this—open, vulnerable and exposed. Nicolas reminded himself it was Maggie, not him. Unlike his draicara, he could guard his emotions.
She perched over the sink, clasping it with whitened knuckles. Tension strained the heart-shaped face reflected in the wavy mirror. Her full, pouty mouth thinned with pain. Nicolas felt as if poison had seeped into his very bones.
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Trying to hold them back—oh, she tried—so as not to upset the animal she carefully tended. But the grief, it washed over her in cresting waves. She hung her head over the sink and sobbed.
Nicolas struggled to hold back his own tears.
Finally she splashed cold water on her face, and dried it. Forced a wobbly smile on her face, and went out to tend to her patient. The little brown dog lifted her head.
Across the white tile floor of Maggie’s kitchen, a small brown cockroach scurried, then went still. He tensed, for the roach might be a Morph in disguise come to kill her. But it did not show any signs of shifting. After a minute he relaxed. Just an ordinary insect.
Nicolas felt Maggie’s natural disgust. He figured she’d scream, slam down the broom. Instead, he felt her stride over to the loathsome insect. She fumbled for a jar on the counter, trapped it, turned the jar over. Just as quickly, she released the roach outside. Through Maggie’s eyes, Nicolas watched it crawl over the white beach sands.
His jaw went slack.
From its fluffy pillow, he heard the dog she’d named Misha bark weakly in protest. Damn straight, dog, Nicolas agreed. I’d kill it, too.
“You know the rules, Misha. Everything lives,” Maggie said softly. “Even roaches. I swore never to hurt another living thing. Ever.”
Damn. This was going to be far harder than he’d ever imagined. How the hell could he turn this woman into a cocked weapon ready to kill Morphs when she was rescuing bugs?
Nicolas drew in another deep breath, severed the connection so cleanly he could almost hear the snap. He dropped his head into the thick cushion of dead leaves and moss.
He didn’t want to break away. Part of him wanted to remain. Comfort her. Enfold her in his strong embrace and never let go.
Those emotions were his own, he thought grimly. Dangerous emotions but natural. Every male Draicon was born with the instinct to protect his mate. Even though his particular mate had no idea of his existence or that of his people. Their people.
Minutes passed. Or was it hours? A familiar scent approached noiselessly. Moonlight gilded a pair of polished brown boots. Naked and vulnerable, he sat up to face his leader.
“You look like crap,” Damian observed. The soft New Orleans drawl he’d acquired from a childhood in the bayou accented his words. “They came for you again because you were protecting us. Why do you insist on staying when you know you’re banished?”
Nicolas made no reply. He knew Damian had smelled the death, heard the screams. He had sensed what happened.
“Nicolas … one day one will kill you. If you stay,” Damian said gently.
“I won’t abandon you, Dai. You need me. The pack needs me.” He grated out the words, locking gazes with the older male.
As Damian’s beta, Nicolas was responsible for carrying out the leader’s orders. He was the pack’s best hunter. When the pack had been in danger of being eliminated by the Morphs, Nicolas had stepped in and taught them the best way to destroy the enemy. He had studied the Morphs’ weak spots and succeeded in destroying hundreds. Nicolas, the killing machine.
He knew nothing else.
Pale green eyes observed him silently. Damian waved his hands. A covered metal plate materialized on the ground before Nicolas. Nicolas sprang forward as Damian winced.
“Dammit, you shouldn’t be doing this. Not in your condition. Don’t waste your energy.”
His leader offered a rueful smile, dragged in a breath. Sweat glistened on his brow. With the flair of a gourmet chef, Damian whipped off the plate’s cover.
“Voila. I knew you needed food. Or sex.” The pack leader regarded Nicolas with a level look. “But you know the rules.”
No sex with pack females. Not for Nicolas, the banished. What irony. Damian often joked about Nicolas’s “harem,” the unmated, sexually experienced pack females eager to copulate with him. After a Morph fight, he’d pace before those presenting themselves to him. Dark eyes brooding, his muscular body tense and aggressive, he’d select one for the night. Then he’d claim her, using her sexual heat to restore his lost energy.
Now no pack female could touch him.
Salivating, Nicolas eyed the bloodied, raw meat. He shot a worried glance at Damian’s pale face, the flash of pain in his green eyes.
“Wolf it down,” Damian advised, a half smile touching his mouth at the old joke.
His hunger a live, writhing need, Nicolas hesitated. Trying to disguise his weakness before his leader, he couldn’t hold back his howling need for energy. Damian delicately turned his back. Grateful, Nicolas abandoned any pretense. Picking up the elk steak with his hands, he ripped into the meat. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he then replaced the cover. It clanged against the metal plate.
“Thank you,” Nicolas managed to say.
Stronger now, he used his magick to cover his nudity with jeans, a black T-shirt and boots. Damian turned. He sat on his haunches, silent.
“Dai, you’re getting worse.” The matter-of-fact statement cloaked his concern.
“I have time.” Damian’s cocky grin seemed forced. “Two months, maybe, at the rate my body is deteriorating….” He shrugged, glancing away.
Two months and Damian would be dead? After the agony, the cancerlike disease racking his body with pain ate its way through his internal organs. Nicolas clenched his fists. Dammit. He had to find Maggie. Fast.
“Dai …” His throat closed with emotion. Nicolas clamped a lid on his feelings and arranged a blank look on his face.
Damian seemed to understand, for he waved a hand, dismissing the topic. Never one to complain, more concerned about the pack.
“Tell me about Margaret.” The name slipped out in a soft slur. Mah-gah-rhett. “You made contact with her again. I can tell by your tears. Her emotions are yours, Nicolas. She was crying.” His sharp green gaze focused on dried tears streaking Nicolas’s cheeks.
Nicolas scrubbed his face with a clenched fist. “The dog is dying.” Always the dog, as Maggie sought a logical solution to a problem caused by something not logical in the human world. Then, in private, the tears would flow, because she could not heal the animal she loved.
“Ah. Her pet. Difficult.”
“A friend. Not a pet. She can’t cure Misha. She’s trying to find the mutation in the cells. The Morphs infected the dog.”
Damian rubbed the back of his neck
