Hunted (Riley Cray) Page 2

  Samson Reed. Escaped from prison.

  My brain replayed the words over and over again in my mind, each repetition making my heart thump faster.

  It was a name I’d hoped I would never hear again, and hearing it now was the worst kind of invasion. Even though I bore the physical scars of what had happened eight years ago, I’d managed to lock away the emotional ones, refusing to examine them. Just thinking his name sent ice cold fear flooding through my veins and made my stomach twist with nausea.

  “Ah, is there a reason why there’s a dead rabbit in your sink, ma’am?” Holbrook called from the kitchen, his warm molasses voice momentarily distracting me from my fear.

  Still dazed, white crackles dancing at the edges of my vision, I murmured, “Furry bastard kept eating my cabbages.”

  “I see,” he drawled, making it obvious that he didn’t.

  A few moments later he reappeared at my side with a glass of water. I was glad that my fingers only trembled a little as I took a small sip before setting it in my lap, immediately forgotten.

  “Ms. Cray?” Johnson asked, and from the impatient tone of his voice, not for the first time. “Ms. Cray, do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

  “Hmm? Yes...I understand,” I said, my voice sounding distant and hollow to my ears, as if someone else were speaking. “Samson Reed broke out of a high security supernatural facility, and is no doubt on his way here to kill me,” I finished, turning my gaze up towards both agents, something in the depths of my eyes making them flinch.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WE DON’T KNOW that for sure, but we would recommend that you...” Johnson began, his tone pitched low to reassure me. It wasn’t working.

  Waving a hand at him I cut him off mid-sentence. “I’m sorry, would you gentlemen excuse me for a moment?” Rising from the couch before either of them answered, I pressed the glass of water into Holbrook’s hand and made a beeline for the bathroom, where I fell to my knees and vomited the meager contents of my stomach into the toilet.

  After heaving for several minutes, I slumped against the edge of the toilet, groping blindly for the handle to flush away the evidence of my fear. Gradually I became aware of a presence behind me, the weight of his gaze a palpable weight on my back. Rather than asking if I was okay, which I obviously wasn’t, or if I was done puking, which I wasn’t quite sure I was, Holbrook reached around me to pluck a washcloth from the tub and run it under the faucet in the sink.

  Wordlessly he extended the damp cloth to me, waiting until I accepted it before stepping back to the doorway, giving me room to try and pull myself together. Wiping my mouth, I folded the cool cloth in half and then pressed it to the back of my neck, my skin clammy and feeling a couple sizes too small like a constrictive sweater.

  “Thanks,” I murmured, raising my gaze to his face, glad to find it devoid of pity.

  “No problem,” he replied, crossing one foot over the other as he rested a shoulder against the doorframe, his hands in the pockets of his slacks. Somewhere along the way he had removed his overcoat, revealing a dark gray suit and crisp shirt with a faint blue on blue stripe. He looked utterly comfortable except for the ruddiness that lingered in the naked tips of his ears and the end of his nose.

  “Better?” he asked after several long minutes of silence.

  “Not really,” I said, removing the cloth from the back of my neck and tossing it into the empty bathtub, wishing that I could just climb into it and hide away from the world.

  Extending a hand towards me he said, “Better not keep Johnson waiting. He’s not known for his patience.”

  Slipping my hand into his, my fingers looking pale and petite against his lightly bronzed skin, the jolt of electricity passed between us again, this time stronger as his bare skin rubbed against mine. Energy prickled along my skin, making me draw a sharp breath at the foreign sensation. Judging by the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes he had felt it too, but chose not to comment on whatever feelings were racing through his body.

  Steeling myself against the sudden and unexpected flood of warmth that settled between my thighs, I let him pull me up to my feet in a smooth and effortless motion, bringing me wonderfully close to his solid chest. Up close he seemed taller, dwarfing my five foot six to make me feel small and delicate. I swayed on my feet as the woody scent of his cologne washed over me, making me think of a dark forest damp from a recent storm. The lingering scent of warm molasses that I assumed was his natural scent made me lick my lips. His grip on me tightened, holding me firm against the long line of his body, once against stirring the wolf within.

