Prince of Honor (House of Terriot Book 1) Page 8

  “When he finds me gone,” she continued with less amusement and more trepidation, “I’ll be in his sites, too. I’m not foolish. He was almost done with me anyway, and would have dumped me like I was nothing. He may have no use for me, but I can still be of use to you. Swear you’ll protect me, Turow, and we can go home.”

  Such a sweet, deadly deal, one like everything else Sylvia offered, too good to be totally true. He had no desire to remain chained to this chair until James arrived with a machete. But, once burned and scarred more deeply by this female than by any of his brother’s tortures, he didn’t jump at the opportunity with which she teased him.

  “There’s only one way I can protect you if we return to the compound.”

  She regarded him warily, sensing bad, bad news behind his smooth offer. “What else could I possibly have to sacrifice? I agree to whatever it is.”

  A slow, grim smile. “You’d better hear it first.”

  She swallowed noisily then tipped her chin up to that impossibly arrogant angle. “What is it?”

  “That you return to our mountain wearing the mark of our bond.”

  He expected more reaction than the slight shiver of her exhale. She considered his bold solution carefully, almost insultingly without emotion.

  “I don’t think this is the time or place to indulge in fornication to finalize our agreement.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Her gutsy drawl went right to his groin.

  He could almost taste her.

  And she could scent his arousal. With an impatient shake of her head, she sighed. “Men. For now, let’s just get the hell out of here before we both lose our heads.”

  “Unlock me.”

  She came closer, leaning over him so that her heat and delicious signature swamped him like the kick of his father’s expensive cognac that he’d tasted only once. The instant one hand was free of its restraint, he pushed her aside, bending to rip the ropes from his ankles. When he surged to his feet, shrugging into the shirt left discarded by his chair, Sylvia laid a petitioning hand upon his chest.

  “Your word, Turow.”

  He gripped her wrist and snapped the open cuff around it, linking them together once again. She immediately pulled against it, her features tightening in dismay as he explained, “This will be our bond until we have time to seal it properly. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Despite his forceful words, Turow was weaker than he anticipated. His legs buckled after the first few tentative steps. He doubled over, clinging to the support Sylvia offered as a raw cough tore through him, bringing up blood. He spat and determinedly straightened. Sylvia awkwardly banded his middle, lending strength without comment as they slowly crossed the warehouse.

  Misha’s still form lay stretched out, a cast iron pan beside him, between the closed doorway leading to the kitchen and the hall to the rear entrance.

  “Is he dead?”

  “I hope so.”

  Sylvia’s icy reply made him smile.

  “And my brother?”

  “Sleeping like a baby, thinking the sun will come out tomorrow and shine brightly on all his plans.”

  She wished she’d killed him too, but the risk of alerting his men had been too great. She’d had to settle for dressing in the dark and scrambling silently to find whatever she could of any value, including James’s wallet, before slipping out into the hotel hall where a sleepy Bart stood guard. She’d gestured to the ice bucket tucked beneath her arm and smiled wickedly.

  “Refreshment time.”

  Bart reached out. “I’ll fill that for you.”

  She fought to act naturally, laughing as she turned aside. “I need a breather.” She winked. “If he asks, tell him I’ll be right back. I’m requesting a surprise for him from the concierge. Something naughty and worth the wait.”

  Bart grinned and stepped aside. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” She hadn’t missed the follow-up muttered under his breath. “I would.”

  With no time to waste, she’d used the limited cash in the wallet for a cab to take her to Turow.

  Now, to get them both safely away.

  “The rear door has an alarm.”

  Turow’s news wasn’t good. That meant crossing the gambling floor. She’d walked in without drawing too much notice, but the two of them leaving—another thing entirely. She hesitated at the doorway, where sounds of industry on the other side trickled through, and held up her cuffed hand.

  “This won’t be necessary. You can trust me.” Seeing his look, she amended, “You can trust in my determination to stay alive. James will be after us both when he finds me gone.”

