Edge of Hunger

His teeth grazed her flesh, making her shiver and she started to call out his name…only to draw a blank.

Holy shit! She couldn’t remember it! The thought struck Kendra as hilariously funny and she gave an uncharacteristic giggle, making him grin against the underside of her breast. Oh…wouldn’t her mother love to know that a man she couldn’t even name was pressing his mouth against her naked skin, kissing his way up to the hollow of her throat.

“Tell me how bad you want it,” he whispered, nipping at her shoulder in a way that had her blood surging.

She grabbed at his denim-covered cock, and he laughed softly under his breath.

“Beg me, honey. I love to hear a woman begging for it.” His breath washed over her throat as he rasped the words against her sensitive flesh, his hands sliding across her ass, fingers kneading her through the denim of her jeans. “Beg me to make you scream.”

“Please,” she gasped, tilting her head to give him better access, ignoring the sudden warning note in her head that signaled something wasn’t…quite right.

Just go with it, Kendra. He can make you forget. Forget…everything. Forget…Ian.

Almost as if the stranger had read her mind, he pressed his forehead to hers, whispering, “Don’t worry, Kendra. After I’m done with you tonight, there won’t be anything left for Buchanan.”

She pulled back to look up at him, and her breath caught. Something about his face seemed…she didn’t know. Different somehow. She blinked her heavy lids, trying to bring him back into focus through her blurry vision, but her eyes refused to cooperate. Then one hand lifted, cupping her cheek, his thumb stroking gently…so gently against the corner of her mouth. In the moment, she forgot everything but his touch. It was reverent. Like a lover’s—and she realized that in all the time she’d known him, Ian had never touched her like this. Like she was special to him. Her lower lip trembled. She sighed, floating, somehow lost in the searing heat of this stranger’s gaze.

Then he smiled.

The curve of his lips was so beautiful, it took her tequila-soaked mind a moment to realize what he’d just said.

Buchanan! What the…? How did this man—this newcomer to the mountains—know about her and Ian?

“How—”

“Shh…” he whispered, pressing his hand over her mouth. “No more time for questions.”

He gave a low, rough laugh, and Kendra watched in shock as his face seemed to rearrange itself within his skin. She heard something pop, then crack, followed by the chilling sound of bone snapping into place.

Panicking, she turned to run but stumbled. He had her down before she’d gone more than a few yards, his muscled weight crushing her into the damp ground.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, flipping her to her back and pinning her arms above her head with an effortless strength that awed as much as it terrified. She watched through wide, burning eyes as his intent spread across the distorted features of his face like a stain, and a choked sound broke from her throat. A dry cry lost somewhere between a sob and a whimper. “No more time to play, Kendra,” he whispered. “Only time enough to die.”

And he wasn’t lying.

Everything that happened after that came to her in nothing but broken fragments—consciousness shattered by terror and disbelief and indescribable pain. She wanted to cry, but her mind was too numb. She wanted to fight back, but her body lay there upon the blood-soaked ground, too broken and weak.

She wanted to tear the son of a bitch to pieces, the same way he was tearing her apart—but in that, she failed, as well.

He’d cut her; deep slices in her stomach…her chest? She couldn’t tell; she hurt everywhere. Even deep inside, where he’d ripped her open with the vicious pounding of his body into hers. Everything faded—the sapphire stars in the sky, the chirping of the grasshoppers, the rich pine scent of the towering trees—until there was nothing. Nothing but the great rolling waves of pain that made everything black and ugly and raw.

She thought of Ian, and realized how stupid she’d been.

But her last thought, as his teeth sank into her throat, was that mother had been right after all.

And wasn’t life such a bitch of a waste.

Then Kendra Wilcox thought no more.

CHAPTER THREE

Saturday Morning, 3 a.m.

IAN WAS DREAMING OF HOME. Dreaming of the Deep South in the late fall, when he was young. It was the same strange dream he’d been having since he’d run away at sixteen. He sat huddled around a crackling fireplace with his small family. Dinner simmered on the stove, filling the weathered house with the rich scent of beans and corn bread, while young Riley sprawled on the threadbare rug and little Saige cuddled on his mother’s lap, begging for another story about their ancestors.

