Possessed by a Wolf. Sharon Ashwood
as the wolf’s had been. She could almost touch his resentment. He wore it like a scar over the hurt she’d left behind. “This was all I wanted. To be close to you, even with you knowing what I am. I thought maybe you could eventually get past the wolf.”
Lexie’s hands found his chest. It was familiar territory, bringing back a flood of sensory reminders. Suddenly she felt flushed and aching with memory. Her first thought was to push him away, but the crack in his voice stopped her. Her heart was pounding so fast she felt breathless, her face nearly numb. “I’m sorry.”
Her hands slid down his shirt, feeling the quivering muscle beneath. He was holding himself in check so hard, it felt as if he might explode. Her fingers became clumsy, unequal to whatever it was she was trying to do. Comfort? Fend off? She’d lost all sense of direction.
And then her hand found hot, sticky wetness. She gasped. “Faran, you’re bleeding.”
He exhaled, his breath warm against her cheek. “That wasn’t what you said in my fantasy of this moment.”
“Faran...”
He pulled away, walking backward. Cold air flooded in to take his place. “Go home, Lexie. Get out of here. Whatever’s going on is just going to get worse. Believe it or not, I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Of course she believed him. Whatever else he was, Faran had never been cruel. “But aren’t you in danger?”
He stopped moving, his hand over his injury again. “That’s got nothing to do with you.”
Lexie couldn’t help feeling that he was very, very wrong. “What are you going to do?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked away. It was exactly what she’d done to him back in Paris.
It was what she wanted.
She was absolutely sure of it.
Almost.
“You’re lucky you left the scene when you did,” Sam said to Faran. “The discussion in the reception hall went from bad to worse.”
It was just before dawn and Faran was exhausted. Sam didn’t look much better. He had gone from the palace to a long meeting with the Company’s top brass and hadn’t even bothered to change out of his torn suit.
Now they were sitting in one of the break rooms at the Company’s headquarters, which was a compound hidden in the hills outside the capital city. It had been decorated by vampires, and looked like a cross between a country club and a crypt—all dark, heavy furniture and oxblood wallpaper.
“What did I miss?” Faran asked. “Please tell me Prince Kyle did more than send Gregori to bed without his supper.”
“Amelie was ready to flay him alive for threatening her personal guards.”
“I’m touched.”
“I’m in awe. She has her father’s temper.”
Of course the members of the Company were more than just bodyguards. They were supernatural operatives, and the King of Marcari encouraged their participation where and when the international community needed them.
Faran was one of the Four Horsemen, the Company’s crack unit named after the riders of the Apocalypse: Death, Plague, Famine and War. Sam was called War and the doctor, Mark Winspear, Plague. Faran was Famine and the only one not a vampire. Jack Anderson—Death—had been killed in action. He’d been like the father Faran had never had.
Even one man down, the Horsemen were the best. They took the call after the CIA, the FBI, MI5 and all the rest of the big boys failed to get results. Then they slipped in and did what needed doing. They were ghosts, action heroes and James Bond all wrapped into one fabulous package—at least on a good day.
This had not been one of Faran’s better days. “I would have stayed, but silver bullets aren’t exactly my friends. Once I got the bleeding under control, I came back here.”
“I would think so.”
Faran slumped as far down in the armchair as he could without pulling his stitches. “Still, I hated to miss the punch line.”
The whole time he’d been in the reception room, Faran had felt his strength fading, his vision going dark. He’d been bleeding out, but every instinct had refused to let him show weakness. Not in front of the enemy.
Not in front of Lexie.
“You drove like that?” Sam asked, changing the subject abruptly.
“I turned human first. Easier to reach the gas pedal.”
The vampire gave him a look. “I’m surprised you managed without passing out.”
Faran grunted. “Not a big deal.”
“Right. You could have asked for help.”
“Whatever.” Being the token werewolf in the group wasn’t easy. As tough as he was, keeping up with vampires demanded his best game. There’d been a few bad moments in the locker room when he’d struggled into his shirt. There were so many tiny movements that went unnoticed until a person had a hole ripped through his gut. And the walk to the parking garage a few streets away from the palace had been no treat, either. But he’d rather shave off his fur than admit it.
“Did anyone see you?”
“Chloe,” he answered automatically, but then he hesitated. “She was with Lexie.”
Sam cocked an eyebrow. “Any problems there?”
“No.” Not in the way Sam meant. Lexie would never betray the fact that he was a werewolf. She’d been true to her word about keeping his nature and the Company a secret. By Company law, she should have had her memories wiped, but he hadn’t been able to ask that of her. Lexie clung fiercely to her independence, and obviously that included control over her memory. That bargain—her silence for his trust—was the one unbroken promise between them.
Faran leaned his head against the chair back, closing his eyes. “Lexie and I talked for a few minutes and then I left.”
Her voice—always low, always a little throaty—had resonated through him, stirring up the memory of so many midnight conversations. A hopeless, empty feeling yawned inside him, reminding him that she’d recoiled from the very core of what he was. Faran pressed his hand against the wound in his side, as if that would keep his soul, as well as blood, from leaking away.
He opened his eyes. Sam was watching him. Faran was used to the undead, but there was something about that motionless, storm-gray gaze that put him on the alert, predator to predator. “You’re giving me the vampire stink-eye.”
“I remember the mess you were in when you two broke it off before. Right now, we need your head in the game.”
Faran didn’t argue. “Not an issue. We’re barely on speaking terms.”
“She faced down men with guns for you. That took a lot of courage.”
“She didn’t mean anything by it.” He’d learned his lesson the first time. “Our love life was filled with sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
Sam didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop. “Shall we move on to the hounds and bullets part of the entertainment?”
“Why not?”
“We need to talk about what happened tonight.”
“I’ve heard that one before, but the girl was half-naked and holding a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.”
“Don’t joke. Not now.” Sam’s worried expression sobered Faran.
Faran tried to sit straight and regretted it. “What’s up? Give me the quick and dirty version first.”
“The