Soul Resurrected (Sons of Wrath, #2) (16 page)

Weak.
“You’ve seen worse. Soldier up.”

Deuce’s gaze trailed back to Draven. He swallowed a gulp, cocked his gun and gave a sharp nod. “You’re right. Let’s find our brothers.”

Draven’s intentions didn’t exactly include getting all sentimental over the Alexi, but he nodded anyway.

A blast of icy wind blew past the group and the scratch of leather told Draven every one of them flinched.

Draven tightened his lips. “Bullets kill them. Relax.”

A stench blasted in on the same breeze, crinkling Draven’s nose, warning his brain—the distinct smell of human blood and spilled organs. He’d become accustomed to it, yet it still tugged on Draven’s hairs as the group rounded the corner, into a compartmentalized section of the building where the wind died away to stagnant air.

In front of them, six naked paleskins lay across bodies, mostly unmoving, but two or three still convulsing.

Draven halted ahead of the other Alexi.

None of them spoke.

The pearl-white bodies he studied didn’t host a single shred of hair, including their heads, making it difficult to discern gender.

Their forms seemed humanlike.

Nothing about them indicated an ounce of humanity, though.

Bodies, at least a dozen, had been spread out in the small space, ashened from blood loss, with contortions to their expressions that silently spoke of terror.

As the bastards fed, Draven raised his gun and shot at one. The bullet sank into that translucent skin without bursting. Two more bullets met the same fate as the first, absorbed into the flesh.

Its jerking movements ceased, and Draven found himself staring into the eyes of hell—lifeless black pupils, swimming in a sea of blood red.

A grin spread across the creature’s face.

Oh, shit. Why didn’t it explode like the first one?

As if the Alexi behind him had sensed his sudden trepidation, they shifted.

Three of the six paleskins lifted their faces from the gaping wounds they fed off, and their eyes lit, as if they’d just hit the jackpot.

Draven took a step back and whispered over his shoulder, “Run.”

* * *

The burn of wounds sealing themselves across her back kept Calla on her side on the bed, from where she stared at the sculpture of Diana, reeling from her own weaknesses.

Ayden had given a nightshirt and a pair of Gavin’s boxers to wear—a means to feel more comfortable. She couldn’t rest as Ayden suggested, though.

Not only did her mind play a relentless loop of the evening’s events, Logan’s sharp words continued to needle her gut. How could she have done things differently? She’d already contemplated about a million different scenarios.

Willing herself to sleep, she closed off the thoughts driving her crazy, but instead black eyes moved in and penetrated her mind.

The killer’s eyes.

She sat up and pulled her knees to her chest.

Gavin and the others hadn’t returned yet. No news of whether or not Zeke was alive or .... Not wanting the think the word, she tucked her cheek against her knees, her skin pulling at the joining fissures across her back.

Her wounds would be healed by morning.

Zeke’s would likely bleed through the night.

Her sigh clogged in her throat, and the walls seemed to close in on her until the need to crawl out and breathe had her jumping from the bed and pacing back and forth.

If she didn’t release the pent up energy soon, she’d explode.

Wearing only her nightclothes, she left the room and walked the quiet halls toward the Wreck Room she’d learned of, where the demons worked out.

Light bled through the cracks in the door as she pushed it open, but Calla halted as she stepped inside.

Logan stood before a sparring dummy—punching, kicking, until it knocked over.

He picked his silent opponent up off the floor and went at it again, grunting with each powerful punch that had the thing shimmying like a dashboard hula girl.

Sweat glistened across his skin as his muscles flexed with each movement—every hit executed flawlessly. A black ball cap, turned backward, hid his short-cropped hair, above the black wife beater and warm up pants he wore.

Consumed by the contraction of his muscles and the precision of every hit, Calla’s fascination stole away her earlier anger.

The guy had a way of making a girl forget how much of an asshole he could be—or anything else for that matter.

What the hell had she gone there for?

As if he’d heard her thoughts, he stopped abruptly, mid-swing, and turned around.

Those brown eyes narrowed on her and his lip curled. “What are you doing here?” He faced-off with the dummy again. “Leave.”

Discomfort flooded her insides, turning her muscles stiff “I … I was just …” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

He accosted her faster than she could blink.

She backed herself all the way up to the wall. Her heart thrummed, pulse racing, as he boxed her in with his arms.

Chest heaving, his eyes radiated fury as they flickered red, emitting waves of authority that begged for her to look away. “Sorry for
what
, exactly? For getting me stabbed? Having my brother enslaved by a fucking succubus? Or do you mean you’re sorry for getting my other brother kidnapped by a goddamn psychopathic demon hunter?”

Tingles danced along the rims of her eyes and for all the effort of holding them back, tears spilled onto her cheek.
Damn him.

Logan smirked and shook his head.

God, she wanted to claw his eyes out for it, as her sadness quickly turned into something primal, lodging deep within her gut, that couldn’t’ve given a damn that the male boasted three times her strength. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

His jaw clenched. “What did you just say?”

“I’ve met a lot of repulsive creatures in the last few years, but you’re by far the worst of them all.” She swiped at her nose. “You hate me. I get it. So why don’t you cut the crap? You want me to leave? Fine. Happy to.”

