Touch of Surrender Page 6

  By the time she was finished with her fiery little tirade, a reluctant grin had worked its way into the corners of his mouth, his irritation momentarily receding. “At times like these, it’s hard to believe you were ever that shy, unsure little eighteen-year-old I used to know.”

  “I haven’t been that girl for a long time.” Her head tilted a little to the side as she said, “In fact, I’m surprised you even remember her.”

  “I remember lots of things,” he murmured in a slow drawl, his grin melting into a lopsided smile as her cheeks turned a wild rose color. He knew she was thinking about the way she’d used to blush crimson every time he’d touch her during combat training, her hunger impossible for her to hide in her inexperience. “Such as the fact that you weren’t nearly so good at controlling your shields back then as you are now. Your pheromones were especially easy to scent.”

  “Trust me when I say that you don’t want to go there.” The quiet words had an underlying thread of steel that he couldn’t help but admire, even if their trembling edges touched a place inside him that he didn’t want to think about. And just like that, the moment of easiness was gone, replaced by the familiar swell of discontent and aggression.

  Holding that pure gray gaze, he started to walk across the room, closing the distance between them. “And what about us, Morgan? What about our little problem?”

  Kierland knew he’d surprised her again by the tightening in her shoulders and arms. Her expression was a mixture of wariness and alert focus, as if she were trying to identify the danger in the situation. “Since we don’t have a problem, I’m not exactly sure what you mean.”

  A rough, gritty bark of laughter rumbled in his chest as he crossed his arms and propped his shoulder against the front of a massive mahogany armoire, leaving no more than a handful of feet between them. “You honestly think we’re going to be able to spend this much time together and not kill each other?” he asked, lifting his brows.

  Either that…or screw each other to death, he thought. Both were a possibility. Though he was strongly leaning toward the second, given the fact that it was all he could think about. All he could ever think about when he was close to her. And God did that piss him off.

  What made it even worse was that she usually did her best to ignore him, acting if she wasn’t affected by his presence at all. He couldn’t even use his heightened sense of smell to detect her arousal, like he’d used to, knowing she’d become a master of control over her body these days. She’d worked hard to perfect her masking skills, since she’d known she would need every advantage if she was going to survive as a Watchman.

  And yet, there were times, every now and then, that Kierland could have sworn she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. At least for a good, hard, sweaty go between the sheets, though she buried it beneath the sparks and anger that always flew between them, their encounters forever laced with bitterness and frustration.

  But it hasn’t always been like that.

  Popping his jaw, he hated that those silent words were true. There’d been a time when he and Morgan had been…hell, he didn’t know what to call it. Friends? In a way. For a while, he’d have even been willing to bet his soul that she might feel more for him than hunger and lust, but then she’d gone and hooked up with Granger, on orders from the Consortium, since they’d thought the headstrong vamp might be more willing to follow their orders when under the influence of Morgan’s tender, sensual persuasion. The affair had started just days after Nicole had been murdered, and Kierland had been forced to struggle with his rage at the same time guilt was tearing him apart. To see the girl who’d fascinated him in ways that no other woman ever had—the girl he should have already claimed as his own, if he’d had that choice—all but whoring herself out with the arrogant vampire had been too much for him to handle.

  The months that followed had only deepened his resentment, as he’d been forced to watch her fall in love with the bastard. It’d been like having a knife dug into his heart, over and over and over. As a result, his emotions where Morgan was concerned had become a crazy, chaotic blend of anger and guilt and loss that continued to rage within him to this day.

  Of course, she’d never had any idea how he’d felt about her. He supposed he should have been thankful for that little triumph, but it left a bitter, sour taste in Kierland’s mouth.

  “Well?” he prompted, anticipating her response.

  The uncomfortable rise of color along the delicate crest of her cheekbones would have been a satisfying sight, if he hadn’t found it so damn alluring. “I’ve never really understood why you hate me so much, Kierland. But I’m willing to put our differences aside for Kellan’s sake. Are you?”

  “You’re not leaving me much choice, are you?” he asked, sliding her a hard smile.

  “I could have just taken someone else with me and left you out of the loop completely,” she drawled, almost as if purposefully goading him. “So why don’t you drop the jackass routine and be thankful that I’m letting you come along?”

  “Thankful?” he choked out, amazed she had the audacity to stand up to him. Not that he could fault her for it, since he would have reacted the same way. He also couldn’t deny that it was sexy as hell.

  “Yeah, thankful. As in you should be appreciative of the fact that I’m willing to take your crap for Kellan’s sake. You might try out the concept of gratitude sometime. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m out of here.”

  She turned to leave, her hand already on the door handle, when he said, “Damn it, Morgan. Stop.”

  “Send me a text if you want to meet for breakfast,” she threw over her shoulder.

  “Christ, will you just stop? You’re bleeding.” Kierland chalked up the gruffness of his voice to anger, because it sure as hell wasn’t concern.

  And just who am I trying to fool?

  Shaking his head, he watched as she stopped in the open doorway and looked over her shoulder. “Bleeding? Where?”

  “Below your left shoulder blade. It’s already soaked through your shirt.”

