Dillon heard the commotion outside her room and jumped to her feet, her jaguar's instincts kicking into high gear. The scent of fear, of blood snaked into the room through the walls and under the doorway, making her growl. She knew it probably wasn't the best idea to leave the room-be seen by anyone-but that blood she smelled? It was Gray's. She was certain of it. And whatever strange, unwelcome thing she had going on with that male, well, the scent of him inside her nostrils made her desperate to get out, get to him-then attack and kill whatever had brought his blood to the surface to begin with.
She opened the door and headed out into the hallway, her head down, nostrils splayed. She followed the scent, Gray's blood scent, into the open warehouse space that Gray and his Resistance buddies used as their workspace.
First thing she saw was the front door open, then a Pureblood male ushering three Impures inside. One female and two males. A low growl emanated from Dillon. The female carried Gray's blood scent. Slipping behind a high-backed couch, Dillon watched, eyes narrowed into slits. Where was he? Screw these other Impures. Where the hell was her Impure?
Suddenly, a female rushed into the room. This one also carried his scent. This one was beautiful, appeared tough, intelligent, and capable, which made Dillon's jaguar's fur stand up in annoyance.
"You need to go back," the female said to the Pureblood, her tone demanding, insistent. "Now. Before he bleeds out."
Something moved through Dillon in those words. Something damn close to volatile possessiveness. She watched through narrowed eyes as the Pureblood nodded and walked out of the warehouse door. Dillon had meant to remain where she was. It was the smart thing-self-preservation and all that. But doing the right thing had never appealed to her.
Pushing forward off her powerful back legs, she padded into the room and demanded, "Who's bleeding out?"
The female looked up, caught sight of Dillon the jungle cat and gasped, as did the others at her side. "What the hell?"
"Speak, Impure," Dillon commanded. "Who is bleeding out?"
The female's eyes remained wide open, stunned at what was before her, this impossible creature who lived only in the nightmares of balas. But she soon recovered herself enough to speak, her tone a forced cool, calm, and protective. "The Impure Resistance is housing a mutore."
"Mutore," hissed the other Impure female, a mouse-brown thing with thin lips and an annoyingly rapid heartbeat. "It's not possible. They don't exist, don't live past birth. A mutore. Oh God, it's hideous." She and the males moved back, deep into a shadow on the far side of the room.
Dillon lifted her chin at the lot of them. "Don't faint, shake, or dissolve into tears, Impures. You'll only embarrass yourselves." She shifted her gaze back to the one who hadn't moved, the far too pretty one who seemed to wear the balls in this group. "Tell me who is bleeding or I'll rip out your throat-"
Before she finished her threat, the scent of Gray, of his blood, slammed into her nostrils. She had no time to react as the Pureblood paven burst through the door, someone affixed to his side. Someone tall, broad, stupid as hell, and bleeding like a stuck pig.
"Fuck," Dillon uttered, heading straight for him. "What the hell happened here?"
"Get back, Mutore," warned the very courageous, very stupid female, her hands already on Gray, her gaze assessing him. "We need a doctor."
Dillon's lip curled.
One of the Impure warriors ran into the room. Rio, Dillon believed his name was. He stopped short when he saw Gray and the blood. He closed his eyes, and Dillon saw his lips move. What was he doing? Calling to the rest of them? Gray didn't need a doctor-he needed a veana.
When the Impure was done, he walked over to Gray. But instead of offering help, he starting barking. "You went to the Paleo," he accused gruffly.
"Eat shit, Rio," Gray rasped, barely conscious.
"You stupid motherfucker."
Dillon's fierce and feral growl stopped them both, and everyone in the room turned to stare at her.
"Speak that way again," she hissed at Rio, "and I'll rip open your stomach with these claws here and feast on your intestines."
Rio cocked his head. "I'd like to see you try it, Mutore."
"Would you?" Dillon would've sworn she heard Gray's soft, pained chuckle as she crouched down, ready to spring.
"Where is he?" Vincent and Piper ran into the room, her eyes panicked. When they spotted Gray, they headed straight for him. As Vincent shook his head, Piper cursed, "You endangered yourself and the Resistance. Goddamn it, Gray. Why would you do that?"
