Deceiving the Protector (15 page)

The heavy thump slamming onto the hood of the car shook them both as Lia’s scream ripped through his eardrums.

Asher, crouched like a spider, stared at them both for only a second before reaching his arm back to pound into the windshield.

Tate grabbed the gear shift and yanked it down into reverse. “Go, Lia, Go!”

The car lurched backward as she slammed her foot on the gas. Asher’s fist never came down, his unbalanced body tumbling backward and off. The car burst through the barn doors like an explosion before suddenly lurching to a stop that nearly sent Tate into the windshield.

“Sonofabitch!” Before he’d finished swearing, her hand was already on the stick again, throwing it into drive. She hit the gas again.

“This time, he dies,” she ground out, as the car lights illuminated the black form of Asher rising. His head turned, but there was nowhere for him to go because she was already slamming into him. The car bumper caught him mid-thigh, plowing him into the wall of hay. It might have been a wall of brick the way the car slammed into a dead stop. Lia went back into reverse, but just like before, she stopped. Her bangs flying from her panted breaths, she stared forward. Asher sat like a broken marionette, head down, arms hanging limply in awkward lines, legs grotesquely spread. But he still lifted his head to find her.

“Again.” Tate snapped, but Lia didn’t need the instruction.

The car sped forward once more, this time nearly lurching them both out of their seats, the groan of metal bending and glass breaking unmistakable.

He grabbed her hand on the gear shift when she went into reverse again. “Lia!”

“What?”

“We need to get out of here. You hit him again and this car won’t be able to move.”

“He’s not dead yet.”

He stared incredulously at the body against the bales. “He fucking
is.
”

She didn’t take her eyes off it either. “No, he’s
not.
”

“How do you know?” Anything else with a heartbeat would be more than dead after two hits like that.

“I
know.
”

“Fine. Hit him again. Make him deader, but that still leaves us with four bodies to explain and we’re the only two people alive for a five-mile radius. How far do you think we’re going to get on foot?”

The look she gave him—her jaw jutting out, mouth unyielding—said to go to hell and fuck himself on the way.

Which he didn’t really care about because she left the car in reverse, hit the gas and spun it wildly to get clear of the barn. A hard shift into drive and they began barreling down the road.

Adrenaline is a beautiful thing, Tate decided once he’d gotten Lia going in the right direction. The lethargy of the healing sleep had disappeared, but he didn’t count on it staying gone long. He peered down at his belly, feeling wetness seeping through his shirt. Sure enough, a large wet stain darkened his T-shirt. The wound was torn again. Bleeding freely. He’d lost too much already, he needed the sleep. But first things first.

He sighed, looking over at Lia. She stared out the windshield, as intent as if she were running the miles instead of driving them. Single-mindedly putting distance between herself and the broken body of her captor. Or was it between
him
and her captor?

“You really think he’s still alive?” It didn’t seem possible, but so many things about Lia and Asher were out of the realm of normal.

“I know he is.” Not so much as a flicker of doubt in her voice or on her face. Only determination.

He leaned back into the headrest, his foot bumping the knife he’d dropped as soon as he’d sat down. He should have gotten out and cut the bastard’s throat, too weak to stand or not. In a fight like this, for survival, he doubted he’d lose much sleep over it. He’d honestly thought the other shifter dead, but her rock-solid belief was already wearing at him. He hadn’t been wrong, another blow would have rendered the car useless and who was to say Asher hadn’t left more traps for them? Hadn’t called in his backup? Tate knew he was right to make her leave, but being right didn’t solve his problems. Didn’t solve them for the Underground, either.

He reached blindly around his seat, patting for the slim sat phone. He found it quickly, unfolding it to dial a number written only in his memory. It didn’t even finish its first ring before a familiar gruff voice picked up with the expected greeting.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“Yeah, missed you too, asshole.” Actually, Pale’s voice was a sound for sore hearing. He caught Lia’s ear flicking and bit back a grin. Nosy woman.

“You were supposed to check in twelve hours ago.”

