of his shoulders and the clawmark scars on his chest, to roll down his abs before soaking into the waistband of his jeans.

“Marc? What’s wrong?” The comb fell from my fingers as he crossed the floor in several long, determined strides. His left hand went around my waist, and his right tangled in my shower-damp hair, tilting my face to meet his.

He kissed me without a word, his lips hard, demanding. He probed my mouth desperately, taking sustenance from my very soul. The fronts of my bare thighs rubbed against his worn-soft denim, and I felt the heat of his skin beneath. My toes barely touched the carpet between his feet.

Suddenly, abruptly, Marc let me go and stepped back, shaking his head in reproach. In denial.

My chest rose and fell, each breath coming hard and fast. Our eyes met, and I gasped at the raw pain in his. “Marc…”

Marc growled fiercely, possessively. He wrapped both hands around my waist and lifted me, biceps swelling with the motion. My legs wrapped around his waist. His arm snaked around my lower back, holding me up. Holding me close. My arms went around his neck.

His left hand slid into my hair, cupping my head. He pulled me down and kissed me again, hungrily. Urgently. He seemed desperate to touch every part of me, to claim my body with his hands, my heart with his eyes, my soul with his need.

He walked us across the room. My back slammed into the wall. I grunted in surprise, but his mouth was there again, cutting off my insincere protest with another ravenous kiss.

Marc’s now-free right hand shoved up the black lace hem of my stretchy tank. My fingers traced his scars. His hand cradled my left breast, squeezing. My fingers skimmed down his chest to his stomach, trailing the thin, dark line of hair below his navel. He lifted my breast, lowering his head. His teeth brushed my nipple.

Gasping now, I arched my back, thrusting up for him. He shoved me harder into the wall, and his mouth closed over my breast. His lips were hot on my skin, his tongue hotter still. My head fell against the wall, my mouth open. My fingers combed through his curls, tangling in a mass of short, glossy ringlets. Soft, silken wisps tickled my chin.
Damn,
I loved his hair.

I drew my tongue along his neck, wrapping my legs tighter around his hips. Desperate for more, I ground myself into him, through both layers of clothing.

Marc groaned around my nipple, thrusting up to meet me. “Marc…” I moaned, my voice hoarse with need. His mouth left my breast, and he raised his head to look at me. Not smiling—just watching. Waiting, his hands on my hips.

“Please…” My hands fumbled at the waistband of his jeans. My fingers brushed the flap of material around the button, tugging. The button pulled free of its hole.

Marc growled again, impatience clear in the low, rolling rumble. He found the waistband of my boyshorts. His fingers curled around handfuls of stretchy black lace.

He tugged once. Hard.

Material cut into my skin. Seams ripped. Elastic popped. I gasped. “Hey…!”

Marc stepped back and dropped me on my feet. I stumbled backward into the wall, thrown off by the sudden movement. Lace slid down my legs to puddle on the carpet. He shoved down on his waistband, and his pants hit the floor, black silk boxers still inside.

He stepped out of his jeans, already bending to cup my ass. His gaze never left my face as he lifted me in both hands, supporting me easily. My back slid up the wall. My arms snaked around his neck. His lips found mine again, his tongue plunging into my mouth. He lowered me slowly, sliding inside inch by exquisite inch.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. He pulled away from my mouth and leaned back to look at me. To watch me, as I watched him, knowing we were joined, as close as two people could possibly be. In that moment, that horrifyingly short, perfect moment, nothing else mattered. There was no Andrew, no rogue tabby, and no council. There was only Marc, throbbing deep inside me.

He closed his eyes and exhaled.

And just like that, the moment was over, the desperation back. His eyes met mine, and need crashed over both of us. He pinned me to the wall with his chest, sliding quickly out of me. Then he shoved his way back in, thrusting me into the wall over and over again. I could do nothing but cling to him, ride him, hoping it would never end.

Marc’s fingers trailed along my sides, chills chasing them in a cold, tingling trail. His hands gripped my hips, guiding me, molding me, his fingers digging into my flesh.

I moaned and gripped his shoulders, urging him on out of irresistible, undeniable craving.

Leaning down, he nipped the ridge of my collarbone, then
dipped lower. He nibbled the upper curve of my breast. I gasped, pushing him deeper with my legs. He moaned, and shoved into me faster. His thrusts were frantic now. Uncontrollable.

He drove into me again and again, slamming my spine into the wall. His grip on my hips tightened. His nails broke through my skin as he lifted me and shoved me down, grinding me into him over and over.

I gasped, tightening around him as pleasure built, driven by mutual need.

His eyes closed, and he plunged harder, deeper, drawing whimpers of simultaneous pain and pleasure from me. “Marc…” It was too much. I couldn’t take it.

He ignored my inarticulate protest. Thankfully.

He trembled, and release came crashing over me, pointing my toes and driving away all thought. My vision darkened. My fingers curled around his biceps. My legs clenched his back. I shuddered around him.

I clasped my jaws shut to keep from screaming and waking the whole house.

Marc’s eyes flew open. He grabbed my upper arms and pinned them to the wall, still pumping into me. “Why, Faythe?” he demanded, his eyes swimming with fear and anger. “Why?”

I shook my head, quivering in the aftermath of violent bliss. I didn’t understand. I didn’t
know
why. As usual.

Marc shuddered one last time, and collapsed against me, crushing me between his chest and the wall. He was still inside me. I still clung to him, terrified for no reason I could name. Something was wrong. Something other than our nightmare of a day.

I inhaled, breathing in the scent of summer rain, fresh sweat, sex, and all things Marc.

He stepped away, lifting me from him to set me gently on the ground. My legs wobbled. I felt empty.

Hollow.

Lost.

Marc turned from me and, to my surprise and confusion, stepped into his pants. He pulled them up and zipped them, and I’d never in my life heard such a horrible, terrifyingly final sound.

Because he had dressed, I followed suit. I tugged my tank top down over my breasts and looked to find him sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall where he’d had me pinned less than a minute earlier.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He frowned, whatever he’d been about to say lost. “I hurt you.”

“No.” I shook my head, denying the truth because it no longer mattered.

“You’re bleeding.” He reached up with one hand and touched my hip, just above the waistband of my snug gray shorts. His fingers were smeared with blood.

I saw four short, deep scratches on one hip, and a matching set on the other side. “It’s fine.” I crossed the room to my dresser and snatched a tissue, dabbing at the new marks to avoid his eyes. “You’re still mad at me,” I said, fully expecting him to deny it.

“Yes.” His response caught me so off guard I gripped the edge of the dresser for balance. In the mirror, Marc rubbed his forehead, momentarily blocking his eyes from view as he spoke, and my heart threatened to stop beating. “I’m so mad I can barely stand to look at you.”

My hand clenched the tissue, and my pulse raged. “So what
was that?” I spun around, gesturing angrily at the wall, still damp with my sweat. “A grudge fuck? One more for the road?”