"I got him out," Gray uttered, his speech slurring now. "Got all of them out."
Piper cursed. "That's Uma's job, not yours."
Dillon's gaze shifted to the Impure female. So that was little Miss Tough-As-Nails. Uma. What a stupid name.
"There's too many," Gray whispered. "I can't sit around here and use my fucking mind, my fucking gift"-he said the last word as though it were poison on his tongue-"when there's blood being spilled every hour of every day." Suddenly, he gasped. "Ahhh...Shit!"
"He's losing major blood here," Rio said, more frustrated than concerned. "Call the doc, Piper."
"No," Dillon said. "Get him into our room."
They all turned to stare at her.
"Are you all deaf?" she shouted, her cat's eyes blazing with ferocity as she stalked back and forth. "Get him into our room and I will take care of this."
"Who is this mutore?" Uma asked Vincent.
"Gray's pet," the male answered.
"Fuck you, Impure," Dillon snarled. "I'm a Pureblood veana as well as a mutore. I'll be able to heal him." She narrowed her eyes at the Pureblood male who held him. "Follow me, if you value your life."
The paven didn't even pause to think. With Gray against him, he followed her down the hall, then past her into the room.
"Put him on the bed," she ordered, "then get out."
All three warriors and the female, Uma, stood in the doorway.
"How do we know you're not going to hurt him?" she asked, her eyes wary, protective.
"You don't," Dillon uttered. She stalked toward them, growled a sound so loud and fierce all four took a step back. "Now, get the fuck out of here."
She jumped up and slammed her paws against the door. It shut with such force it rattled the walls of the room. She didn't like the way she felt right now: obsessively protective and, hell...if she was forced to admit it, a little scared. And it didn't get any better when she crawled up onto the bed and saw Gray's face. Way too pale. Way too much blood.
Shit.
How was she going to get into her veana form? That was the only way she could heal him. Granted, she just needed part of the shift to happen, just her face, her mouth. Shoving aside the other queries in her head, she lay down beside him, against him, and tucked her head under one of his hands, pushed his arm so it was draping across her powerful shoulders.
Come on, come on, come on. Panic swept through her when nothing immediate happened-no warmth, no deep sense of shift within her. The scent of blood thickened in her nostrils. She'd brought him in here, cast down the idea of a doctor-scared the shit out of everyone who seemed to care about his welfare, and now he could die. Right here, right now. Because of her power play.
Her undead heart stuttered, a true and complicated fear tightening her chest. That she couldn't have. Couldn't let that happen to this male. Not ever. She didn't have to be in his life or see him after this was all over-hell, he didn't even have to return her to a motherfucking veana.
He just needed to keep breathing.
She dropped her head, scented for his wounds, then ripped the shirt off of him with her fangs and discarded it.
She didn't know what made her do it. Desperation? Inspiration? Who the fuck cared? It was something.
She starting licking him. Deep, powerful sweeps until Gray's blood saturated her cat's tongue. She tried not to think about how good he tasted, how she could drink from him all damn night. She just licked and licked until he was clean, until the wound no longer seeped, until his blood flowed into her, and the shift began.
Dillon didn't know, maybe would never know, if it was his blood that turned her that night or the close contact of their skin, but within seconds, she was a veana from the neck up. Quick as a blink, she blew her warm breath onto his wound. She blew, over and over against the deep gash until it started to close, then fuse, then disappear altogether.
When it did, when his skin looked tight and clean, she lifted her head and stared at his face. Her breath held, caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat, she waited. Seconds ticked by and time moved in an endless loop. "Come on, you Impure bastard," she whispered into his skin. Please, she begged deep in her mind. I don't want to do this without you, any of this. Dillon wasn't sure exactly what she was referring to, but it didn't matter. Gray let out a soft groan. She stared as his once pale and deathly skin turned pink and his breathing evened, slowed to a healthy rhythm, and then finally he slipped into a natural, healing sleep.
Dillon hadn't realized how heavily she'd been breathing, how anxious she felt, how exhausted the entire episode had made her until she felt it come over her in waves.
With a sigh of relief, she turned around and curled up beside him, against the now perfectly healed wound, and closed her eyes, letting the healthy rise and fall of his chest lull her to sleep.
