Blood Mate: Project Rebellion, #2

1

Darce’s head hurt as he swam up through the foggy, drugged layers of unconsciousness. Hurt? Understatement of the fucking year. Some pains were instantly recognizable by the sufferer. The unmistakable burning slash of a cat’s claw or the insidious slice of a papercut. The brain automatically picked up on the lack of pain that followed a more serious injury, adding the thought oh shit, that’s going to hurt before the pain kicked in. The body and mind knew the throbbing, nauseating ache that accompanied a bad hangover. And Darce, someone used to a life of violence, recognized this one.

His eyes closed, he lay still and waited for the pain to ebb. The sharp pain radiating out from the side of his head was consistent with a hard blow from the butt of a rifle. It was a pain he knew but very much wished he didn’t. In fact, he’d have been happy to have gone through life without finding out how it felt to be hit in the side of the head with a blunt object, but the fates had other plans for him. Bitches hadn’t even sent him a memo so he could call in sick on the FUBAR crapshoot his life had become.

The fog in his head receded. Enough for him to make out two people carried him, one shorter than the other. His inner wolf growled but Darce silenced it with ruthless control. Until he knew what was going on, faking unconsciousness was his best option. Unconscious men were less of a threat. Out cold, he couldn’t shift, couldn’t let the beast within out to wreak havoc. Conscious and faking it? Even if it was going to be a holding his head, half-hearted sort of havoc, he could still go Freddy Krueger on the humans around him with fatal consequences.

For them at least.

…ck’s sake, what do they feed these guys? A voice, male and pissed off, broke through the fuzz and got Darce’s attention.

He frowned to himself, probing the black spots in his memory. Fading in and out that way wasn’t good. If he’d been human, he’d have been in serious shit. Head injuries could screw someone up big time. It had been his main worry when he’d joined the army—that he’d get shot in the head and end up a vegetable.

That was before.

Before, winding up comatose or—god forbid—dead were the worst things he could imagine. Now he knew better. A word loomed in his mind, larger than life and twice as terrible, nightmares clustering around the letters like dancers around a premier league footballer in a strip joint.

Project.

In the world of the Project, even death wasn’t permanent. But you sure as fuck didn’t want to come back the Project’s way.

He lurched to the side as one of the carriers lost its grip, dropping his legs and slamming his heels into the ground. A warm body crashed into him, the sharp stink of sweat and aftershave crowding into his sensitive nostrils.

Crap.

 Clothing rustled and tension ramped in the air. Darce sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, and his new companion was shoved off him in a rough movement.

For fuck’s sake, Wilson. Don’t get so close. Do you want your damn throat torn out?

The voice was female, angry and very familiar. Still feigning unconsciousness, Darce frowned and probed the black spots in his memory. Why was it familiar? It couldn’t be Nic—it was too rich and lyrical for the rough-edged female wolf. In fact, it didn’t sound like a lycan voice. The particular note all wolves acquired after their change was missing.

She moved, stepping over him. Her pant leg brushed his arm and her scent exploded around him. Blood, dirt and lust. He took a sharp breath. Memories of the last twelve hours ripped through his mind like a film on fast-forward, burning the fogginess out of his brain.

The hospital. Barred windows and restraints on the bed. Silver burning through his veins, eating away under his skin like acid. The moon above calling out to him, playing peek-a-boo from behind the clouds. Jack’s face hovering over him, distorted and strange, as though he looked out through a fish eye lens. Shouted commands he couldn’t hear over the roar of his wolf.

More…more…more.

Pain and fire. He pushed the sedative out through his pores, each beaded silver droplet sweating agony until he lay exhausted on the floor. A seductive-sweet scent. That of a woman, Jack’s woman…Jack’s mate. The first mate any of them had found. Lycans around him as they planned to escape before the Project teams arrived in gunships and transport carriers.

Then it was too late to leave. To run…escape into the wilderness. But this time the Project brought more than pain and terror with their soldiers and the walking corpses they used to clean up their messes.

They’d brought her with them. Her. His mate. A creature of the Project like him, but not the same. Pain and elation wrapped around his heart. He had a mate, her scent cleaving to his heart in an instant. But she was a blood. The enemy. Bloods hated lycans as much as lycans hated bloods. Hatred and fear of each other was instinctive, cell deep.

