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Then his eyes, the gold in them burning, moved back to her breasts. From there, his eyes narrowed, looking lower, easing to her thighs as Cat watched him from her periphery, trying to hide her fear of what he would do from the connection he’d made while in the grip of the beast he’d become.
“Not while you’re unable to fight,” he snapped, furious with the moment of uncertainty she’d felt. “Dammit, Cat, as beautiful as you are, my only intent is to ensure you’re not in need of medical attention before I take care of that vermin that dared do this.”
His lips thinned in fury, the stripes crossing his face blacker than they were last time, as though they lightened or darkened according to the level of his anger.
He returned his gaze to her thighs and her mound, and she knew he’d found the faintest trace of the scars there.
A fingertip brushed over her upper mound, the sensation so different, so heated and extreme, that the fierce pleasure radiated over the echoing pain in her wrist and the areas Raymond had kicked.
“You’ll tell me how this occurred,” he whispered, the sound almost too low to hear. “No one marks what’s mine and doesn’t pay dearly for it.”
They paid by my hand.
The Coyote she suspected Raymond had ordered to punish her years before had found his blood running from his neck as he awoke in the desert several nights later. She hadn’t called the Unknown, she’d found him herself and exacted her vengeance. He looked at her one last time, regret flickering in his gaze.
“You’ve turned into a beautiful woman, little cat,” he growled, reaching across her to draw the sheet over her body.
She could still see him as he moved, reaching for a pack she hadn’t known he’d laid on the floor. It took only moments for him to show her the pressure syringe he held in one hand.
“It will ease the effects of the paralytic. Your ability to move will return far quicker and it’ll ease the pain of the broken wrist.” He placed it at the side of her neck and activated the injector. “And any Council bastard stupid enough to inject you again will find it has little effect on you. Consider it an immunization.”
He’d always been all about the immunizations, she remembered.
Cat barely felt the burst of pressure that sent the drug into her vein.
Pulling back, he touched her cheek, his thumb hovering just above her lips before he paused glaring down at her. “I have matters to attend to downstairs now. Two Jackals and one Nation chief. They’ll be able to scream for you. I always thought it rather cruel to paralyze the ability to scream, didn’t you? I believe I’ve adjusted that nasty little drug to allow for the screams,” he promised her.
He’d lost his mind.
And he was going to have who scream for her?
Raymond and those Jackals he’d secured?
He thought she wanted to hear that?
She had never tortured any of the Council Breeds she had been forced to kill. She had never wanted to hear their screams. Hell, the sight of blood even made her queasy. She couldn’t stand to look at it for long.
She stared back at him as he watched her eyes, knowing his freaky ability to read her thoughts would allow him to sense her complete distaste of such a thing.
Another rumble of rage vibrated from him as a heavy frown jerked between his brows. “Fuck. Council’s gotta be using defective genetics. I swear to God, where have all the bloodthirsty Breeds gone? The ones with balls? Breeds don’t have balls anymore,” he snarled down at her. “Is it too much to ask? Too much to expect a Breed to want blood? We were fucking created to crave the taste of blood. What the hell happened to you? I gave you all the right genetics. I know I did.”
She had actually never craved such a repugnant thing.
Cat remembered this rant, though it had obviously strengthened over the years. Graeme had become discontent with the level of courage and fight in his enemies even before their escape from the lab.
“Don’t want to hear their screams, do you, Cat?” He sounded disgusted now. “Of course you don’t. Now, just what made me think any differently? The fact that they wanted to hear your screams, perhaps? How about all those years I taught you better than to have mercy for your enemy?” he snapped furiously. “By God, I know I did.”
The stripes across Graeme’s face seemed to flare and darken again as madness lit his gaze and the amber of his eyes glowed like golden fire.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered, straightening, still glowering at her. “Cannot fucking believe you. I know I taught you better than this. I remember it . . .”
He seemed to be having quite the conversation with himself. She wondered if he ever needed anyone to participate other than himself.
Yes, he’d tried to teach her to show no mercy. He’d taught her how to kill, taught her to separate justice and vengeance. He’d taught her blood was necessary to survive. But he hadn’t taught her to enjoy it, though she knew he seemed to.
He seemed to. Inside, though, deep, where he thought no one could sense it, Graeme regretted far more than even he suspected.
At least, he once had.