“Many years ago,” his mother murmured, “before this country was even discovered, our ancestors walked the earth, but they weren’t like us—”

“They were Merricks, weren’t they?” Saige interrupted, all but bouncing with excitement.

“Yes, sweetheart,” his mother answered with a smile, “they most certainly were.”

“And they kicked butt, didn’t they?” his brother added, grinning a little.

His mother winked at Riley. “That they did.”

“Until the Casus massacred them,” Ian inserted drily, sitting on the floor by the fire. He wrapped his thin arms around his scuffed knees; his lip curled in a snide expression his mother had always said was too scornful to belong to a twelve-year-old.

“That’s not true!” Saige protested, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Oh, yeah? Why do you think they’re all dead?”

“But they’re not all dead,” his mother said softly, and all three heads turned sharply toward her, big eyes curious and uncertain. This was a strange twist, for the stories had never taken this direction before. Not once, in all the countless tellings.

“What do you mean they’re not dead?” he asked quietly, though his words sounded belligerent and hard against the heavy silence of the house. He fought the urge to flinch as a log cracked sharply in the fireplace, the wet wood popping, then splitting.

Their mother’s slim brows arched high on the worry-wrinkled span of her brow. “Did I ever say they were dead?”

“If they’re not dead—” his eyes narrowed in suspicion “—then where are they?”

“Right under your nose,” she explained with a small smile that made him feel a little sick inside. She held his stare, the corners of her mouth curving just the tiniest bit—a strange glow warming the deep, dark blue of her eyes. “And one day, when the darkness calls to you,” she whispered, her voice so low he could barely hear the words, “when you can feel it in your bones, feel it roaring through your veins, in the beat of your heart—when your dreams are no longer your own, Ian—you’re going to meet him.”

Trapped within the oppressive layers of sleep, Ian stared at his smiling mother until his vision became cloudy, the silhouette of her body hazy against the thickening darkness. He knew what would happen next—but he couldn’t stop the recurring dream from bleeding into a nightmare. His throat hurt as the beginning vibrations of a feral growl shivered in his chest, his body aching as every muscle went rigid with a painful, gripping tension.

He tossed beneath his sweat-soaked covers, struggling to throw off the thick curtain of sleep, but he couldn’t shake it, as if the dream had lain itself out over his body in a wash of warm, wet cement, binding him in place as it hardened. His teeth gnashed, grinding and angry, but the dream kept going, like a film clip set on continuous replay.

The dream was changing…sucking him deeper… pulling him into darker, treacherous waters, where danger lurked in the thick, murky depths beneath his feet. Gone was his childhood home, his mother, his freckle-faced sister, Saige, and scrawny, pain-in-the-ass little brother, Riley. Now the ripe scent of the forest filled his head, humid night crowding around him like a falling sky, smothering and dark and too close for comfort. The heavy weight of midnight black surrounded him while the tension in his gut wound tighter, knotting and coiling…and then he saw it. The small, flickering glow of a campfire in the distance, its shivering light just visible through the stygian darkness. The wind surged, bringing with it the rich, provocative scent of sex, while a deep, rhythmic pulse of music suddenly began to fill the unnatural quiet of the woods.

He stood silent and still, aware of the slow, heavy thudding of his heart, of the intense surge of blood swirling through his rigid body. His hands flexed at his sides, the tips of his fingers burning with sharp, piercing sensations, while the thick wave of hunger rolling through him settled heavily in his cock. He breathed in, and broke open in some weird metaphysical way, aware of something unfurling from deep within him, stretching to existence within his fevered skin. Something that felt at home there in the clinging web of darkness. His senses sharpened, acute and predatory, while his body swelled, growing stronger, the muscles buried beneath his burning skin bulging with a primitive, animal craving that demanded freedom.

That wanted to answer the provocative call of the darkness.