They’d killed the RAs she’d sent in and Jack’s mate had led the pack to safety through the earth. They’d run through the forests, staying in the shadows, holing up because Lilly was human and needed rest. Deep in the embrace of the trees and nature they’d hidden well, but the Project had found them… She’d found them. His mate had found him.

He’d brought the enemy down on them, but he wasn’t sorry. How could he be sorry when she’d followed him?

His mind filled with images of her. Tall and lean, her slender figure packed with curves that made his mouth water. His interest in her primal and male as she flashed her fangs and claws at him. God, imagining those cute little fangs buried in the thick muscles of his neck had gotten him hard.

The scene changed. Him over her. Victory and lust surging through him, he leaned in to claim his prize—a taste of her soft lips. Her black eyes flashed with amusement before pain shot through his skull and dropped him into darkness.

Fuck. Of all the stupid, fucking rookie mistakes to make. He’d been so focused on her he’d forgotten she had troops with her. The humans were no match for him…unless he took his eye off the ball. He was a fucking idiot. Distracted by a woman. He lay still when she’d stood over him, her voice raised at the soldier who had dropped him.

He’s out of it, Major… A new voice, male and young. Damn mutt’s not doing anything for the foreseeable future. I cracked him a good ‘un on the skull. Be surprised if he ever wakes up, to be honest. I ‘eard bone crunch. He’s harmless.

Oh great, just freaking great. No wonder he had a pounding fucking headache. Sounded like the dumb-fuck human had tried to perform brain-surgery via rifle butt. Luckily, lycans were more resilient. A skull fracture was well within his wolf’s ability to heal.

The memory of Jack’s voice filled his mind and his lips quirked.

If we’re lucky, maybe it will knock some fucking sense into him.

Let’s get one thing straight, Wilson. He’s a lycan. He’s not harmless. Even tied up, naked, he could find at least seventeen ways to kill you, his ladylove replied, anger in her tone. Even without opening his eyes, Darce could imagine her straddling his body, her hands clenching and un-clenching at her sides while her eyes flashed with fire.

Forget any nonsense you’ve seen in films. He’s a killing machine. You cracked his skull? Great. When he wakes up, he’s going to be a pissed off killing machine. One I have to deal with. So congratulations, you pissed us both off. Now fuck off before I rip your head off instead of his.

Darce cracked an eyelid open in time to see Wilson stumbling backward, shock on his baby face as he put a sensible distance between himself and the vampire. Christ, the guy looked all of twelve. Where was the Project getting them these days? Kindergarten?

Fucking idiot, the female blood groused to herself, her voice too low for the hovering human to hear. She bent over and hooked her hands under Darce’s arms again. He kept silent, his body lax while she dragged him across the dirt and grumbled about incompetent humans all the way.

She paused for a second and then hauled him upward. Strong hands found purchase on his clothing so she could manhandle him up and over onto a hard surface. He wasn’t a small man, so even though he knew she was a blood, he’d have been impressed at her strength. Would have been if he weren’t face-down on the metal bed of what appeared to be a troop transport. Fan-fucking-fastic. He was all for getting new designs on his body to complement his current ink, but floor markings on his face weren’t ideal.

"Damn great lump. What the freaking hell do they feed you? she muttered again, grabbing his shoulders and flipping him over. He landed back on the floor with an ooomph" as the air whooshed violently from his lungs.

He opened his eyes at the same moment she grabbed his wrists and slapped cold metal bands around them. The next second, she yanked his arms up over his head and locked them into place on the side of the cabin.

Oh, handcuffs. Kinky, he drawled, making her jump. If you wanted to get down and dirty, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.

Wilson, hovering by the tailgate, snickered. Yeah, like a dog would be any good in the sack.

Darce cut him a swift look. That’s not what your mom said—

The blood moved, lashing out and cuffing him above his ear. Darce yelped, swore and ducked his head to avoid a repeat performance. What the fuck… This is prisoner abuse. I demand a retrial!

Her black-on-black eyes sparkled with anger and fire. I don’t give a fuck who or what you are. I’m freaking sick of ‘your mom’ jokes. So can it already. Both of you.

The barked order was authoritative and issued with an obvious expectation of compliance. Both Wilson and Darce dropped their gazes and muttered Yes, ma’ams before Wilson disappeared from the tailgate, leaving Darce and the blood alone.