Sometime later, she thought she felt his body stir, thought she felt him turn toward her and drape an arm over her, but she was too tired to lift her cat's head and see.
Per Alexander's request, which was really a thinly veiled demand, they were all sitting. A tough thing for seven Pureblood vampire males, and, Erion mused as he glanced over at Alex's female, Sara, not all that comfortable for their mates either.
Lycos spoke first. Seated at the very edge of his chair, he looked ready to spring. He growled fiercely at Titus. "Before we decide if we're going to kill you or just send you back to the Order without a tongue, I want to know why."
Beside the wolf, Helo picked up where the paven left off. "Why would you come here and warn us?"
"It's a trap," Phane offered, his upper lip curling, his hands fisting at his sides. "He's a spy."
"He's not goddamn spy," Lucian said, seated all the way back in his chair, immobile while his balas slept against his chest. "Not in the way you're thinking, anyway."
Lycos growled at him. "No one asked you, Daddy Palest."
Lucian turned to Alex. "Can we get this one a muzzle?"
"I'd love to see you try to put one on me," Lycos returned, nearly off his seat now. "My bite is a thousand times worse than my bark, and I haven't tasted dickhead for ages."
Lucian snorted. "Oh, there's way too many places I can go with that." Unable to stop himself, Lucian burst out laughing. "So you've haven't had dickhead. What about asshole? Have you tasted asshole?"
"Lucian," Alexander warned.
"Enough, brothers," Erion said, turning to Nicholas. It was like looking in a mirror, save for the facial brands and the eye color. It was a shame, a tragedy that they'd had to meet the way they did-taking the paven's sister-in-law and handing her over to Cruen. Erion's nostrils flared. That ancient bastard would have much to answer for when Erion stood before him again. And he would stand before him again. The lies told to him and the truth kept from him...
Pulling his mind back into the present, Erion asked his twin, "Who is this paven? Truly? He is not merely a member of the Order, yes?"
"He is my sire," Nicholas said tightly. "Our sire."
As a collective grumble of shock took over the room, Erion held firm, still. He hadn't been prepared for this. Perhaps he should've been. "A Breeding Male?" he hissed, his gaze shifting back to the elder paven, who sat deep within an armchair by the windows. "Then..." Erion looked back at Nicholas.
"He is the sire to us all," Phane finished for him.
All the mischievous jabs and posturing from a moment ago were now gone. The room felt cold, strange.
"I don't understand this," Erion said, first to Alex, then Nicholas. "It cannot be possible. He is Order. He cannot be a Breeding Male."
"It is possible to be more than what others believe you to be."
They all turned toward the ancient paven, each gaze set with their own particular brand of shocked unease.
"The Order sees what it wishes to see and ignores the rest," Titus said quietly, his skin as white as the moon outside the window. "Their only objective is to preserve the past-the old ways-because they fear what would happen to themselves if they did not. If things change, evolve, or are accepted, they wonder, does that mean we are no longer needed?" He lifted his chin. "They fear this more than anything-will do whatever they must to keep the old ways current and strong."
"Even kill," Sara said, leaning into her mate Alexander's shoulder.
Titus shrugged. "Castrate, kill, nothing is off-limits when it's framed with 'protecting the breed.'"
"Don't sound like you're innocent of either of these crimes, Order," Phane said tightly.
"I am not." Titus looked as if he wanted to elaborate, but wasn't sure how to go about it. "There is more. If Impures, mutore, anything that is not ideal or absolutely Pureblood gains in power, the Order is concerned that the entire breed will implode. They fear anarchy will ensue and we will be known to the humans-truly known for the first time in our existence."
"But why exterminate the mutore at birth?" Sara asked, her tone clinical, curious. "Why not castrate them like the Impures?"
Titus looked uncomfortable, his gaze avoiding the four Beasts seated around him. "Impures do not have mates, do not go through the intensity of that impulse to breed."
"Neither do mutore," Erion said, the taste of those words, that truth, bitter on his tongue. "We have no mates."
"Who told you that?" Titus asked him, looking even paler than a moment ago. "Cruen?"
"Yes."
Titus stood then, used the chair as support to move closer to the window. "You have true mates," he said to the night sky, the moon, to the view. "In fact, when you reach the age of your Beast's maturity, your need to find that mate is more uncontrolled than a morphed Pureblood paven."
