Chapter One
Darce’s head hurt as he swam up through the foggy, drugging layers of unconsciousness. Hurt? Understatement of the f**king year. There were some pains that were instantly recognizable by the sufferer. The unmistakable burning slash of a cat’s claw or the insidious slice of a papercut. The brain automatically picked up on lack of pain that followed a more serious injury, adding the thought “oh shit, that’s going to hurt” before the pain kicked in. The body and mind knew the throbbing, nauseating ache that accompanied a bad hangover. And Darce, someone used to a life of violence, recognized this one.
His eyes closed, he lay still and waited for the pain to ebb. The sharp pain radiating out from the side of his head was consistent with a hard blow from the butt of a rifle. It was a pain he knew but very much wished he didn’t. In fact, he’d have been happy to have gone through life without finding out how it felt to be hit in the side of the head with a blunt object, but the fates had other plans for him. Bitches hadn’t even sent him a memo so he could call in sick on the FUBAR crapshoot his life had become.
The fog in his head receded. Enough for him to make out two people carried him, one shorter than the other. His inner wolf growled but Darce silenced it with ruthless control. Until he knew what was going on, faking unconsciousness was his best option. Unconscious men were less of a threat. Out cold, he couldn’t shift, couldn’t let the beast within out to wreak havoc. Conscious and faking it? Even if it was going to be a holding his head, half-hearted sort of havoc, he could still go Freddy Krueger on the humans around him with fatal consequences.
For them at least.
“…cks sake, what do they feed these guys?” A voice, male and pissed off, broke through the fuzz and got Darce’s attention.
He frowned to himself, probing the black spots in his memory. Fading in and out that way wasn’t good. If he’d been human, he’d have been in serious shit. Head injuries could screw someone up big time. It had been his main worry when he’d joined the army—that he’d get shot in the head and end up a vegetable.
That was before.
Before, winding up comatose or—God forbid—dead were the worst things he could imagine. Now he knew better. A word loomed in his mind, larger than life and twice as terrible, nightmares clustering around the letters like dancers around a premier league footballer in a strip joint.
Project.
In the world of the Project, even death wasn’t permanent. But you sure as f**k didn’t want to come back the Project’s way.
He lurched to the side as one of the carriers lost its grip, dropping his legs and slamming his heels into the ground. A warm body crashed into him, the sharp stink of sweat and aftershave crowding into his sensitive nostrils.
“Crap.”
Clothing rustled and tension ramped in the air. Darce sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, and his new companion was shoved off him in a rough movement.
“For f**ks sake, Wilson. Don’t get so close. Do you want your damn throat torn out?”
The voice was female, angry and very familiar. Still feigning unconsciousness, Darce frowned and probed the black spots in his memory. Why was it familiar? It couldn’t be Nic—it was too rich and lyrical for the rough-edged female wolf. In fact, it didn’t sound like a Lycan voice. The particular note all wolves acquired after their change was missing.
She moved, stepping over him. Her pant leg brushed his arm and her scent exploded around him. Blood, dirt and lust. He took a sharp breath. Memories of the last twelve hours ripped through his mind like a film on fast-forward, burning the fogginess out of his brain.
The hospital. Barred windows and restraints on the bed. Silver burning through his veins, eating away under his skin like acid. The moon above calling out to him, playing peek-a-boo from behind the clouds. Jack’s face hovering over him, distorted and strange, as though he looked out through a fish eye lens. Shouted commands he couldn’t hear over the roar of his wolf.
More…more…more.
Pain and fire. He pushed the sedative out through his pores, each beaded silver droplet sweating agony until he lay exhausted on the floor. A seductive-sweet scent. That of a woman, Jack’s woman…Jack’s mate. The first mate any of them had found. Lycans around him as they planned to escape before the Project teams arrived in gunships and transport carriers.
Then it was too late to leave. To run…escape into the wilderness. But this time the Project brought more than pain and terror with their soldiers and the walking corpses they used to clean up their messes.
They’d brought her with them. Her. His mate. A creature of the Project like him, but not the same. Pain and elation wrapped around his heart. He had a mate, her scent cleaving to his heart in an instant. But she was a Blood. The enemy. Bloods hated Lycans as much as Lycans hated Bloods. Hatred and fear of each other was instinctive, cell deep.
They’d killed the RAs she’d sent in and Jack’s mate had led the pack to safety through the earth. They’d run through the forests, staying in the shadows, holing up because Lilly was human and needed rest. Deep in the embrace of the trees and nature they’d hidden well, but the Project had found them… She’d found them. His mate had found him.
He’d brought the enemy down on them, but he wasn’t sorry. How could he be sorry when she’d followed him?
His mind filled with images of her. Tall and lean, her slender figure packed with curves that made his mouth water. His interest in her primal and male as she flashed her fangs and claws at him. God, imagining those cute little fangs buried in the thick muscles of his neck had gotten him hard.
