Blood Moons (6 page)

Which meant that Tristan shut down. "Perform your experiments, Doc. The sooner you're done, the sooner I can get out of here."

Amelia sighed, smart enough to know when it wasn't worth it to stay on a subject anymore. She pulled the ready kit close again and became all business. "It's an intravenous treatment to stabilize your fluctuations in strength. It should make outbursts more controllable." The serum was already prepared and she measured an exact amount in the syringe before she injected it into his arm. "The side effects should be mild. A little headache and muscle soreness. Nothing a guy like you can't handle."

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50

Blood Moons

by Alianne Donnelly

29th day of the 3rd Blood Moon, just after midnight
Dara stared up at Hunt's bunk in the darkness. Her chest felt painfully clear, the way it usually did after she'd cried for a long time. She'd been in the middle of the best chapter when she'd felt something she couldn't even name. For a second, Dara had been so connected with Hunt, it had been like she wasn't in the cell, reading a book, but there with him, wherever the hell he'd been.

She'd seen through his eyes, felt her hands cramp—just as his had—her chest going tight until she couldn't breathe. For that instant, Dara had literally shared a single mind with him, but she still hadn't gotten any of his thoughts, just raw emotions.

And those emotions had scared her.

Dara could feel the fury making his jaw lock; felt the awful wrath he'd kept just barely leashed. Joined with him, she'd feared for her life.

So this was what he'd been hiding from her. A wolf in sheep's clothing, helping her, teaching her, making her think he was safe. But he was even worse than the others—he was locked in the cell with her!

What had set him off like that, she'd had no idea. Her biggest concern at that moment had been whether he would bring all that rage down on her once he got back. She'd been frozen for a long time after the connection broke, overwhelmed, sorting through the flood of information so she 51

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could let it dissipate. She'd had to do it, and quickly, so she wouldn't be paralyzed and left to his mercy when he came back.

Dara had forced herself to wade through the anger, shock, and disbelief to the underlying nuances of what had happened to him, and found something that scared her even more than his rage.

Fear. What could a man like him fear so much that it would bring him to such a state? What could he have found out that would make this kind of reaction a natural response? In this place, after who knew how long, after whatever he'd done to get in here, what could he possibly have to fear?

Did she even want to know?

Don't think about it,
she told herself.
There's enough for
you to worry about already without adding the unknown to it.

Just close your eyes and sleep.

Easier said than done.

Dara took a deep breath and closed her eyes. But after being so tense all day long, she couldn't make herself relax.

Every time she managed it, she thought about that instant of connection. Her breathing became faster and she had to concentrate to slow it down again. Of course, as soon as she started thinking about breathing, she couldn't relax, because if she did, she'd remember that her breathing had been off-kilter and then she'd be right back to near-hyperventilating again.

Frustrated and tired, Dara resorted to the one technique that never failed her—her mental happy place. She put everything from her mind and imagined herself sitting on the 52

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battlements of a medieval keep. It stood in the middle of a vast open plain, a dirt path cutting its way from the front gate to forever, through a field of tall grass that moved like ocean waves in the breeze. In the north and east, a thick forest framed the plain. In the west, the ocean lay indomitable.

There were torches lit on the battlements and the whole scene had the feel of calm before a great storm. She could feel a war brewing; that usually wasn't part of her world.

Somewhere to the south, where she'd never imagined anything beyond what she could see, battle drums rumbled in the night. The drums turned to thunder as clouds gathered; Dara could just make out their dark oppressive outline.

A wolf howled at the big, round moon. Others joined it and Dara, in her mind, threw her head back and howled with them.

She smiled as sleep slowly seeped into her, taking her from the cold, dark prison to that place and time where she felt at peace.

Tristan had to make himself uncurl his fingers. His hands had been fisted ever since he'd returned to his cell. All he remembered from the way back was men looking at him strangely as they stepped out of his way to give him a wide berth. He didn't give a shit about any of them.

And then Dara had been there, with her wide eyes and her luscious lips parted on a question as he'd barged in. He'd never given her a chance to ask anything, instead closing himself off in the bathroom corner. Only after a long time of splashing cold water on his face had he returned to his bunk.

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That's where he'd been ever since, pretending to sleep.

Tristan had never been one to prowl and pace restlessly but, by God, this week was about to drive him to it. He opened his mouth wide to relieve some of the soreness in his jaw, then lay perfectly still and simply listened.

Thump-thump—
his heart beat.
Thump-thump, thump-thump.

And then the sound receded and a vision took shape. It was so vivid and sharp that at first he thought he was dreaming. But his mind was too alert to be asleep. Tristan's chest became tight as he looked around.

He was in a different world, one that was too picturesque
to be real, even if it seemed thousands of years removed. It
was a castle. The sun was setting, and a silhouette of a
woman sat high up on the battlements with her back to him.

She looked relaxed, but there was a subtle tension in her
spine as she gazed out over the castle walls at something in
the distance. Tristan couldn't see what she saw from his
vantage point, but he could hear the echo of drums.

Wolves howled in the distance, and so did she. Her voice
was eerie, like some strange song; a haunting, sorrowful
melody that seemed natural in this world.

The vision changed slightly, becoming foggier and more
like a dream. A pyre burst into flame, sending thick smoke
curling up toward the starry sky. The woman rose on the
battlements and walked past him. There was pride in her
step, dignity in the way she held her head up high, and
despair in her shining gaze as it settled briefly on him.

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by Alianne Donnelly

Tristan's eyes snapped open. His heart was racing and his fingers were once more curled tightly, crushing his blanket.

Below him, Dara stirred in her bed, a soft feminine shift of her head on the pillow. She made a sighing sound and his vision clouded over again.