  “Smell so good,” I muttered under my breath, the words slipping between my lips before I was able to stop them.

  “Hmm?” he asked, his voice sounding as distracted as mine, the hand splayed at the small of back flexing just above the curve of my ass.

  My gaze fell on his mouth as he licked his lips, his breath hot and smelling of coffee as he exhaled a long and softly trembling breath. My wolf wanted to lick those lips, nip at them, bruise them and mark them as ours. The human half of me didn’t exactly balk at the idea either. Lifting my gaze up to his eyes I found them heavy-lidded and dilated until the deep forest green was little more than a narrow ring around his pupils.

  Just as I was about to tell him to close the bathroom door and take me against the vanity he cleared his throat, managing to regain a professional air with what must have been herculean self-control.

  “We should get back out there,” he said, his voice thick and heavy. Releasing me he took a step back, the heat of him quickly receding, leaving me cold and alone.

  “Yeah,” I managed in a breathless whisper, unable to meet his eyes. “Let me just...um...get dressed.” Without waiting for an answer I darted past him and across the hall into my bedroom.

  Shutting the door behind me I let my head fall back against the aged wood with a loud thump, a shuddering sigh flowing between my lips.

  What the hell was that?

  My body was alight with confused sensations; the heat pulsing between my thighs inspired by Special Agent Holbrook at war with the crippling fear roused by the thought of Samson Reed on the loose.

  I’d been twenty-one when I met Samson and instantly fell head over heels for him, just like all the other girls, and a good portion of the guys. A sophomore at Colorado State University studying graphic design, I had been naively sure that nothing in the world could hurt me, especially the gorgeous and charming junior, who for reasons I couldn’t fathom had decided that he wanted to date me, the plain Jane art nerd.

  I’d had no idea that he was a raving lunatic, and that I would end up being the only one of nine victims to escape his clutches alive, if not unscathed.

  Absently my hands drifted to my middle again, lingering over the raised ridges of scar tissue that bisected my belly. It was rare to contract the lycanthropy virus through a scratch or bite, most werewolves were born not turned, but I just happened to be part of the lucky one percent of were victims to be turned by an attack.

  No doubt he’d thought I would bleed out like his other victims, but even as he tore into my body with savage glee, the virus had already started to spread, changing me forever. Through the miraculous healing abilities of lycanthropy, I was afforded the rare opportunity of knowing what it looks like when your insides are on the outside. It was not a memory I cared to relive.

  The ensuing trial had lasted for seven painfully long months, during which I was forced to endure the media shit-storm that felt like I was being brutally violated all over again. Thankfully, it had taken the jury fifteen short minutes to return with a guilty verdict, and as soon as Samson was carted off to White Sands Supernatural Penitentiary in the desolate wastes of New Mexico I had fled the spotlight.

  Shucking my robe, I let it puddle on the floor at my feet as I dug a bra and underwear out of my dresser, the drawer squeaking in protest.

  I need to oil that damn thing, I thought idly and then giggle
d hysterically at the absurdity of the thought. You’re not going to live long enough to worry about a squeaky drawer! my brain supplied oh-so helpfully.

  Clamping a hand over my mouth to silence the bark of laughter, I clutched at the edge of the dresser for support, hot tears stinging my eyes and causing my breath to catch in my throat. I refused to allow my tears to overwhelm me, and instead snatched up a discarded pair of jeans, tank top and a flannel shirt that somehow still smelled like my grandfather’s cologne after all these years. Pulling them on with angry motions, I choked back tears and resolved to focus on the anger that roiled nauseatingly in the pit of my stomach.

  Anger I could handle. Anger I had in spades.

  I was angry at myself for being afraid, angry at the agents in the other room for witnessing my fear, angry at Agent Holbrook for being so damned gorgeous, and most of all angry at life for being so fucking unfair.