  Wordlessly, he unlocked both cuffs and tossed them atop the still figure on the floor.

  “Head down. Pretend to be drunk,” she coached, pushing the door open to smells of grease. Busy kitchen staff paid them no attention, probably used to odd goings on, but the main floor was another matter. Before they’d gotten five yards, a shrewd-eyed floor walker approached.

  Instead of trying to escape, Sylvia rushed up to him, dragging Turow.

  “Help me, please!” She pointed across the room at a big man wearing a large cowboy hat who stood at the bar. “That man tried to attack me. He beat up my boyfriend and stole our money.”

  Convenient tears and Turow’s ragged appearance brought a scowl to the stoic face. He spoke briskly into a walkie-talkie and ordered, “Stay here, ma’am. We’ll handle this.”

  “Oh, thank you!” she gushed.

  The second he moved away from them, she pulled Turow through the crowd, hurrying toward the front door.

  Night air hit with a refreshing slap. Sylvia didn’t slow, quickly moving along the row of vehicles until she found one unlocked. After depositing Turow in the passenger seat, she circled to duck beneath the steering column, jerking wires free. At his shocked look, she chuckled.

  “Wes got a sports car for his twenty-first birthday. He refused to let me drive it, so I learned how to get around his permission.”

  The engine caught. With a triumphant grin, she put it in gear and tooled out of the lot with a mindful glance in the rearview. Then her attention turned to her co-pilot.

  “How bad is it?”

  Her brusque question implied necessity rather than concern, so Turow’s response was brutally honest. “Some broken ribs. Something punctured. Not sure what.”

  “Something time and rest will heal? Or should we worry?”

  “My only worry is getting caught before we get home.”

  Easier to believe if the effort of speech alone hadn’t brought more of that foamy blood to his lips.

  “Do you know which of your brothers James is courting to his dark side?”

  A quick look her way brought an immediate groan. “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s got someone in his pocket.”

  Sylvia said no more, wondering if it was in her best interest to pursue the answer herself if Turow’s influence with Cale proved less than he suggested.

  “So, we don’t know who we can call for help.” Her flat conclusion brought no comfort to either of them.

  “Head for the Strip. We can hide in the crowds until I can pull together some resources.”

  Turow’s words were about as strong as his own failing reserves. He hurt. Everything from his hairline to his insteps hurt. Keeping his breaths shallow, he tried to convince himself that something wasn’t terribly, perhaps fatally, wrong as he buckled into his seat belt. But each pull felt dredged through thick, liquid fire that gurgled on the exhale. The irony of struggling to save Sylvia from death at James’s hands only to deliver her to their family’s judgment would have made him laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.

  They needed help, but he didn’t know who he could trust to deliver aide instead of duplicity.

  Which of his brothers could be turned against what Cale offered as their king? Most had stood boldly beside him when he took the crown. The few who’d hesitated didn’t have the juice to back a coup.
James would seek out a strong, capable ally who had influence within their clan.

  How little he knew about his own brothers, having preferred staying on the edge of their number and outside their aggressive and changeable camaraderie. Cale’s bid for rule had pulled Turow from his reticence, bringing him into the elite circle of his trusted. Could it be one of them?

  Wesley, Sylvia’s half-brother was the likely choice. As eldest of Bram’s sons, he’d thought of himself as heir apparent. Did that chafe him enough to threaten the new regime? Unlikely. Wes seemed genuinely regretful over his mother and sister’s defection and had stepped in as Cale’s second when he’d traveled to New Orleans, a position much more stable than casting his lot with James.

  The brothers he knew best were the ones who’d followed their king to Louisiana at the side of their queen. Perhaps to protect Cale. Perhaps to better betray him.

