Soul Resurrected (Sons of Wrath, #2) (19 page)

He walked on ahead of her, and suddenly the thought of getting on the motorcycle with him spurred tension in her muscles.

“Pick up the pace,” he called over his shoulder. “Christ, no wonder the bounty hunter took both of you.”

The words reached her ears and spread through her body, igniting into flames of sheer hatred. Her hands trembled and she balled them into fists, itching to ram them into his face.

Halting, she stemmed the urges beckoning her from the inside and stared down at the white snow that’d been mutilated by Logan’s footprints. She scooped up a handful, packed it into a tight ball and chucked it—straight for the back of his head.

White dusting flew off his nape.

Logan froze.

Calla swallowed a gulp.
Oh, shit.

His hand curled around his neck and he forcefully brushed away the snow.

The glare he shot back, brow furrowed, lips forming a tight line, had her defenses on sensory overload. “I’m sick and tired of you making me feel like hell for what happened,” she snapped. “This ends, right now.”

Logan turned slowly to face her and crossed his arms over his huge chest. “What’s the matter, princess? Did I hit the guilt button?”

She bit the inside of her mouth, swiped up another handful of snow, and hurled it at him again.

Logan batted it away. “You pull that shit one more time, and I’ll leave your ass here.”

“I’ll save you the trouble.” She spun around in the direction they’d just come, her adrenaline coursing. Teeth gritted, she wished for the kind of strength that could knock him flat on his backside.

Something smacked hers, tripping her forward a step.

She twisted to see a patch of white against the black leather, square on her right ass cheek. Her eyes narrowed on Logan standing in the same spot with a wicked grin on his face. “Asshole,” she muttered, continuing on back toward the building. Where the hell she planned to go, Calla had no idea.

Her only objective: getting as far away from Logan as possible.

Another sharp burn from behind had Calla halting again. He’d hit her
other
ass cheek.

When she turned, he stood with his arms crossed, his hand rubbing along his jaw over his mouth and the dimples in his cheek.

“That’s how you want to play?” She bent forward and felt the smash of ice hit her crown.

A shake of her head had it sprinkling onto the ground, and she volleyed another snowball back at him, hitting his shoulder.

Pivoting on her heel, she took off running, the urge to laugh quickly replaced by the stark reality that she had just screwed herself.

Dammit.

As she jogged toward the building, her thoughts immediately reverted back to the situation and the likelihood that she’d have to sleep in the same place in which she’d almost been tortured to death—because, God knew, she wasn’t about to ask Logan to take her back to the mansion and there wasn’t another building around for miles.

As she peered into the dark depths of the first level, her senses faded to numbness.

A blow to her side knocked her into the snow, slamming the breath right out of her. Arms locked around her waist, taking the brunt of the fall.

She tensed her muscles and squirmed in his grasp. His snort from beneath only goaded her, taunting those killer instincts inside of her.

Whether demon or lycan, any potential threat brought forth a natural reaction to fight—an Alexi trait ingrained into every soldier.

Refusing to admit defeat, she twisted and contorted her arms—a silent struggle that seemed to go on for minutes, until she finally stilled and blew out a breath.

“Are we finished?”

Screw you
.

“No running. Got it?”

Go to hell
.

“I’ll stay here all fucking night if I have to.” He squeezed tighter. “I’m taking you back. You want to leave after that? Be my guest. But you’re not taking off on my watch.”

Fine
.

He must’ve sensed the invisible white flag she tossed back at him, because his grip loosened and Calla knocked his arm away as she clambered to her feet. She scowled, brushing snow from her backside. “Why do you have to be so …
assholish
?”

“Assholish? Your curse words only come in vanilla?” His chin dimpled, which only made Calla want to smack him.

“I will never convince you how …
sick
I feel for what happened. If I could take his place, I would! So why don’t you quit twisting the knife in my gut?” No sooner did the words pass her lips than she already guessed what he’d say.

With casual steps toward her, he pushed right up in her face, his jaw flexing a warning. “If I recall,
princess
, I’m the only one who’s been stabbed with a knife.”

“Quit. Calling. Me. Princess.”

“Let’s go. Now.” His lips twitched and, by God, if he called her princess one more time, she’d haul off and smack him for sure, but he merely held out his hand and ushered her forth. “After you.”

She rolled her shoulders and took one step.

“Your highness.”

She paused. The change in her perception signaled the color of her eyes had turned gold.

Logan grinned. “Hit another hot button, did I?”

Bastard
. That’s exactly what he aimed to do. Get a reaction out of her. Taunt her. Who knew why?

She held her chin up and cleared her throat, the gold fading away. “You know, I never thanked you.” Her voice carried a smile in spite of the rage beating at her bones.

That grin of his quickly morphed into a frown. “For what?”

“For helping me that night.
Saving
me. You didn’t
have
to do that. Ya know, get yourself killed, and all.”

The tick in his jaw gave her a pretty clear indication she’d hit a hot button herself.

Good.
She smiled and sauntered past him, toward the motorcycle.

CHAPTER 14

The sound of his own screaming reverberated in Zeke’s mind.

How long had he listened to it?

Hours, maybe, before the hunter seemed to grow bored of the torture.

