Becoming Red (The Becoming Novels) Read online

  He clamped the male’s cheeks in a bruising grip and growled into his face.

  ‘MacTire’s not here, kid and he’s not coming, not for a snivelling little minion like you.

  Struggling, panic flared in his eyes. ‘Jesus, Mary, mother of God’ he stammered.

  ‘Yeah, pray kid, but I think the Big Guy’s forsaken you too.’

  At that moment, footfalls echoed off the walls of the alley. Connal blinked, a clawed fist knotted in the kid’s jacket as his head jerked back and he cocked his ears in the direction of the sound that alerted him to an approaching figure. A long shadow was rounding the corner and climbing the street-lit stone.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here,’ Connal growled, hauling the kid to unsteady feet and propelling him into the wall of his frozen-statue friends. The trio turned, stumbling into a hard run, barging past the owner of the footsteps as she stepped from the shadows.

  Liath. Shit. Bad timing.

  Head hung low, Connal braced his thighs, the dreads of his hair concealing distorted facial features as he struggled to find equilibrium. His vision was clearing, but his canines had not fully retracted, so he wrapped his lips around his teeth to conceal their length before turning his head in the direction of the one who had unwittingly intruded on his moment of homicidus interruptus.

  She stood before him in the barmaid outfit that left little to the imagination. Form liked to push flesh to sell drinks. Judging by the holdall slung over one shoulder and the stilettos dangling from her hand, Liath was coming on for a late shift. He’d failed to talk her out of taking the job, the pay and tips velvet handcuffs to a cash strapped single mother, and the late shift let her see Josh safe in bed before she left for work. She lived for that child. Right now, though, he was the one on the receiving end of her well-practiced parental concern.

  ‘Christ. Connal!? Are you okay?’ She glanced anxiously back in the direction of the retreating thugs. ‘I haven’t seen you in days. I-’ she corrected herself, chagrin creeping into her cheeks. ‘-We were worried. Shit, you look like death warmed over. Did those bastards hurt you?’

  Shielding his mouth with one fisted hand in a passable imitation of drunken nausea, he nodded and mumbled words distorted by huge fangs. ‘Nah. Bit of a bender. Just not feeling so hot, know what I mean?’

  The pretty features of Liath’s face hardened. Her choice specimen of an ex had been a nasty, abusive drunk. Emphasis on the ‘had been’. These days, thanks to Connal, he was worm food.

  ‘Get home to bed, Connal, and sleep it off. I’ll give you a shout in the morning, okay? Jesus, I don’t have time for this, I’m already late for my shift.’

  ‘‘S okay, Liath, you go on. I’m grand. Just needed ... some air.’ Keeping his eyes shielded, Connal nodded, raising a palm to her.

  She hesitated a moment, shifting on her feet, before hefting open the door and stepping into the pool of light spilling out from the innards of the club. Then she turned back to him.

  'Can I ask you something, Conn?' Liath's face scrunched up like a chewed toffee. She was clearly embarrassed. 'I was thinking maybe I'd ask out the bartender, Doyle? He's never mentioned having a girlfriend. You think I'd have a chance with him?'

  'Yeah, fuck, Liath. I think you might be barking up the wrong tree with that one, know what I mean?'

  'He's gay, isn't he? I should have known.' Her brow creased in consternation. 'Guess my gaydar’s all out of whack. I thought, well, never mind … ' She batted at the air.

  'He's not gay, Liath, least not that I'm aware. It's more of a religious thing. He doesn't do sex. Sworn to celibacy, sort of like a monk.'

  Liath's eyes peeled anime wide. 'Seriously? Crap, he's one of those born-again virgins or something. I got enough religion at Convent School to last me ten lifetimes, you know? But I'll say this. That is the hottest damn monk I've ever set eyes on. Maybe I can convert him to the dark side.' She gave Connal a wink, licked her lips and strutted off in the direction of the staff door, swinging the stilettos in her hand.

  'Good luck with that.' Connal muttered to her departing back. He wasn't sure she'd even heard him, but she pivoted one last time in his direction.

  ‘You take care of yourself, Conn, and when you get a chance, I’ve left the dog back at Mrs DeMorgan’s. I’m sorry. Too much on my plate already, yeah?’

  She smiled apologetically and was already closing the door behind her as he spoke. ‘You left the mutt alone in the house?’