  Rico was more playboy than politician, swearing a greater allegiance to his motto “Drink, dance, fight and fuck” than to who held the power within their clan. Politics was Colin’s game. Cale had entrusted him with the job of negotiating alliances with the clans in New Orleans and Memphis. He was coolly clever and capable of stepping back to view a larger picture that maybe included James’s strengthening agenda. Kip was a boy, young, inexperienced and devoted to the older sibling who’d tutored him in combat. He’d never turn on Cale. So that left the others on their mountain possibly lurking in the shadows until the time looked right to topple one brother and lift up another.

  He should know these things to better serve his king. He should have pushed himself from his comfortable stance outside the inner circle into its treacherous eddies. He was an observer, a hunter, a tracker, and yet he hadn’t picked up the scent of betrayal, not on James, not on whoever thought to join him. Because he’d protected his privacy more than he had his leader . . . and friend.

  The lights of the Strip smeared into a dazzling blaze of color as he let his head roll against the seatback in soundless distress.

  Sylvia was right about him. He didn’t have what it took to be important in the eyes of his clan. Or in her eyes. Was it too late to change that?

  The answer rushed up behind him, plowing into the rear of their vehicle, whiplashing him and Sylvia against their body restraints as metal screamed and crumpled from the force of impact.

  His world went red. Then black.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sylvia hadn’t seen it coming.

  A familiar SUV suddenly loomed in the rearview, giving her time to suck a startled breath and fling out a bracing arm beside her before a tremendous force rammed them, hurling her and Turow forward, sending their vehicle careening off the wide street onto the thankfully empty sidewalk to crumple like an aluminum can between colliding bumpers and an immovable light pole. Horns wailed. Shaking off her daze, her first thought leapt to her passenger.

  “Turow!”

  He hung seemingly boneless in the embrace of the seatbelt, blood drooling from his mouth. Before she could reach for sign of life, he moaned and twitched with discomfort, giving her time to assess their situation.

  Grim. Grim and getting grimmer.

  Oily smoke roiled from beneath the tented attack vehicle’s hood, cloaking whoever sat inside. That they wouldn’t remain there for long was a certainty.

  Her door flew open. Sylvia cried out in alarm, quickly calmed by a flashy, under-aged hooker in garish makeup.

  “Are you all right? I’ll call 911.”

  Sylvia gripped the youthful hand as she reached for a cell phone. “Wait. Do you see anyone moving in the other car?”

  “No. Please, let me call someone.”

  She’d be calling the medical examiner for all of them if those SUV doors opened. “We’ll be fine. Watch the SUV. Let me know if anyone gets out.”

  Sylvia unfastened her belt and twisted to release Turow’s, ignoring a stab of complaint in neck and shoulders as she touched his face and whispered urgently, “Row, come on. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  He straightened gradually, each inch bringing additional tightness to his features. “M’okay. Let’s go.”

  “Don’t move. I’ll come around for you.”

  When she practically crawled out of the car, the girl started looking nervously about as a small crowd gathered. She muttered, “I can’t get involved with no police.”

  “Don’t worry. We won’t be calling them. Help me get him out and up. Please!”

  Together, they were able to pull the substantial Terriot prince free of the disabled car. Occupied with supporting his weight, Sylvia didn’t notice anything else until she caught sight of the girl dashing across the street.

  James’s wallet. The kid had snatched it from her pocket!

  Cursing, Sylvia let her go. She had her hands full getting them off the street, especially once she heard the creak and groan of metal as the SUV’s door began haltingly to open.

  “Run!”

  Turow’s insistent cry startled her. Run? And leave him? The idea surprised then infuriated her.

  “We’re in this together, you son-of-a-bitch. We go together, or we die here together.”

  His head lifted. Their gazes touched. His voice was low, soft, almost a caress.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Easier said than accomplished. He weighed a ton, his draped arm almost doubling her over, his stumbling gait dragging on her as they abandoned the small crowd and the sound of a siren to hurry awkwardly toward the impossibly high stairs leading to the walkover bridge and monorail. Once there, they could ride the length of the Strip and pick a random destination, making the search that much more difficult for their pursuers. If they could get that far.