Rawness burned Zeke’s throat and every breath arrived on a wheeze; his chest had become sensitive to the air, as though it’d been cracked open and exposed.

In contrast, a cold sensation slithered across his body like ice claiming what was once warm.

He swam in darkness—his eyes, mutilated by something that, as the hunter had approached, looked like nothing more than a metal toothpick. Lucky for Zeke they
had
been mutilated.

Wet sounds and grunts, listening to the hunter go to work on his body, had sickened him enough. Even if he’d wanted to see, his head had been strapped down by metal of the underworld.

How far had he been dragged across snow and concrete to get there?

What is this place?

Death?
He could only hope.

In centuries, Zeke hadn’t known that kind of pain before. The same pain his brothers Logan and Gavin must have endured for fifty years.

Jesus
.
Fifty years
of that shit.

The thought suddenly had him feeling like a pussy.

His breathing slowed.
Dying?
He couldn’t be sure. Didn’t know what had been used on him, only knew that, in his head, he’d been taken to the very heart of Obsidius and back. Goddamn, he wouldn’t have wished it on his enemies.

Zayne came to mind.

What he’d have given to say something to his twin at that moment. All those years he’d ragged on him for falling in love with a human female. How he’d never really been there for him when she died. Zeke could only guess how it’d killed him little by little to go through that suffering alone.

Fuck
. The guilt of his own thoughts rivaled the pain of his tortures.

Interspersed blackness interrupted his pondering. Was he awake? Alive?

A snaking sensation crawled beneath his skin, like skinny strings of jagged steel being tugged inside his muscles.

He stiffened at the inferno spreading through his veins.

Numbness faded again.

The heavy thud of boots signaled the return of his captor.

* * *

Logan pulled the bike up to the curb in front of the mansion and waited for Calla to climb off, watching as she unhooked and removed her helmet, leaving her blonde curls to fall about her head.

Jesus.

The snowball fight and tackling her to the ground had been enough to evoke a raging cock dance, but seeing her just then threatened to rob him of coherence.

He needed to get the hell out of there and kill something.

Fast.

She handed him the helmet.

“Give it to Ben.” Logan revved the bike and, before she said or did anything else that might make him tackle her right into his bed, he sped down the drive and back through the gates, leaving Calla at the curb.

Damn the female.

Logan’s teeth ground so hard in his head, a spasm of pain shot through his skull. Had it not been for her, he’d have never gotten stabbed. Zeke wouldn’t be at the mercy of a fucking psychopathic mercenary.

And his dick wouldn’t be as hard as a scratching post.

She’d scrambled his brain with that touch.

Like some kind of black magic gaszla.

Her fingertips had somehow awakened a slumbering beast inside of him—a dark and twisted lust that he’d kept tucked away for years.

Yeah, he had needs. All demon males had needs. But what she’d undone gave him the creeps. It brought images to his head—things he suddenly
needed
to do to her: tie her, tease her, take her in every way imaginable.

Angry sex that would leave her weakened and sated.

The thoughts cast euphoria through his body and tugged a smile from his lips—until he pounded a fist against his head. “Shut the fuck up. Horny bastard.”

He had to get her out of his head. Had to get that lingering touch off his skin. More important matters remained at hand: finding his brother and pummeling the hell out of the nephilim responsible for Zeke’s capture. Not to mention, at some point, he’d have to find that prick who stabbed him in the heart.

That’d be a nice, slow kill, though.

Logan parked the bike in front of Moonshine’s, hopped off, and stalked through the door and right up to the bouncer, like he owned the place.

“Where’s Ryke?”

The biker reached inside his patched vest and pulled a knife. “Funny, you look an awful lot like the asshole who was in here last week. Awful lot like the one I’ve been instructed to gut like a fish.”

“You must be his bitch.”

Dodging a jab of the knife, Logan had the male’s arm in his grip, and, in one snap, bent it back to an unnatural position.

The outcry from the biker traveled along Logan’s nerves and put a smile on his face.

“You broke my fucking arm!”

Logan gave a slow nod. “That I did.”

“He … ain’t here.” The biker cradled his mutilated arm. “He ain’t … comin’ in.”

Not here?
The cocksucker was never
not here
, from what Logan had heard.

Logan slammed the big biker against the wall. “I’ll
ask
one more time. Nicely. And then I’ll carve the question into your gut. How’s that?” His dagger pressed into the biker’s stomach as he leaned into the deformed limb.

Eyes scrunched, the bouncer spoke through clenched teeth. “He got … tied up. Not … coming in. Ain’t been … here in days. I swear it.”

“Then you won’t mind if I take a look around.” Logan released him and replaced the dagger back into its sheath.

The biker stumbled aside and allowed him through the door.

Scents hit Logan’s nose. Mutts, blood and females in heat—a distinct mixture that twitched his lips. Moonshines had a reputation of cheap and shady, but in the hours just before closing, it turned into an orgy of drunken debauchery.

A hand slid across his chest, nothing more than a trail of numbness. “Looking for someone?” Her voice carried a rasp, as if she’d smoked a pack of cigarettes before approaching him.

“No.” Logan grabbed her wrist and removed it from the front of his shirt.

Lycan.

“You’re one fine looking male.” She drew in a sharp inhale. “Mmmm. Good enough to eat.”