Rise of the Fallen (23 page)

She wasn't sure, but at one point she thought she heard the
door open, right at the point where she commanded Micah to fuck her harder. What
sounded like the door hissing shut followed, but Sam hadn't cared that they had
been seen. If anything, it turned her on even more. She had always had
exhibitionist tendencies.

In a matter of only minutes, both announced their
simultaneous release with shouts of pleasure, his body stiffening briefly then
falling on top of her as his cock spent itself and emptied its contents with a
series of luscious contractions that tripled the strength of her own orgasm.

A spent heap of flesh, Sam gasped for air. Her arms locked
around Micah's back and her legs trembled through a last wave of release.
"I love you."

Micah shuddered against her and buried his arm between her
and the hard medical mattress, pulling her against him as he turned his face
into her neck. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for loving
me."

She wasn't sure, but the single jerk of his shoulders and
the burst of breath against her skin felt more like a sob than his body
finishing its orgasm. Tightening her hold on him, she smiled. She had found who
she belonged with. She was Micah's and he was hers.

Trace looked out the window of the house situated back from
the main road, holding the curtain aside so that sunlight spilled over the four
dead bodies scattered around the room. His wraparound sunglasses hid his eyes,
the only part of his body that was sensitive to the sun, and he waited.

If the drecks had been telling the truth, Apostle would
arrive home any minute. Then he would join the other four corpses in death.

Dropping the curtain over the window, Trace stepped over the
bodies and contemplated the events of the past two days. He wasn't quite sure
how to feel. He had finally made a friend in Micah, but now the male was mated.
Would he have time for Trace? Not that he needed a lot of attention, but the
idea of having a friend who understood him, and who Trace felt would get him
for who he was, was a nice one. And, well, it went deeper than that. He needed
Micah. Maybe not right now, but soon enough he would need what Micah could give
him. He could already feel himself needing more than he was getting elsewhere.

He had heard the stories about Micah. The brooding vampire
had not only been a notorious loner, but also a hardcore dom at one time. Years
ago, he knew what Micah was capable of with a whip and fire, among other
accoutrements. That's when he had taken to watching him, learning and looking
for a way in.

And then Trace had bumped into Jackson at Four Alarm a
couple of months ago. The male had been bragging to one of his friends about
the equipment Micah had in his home. Some way kinked out shit that would have
been right up Trace's alley from the sound of it.

He absently wondered if Sam knew exactly what she was
getting into with him. Damn, he liked Sam. She was perfect for Micah. They
complimented each other well. She wasn't a thing like Jackson, either.

At any rate, Trace had known immediately after Micah had
half-bonded to Jackson that Jackson would break Micah's heart. And after
Jackson's rookie bragging session at Four Alarm, Trace had become even more
convinced their relationship was doomed to fail, and he knew when the end came,
Micah would need caring for.

So he had taken to following Micah, playing guardian,
looking after him. He had known two months ago the location of Micah's secret
apartment. Hell, he had been there the night Jackson had walked out. Trace had
been watching and waiting for the inevitable, and he had felt Micah's anguish
that night as if it was his own.

Trace had even been there the night Micah had nearly
nose-dived to the ground. He had used his powers to push him back so he didn't
fall off his balcony's banister. But even if Micah had fallen, Trace would
never have let him die. Catching him would have been simple enough, but it
would have outed him before he was ready.

And then Tristan had called that meeting. Trace had sat in
that room over a week ago, biting his tongue when the others were going crazy
trying to find Micah. Tristan had even blamed himself. But Trace had kept his
mouth shut. It had pissed him off that no one else bothered to notice Micah's
absence. So while they all pussy-footed around, he ensured their team's best
asset kept topside and breathing. Trace protected those he thought of as
friends, and he had considered Micah a friend for a long time. Now Sam was
added to that list. Trace would do anything to protect them both.

Which was why these assholes lay dead at his feet. They had
fucked with the wrong guardian angel.