“I’m in a bit of a situation here, brother, and I don’t have a lot of time to catch you up.”

He actually heard Pale’s teeth click together. “Where are you? I’ll call Betha to intercept you with a medic.”

“You need to send her to the Clemo farmhouse first with a cleanup crew, and make sure she’s fully armed. There’s a chance the killer we’ve been tracking may be there, alive. If he’s not, we’ve still got three down inside the house. Possible death squad interception, too.”

“Shit.”

“It gets worse. You need to get everyone out of the safe houses in this region. Pennsylvania and all the states surrounding it. Travelers, guides, everyone. Get them home even if you have to fly them in. Shut it down. Now.”

“What the hell is going on, Tate?” It meant a lot that Pale hadn’t told him he was off his ass. Lia, on the other hand, kept tossing him sideways glances, each one more nervous than the last.

“We’ve been made, Pale. Not us, but the Underground. This killer isn’t just some nutjob hunting shifters and getting lucky by crossing our paths. He’s connected, a federally sanctioned death squad all by himself and he’s picking us off one by one. We need to clear the tracks—”

“I get it, we’ll get it done, but what about you? When are you coming in?”

He watched Lia, who refused to look his way again. She could hear the conversation. She was trying to keep herself separate. Didn’t want to be a factor of any decisions. She wasn’t asking for anything from him.

But he wanted to give to her. His chest actually hurt with how much.

Not even with Vayere had he ever come to this point, where his mind and his heart had to make this kind of decision. Back in those days, he’d craved a lover, wanted to make a connection with a woman who couldn’t return his emotions. Not freely. She’d been held back by the restrictions of her station. By the knowledge that she could never be with him completely. Giving all of himself to Vayere had never been an option.

But Lia…

A strange thing had happened while he’d coaxed her into letting him past her guard. She’d gotten past his. Under his skin. With every shy smile, she’d made him feel a hundred feet tall, and every time he’d managed to draw the woman behind the controlled surface out, she’d only burrowed deeper. She’d sacrificed herself for him, facing her greatest nightmare for him. He couldn’t leave her behind to face either Asher or the people who controlled him alone. He wouldn’t. Lia mattered. She mattered all the way down to the Wolf at the core of him. It was, he realized, exactly where he wanted her.

She finally turned her head from the road, peering at him carefully before returning her attention to her driving. In the dark, he couldn’t see the true brilliance of her eyes, the color that turned everything into summer.

It would be so easy to tell himself that she needed him—because she did—and leave it at that. Too bad he had never been into cop-outs. Other people needed him too.
Pale
needed him. The Underground needed him. But the decision in him, the rightness of what
he
wanted, what he
needed
, wouldn’t be denied.

He wanted Lia. The Wolf in him agreed and the decision was unwavering.

“I’m not coming,” he finally said over his brother’s completely ignored tirade coming from the other side of the line.

Her gaze snapped to his, shock—no, knowledge—pulling down the corners of her mouth. “Tate, no.”

“Tate, yes,” he replied, the exhaustion hitting him ten times harder now that the decision was made. “I’m with you, Lia.” For as long as there was breath in his body.

He belonged to her and his soul wouldn’t rest until she belonged to him too.

She glared at him, then her gaze drifted downward and she gasped. “Oh, God, Tate. You’re bleeding so much.”

“Keep driving.” He realized he was slurring only distantly, his eyes closing and shutting out everything but the sound of her breath. Her heartbeat. “South,” he reminded, slipping into the blackness. “Stay south.”

“Goddamn it, what the hell is going on over there?” Pale demanded, but the phone was already slipping from his ear.

“Bye, Pale.” He clicked the phone shut, too tired to think about everything he was saying goodbye to with those words. He could never take Lia anywhere near the man he respected more than any other. Nowhere near the place he considered home or the people who were his family. Lia was right about that. She just didn’t have any idea how long he’d been waiting for someone who would be the other half of his soul.

Or how much he’d give up to have her.

