Bengal's Heart (16 page)

He strode to the door, slid the key card through the security lock, waited for the light to turn green, then twisted the door latch.

The door swung open, and he was confronted with a sight that made the blood in his veins boil with lust.

His mate. His woman. And she was beautifully, splendidly naked as she froze in place, just outside the bathroom door.

Cabal now felt the heat rising inside his body like an inferno. How the hell was he supposed to stay sane, to keep his head straight, when the sight of her bare body made him dizzy with fucking lust?

Maybe having Rule and Lawe here wouldn’t be a bad idea after all, he thought, as he tore off his jacket.

The denim material dropped to the floor as he watched her eyes widen.

“Don’t you dare move,” he growled as she started to step back into the bathroom. “For both our sakes, Cassa. Stay still.”

He swore he could feel a ringing in his ears as he tore off his T-shirt before turning his attention to loosening the material of his jeans.

His cock was so damned hard it felt like steel, so hot he wondered why he wasn’t blistered.

She stood there like an angel, wide-eyed, almost innocent. Her long hair lay around her shoulders and down her back, thick and heavy, darker with dampness. High, full breasts were topped with hard, reddened nipples. Her slender waist and softly rounded hips led to smooth, creamy thighs and a patch of soft, dark blond curls to entice him.

He inhaled her scent again, growing nearly drunk on the smell of her arousal. It hit his head like a potent drug, almost making him dizzy as he tore his boots, then jeans from his body.

She just stood there, watching him. A damp sheen covered her shoulders; there was a single drop of water lying against her breast. Her nipples were peaked so hard they looked like ripe berries, sweet and ready for him to taste.

Another man had once touched her body, he thought with rabid fury. Had kissed her, stroked her. His scent no longer lingered on her, but Cabal clearly remembered a time when it had.

He needed that memory wiped away. He needed his scent to become so much a part of hers that when he smelled her sweetness, there were no lingering memories of any others taint ing her.

She was his. She carried his mark on her shoulder. Her scent was infused with the mating heat now, but soon, so soon, it would change. Her scent would meld with his, creating something different, something unique. She would be marked by him, into her very DNA. She would never escape him.

“I told you.” His voice was rough when he wished he could make it softer, gentler for her. “I own you.”

What did the tone of voice matter though, when stating such a harsh claim? he asked himself.

Her eyes narrowed as he faced her, naked and aroused.

“You wish you owned me,” she stated clearly, enraging the animal inside him. “No man owns me, Cabal.”

He reached her in a few long strides, his fingers sliding into her hair to grip her head and hold her still.

“You’re mine.”

“In your dreams.” Confidence and steely amusement glittered in her gray eyes. Damn her. She would never admit what he knew they were both well aware of. She belonged to him, there was no way her body could deny him.

His head lowered, his lips covering hers without preliminaries, sinking against the soft silk of them, his tongue pushing into her mouth to release the hormone that gathered in the glands beneath his tongue.

She took it, she took him. A little moan whispered into the kiss as her soft hands lifted to grip his biceps, as though she needed to hold on through the storm raging between them.

“Deny it now,” he bit out harshly as his lips lifted just enough to allow her to speak.

“My body can’t deny you, Cabal,” she stated, her voice husky with arousal now. “That’s all you own. And its probably all you’ll ever own.”

There was an edge of bitterness in her voice that bothered him, a faint sadness. It reminded him of her attempt to curl into his arms that morning, and his rush to escape the swirl of emotions that had swept through him.

His fingers tightened in her hair. Soft, dark blond lashes drifted over her eyes in pleasure as he did so. She was so easy to pleasure, he thought. Each touch he had given her the night before had had her turning to him with eager need. With hunger.

His cock throbbed at the thought. That unruly organ was insistent that he take her again, now. Preliminaries be damned. To spread her thighs, grip her ass and push hard and deep inside her.