He struggled to a sitting position against the side of the truck, letting his body relax as he watched her. He’d thought she was beautiful on first glance—from a distance—but now, up close, she was breathtaking. Tall for a woman, but she’d still have been petite compared to him with her head reaching his jaw. She was the perfect size for him to wrap in his arms. Small women were great, but he hated getting a crick in his neck when he had to bend down to kiss them. With her, there would be none of that. She was just the right height.

Her lips pursed as she sat back on her heels and reached for a case on the other side of the vehicle. She dragged it to rest near her thigh and flipped it open. She cut a glance at him while she rifled through it. He grinned, not bothered that she’d caught him watching her.

So…you going to tell me your name? Or should I keep calling you pretty lady? he asked, sucking in a breath as she reached out to touch his face and the vicious wound there. Caused by her claws before he’d been clocked by the guy with the rifle butt, it burned when she pulled the edges of the torn flesh.

You’re healing fast.

She ignored his question, reaching back into the medical kit to pull out antiseptic swabs. Not bothering with gloves, she tore the packets open with her teeth. Those tiny little fangs flashed at him for a second before she leaned forward to clean the wound.

Darce swore, pain arcing through him as the wet wipe hit the cut flesh. "I was! What the hell are you using? Hydro-fucking-chloric acid?"

Oh, grow up. It’s a little cut. You’re lucky I didn’t gut you.

Lucky? You call this lucky? Darce squirmed like a kid whose mother scrubbed at stubborn spots of dirt on his face with a handkerchief. In his head, his mind turned over ten to the dozen. She’d dropped him, yes…but what had happened to Lillian? She’d gone running off into the forest alone. Unprotected. With him down and out, had the blood gone after her in a crazed fury?

He pulled in another deep breath and rolled it over his tongue, tasting and scenting the air at the same time in a way he hadn’t been able to do when he’d been human. His wolf rumbled within the confines of his body, pushing up enough to search through the myriad of scents for Lillian’s. There was blood, both human and lycan. His, mixed with the deep, rich scent of the earth and the tang of tree sap. But not Lillian’s blood. He breathed a sigh of relief. She’d gotten away. And he knew Jack. Now that he’d found his mate, the captain would tear the forest apart looking for her.

Captain…

The word brought him back to the present. He looked back at the woman sitting next to him while she rifled through the medical kit. He studied her while her attention was on something else. She frowned as she concentrated, the small expression fascinating him and sparking a whole host of erotic fantasies centered on her lips.

Wilson had called her Major, so she’d been a career soldier before she’d been turned. Nothing sexier than chicks and guns. Add in the aura of command, a senior officer had…heat rolled through him, sending delicious shivers along his spine. God, she could order him around as much as she liked. Tie him up, tie him down. He’d let her do whatever she wanted.

She sat back on her heels, and her movements caught his attention. Graceful but too smooth for a human, she’d clearly given up any pretense of being human. It suited her. He liked it, way more than was healthy. She lifted her hands and all his instincts went on red-alert.

Hey, hey, doll. You only have to ask. No need for the big stuff, he commented, his voice light and joking to cover the wariness in his every cell. She ignored him, shaking the small vial in one hand before she fitted the point of the syringe against it.

The sharp, wrong stink of the sedative the Project used on his kind filled the transporter as she pierced the rubber seal. The trace amount released when the needle slid through the protective layer was minute but it didn’t matter. Not to lycan senses.

His wolf stilled, all its concentration on the silver hanging in the air. She withdrew the syringe, tapping the side to release any trapped bubbles. A press on the plunger sent a dribble of the stuff sliding down the needle like a melting gobbet of ice-cream on the side of a sundae glass.

She leaned over him, her expression one of distaste, and she reached out to manipulate his raised arm. The instant she touched him, her colder-than-human hands gentle but determined on his skin, his wolf lost it. It snapped and snarled within, taking everything Darce had to keep control. Sweat beaded on his skin as he forced the creature back, gritting his teeth against the pain until it felt they would shatter under the pressure.

You don’t need that, doll. I’ll be a good boy, he promised. He’d promise her whatever she wanted to keep that needle away from his skin. To keep the silver out of his veins. I’ll even roll over and let you rub my tummy if you like.