  Swiping the back of my hand across my eyes I ignored the dampness, and ran my hands through my hair, trying to wrangle the dark curls into some semblance of control. I briefly thought about putting on some makeup, and then dismissed it, not even sure if I’d know where to look for any. To say I seldom had company would be an understatement.

  The intense and invasive media coverage of the trial had made me shy away from society. I’d dropped out of college and moved into the old and familiar cabin that had belonged to my grandparents and then me with my grandmother’s passing. Although I missed her every day, I was grateful she hadn’t lived long enough to witness the horror movie my life had become.

  As a freelance graphic designer working through a larger design firm, I made enough money to cover the few bills I had, all while working from the comfort of my secluded home in the mountains of Colorado. I bought the few groceries I needed from the general store on the edge of Leadville, more than ten miles away, and had anything else I wanted delivered to a post office box I kept in town. Through the wonders of Amazon I could get anything I wanted with a couple clicks of a button without ever having to speak to a single person.

  It was a secluded, sometimes lonely life, but it sure beat the hell out of living in the public eye, always being chased by the notoriety of being Samson Reed’s only surviving victim.

  Emerging from my bedroom, my arms wrapped around my middle as if to protect me from the twisted ball of anxiety clawing at my gut, I found the two agents standing in the middle of my living room, their heads bent close together as they talked in hushed tones.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I asked, a faint warmth suffusing my cheeks as Holbrook’s eyes settled on me, a hint of their previous heat still lingering in the dark forest depths of his gaze.

  “We’re going to take you into protective custody,” Johnson said, oblivious to the heated tension passing between me and his partner.

  “For how long?” I asked as I came around to sit on the couch, barely resisting the urge to curl up into a ball of self-pity, settling instead on bouncing my foot on the rug in nervous energy.

  “It’s hard to know. It could be a few days, it could be longer.”

  Restlessness buzzed in my body when I rose from the couch to pace in front of the fire. “How much longer? I do have a job you know.”

  I knew there was no reason to be mad at the agents, it wasn’t their fault that I had fallen in love with a psychotic monster who had tried to tear me open like piñata, but dammit, I was angry that once again Samson was invading my life.

  “That’s irrelevant,” Johnson said.

  “Our main goal is to keep you safe, Ms. Cray,” Holbrook cut in smoothly.

  I knew he was trying to soothe me as you would a frightened beast, and where I normally would have taken offense at such a tactic, my anxiety eased a little under his gaze. There was something about him that spoke to me, something in his eyes that reached deep down into the dark places where the wolf lived, inciting her interest as much as mine.

  “Riley,” I said.

  “What?”

  “My name is Riley. If you’re going to be watching my back for God knows how long we might as well be on a first name basis, right?”

  “Darius,” Holbrook offered with a faint smile, while Johnson just rolled his eyes and sighed.

  “Now that the introductions are over, can we move this along?” Johnson said.

  Holbrook ran a hand through his hair. “Give it a rest, Harry.”

  Apparently Agent Johnson’s gruff demeanor wasn’t just for my benefit.

  “Harry Johnson?” I asked, my mouth twitching with the beginnings of a grin that I saw reflected on Holbrook’s face.

  “Yes?” Johnson asked, his white brows knitting together in question.

  “As in, Hairy Johnson?” I snickered, hysterical laughter once again bubbling at the back of my throat.

  Johnson’s face darkened, his lips compressing into a thin, humorless line.

  “Yes. Hilarious. Are you done, Ms. Cray?”

  Clearing my throat in an attempt to swallow my laughter I began to nod my head, and then shook it as I broke down into a fit of giggles. Tears of laughter began to slide down my cheeks, soon shifting into heaving sobs of frustration and anger.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake!” Johnson fumed. “Pull yourself together, woman! There’s a deranged were on the loose and you’ve got a bulls-eye painted on your back.”

