Bound Guardian Angel (5 page)

Not only did Trace want to be Micah’s
submissive, but he also needed Micah’s strong hand to keep his
mixed-blood superpower shit under control. The fact that Sam
approved and had hinted that she wouldn’t mind participating gave
him a mental hard-on.

And didn’t that just make no sense
whatsoever. As a mated male, he should be furious at the idea of
Sam participating in a scene with him and Trace.

In fact, he should be enraged that Trace
even watched him make love to Sam. But his and Sam’s relationship
with Trace seemed to balk at traditional vampire biomechanics.
Trace watched, and Micah got turned on.

So did Sam.

So did Trace.

The three of them formed a bizarre love
triangle where voyeuristic and exhibitionist tendencies overruled
biology. Trace never touched Sam inappropriately, and she hadn’t
touched him since the incident at Mistress Diamond’s scene party
last February.

But Micah had to be honest with himself. He
didn’t think he’d mind if they did touch each other. But that
wasn’t what their three-ways were about. Trace never did more than
watch, and Sam never did more than perform. And Micah got off on
all of it.

“You’re excited about picking up Trace,” Sam
had said to him earlier. “I can tell.”

He had responded by telling her he
was
excited. And nervous.

“Why nervous?” she’d asked.

“Because it’s been a while since I took on a
true sub, and despite society’s idea that all Doms are confident
control freaks who never doubt themselves, that’s not how it really
is. There’s a lot at stake here. A lot could go wrong.” What an
understatement.

Vampires didn’t live by the same biological
rules that humans did. What if Micah got into his dungeon with
Trace and Sam, and then suddenly went all mated male batshit crazy
out of the blue. It hadn’t happened, yet, but that didn’t mean it
couldn’t or wouldn’t. Trace could touch her, or she could touch
him, and that could ignite a rage that would make human jealousy
look like two-year-olds playing in a sandbox. If he hurt Trace, he
would never forgive himself. If he hurt Sam, he would kill
himself.

But mated-male rage was the least of his
worries. What if Trace’s mixed-blood powers backfired under the
intense working over Micah gave him? None of Trace’s previous Doms
had been able to do what Micah could, and they both knew it. He had
a power over Trace that no one else ever could. He could feel that
power every time Trace looked at him. Every time Trace lowered his
eyes and called him Master. But what if Trace’s powers boomeranged
under such a strong hand and tipped Trace into going mutant simply
from the overload.

Anything was possible, and Micah had to take
great care and patience to explore Trace’s boundaries, especially
since he couldn’t see inside Trace’s mind. He couldn’t afford to
make any mistakes.

Sam had ended the call by telling him she
and Trace both had faith in him, and that she would be waiting for
him afterward, ready to give him her body the way she knew he would
need after the scene with Trace ended.

Damn, he loved that female. She always knew
what he needed, because one thing was for damn sure. After he took
care of Trace’s needs, he would have needs of his own to fulfill.
Ones reserved only for Sam.

Lightning flashed, and Micah blinked as he
frowned himself out of his thoughts. He brushed back his long black
hair and glanced at his watch again.

Twenty past the hour.

Satan’s mistress’s time was up.

He was taking Trace out of there right now.
If Cordray didn’t like it, she could kiss his fist. As he slammed
it into her mouth, of course. Because, God, he owed that scag for
the shit she’d put him and Trace through in the last two weeks.

He swung around and stormed the desk. “I’m
done waiting. Go get him. Now!”

A look of irritation crossed the guard’s
expression as he let out a perturbed sigh and met Micah’s gaze
frown for frown. “Do we really have to do this again?” The guard
sighed. “Only Cordray is allowed to—”

Micah uncrossed his arms and pounded his
fists on the desk. “Cordray isn’t here, is she, and his sentence
ended twenty minutes ago.” He made a show of looking at the clock
then met the guard’s gaze with a healthy dose of heat. “If it was
so goddamned important for her to take custody of Trace upon his
release, she should have been here the moment his sentence ended.
She’s not. I am. And right now I think you need to be worrying
about me a whole hell of a lot more than you are her, because I’m
the one about to knock you into next month if you don’t get out of
that goddamn chair and get my friend right fucking now.”

He wasn’t at all fond of Cordray, and just
hearing her name did something to his need to draw blood, and not
so he could drink it. One day, he and that bitch would swap blows,
but right now, his main concern was to get Trace home and taken
care of. Trace had to be going ballistic by now.

The guard’s hard glare softened as he
blinked and reconsidered his stance. “The orders—”

“Fuck your orders!” Micah shot forward and
grabbed the guard’s shirt at the collar, ready to unload the unholy
wrath of Micah if he had to. “He will not stay incarcerated one
more minute. If it’s so goddamn important for Cordray to be here to
sign for his release, where the fuck is she?” Micah let go of the
guard’s shirt with an abrupt shove. Standing tall, he projected an
air of authority the guy had probably only ever felt from the king
himself. “Now, you get your ass out of that chair and go get my
friend so I can take him home and prevent him from turning mutant.
Do you want that on your conscience, asshole? Because if I don’t
get him out of here right now, that’s a distinct possibility. Am I
making myself clear?”