“Cabal.” She whispered his name as he realized his hand was cupping her ass, his fingers only scant inches from the dew-soaked folds of her pussy. And he was lifting her to him.

“I need.” His eyes closed as he tried to block out the need he heard in his words and saw in her eyes. The need for more than just this.

This being him, lifting her, bracing her against the wall as he shifted them to the side, spreading her thighs, tucking the head of his cock into the slick, hot folds of her sex.

“I wanted to give you more.” The words tore from him as he pressed inside her. Slowly.

Ah hell. It was so fucking good. A heated silken glove enclosed his tortured flesh, stroking it with pleasure, rippling over it with hungry demand.

He braced his feet apart, his hands tightened on the globes of her ass as he pressed deeper and growled with the sensations of not just his own pleasure, but hers as well. He could feel the silken muscles tightening, gripping around him as her sharp little nails bit into his shoulders.

He felt her legs wrap around his hips, gripping him as he surged those final inches inside the heated, ecstatic grip of her hot little pussy.

“You make me crazy.” He nipped at her jaw as he forced himself to still inside her, to luxuriate in the pleasure.

“It’s just the hormone.” There was a sob in her voice that he hated to hear. Part pleasure, part pain. “It’s just the hormone.”

No, it wasn’t just the hormone, he knew that. It was so much more; he sensed it, felt it. She was his match, his mate; nature had only ensured that the stubborn human part of his genetics didn’t fuck up and walk away from her.

And he would have. He would have continued to run for as long as possible. He would have denied the animal’s insistence, because she fucked with his head, not just his arousal. And even worse, she fucked with his cold, icy heart.

“Fuck that damned hormone,” he snarled, wishing he could recall the words.

Clenching his teeth, he forced back words he refused to release. To say them was to mean them. To mean them was to accept that he needed more.

He couldn’t allow himself to need. To need invited weakness. It invited danger.

He would not allow himself to endanger her.

He wanted to fuck her, that was all. The hormone be damned, that didn’t make him fuck. It just made him want to fuck more, harder.

Holding tight to her, he moved his hips, rotated them, thrust and plunged inside the velvet grip of rapture. So much pleasure. It washed through him like a tidal wave, tearing past his consciousness, sinking into the animal that lurked inside him.

It roared in triumph. The sound slipped past his throat, mingled with her cry as he felt her tighten in orgasm. He felt her juices, sweet and hot, flow around the erection thrusting harder, faster inside her.

God save him, he was dying inside her.

He couldn’t hold back the pleasure or the need. He couldn’t hold back the victorious snarl, or the ecstatic groan as she bit his shoulder. It wasn’t a timid bite. Her sharp little teeth latched onto him and refused to let go.

He could feel the brutal ecstasy rushing over him now. His cock thickened, tightened. His balls drew up tight to the base of the steely shaft, and when he came, it was death. And it was rebirth.

The thumb-sized extension became erect beneath the head of his cock, thickened and distended, revealing the Feline Breed male barb and locking his cock inside her. His hips rotated, shifting until it was lodged comfortably, pleasurably. Then a throttled roar left his chest as his semen began to pump hard and deep inside her.

Each fierce spurt sent a surge of blistering electric sensation tearing up his spine, wrapping around his body. His muscles drew tight, his head lowered; his teeth locked into the mating mark at her shoulder as his tongue licked and stroked, spreading the hormone into the tiny bite. Marking her more, marking her deeper.

Sweet Cassa. His mate. His woman. She was the one thing in this world that he knew was his alone. The woman created for him. The one woman that could destroy him.

◆ CHAPTER 9
◆

Cassa was silent as Cabal carried her to the bed, tucked her in, then went to shower. She stared up at the ceiling for long moments, a frown on her face as she fought to work through her own feelings, her own emotions.

The sex was good. It was damned good. It was like flying, free-falling. But when it was over, it left a hollow little ache inside her chest that she couldn’t escape from.

Sighing heavily, she moved from the bed. What the hell did he expect her to do? Spend all her time in bed? She had work to do, and it was obvious she had her job cut out for her.