She was dancing around the pyre, so close that when she
extended her hand, it brushed the flames. Her hair was wild;
her skirts lifted and floated around her. Her movements were
fluid, graceful. She danced as though with joy, but there was
that sadness on her face when it was illuminated by the
flames, a look that told him she was dancing to convince
herself that she was happy. And from the tears glittering their
way down her cheeks, he surmised that she was failing.

Tristan shook his head, banishing Dara's dream from his mind. He must have relaxed his guards, otherwise he never would have seen any of it. That would make it the second time in twenty-four hours that his control slipped. It was a sign. No matter how strong he thought he was, this place was driving him out of his mind. He never would have allowed outer stimuli to affect his mind this way if he was completely sane. Satisfied with that conclusion, he relaxed and stretched out on his bunk.

Before he could settle in comfortably, a silent alarm went off in his mind.
Danger!
He scanned his surroundings, looking for possible threats, but everyone was asleep.

Everyone except Blanc.

Tristan swore. The bastard was headed this way, just as he'd said he would. If Tristan didn't think of something fast, Dara would have a nasty awakening, in more ways than one.

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by Alianne Donnelly

Think. Think. Think!

Blanc was coming closer. He was quiet about it, too, even in his mind, whispering his thoughts. The guard didn't want the others to know he was about to make use of one of the prettier inmates—he didn't like sharing any more than Tristan did.

A few more seconds and Tristan would be able to see the guard approaching. Not enough time for a plan. Not nearly enough time to search Blanc's mind and find the one thing that would make him forget about Dara for the moment and turn to something else. Tristan could wake a couple of prisoners and incite a fight, but not quickly enough. He could fight the guard and risk a full-out intervention, getting his ass royally kicked in the process, but that would make things even worse for Dara. The less attention drawn to her, the better.

Tristan didn't bother analyzing why he was so protective of her, or why he even cared. Maybe it was her dream affecting him like this, but he was now absolutely certain that Dara didn't belong here and he wanted to protect her. He had to do it, to prove to himself that he wasn't one of
them
yet. Dara was a woman facing impossible odds and any man worthy of that title would try to help her. More than that, she was a telepath and he didn't want to give up a potential—he gritted his teeth at the term—friend.

Tap, tap, tap.
He could hear Blanc's boots no matter how softly he walked. The guard was almost there. A few more steps and he'd reach the cell.

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Tristan closed his mind to him, but not before catching a glimpse. The man was deprived, living light years away from his wife, and he meant to take it out on Dara. She reminded the man of his old college crush and he wanted to seize a missed opportunity.

Tap, tap ... tap.

No more time to think.

Tristan threw back his blanket and moved without thinking. He slid off his bunk and onto hers in one fluid motion. His body hid hers from sight completely. As his weight settled on her, she woke, her eyes open wide but unseeing in the darkness. Tristan put a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. "Don't make a sound," he whispered into her ear, so close his lips brushed its delicate edge.

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57

Blood Moons

by Alianne Donnelly

She was suffocating in the darkness, unable to breathe—

not because of the big hand covering her mouth, or the body on top of hers, pressing her down—but because air suddenly didn't exist.

...gonna have me a good time tonight, oh yeah. 'Bout
damn time too—shithole can drive a guy out of his fucking
mind ... just a little game to start ... fucker better not give
me any more grief...

Dara balled her hands into fists, her entire body tensing in fear. Images flashed through her mind's eye; she was lost in them, unable to see what was real and what wasn't. In the night, in the nightmare, phantom hands grabbed at her: invaded; hurt. Her eyes watered.

Fantasies. Sick, sick thoughts. Anticipation.

Hungerlustsexsexsexgonnahaveittonight. I will. I will.

Willwillwillwillwill...

Dara bucked, thrashed, tried to escape her own mind. It wasn't him. It wasn't the man on top of her thinking those things. It was the one outside.

Security officer Alexander James Blanc.

Coming closer. Closer. Step. And one more. Drooling for her. Groping himself.

...sweet piece of asssssssssss...

Dara cried out, the sound muffled by Hunt's hand over her mouth. She bucked again, but it felt as if the entire world was pinning her down. She didn't gain an inch. Terrified, she 58

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fought harder.
"Let go!"
she screamed in her mind. Needed to run.

"Nowhere to run,"
Hunt replied, trying to calm her.

"Then I have to hide!"
Dara could feel Hunt in her mind now, heard the sound of his breath and felt compelled to match it. Inhale, exhale. In and out. It hurt, as if the air was being forced in and out of her lungs.

"Hide in your mind,"
his voice said. "Go somewhere else,"

he whispered to her, and with no other recourse she grasped onto the sound. Followed it out of the terror. Ran toward something else. Anything.

She fell into another mind—Hunt's.

Heart thumping quickquickquickquick. Breathe slow—about
to lose it! No! Won't hurt her. Pain at the base of his/her
skull, washing over him/her. Head pounding with it. Muscles
tensing. No! Growling. Low, animalistic; fury and wrath
manifesting in sound. Will kill the fuck first. Snap his neck and
feel the bones break.

Dara couldn't fight that maelstrom. She cringed and cowered, her body going tense, wanting to curl into a ball, but unable to move.

He sensed her then. Thoughts quieted, a soft vacuum around her where nothing made a sound. She was in a black fog, but it was warm, and the fear faded. She could breathe again.

"Don't be here,"
he thought, and she knew he was speaking to her. Next to her ear, he whispered, "In your mind. Don't be here. Go somewhere else." She was already moving, leaving; being pushed—pulled?—back to herself.