Suddenly he was aware of the warm wind against his now-naked flesh. Of the damp air in his lungs, the fertile ground beneath his feet, too many smells assailing him with a chaotic swarm of information. The details consumed him, crowding his mind, battling for supremacy, until one need conquered, dominating all others.

The urge to hunt.

Lifting his nose to the wind, he searched for the thing he craved, just so that he could chase it and take it down. His nostrils flared and he sniffed, sorting through the sensitive data intake rushing into his head, and then he found it.

Yes, the creature within him hissed with thick satisfaction. Right there.

The change was almost complete. Some inherent part of him struggled against it, but the hunger was too strong. He exploded into action and felt himself running, charging, lungs heaving, thighs and calves working with preternatural force as he raced through the thick tangle of foliage and trees, their leaves and branches whipping against his face and arms and legs, leaving bloody scratches on his skin…and he knew what would happen next.

He’d been having this nightmare for weeks now. And each time it ripped something inside of him open a little more. Cut him just that little bit deeper.

No! Ian roared from the darkest depths of his unconscious psyche, while the dream kept going, each moment pissing him off more than the last. Goddamn it! No! Wake up, you idiot! Wake up!

But he couldn’t shake it. No, something dark and hungry in his gut wanted this too much—needed it—and an ugly, twisted feeling cut through him. Shame. Bitter and foul and consuming. But the craving was too huge to ignore—to overcome.

He needed what was out there.

Ian thrashed in the tangle of his damp sheets, drenched and aching as he struggled to throw off the infuriating bonds of the nightmare. But its claws were sunk too deeply into his flesh, trapping him in place. It was the same as it had been in all the other dreams. He saw himself breaking through the edge of the forest, rushing into the middle of a gypsy campfire. He saw the rapid, sensual swirl of the dancers as they spun around the rioting flames, the rich colors of their skirts flapping rapidly in the breeze, long hair flowing behind them in a wild explosion of curls. Along the shadowy edges of the campsite, couples writhed in ecstasy, the ripe, musky scent of sex filling the air while the pulsing music grew louder. Around the fire, the dancers moved with increasing urgency, clapping and stamping their feet, singing and laughing in their decadent revelry.

And a low, eerie chant began to hum beneath the music. Something thick and husky that sounded like Merrick…Merrick…Merrick.

They knew he was there. Dark sloe eyes caressed him, ruby-red lips curling in feline smiles of invitation he couldn’t deny. He reached for the one who first dared to dance too close to him, taking her down to the ground right there, aware of the sizzling, searing looks as the others watched.

Clothes were shredded in seconds. Then he took her the same way he did in each dream, spreading her long legs, thrusting into the slippery entrance nestled there within her crimson folds, the ebony curls above glistening with her juices, and he hammered her into the hard, damp floor of the forest.

Ian fisted his hands in his sheets until the fabric ripped, his body taut upon the mattress, his weight resting solely on his head and heels—and in the dream, his hands clawed at the rich soil, eyes narrowed and hot as he ground himself into the panting, dark-eyed girl. He slammed into her harder, with a viciousness that shocked him, but he couldn’t get deep enough, as if he were trying to reach something that she couldn’t give him. The need raged through him, savage growls crawling from his throat, like something wild and predaceous, but she wasn’t afraid of him. Sharp nails clawed his flesh, her voluptuous body arching and writhing beneath him, low, moaning pleas for more flowing from her lips while the others cheered them on. The music grew louder…swelling with each pulsing beat, until his head roared with it.

He thrust himself into her giving flesh, searching… aware of the pain his size brought her, but he couldn’t find what he needed. He snarled, throwing back his head, an animal roar ripping from his chest, the desperate sound slicing through the music and raucous laughter. His eyes screwed tight, the tendons in his neck bulging while his temples throbbed. His heart thundered, threatening to explode…building and building and building. And then he felt it.

Something…different. Something that had never happened before within the terrifying landscape of his nightmares.

It was the small, shy touch of a hand against his chest, pressed right over the painful thudding of his heart. Ian froze on a hard downstroke, sublimely aware of the delicious change in the body beneath his own, his rigid cock buried thick and deep within an impossibly snug, cushiony feminine channel that gripped him so tight it actually hurt.

