Bound Guardian Angel (49 page)

Brak and his father were nowhere to be seen.
Already dead? Had these people already killed them? His instincts
told him he was in danger. That if they saw him, they would kill
him, too.

This was all his fault. He’d hurt those kids
by the pond when Mason threw his rock into the water. He had lost
control of the power dwelling within him, and he’d hurt them all.
Mother had warned him not to use his power in public. She had told
him bad things would happen if he did.

And now bad things were happening. And it
was all his fault. He’d caused this. His lack of discipline had
caused the townspeople to kill his family.

And now he would kill
them
. He would
kill them all!

* * *

Cordray pulled into Micah’s driveway to find one of
Asylum’s SUVs parked to the side and the garage door open. Her
heart skipped a beat as she realized Trace must have driven here
this evening. She must have just missed him.

The urgent feeling that he was in trouble
still hummed inside her chest, but if he was here, how could he be
in trouble? He was with Micah the wonder stud. If Trace’s power was
getting the better of him, Micah should have been able to command
it back into submission.

Even so, she couldn’t shake the feeling that
Trace was in bad shape. It felt like Trace—no, that couldn’t be
right. Cordray shook her head as she dismounted the Ducati, pulled
off her helmet, and eyed the home’s exterior as she reached out
with her senses. Why would Trace need her? He loathed her. But
that’s exactly the message her heart was sending to her brain.

Unable to ignore his magnetic pull, she
started up the driveway, glancing inside the SUV as she passed it.
Trace’s duffel bag sat on the front passenger seat. She opened the
door, grabbed it, then entered the garage.

A black and copper custom chopper sat in the
bay closest to the door leading into the house. As she passed, she
glanced down at the gas tank.
Hand of God
was written in
bold letters.

Trace sure had a sweet ride. She ran her
fingers over the smooth leather seat, catching a thrill at touching
something that his ass had been on.

She tried the doorknob on the door leading
into the house. It turned.

Strange. Micah wasn’t one to leave his house
open like this, especially after what had happened with Apostle
back in January. And since they’d learned Apostle was still alive,
Micah surely kept his home more secure than this, just in case that
asshole decided to finish what he’d failed to do the first time and
make another attempt at killing Sam.

She poked her head inside. “Sam? Micah?” The
place was much too quiet, and something smelled burned.

She set the duffel down, pushed the button
to close the garage door, and then locked up behind her before she
ventured into the kitchen.

Salmon shavings and lemon poppy seed waffles
still sat on the counter, and something that resembled charred
bananas but looked like a molten carcass rested in a skillet on the
stove. Micah, Sam, and Trace were nowhere to be found. Looked like
whatever had happened here had brought everything to an abrupt
halt.

“Hello?” Her hackles went up. Something
wasn’t right. She could feel it.

A bloodcurdling shriek rang out from the
basement, muted by the closed door to the stairs.

Without thinking, she raced through the
kitchen, around the corner, yanked open the door, and took the
stairs three at a time to reach the bottom in about two
seconds.

Following her instincts, she blasted through
an impressive bedroom, which housed an even more impressive bed
with a hand-carved headboard, and nearly blew the arched, wooden
doors off their hinges as she burst into what had to be the
freakiest room she’d ever seen.

Terra-cotta walls held over a dozen gilded
mirrors. A medieval, wrought iron bed sat along the far wall. It
was covered by a blood-red satin comforter and gold-fringed
pillows. All manner of contraptions made of leather and black wood
sat around the room. There was even an iron maiden in the
corner.

In the center of it all, Trace lay like a
mocha-skinned god on a thick slab of dark wood. His skin glistened
with sweat, and his wrists and ankles were bound by heavy chains to
the four corners of the table. He looked like he was in agony.

“What the fuck are you doing to him?” She
rushed forward.

Micah spun around. He was holding a pair of
wands in his hand. One was on fire. The other wasn’t. “What are you
doing here?” Manic fear shone from Micah’s eyes.

Sam stood over Trace, caressing his face,
murmuring to him as if coaxing him. Tears streaked her cheeks.

A jolt of pain shot through Cordray’s heart.
“What’s wrong with him?”

