Soul Resurrected (Sons of Wrath, #2) (21 page)

“These females had better be released.” Gavin pressed his pointed finger into the nephilim’s chest. “Alive and well, we clear?”

“Crystal.”

“You know a nephilim by the name of Ryke?”

“Fallen don’t mingle with humans, not even half breeds.” Xander glanced up at his bedroom door. “Unless we’re fucking one of them. So, if you’re asking if I’ve fucked this Ryke? Not that I recall. Why do you ask?”

“He knows where Zeke is. The problem is finding the dipshit. He owns a club off eight mile, but he hasn’t been around. Hasn’t been home. He’s half fallen. I just thought you might have the
sight.
”

“My omnipresence was clipped with my wings, Brother. Big guy confiscates our carte blanche the moment we fall.”

“I figured as much.” Gavin ran a hand through his hair. “So, you’d have no idea where we might find him? No fallen angels’ biker clubs, or some shit?”

“No idea.” A grin stretched across Xander’s face. “But if he holds anything near and dear to him—he is half human, after all—I’d start there. Eye for an eye.”

Of course, why hadn’t Gavin thought of it before? So messed up on Zeke, so focused on striking a deal with Ryke, he’d completely overlooked the glaring opportunity.

“As a matter of fact, he does.” Gavin glanced up to see Xander’s cocked brow. “Thanks.”

He bowed his head. “My pleasure.”

Ava
.

Damn
. Gavin didn’t want to think how his next plan would absolutely destroy Calix.

Though, with Zeke’s life in question, it seemed a small price by comparison.

CHAPTER 16

Morning had arrived when Logan entered the mansion. As he handed the bike keys to Ben at the door, Calix passed through the foyer, carrying a bottle of water, his sweats a dead giveaway that he’d been hanging in the Wreck Room.

“Calix, wait.” Logan called out to him, halting his brother’s stride.

“You all right, man?”

“Yeah. When you guys cased that neighborhood. D’you see a kid?”

“Gav didn’t tell you?” Calix sipped his water and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Creepy shit. Chained in the basement.”

“Any idea who put him there?”

“Nah, we didn’t see anything. Got attacked by wolves.”

“Yeah,
apparently
they were there to save the kid.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Ran into their alpha. Marko, or something.”

“Marrick. So, what,
he’s
hired a bounty hunter on our asses now, for killing his pack brothers?”

“No. Just wants the kid. Thing is, I think this kid knows where Zeke is.” Logan rubbed his chin. “And Fatman’s dead. Saw him in the alley at Moonshines.”

Calix blew out a breath. “Any idea what killed him?”

“He was marked. Bounty hunter. This kid, you remember what he looks like?”

“Like every other homeless kid on the streets.” Calix huffed. “Damn. We lost him. He took off while we were kicking lycan ass.”

“We need to find out more about him.”

“Ayden knows a lot of inner city kids. Might know this one.”

“Yeah.” Logan stared off. “Fuck, I can’t relax.”

“I’ve been to the Wreck Room twice since we got back. Couldn’t sleep. Just needed to punch the shit out of something. Logan … man, I feel like this is all my fault, ya know? If I’d just stayed the hell away from her, shit wouldn’t be going down right now.”

“Women are trouble. Better to just stay away from them.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not an incubus with your own personal brand of Viagra.”

Logan clapped his brother’s shoulder on his way past to his room. At the top of the stairs, his gaze trailed left—toward Calla’s room. Everything inside of him urged him to stay away, except that small patch on his neck where she’d touched him. As if he could feel her warm fingertips pressed against him, the sensation called out to him like a siren.

Go.

Opened a crack, her door let in just enough light from the hallway.

Logan peeked inside and spotted Calla sleeping, lost in mounds of pillows and the thick green comforter, her blonde hair strewn about her head.

He nudged the door a bit further.

She wore the same T-shirt he’d seen her in down in the Wreck Room.

His teeth ground in his head as he stepped inside the room and stared at her—like a fucking stalker. Calm yet vulnerable, her sleeping expression fascinated him, and tipping his head, he watched her breathe, his fingertips just itching to touch her.

He took a step toward her but froze.

Yellow eyes peered back at him from the shadows on the other side of where Calla lay.

That fucking cat.

* * *

Whatever air had been left inside of Zeke shot from his lungs at a hard surface slamming into his back. He sucked in a breath that sounded like he’d inhaled through a fluid-filled straw.

Cold wetness seeped into the wounds on his back and shoulder, soothing the burns from the blowtorch.

His eyes, so mutilated, couldn’t see beyond the blackness, but his mind screamed out his relief as the grunts of his captor faded to … silence.

Sweet, merciful silence.

Where he’d been dumped didn’t matter. The place would be his resting ground as death loomed; within hours, perhaps, the poisons and depths of his wounds soon would claim his slowing heart.

Whatever had possessed the hunter to leave him there was beyond Zeke. Hunters never left anything of their victims. They flayed their flesh until nothing but lingering horrors remained. Anyone who happened upon Zeke’s body after he’d passed would surely suffer a lifetime of nightmares for what’d been done.

Wind blew across his open wounds, telling Zeke he’d been left to the elements, but it at least reminded him that he remained connected to earth.

In the next beat, coarse hair, like fur, scraped across his skin, followed by what felt like nails digging into his arms that gave a sharp drag across the snow.

