Dawn Unleashed

Maggie took a deep steadying breath. "Prom. Yeah." She was flushed and breathless. Cole grinned down at her. That cocky smile would be her undoing. She knew he wanted her every bit as badly as she wanted him. His mind was a soft and babbling undercurrent whispering beneath her thoughts.

"I'll be back," Cole said rising from the bench as he bent to kiss her forehead. "I have to find something more suitable to wear than shorts and a t-shirt."

Maggie nodded after him. He moved with such a fluid grace that it was almost painful to watch. "Cole," She blushed as he turned to look at her. "Nothing." The BIG L word almost slipped from her lips. "I guess I need to finish getting ready," she mumbled.

Cole snickered and motioned with a finger to her mouth. "I think we messed up your lipstick." He ducked out of the bedroom just as a tube of lipstick zipped past his head. He had big things to do and no time to do them. This night had to be special for her. He was going to do his damnedest make sure it was one she never, ever forgot.

He'd heard the words fade from her lips hidden beneath the pale muttering of her nonchalant nothing. She'd almost said that she loved him. And damn it, if he hadn't been such a coward. He would have said the words right back to her. But nothing, in his experience, queered a relationship so much as that one little word. Love.

Chapter 114

Tracker nestled against Shayla's stomach and sighed. Her skin was so soft and warm against his cheek. His head rose and fell with every gentle breath. The air was scented with the musky perfume of spent desire. One of her hands was lax against the nape of his neck. Her other hand idly toyed with the ends of his hair. Every time they made love, he learned something new about her. The subtle nuances of her body language gave him clues about how to bring her to the height of pleasure best. He adjusted his weight and stretched out on his belly. Already, he was growing hard, just thinking about how even the slightest of caresses from her fingertips sent stinging waves of pleasure down his body.

He inhaled and relished the essence of their combined scents on her skin. Tenderly, he traced the dip of her belly button and the soft, flat planes of her abdomen. Soon, he hoped to feel the swell of his child growing in her womb, stretching her skin, and filling the flat plane with life. He wondered if this time, he'd given her a baby. If together they'd created a spark and a new life would begin. He hadn't asked her if she wanted another child. But, they hadn't taken any precautions to prevent it from happening. He took that as a positive sign that she would welcome the possibility of a child as much as he would.

Tracker's breath was hot on Shayla's stomach, prickling the skin with its damp heat. His head was heavy on her belly. His fingers were light and tickling as they traced over the dip of her navel. Her body was well and goodly spent from making love. Her muscles were pleasantly sore in all the right places. Tracker was patient and giving in his passions. Never pushing her too hard or too fast. He took his time, exploring and mapping out the curves and hills of her body. Utterly content with what she had to give.

Her love for him was a seed buried deep inside her soul. He'd tended that tiny kernel with enduring patience and perseverance till finally it had taken root and began to grow. Her hesitancy was the only thing that kept the tiny sapling from bursting into the fullness of bloom. She'd not been unsure enough to keep Tracker out of her bed. Not fearful enough to let the seed begin to take root in the first place. She held back, out of fear and unknowing, not giving him her all, but enough, enough that it resembled something close to true love.

Soon, she feared, he'd grow impatient with her. His understanding pushed to the limit. He'd begin to demand more than she could give. He didn't know about the pack of pills she hid in the bottom of her dresser or that every morning with the faith of the truly devout, she popped one into her mouth and swallowed it dry. Someday, she wanted to have another child. Carter had used the knowledge of her secret desire against her. Another wedge in his arsenal used to drive them apart. With Tracker she could have a child. They could try and keep trying till the tiny spark of life was ignited. Tracker's fingers traced over her stomach. She knew what he pondered in those idle tracings. He was imagining what his child would feel like against his palm as it grew in her womb.

Shayla was only beginning to welcome the warmth of another man into her bed. Her heart was so overcrowded, almost stiflingly so, as it stretched to make room for him. Conflicting emotions battled bitterly within the fragile beating organ. Love for Carter. The guilt she felt over giving up on him. Her doubt she could love Tracker enough. Her emotions for him were confusing. She loved him for his patience, his endurance, and his absolute and complete unending love for her. She felt obligated, in a way, to love him as much, if not more than he loved her. She did love him, only with not the same wholeness and utter faith as he loved her. She hoped, in time, she would. "People are going to notice we've been gone a while."