Lucian, Nicholas, and Alexander all at once cried out, "What?"
"Dillon," Titus uttered. "She believes it was violence against her that set her Beast free, made it uncontrollable." He turned back to face them, shook his head. "Maybe there was a trigger, but this is a biological change the mutore undergo, something far beyond a Pureblood veana's meta and a paven's morpho. While a veana and paven reach their maturity and transition with the sun and their hunger and the driving force to find their mate, a mutore's response to that same call for mating is at the base level of an animal." He glanced around to see if they understood. "A veana and paven would be damn uncomfortable if they couldn't find their mate, but they'd still remain themselves. A mutore? They become their animal forever."
The room exploded with sound.
"This can't be true," Erion said. "We would've known. He would've told us." He stopped himself there, because that was a proven lie. Cruen had told Erion and his brothers that they would never be able to sire a child-all because he didn't want them breeding, didn't want their dirty mutore blood within the breed. Erion snarled. They'd been good for protection, for fighting, for doing their "father's" bidding, but breeding was too far above their station.
A flash of Ladd, the balas he'd sired, came into his mind. Because of Cruen, he'd created a living, breathing paven who had no idea who his true father was.
"It was one of the ways Cruen created the Breeding Male," Titus was saying, his gaze moving from Beast to Beast. "One of the many ways. Experimenting with the strongest paven of the Purebloods, crossbreeding with animal DNA."
"For what?" Nicholas asked, shock and disgust lining his face as he realized that he could've just as easily been a mutore too.
"The ultimate vampire," Titus revealed. "A race he could control."
His body rigid, Lycos sneered. "So the Order had us exterminated at birth because they didn't want us to find our mates? Breed?"
Titus nodded. "Partly."
"What is the other part, Order?" Helo demanded, his fangs descending.
Titus sagged against the window, looking a century older than when he'd entered the room. "A mutore can become far more powerful, more dangerous than even the Order themselves."
"How do you know this?" It was Lucian this time. The nearly albino vampire asked the question softly, so as not to disturb his child-but there was a thread of ire in it.
Erion wondered if these two males shared a bond. Both being Breeding Males, there had to be something there, as Lucian had barely said a word since Titus's arrival. And the albino paven wasn't one for keeping his mouth shut.
Titus's hands shook, but his gaze lifted to his son. "It grieves me to say, but Cruen was my benefactor, too. Long ago, he gave me the blood to stop my Breeding Male desires and become Order. And with his blood came the knowledge of things he's done."
"Oh, shit," Lucian uttered, his tone shocked but strangely curious, too.
"You must find Cruen," Titus said to them all, his tone imploring.
"Why?" Alexander demanded. "Why would we want anything to do with that garbage now?"
"He is the one who can truly help Dillon." He looked at the other Beasts. "Help you all control what is coming for you until your mates arrive."
"And how would he know how to do that?" Phane asked blackly, disbelievingly.
Titus released a heavy breath. "Because he too is a Beast."
Every male in the room shot to their feet. The four mutore lunged. Sara shouted for them to stop. But it was too late.
Titus had already flashed away.
Gray woke to the delectable feel of skin on skin. Hard against smooth, white hot against blistering. Him against her. And he did the only thing a male could do in that moment: wrap his arm around her waist and yank her impossibly closer.
It took him a moment of the sun coming through the windows to wake his mind to the fact that Dillon lay nude and curled into him on his bed, and another moment to realize she wasn't a Beast anymore.
He opened his eyes and let the sun reveal all that his hands could not. The first thing he saw was her shoulder, her pale, silky skin just inches from his mouth. Hunger and thirst assaulted him like a bullet to the gut, and he felt his fangs extend, the tips nearly grazing her flesh. He'd bitten her there once before, in her bedroom inside the senator's guest cottage. Goddamn, he remembered his need to get to her, how his fangs had entered her back, slow, centimeter by centimeter, until he was all the way inside. Where he belonged. And he remembered the taste of her-blood so sweet he'd had a sugar high for weeks.
Shit, maybe he still had one.