If the killer had contacted her, there was always the chance that he had, or could, contact another reporter. She needed to get her facts together and find the answers she was looking for if she was going to have her story ready.

After pulling on her robe, she moved to the laptop and the flash chip of information she’d hidden in her laptop bag. She inserted the small chip and pulled up the information, went over it once again.

Six men were dead, all with ties to Phillip Brandenmore and Horace Engalls, owners of the pharmaceutical and research company currently under indictment for illegal Breed research, conspiracy to murder and conspiracy to buy stolen medical and personnel files of unnamed Breeds. The two men shared a hunting cabin in the mountains of the Hawk’s Nest-Gauley Bridge area.

Cassa had confirmed Brandenmore and Engalls’s ties to the victims over the past weeks, after the anonymous emails had begun coming through with their bloody pictures attached.

Dr. Ryan Damron. Phillip Brandenmore’s father had paid Damron’s way through college and medical school. The forensic pathologist had at one time been under scrutiny for having worked with the Genetics Council that created the Breeds. He had been charged with performing autopsies on live Breeds. He had escaped Breed justice though, just as so many had during those first trials.

Officer Aaron Washington had been a New York City police officer of little rank or notoriety. His connection to Brandenmore and Engalls stemmed from off-duty work he had once done as a security guard for the pharmaceutical labs just outside New York City.

Attorney Elam March. He had been one of Brandenmore’s best friends in college.

The former Glen Ferris mayor David Banks had grown up in the area with Brandenmore and was known to have frequented Brandenmore’s mountain cabin often.

And finally, H. R. Alonzo, the great-grandson of one of the founders of the Genetics Council. He spoke out often against the Breeds and contributed heavily to organizations rumored to often strike out violently against them. There was little connection between him and the pharmaceutical and research giants though.

Staring at the screen of her laptop, Cassa frowned and hit another button, pulling up an outdated, grainy photograph that had been included in one of the files her anonymous source had sent her.

There was no identifying all the men in the picture, though Cassa had been able to recognize Brandenmore and Engalls, and pinpoint the six men that had been killed in the past months.

Six down and six to go, she thought as she squinted at the picture and tried to make out facial features of the men she couldn’t identify. She’d run the picture through several identity programs, and had a list of names as long as her arm from them. The picture quality was just too damned poor to do anything with. But there was one face that kept niggling at her with its near familiarity. She could never pin down what bothered her though.

Sighing, she closed the files, backed them up and stored the small chip of information in a protective case before hiding it in her purse as she heard the shower shut off.

She wasn’t a fresh reporter with no experience backing her, she thought mockingly. She knew better than to allow Cabal to catch her with that chip. Every piece of information she had stayed backed up and as secure as she could make it. She had learned that lesson early in her career, and she made certain it was a habit she adhered to.

The ties the six men had to Phillip Brandenmore and his brother-in-law Horace Engalls placed the two men right in the forefront of early Breed killings, during the years before the Breeds were public knowledge, when they were shadows sliding on the outskirts of human knowledge.

There were accusations against the two pharmaceutical and research giants, that they had experimented on captured Breeds in the past years and used their physiology to come up with several revolutionary drugs. The primary drug in question was one now being used with a high success rate in the fight against cancer.

If it was proven that the two men had been involved in those early activities, it could mean a trial involving Breed Law—namely, the law that called for the punishment of death against those who experimented on, or contributed to the deaths of, Breeds after the establishment of the laws.

Breed Law was a complex set of rules and regulations adopted by the U.S. and several other countries to allow the Breeds a measure of autonomy, to police themselves and their communities, as well as protection against the factions and societies intent on destroying them.

So far, Breed Law hadn’t been used to kill, at least not that anyone knew. There were rumors that the Bureau of Breed Affairs, or namely its director, Jonas Wyatt, exercised Breed Law outside the dictates of a public trial.