  ‘No, ‘course not. I handed him over to the girl ... Ashling? I really gotta go, Conn. Work on my cure for celibacy, know what I mean. Catch you later, ‘K? And don’t you even think of driving that bike home. I’ll have it locked up in the staff garage ‘til morning.’

  ‘Appreciate it, Liath. Later, yeah?’ His voice trailed off as he spoke to the closed door, thoughts already six steps ahead of the conversation. He’d been waiting for fate in the wrong place.

  Fishing Anann DeMorgan’s house key from his pocket, he reeled on his feet, whether from the whiskey or the close encounter in the basement, or the brush with the Thrall scum, he couldn’t say. But the walk to the house left him plenty of time to find his stride and incubate his frustration. He let it fester, channeling it into confronting this Latent that had gotten DeMorgan’s knickers in such a twist.

  The key turned in the door and his presence filled the cluttered hallway, biker boots picking a path through the random stacks of books and papers lining the walls. The temptation to kick at them, scatter their pages to the wind like startled birds, was almost irresistible. His body was wound tight, juiced up from the near miss with the female at the club.

  Were it not for the swathe of crimson hanging from the coat stand, he might have heard the sound sooner. As it was, his other senses, and his curiosity, were momentarily engaged. Eyes narrowed in confusion, a hand reached out to the crushed velvet, anticipating the tactile sensation it would surrender up to him. Leaning in, the scent lingering on the coat intrigued him. The animal side of him wanted to rub his jaw against the grain of that soft, lush velvet, to draw that scent deep inside, to taste it, to bite into ... So, yeah, he was a little distracted when the whistle cut through the air by his right ear, and though instinct whipped his head round faster than a cobra strike, the move actually added to the momentum, turning him into the full force of the impact that slammed him into a wall of blackness.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It was not her imagination. The creak of floor-boards, the horror house cliché of young female alone in the house being mass murdered by a man in a Scream mask, was not so far from the mark as Ash gripped the handle of the first thing she came in contact with. Every breath sounded loud, like she’d been plugged into an amplifier and was broadcasting her heartbeat around the entire house. How had they got in? She’d locked the door. She was pretty sure she’d locked the door. Fuck, had she locked it? She held her breath as another board protested the weight stepping closer, and as she listened, her anger swelled from a bud of fear and tightened her fist on the wooden handle. The arrogant ass wasn’t even sneaking!! He was just waltzing into the house like he owned the damn thing, not even trying to hide his presence. She was spitting a whole load of pissed off as her heartbeat pounded her, probably very soon to be ended, life between her ears. I’m gonna die ... Her hold trembled and she steeled it with a ‘no you’re damn well not’ ... He was getting closer. The footsteps echoed as he moved, large boots, too heavy to be female, and so she assumed the stance everyone seemed to take when wielding an object as a weapon. Thing raised high, legs shaking and braced apart for support, jelly wobbling as she moved forward tentatively, inching out of the protection of the kitchen. If she was in a slasher movie, she’d be screaming at herself for being so stupid. But she would not sit and wait to be discovered. Maybe surprise would be on her side and she could actually pull off this stunt. On second thought ... Whoa ... he was a hulking figure, fondling her coat like he’d never felt velvet before, all dreadlocked and massive blocking her hallway
. Blocking the door. He was a giant dwarfing everything and Ash shrunk a little, folding into herself. Anyone else would have said fear. And a small portion of it really, really was. But the voice that drowned out the shivery quake, said ‘Strike!’ She drew back, and her presence registered. His head whipped in her direction at lightning speed, gifting her a glimpse of rugged jaw under a fall of dreads that looked wickedly soft, but she’d already hauled off on a hit that ricocheted pain through her bones and jacked her elbow back so hard that if her teeth hadn’t firmly embedded themselves in her lip, she would have cried out. As it were, the sound of the tree falling in the forest thump of leather hitting the floor would have drowned out anything that pain released. Mother of...!! She’d actually hit someone! Feeling like she should have a comic book THWACK! hovering above her head, Ash stared, wide-eyed and panting softly, at the fallen intruder. She was beyond freaked out. Whatever had given her the balls to hit out shrivelled up in a blast of fear.