  “Crap.” She frowned, her voice soft as she said, “I love this shirt.”

  He shook his head again, torn between exasperation and the fact that she was utterly adorable in that moment, though he’d have cut out his tongue before he admitted it. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, and it’s the shirt you’re worried about?”

  “I’m a woman,” she grumbled. “I care about my clothes. So sue me.”

  “The jackals must have gotten you with one of their claws. You need to have it bandaged.”

  She turned her head to the side, but not before he caught the warm flush that crept up her face. “Don’t worry about it,” she said huskily. “I’ll live.”

  “I’ve got my first aid kit,” he told her, heading toward his bag. He’d left the leather bag sitting on the bench at the foot of the massive bed that was covered in acres of raw silk, and his kit was always stored in a side pocket whenever he traveled. “Take off your shirt and I’ll put something on the cut.”

  She snorted, her voice choked as she responded, “I don’t think so.”

  With his kit in the battered, but healing hand that he’d smashed against the brick wall of the garage, Kierland walked toward her. “Either you do it, or I’m doing it for you.”

  “Over my dead body,” she drawled, lifting her brows.

  “Damn it, I’m not coming on to you.” Gruff, controlled words that made her eyes go wide again. “I just want to see your back,” he added, motioning for her to turn around. “Go into the bathroom.”

  “I’m hardly going to be felled by a scratch.” She didn’t sound happy—sounded embarrassed, even—but she did as he said. He followed her to the opulent bathroom, the warm midnight blue tiles and marble counter and sinks seeming to fit her style a hell of a lot better than they fit his. Kierland didn’t know why he chose to stay in this particular hotel, since he always felt out of place, afraid he was going to accidentally break something if he wasn
’t careful.

  Pulling the heavy length of her hair over her opposite shoulder, she turned and gave him her back, then began to lift her shirt. Kierland knew he should offer to help her, since the action was no doubt pulling on the wound. But he was locked in place, held transfixed by the sight of her naked back as she lifted the shirt higher…higher. Smooth muscles flowed up the length of her spine, supple and lean, the delicate lace band of her bra almost the same color as her flesh. The slice from the jackal’s claws was long and shallow, slashing across her left shoulder, the crimson line making him wish he could tear into the bastards all over again.

  Finally shaking himself out of his daze, Kierland helped her pull the shirt over her head, then tossed it onto the counter. “That was the dirtiest I’ve ever seen you fight tonight,” she murmured, a slight tremor moving through her body as she lowered her head, waiting for him to get on with it.

  “I didn’t have time to be chivalrous,” he rasped, holding a thick washcloth beneath the hot-water faucet. “Those assholes would’ve liked nothing more than to get their claws into you.”

  She gave a soft, feminine snort. “One of them did, actually.”

  “You must be masking pretty strongly to have covered the scent of your blood from me.” He wrung the washcloth out, laid one hand over her shoulder to hold her steady, then pressed the cloth against the bleeding wound as gently as he could. “If you weren’t, I would have picked up on it the second you walked into the room. What’re you trying to hide?”

  “It’s habit. That’s all.” She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and surprised him by saying, “Do you realize this is the first time we’ve been alone together in…God, it’s been years.”

  Kierland grunted in response, not trusting what might come out of his mouth at that particular moment. The skin beneath his hand was soft and silky, and as he carefully cleaned the edges of the cut, it occurred to him that this hadn’t been his brightest idea. He wasn’t some green-eared innocent, for God’s sake, and had seen far more than his fair share of naked female bodies in his lifetime. But they hadn’t been Morgan, damn it, and that seemed to make a hell of a difference.

  Tossing the bloodstained washcloth into the sink, he reached for one of the plush hand towels to dry her back. Then he took some bandages from the first-aid kit and began applying them to the slice in cross sections so that it would stay closed. As he finished the last bandage, his gaze wandered over her smooth shoulder, up to the feminine curve of her throat and his mouth watered like a starving man standing before a banquet of succulent food. Though he didn’t need blood for feeding, in the way that the Merrick and Deschanel did, he still wanted the taste of it. The feel and the warmth of it sitting in his mouth. Wanted to know what it would be like to sink his long fangs deep into that pale, petal-soft flesh and have the warm rush of her blood spilling over his tongue.

  Kierland locked his jaw and tried everything he could think of to keep his gaze from shifting to that bathroom mirror, where her reflection was just waiting for him. Calling to him. He thought about her and Ashe together, his stomach knotting as he imagined them wrapped around each other, going at it hard and fast. Thought about the fact that she was no doubt still in love with the bastard. Thought about how she had thrown herself at the cocky vamp, when Kierland had needed her most.

  But in the end, none of it was enough, and he lifted his gaze, staring with hot eyes over the top of her head, his gaze locking onto the mouthwatering sight of her breasts encased in that sheer, flesh-colored lace. If he’d ever seen anything more erotic, he couldn’t remember it. He must have made some kind of hungry, guttural sound, because her gaze shot up. She caught him staring at her reflection in the wide mirror, the soft wash of golden light spilling from the overhead lights lending an amber glow to her skin. His jaw clenched as he waited for her to say something cutting or snide, but she appeared speechless, her breath coming in sharp, jerky bursts that made him think of how she would sound when he was covering her with his weight, pressing her down, driving his body into hers with a hard, relentless rhythm.