Zeke bellowed as ice raked against the wounds of his back, the air in his lungs completely expelled in that one outcry, and he coughed and moaned at the agony.

His head jostled as if something lifted him up, before he landed against a hard surface. No pain arrived, though, like he’d disconnected from his own body.

A scavenger?

Zeke sniffed the air, and he wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. While his mouth begged to smile, the pain of his ruined lips wouldn’t allow it.

Weak, tortured and he seemed destined to be eaten alive by his enemy.

Poetic justice, perhaps, because that scent sure as hell couldn’t be mistaken: animalistic—
bloodthirsty
.

Distinctly Lycan.

Ain’t that some shit?

CHAPTER 17

Logan drilled his fist into the punching bag, thrust after thrust.

As his grunts and groans bounced off the walls of the otherwise empty Wreck room, a rush of adrenaline hammered through his veins.

Fuck, yes.

His muscles flexed with every punch, each more swift, more powerful, as visions of pummeling the shit out of the bounty hunter passed through his head—until, at last, the bag flew off the chain and smacked the floor.

He’d never experienced a workout like that before, as if something inside of him had caught fire and spread to his limbs. Sweat dripped down his temples. His chest heaved.

Damn good.

As he left the Wreck Room for the showers, his thoughts reverted to his earlier encounter in Calla’s room.

And that goddamn cat …

He removed his sweatpants and muscle shirt, and stepped inside the warm mist, his hard-on standing at attention in spite of the ache in his muscles. Water trickled down his skin—exhilarating. Gods, had he ever enjoyed a shower so much?

He closed his eyes and suddenly the drops of water turned into fingertips dancing across his flesh. He leaned into the shower wall, circling his hips with the beat of the spray.

Hands snaked around his torso.

Logan’s eyes flew open; his muscles tightened.

Body frozen, he pressed his palms against the wet tiles, unable to do anything more as dread moved through him like a black, choking cloud of smog
.

“Why do you avoid me, love?”

He fucking hated that word. Love. She’d bastardized it. Twisted it into something meaningless and devoid of its very definition.

“Don’t you like being home? Am I so repulsive to you?”

Yes. She spurred every revolting feeling he had inside of him. Her hands on him turned his stomach inside out.

He swallowed back the bile that had inched up his throat. To his horror, his body reacted on its own, as always—a winning battle against his mind.

Christ, some days, death felt like mercy.

He hated himself, his body, for responding to her touch—that possessive tug in his gut that roiled with his fury and a vile sensation of knowing it was wrong.

Her nails dug into his flesh. “Who’s Gina?”

“Wha—?”

A punch to his face knocked his head to the side. Her curse echoed in the stall. “Who is she?”

The urge to volley the punch back had his fingers flexing. Bonded males couldn’t hit their mates, though. Not just as a courtesy, but because he’d suffer the most severe physical and mental pain he’d ever experienced if he hurt her.

Though, she almost made it worth the risk.

“No one.”

“You belong to me and only me. Remember?” That possession in her voice siphoned every ounce of sickness churning in his stomach.

“I remember being tricked.” Another punch to his face forced a snarl from him. “You’re testing my loyalties,” he growled.

“You wouldn’t dare.” Like a lunatic, her eyes softened as if nothing had just transpired. “Baby, I hate getting mad at you. It hurts me.”

Baby. Acids burned in his throat and his muscles tensed at the word. She’d never given two shits about him.

She pursed her lips. “Was she pretty?”

“They’re all pretty. What’s it matter?”

“Aren’t you curious what kind of money she’s offering?”

“No. I make enough with the fights.”

“She claims you could be making more. So I’ll just keep her number. Perhaps I’ll inquire for you.”

“You’ll do no such thing! I told you, we have plenty.”

“Don’t you dare talk to me as if you have power over what I do. Our debts are more, much more than you think.” She shrugged. “I’ll just go back to fucking my debts clear.”

Bitch used the same threat in every argument.

He could care less, but doing so would make new enemies, and that would mean fighting to save her ass, something he couldn’t or wouldn’t do. “I’ll call her.” He spoke past gritted teeth.

“Good.” Her eyes fell to his erection. “See, I haven’t lost my touch,” she said as she turned and sauntered away.

Logan shivered and rested his head against the shower wall.
Fuck.
He needed to get that thought out of his head.

He squeezed his eyes closed, but only one face came to mind as the water still played against his skin.

As if on cue, blood rushed straight to his groin.

Calla
.

Forehead pressed to the cold tiles, he worked his palm up and down his shaft.

Yes, Calla
.

He snarled and groaned at the thought of getting off to the female—the sweet agony of anger battling his pleasure. Still, his body responded, warring against him, flush with excitement, which spread, weakening his muscles with each glide along his cock.

Gripping tight to his erection, Logan stumbled back, hitting the shower door, and slid to the floor. His thoughts drifted to Calla on her knees in front of him, his hands tangled in her hair, her lips playing the same strokes as his hand.

His body trembled. So close.

He reached around the shower door—
Where is it?
—patting with desperation, until his fingertips found the firm hilt.

Water trickled down his skin, teasing his senses like the long tresses of hair between his thighs, and Logan tipped his head back, imagining his fist in those blond locks.

He stroked faster. Harder.

Ah, shit
.