It didn’t fade. Instead it increased by the moment, some whisper-soft niggling growing to a harsh scream until she was al but shaking. She didn’t know what it meant, what to do. Was it about Alex?
Danger. The word was clear as a clarion bel in her mind. Her gaze snapped to Peyton, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore; he had tugged aside the blinds on the kitchen window to peer outside. Werewolves and vampires were both telepathic, but that hadn’t sounded like his voice in her head.
“Peyton, is everything al right?”
He sighed, but didn’t turn around. When he spoke, his tone was weary. “Everything is fine, Dr. Standish.
Exactly according to plan.”
“What plan?”
There was a knock on the backdoor before he could reply, and he went to open it. A smal woman stood under the mel ow glow of the porch light.
The instinct howled in Chloe’s mind, the words becoming crystal clear. Danger. danger. Danger! RUN!
And then she knew what it was. Her usual y dormant precognitive ability. She had clairaudience—and the voices in her head were warning her of oncoming peril. She didn’t know what the danger was, but only a fool ignored her precognition. She lurched to her feet, staggered under the pain of what felt like unused muscles coming to life, and overturned her chair as she searched for a way out. There was only the backdoor and the door that led to the living room, both of which she’d have to get past Peyton to use.
They were on her before she could react. The woman hit her with a spel that left her stunned, the magic reverberating through Chloe the way only a Fae could make it.
Chloe barely managed to keep her feet under her, her body wanting to col apse under the force of violent, ugly magic. Her tongue felt awkward, too thick for her mouth as she looked at Peyton. Her voice was a mere breath of sound. “Why?”
He shook his head, what might have been regret flickering in his gaze before a hard mask settled over his features and his lips pul ed back in a snarl to bare his wolf fangs. He reached her side with a speed that left her dizzy, and then he struck her with just the tips of his fingers, almost gently, and she lost consciousness.
She woke up bound to her chair by metal handcuffs and magical restraints. She didn’t know how much time had passed. An hour. A minute.
Al she did know was pain. It pounded through her in endless, agonizing waves. Black spots swam before her eyes, and she prayed for death . . . or a return to unconsciousness, whichever came for her first, but they wouldn’t let her rest, wouldn’t let her pass out, wouldn’t stop.
She told them everything, her every secret, every lie, every half-truth.... She left nothing out; they wouldn’t let her. And stil it wasn’t enough. If the spel s would have al owed it, she’d have told them anything they wanted to hear. Anything. Even if it wasn’t true. Just to make the pain stop.
Sweat slid in cold, sticky rivulets down her skin. It burned her eyes and blurred her vision. Every breath was a torturous rasp of air. Her head lol ed on her shoulder, and she hadn’t the energy left to lift it. The metal handcuffs were bronze, an al ergy to al witches. They’d scorched her flesh, rubbed her wrists to ragged, bleeding patches of skin, but other than that, she was physical y unharmed. It did little to ease the way she ached from the bones out.
Voices murmured around her, and she was no longer sure if it was Peyton and the Fae woman or the clairaudient voices in her mind. It didn’t matter, but she clung to the question as if it were the key to saving what was left of her sanity. And maybe it was.
Another spel lanced through her, making her body arch away from the chair, rip against the restraints that bound her. A howl that wasn’t quite human wrenched from deep within her. More pain. Her throat was already raw from al the talking, the begging. The screaming.
She knew she was losing it when his face appeared before her, the cynical gray eyes, the squared jaw, the lips just a little too ful for his chiseled features.
“Merek,” she breathed.
And then she knew no more.
***
They’d muffled the sound of her screams.
If Merek hadn’t decided to get a better look at the house, he never would have peeked through a gap in the blinds to see her strapped to the chair. Arching, tears flowing down her cheeks, her mouth opened in what looked like a silent shriek.
He exploded through the door, past the warding spel s that had been placed on the building, his rage and terror lending him extra power. The percussive boom of the ruptured spel shield made his ears ring, but his weapon was already up and leveled on the two Magickals looming over his woman.
The Fae had sweat pouring down her face, her breathing shal ow and ragged. No doubt from the energy she’d spent torturing Chloe. His teeth bared, and he squeezed off a shot, aiming for her heart.
It never touched her.
Peyton looped his arm around the woman’s waist, spinning her out of the bul et’s path. Chloe’s chair was knocked over, tumbling until it hit a wal . With a leap, the wolf had himself and the woman into the living room. Merek’s next shot caught Peyton in the back, and he stumbled, a howl tearing loose. He hit the front door, ripping it off its hinges. Then he and the woman were gone, the werewolf’s speed making it impossible for Merek to fol ow.
He might have attempted it, but it would have meant leaving Chloe alone. He couldn’t do that. Holstering his weapon, he lifted both hands to cast a temporary warding spel over the house. No one less powerful than him could enter, and even then he would know his shield had been breached. His hands were shaking when he dropped them to his sides. A part of him stood back and wondered what the hel had happened to al his steely discipline when the fate of one slender woman could make his hands tremble.
Turning back toward the kitchen, he found Chloe struggling against her bonds. He stroked a hand down her shoulder. “I’ve got it.”
“Thanks,” she grunted, going limp against the awkward position. “I . . . don’t have the energy to cast a spel to get loose.”
Her wrists were blackened, blistered, and oozing blood around the cuffs, so he knew they were made of bronze. As a warlock—a male witch—he was deathly al ergic to the stuff, too. He was careful not to touch as he waved a hand to unlock them. His jaw locked as rage whipped through him. The bastards had used bronze on her.
The cuffs fel away, clattering against the linoleum. Then she was in his arms, her soft body pressed to his harder planes, and it felt so fine he almost groaned. Burying his face in the curve of her neck, he inhaled the scent of her. She was alive, and she was here. His brain was having trouble absorbing that reality. “Chloe.”
Clinging to his neck with surprising strength, she dragged in great, shuddering breaths. They should get out of there in case Peyton came back to finish what he started, but Merek couldn’t make himself let her go.
Just another minute. He swal owed, pressure building behind his eyes.
She drew back until she could see his face, and the naked vulnerability there made his gut clench. “How did you . . . What are you doing here?”
“I fol owed you, but they were damn good about shaking someone tailing them.” He stroked her ebony hair back from her face, the silky strands damp with sweat. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”
“You made it before I lost my mind. That’s soon enough.”
He winced at the bleak, utter certainty in her voice. From what he’d seen, she was right. They’d had every intention of ripping into her mind until there was nothing left. The darkness of those spel s stil lingered in the air, sent chil s down his spine. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “We need to get you out of here, sweetheart.”