“What are you?” the lead Jackal asked curiously, obviously fighting against the paralytic, trying to force his body to move.
He was growing desperate, though only the scent of that desperation was apparent. Desperate to save his partner.
Looking between the two, he growled low, a rumble of warning, of intent.
“The Council’s worst nightmare,” he rasped. “A monster they dragged from the depths of an agony no man or beast should ever know.”
“Others will come.” The warning was given freely. “They believe she’s your mate, your weakness. They won’t stop until they have her.”
“And I won’t stop until all of you are dead.” Echoing with death, his voice was dragged from the pit of the monster’s soul as he moved to the weaker Jackal. “This one is your weakness, Jackal. You can hear him scream . . .”
? CHAPTER 8 ?
“Gideon?” Her voice, sweet, a summer rain infused with innocence, caused the monstrous rage filling him to pause.
“Leave,” he snapped without looking at her. “You have no stomach for it, so go now.”
He could smell her pain, her certainty that she could call him back from the rage consuming him.
She didn’t understand. It was her only protection. This merciless determination to do what must be done at all costs. His ability to retreat and allow the monster free. Without it, he would have never survived the insanity that had crawled through him over the years.
“Don’t do this, Gideon,” she whispered, stepping into the room as he turned to her. Her gaze locked with his, her voice low, calming. “Let Graeme and the Bureau handle this. I called Graeme. He’ll be here soon.”
His gaze narrowed. What the hell was she doing?
She was reaching into him, touching his soul as she pleaded with her eyes.
Forcing his gaze from hers he let it rake over her. She’d dressed in durable black pants similar to combat wear. A black short-sleeved T-shirt and a weapon strapped to her hips. For a moment pride and satisfaction filled him. The injection he’d given her wasn’t just an antidote and immunization against the paralytic. With it, he’d added a unique healing agent that would work with the Breed genetics she possessed to aid in healing wounds, or mending bones. And it worked far faster on her than he’d anticipated.
She definitely looked ready to kill rather than initiate a game he would no doubt enjoy. If it didn’t get both of them killed.
“Jonas doesn’t have the balls for this,” he growled, though there were a few times Jonas had shown amazing promise in that department.
“Graeme has cameras in here somewhere,” she stated as though assuring him of it.
Of course this was being recorded. He kept records of everything.
“What they attempted, what Raymond attempted, can’t be denied.” Moving closer, she held him as nothing ever had. “Let Graeme handle this, Gideon. You have to leave before anyone else realizes you’re here.”
Rage pulsed through him, filling his blood, his senses, but it was easing. The insanity was locked on her, centering. The stripes would disappear.
Raymond and the Jackals would learn Graeme and Gideon were the same Breed unless he did as she implored him to.
It wouldn’t matter if they knew the two identities were one, unless he did as she asked and turned them over to Jonas. If they learned he was Graeme as well, then he would have no choice but to kill them.
Either choice was tempting. The game or the kill?
His gaze turned back to the Jackals watching curiously, then to Raymond, whose dark eyes filled with calculated hope.
There would be no screams to soothe the maddened monster raging inside Graeme, no matter how it craved the sound of them.
A snarl ripped from him, vicious, one that hungered for blood.
“What did you do to my perfect little cat?” He snapped at the silent horror that refilled the Navajo’s gaze. “Such weakness. She would have never allowed an enemy mercy had I been able to complete her training. She shouldn’t have anyway.” The snarl he flashed to his captive had him paling.
It did little to alleviate the disappointed disgust he could feel.
“I raised her for twelve years,” he raged, staring into the deep brown, panic-filled eyes. “I tried my best, I swear I did, to instill the right values in her. To teach her the value of blood and when best to spill it. Where did I go wrong? Where did I teach that fucking girl mercy? I had none.”
But he had. Gideon had. For one four-day-old babe he’d known the oddest mercy. The most peculiar affection. As he’d stared into her pale, ill little face and seen the shadow of death lurking in her gaze, he’d known mercy. The Bengal that paced and growled inside him had stilled, staring at the child almost as perplexed as he had been.