On the table, Trace snarled and hissed,
pulling on his restraints, making the chains jangle like metallic
rattlesnakes.

In an instant, Micah was in front of her.
“Can you see inside his mind?”

She frowned. “Answer me first. What’s wrong
with him?”

“I don’t have time to play these fucking
games with you. Can you see inside his mind or not?”

Her mouth flapped open and shut as she
glanced toward Trace. His muscles rippled like magnificent waves
under his skin, contracting, swelling, then relaxing in turns.

Needling her way into his thoughts, she
gasped at what she saw. “Yes. I can see inside his mind.” She
sucked in her breath and covered her mouth with her fingers.

The despair. The roiling anger. The
desperate sorrow. It was almost too much to bear.

“What do you see?” he said urgently.

“I . . .”

“Tell me!” He shook her. “I need to
know.”

So much of what she saw was one gigantic,
jumbled mess. His thoughts raced one into the other, knotting into
a frenzy of rage and desperation, but a common theme connected each
memory. Because that’s what these were. Memories. Not thoughts. And
his mother and her death dominated each one, as well as fury
against those who had killed her, including himself.

“He’s angry,” she said. “Furious. He’s
seeing his mother’s death, and . . .”

“What?”

“Fire is everywhere.”

Micah snapped to attention and hurried back
to Trace’s side. He picked up the two wands he’d been using a
moment ago and relit the one he’d extinguished before badgering
her.

“What are you doing?” She rushed
forward.

“Sam, step back.” Micah applied a layer of
alcohol to Trace’s stomach. “Cordray, cut off his pants. I don’t
want to catch them on fire. And stay inside his head. I want to
know what’s going on in there. Tell me if anything new pops
up.”

Everything was happening so fast. Sam shoved
a pair of scissors into her hand, and Micah touched the flaming
wand to the alcohol on Trace’s stomach.

Blue flames danced to life, making her suck
in her breath as Trace’s eyes blasted open, locking on hers.

But he wasn’t seeing her. In his mind, he
saw only his mother. He saw nothing of what was happening inside
the dungeon. He was aware of Sam and Micah, she could sense that
much, and he seemed vaguely aware that someone was inside his mind,
but he was too wired to know it was her.

Micah brushed his hands over the flames,
extinguishing them.

“Today, Cordray! Get those jeans off
him.”

She glanced down at the scissors, then at
the cuffs of his jeans, and then at the impressive bulge straining
the fabric at his crotch.

A series of rampant memories flung through
Trace’s gray matter in rapid-fire succession. Screaming. Taunts. He
was racing through the woods, panicking, trying to escape. He was
young. Not yet transitioned. Smoke. He smelled smoke. He broke into
the clearing. His home. Fire. MOTHER!

Get out of my head, bitch!

Trace flung her from his mind with such
force, she stumbled backward several feet and slammed into the
wall, gulping to get oxygen past the painful lump in her throat.
She’d felt everything the way Trace had that day. All of it. The
excruciating sadness, the terror at seeing his home engulfed in
flames, his mother being dragged by a rope knotted around her
wrists toward a pyre.

“He threw me out,” she said, righting
herself, disoriented.

Micah turned his dark, domineering gaze on
her. “Goddammit, Cordray, get those jeans off him!”

“I am NOT your submissive, motherfucker!
Quit bossing me around! Jesus Christ!”

“Micah . . . stop,” Sam said,
still holding Trace’s hand.

But Micah was a male on a mission. “Just do
what I tell you, Medusa. This isn’t about you or me right now. If
we don’t bring Trace down from whatever seizure or mindfuck he
backed into, he’s going over. Do you understand me? Do you feel
where I’m going with this?”

Over? As in mutant?

Her knees wobbled. Trace? Mutant? Hell no.
Without another word of protest, she sliced through the denim cuff
at his ankle and began chewing the scissors up his pant leg. “What
the fuck happened here after I left?”

“Shit went critical.” Micah worked at the
side table. A smattering of tools sat on a tray, and a towel
soaking in a bowl of water sat at his right hand.

She cut through the last inch of denim at
his waist then started on the other pant leg.

