The Strip (16 page)

“Of course,” Seth answered easily. “One can’t be too careful, and contracting with werewolves is dangerous business for my kind. An associate of mine was killed a few years ago in Baton Rouge for agreeing to do the same thing I will be doing tonight.”

Vincent knew who he was referring to: Eva Black, the witch-warlock who had attempted to remove Daniel Kane’s mark from Lily St. Claire’s arm. She had failed. And Kane’s pack had killed her. It seemed like ages ago. Working for Phelan was no walk in the park. If time flew by when you were having fun, then it positively crawled when you were employed by the devil.

“Just out of curiosity, how many people can it carry?” Vincent asked, still referring to the stone and its magical abilities.

“It’ll take everyone within a thirty-foot radius,” Seth answered calmly. Then he leaned forward and pinned Vincent with a meaningful look. “Everyone that I want it to take, that is.”

The significance of that final statement was not lost on Vincent. But he had no time to contemplate it further, for the sound of footsteps came from beyond the dungeon door.

He stood and faced the door, knowing that Phelan and his men – and Claire St.James – were on the other side of it.

He could hear her heartbeat. It was a frantic hummingbird kind of sound amidst the calm, cool beats of the werewolves surrounding her. And he could hear her breathing. It was clear, by the sound of it, that she had not been gagged. It would have been pointless, and she probably knew it. The stairwell leading from the two upper floors to the basement was completely private and sealed off from the rest of the hotel. It was sound proofed and free of doors or windows.

As was the dungeon. There was only one way in or out of the massive, stone room, and only two people had a key. Gabriel Phelan had one. Vincent Cromwell had the other.

Seth the warlock remained seated as the door unlocked and Phelan and his men came in. However, once the two men leading St.James dragged her into the room, the warlock finally stood.

Vincent noticed the movement and turned to look at the other man.

It was clear, from the fascinated expression on Seth’s attractive face, that he was incredibly impressed with her beauty. Apparently, whatever dark, insidious powers had informed Seth of Cromwell’s need of his magic had failed to mention that the woman he would be casting that magic on was very special, indeed. She was a female-born werewolf –
and
a Dormant.

In addition, Cole’s possessive mark seemed to have released an air around her that screamed of sexual tension. It was as if she was in heat or drenched in pheromones.

“Strip her and string her up,” Phelan ordered as he strode through the room toward one of the leather “viewing” couches near Vincent and the warlock.

Cromwell watched as Phelan’s men unfastened Claire’s cuffs in order to disrobe her and she immediately began fighting. She moved incredibly fast. Her body nearly blurred with speed as she back-handed one werewolf and kicked another solidly in the solar plexus.

Beside Vincent, Gabriel shrugged off his suit coat and laid it on the sofa, watching the proceedings with an interested, but detached air. His blue eyes sparkled with barely-disguised malevolence, even as his easy movements spoke of a cool and collected calm.

Gabriel unhurriedly unfastened his tie, taking it off to lay it next to his suit coat. Across the room, Charlie’s wrists were caught by one man and she used the leverage of his weight to lift herself up and kick him in the chin. He let her go.

Gabriel sighed. He unbuttoned the top three buttons on his white shirt.

Charlie was attacked again, and this time her movements were a tad slower. But she managed a few direct blows before she was ducking away from one of the large men and then jerking out of the sudden grasp of another.

Gabriel began to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, barely paying any attention to the struggle now. Instead, he seemed to be focusing inward. Preparing himself.

Vincent knew that his boss had done this before. Many, many times. He was a born dominant and a practiced sadist and he was well versed in the art of breaking a person’s spirit. Unlike most dominants, however, he didn’t do so with the express permission of a submissive and he didn’t do it for her pleasure. Instead he did it simply because he could. He’d been wanting to break Claire St.James for years, and now he had an excuse. He wanted the mark off of her arm; he planned to tear down her will until she gave him the permission he needed to take it off.

