Blood Mate: The Project Rebellion, Book 2 (3 page)

She was taking a man to his death to get what she wanted.

Who was the real monster?

The scent of the forest filtering through the vents on the sides of the cabin gave way to farmland. The wilder smell would disappear when they crossed into the drier, arid wastelands around the camp. Which suited the Project fine. Miles after miles of dry, empty scrubland meant no one could watch the base. Nothing lived out there. Nothing wanted to live out there.

Her prisoner gasped again, twitching in the silver-reinforced manacles before slumping again, and lay still.

Without moving, without blinking, she watched him. He was tall, with masses of dark hair falling to his shoulders. A lock lay across his face. Had she been human, she would have been tempted to brush it away. To feel the texture of the silken strands as it slipped between her fingers. Smooth the hair back to reveal features so hard and masculine even a near-dead Blood like her felt the pull of attraction. But she wasn’t human, wasn’t anything even close, so she stayed where she was. Watching him.

The hair brushed broad shoulders which flowed down into a well-muscled chest and flat stomach. There wasn’t an ounce of body fat on him—his physique ripped enough to give even the most dedicated gym-bunny a serious case of the green-eyed monster. If he had to work out to maintain it, though, she was a monkey’s uncle.

Like Bloods, when the virus entered their system, Lycans were done with needing to exercise. Their metabolisms sped up, they lost weight, got faster and stronger—their bodies running at optimum. Perfect biological function. The fact they turned furry had been unexpected. Her lips quirked. Forget life imitating art, this was science imitating myth and legend.

Civilization was screwed.

Her gaze wandered down across his chest and paused for a moment on the flat discs of his nipples. One was scarred, the small circular indentation familiar. He’d had a piercing at some point. Had to have been before he’d been turned because it took a lot to scar a Lycan. A mere nipple piercing just wouldn’t.

Her attention moved on. It was obvious he liked tattoos—his skin was decorated with them. Tribal designs warred for space with winged daggers on his arms, and the trailing edges of the mystical symbols over his stomach disappeared under the low slung waistband of his combat pants.

Heat threatened her bloodstream again so she yanked her gaze up and fixed on another of his tattoos. Small and discrete, tucked away on the side of his ribcage but visible with his hands above his head—she recognized it instantly.

A meat tag.

His name, serial number and—she tilted her head a little to read—what looked like his blood-type inked into his skin. All the information required to identify him in case his torso parted company with the rest of his body, although the jury was out as to whether or not this was effective with current explosives. Such markings were used by Special Forces, soldiers who went into the worst sort of combat. The kind that meant body bags rarely contained a whole body and two left feet didn’t always refer to dancing ability.

She knew because she had a similar marking on the side of her left breast. For all the fucking good it had done. No meat tag was proof against a virus—she’d learned that the hard way.

The truck rattled across a couple of potholes, the Lycan rolling against the wheel arch with a grunt. The movement stretched the skin over his side so she leaned in to get a closer look at the tag.

D. Foster.

Darcy Foster, Lieutenant.

She rifled through her memories of the pre-op reports she’d read on the Lycan section, the pages laid out in her mind as though she held them. Headed up by Captain Jack Harper, Alpha-Three were a Project success story when it came to the Lycans. They were one of the only groups with a defined alpha, and perhaps because of that had regained control of their new natures within a couple of weeks of infection. A fully operational combat unit, the Project had fielded them again and again, sending them into situations deemed far too hazardous for human troops.

Then something had happened. One of the eggheads had gotten nervous about the ease with which the pack alpha, Harper, could shift and the whole squad had been deemed dangerous and locked down. Given a one way trip to the land of the hug-yourself jackets while the scientists worked out what the hell was going on.

Foster was Harper’s second in command, and classified a potential alpha himself. A Special Forces soldier with a kill rate that would have made the average serial killer glow with pride, and his disciplinary record was just as impressive. He’d had numerous run-ins with authority until he’d been put with Harper. Then nothing. Like the rebel had found God and turned over a new leaf. The last year or two he’d been as quiet as a mouse, even after the squad had been turned, and now deemed “stable”.

As stable as a furry killing machine could be, anyway.

She didn’t believe a word of it. Oh, Foster and his group might be good at playing cute for the eggheads, but she’d seen the files. Alpha-Three hadn’t been volunteers, or even an accident like her. Instead, they’d been so good at what they did—killing—that the Project had decided they were the perfect specimens. And what the Project wanted, the Project got. Alpha-Three had been brought in for “medical assessment”, knocked out, strapped down and infected with LY16.

Toni shivered at the thought. Her own turning hadn’t been traumatic, but she’d seen enough that had been. Not long after she’d been infected, a group of volunteers had been processed. Garry had allowed her to watch to prove how lightly she’d gotten off, to prove that being a Blood beat being a Lycan hands down. But the situation had gone tits up quicker than two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

The cute young soldier in the nearest restraint cage, the one who had been winking and trying to flirt with her, howled in agony and rage when the needle had pierced his skin. Skin which flowed and bubbled, sprouting fur and fangs in all the wrong places while his body contorted. It twisted and writhed, changing shapes as though unable to choose between a humanoid or a lupine form, before settling on something sickeningly between the two. A form too big for the silver-wrapped steel—the bars cut into his fur-covered flesh as his change crushed him to death within the too-small space.

Toni jerked out of her light doze when the vehicle rattled to a stop. Sitting up straight, she blinked sleep out of her eyes and then scowled. The Lycan had sat up and was watching her, his amber-brown eyes steady. Irritation surged through her. She straightened her shirt sharply, as though she’d been rolling around the truck-bed while she slept instead of being propped up against the wheel arch.
 