Tracker sighed. Shayla had a way of ripping apart the frail bubble of happiness just as it was beginning to form and wrap tightly around him. He wanted to talk baby and mating rituals. He was ready for everyone to know, beyond a doubt that she was his and he, hers. Every time, he felt her relax in his arms, and he began to make her feel safe and loved, she threw up barriers between them. She loved him, this he knew. But, she was holding back. He wasn't sure why. This was not the time to talk babies or mating rituals. If he pressed her, mated or not, she'd hide someplace deep within herself and he might never find her again. Better to wait, let nature take its course, and nurse what love she did have for him until it grew and bloomed. He'd spent so much time already, just getting as far as he had with her. Just to get her to let him in at all. For the sake of her love, a few more weeks or months, even years wouldn't make much difference. As long as he had her, he could be happy.

"I think everyone knows where we are. But, you're right we should get dressed and at least make an appearance," Tracker said. Stretching languidly, he pushed up off the edge of the bed. Playfully, he tugged at her fingers to pull her up beside him.

Shayla rested her cheek on the hard bulge of Tracker's bicep. They needed a shower before they went down to supper. Otherwise, everyone would know exactly what they had been doing. She cared for him. She was on the verge of loving him with her heart and soul. There was no shame. Yet, she blushed. Her scent gave her away. Guilt tinged with passion burned her nose. She shouldn't feel guilty about Tracker. Carter was gone. Long gone. Tracker was here beside her in his patient way of loving her. She climbed into his lap, bare skin pressed to bare skin, softness to hardness and kissed him. Not a needful kiss burning with passion but a light kiss, filled with thankfulness and gratitude for the endurance and strength of his will and the knowledge that as long as there was a chance, he'd never give up.

Chapter 115

Yessette stomped her foot and crossed her arms over her chest. Her lip drooped in a pout. Carter busied himself with trying to coax a fire out of the few damp pieces of kindling he'd managed to forage from a sparse line of jagged, spindly pines. "I want to go. Now!" The rickety cabin was weathered and shabby, daylight shone through cracks in the decaying logs that had long ago ceased to form a solid wall of protection from the elements. Snow filtered in through gaps in the roof and wafted down into tiny drifts along the uneven dirt floor. The place smelled of animals that had long since abandoned the place in search of more suitable shelter from the bitter cold and endless winter.

"What are we doing here? I want Eric!" she wailed. Eric would never treat her like this. He'd never have dragged her hours on foot through the harsh rise and fall of white landscape surrounding her. He would never have expected her to give up one creature comfort in exchange for this hovel decaying around her.

"Quiet Yessette, " Carter barked. Gingerly, he worked the sputtering flame to life with a puff of breath. The old lodge could barely be called a structure. At one time, it might have served as a hunter's lonely retreat. Lovingly cared for and hewn log by log and stone by stone. But, those days were long gone and the place as far north as one could get and wait to be forgotten. The place was suitable for their needs. Remote. Isolated. There'd be no one to hear their cries in those last few hours when insanity took them into her bosom over the harsh wail of the arctic winds. This was a good place to die. This long ago abandoned cabin was a monument to their deaths.

Yessette huddled around the tiny spark of fire and begged. Carter couldn't leave them here. He couldn't. This place was not suitable for the meager beings that called the Arctic Circle home, let alone for her. The sun was a weak forgotten object in the sky that seldom shone its face down on this forsaken place. There was nothing here but the wind's frigid breath and snow. She couldn't freeze to death. Yet, she shivered and her teeth chattered. This frozen wasteland was not fit for man or beast. She'd seen no trace of either during the long trek northward. What was she supposed to eat?

A gasp escaped her lips on a frozen puff of air. Realization hit her like a two-by-four between the eyes. Carter didn't intend for either one of them to leave this place. Ever. He'd chosen this remote part of hell on purpose. He meant to kill the both of them.

