Black and Blue (20 page)

Now they snaked a corner. Evie had only to wait for—

That. Blue.

At the end of the newest walkway, a crowd of people surrounded him, each vying for his attention. Tiffany picked up speed, drawing closer to him. . . .

Evie burst into motion, shoving people out of the way. When she reached Tiffany’s side, she grabbed the girl’s briefcase and, as the girl shouted, “Wait! Stop! That’s mine!” she sprinted into one of the shops.

As she ran, she shed the top layer of her disguise—the ball cap, the red wig—and flipped the flannel shirt with half sleeves around, revealing a black business
jacket. By the time she stepped through the back door, she looked like a new person entirely.

She walked at a leisurely pace and entered the empty shop at the corner, having already busted the lock. The windows were smoked, not allowing anyone to see inside as she emptied the contents of the briefcase on the floor, searching for anything that might point to John.

Sketches, sketches, and more sketches, but nothing important. Figured. As Evie put the case back together, Blue came through the door. As usual, goose bumps broke out over her skin and her lower belly quivered.

Was she ever going to get used to his power . . . or his appeal?

“Anything?” he asked.

“No.” She tossed the case at him with more force than necessary. Though her aim was off, he leaned to the side and caught it without a hitch. “Now go be a hero and tell her how badly you roughed me up, just to save the day. She’ll be all over you.”

He paused, tensed. “I’m not going to let things go that far.” He stood there for several more beats, just staring over at her as if there were something else he wanted to say. Then he was gone, and she had the strangest desire to call him back.

Or, worse, to say thank you.

*  *  *

Blue gave Tiffany his most charming smile, and she blushed. He almost sighed. He’d never met such a timid little bird, so he wasn’t sure how to deal with her.

At five ten, she was taller than the average woman. She had straight blond hair she liked to hide behind, and pretty green eyes she kept mostly downcast. He wasn’t sure why she lacked confidence. Unless she was embarrassed by her past? He knew she’d been a pretty wild teen, and more than a recreational drug user.

But it looked like she’d gotten her life together. Today she wore a yellow summer dress that screamed pedigree, style, and sophistication. There were no track marks in her arms, and a deep tan made her skin glow.

After he returned the briefcase, she was ecstatic and grateful and offered to buy him coffee once she finished with her business meeting. He played the attracted suitor and happily agreed to wait.

Now, an hour later, they were at a little outdoor café, sipping joe and chatting—well, he was chatting, she was listening. In the past fifteen minutes, he’d counted thirteen camera phones aimed in their direction, and he’d never been more thrilled by the public’s obsessive need to know about his love life.

Star would hear about the encounter. Maybe decide to meet with the man who’d saved his little girl’s briefcase.

“So,” he said.

“So.”

Awkward. Wow. This might be his first strikeout. And Evie was at home, listening.

Unreadable Evie. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any woman, and he knew how she felt about this part of the job. It must be throwing his game.

For John. This is for John.

“I’ve met your father a few times,” he said. “He’s a fan of the Invaders and used to come to all our victory parties.”
You attended a few yourself.

“Oh.” Down went her gaze. She fiddled with the lid on her coffee.

“Nice guy.”

“Y-yes.”

Interesting. Was that fear he detected? “What’s he up to nowadays? I haven’t seen him around.”

“Working. As always.”

Uncomfortable silence.

Screw this. “Tiffany,” Blue said, layering his voice with the barest hint of compulsion. Testing the waters. . . . “Pinch my arm.”

Her eyes glazed over, and she reached out, pinching him as he’d ordered. He almost whooped with relief. She wasn’t immune.

Using more compulsion, he said, “I’m going to ask you a series of questions, Tiffany, and you are going to answer honestly. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Good. “Have you seen your father with a Rakan?”

“No.”

“Have you
heard
about your father and a Rakan?”

“Yes.”

“Have you—” Yes? Excitement built. He leaned forward, saying in a rush, “Tell me everything you’ve heard.”

Utterly monotone, she said, “I will be punished for speaking of it.”

He increased the amount of compulsion. “Tell me everything you’ve heard about the Rakan, Tiffany. Now.”

“In three weeks, I am to create a line of clothing from his pelt.”

Create, not debut. A line of clothing. From John’s . . . pelt.

Realization struck, and struck hard. John wasn’t being used as a sex slave, as Blue first feared. The male’s golden skin was to be peeled from his body and given to Tiffany. Then, after his skin had regrown, it would be peeled again . . . and again.

He would be a never-ending gold mine. Literally.

If Star had once sold organs on the black market, as rumors claimed, he would have the right contacts . . . and he was just monster enough to do it.

Fury rode the tides in Blue’s veins before spilling out, filling him up, consuming him. Behind him, chairs and tables toppled over. Glass shattered. People yelped and raced for cover. John did not heal as quickly as Blue and was probably still injured from the explosion, his skin unusable—hence the three-week wait. There was still time to save him.

“Anything else?” he demanded.

“A small patch of the hide has already been removed for testing. Ribbons were made. Those ribbons are being sold at auction tonight.”

A part of John had already been skinned. Blue barely contained his roar. “Where is the auction being held?”

She rattled off the details.

No one—
no one!
—was going to own a piece of John. Blue would make sure of it. “Do you know where your father is keeping the Rakan?”

“No.”

No. Then she was of no more use to him. For now. Before he destroyed anything else, Blue pushed to his feet. “I’m going to send you an invitation to a postgame party, and you are going to accept and do whatever’s necessary to attend. Say yes.”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Blue leaned down, saying, “You will forget the questions about the Rakan, Tiffany, but remember the invitation and your acceptance. You will also speak to your father about me. You will tell him you are interested in me romantically, and you’d like him to meet me.”