“He’s terrified of fire, Micah.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you doing this to him? Why are
you lighting him on fire when he’s afraid of fire?”

“Because I need to break him.”

“Why do you need to break him?”

“Because he needs to let me inside his
mind.” Micah leaned over Trace. “Do you hear me, Trace? You
will
let me in or we’ll both die trying.” He turned toward
her. “Did he hear me?”

Cordray forced her way back into Trace’s
head. “Yes, but he’s so far gone I’m not sure it registered that
you were the one who said it. He’s not even fully aware that I’m
here.”

“Damn you, Trace!” Micah slammed his palm on
the table. “Let me in, goddammit!”

Trace’s eyes blinked open. They glowed
yellow. Like cat’s eyes. Not good.

“Fuck!” He turned toward her, raking his
fingers through his hair. “Are you finished?”

She sliced the scissors through the waist
above his other leg. “Yeah. Done.”

“Good. Pull them off.”

She hesitated. The only thing standing
between her and Trace’s very erect, very imposing penis was a tenth
of a centimeter of denim.

“Uh . . .”

Micah spun and glared at her. “Pull. Them.
Off.”

“But . . .” Her mouth could
have been one of those cotton balls Micah had dumped on the silver
tray beside him. Every drop of saliva had dried up in an instant,
and her salivary glands were in no hurry to replace them.

“Jesus, Cordray. It’s a dick. Haven’t you
ever seen a stiff dick before?” He rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s
right. It’s you. You’ve probably scared off every poor fucker who
ever imagined he had a chance to get with”—he gestured toward
her—“
that
.”

Sam let out an exasperated sigh but didn’t
say anything. Probably because she knew it wouldn’t quiet Micah
down if she did.

Micah grabbed the denim and flung it away
from Trace’s body. “For God’s sake, C, it’s not like he’s going to
fuck you.”

The stab of hurt and anger that ripped
through her was diminished only by the awe of seeing no less than
eight-and-a-half inches of turgid flesh pop to attention from a
sparse thatch of dark hair at Trace’s groin.

She
had
seen a stiff cock before.
She’d even had one inside her. Back when she’d been normal.
Centuries ago when she’d still been able to feel
it . . . enjoy it . . . find pleasure
in laying with a male. But what she remembered of Gideon’s cock
paled in comparison to the one standing proudly in front of her
now.

Not only was Trace longer, but he was
thicker, too. The rounded head was smooth and shaded dark pink
compared to the shaft, which was the color of cappuccino laced with
a shot of espresso.

Her salivary glands sprang back into action,
making her mouth water at the thought of swallowing him down her
throat. Of climbing on top of him and reminding herself what a
stiff cock felt like. And with Trace, she would feel every glorious
inch sink inside her, filling her, stretching her.

God, just the thought of fucking Trace was
enough to get her wet.

Micah had turned his back on her, quickly
finishing whatever preparations he was making.

Then his head snapped up. “What the fuck?”
He turned halfway, lifted his nose, and sniffed. A moment later,
his dark eyes slid toward hers as he slowly met her gaze over his
shoulder. His top lip curled as if he’d gotten a whiff of putrid
meat as he sniffed again.

“Fuck me.” The words snapped from his mouth
in a way that made her envision a cobra whipping its hooded head up
over its coiled body. Silent but deadly.

He’d obviously scented her
arousal . . . and didn’t like it.

She squared her shoulders and frowned, chin
high. Fuck him. Maybe she’d laid out her cards like a virginal
maiden at a Chippendales show, but to hell with showing him she was
ashamed. Lots of women got turned on by naked men and stiff cocks.
Like any hot-blooded female, she could attend an all-male review
and mentally masturbate while watching the men strip and stick
their barely concealed dicks in her face without feeling like it
meant they had to get married. It was just a performance. It didn’t
mean she was emotionally connected to the material.

Except Trace wasn’t performing.

And she did feel an emotional connection to
him.

And the longer she was around him, the more
she wanted—

Enough!

She didn’t need to be thinking about Trace’s
stiff dick or him sticking it in her face . . . or
anywhere else, for that matter.

And that cocky cuss Micah certainly didn’t
need to know how she
really
felt. Although Sam had probably
already told him.