  “You might be a kick-ass little soldier, Morgan. But the lace suits you,” he managed to choke out, the husky words scraping his throat.

  She opened her mouth, but still didn’t say anything. Or maybe she couldn’t. Her chest rose and fell with the rushed, hectic cadence of her breathing, her gray eyes swimming with confusion.

  Kierland allowed his greedy gaze to drift lazily over her front, sliding it down the smooth plane of her stomach, the gentle flare of her hips, the feminine curve of her hip bones, and the hard-on that had started the instant she’d stepped into his room thickened, straining against the fly of his jeans. He flicked his gaze back up, snagging her drowsy, heavy-lidded stare, and the corner of his mouth pulled into a tight, wry smile. “Still gonna stand here and tell me we don’t have a problem?”

  “I…” She broke off, swallowing, her pupils so dilated they eclipsed the gray, leaving her eyes dark with a hot, feral look of hunger. She took a shivery breath and licked her lips. “I don’t know wh—”

  The sudden rapping of knuckles against his door cut off her words, and they both flinched, taking hasty steps apart from one another.

  “That’s gonna be room service,” he said, sounding like he’d gargled with gravel. “I ordered us some dinner, thinking you might be hungry.”

  She grabbed her shirt and turned away, quickly pulling it back over her head. Kierland waited until she was dressed, made sure his shirttails were covering his fly, then went and opened the door. The waiter wheeled in the food cart, and Kierland handed him a tip before shutting the door behind him.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked, thinking that Morgan had followed him into the room, but when he turned around, there was no one there. He walked over to the bathroom, but it was empty, so he tried the door that separated their rooms…and found that the handle wouldn’t budge.

  The woman had gone back to her own room.

  And she’d locked the bloody door behind her.

  “Shit,” he muttered, pushing his fingers through his hair while he tried to make sense of the strange, almost edgy feeling in his gut. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since earlier that day, and he made his way over to the table, sitting down in one of the leather chairs. As Kierland began to eat, he didn’t even taste the food, his gaze sliding to that locked door, again and again, while a single thought kept working its way through his mind.

  She could run, but she couldn’t hide.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Prague, Czech Republic

  Sunday morning

  NEARLY EVERY MAN IN THE ROOM turned his head and watched as Morgan entered the hotel’s busy café. Kierland had sent her a text asking her to meet him for breakfast, but now he regretted the public setting. It made no sense, but his possessive instincts were kicking into overdrive. He wanted to grab a damn bag and throw it over her head, then wrap a heavy blanket around her sumptuous body, just to keep other men from noticing her.

  There was no justification for the Neanderthal urges. They were stupid, ridiculous, destructive. But the jealousy seething inside him was impossible to ignore, flavoring the thoughts in his head, as inexorable as his need to breathe.

  And yet, if he were forced to be honest, Kierland knew it wouldn’t be this way if the past had played out differently and he’d followed his instincts, going after Morgan, instead of running to Nicole. The simple fact of the matter was that if Morgan was his—her beautiful body marked with his bite—he wouldn’t want to hide her away. Instead, he would have been proud to show her off as his woman.

  It was the “not having her” that made him want to shove his fist through a wall in a juvenile act of frustration. The fact that he had no claim on her. No right to object if another man caught her eye and approached her. Touched her. Seduced her into his bed.

  Not that Kierland wanted that right, damn it. Even if he didn’t have his father’s blood flowing through h
is veins, he would never bind himself to a woman whose affections could be bought and sold by the Consortium. Or who could flirt with him so innocently one moment, then turn and slide into bed with an arrogant son of a bitch like Granger in the next.

  Being his father’s son simply closed the deal.

  Which meant that nothing was going to happen between him and this woman.

  Not now. Not ever.

  His beast growled in reaction to the familiar phrase, the low, visceral sound rumbling through Kierland’s body like a fault line breaking open in the ground.

  The problem, he’d finally concluded at about 3:00 a.m. that morning, when he’d been tossing and turning in the hotel’s bed, was that he’d never gotten Morgan Cantrell out of his system. He might hate the choices she’d made in her life, but the wolf still craved her, wanting a taste of what it’d never had. Like a festering wound, he still carried the hunger pangs of a gnawing, lingering need that had never been satisfied.

  Then maybe it’s time to lance the wound, and bleed her out of our systems.

  He tensed in reaction to the wolf’s treacherous words, because he knew damn well what his beast was suggesting. And he didn’t trust it. The animal had always been too possessive of Morgan. It knew how he thought, how to manipulate him. It would fight dirty to get what it wanted. It had no morals, driven solely by its primal, animal instincts.

  Keep thinking we’re different, but what I am, you are, as well. Same wants. Same hungers. Same needs.

  Kierland’s hand curled into a fist on the tabletop until the veins beneath his skin stood out in stark relief, but he took a deep breath, forcing a look of bored indifference to his face as Morgan approached, unwilling to give anything away.