Eli swiveled his head over his shoulder as he ejected one magazine and slammed in another. “Five that I can count.” His face was set in the emotionless lines of the soldier under fire, but his eyes were fierce. “Alex is in the garage. He went back out to get one of his electronic things. I don’t think they know he’s there.”
I dialed Alex’s phone, hoping it was on vibrate or that the sound of his ring tone was hidden under the gunfire. When he answered, I said, “Are you safe?”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” he whispered. “There are people with guns everywhere!”
“Are. You. Safe?”
“Yeah. For now.”
“Where?”
“I locked myself in the limo.”
I chuckled. “Good move. Stay there.”
I ended the call and said, “Kid’s good. He’s locked in the limo.”
Eli fired off three shots. Wrassler fired off three shots and ejected his magazine. In the mudroom, Esmee fired off two rounds and I nearly went deaf.
“I’ll reload,” Wrassler said, starting on the empty magazines.
“I really need to teach the Kid how to shoot,” Eli grumbled. But some of the fierceness had left his eyes.
“I’ll check on the front,” I said. “It’s gone quiet.” Placing my bare feet carefully, I stepped through the house, from room to room, checking each one as I moved. When I reached the front of the house, I spotted Bruiser on one knee behind a sofa, which would provide zero protection from bullets, but did hide him from sight. Three empty magazines and a semiautomatic were at his knee. He was out of ammo or his nine-mil had jammed. In a two-hand grip was an old, long-barreled pistol, one I hadn’t seen before. He was waiting for a frontal assault to come through the door. Idiot.
A shadow moved near the entrance. Then another. Two forms rushed through, moving with the speed of freshly fed blood-servants. I started to lift my weapon.
Bruiser moved and everything happened out of order. Faster than I could process. He straightened his back, raising above the sofa. Fired four shots, so close atop one another that they seemed to overlap, with the barest hint of a pause between shots two and three as he readjusted his aim. The two blood-servants fell, the one in front sliding sideways, hitting an easel holding an ugly painting, sending both spinning. Bruiser practically flew across the sofa and caught the painting. The other blood-servant fell with a hollow thump. Bruiser set the painting on the sofa. The easel landed with a crash on the floor. He checked the two he had dropped.
I whipped back behind the wall. What the heck? I had never seen anyone except a vamp move so fast. I remembered Katie saying to him, “You will live. And still mostly human . . .” What was Bruiser now? How close to being a blood-sucker was he?
I made a faint sound and stepped out. Bruiser was at the front entrance, scanning the yard. “We’re clear here,” he said, without turning around. He closed the front door with a snap, and the dead bolt settled into its slot.
“Good,” I said, sounding almost normal. “I’ll go help with the back, then.”
Bruiser turned to me, his brown eyes taking me in. His roaming gaze paused at the sight of my bare feet, lifted, and stopped at my chest. Oh yeah. No bra. White T-shirt. A warm smile lit his face and he met my eyes. Beast’s claws dug in hard as she stared back. Heat hit me. That deep, limb-numbing heat of unexpected, pure lust. Electric shocks sizzled through me, settling in the palms of my hands, soles of my feet. My breasts tightened. Heaviness weighted my lower belly with need.
I should be mad at Bruiser. I am mad at him, I thought. He betrayed me.
Mine, Beast thought. Which explained a lot.
Gunfire sounded from the rear of the house. A scream echoed in the backyard. I should have been moving that way. Instead, I was standing, gun gripped in both hands, as Bruiser crossed the room, slowly this time. He moved like a dancer, all lithe grace, the soles of his shoes making no sound beneath the concussive damage to my ears. Beast held me down and unmoving.
The gunfire at the back of the house fell silent. Our side had won, I guessed.
Bruiser holstered the long-barreled weapon in a shoulder holster and took my Walther out of my hand. His other slid around my nape, under my braid. He leaned into me, his body so heated it radiated through my clothes. Burning. His mouth landed on mine. Crushing, his teeth hitting, clacking against mine. I dropped my head back into his palm, and some feral sound came from my mouth, part moan, part purr, all need. His tongue slid between my lips. He smelled like caramel, like heated brown sugar, with a hint of something spicy. He cupped my backside, the gun hard and cold, his hand, holding it and me, felt like heated velvet.
I melded to him, his taller body fitting over mine as if we were made for it. He shoved me to the wall at my back. The cold gun vanished. His hot hand lifted me, his fingers so close—so close—to where I wanted them. He lifted me, and my legs went around him, my ankles locking at his spine. I pressed my center against his hard, long length. Wanting . . .
His other hand slid down the side of my neck and across my collarbone, floated over my breast, slowing, tightening, fingers pulling at my nipple through my T. My hands were inside his shirt, sliding across his shoulders. Buttons flew.
A bark of pain sounded above renewed gunfire at the back. We jerked apart, our eyes holding, our breathing fast, oxygen starved. “This is nuts,” I whispered.