She tried to do what he said. Her hands shook, her entire body really. Shock, she told herself by the second hour of driving. Tonight had been nothing but one overload after another. But she didn’t think so. This was a different kind of fear shooting through her. Worry.

The highway was a straight shot, which gave her a chance every few minutes to look at Tate lying in the seat next to her. The bleeding had gotten worse, matting down the fabric of his shirt to his skin. He’d been unconscious long enough for the wound to have closed again—why hadn’t it? Even with the stubble on his throat and jaw, which had already progressed to a light beard, she could see his pulse beating strong. Maybe the blood was from other injuries inside? Was his body expelling it because it needed to or was he not healing? Questions swirled in her mind until she couldn’t take it anymore.

The sun had begun creeping up the horizon, adding a faint light that filled her with a relief that made no sense in their predicament. Asher wouldn’t disappear just because the sun was up, and neither would the task force he worked for. She could at least comfort herself in the knowledge that he would face a healing sleep of his own. Hopefully one far longer than Tate’s, but there was no way to tell. Tate’s was natural. Asher’s body chemistry was constantly being adjusted to increase his strength, immunities and response times. Nothing about him was natural. Still, they were safe enough for a brief stop. Not even Asher could recover that fast.

She pulled to the side of the road, grateful this stretch of land wasn’t a forest of any kind. Open land, hilly and covered with a yellow grass that looked like it was ready for summer to finally end. She got out, spent a few moments looking for the first-aid kit she’d sent flying when Asher had dropped onto the hood. Spying it in the backseat, she had to open the back door to the car to get to it, then she circled the car to get to Tate’s side.

Trying to be careful, she searched for a lever to lower the seat backward, surprised to find a button instead, one that moved the seat slowly and smoothly. With relief, she set him into a supine position and braced herself to clean him up.

She reached out her hand to lift the hem of his shirt when suddenly she found it enveloped within his fist. A deep warning growl stole the gasp out of her. Slowly, so slowly, she turned her head to face him and found not Tate the man looking back at her, but the pure, elemental gaze of the Wolf. Eyes a nearly glowing amber-yellow, lips lifted to reveal fangs she knew could shred her arm if she managed to lift it in time to deflect him.

Her heart thumped madly, but not from fear. Apprehension, maybe, but she wasn’t afraid. This was still Tate, just not a rational side of him. Not even a conscious side of him.

“Tate, it’s me.” She kept her voice soft, lowering her eyes and then her head to reinforce her unthreatening pose. It was the only language he’d truly understand in this state. She had to show what she was. Female. Friend. Submissive. “It’s Lia, Tate. I just want to help.”

His grip, one she only just realized included bared claws, loosened incrementally. No longer growling but not exactly letting go, he lifted her hand to his nose, inhaling deeply.

“Mine,” he rumbled, a word she almost didn’t make out. He rubbed his face against the inside of her wrist, the bristles of his beard tickling the skin she hadn’t realized was so sensitive. His warm breath did even more to send her nerves into an unexpected riot.

She had to stand when he pulled on her arm, leaning awkwardly over him. “Tate, let me help you.”

“Mine.” The arm against her legs moved, snaking up her side to slide over her back, his claws dragging over her skin through the shirt, and somehow that sensation made her spine arch completely against her will. She shook from a completely different kind of awareness than any she’d had before, belly tightening with a surge of sensation that nearly had her dropping her weight on top of him.

She almost doubted he would have noticed, he was so intent on getting her positioned where he could press his face into the crook of her neck.

“Tate, come on, let me go. Let me help.” The protest sounded too whispery but she couldn’t help it. He was breathing her in as if she were the only air he needed. Sharp teeth pressed against her throat, dragging over a spot so sensitive she cried out before she could stop herself. The sound seemed to incense him. His other hand reached up to cup her nape while the first one on her back dragged at her shirt collar, baring more of her skin to his mouth. Unable—or maybe just unwilling—to protest, she did nothing when his hot tongue laved over the spot, lazily stroking now that he had her exactly where he wanted her. She bit her lip, desperate to keep herself quiet even though the sensations were more intense.