Trace paced back to the window and looked out once more.
Micah was through the worst of his troubles, and just like that he was mated
again. Lucky him. Why didn't Trace feel all warm and fuzzy about Micah's good
fortune? Probably because it threw a glaring spotlight on his own lack of a
mate, which was something Trace badly wanted.

Just as he had pointed out to Arion earlier, he had never
been mated, either. Unlike Arion, though, that bothered Trace. It wasn't for
lack of trying on his part. Trace had had a variety of lovers, some men, some
women, but all who satisfied his need for pain, submission, degradation, or all
of the above. So far, though, none of his liaisons had spawned a lifemate, and
the emptiness left a hole in his heart. Maybe he just wasn't made for a
lifemate. Maybe God had other intentions for him.

At any rate, his unusual sexual tastes had little to do with
finding a mate. Submitting himself and giving up all control was the only way
he could keep himself grounded and his immense powers in check. It wasn't so
much that Trace liked being confined, it was that he
needed
to be
confined. He needed to be smacked around, punished, gagged, and otherwise
abused.

Sure, he got off on being dominated, but the scenes he
engaged in kept him in control of a power that would otherwise consume him and
tip his internal scale toward going mutant. That was something he couldn't let
happen. He would kill himself before changing to darkness. And with Micah's
help someday, he hoped to stave off the transformation.

The glare of sunlight off a windshield caught Trace's eyes
and he perked up as an unmarked police car slowed and turned onto the winding
driveway. He closed the drape, stepped over a dead dreck, sat on the couch, and
crossed his legs. He was as calm as sitting water on a windless day. The drecks'
pack mentality worked in his favor on days like this, when he could take out a
whole trove of them without moving more than twenty feet in any direction. He
loved his job.

Keys jangled at the door, and then John Apostle stepped
inside, still in uniform, his gaze sweeping the room in horror before stopping
on Trace. Trace held up his hand, fingers splayed. Apostle halted and froze
just as he tried to turn and run.

"Please, do come in," Trace said, slowly moving
his fingers, manipulating Apostle as if he was a puppet. "Close the
door." The dreck did as he was compelled to do. "Now, come here and
get on your knees in front of me."

Apostle walked like a zombie. The only part of him showing
any animation were his eyes. The rest of him seemed void of feeling. Stopping
in front of Trace, he dropped to his knees with a resounding thud.

"Before you die, I want you to know that Micah saved
the girl. She's one of us now." He leaned forward and grinned at Apostle.
Trace could feel the dreck's hatred and anger pushing through his fear, but it
didn't matter. He was as good as dead already. "Micah and I are her
guardian angels, now. And I am his. I won't let anything happen to either one
of them, but if anything should, I will single-handedly crush your entire race
before I take my own life. Do you understand?" Trace pressed closer, his
mouth curling into a malevolent sneer. "You failed, you miserable fuck.
What I will do to them won't even compare to what's about to happen to
you."

With that, Trace stood up and loomed over Apostle then
fisted one of his hands. The bones in Apostle's neck began to snap and pop, his
spine crushing. Then for good measure, with his other hand he squeezed and felt
Apostle's evil, blue heart explode inside his chest.

"That's right, fucker," Traceon released Apostle
and stepped over him after he fell over dead. "I'm their guardian angel,
and you picked the wrong hand of God to fuck with." His anger charged
powerfully through his muscles and he stopped, turned, and punched his splayed
hands into the air in front of him. A deep, echoing boom sounded and the floor
pulsed like it was a trampoline. The crackle of bones snapping filled the air.
All five bodies slumped then burst open as the furniture exploded and wind
whipped like a cyclone around Trace before slowly calming. Only then did Trace
lower his hands.

The beast was coming alive inside him. He needed a fix. Now.
He pulled out his phone and sent a 9-1-1 text to his provider then took a deep
breath. He left the front door open as he walked out into the late morning
sunlight and disappeared.