What the hell was with that? She
never
dropped off easily, not even when comfortable and safe in her own bed on camp. So why the hell had she done it in the back of a truck within feet of a dangerous Lycan who could wake at any moment?

“What you looking at?” she snarled, discomforted by his unwavering attention.

While she’d dozed, he’d obviously worked the drugs through his system. Dark marks around his wrist and the scent of blood in the air told her he’d tried to escape his bonds. He hadn’t managed it. Relief rolled through her. At least she’d been woken by the truck jolting, not by the hard body of a Lycan pinning her to the deck as he prepared to rip her throat out.

Or kissed her within an inch of her life again.

“You.”

He took his time replying, his dark-light gaze sweeping over her with a very male expression of appreciation.
 

 
“Go on, snarl again. You’re cute when you’re mad. And those little fangs?” He shivered, pulling his lower lip between his teeth for a second and closing his eyes in apparent pleasure. “You can bite me any day of the week.”

“Yeah, right.” She pushed off the side of the vehicle and moved over to drop the tailgate. “Like I’d want to bite a mangy mutt like you.”

“Mange? Lady, you wound me.”

He shifted position as if to clasp his chest but was halted by the metal around his wrists. It caught one of the raw wounds and a small trickle of blood rolled down his arm as the scent blossomed on the air.

She ignored the pull, the interest in the slender trail of scarlet and yanked the locking pins loose to kick the tailgate down. Metal crunched underfoot, a boot-shaped impression visible for a fraction of a second before it slammed into the back of the chassis below.

“Temper, temper.”

She gritted her teeth as the Lycan snickered. She was letting him get to her. Worse, she’d let him
see
that he was getting to her. She fixed him with a black stare. One she’d been told was as hard as nails and twice as deadly.

“Shut your mouth. Or I’ll shut it for you. Permanently.”

Chapter Three

Oh, she really was gorgeous.

Darce didn’t bother to reply. Just watched her turn again, her slender figure silhouetted against the open back of the truck before she stepped off with all the unnatural grace he’d come to associate with Bloods. She hit the ground without breaking stride, then stalked toward the small group of men and vehicles behind the truck.

They were a bedraggled group, one who bore the hallmarks of being put through the wringer combat-wise and coming out on the losing side. Battered and bruised, most of them wore field dressings like a new fashion, lines of pain written into their features as they crowded around the woman in their midst. They were all armed, but he’d be surprised if any of them had enough ammunition left to defend the ragtag group of vehicles.

A grin spread over his face. It was obvious what had happened. The Project had gone up against his pack and come off the losers. Hoo-fucking-rah. As it should be. Teach the bastards to mess with Lycans.

He tested the cuffs, yanking on them to see if they would give. What he planned to do if they did, he had no clue since the woman barking orders not twenty feet away held far more interest for him than escaping to rejoin the rest of the pack.

He ignored the pain in his wrists in favor of watching her again. Silver burned like a bitch but he didn’t care. Sometimes a little bit of pain was cool, liking riding the edge of a wave, which was why he’d kept the silver bar for his nipple, putting it back in after each operation. Sure, he had to re-punch the hole each time but…pleasure and pain. Nothing like it.

She walked along a row of green body bags, her body language neutral. That was one thing he’d noticed about the Bloods he’d seen on camp. They were like automatons. No reactions, no facial expressions, nothing. They could stand motionless for hours, like a robot with the power switched off. Blank expression, empty eyes. Lifelike statues left there in the middle of the street. Then something would wake them and they’d move. He’d seen one do it once in the middle of lunch hour at the base. A male.

A smoker until he’d been infected, Darce was always the first out of the barracks in the morning. He liked to lounge against the wall and watch the sunrise through the wire link fence which kept them prisoners. Like his body remembered the routine, but didn’t need the drug.

The Blood had been there when he’d walked out that morning and he’d watched it until the pack had gotten moving. It had still been there when they’d gotten back hours later for lunch.

Swarms of humans passed by, all en-route to and from the mess hall, when the Blood blinked, and then grabbed hold of a woman who had passed by too close. Screams and pandemonium ensued, amusing Darce greatly as the human forces tried to get the woman from the creature without her being harmed or infected. His amusement had fled when their attempts had failed. The creature had lost control, snarling at the soldiers. The sharp crack of the woman’s neck snapping rang out in the midday air, followed by automatic fire when the creature was put down.

Darce’s pretty Blood wouldn’t lose control, though. He knew that without asking. She was too contained, too together, even if he had seen her slip and fall asleep in the truck. If he’d meant her harm…

His gaze caressed her form again as she studied the bags. Green for human, and there were a shit-load of them. He tried hard to feel sorry for the occupants, but gave up quickly. Any soldier who had spent more than an hour on the Project base knew what they were getting into, and those who stayed were as bad as the powers pulling the strings.

Any sensible person who saw what was going on there would run and not stop running until they’d left the place far behind. If he’d had the chance—if they hadn’t locked him into a cage and filled his veins with the crap that called the beast forth from the darkest corners of his psyche—he’d have run. He wouldn’t have stopped running until he’d found someplace so far from modern civilization he could call himself a caveman.

He shifted position with a grunt, propping his shoulder against the cold metal behind him to try and relieve the tension in his arms. His hands tingled as the blood flow was restored, the wounds on his wrists re-opening every time the silver-strengthened cuffs cut deep. The Project forces had come well prepared.

She walked along the line of body bags, inclining her head to listen to the guy, a human, walking next to her. Darce fought back a snarl when the smaller man reached out at the end of the turn, as if to put a guiding hand on the small of her back. Jealousy pounded through Darce.
His.
His to touch, to protect. Not this human’s.