He swallowed, his eyes burning from the sting of sweat as he lowered his head and stared down at the woman now lying beneath him. The gypsy was gone, and in her place was a shy, petite honey-blond gazing up at him with big brown eyes.

Oh, hell. It was her. Molly. Something in Ian’s chest snapped, making him jerk on top of her. He didn’t dare breathe or blink or speak, terrified of breaking the spell and losing her. He couldn’t let that happen. No, suddenly the most important thing in his world was holding on to the dream with everything that he had.

Holding on to the woman.

With the sound of his blood roaring in his ears, Ian shifted, grinding against her, making sure she had every inch of him buried inside of her, the base of his shaft rubbing against the pulsing heat of her clit. Her eyes went wide, full of shock and surprise and the hazy kind of pain that could only be seen in a woman’s gaze when she was being thoroughly taken. A strange, voluptuous kind of pain sharpened by the biting edge of pleasure. Her lips parted, and he read the word that slipped silently from her mouth.

“Ian.”

She knew. Knew who he was. Knew he was the one penetrating her, staking her to the ground.

He wanted to smile at her, wanted to run his dirt-covered hands over her face, along the trembling pulse at the base of her throat and tell her it was okay, that he wouldn’t harm her, but he couldn’t say the words. His blood was raging, his body hot, streaming with sweat, and he knew his eyes looked wild. Savage. The intensity riding him was too violent to disguise—too ripped open and raw, stripping away whatever thin veneer of civilization he normally managed to pull around himself.

She stared up at him, panting and soft and rosy, pale skin gleaming and flushed. He knew, without any doubt, that she was as innocent as she looked. Not virgin, but…close. Whatever experience she’d had with men was limited, brief, fleeting.

That was about to change.

Watching her closely, he pulled back, then sank back in. He could have come just from thrusting into her— but no way in hell was he going to let it happen. He had to savor it…savor her. Make it last and wring from her everything she could give. Had to demand it, make her crazy. He wanted her screaming and clawing and crying with pleasure by the time he was finished with her. Wanted to break her apart, scattering the pieces until she had to have him put her back together again.

Shifting to his knees, Ian pushed up on his hands, muscles bulging and hard in his arms, and stared down at the tender place where his body joined hers.

“Watch me,” he growled.

She shivered and lowered her gaze, her shock at seeing his possession unmistakable in the thick look of lust that clouded her warm brown eyes. It rushed through him, the destructive power of that look, trashing his control, tearing some kind of violent, primitive sound from his throat. She was tight and he was big, too big to just slide in, no matter how slick she was. He had to put his strength behind it and drive at her, slamming her into the ground, the keening sound of her pleasure making him see red.

With a hoarse groan, Ian lowered himself over her, needing the tight tips of her velvety nipples against his skin, needing to cover her, to own her…and he suddenly realized that they were alone in the forest. The music was gone, the gypsies, the wild celebration—the churning noise replaced by her husky cries and the wet, slapping sounds of his body thrusting into hers. He drove her across the ground with his hips, taking and claiming and letting loose every hard, tight emotion that he’d always kept locked up, hidden away—and then she undid him.

He watched, dazed, as the damp, silken beauty of her mouth curled, lips lifting to form an incandescent smile that lit her up, made her glow, and something powerful and terrifying ripped through him. His control snapped, and he went over the edge, digging one hand around her thigh, lifting her leg up high as he shoved deep…then deeper still, his other hand fisting in her hair, pulling her head to the side. She sobbed, a sound more pleasure and anticipation than pain, and he lost it. His gums burned as he felt the terrifying length of his fangs slip free.

She cried out, stiffening beneath him, but he couldn’t stop. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathed a damp patch of lust against her throat, and greedily sank his teeth into her. Molly screamed, jerking beneath him, and he bit deeper, the ecstasy and bliss instantaneous, hot and thick and sinful.