She pushed herself off the wall but was thrown back against it, the collision knocking a small bit of wind out of her lungs and forcing a cough.

Like missiles warning fire, Logan’s massive arms replanted either side of her head, his face so close his breath hit her. Red flickered in his eyes. “You’re right. I’m the worst.” He inhaled a deep breath through his nose and spoke on the exhale. “Do you know what humans are to a Wrath? Blood in the water. Like sharks, we wait in hiding for that one moment when no one’s around. You’re all alone. Vulnerable.” His pelvic bone thrust against her. “A ripe fruit. Ready to be eaten.”

A cinnamon scent drifted past her, and weakness in her knees beckoned her to collapse. Her sex ached for him to grind against her again. She licked her lips.
Touch me
, she wanted to say to him, as if one single caress of his finger across her skin would take away the overwhelming need to be screwed right where she stood.

For some reason, she suddenly didn’t care who’d stroll in and see them.

The more the merrier.

His eyes met hers again, and as if lust took physical form, his lids seemed heavier, his lips so kissable they taunted the distance between them. “You’ll fall prey to my pheromones.”

That voice, so deep and powerful, tickled her stomach and she wanted to laugh at the thrill washing through her insides.

Fangs protruded from his lip and Calla wondered what it’d be like to feel them at her throat. “See, I don’t even have to
try
to make you want me. You’d let me fuck you right here against the wall if I wanted.”

Fuck.
The word echoed in her head, and her body broke out in sweat. She bit her lip as visions of the raunchiest sexual experience she’d ever witnessed passed through her mind.

Every one of them starring Logan.

She’d have taken him any way he wanted: in her mouth, from behind, straddling a frickin’ exercise bike if that’s what he liked.

What was happening to her?

Such an odd feeling—her fears turning into enthrallment. The more he talked, the more she wanted him.

Her thighs rubbed together, her mouth parted. She’d never had a man inside her, yet she couldn’t wait another second to know the feeling.

Her focus shifted to the long veins popping out of his solid arms.
So strong
.

Nipples straining against the thin cotton T-shirt she wore, Calla glanced to the side to see his hands balled into fists against the wall.

Her tongue twitched with a sudden thirst for the sweat beaded across his chest and neck. Heat spread through her body, and, breaths heavy, she arched herself toward him like an offering.

As wetness in her panties brought her to the distant realization that the male commanded her desires, she squeezed her knees together tight in an effort to ease the desperation that had her hands fisted and anxious to touch where she wished he would.

“I’d pluck that fruit and devour it in front of you,
princess
.”

God, stop talking!

“You want me to, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she breathed, his words only exacerbating the ache.

Imagining him on his knees in front of her had her sliding to keep steady against the wall. On some kind of auto-command, she reached up to him, her fingertips drifting across the crook of his neck and shoulder.

He jolted back from her.

The haze that’d clouded her vanished, and she snapped her hand back.
What am I doing?

His eyes seemed to hold the same question. Gone was the anger she’d seen just moments before, replaced by a frown of confusion.

She lifted her hand again. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t fucking touch me!” He backed away from her, his expression almost shocked or ... horrified? “Stay the fuck away from me.” His hand held the place where her fingers had touched him, as if it’d wounded him.

Calla didn’t wait for him to say another word.

She kicked away from the wall and burst through the double doors.

* * *

Logan brushed his fingers across his neck where she’d touched him.

Touched.

He’d actually felt her fingers—registered in both his body and his mind.

It’d been years since a woman’s fingertips had penetrated the numbness.

He lay still on his side, his body rigid, as her body pressed against his back and her breath fell light against his skin. Warm lips brushed a path over his shoulder.

“What are you—” His words were silenced by a pressure of her fingertips against his temple, keeping his head from turning to see her.

“I love the feel of your skin. So soft. Your muscles, so strong. Like a man.” She squeezed his shoulder and kissed the top of his arm.

Never had he received so much attention from her.

His sensors flipped on, warning of danger.

“You haven’t yet received my birthday gift to you,” she whispered in his ear.

It was his nineteenth birthday, which meant shit to him. Demons didn’t keep track of birthdays, like humans did.

“You’ve never given me anything before. I don’t want anything from you now.”

“Oh. But I want something from you.” Her hand drifted down to his chest and his muscles flinched. “I’m in trouble love. A lot of trouble. If there was any other way of getting out of it, I would. But there isn’t.”

He jerked his head and the pressure of her hand pushing against him once more, kept him from looking at her. “What are you saying?” he growled out.

“I’m saying, you’re a strong and fierce warrior. I need you. Or they’ll come for me.”

“Who’re they?”

“Never mind that. For now, I want to give you my gift.”

“No—”

Piercing pain shot through his arm. Within seconds, his muscles turned heavy, soft; his breathing slowed. Shadows danced on the walls and took form as if they’d come to life.

“Wha …” His voice slurred.

“Shhhhh.” She stroked his scalp. “Relax.”

He fell onto his back. The room seemed darker, as if blackness tried to swallow him into a void. His eyelids could hardly stay open.

She leaned down to his ear. “Demons have their trickery, as do the daughters of man.”

What did that mean? What was happening?

Numbness crawled over his body, stealing his breath, leaving his senses skewed.

“After tonight, you will respond to no other woman’s touch but mine.”