Rage rolled in like a thunderstorm, roiling up from his gut and crashing into his skull. His feet were moving before his fury-soaked brain knew what was happening. He tore off across the wiry grass, each step parting the wispy tendrils of fog that skimmed the ground.

“Release her,” he roared. Enric stepped back, but the other, Baine, gripped her tighter. Sin took instant advantage of having a free arm and decked him with a right hook and a knee to the groin. Baine fell to the ground, one hand clutching his face, the other cupping his balls. Enric struck out at Sin, but Con, his blood still running hot, tackled him, knocked him clean out with a flurry of blows. He was going to kill Enric for touching Sin. He was going to rip his—

“Con!” Sin grabbed his arm, halting his attack as the Council members from all three societies came running. Body still wired for battle and clamoring to turn his fellow dhampires into mulch, Con lurched to his feet, hoping someone made a move on him or Sin. She stood in front him, her raven tresses spilling over her shoulders and onto the black leather sleeveless top she wore. A savage light glinted in her equally black eyes, as well as something just as primal, something that called to the male animal in him: desire. And, when he caught the scent of her blood, hunger.

He should have stepped away from her. Instead, he closed the distance between them. “You shouldn’t be here.” “I had to find you.” She licked her lips, the pink tip of her tongue catching the blood in the corner of her mouth. His gaze zeroed in on the action, and his loins filled with heat and his fangs pulsed, and he felt himself fuzzing out, leaning toward her, mouth watering, c*ck hardening.

He barely managed a grunted “Why?” “I couldn’t let you do the oath thingie.” She spoke on a whispered breath, her face tilted upward, and he wanted to kiss her, claim her, right there against the rugged backdrop where his people had been mating for centuries. “I can’t stand the thought of you losing your freedom.”

Bran clapped his hands, the harsh crack drawing Con’s attention. “Get her out of here.” Raynor reached for Sin, and oh, hell no. Con put himself between them, fangs bared. He didn’t say a damned word. Didn’t need to. Raynor backed off, but hatred blazed in his eyes. Icy, ancient hatred that Con had no explanation for, but right now he didn’t give a shit.

Wheeling around, he gripped Sin’s arm and marched her away from the group. Gods, her skin was hot in his palm, and it radiated right to his groin. “You need to leave.” His voice was guttural, barely controlled. “Now.”

“No.” She dug in her heels and jerked them both to a halt.

He blinked. “No?”

“I…” Her gaze dropped to the ground and she shifted her weight, and suddenly he was struck by a blast of need that came off her in an atomic shock wave. “It’s time. I… I need you.” Fierce male pride made him puff up like a rooster. “You don’t need me.” He clenched his fists to keep from grabbing, kissing, doing that public thing he said he’d never do. “You could have anyone if that were the case. You want me.”

She snorted, an automatic response no doubt, but then her chin trembled, softening her appearance, and once again, he felt like a bastard. “Yes, okay? I want you. I know you have that”—she lowered her voice—“issue, but we can find a way around it. You don’t have to bite me…” His mind whacked out at the mere thought, and suddenly he could hear the pump of her heart, the swish of her blood running like raging rapids through her vessels, and, around him, he sensed Bran and several other dhampires closing in.

“Back away from her, Con,” Bran barked. There was a dagger in his hand, and he was focused on Sin. The icy fingers of déjà vu wrapped around Con, strangling him. Following Con’s mother’s death at the fangs of his father, the Dhampire Council had taken a hard stand on addiction.

No more attempts at rehabilitation.

They killed the source, which killed the cravings. Con hadn’t lied when he’d told Sin he was responsible for Eleanor’s death. He just hadn’t killed the leopard-shifter female himself. Bran had done it with a blade through the brain stem. They hadn’t even given Con a chance at bonding with her.

Con pushed Sin behind him and backed them both up toward the Harrowgate. “I’ll handle this, Bran.” “You know the law,” the big male said.

“I will handle this.”

“See that you do,” Bran said, as he ran his finger along the edge of the blade. “Or I will.”

Sin had no clue what that craziness had been all about, but she kept her mouth shut as she and Con entered the Harrowgate, kept her mouth shut as he tapped out the map until the gate opened up into London’s east end, kept her mouth shut as he stiffly led her to a flat half a block away.

As he closed the door behind him, she studied his tense demeanor, the way his chiseled features sharpened even more when he was angry. But she couldn’t tell if his anger was directed at her or not.