Adding to the siege, she could sense him again, stronger than before. Like flames surrounding her, setting her skin on fire the way no heat ever could. Her nipples had turned into hard points grazing his chest through her blouse, while even the core of her quivered in response. Aching, the slickness she’d always hated during her Heat cycle suddenly taking on a different meaning. It felt natural. Languorous. She wanted more, somehow sensing there was so much he could offer her that she couldn’t begin to imagine.

“Miiiiiiine,” he growled against her again, tugging her down tighter to him.

“Yours,” she gasped out, her hand on his shoulder, a tingling sensation in her fingertips as she gave in, rubbing her face against his cheek, shivering at the pinpricks of pleasure that sizzled over her. What did it matter, really? He wouldn’t remember this later, and he certainly wasn’t giving in without her capitulation. She relaxed in his hold, digging her nails in when he licked at her again.

She could be his for this stolen respite. Only his. The time would come later, when he wasn’t hurt, when he would see that there was no saving her from this fate, but it wasn’t here yet. Right now, he was hers. Hers to soothe, hers to protect. Hers to give all there was left of her.

Little by little, his hold loosened now that she’d given over. She waited, though her back was straining from the strange angle she’d held, not wanting to startle him again. One arm at a time, she guided him back into the position he’d been in before. Resting, his breathing easy, his heartbeat strong beneath her hand. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost think he was smiling.

Too bad she was still on fire.

She stepped out of the car, hoping the morning air might do something to cool her down. Reaching up to push her bangs off her flaming cheeks, she stopped and stared at her hands in pure shock.

Her fingertips were clawed. Curving subtly where her normally human-looking nails were, the white tips extended outward, coming to fine points she knew could slice through flesh and do serious damage to just about anything else. Each of those tips on her right hand was tipped in deep red.

Good God, she’d clawed him.

Just like that, the tingling began again and the claws receded back into the frail human ones she knew.

Without pain. Without acid in her blood.

She looked back at Tate, stunned.

For a few seconds, that was all she could do. What was it about this man, this Wolf, that could change absolutely everything in her life without even trying? He wasn’t even awake, for God’s sake.

But he
was
bleeding. And she needed to fix it.

No easy task, it turned out. The shirt was soaked, his belly covered with the sticky red overflow. Had his not-so-careful ministrations caused more damage? She was really shaking now and knew it had little to do with the cool wind on her bare arms. The inside of the kit turned out to have a few gauze pads but nothing that could handle this. The backseat of the car had been empty, but she took a chance that the vehicle was a stock car for Underground use and walked around to the back. Jamming the key from her pocket into the slot, she twisted and opened the trunk, releasing the breath she held only after she saw the contents. Definitely an Underground car. Like everything else about these people, they seemed prepared for just about any contingency.

A pack of bottled waters, sealed rolls of paper towels, blankets, boxes of what looked like military packets of food. She recognized them because Asher tried to give something similar to her from time to time. She grabbed two of the waters, a blanket and a roll of paper towels. She hurried back, dumping her finds at his feet. First things first, getting the shirt off. The kit had a pair of scissors in it, which made quick work of the thin fabric. She slid it out from under him, balling it up to collect as much of the blood as she could. That done, she dropped it next to her knees on the road. The paper towels came next, wet down with water, to wash away the streaks the shirt had left behind.

Swipe after swipe, until only clean, golden skin remained. Skin she wanted to lick, the same way he’d stroked hers. Later, she promised herself, her cheeks burning at the thought. Soon, but later, when it wasn’t likely to kill him. She patted him dry, trying to keep herself from noticing how warm he still was under her touch. Firm muscle, lean to his frame but no less formidable than a man with a larger frame. A light dusting of hair formed a vee over his heart, the same dark gold of his beard but nowhere near as dense.

She touched it, curiosity getting the better of her. It was silky, curling around her fingertip. She followed the fading trail of it down his midline to the open gash that split him from just below his belly button in a downward arc toward his right hip.

That sobered her more than anything else could have.

