Angel in Chains (The Fallen #3)(6)

Riley nodded as Brandt’s claws sliced his throat. Riley didn’t even flinch when the blood slid down his neck.

Rage burned in Brandt’s body. Jade should have learned by now. She should know better.

This was their war. She didn’t get to bring others into their battle. She sure as hell didn’t get to f*ck others.

How many dead bodies would he have to leave before she figured that fact out? Did she want him to keep killing those foolish enough to go to her aid?

She must.

He tossed Riley back a few feet. The shifter fell onto the dark earth. Brandt turned to face the swamp as he fought to control his temper. “He’s dead.” An order. And what the alpha wanted . . .

He got.

Why couldn’t Jade understand that?

“He may not be so easy to kill.”

Brandt stiffened at Riley’s muttered words. Then he glanced over his shoulder.

Riley had risen to his feet. The shifter ignored his bleeding neck but brushed off his hands. “The guy’s not human.” Riley swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “I’m not even sure what the f*ck he is.”

Interesting. “But you’re sure that he was with my Jade?” Mine. She belonged to him, body and soul.

“Damn white knight.” Riley’s twisted sneer showed his growing canines. “The dude came rushing up out of nowhere, trying to save her.”

His words calmed the beast inside of Brandt. If the stranger had rushed up and joined the fight, then the fool could have just been a good Samaritan. And perhaps the bastard wasn’t f*cking Jade.

But whoever he was, he’d still killed a shifter.

“Find him,” Brandt ordered. “Bring him to me.” He smiled. “Then I’ll rip him open.” He deserved his fun, and the panthers deserved their revenge.

After all, he’d rather liked Austin.

Perhaps he’d even let Jade watch while he slaughtered her knight.

Another death. More blood. When her knight died, maybe then she’d finally realize there was no escape.

She belonged to him. Forever.





CHAPTER TWO

“You should strip.”

Her big blond badass turned and frowned at her.

Jade offered him one of her innocent smiles. “Your clothes are soaked with blood. Give them to me, and I’ll go wash them for you.” Didn’t that sound friendly? Helpful? “And you can, um, go shower.” She waved her hand to indicate the small bathroom that waited just down the hallway.

Her temporary place—’cause, yeah, all of her places were temporary these days—wasn’t much. A small apartment nestled on the edge of the Quarter. She was on the top floor and an abandoned antique shop waited below her.

She’d painted the walls. Covered them with murals of the city. She had a . . . thing about painting. It was the one talent she’d always had. Well, painting and killing. But the killing talent had come to her later in life.

So while the furniture in the place might look like shit, she thought the décor was pretty stellar.

Jade held out her hand. “Ahem. The clothes.”

He turned to fully face her, and the guy showed no signs of being in the mood to strip. A real pity.

How was she supposed to seduce him if he was going to be so difficult? She barely smothered her sigh.

But then his hands reached for the bottom of his shirt. His eyes were on her. She offered an encouraging smile. Come on, big guy, take it all off for me.

He yanked off the shirt. Tossed it to her with a casual wave of his hand.

She didn’t let her jaw drop. But, wow, damn, Az was built. Talk about some extremely lickable abs.

“I’ll . . . take care of this.” She stepped closer to him and cleared her throat. “Now let me see your back. I want to make sure—”

But he stiffened.

She put her hand on his arm. Oh, he was nice and warm. “I know, you said you’re a super healer. But just let me check those wounds out, okay?”

A muscle jerked in his jaw. “My back doesn’t hurt.”

Right. The tough guy didn’t feel pain. “I need to see how badly you’re injured.” She stared up at him and waited.

His nostrils flared, just a bit. “Why do you,” he inhaled again, “smell like . . . strawberries?”

Ah, okay. Not the question she’d expected. But maybe this was a good sign. He was showing actual interest in her. Or, at least, interest in her scent. “It’s the soap I use.” She inclined her head toward the bathroom. “Pretty soon you’ll be smelling the same way.”

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t wish to smell like strawberries.”

“Don’t knock it.” It was better than smelling like blood and a piss-filled alley. She shook her head and pushed him toward the bathroom. As he turned—ha, she got him—her gaze slipped over his back, and she couldn’t control the gasp that broke from her lips.

“I told you I’d heal,” he tossed back as he stepped into the bathroom.

And he was right. The deep gashes from the shifter’s claws were gone. Blood stained his back, but the wounds were completely healed.

But it wasn’t his super healing that had caused her gasp.

No, the shock had come from the sight of the angry, thick, and still very fresh scars that lined his upper back. Those scars perfectly traced the path of his shoulder blades. Perfectly.