Christofer didn’t even look his way, no doubt blinded by his grief as he moved to sit on the bed and hold his sister in his arms. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his face as he continued to rock the woman in his arms as he sang to her. As Ephraim watched, he couldn’t help but wonder why Christofer hadn’t changed her years ago when she’d been young enough to handle the change. Then again, maybe he already had a mate or he simply didn’t know how to change someone without killing them. The way that Christofer held his sister in his arms told him that it was the latter. He probably would have done anything to save her.

They should be leaving, putting as much distance between themselves and this house as quickly as possible, but he just couldn’t force himself to interrupt this man’s grief. He needed a chance to say goodbye and he was going to give it to-

A vicious growl suddenly tore through the small bedroom as Christofer’s head snapped up. His red eyes focused on the open doorway as he bared his fangs in another vicious snarl. Wondering if they were too late, Ephraim opened his senses expecting to hear a small army descending on the house, but there was nothing. He was just about to go outside and do a quick sweep of the area just in case they were being descended upon by demons when he heard it.

“She needs to be moved to the van,” Chris said, just as Ephraim heard a bed dip beneath someone’s weight. With a curse, he detected the unmistakable scent of his son’s scent mingling with the marked woman’s. His son had seriously f**ked up.

“Relax,” Ephraim said, stepping in front of the door as he held up his hands, hoping to talk some sense into the Pyte before it was too late, “we’re here to help you, Christofer.”

The vicious snarl that followed wasn’t exactly encouraging. Neither was the fact that the Pyte seemed to be looking right through him, oblivious to the fact that he was standing there, trying to stop him from tearing his son apart. So much for this being an easy extraction, Ephraim thought. He watched the Pyte press one last kiss against his sister’s forehead as his attention remained fixed on the door. With one last mumbled goodbye to his sister, Christofer headed for the door.

“Christofer,” Ephraim said, stressing the Pyte’s name as he held up his hand in a stopping motion. “I’m going to need you to calm-oh, f**k,” he said, the last part leaving him in a pained grunt as a very large, and very pissed off, Pyte in bloodlust slammed into him, knocking him off his feet and sending him flying across the hallway into the living room where an old television and a wall broke his fall. He heard several sickening cracks as bones broke and his head was whacked against what felt like a fireplace before he was dropped on his ass with a weak grunt.

“That’s the last f**king time that I ever try to negotiate with a Pyte in bloodlust,” he muttered, wincing in pain as he forced himself to get to his unsteady feet. Ignoring the black dots cascading his vision, he pulled his weapon free from its holster at his back and went after the Pyte.

“Calm the f**k down!” he heard Chris shout as he made it into the kitchen.

“I told you not to pick her up, you dumb bastard!” Kale snapped just as Ephraim headed down the stairs.

When he made it down the last step, he found Kale standing in front of Chris. Holding the marked woman in his arms, Chris tried to back up towards the door where the vampire stood, looking terrified and for good reason.

“Mine!” Christofer snarled as he backhanded Kale, sending the shifter flying across the room and getting rid of the one thing that was standing between him and Ephraim’s son.

“Shit!” Chris groaned, looking torn between placing the innocent woman down so that he could fight the furious Pyte and keeping her in his arms so that he could protect her.

Deciding that enough was enough, Ephraim released the safety off his weapon, raised the gun, aimed it at the back of Christofer’s head and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 22

“We’re not bringing her back to the house!” a man shouted, jolting Cloe awake.

Gasping for air, she opened her eyes and quickly scanned the room. Terror sank in as her mind registered her last waking moment, the moment she’d accepted death and the fact that she would never get the chance to kill the son of a bitch that attacked her. Her hands shot up to her neck, frantically searching for the torn skin and blood that she knew should have been there, but instead her fingers met only smooth, sticky skin. Anxiously licking her dry lips, she sat up and scooted back as she quickly glanced around the room only to discover that she was in a hotel room. The second thing she noticed was the large bastard that had attacked her lying on the bed next to her with his hands cuffed to the headboard, appearing dead to the world and looking hotter than ever with several days of beard growth.

The bastard!

She took a shaky breath as memories assaulted her. He’d attacked her. He’d actually attacked her! The man that she’d stupidly allowed herself to feel safe with had attacked her, she fumed, her anger building to a dangerous degree. Every muscle tensed, her jaw clenched tightly until she was literally seeing red, which only told her just how pissed she was if she’d actually managed to burst the capillaries in her eyes.

Moving off the bed, she got to her feet, not really surprised that her legs were trembling since she was literally shaking with rage. That son of a bitch! She forced herself to move closer as she glared down at the bastard who looked nothing like the monster that had attacked her. Right now he somehow looked handsome and peaceful even though he was handcuffed to a bed and covered in dried blood.

Dried blood…..

Her blood!

Furious at the realization, she looked around the hotel room, hoping to find a weapon that she could use to pay the bastard back for what he’d done to her. When she didn’t find anything weapon-worthy she grabbed the closest thing to her. Not really caring that it was a pillow and that it wouldn’t do any serious damage, she started to beat the shit out of him with it. Barely two hits in and the damn thing practically disintegrated in her hands, clumps of cheap cotton filling and torn pieces of the pillow casing covered the bastard, the bed and floor, but he didn’t stir, pissing her off even more!

With a frustrated growl, she looked around again for something else to beat the shit out of him with when something occurred to her. It was something that probably should have occurred to her as soon as she woke up to find herself in a strange hotel room and Christofer was handcuffed to the bed. Someone had grabbed them and dragged them off to wherever the hell they were.

They’d obviously realized that Christofer was dangerous, something that she’d apparently missed, and had handcuffed him to the bed. They either hadn’t expected her to wake up at all or they’d assumed that she wasn’t going to be a problem. Yeah, they were wrong about that, because if they didn’t let her go, promise her that Marta was okay, give her back her phone, keys, etc. and bring her ass back to the house so that she could check on Marta then she was going to be a very big problem for them.

Her hand went back to her neck, ran over the smooth skin again, and for a split second she had to wonder if she’d dreamed the entire thing, but she knew deep down that it hadn’t been a dream. It had been too detailed, too real and the fear and pain had been too much for a dream. The memory of the attack was solid with none of the weird pauses or missing details that a dream, a nightmare really, would have created.