Slowly, painfully, bit by bit. Their bodies would succumb to hunger and their minds to the insanity of that hunger. But, they wouldn't be dead. There'd be no kind soul to put them down and end their misery. Their useless bodies would wither and wilt till the flesh dried on their bones and for all that they still wouldn't be dead. Their minds would remain alert, active in an insanity reserved only for the damned. Trapped inside a body that could not rot to free their souls. This cabin was their intended coffin. The boards would fall and the roof, cave on top of them to make their tomb. Inch by inch, day after day, the snow would drift down and cover them in a burial mound of whiteness and ice.

Rumors of such punishment circulated the vampire world. There was no crime that deserved a sentence more feared than death. She'd never heard of anyone carrying out or surviving such a cruel torture. The myth was enough on its own to keep her kind from crossing the line, not that anyone knew what the line was or who would delve out the sentence. The fear of it was plenty. Vampires couldn't kill themselves. Yessette had never met a vampire who would have if he could have, except for Carter. His guilt was his mistress and he'd romanced her like a smitten lover for centuries. He wanted to die. She did not. "Carter, please."

Carter glanced over his shoulder at Yessette and the panicked expression on her face. She knew what he meant to do. She'd finally figured it out. He pulled the glove from his hand and stretched his fingers toward her. "I'll make sure you don't suffer."

Tears tracked cold trails down her cheeks. Carter was at peace with his death. He welcomed it and romanced it for so very long. To him, this was a relief, that the end was so close. To her, she'd avoided the day of atonement for so long that she believed herself immune to the Grim Reaper's touch. "No, No, No! I don't want to die!"

Carter wrapped Yessette's body in his embrace and whispered soft sounds meant to comfort into her ear. "Shhhh, Yessette, shhhh, it will be over soon." He rocked her as she cried her bitter tears. His last kill. His last sin to atone for wailed in his arms. Soon, he'd know the bliss of the grave, but not before he delivered her to hers.

Chapter 116

Robert wandered the compound restlessly. Everyone here nodded when they passed him in one of the endless corridors. Everyone muttered a soft "hello" or "how you doin'" to him when they saw him. Sleep didn't come easily these days. Hell, it never had. Images haunted the backs of his eyelids every time they slid shut. He didn't know what this life held for him. Where he really belonged. He had a talent and here, in this band of otherworldly misfits he could use it. They could use it.

The blade glittered dully from its resting place on the mantle. Daring him to touch and to caress the sharp edge and the gilt designs on the handle. The metal held secrets only he could ferret to the surface. Timidly, he walked closer. His fingers stretched. If he didn't do this now, while the feigning light of day still shone, bolstering his courage, he might never. Robert locked his fingers around the hilt and waited. The Sons needed to know. He didn't want to know. But, he had to. He had to.

Images flashed through his mind in a torrent of confusion, blood and fury. This blade was centuries old. A relic of fine antiquity, it trembled in his grip. Robert couldn't control the flood of people and places. All the places this dagger had been and the mind of the man who owned it roared inside of his head. He couldn't hold them all back. His fingers spasmed and released the blade. It fell harmlessly on the cushion of the thick rug beneath his feet. He struggled to clear his mind and sort through the chaos swirling through his brain.

O'Sullivan was a bastard. Blood thirsty and ruthless, but he was smart, quick and crafty. Robert knew what he was after. Wolves. His stomach did flips and quivered as he realized why O'Sullivan wanted the wolves. What gift their blood might hold and what O'Sullivan planned to do with it. Fatherhood. Robert crawled to the trashcan and emptied the contents of his stomach.

What a man like O'Sullivan could do with a helpless child, who he could culture that child into becoming, set another round of dry heaves racking through his body. O'Sullivan could twist the sacred into the profane for the sake of conquest. A sheen of sweat broke out on Robert's brow and trickled down his spine. O'Sullivan had to be stopped at any cost. Children were sacred. Too valuable to be tormented and convoluted into miniature copies of O'Sullivan himself.

Robert stretched out on the rug, his fingers inches from the dagger. He knew what he had to do. There were more secrets to be squeezed from the cursed object. He was the only one who could discover them. Weakly, he gripped the blade. His mind slipped back to the dark hell O'Sullivan called home.

Chapter 117

Cole guessed right when he went to Janine for help. She worked with clothing the way his father worked with clay. What a miraculous job she had done, to transform him, her clay, into a suitable work of art. The black tux was a little too snug through the shoulders and just a bit too short in the hem. But, he looked good. Damn good. Janine had smeared some sort of goo through his hair and tamed the mass of sandy brown waves into an orderly, but casual style. A hit of cologne and he was good to go.