  Oh God, she’d killed him!! That’s what you got for taking tips from Disney movies and arming yourself with a frying pan. No happy birds singing, bunnies hopping ending. Just a giant mass of man to dispose of before her neighbours complained of the smell.

  ‘Fuuuck...’ She whined. He’d gone down like a stone, and as she’d danced a little victory jig at incapacitating her burglar, it had slowly dawned on her that she didn’t think he was breathing. So now she faced the sprawl of leather and denim, pan set down as she tiptoed around the ... corpse? God, she hoped not, and gingerly bent to put her ear to his mouth. Nothing. She stepped across him, leant closer. Dead, definitely dead. With another whine, Ash crouched to the task of pocket inspector. If she had to bury the fucker, she should at least know who he was.

  When he came to, Connal’s sense of gravity warned him he was down, in a sprawl of limbs, spine pinned to the irregular floorboards. His lids flipped open, neck straining up off leaden shoulders, and the move detonated a kaleidoscope explosion of throbbing agony inside his skull. His vision swam in and out of focus and his stomach lurched from the sickening pulses of pain vice-gripping his head.

  She was hovering, knees planted either side of his hips, hair a curtain of black silk puddling over his abs and obscuring her face as she fumbled around in his jeans pockets. He stifled a groan. 'You know, Beautiful, if you wanted to sit in my lap, you only had to ask nicely.’

  Ash let out a little hiss and her hands jerked from his pockets. The intruder was awake. And she was stupid. Had she expected him to just stay dead? Of course not. In horror movies, the crazy guy always came back.

  She reached for his hands like she was reaching for a cobra, slow, creeping, and poised to tackle those powerful arms as far over his head as she could get them. One wrong move and he could have her neck snapped like a chicken’s. Settling her weight into her ass, Ash pounced, a fast strike that looked far easier in the films, snagged his wrists up in her hands and cracked them to the wood floor with a satisfying thump.

  Pinned.

  She let herself be deluded that it was her super strength keeping the giant man on her floor, but in the back of her mind she knew her attempts were futile, however instinctive, battling for some sort of upper hand while she sat on top of a stranger who may be trying to kill her.

  She was mounted across his hips, delicate hands braceleting his thick wrists. Her petite frame belied considerable strength, but he must be three times her size, at least. Curious to know where she thought she was going with this, Connal put up just enough resistance to let the girl believe she had the upper hand. Lips quirking amusement, his voice was husky with the mental effort of not flipping her about and restraining her.

  ‘I’m all for a little rough foreplay, but don’t you think knocking me out defeats the purpose? Unless you’re into the seriously kinky shit ... Is that it, Angel? You like it kinky?’

  Connal’s words were pure mischief. In a heartbeat, she could be on her back, pinioned and thrashing beneath him, and he wouldn’t even break a sweat. But he was going nowhere, was enjoying the view from where he was. Just. Fine. Midnight hair lashed across flushed cheeks and her gaze snapped down from the hold on his wrists. That was when he got his first real look-see at his attacker: spitting venom, lips curled back off bared teeth as she struggled to keep him down, jewelled blue eyes lit up with a fury that was dagger sharp. Fuck, she was stunning, arrestingly, cock-poundingly, heart-stallingly beautiful. One look in those eyes and he knew she was ‘the one’. Shit! He stifled a groan. 'Care to tell me with whom I have the pleasure?' He drawled, lids hooding eyes that had darkened perceptibly.

  Man breaks into her house, and she was the one being interrogated? Ash stilled, her eyes blazing a glare that she hoped would burn a hole in his ... do not think ridiculously handsome ... face. ‘Who the hell are you?!!!’

  'I would be the one you just assaulted with a deadly ... ' God damn, was that a frying pan? He fought back the urge to laugh out loud. His gaze pulled back to hers. Their eyes connected and their wills locked horns. His amusement at their situation clearly infuriated her. If glares could kill. A vivid image of the crazy girl bludgeoning the smirk from his face with the full force of her heavy culinary implement popped into his head. He gave in to it and laughed in her face.

  Oooohhhh ... infuriating burglar!! Ash shoved at him hard, his laughter flexing his arms in her grip until he slipped her restraint completely. Her hands collided with a wall of packed in muscle that belonged in mythology. Even through the fabric of his shirt, the man was clearly ripped. No Musclemania steroid bulk, but hard, chiselled power, the kind of muscle a tiger owned, honed by hunting and killing and ... Probably not the best thread to follow there, girl. If he’s a killer, he isn’t going to start purring for you.