A few more tense minutes passed and, finally Claire was once more detained, this time by four men whose fangs were extended and whose eyes were glowing like headlights. They hadn’t been allowed to bring her any harm in apprehending her, which had made their jobs much more difficult. The anger and frustration they felt was blatantly obvious. Claire’s struggles had only spurred the hunger within them. If Phelan had not been standing in the same room with them, she would have been their dinner by now.

“You know how much I love to watch you fight, Charlie, but I have to admit that I had something a little different in mind for today,” Gabriel said calmly. His deep voice echoed off the walls and drowned the sound of Claire’s heavy breathing as he moved to one of the stone walls in the room and began to casually peruse the whips that hung from hooks along its surface.

Behind him, three of his men held Charlie tightly while the fourth roughly grabbed the front of her Metallica t-shirt and ripped it clean away from her body. She hissed as the material bit into her skin and then gave way, revealing the lace bra and supple swell of her breasts beneath.

Her narrowed gaze flashed ice-cold fire at the man. From between gritted teeth, she ground out, “That was vintage, you son of a bitch.”

He smiled a fang-filled smile and then wrapped his fist around the front band of her jeans. Charlie stilled. A shirt was one thing, but ripping the jeans off of her was going to hurt. Bad.

“Hold still and I won’t shred them,” he threatened her, as if he could read her mind.

Vincent could tell that she desperately wanted to fight him; she knew what was at stake. But she was a smart girl. She stopped struggling and the werewolf’s smile became positively wicked as he snapped each of the buttons and then lowered himself to one knee in front of her.

She gazed down at him, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths as he grasped the jeans in two strong hands and slowly slid them down her long legs. The tattooed biceps of the werewolf’s arms bulged with barely suppressed ferocity as all of the muscles in his body tensed, flexing with the need he felt. Vincent was pretty sure that he knew why. He imagined that the werewolf could scent her in that position – kneeling before her long, lithe form. Her body was probably making him crazy. Vincent didn’t envy him.

But the werewolf certainly didn’t lack self control. You couldn’t work for Gabriel Phelan if you did. And so, when he was finished pulling Claire’s jeans down, he allowed them to pool at her feet and then instructed her to step out of them. As she did, he grasped her ankles and pulled off her shoes, leaving her in nothing but her panties and the matching bra.

Then he stood and strode to a nearby shelf, which bore on its surface a wide assortment of leather restraints and cuffs. He selected a pair and returned to the center of the room.

Vincent could hear Claire’s heart skip a beat and then start up again, harder than before. He wondered if it hurt her. There was so much adrenaline already flooding her blood stream that he wouldn’t be able to tell if it had. He could see the mark on the inside of her right arm. It had gone from emerald green to a blood red and he didn’t have to guess whether it was causing her pain. He knew it was. She wasn’t supposed to be touched by anyone but the wolf who had given her that mark.

She was being touched by all sorts of people.

The werewolf with the cuffs watched Claire through hooded, brightly glowing eyes as he reached up and grasped one of the leather ropes that dangled from the ceiling above him. At its end was a buckling device. He pulled hard on it, as if to test its strength. When it held easily, he let it go and nodded toward the men who held Claire. They moved her forward, lifting her and then setting her down firmly in front of him.

He wasted no time, then. Quickly and efficiently, the fourth werewolf proceeded to wrap the strong, leather restraints tightly around each of her slim wrists. When he had finished, he then raised her arms over her head to connect them to the buckles on the end of the leather ropes.

All four men released her then and stepped back. It was a scene straight out of an S&M film. Countless strong, fully clothed men in a dark dungeon, surrounding a nearly naked, very beautiful woman who was bound and helpless before them.

Vincent couldn’t deny the pull the picture had on him. He was a wolf. He loved the hunt as much as the next wolf. And when the entire pack was aroused, it was exceedingly difficult not to follow suit.

Every man in the room was watching Claire. But she had eyes for only one of them.

As Gabriel Phelan selected several implements and laid them out, side by side, on a bench a few feet from her, she pulled against her bonds. Vincent could sense her desperation. He could feel her mounting fear.

Finally, Gabriel turned toward her and she was trapped in his piercing blue gaze. “I can imagine that you are quite confused about what is going on, Charlie.”