John Mark clucked around him like a mother hen. Dressed up or not, he'd insisted on Cole taking an arsenal along for the ride. Cole guessed the designers of the tux didn't have twin twelve-inch blades and a sidearm in mind when they'd planned the cut of the expensive suit. The cross-shoulder harness for his daggers was impossible to hide beneath the jacket and the carved onyx handles dug mercilessly into his sides like rigid and accusing fingers, jabbing with every movement. A calf holster hid the gun out of sight.

Cole squirmed and fidgeted, arguing while John Mark slid a pair of throwing stars into the inner pocket. What they needed here was a compromise. He yanked one of the daggers out of its hiding place and laid it down on the table. For god's sake, he was going to the prom, not a death match. He wasn't taking Maggie to the prom decked out like some deranged vampire version of Rambo. This night was for Maggie and for him. He wanted to give her a night where they could just enjoy a brief respite from the harsh realities that comprised their world. "Enough."

John Mark scowled at the abandoned blade. Cole was his pupil, his responsibility to protect. Cole was almost ready, almost, but not quite. Cole had never faced a real battle. He'd proven himself time and time again in the gym. The gym and the exercises weren't real life, though. John Mark didn't like anyone going too far out of reach, especially not his student, especially not properly armed. Danger was too close, too real and Cole wasn't ready to handle it.

Robbie watched the unspoken battle between her husband and Cole. John Mark was rigid these days. Weary from a war that never seemed to end. She had seen her fair share of combat. But, she hadn't forgotten what it was like to be young. When the world seemed so fresh and new and so full of promise. John Mark took each loss as a personal failure. If something happened to Cole or Maggie, he'd never let it go. He carried so much on his shoulders, stacked heavily till it seemed that he'd be crushed from the weight. Gently, she laid a hand on his arm. "Do you remember our senior prom?"

John Mark scowled down at his wife. She stared up at him, prettily batting those big brown eyes of hers up at him. Her gaze was softened by memories of a time that once was. He hadn't been so tall or filled out then, just a skinny awkward kid tripping over his own two feet with sweaty palms and bad acne. Dumb luck, and the fact that her date caught mono at the last minute, got him his place at her side that night.

Robbie had been a vision of loveliness in her pink taffeta gown. Her red curls piled high atop her head. Her cheeks lit with the blush of excitement and anticipation for what the evening might hold. He'd clung to her, despite of his clumsiness and lack of ability on the dance floor and he'd had the time of his life that night.

Gently, John Mark stroked the curve of Robbie's cheek. They'd been so young then. The night seemed like a lifetime ago. He'd known then and there. Even before their first kiss, hurried and stolen, at the age of twelve that he was helplessly in love with her. Times were different now than they were then. He was still as much in awe of her now as he had been then. Everyday with her was a miracle. "I remember. You were so beautiful that night."

Robbie blushed under John Mark's touch. "No I wasn't. I looked like a big, pink, puffball." A giggle escaped her lips as John Mark twirled her around the room. The abandoned dagger on the table, the worries of their uncertain future, and his concern for Cole had been forgotten in the steps of the dance. Her heart stuttered with the gentle press of John Mark's lips on her mouth.

Cole rolled his eyes and focused on the floor. The moment between John Mark and his mate was too embarrassing, too intimate for witnesses. "God, get a room will ya?" he mumbled good-naturedly.

John Mark looked over Robbie's head at Cole. The kid deserved a break. They all deserved a break. The Sons had taken heavy losses during the battle. The war was still coming. Opportunities for respite and renewal were going to be few and far between from this point on. He nuzzled Robbie's hair and grinned, tossing her over his shoulder. "You know, kid, that's a good idea. Go, get out of here, have fun at the prom."

Cole returned Robbie's shy wave from her perch on John Mark's shoulder. He gave himself a final once over in the mirror and left to pick up his date.

Chapter 118

Maggie paced nervously though her small three- room apartment. Thankfully, she'd avoided her mother. Far too frequently, her mom made the trek from the main house, up the stairs to the above garage loft and barged in for no reason at all.