His cock knocked hard and insistent against the waistband of his jeans. It wanted to be fed too, wanted to be suckled by the hot, wet walls of this veana's cunt.
He brushed her hair back from her neck and kissed that spot, that bit of flesh that still called to him, still scented of him. He felt her stir in his arms, then seconds later, felt her back arch and her ass press hard against his cock.
"Hungry, baby?" he whispered.
She moaned softly, sweetly. "Yes."
Gray gave a groan of triumph. "Yeah, me too." For as long as he could remember. For as long as he'd known her. He let his hand drift from her stomach up to her breast, to the tight, hard nipple in the center. "For this." She fit so perfectly in his hand. "For you." Shit, she fit so perfectly against him. If they hadn't wanted to kill each other ninety-nine percent of the time, he might've believed in that moment that they were made for each other.
He lapped at her neck, ran his fangs down the curve of her shoulder as his fingers played with her nipple. Her sharp intake of breath had him grinning, had him desperate to strike into her hot skin-bite her hard and ravenous. His mouth watered at the thought. Goddamn, he could do this all day-hold her, stoke her, taste her, his hands playing her until she cried out, his mouth playing her until she screamed-slow and easy until neither one of them could stand it anymore.
"I love you like this, Veana," he whispered into her neck, pressing his fangs lightly against that spot-his spot. "Soft, hungry..." Mine.
She turned in his arms then, forcing him to release her, her hand reaching for his fly. In under three seconds, the metal was down and Gray's cock was out. Her eyes closed, Dillon felt her way down his stomach until she wrapped her hand around him, then placed her other hand under his balls.
Gray hissed at the possessive heat of her grip. "God. Dillon. Baby."
He wanted her mouth, wanted to taste her, wanted to touch her while she touched him, but when he pulled her close and drew her in for a kiss, she moved away from him and crawled between his legs.
Curious and completely amped up by her touch, Gray watched as she raked her nails down his abdomen, then yanked the waistband of his jeans to get better access. Gray cursed as she stared hungrily at his prick. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than her mouth on his cock, her sweet, full lips taking him deep. Shit, he would've begged for it. Not that she ever would have made him. Not this D-this submissive creature before him with no attitude, no bark or bite.
The thought stilled him, made his mind work-made him wish like hell he could hear inside that brain of hers. He continued to watch her, her expression, her movement. Something wasn't right, wasn't right with her. Granted, everything she did, the way she gripped him, stroked him, the movement of her body-it was all hot as hell. Thing was, she hadn't looked at him once. Not even close. Her eyes stayed on her work, on his straining shaft, as though there was nothing attached to it.
He watched as she held the root of his cock in one hand and lowered her head, pressed her mouth against the tip. The sound she made in the back of her throat made cum bead at the head, and when she parted her lips and let her tongue lap at the salty wetness, he moaned.
Fucking hell, he wanted to force her eyes up, make her see him as she licked him back and forth, soft, feather-light sweeps. But then she opened her mouth wide and sucked him in deep. All doubts fled as heat shot through Gray's lower half, and his hands threaded in her hair, flexing and curling his fingers against her scalp.
"Yes, baby," he uttered as she gripped his thighs, his balls, and began slow, even thrusts in and out of her mouth. "My hungry D."
Gray jacked up his hips, meeting each stroke, his cock growing even harder as he touched the back of her throat. Nostrils flaring, he stared at her, at her raw hunger, at his prick, so wet and stiff moving between her lips. He was going come inside her, then flip her on her back and return the favor-eat and suckle and drown in that damp pussy he scented.
As if she'd heard him, she picked up speed, her mouth working him over until he thought he'd lose his mind. Fuck, he wanted to touch her-wanted his hands on her tits, his fingers playing her clit, easing through her lips until he could thrust them deep inside her cunt. But she'd positioned herself so far between his legs, positioned herself so he couldn't get to her. His mind spun. Heat and sexual need and logic all fought for dominion inside him. It meant something, how Dillon was acting, reacting, but he couldn't grab on to the thought. Could only feel the pleasure raging through him.
Shit, he was going to come-hard, deep, and uncontrolled. He was going to fuck her pretty pink mouth until he exploded-and then what? He fisted the sheets, gritted his teeth against the onslaught of aching heat climbing through his prick. Would Dillon even let him touch her? Let him stroke her into climax, let him lick her tight clit until she shuddered, suck her pussy lips until she lost her mind?