  They were half way up, Turow stumbling, pushing off each step with his free hand, his grip on her almost as tight as the panic in her chest as she glanced behind them.

  Bart and Misha stood at the base of the steps, bloodied but no less determined. The glaring city lights reflected off the red glow of their uplifted eyes.

  A group of drunken partiers reeled down the steps, coming between them and those below. Voices raised as the two Shifters tried to shove by. Sylvia took advantage of the moment, giving Turow a hard tug to get him moving ever upward.

  A hand caught her ankle, jerking her, making her fall hard to hand and knee. A terrified backward glance brought Misha’s fury-warped features looming into view, one side of his face black with crusted blood from the knock to the head she’d given him earlier. Instead of trying to pull away as he’d expect, she drove her foot toward him, the wicked heel of her shoe slicing across his cheekbone into his eye. Wailing horribly, he released her to cover the injured orbit. Sylvia continued the upward scramble, towing her companion.

  Able to balance himself using the handrail, Turow proved less a burden as they hurried across the walkover. Below, police had reached the scene of the crash. Looking down upon it, Sylvia wondered how they’d escaped the mangled vehicles alive. By the time witnesses pointed in the direction they’d fled, the two of them had slipped inside the monorail stop.

  The long, glassed-in building with its wire mesh seats and harsh industrial lighting was empty except for a tuxedo-clad man at the ticket machine.

  Tickets. They had no money!

  The time for the next train's arrival rapidly approaching, they crossed the covered platform. A bored glance from the other waiting passenger became one of round-eyed alarm, alerting them that their flight was over.

  Turow gave her a push toward the dapperly-dressed man, growling, “Get her on that car,” before he turned to face their two dangerous foes.

  Though clearly frightened, the human gripped Sylvia’s arm to pull her toward the ticket machine and entrance beyond.

  “No! Turow!”

  As if he hadn’t heard her cry, Turow straightened, assuming a defensive stance as the others approached, reckless in their disregard of him as an obstacle.

  Sylvia had seen her Terriot prince fight in competitions
with his brothers. He’d been careful, methodical and precise in those exercises. She was as surprised as their enemies by his sudden aggressive attack, claws out, snarl terrible, quickly taking out the wounded weaker of the two. A slice across the jugular sent vivid spray across glass windows and fluorescent lights. His torturer dropped lifeless to the floor.

  Bart, Sylvia’s deceived guard, fell back into a cautious pose, unwilling to underestimate them again.

  “Take your dead,” Turow snarled. “Go back to James. Tell him I’ll return and settle with him in the name of our king.”

  Bart hesitated, apparently weighing his options—surviving a battle against a wounded but still deadly foe or confronting his disgruntled boss with evidence of his failure. Determinedly, he charged, driving straight into Turow’s injured midsection.

  They tumbled back. Despite the agony roaring through his side, Turow managing to twist them around so that Bart landed beneath him, his position vulnerable. After several hard blows from fists and elbows, the other’s throat was exposed for the slash of bared fangs.

  But Turow didn’t strike. He backed onto his haunches, eyes afire, face still ferociously distorted to that of wolfish beast rather than man by the creature from within, voice rough and unnatural as he spoke.

  “Take him and go before the cops get here with their questions. You might want to give James the news when there are a few states between you.”

  Bart nodded eagerly at that wisdom and rolled away, scurrying to drag Misha’s body toward the other end of the platform.

  Turow leaned gratefully into Sylvia’s urgent embrace then endured her sharp smack, smiling faintly as she berated him.

  “Idiot! What would I have done if you’d gotten yourself killed?”

  On that less than tender sentiment, he let go of the heroics, knees giving, consciousness waning as he was aware of the human gripping his other arm, of the both of them towing him toward the monorail train.

  Without a word, the stranger bought their passes then stepped back, waving them on with a rueful, “I’ll catch the next one.”

  “Thank you.”