The scene changed. Him over her. Victory and lust surging through him, he leaned in to claim his prize—a taste of her soft lips. Her black eyes flashed with amusement before pain shot through his skull and dropped him into darkness.
Fuck. Of all the stupid, f**king rookie mistakes to make. He’d been so focused on her he’d forgotten she had troops with her. The humans no match for him…unless he took his eye off the ball. He was a f**king idiot. Distracted by a woman. He lay still when she’d stood over him, her voice raised at the soldier who had dropped him.
“He’s out of it, Major…” A new voice, male and young. “Damn mutt’s not doing anything for the foreseeable future. I cracked him a good ’un on the skull. Be surprised if he ever wakes up, to be honest. I ’eard bone crunch. He’s harmless.”
Oh great, just freaking great. No wonder he had a pounding f**king headache. Sounded like the dumb-fuck human had tried to perform brain-surgery via rifle butt. Luckily, Lycans were more resilient. A skull fracture was well within his wolf’s ability to heal.
The memory of Jack’s voice filled his mind and his lips quirked.
If we’re lucky, maybe it will knock some f**king sense into him.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Wilson. He’s a Lycan. He’s not harmless. Even tied up, nak*d, he could find at least seventeen ways to kill you,” his ladylove replied, anger in her tone. Even without opening his eyes, Darce could imagine her straddling his body, her hands clenching and un-clenching at her sides while her eyes flashed with fire.
“Forget any nonsense you’ve seen in films. He’s a killing machine. You cracked his skull? Great. When he wakes up, he’s going to be a pissed off killing machine. One I have to deal with. So congratulations, you pissed us both off. Now f**k off before I rip your head off instead of his.”
Darce cracked an eyelid open in time to see Wilson stumbling backward, shock on his baby face as he put a sensible distance between himself and the vampire. Christ, the guy looked all of twelve. Where was the Project getting them these days? Kindergarten?
“Fucking idiot,” the female Blood groused to herself, her voice too low for the hovering human to hear. She bent over and hooked her hands under Darce’s arms again. He kept silent, his body lax while she dragged him across the dirt and grumbled about incompetent humans all the way.
She paused for a second, and then hauled him upward. Strong hands found purchase on his clothing so she could manhandle him up and over onto a hard surface. He wasn’t a small man, so even though he knew she was a Blood, he’d have been impressed at her strength. Would have been if he weren’t face-down on the metal bed of what appeared to be a troop transport. Fan-f**king-fastic. He was all for getting new designs on his body to complement his current ink, but floor markings on his face weren’t ideal.
“Damn great lump. What the freaking hell do they feed you?” she muttered again, grabbing his shoulders and flipping him over. He landed back on the floor with an “ooomph” as the air whooshed violently from his lungs.
He opened his eyes at the same moment she grabbed his wrists and slapped cold metal bands around them. The next second, she yanked his arms up over his head and locked them into place on the side of the cabin.
“Oh, handcuffs. Kinky,” he drawled, making her jump. “If you wanted to get down and dirty sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.”
Wilson, hovering by the tailgate, snickered. “Yeah, like a dog would be any good in the sack.”
Darce cut him a swift look. “That’s not what your mom said—”
The Blood moved, lashing out and cuffing him above his ear. Darce yelped, swore and ducked his head to avoid a repeat performance. “What the fuck… This is prisoner abuse. I demand a retrial!”
Her black on black eyes sparkled with anger and fire. “I don’t give a f**k who or what you are. I’m freaking sick of ‘your mom’ jokes. So can it already. Both of you.”
The barked order was authoritative and issued with an obvious expectation of compliance. Both Wilson and Darce dropped their gazes and muttered “Yes, ma’ams” before Wilson disappeared from the tailgate, leaving Darce and the Blood alone.
He struggled to a sitting position against the side of the truck, let his body relax and watched her. He’d thought she was beautiful on first glance—from a distance—but now, up close, she was breathtaking. Tall for a woman, but she’d still have been petite compared to him with her head reaching his jaw. She was the perfect size for him to wrap in his arms. Small women were great, but he hated getting a crick in his neck when he had to bend down to kiss them. With her, there would be none of that. She was just the right height.
Her lips pursed as she sat back on her heels and reached for a case on the other side of the vehicle. She dragged it to rest near her thigh and flipped it open. She cut a glance at him while she rifled through it. He grinned, not bothered that she’d caught him watching her.
“So…you going to tell me your name? Or should I keep calling you pretty lady?” he asked, sucking in a breath as she reached out to touch his face and the vicious wound there. Caused by her claws before he’d been clocked by the guy with the rifle butt, it burned when she pulled the edges of the torn flesh.
“You’re healing fast.”
She ignored his question, reaching back into the medical kit to pull out antiseptic swabs. Not bothering with gloves, she tore the packets open with her teeth. Those tiny little fangs flashed at him for a second before she leaned forward to clean the wound.