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Forcing his gaze from hers he let it rake over her. She’d dressed in durable black pants similar to combat wear. A black short-sleeved T-shirt and a weapon strapped to her hips. For a moment pride and satisfaction filled him. The injection he’d given her wasn’t just an antidote and immunization against the paralytic. With it, he’d added a unique healing agent that would work with the Breed genetics she possessed to aid in healing wounds, or mending bones. And it worked far faster on her than he’d anticipated.
She definitely looked ready to kill rather than initiate a game he would no doubt enjoy. If it didn’t get both
of them killed.
“Jonas doesn’t have the balls for this,” he growled, though there were a few times Jonas had shown amazing promise in that department.
“Graeme has cameras in here somewhere,” she stated as though assuring him of it.
Of course this was being recorded. He kept records of everything.
“What they attempted, what Raymond attempted, can’t be denied.” Moving closer, she held him as nothing ever had. “Let Graeme handle this, Gideon. You have to leave before anyone else realizes you’re here.”
Rage pulsed through him, filling his blood, his senses, but it was easing. The insanity was locked on her, centering. The stripes would disappear.
Raymond and the Jackals would learn Graeme and Gideon were the same Breed unless he did as she implored him to.
It wouldn’t matter if they knew the two identities were one, unless he did as she asked and turned them over to Jonas. If they learned he was Graeme as well, then he would have no choice but to kill them.
Either choice was tempting. The game or the kill?
His gaze turned back to the Jackals watching curiously, then to Raymond, whose dark eyes filled with calculated hope.
There would be no screams to soothe the maddened monster raging inside Graeme, no matter how it craved the sound of them.
A snarl ripped from him, vicious, one that hungered for blood.
“What did you do to my perfect little cat?” He snapped at the silent horror that refilled the Navajo’s gaze. “Such weakness. She would have never allowed an enemy mercy had I been able to complete her training. She shouldn’t have anyway.” The snarl he flashed to his captive had him paling.
It did little to alleviate the disappointed disgust he could feel.
“I raised her for twelve years,” he raged, staring into the deep brown, panic-filled eyes. “I tried my best, I swear I did, to instill the right values in her. To teach her the value of blood and when best to spill it. Where did I go wrong? Where did I teach that fucking girl mercy? I had none.”
But he had. Gideon had. For one four-day-old babe he’d known the oddest mercy. The most peculiar affection. As he’d stared into her pale, ill little face and seen the shadow of death lurking in her gaze, he’d known mercy. The Bengal that paced and growled inside him had stilled, staring at the child almost as perplexed as he had been.
“I molded her to live and you have somehow showed her how to die instead.” He sighed in exasperation. “For that alone I owe you hours of agony.”
The fucker was muttering again. Begging for his life. Please. Please . . . yeah, he’d heard it all before. Thank God it wasn’t quite words. He hated all that pleading and crying bullshit. It did nothing but feed the madness inside him.
“You lost control of her,” the Jackal pointed out. “You let her go while she was young enough to learn weakness.”
He hated it when the enemy was right. And he hated this particular Jackal. The fucker. He’d end up being trouble yet again, he was betting on it.
“You and Graeme will regret this,” Graeme snapped, allowing her the game.
He knew he was going to regret it. He could feel it tightening through his senses, a primal premonition there was no escaping.
“Graeme can handle this.” She had far too much confidence in what little sanity she believed he possessed. “Jonas will definitely handle it, and he’ll enjoy doing it. Besides, Graeme could use the debt Jonas will owe him for these two.” She flicked her fingers toward the Jackals.
No doubt Jonas would fucking come in his jeans when he learned the prize awaiting him.
“Leave, Gideon,” she whispered. “Please. Before Graeme and Lobo arrive.”
Because the separation she was creating between Graeme and the monster he harbored could also become his protection. And it could start here.
A low, enraged snarl left his lips, and before the inner chaos of killing rage eased he moved quickly for the hall and the back of the house.
She wanted Graeme, did she?
