Lora Leigh - Primal

“Jill!” I heard Stacy yell, but it didn’t slow me down. I had to get away, far away from the office. My mind had switched into survival mode. Stacy couldn’t get anywhere near me right now; it would only put her in danger, too.

I left my purse behind—the contents of my life scattered on the smooth, cold floor next to the spilled coffee and spreading pool of blood. I pushed through the front doors, fully expecting Declan to shoot me in my back. But he didn’t.

Yanking my hand from my wounded neck, I saw that it was covered in blood. My stomach lurched and I almost vomited. What was in that syringe? It burned like lava sliding through my veins.

I was badly hurt. Jesus, I’d been stabbed in the throat with a needle by a stranger. If I wasn’t in such pain, I’d think I was having a nightmare.

This was a nightmare—a waking one.

A look behind me confirmed that Declan, whoever the hell he was, had exited the office building. He scanned one side of the street before honing in on me.

I clutched at a few people’s arms as I stumbled past them. They recoiled from me, faceless strangers who weren’t willing to help a woman with a bleeding neck wound.

My heart slammed against my rib cage as I tried to run, but I couldn’t manage more than a stagger. I wanted to pass out. The world was blurry and shifting around me.

The burning pain slowly began to spread from my neck down to my chest and along my arms and legs. I could feel it like a living thing, burrowing deeper and deeper inside me.

Only a few seconds later, I felt Declan’s hand clamp around my upper arm. He nearly pulled me off my feet as he dragged me around the corner and into an alley.

“Let go of me,” I snarled, attempting to hit him. He effortlessly grabbed my other arm. I blinked against my tears.

“Stay still.”

“Go to hell.” The next moment, the pain cut off any further words as I convulsed. Only his tight grip kept me from crumpling to the ground. He pushed me up against the wall and held my head firmly in place as he looked into my eyes. His scars were even uglier up close. A shudder of revulsion rippled through me at being this close to him.

He wrenched my head to the left and roughly pulled my long blond hair aside to inspect the neck wound. His expression never wavered. There was no pity or anger or disdain in his gaze—nothing but emptiness in his single gray eye as he looked me over.

Holding me with one hand tightly around my throat so I could barely breathe, he held a cell phone to his ear.

“It’s me,” he said. “There’s been a complication.”

A pause.

“Anderson administered the prototype to a civilian before he tried to shoot me and escape. I killed him.” Another pause. “It’s a woman. Should I kill her, too?”

I tried to fight against the choke hold he had me in, but it didn’t help. He sounded so blasé, so emotionless, as if he was discussing bringing home a pizza after work rather than seeking permission for my murder.

His one-eyed gaze narrowed. While talking on the phone he hadn’t looked anywhere but my face. “I know I was followed here. I don’t have long.” Then finally, “Understood.”

He ended the call.

Finally he loosened his hold on me enough that I could try to speak in pained gasps. “What . . . are you going . . . to do with me?”

“That’s not up to me.” Declan’s iron grip on me went a little more lax as he tucked the phone back into the pocket of his black jeans. It was enough to let me sink my teeth into his arm. He pushed me back so hard I whacked my head against the wall and fell to the ground. I’d managed to draw blood on his forearm, which was already riddled with other scars.

I scrambled up to my feet, adrenaline coursing through my body. I was ready to do whatever I had to in order to fight for my life, but another curtain of agony descended over me.

“What’s happening to me?” I managed to say through clenched teeth. “What the hell was in that syringe?”

Declan grabbed me by the front of my shirt and brought me very close to his scarred face. “Poison.”

My eyes widened. “Oh my God. What kind of poison?”

“The kind that will kill you,” he said simply. “Which is why you have to come with me.”

I shook my head erratically. “I have to get to a hospital.”

“No.” He grabbed me tighter. “Death now or death later. That’s your only choice.”

It was a choice I didn’t want to make. It was one I wouldn’t have to make. More pain erupted inside of me and the world went totally and completely black.

You first met Silas in Skin Tight ; I hope you enjoy his story.

Thanks to Laura Bradford, Cindy Hwang, Lauren Dane, Bree Bridges, Larissa Ione, Donna Herren, Jenn Bennett, Courtney Milan, and Karen Erickson. You all supported this series from the beginning, and I value your encouragement.

Thanks to Stefanie Gostautas for her excellent proofreading.

And thanks, as ever, to my family. Their patience and understanding make all this possible.

Finally, I send profound appreciation to all my readers. Your e-mails mean the world to me, so please keep writing. That’s ann.aguirre@gmail.com.

PUERTO LÓPEZ, ECUADOR

The whole world roared.

One minute, Silas had a bottle of beer in his hand; the next, the cantina roof threatened to crumble down on top of him. Nearby, rubble pinned a waitress to the floor; blood trickled from her mouth. With the ceiling collapsing around him, he levered the wreckage off her and felt for a pulse. Dead. Shit. Falling chunks of cement and plaster forced him to dive for the doorway. He crouched, arms over his head, and willed the framework to hold. He hadn’t escaped from the Foundation—and put several thousand miles between him and their hunters—to die here.

The reel of his life spun into motion, full of sorrow and infinite regret. Things he’d done and wished he hadn’t, all the faces of people he’d hurt. In particular, he could still see the blond woman, Olivia. She’d begged him to kill her, time and again. More than most, she’d gotten into his head—because that was her gift—and her curse. To this day, she still haunted his dreams, and he didn’t know how to make her go away. Maybe he couldn’t. Sometimes he thought it wasn’t even her anymore, but that her thin face personified his guilt.

But to be fair, his dark history had not begun down in the lab. It started years before in a deserted parking garage, where a mugger demanded his wallet, and he’d broken the man’s neck. Without so much as touching him. Nobody had ever been able to explain that death; it remained an open cold case in Michigan to this day. That was when he’d known his difference ran bone deep. He just hadn’t known why until the Foundation took him.

The tremors went on for over five minutes while he sat listening to the screams; cries of pain and horror filled what had been a bright Thursday afternoon. For the first time in months, he’d felt safe, because nobody knew him. He was just another anonymous expat. How ironic.

At last, the shocks stopped. Covered in dust and debris, he staggered into the dirt street of the fishing village. The wreckage humbled him. No matter how strong or powerful you thought you were, Mother Nature delivered a crippling kick in the nuts. Most of the buildings had been constructed of lesser materials, and they lay in ruins. He had been lucky; he’d chosen the cantina for its shady interior, knowing cement and plaster kept the cool air better.