The question was answered when he stalked to her, all sensual energy and rolling muscle encased in faded jeans and a tight black tee. His lips came down on hers, and she opened for him, met his tongue as she plastered her body against him. Desire roared through her, flaming hot, hotter than it had ever been with anyone, even at the height of her need. This was different. As pure as the snow they’d made love in.

Con held her tight, and while his hands stroked her back, they didn’t stray. He dragged his mouth along her jaw, down to her neck, and then he kissed her there, right over her jugular. “That was stupid, Sin,” he murmured against her skin. “You shouldn’t have gone to Scotland.”

“We’re here, aren’t we? Where we should be.” His entire body tensed, and he pulled back. “Yeah. But—” His gaze dropped to her left hand, and he snatched it up. “What the f**k?” He was staring at her fingers—or more accurately, her missing finger. His voice degenerated to a guttural rasp. “What happened? Who did that to you?”

“I did it to myself,” she said gently. “I gave up my assassin master ring.”

“Oh, Jesus. We need to get you to UG—”

“There’s nothing that can be done, and you know it. It’s healed.” She waggled her fingers. “And I have nine spares.”

Con closed his eyes, and when he opened them, they were the somber gray of an overburdened rain cloud. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. You were right. Just because no one owned me didn’t mean I wasn’t a prisoner.” She eyed the full-sized bed that was pretty much the only furniture in the studio apartment, and tugged him toward it. “Now,” she teased, “I’m ready for you to do more of that foreplay thing you’ve been bragging about.”

He stopped her, halting suddenly a few feet from the bed. She turned to face him and sucked in an appreciative breath at the sight of him, his gaze dark and predatory, his fangs extended. He looked half-wild, wholly primitive, and, God, he was so hot. His nostrils flared and his lips parted, and she wondered what he was thinking.

A glance at his groin gave her a pretty big clue as to the state of his mind.

And that fast, she forgot about the foreplay, because she needed him inside her. Right now. She reached for him and he hissed. “Have you fed recently?” she asked, the idea that he’d taken nourishment from someone else punching her in the gut. Of course he’d have to. The addiction issue would forever keep him from being able to dine on her. Well, he’d just have to settle for bagged blood, because he was not sticking those fangs in anyone else. “Con?”

“No,” he rasped. “I’m hungry, Sin. Not just for blood… for you.” For her. He wanted her. He didn’t just need her; he wanted her, the way he’d made her admit to wanting him. A startling jolt of joy kicked her pulse into high gear, but it was cut short by a blast of heat and desire that came off him. Lust tore through her in a twisting, writhing tangle, and she moaned. Her vision alternately sharpened and blurred, and the scent of the aroused male in front of her flowed through her like an aphrodisiac syrup.

She took a step toward him, but her legs went rubbery and her feet felt glued to the floor. Weakness meant she was so far gone that, at this point, she didn’t have the strength to even make it to a Harrowgate to find a male. Good thing Con was here, good thing he was who she wanted, and good thing he liked it rough.

Twenty-three

Con stood with his back to the door, so close to it he could reach behind him, open it, and run. Which, if he was smart, he’d do. But Sin’s pheromones had hijacked him, his lust was boiling over, and that, on top of the blood addiction, kept him frozen to the spot.

She moaned again, and the sound made his groin throb. “Con, now. It’s been too long.” “I know.” He took a step closer. He could have her. He just wouldn’t feed. And then he’d find a way to explain to her that she needed to stay away from him, or her life would be in danger. The logical thoughts slid like a drop of oil over a gallon of water, fragmenting, becoming slick and thin and lost as the more primitive instincts drove his body and brain. She tossed her head, flinging her hair away from her neck, and his line of sight narrowed, focused, filled with only her. The whoosh of blood through her veins became a beacon for his growing hunger. The pump of her heart thudded so loud it seemed to affect his own pulse rate.

“Now.” Another step. His brutal erection punched painfully hard against his zipper. Another step. She might as well be a she-wolf in heat, and the male warg in him couldn’t resist. He was starving, needed her so badly.

If I touch her, I’ll kill her.

Violently, he shook his head, shattering his runaway fears against the inside of his skull. “Please.” Her pheromones were clouding his head, making his heart pound and his skin shrink. His gaze locked on her throat. His lips peeled away from his fangs. Bite. Drink. Kill.

No! Reeling backward, he crashed into the wall. “I can’t.” She reached for him, and he hissed. “Don’t. Don’t touch me, goddammit!”