He pleaded with his eyes, looking up through the long strands of dark hair that covered his face. His best puppy dog look. He’d been good at it before literally becoming part-dog. Wolf. Whatever.

She paused and he caught his breath, holding on to his human form like grim death. He couldn’t change in here, not with the wolf so panicked and her in here with him. Blood she might be, but he wouldn’t risk hurting her. A two-hundred-plus-pound wolf freaking out in a small container was a recipe for a world of hurt.

Please, don’t do this.

Shaking her head, she grasped his arm in a vise-like grip. He clamped his teeth rigid again. His control slipped and his wolf charged the small gap, desperate for release. Desperate to escape.

His teeth lengthened, slicing through his gums and filling his mouth with blood. Breathing through his nose, he pulled her scent deep into his lungs and held rigid under her hands. A part of his mind found comfort in the contact, soothed by the touch of the woman who was his mate. It didn’t last long.

The needle punctured his skin, sending fire streaking through his veins as she depressed the plunger.

2

It was like kicking a puppy.

Lips still tingling from the kiss he’d given her before Wilson had clocked him with the rifle butt, Antonia pressed the plunger and started to shove the sedative into the lycan’s vein. She felt the slight resistance when she pushed but schooled her movements to avoid shattering the delicate syringe. She’d broken a lot of things when she’d first been turned—glasses, mugs, even a shower handle once—so she knew to be careful.

Her nose wrinkled at the slight hint of silver hanging in the air, the trace elements of the small stream of fluid she’d let escape with the air bubbles. Bloods weren’t as susceptible to silver, but it didn’t mean she wanted any on her skin—or getting into her bloodstream if she crushed the glass syringe in her hand.

Her patient gasped, closing his eyes as the stuff hit. His head jerked back and slammed into the side of the truck so hard she winced. His back arched, the arc one of pain while every muscle and chord stood out in high relief on his bare chest and neck.

Toni moved with him, hand hard on his arm to keep the needle in place. He wasn’t trying to buck her off. The movement was instinctive—a reaction to the sedative. His feet scrambled on the metal floor, trying to find purchase while she pushed the plunger home with a click.

At the sound, she pressed her lips together, unwanted memories assaulting her of the days after her own infection. Memories of lying on a trolley, scared out of her mind while the scientists ran endless tests and gave her antidote shots. The soft click of the plunger as she held on to the hope that for once, fate would be kind. That the collision in the corridor, which had left her with more holes in her arm than a sieve, had been harmless. That somehow the sharps scattered about her feet and those of the medical technician didn’t contain what was stamped in big, black letters on the side.

BD15.

The guy had freaked out, brushing the needles embedded in his arm with something akin to a moan of terror. The blood had drained from his face as he looked from her to the door behind them. It was yanked open, armed guards piling through the gap. Their weapons weren’t held at their sides anymore, but trained on the two of them.

She’d known.

Instantly.

Even though they’d run all the tests and reassured her the virus didn’t take every time—and back in the first days of the camp it hadn’t—she’d still known. As she lay studying the ceiling, she felt the virus moving around her body, like ice circling her blood. Then it had started to burrow into her tissues.

The foot traffic had slowed, the faces around her changing, becoming grim. She’d ignored them, preferring to look at the backs of her eyelids rather than see the mixture of pity and scientific interest. So she pretended to doze when guards had entered the room to stand silently by the door.

It had been all downhill from then. Medical personnel had given way to lead scientists. By the time the virus had begun to chew at her insides, turning her guts into a seething mass of fiery snakes, she’d gone from a patient to a subject.

And she’d been a subject ever since.

The slump of her prisoner’s body brought her back to the present. Trying to be gentle, she kept an eye out for movement as she withdrew the needle. He might be sedated but her words to Wilson held true. Out of it or not, he was still a lycan. While he drew breath, he’d be dangerous. It was dark in the back of the transporter but that made no difference. She could see just as well in pitch black as in daylight.

He didn’t move. His tall, leanly muscled body was lax and at her mercy as she pulled the sharp point from his flesh. Only the smallest curl of his lip indicated he’d felt her movement. She wasn’t naive enough to believe he was unconscious. Instead, she knew the battle was focused inward, on the drugs racing through his system.