“Yes,” she said of her own accord. “If he refuses—”

“You’ll tell him again.” Blue confiscated her phone and programmed in his number. “Call me when your father issues his invitation.” He tossed the device on the tabletop and stalked away—before giving in to the urge to kill her.

*  *  *

Blue drove to Evie’s house, careful not to be seen, his temper only escalating. By the time he found her in the office, every muscle in his body was locked tight on bone. Looking at her didn’t help. Anger morphed into dangerous lust.

She sat at her desk, dark waves cascading down her back. Perfect white teeth nibbled suggestively at the end of a stylus. A red tank top displayed toned arms with small but definite ropes of strength. She was fit. He remembered how good she felt pressed against him.

Power seeped from him, the desk and chair lifting several inches above the floor. Gasping, she turned to face him. As she took in his battle-hardened stance, her eyes hooded . . . with desire?

“Blue,” she said, her voice husky with, yes, desire. She dropped to her feet with the grace of a cat and slowly approached him. The sway of her hips transfixed him. “I know you’re furious and frustrated, but you can’t go to the auction this way. So take your emotions out on me. I can handle anything you’ve got.”

An invitation.

One he would not decline.

Forget Michael and the job. He had to have this woman.

He grabbed her by the waist and spun her, slamming her face-first against the wall. He braced her hands over her head and kicked her legs apart, the need to dominate her overwhelming everything else.

“Yes,” she hissed.

With his free hand, he tore away her top, but didn’t bother removing her jeans or undergarments. Just ripped at the fastenings. Her bra gaped open, freeing her breasts. The jeans bagged on her hips.

Not sex,
some part of his brain screamed.
Not yet. Not like this.

Rational thought.

He heard and accepted—barely.

Needing flesh-to-flesh contact, he let her go to wrench off his shirt and meld his chest to her back; the heat of her skin drove him toward the best kind of mindlessness. When she rubbed her taut little ass
against him, he pushed her jeans below the curve and his throbbing erection found its way between the cleft. He hissed at the pleasure. She squeezed at him and, oh, hell. He bit the cord of her neck.
Have to have my mouth on her.
Her groan of rapture filled the small enclosure.

His hands moved to her breasts, cupping and kneading, causing her nipples to harden into perfect little points. Points he pinched.

“Blue!”

He kissed and licked at the sting he’d caused in her neck, still rubbing . . . rubbing into her ass, unable to stop. Felt so good. His fingers glided down her belly . . . slid under her panties, and played for a moment at her small tuft of hair, before sinking lower.

He almost blew. “So warm and wet, baby.”

“Always that way for you.”

Killing me.
“Shouldn’t have told me. May not be able to keep myself off you now.” He circled . . . circled . . . where she needed him most, and as she trembled, she followed him with her hips.

“Do it.” A command she expected to be obeyed. “Please.”

Always begs so prettily.
He pressed the heel of his hand against her and thrust a finger in deep.

“Yes!” She groaned, her head falling onto his shoulder. “More.”

As he fed her a second finger, she reached back and wound her arms around him, her nails digging into his ass. She urged him to move against her harder, faster, until he was practically grinding her through the wall.

“Kiss me.” She turned her head and he angled his, their mouths meeting in a scorching tangle of tongues and need, possession and domination.

There was aggression in the kiss. His. Hers. He loved it. It was a claim. A branding. On both their parts. He’d never felt so . . . desired, so necessary, and it was a heady thing. He knew he’d need it again and again.

Would need this honey in his mouth, down his throat, intoxicating him. No one else had ever tasted as sweet, or wine-rich. It was as if she had been made for him, and him alone. A sweet little puzzle piece for his life . . . his bed.

She climaxed with the hard thrust of a third finger, clenching around him, and it wasn’t long before he joined her, emptying his body of the fury and frustration, and filling it back up with unending satisfaction.

And fear.

He wanted her too much, and the craving wasn’t going away. Wasn’t even muting. He was falling for her.

Falling hard.

B
LUE AND EVIE CROUCHED
in the rafters of the old barn where the auction for ribbons of John’s skin was to be held. They’d been here for almost an hour, still, quiet, waiting, hidden by thick wooden beams and moldy hay.

He held at bay memories of the aftermath of their explosive encounter . . . until the second hour, when they knocked on the door of his mind, demanding entry.

Uncomfortable silence as they’d dressed.

Evie unable to meet his gaze.

A murmured “Well, that was fun, thanks” from her before she strode from the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts. She hadn’t claimed him, after all.

Didn’t matter.
He’d
claimed
her
.

The time before, he’d felt horror that he’d betrayed Michael, and guilt. That time, he’d felt resolve. He wanted more. And so, more he would have. He couldn’t resist her. Fighting the attraction had done no good.

Now he would go after her. Win her.

Finally, the back doors of the barn creaked, signaling
they were being opened. A short, wiry human with thinning hair, a great-white-shark tattoo coming up the collar of his shirt, and a man-baby belly, strutted inside with two armed men at his sides. One had a rifle. The other had a pyre-gun. Both were human.

Behind them, another male carried a small lacquered box with the Chinese symbol for
revenge
lining each side. There was no sign of Gregory, Tyson, or Tiffany, but Blue didn’t care.

This was happening.

“—gonna go crazy for these,” Shark was saying. He swiped his arm across the items on the nearest table, scattering everything to the ground.

The male placed the box on the surface. He was an Agamen, with huge white horns protruding from his skull. Bona fide ivory towers. Seriously, a colony of fairies could live inside those things.