“Don’t call me Charlie,” she hissed at him, belying her terror and giving another strong yank on the leather restraints that held her so tight.

Phelan ignored the outburst and began to unfasten the platinum watch on his left wrist. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, as if contemplating his next words. “So allow me to explain the situation.”

He strode calmly toward her, handing the watch to one of his men as he drew near. “You are a werewolf. A female-born, to be more precise.” He began to slowly circle her, his gaze searing her flesh. He casually crossed his arms over his chest, thrumming his fingers against his thick bicep as he moved around her. “Your father was a male born werewolf and your mother was a Dormant – a human who possesses the ability to make the change into werewolf and bear our children.” As he moved and spoke, he studied her with those stark blue eyes. He was contemplating each curve, each expanse of creamy skin – and everything he would do to it.

“Your father claimed your mother and, twenty-seven years ago, you were born to her. As a female-born, Charlie, you possess none of the outward abilities of a male.” He stopped directly behind her and Vincent saw her close her eyes, tensing as if readying herself for some kind of blow. For more pain.

He was a good deal taller than her, even with her body stretched as it was, and it was easy for him to move in behind her so that he could whisper in her ear.

“And then your mother and father were murdered, Charlie.
Hunted
,” he said, as he reached around and ran his right hand over her stomach. She hissed in pain, jerking in her bonds, but her eyes were wide – comprehending.

“Yes, Charlie,” he whispered. “That’s right. They were killed by a Hunter.” He chuckled softly, his teeth a mere hair’s breadth from her ear lobe. “They were dead long before that car went over the bridge fifteen years ago, sweetheart. Decapitated, actually.” His hand splayed out across her trim abdomen and he used it to pull her body against his as she began to shake, to tremble beneath the pain he was inflicting on her, both physically and mentally.

“I had originally planned to take you out as well,” he continued, bringing his other hand up to run it through the thick, silky locks of her beautiful hair. “But then I saw you…. You were only twelve. Dressed in yellow. You looked like the sun.” He brushed a lock against his lips, breathing in. “And you smelled different,” he said, as he dropped her hair and stepped back, slowly releasing her from his agonizing grip.

“
Very
different…
promising.
” He turned away from her then, and slowly made his way toward the bench where he’d placed the instruments of torture. He stood before the bench, his back to her, as he lifted a large buck knife and twisted it between his thumb and forefinger. The blade glinted threateningly in the firelight.

Charlie closed her eyes. Vincent could see the tears on her cheeks now. She was trembling violently, and he could hear the soft sound of her silent crying.

“I am what I am, Charlie, and though most of my Hunters simply believe me to be an eccentric reclusive man who gives them orders through phone calls and never meets with them in person, the truth is,” he glanced at her over his broad shoulder as she opened her eyes again. He smiled, flashing sharp, white fangs. “Well, you know the truth, don’t you, Charlie?” He paused for effect. “And as a wolf – as an alpha - I am bound by the same need as every alpha wolf of my kind.”

He strode toward her again and she whimpered, her light blue eyes locked on the wicked blade in his hands.

“I decided to let you live. You were just too beautiful to destroy.” Again, he moved around her and she began a renewed struggle with the leather restraints around her wrists. Vincent could smell the adrenaline flooding her system now as if there was more of it in her veins than actual blood. She was being overrun with fear.

Phelan was very good at what he did. Relentless.

“After the murder of your parents, you were assigned several Sentinels – watchers, as it were – by the Council. I backed off and bided my time. By the time they’d finally gone and left you alone, I’d made up my mind.”

Claire jerked violently as the cold metal touched the heated skin over her spine. “Shh, Charlie. Don’t move, sweetheart,” Phelan whispered in her ear again. Claire sobbed, squeezing her eyes shut tight as she felt the knife’s blade slice into the strap of her bra. “Good girl,” he taunted softly as he slid the blade up higher and cut the strap over her right shoulder. The left strap came next and the bra fell to the stone floor.

Claire lowered her head in a kind of defeat, her eyes still shut tight against the nightmare she’d found herself trapped in.