The warm, rich spill of her blood filled his mouth in a smooth rush, flowing down his throat, and he swallowed hungrily, growling as he pulled against the wound in her neck, dizzy with pleasure at the lusty taste of her. More. He needed more. Working his jaws, he pulled tighter against her, feeding from the small punctures, every inch of his body aware of her flying apart around him in a shattering climax that squeezed his shaft like a clenching, silken fist.

With a snarling cry, he ripped his fangs from her, drugged by her taste, by the evocative sight of her crimson blood dripping down the pale skin of her throat. She gasped breathlessly as he leaned down, dragging his tongue over her flesh, taking the meandering trails of blood for his own, trapping them in his mouth. He lifted his head, staring into her dazed eyes, and for the first time in his life he was completely focused on every mind-shattering detail of the woman beneath him. The rapid quivering of her heart against his. The panting of her sweet breath and the delicate shiver of her hands across his back. She was too small for him. But it was too good, the feeling one he wanted over and over and over.

He was painfully aware that nothing had ever felt so perfect…so right. That no one had ever felt like this. Like his.

Ian shuddered from the dangerous, unsettling thought, already closing himself off even as she blinked up at him, dewy cheeks flushed and so beautiful that it took his breath away. He watched in horror as those bee-stung lips curled up the slightest fraction, her eyes shining as she gifted him with another sweet, shy smile—even after he’d fed from her like a bloody monster—and fear, sick and meaty and rank, sliced through him.

Danger! Red alert! Get the hell out of here, you dumb-ass son of a bitch!

Her mouth opened, small hands clutching at him, and he thought he heard her scream his name in panic as she lost her hold—but in the next instant, he jerked awake, his body drenched in sweat, heart hammering like a staccato drum in his chest, painful and piercingly sharp.

Rolling to his side on the damp sheets of his wrecked bed, he felt his lips pull back over his teeth as he fought to get control of his ragged breathing, to find a slower intake of air that didn’t make his lungs burn, his vision swim. Squinting through his narrowed eyes, he focused on the digital glow of the clock sitting on his dresser, the blinking of the numbers making him think of a bomb slowly ticking its way to detonation.

When the darkness calls, Ian…

Like hell! He had enough to deal with right now! He didn’t need his mother’s words whispering through his brain. Not when he was on the edge and a breath away from losing what little control he could claw on to.

He drew in a deep, desperate breath through his nose, eager for the scent of something clean and fresh, something that could pull him out of the ugliness in his head. But the smell of the room reminded him too much of the acrid taste of fear. And there was no denying that he was afraid—that terror beat through his body like a deafening, rolling wave of thunder.

Visions of blood and lust, of violent sex and ungodly, animalistic hunger, still burned through his mind, but he fought against the waves of memory, focusing on regaining control, slowing his heart…his breathing. Struggling to keep from coming all over his sheets like some green-eared teenage boy in the throes of a wet dream.

Goddamn it! It was her! She’d planted this in his head with her little mind games today. And he refused to think about how he’d felt with her—in her. No way. That was emotional no-man’s-land.

Seconds ticked by that flowed slowly into minutes, while he lay there, struggling for control of his body—fighting the urge to replay the dream in his head, knowing it would destroy him. Send him out on a shaky, treacherous ledge that only she could rescue him from. He sucked in air through his gritted teeth, heavy and hard, welcoming the dull throb beginning to pound through his head, until he suddenly became aware of someone knocking on his door. Loud and rattling, it shook the thin wood within its weathered frame like a lone reed caught in a gale-force wind.

Rolling onto his back, Ian took quick stock of his condition. He was drenched in sweat, his body hot, muscles aching, and a wry look downward showed he was in some deep shit, and it was getting deeper by the minute.

The knocking rattled his door again, sharp and insistent. He threw his legs over the side of his bed, running one shaky hand through his damp hair, trying to throw off the jittery feeling the dream had left in his gut. It was probably Riley, asking for help. Again. Why his brother thought he would want to run off and play Galahad with him, he had no idea. Probably Riley’s attempt to keep an eye on him, making sure he still walked the straight and narrow.