Flight delays caused Steve's plane to land in Chicago two
hours later than expected, and by the time he picked up his rental car and got
on the highway, it was nearly noon. His stomach rumbled for want of food, but
as a surgeon, he was used to going long periods without a meal. Right now, it
was more important to retrieve his wife than fill his belly, so he passed by
the fast food chains in favor of following his GPS to the address of the
hospital.

David's information had included three addresses. One for
the hospital, one labeled home, and one for where she had been found after
being attacked.

What the hell had she done to deserve getting mugged? He was
sure it was something. Maybe the guy who had attacked her was her pimp and she
had been trying to swindle him out of money. At any rate, it was nothing
compared to what he would do to her once he got her home. Sam would get a
lesson in submission and obedience that would make her think twice before
taking off on his ass again. At least he would be able to put that ankle cuff
to work now. He laughed. Let her try to leave with that on. She wouldn't make
it past the front yard, and he had the only key for the thing.

Yes, Steve had learned from his mistakes, and so would Sam
for hers.

Arriving at the hospital, he went to the administration
desk.

"I'm looking for a patient," he said.

"Name?"

"Samantha Garrett. She was admitted last night. I was
told it was a mugging."

The elderly, black nurse gave him a look after punching in a
query and scanning the screen. "Looks like Ms. Garrett has been
discharged."

"What?!"

The woman looked perplexed as she frowned at the computer
screen as if something didn't make sense.

"What is it?" Steve said. He was already perturbed
that he wouldn't be able to one-stop-shop this and get her now. Damn it. He had
already booked his return flight for this evening. He didn't have time to dick
around in Chicago playing hide-and-seek with his bitch of a wife.

"I'm not sure, probably nothing. You should see the
doctor who treated her. Dr. Rose. He's in the E.R."

"Thank you."

"You need directions?"

"No, I can find it." Steve was already walking
away crisply, waving the woman off. He didn't need directions to find his way
around a hospital. He worked in hospitals for Christ's sake. Directions! Ha!

Fifteen minutes later and he realized he probably should
have taken the nurse up on her offer. To get to the E.R. required pulling back
out of the parking lot, maneuvering a one-way street, and pulling back in on
the other side of the campus. Good thing he wasn't having a heart attack,
despite the pulsing vein at his temple and the death grip he had on his
steering wheel, or he might have died trying to find the emergency entrance.

He marched into the waiting area and up to the reception
desk. "Dr. Rose. Where is he?"

The nurse eyed him impatiently. "And you are?"

"Samantha Garrett's husband."

Her expression morphed into one of concern. "Excuse me
a moment." She bustled through the double doors and disappeared.

What the hell was wrong with everyone at this hospital? Were
they all retards? Mental incompetents? What kind of people did Chicago have
running its medical institutions? He glanced around the crowded waiting room,
receiving a couple of angry glares.

"What are you looking at? You'll get your turn."

"Sir, I'm Dr. Rose."

Steve turned to see a tall man with dark circles under his
eyes walking toward him, the nurse in tow. It looked like the good doctor had
had a long night and an even longer morning.

"Dr. Garrett," Steve said, taking the other
doctor's outstretched hand.

"Oh, you're a doctor. I didn't know."

"Surgeon, actually, but yes. What happened to my
wife?"

"Let's talk in my office," Dr. Rose said, gesturing
for Steve to follow him into the back. This wasn't good. He could already tell
by the tone of Dr. Rose's voice.

Still, he followed him to an office crowded with files,
medical reference books, and patient charts. He took a seat as Dr. Rose closed
the door then sat back on the edge of his desk.

"Dr. Garrett, I won't waste your time. We have record
of your wife being here last night. We have a chart for her, too. I even have
blood samples for her." Dr. Rose paused, shaking his head.

"So, what's the problem?" Steve was feeling worse
about the situation. There was just something in Dr. Rose's tone.

"None of us can remember treating her. The nurse who
took her blood can't remember drawing it, I can't remember examining her, and
the nurse doesn't remember entering her data into the chart. It's like she was
never here, but we all know she was."