Cynthia Eden - Burn For Me

There were no bodies on the ground, but Eve saw two men getting bandaged and loaded into the back of an ambulance. Another ambulance had already left—they’d passed it when they arrived.

There was still blood in the street.

Eve and Cain hung back, blending into the crowd of spectators. She wished she had a shifter’s sense of smell so that she could find Trace but—

Cain inhaled. “That way.”

She had something better. Her own personal phoenix.

They slid back through the crowd, heading for the alley on the left. She felt like dozens of eyes were on her and tensed, glancing back.

But she just saw the crowd. So many faces. They were focused on the blood. The chaos. Not her.

So why was she so sure that she was being watched?

Trace.

Cain’s arm brushed against hers, and Eve almost jumped.

“There.” He pointed into the darkness because, of course, where else would he point? Not like a werewolf would be hiding in the light.

Eve followed him. They headed into the crack between the buildings. Moved away from the crowd. One block. Two. Then …

Eve saw the smashed window on the old building that slumped near the corner. Anyone could have smashed that window, though. A vagrant, someone wanting some shelter from the night.

A werewolf.

“He’s inside.” Cain had tilted his head to the right.

She’d been wondering just how good the guy’s hearing was. Now she knew. They were at least twenty yards away from that building.

“Sounds like he’s tearing the place apart.”

Eve sucked in a breath and they headed for the rundown building. Cain knocked the rest of the window’s glass out of the way and climbed through the opening first. Then he reached for her, holding her carefully to make sure she didn’t get cut.

And he thinks he’s a monster?

She heard the sounds of destruction as soon as her feet touched down inside the building. A crash. The shattering of glass. A wolf’s howl.

She spun around, and through the darkness, she saw his eyes. Far too bright. Trace’s eyes had never been that shade of green. Not while he’d been in human form. But as a wolf, his eyes had always glowed with power.

Part of her—a very big part—expected him to charge through the darkness and attack her. Cain must have expected that, too, because he positioned his body in front of her.

But Trace didn’t attack. Instead, she heard the scrape of claws over metal, and Trace growled out, “Help … me …”

Tears stung her eyes. He’d finally spoken again. The words had been hoarse, rusty, but he’d spoken. Trace was coming back to her. Slowly, but he was fighting. “We’ll help you,” she promised as she stepped around Cain.

He tensed.

Eve made no move to approach Trace. She knew better than to charge at a wounded animal, and that was exactly what Trace was. “Do you know me?”

“Eve …”

Good. “Then you know I’d never hurt you. We’re family.”

Silence. Then more of that horrible scraping. She didn’t flinch, but goose bumps rose on her arms. “Trust me, Trace. Cain and I can help you.” They’d find a way to help him. They wouldn’t give up.

He came from the shadows. Too big. Too strong. Muscled. A man’s body but a beast’s eyes and claws and fangs. His steps were so slow. Tortured. “ Help me …” he said again.

“I will, Trace,” Eve promised at once as Cain remained silent. “I will—”

“Kill me,” Trace’s words cut through hers.

She could only shake her head. No, that was the last thing she’d ever do.

“Or I’ll kill … you …” he rasped.

“The hell you will.” Cain was talking. “You better dig fucking deep inside, wolf. Get your control. Because you aren’t hurting her.”

Trace’s shoulders shook as he sucked in heaving gulps of air, but then he tensed. His gaze flew behind them to that broken window. He leaped forward.

Cain was turning then, too. Whirling around to face the threat they both had sensed.

When Eve turned, she saw Detective Roberts coming inside. His gaze found hers, then flew to the werewolf coming at him. He lifted his gun to fire.

“No!” Eve screamed.

He emptied his gun in Trace. Kept firing until Cain grabbed him and yanked the weapon away from the cop.

Trace had fallen to the ground. Eve rushed to his side. His eyes were open and the smell around him—

Silver bullets.

Not just normal silver. Some sort of liquid silver that was leaking out of Trace. Where had the cop gotten bullets like that?

Cain had hurried back to Trace’s side. Jaw locking, he glanced up at Eve. She knew he thought Trace was dead.

Because I think he is, too.

Gut twisting, she whirled back to confront the detective.

“I’m sorry,” he told her, shoulders slumping, “but I didn’t have a choice.”

She didn’t think he was just talking about Trace.

“The bullets won’t kill him. They’ll just keep the werewolf immobile until all the silver drains out of him.” The detective’s hand reached under his coat, and Eve wasn’t surprised to see him produce a second weapon.

Or to find that weapon aimed at her.

“Bad mistake,” Cain told him.

Roberts frowned and shot a glance his way. “Let me guess … Subject Thirteen?”

Cain flashed a vicious smile. “The last man who called me that wound up with a stake in his heart.”

“Yeah, and his old man’s real pissed about that.”

Cain tensed and his gaze flickered to the broken window. Eve frowned. A few moments later, she heard the thud of approaching footsteps.

His old man’s real pissed about that …

Her mouth had gone bone dry. “According to my sources, Jeremiah Wyatt is dead.” She threw the words out deliberately, looking for a reaction. Richard Wyatt had said otherwise, back in that nightmare at Beaumont. He’d told her that his father was alive. So the news stories about his death? Faked. “So it doesn’t really matter how pissed he is in hell.”

“If only.”

That had been the reaction she’d expected. More confirmation—Jeremiah Wyatt was still alive, and the detective knew it.

“There’s a cure, you know”—Roberts straightened his shoulders—“for whatever the hell they did to him.” A jerk of his gun toward Trace’s prone body. “They have some kind of injection that can make him right again.” Softer, “Make her right again.”

“They’re coming for us,” Cain said.

Eve looked at him and saw he’d already begun to stir fire near his palms.

Roberts shook his head. “No, they’re only coming for you, Thirteen. Only for you.”

The doors of the building opened with a long creak. Armed men raced inside.

A trap.

“I knew you’d come for the werewolf,” Roberts said. “Well, actually, he knew.”

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

That wasn’t her heartbeat.

About five men had entered the building. Not cops. Not even guys in military uniforms. Men in battered jeans, thick coats—all holding guns.

Like the guns would do them much good against Cain’s fire.

“You’re making a mistake,” Eve told them. “I’m clear of all charges. The FBI is backing me up. The media is—”

Thud.

Thud.

One of the armed men stepped back. When he moved, Eve saw an older guy with stooped shoulders, gray hair, and—and Wyatt’s green eyes. “The government might have cleared you, Ms. Bradley. I haven’t.”

She was staring at a ghost. “Jeremiah Wyatt. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“So I am.” His lips pursed as he studied her. “But it’s your mother who’s really dead. Your father. I know—I sent the men who killed them both.”