His mind took him there, let him see her on her back, legs spread, cunt begging for his mouth.
His hips jerked up then, and he cursed into the air. Fuck her and fuck her mouth, he snarled silently as he thrust deep again and again, all the way to the back of her throat, where he released a torrent of hot, pearly liquid.
Feeling her animal-or maybe it was his-seize control of his actions, his need, Gray gave her no time to think. When she released him and sat up, he went with her, capturing her mouth with his own, while his hand cupped her core.
"Oh God, my baby, you're soaking wet," he uttered against her lips. He bit the lower one and suckled it. "Let me take care of you, of that sweet, swollen cunt."
Dillon whimpered, pressed herself into his hand, and for one brief moment, Gray thought she was actually going to give herself to him. Let herself be taken, overpowered, loved, consumed.
Then he felt her stiffen, felt her go to ice beneath him, and he knew he'd lost.
Knew they'd both lost.
He didn't try to hold on to her. He knew her too well, knew she'd only bite his hand, scratch his face-and not in a way that would be mutually pleasurable.
As she scrambled off the bed, he dropped back against the pillows. With almost clinical eyes, he watched her. Watched her hurry toward the bathroom. Then watched her stop, turn, and slowly walk back. Watched as she came to the edge of the bed and tried to stand there, naked, with her eyes aimed somewhere near his chest, tried to be still and comfortable for one goddamn second.
"Thank you."
The two words were said in a quiet, tight voice, and Gray wanted to spring from the bed and shake her.
She lifted her hands, looked down at her body. "For this."
He tried to be casual, tried to stop his jaw from nearly cracking with all this new tension. "Hey, no problem. You saved me from bleeding out last night. So I guess we're even."
She chewed her lip. "Yeah. I guess so."
Then her gaze flickered up to his, and Gray hated what he saw there. Something hurting, down deep-a place inside this veana she'd never allow him access to, but he knew it was bad. His gut clenched as his mind became a dumping ground of ideas, of guesses as to what or who had created this veana before him. Maybe it shouldn't have come as a surprise that she'd found herself here-this bitter, impossible to crack, nearly broken feline. No. There was a reason Dillon remained on the surface of every situation, screwed anything and anyone who didn't challenge her-and kept the world, kept anyone who wanted to get close to her at arm's length with her cruelty. Right now, she stood naked before him, but he wondered if there would ever come a day when she allowed herself to truly be so.
His eyes fought to hold her gaze, hold on to her, but his instincts advised him to let go.
"Clothes are in the closet," he said. "Take anything you like, anything that'll fit you."
She glanced up, her eyes meeting his now. "What?"
He shrugged. "You're a veana again."
She stared at him.
"In control, ready to run."
She licked her lips, didn't move.
"That's what you want right now, isn't it?" he said, his tone tight as he tried to tamp down his frustration. "To get as far away from anything and anyone who could hold you down, hold you back." He opened his arms. "That collar and leash were only a joke, baby. You can run far, far away and I won't yank you back."
It was like she was frozen in place, her eyes locked to his, her beautiful pale body exposed, nipples a dark pink, cunt still glistening with a raw need she wouldn't allow him to soothe.
"Goddamn it, Dillon," he snapped, shaking his head. "What the fuck is this? What are you doing?"
She shook her head too, looked up at the ceiling.
"What the hell do you want?" he shouted. What can I do to reach you?
"I'm not ready, okay?" she cried out, her eyes dropping to his. They were wide, pissed, scared. "I still feel it...inside me. The cat. I need more time here. With you." Her gaze held his, but her shoulders sagged with unmasked defeat. "Okay?"
Gray's nostrils flared, his gaze roamed over her, and his mind worked. And goddamn her, his heart felt like it was being knocked around by an elephant. This had bullshit and danger and stupidity written all over it. And yet when he looked into her eyes, he couldn't help himself. He wanted her, and he wanted to know what the hell had turned her into this.
Gray nodded, then watched her turn and walk back into the bathroom. When he heard the shower water turn on, he grabbed one of the pillows off the bed and ripped the fucker in two.