  Rather than helping me to reign in my rampaging emotions, his words worked instead to incite more tears and wracking sobs.

  “Why don’t you give us a minute?” Holbrook asked, stepping between us, shielding me from Johnson’s view as fat, angry tears tracked down my face.

  “Fine. I’ll be outside.” He strode from the room, his no-nonsense shoes thumping on the wooden floor. I distantly heard the snick of a lighter, and a moment later smelled the choking scent of cigarette smoke drifting in through the open door.

  “Is he always such an asshat?” I asked, sniffing as I swiped at my tears with the cuff of my shirt.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Holbrook replied with a wry grin that brought a weak smile to my lips.

  “So, protective custody huh?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so. It really is the safest thing for you.”

  “I get it,” I said, nodding as I valiantly held back another wave of tears.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I stood in the middle of my living room, adrift in a sea of emotions as I looked around at my cozy and familiar home, a lifetime of memories embedded in the time worn floors, the sagging couch cushions, and intricate lace curtains hanging in the window above the kitchen sink. Absently, my fingers trailed over the afghan on the back of the couch, the rough, knobby wool familiar under my fingertips.

  Looking down at the bags at my feet my heart constricted in sadness. The meager contents of my life had been crammed into my dad’s old army duffel bag and a backpack. It was all too reminiscent of the trial, being cloistered away in a hotel room and living out of a suitcase.

  “It’s not forever. I promise,” Holbrook said at my shoulder, his voice pitched low and soft.

  Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Agent.

  Swallowing against the tears that rose unbidden and hot at the edges of my eyes I nodded stiffly, not trusting myself to speak. I hated crying in front of others. My tears had been broadcast across the nation, and around the globe, during the trial that had sentenced Samson to serve eight consecutive life sentences. My pain was laid bare, flayed open for the world to see as ruthlessly as he had torn open my body. I never wanted anyone to see me hurting and weak, ever again.

  “What the hell is that?” Johnson demanded, cutting through the emotion wrought silence. Following the direction of his accusing finger I looked down to the cat carrier at my feet as it began to ominously rock from side to side, emitting a very loud and grating noise that could only be described as someone trying to the choke the life out of a rabid weasel. And losing.

  “Loki. My cat.”

  “This is not a vacation, Ms.
Cray. You are not bringing that thing with you.”

  “The hell I’m not!” I replied, glaring at the older agent. “I’ll sprout wings and fart fairy dust before I leave without him. So you can suck it up and let me bring him, or you can explain to your boss and the media that I got torn apart by Samson because you didn’t want me to bring my kitty-cat.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw Holbrook’s face flush with the effort not to laugh, a small chuckle escaping his lips before he was able to smother it with an unconvincing cough. Johnson’s features soured, his lips pursing as if he were sucking on a particularly tart lemon, but he didn’t offer any further protests.

  “Fine. But I’m not scooping its shit,” he growled before storming out the door to go stand in the cold.

  “Argh! Why’s he such a humongous tool?” I asked, rounding on Holbrook with a snarl. The burning itch in my eyes and the look of alarm on his face let me know that they had begun to bleed over to wolf gold.

  Embarrassed by my lack of control I turned my back to him, closing my eyes as I drew several slow breaths, urging my pulse to slow as I pushed the wolf down. My hands clenched and unclenched at my sides, my palms hot and sweaty, but thankfully still human. Tension sang in my hunched shoulders as they trembled with the need to shift, to run and get as far away as possible.

  Not now, not now, I chanted, fighting to push the wolf back into the dark as I clung to the fraying remnants of my humanity.

  After what seemed like an eternity she obeyed, sliding back into the darkness, but not before letting me know that next time she wouldn’t go without a fight.

  “Sorry,” I whispered. “I’m not normally so easily riled. It’s just...”

  “It’s okay,” Holbrook said, his hand a tentative, but warm and welcome weight on my shoulder. “Johnson’s an annoying jerk at times, but he’s a good agent. You’re lucky to have him watching your back.”