He’d gotten this because of her. Because she’d stopped him from killing Asher when he could have. Because some part of her had still believed what she’d been told. Because in her heart, all she’d been able to think of was that without Asher, Laurel would die.

She’d been so stupid and he’d paid the price for it.

The moment the knife had gone in, she’d known the mistake for what it was. The web of half-truths and all the power they held over her broke in that instant. But at what cost, she wondered, pain and guilt settling like a rock in her own belly. She couldn’t take it back. Could only take care of him.

And, she added darkly, thinking of the broken beast in the barn, make sure it never happened again.

Asher wasn’t dead. The second she forgot that would be the second he would strike. He’d waited in that barn the same way he’d waited for her to think she’d escaped him the last time she’d run. He’d let her find a safe place, or so she’d thought, let her take that breath of relief. And then he’d stolen that breath away, using his knives to carve the reminder into her indelibly. The satisfaction of robbing a person of hope fed him like the strongest drug, and Asher was the worst kind of addict. Time was too short to waste. She had to get back to what was important.

Tate. And whatever he needed to get back on his feet fastest.

A clean wound was the best thing she could do for him, she decided, lifting the water bottle just over it, trying not to flinch as she poured. His belly leaped in response, but the blood eventually trickled away, helped by her gentle dabs along the outer edge. Finally, it was all gone except where a slight reservoir remained between the sides of flesh. A closer look, as the light improved, showed her that the skin was indeed knitting together again. The healing would just take time now.

She dried him methodically before pulling out the butterfly tapes to hold him closed as best as she could manage. Antibiotic cream, spread liberally, and then she applied the gauze. Long strips of tape held it in place and she was done.

All that was left was covering him with the blanket and getting back on the road. She let herself have one more stroke over his bristled cheek before closing the door, locking him inside.

He woke slowly, like walking through fog until the world became clear again. Except this wasn’t a world he’d been in before. He looked around through barely raised eyelids, trying to find his bearings. Inside a motel room, the walls a dingy beige, one with a large painting of a sailboat above a small table with brown paper bags on it and two stuffed chairs on either side. The wall directly across from him was the most interesting. It boasted a wide brown dresser that had seen better days and a large mirror that reflected not only his own long frame under a hideous green blanket on a strange bed, but Lia’s curled up against him on top of it.

He turned his head to look down, mildly surprised to find it was true. Her head was a soft weight on his biceps, her curving spine fit against his side. A side that didn’t hurt. Rather than move her—an idea that made him want to growl in displeasure—he slid his loose hand over his stomach for any residual soreness. He frowned at the feel of a gauze patch, but he didn’t feel anything beneath but the slight discomfort of a side cramp. His body might have to knock him on his ass to do it, but being a shifter—and not dying—definitely had its benefits.

He blinked bleary eyes. Much as he’d like to stay right here, maybe tug her closer and investigate the intriguing feel of her so close, he felt caked in layers of dirt, blood and sweat from the night before. He had to shower before his own stink made him sick. Not to mention her.

Moving gingerly, lifting her head the way he would a sleeping pup, he eased his arm out from beneath her. He hated to disturb her. She looked so soft, so touchable, when she was fully relaxed. The gauntness of her cheeks wasn’t gone, but didn’t seem nearly as severe. He couldn’t see if the black eye had faded at all, but he couldn’t help a streak of satisfaction at seeing her this way. Even her healing sleep hadn’t been this peaceful. It was a sign of absolute trust.

He couldn’t help himself, didn’t want to break that faith she’d shown him, but he touched her cheek. Just a graze with the backs of his fingers, to assure himself she was warm enough. That she was really there and not a figment of his imagination. She slept on, her hands curled under her chin, her cheek turning just the lightest shade of rose. As if she could sense his appreciation.

That was a tempting thought. Would she sense it if he let his thoughts wander, as they usually did, to the thousand and one things he wanted to do with her? Or if he simply stayed put and took stock of every curve and hollow that he liked about her body? That mouth of hers, all pink and plump. The long, graceful line of her neck. The unexpected femininity of her hands and the tentative way she touched him.