  She awakened something primal in him, beautiful, wild eyed and struggling to restrain him, and that badass attitude was making him really, inappropriately, hard. Her hands planted into his chest and brought them face to face, close enough to feel the heat of her breath on his skin. Her scent was that same chemical lure that had drawn him to sniff and rub up on her coat like it was erotic catnip. Like a drug, biological warfare, bombarding him with filthy impulses. Where their hips connected, he was hard as a bat and straining the fly of his jeans. The fantasy projector in his head had fast forwarded to them ripping each other’s clothes off in a panting, sweaty frenzy and going at it like candidates for the fucking Discovery Channel. And that Anann DeMorgan had set this female off limits? That was just the cherry in the pie, wasn’t it?

  Damn, he was predictable. The old lady’s words goaded him now and he groaned.

  ‘You can let me go, Angel. I promise not to bite.’ Connal wasn’t entirely sure it was a promise he could keep. He was having way too much fun playing kinky scratch and sniff with this trespasser.

  A scoff. Like she was falling for that. Trouble was, Ash was starting to really like how he fit at her hips, how his weight shifted between her thighs, how the falls of his dreads tickled her bare arms whenever she struggled to stop his movements and she had to readjust her hold to keep him from wriggling free or to keep the ... please don’t let that be a gun ... in his pocket from digging into her flesh. It was bizarre. Her fear was right up there with her anger, spitting and hissing and mentally scratching his eyes out like a cat with its tail stepped on, but she also had the weirdest urge to rub up on him. To pull on his shirt instead of push at his shoulders and attempt to pin him still long enough so she could smack the fucker with her frying pan. Again.

  Ash was having trouble keeping purchase on his wrists, leaning more of her weight on her hands until her shoulders ached. If he really tried to get up, better it be on her terms. She moved slow, had the feeling the smooth talk was an act to lull her into a sense of false security, that she was, in fact, releasing a wild animal, of the cornered and pissed variety. He stilled as she peeled her hands from his thick wrists and sat back.

  Right onto something rigid and iron.

  Ash shifted her weight, trying to
reposition, and got nowhere. She was trapped, straddling his hips, fighting to disentangle her legs from where she’d locked them to pin him, when his moan rumbled into the air. Louder than a growl of thunder, it rolled between her thighs and shimmied up her spine.

  Later, she’d convince herself it was some sort of quick-fix Stockholm deal that had her attacking him. A brain aneurysm or a temporary blackout. When in reality she just couldn’t pick one thing to feel, and it cocktailed into an insanity presenting itself in a feral kiss that rocked tall, dark and klepto right at the centre of her and crushed them into a grind so close that she could feel the steely hard press of his ... gun ... in shocking detail at the apex of her thighs. Yeah. Aneurysm for sure. Her hands got tangled in his hair ... so soft... clawed at his nape and tore down the neck of his tee to reach skin as her mouth got familiar with his, a biting, tongue-duelling, lip-bruising assault that panted her frustration, her fear, her anger and annoyance and lust into shared breaths. He was raw and animal, tasting of rain in the forest, moonlight on water, fresh and primal. Fire to her ice.

  Connal’s brain derailed, while his body got right on board with the insanity, trampling over any and all logical objections his mind was throwing in the path of this rampant barrage of high octane, stampeding lust. She ground her lush mouth on his, fevered growls spilling into the snarl of tongues and teeth. The wet crush, the frenzied clawing, unhinged him, stoking up base, carnal cravings to a savage, flaming demand. His rough hands were all over her, hungrily seeking every inch of her skin, riding the red tank top up the straining cage of her ribs to palm the soft swells of her breasts, grazing the tight peaks of nipples that begged the wet suction of his mouth, his teeth. She was all soft, feminine curves, pliant and bowing into his hands. Perfection. A low-throated moan fell from his lips and his cock kicked a protest against the over-tight restraint of his jeans. His hips pumped up between her thighs, shallow fuck-thrusts grinding them together, the barrier of their clothes an evil torment driving him to insane distraction. Hands grappled blindly at the waistband of her sweats, needing to get buried deep between her thighs.