The guard didn’t seem happy about being
bossed around by someone other than his commander or the king, but
when Micah mentioned that Trace could turn mutant, his face
paled.

“M-mutant?”

Micah backed off a step now that he had the
guard’s full attention. “Yes. Mutant. You down with that? Because
I’m not, especially since we’re talking about my friend in there.
If I lose him because high-and-mighty Cordray Ass-Fuck isn’t here,
I will hunt her down after I take off your head and use it as a
soccer ball. You feeling me?”

The guard hesitated for only a moment then
cursed under his breath as he stood and unfastened his keys from
his belt. “Fine, Micah, but it’s your ass if Cordray throws a
fit.”

“She can
suck
my ass, for all I
care.” He wasn’t especially concerned with making Cordray
happy.

Micah waited for the guard to come around
the desk, his keys jangling as he flipped his key ring around his
index finger and caught the keys in his palm as he led Micah into
the back and down a short hallway to a pair of cells, one on either
side of the hall. Trace was in the one on the right.

“Shit!” Micah shoved the guard aside as he
got an eyeful of his best friend in what could only be described as
a state of emergency.

Trace lay on the floor in a shivering heap,
his teeth chattering, eyes rolled back in their sockets. His shirt
was ripped and shredded as if he’d clawed through the fabric.
Dozens of partially healed, razor-thin cuts lined his forearms, as
well as several bite marks.

“Oh my God,” the guard said as he fumbled
with his keys to open the door. “He wasn’t this bad when they
brought him in. Is he okay? He isn’t going mutant, is he?” He
turned plaintive eyes on Micah.

Hell to the no! Trace couldn’t be going
mutant. Micah wouldn’t let that happen.

Micah gripped one of the iron bars,
impatient for the guard to unlock the cell door. “Just hurry the
fuck up and let me in there!”

Terror filled the guard’s eyes, and he took
a hesitant step back as if he was afraid to open the door. From the
thoughts battering Micah in a fearful frenzy, the guard worried
Trace was already too far gone and didn’t want to let him out. The
big pussy. What member of the king’s guard worth his weight in salt
shriveled in the face of fear?

“Get out of my way.” Micah scowled and
pushed him aside, reared back, and kicked the cell door. It
shuddered on its hinges. He kicked it again, and the metal groaned.
He had to get to his friend. He had to get Trace out of there, and
waiting for Mighty Mouse with the keys to get over his silly-assed
fear so he could unlock the door wasn’t cutting it. Mustering all
his strength, Micah braced himself against the bars of the opposite
cell, lifted his leg one more time, and let out a battle cry as he
drove his heel against the metal plate that housed the lock.

The mechanism shattered, and the door flew
open. In an instant, Micah had Trace in his arms.

“Trace! I’m here, brother. I’ve got you.
Trace?” Micah hoisted him up, blew past the guard—who shrank away
like a coward—and darted for the door. “Give my regards to
Cordray!” he shouted back with an air of sarcasm as he kicked open
the door to the parking lot and rushed Trace out into the rain to
his waiting Audi.

If Cordray’s tardy ass had prevented him
from getting to Trace in time to save him, he would make it his
life’s mission to destroy her.

Chapter 4

Micah arrived home in record time, pulled into his
garage, hauled Trace’s shivering body from the front seat, and shot
inside as Sam opened the door.

“My God! What’s wrong with him?” Sam darted
past him to the door leading to the basement. She opened it and
stood aside.

“He’s better now than he was ten minutes
ago,” Micah said. “You should have seen him in his cell.”

“
This
is better?” Sam swept her hand
toward Trace, eyes wide, mouth gaping.

True, Trace’s teeth still chattered, and his body
still shuddered with spasms every few seconds, but at least his
eyes weren’t rolled back in their sockets, anymore. They were
simply closed. And he had tried to talk to Micah on the drive over.
Not that his words made much sense. Some of them hadn’t even
sounded English.

“Lock us in,” he said, pausing to give her
an adoring gaze. “And wait up for me.” He leaned in and gave her a
hasty kiss.

“I’ll be waiting.”

He pecked her on the lips again. “You’re
incredible.”

She smiled and brushed her fingers through
his hair then palmed Trace’s cheek. He relaxed and turned his face
into her hand, eyes still closed.

“Welcome home, Trace,” she whispered. Then
to Micah she said, “Go on. Take care of him. I’m not going
anywhere.”

“It could be a while.” Trace was in bad
shape. Who knew how long they would be in the dungeon just to get
him back to acceptable.

“Take your time.” Sam took a step back and
motioned him down the stairs. “Now go.”

“I love you.” Micah started down.

“I love you, too.”

The door latched behind him, and he hurried
through the large bedroom to the rustic, arched doorway on the
other side that led to his dungeon. The doors were already open.
Gentle music played through the speakers, just as he’d asked, and
to the side, the massage table and vat of wax were prepared.

Bless Sam’s heart. When he had told her two
days ago what he wanted to do, she had insisted he teach her how to
get things ready so he wouldn’t have to worry about it. And then,
of course, she had wanted to experiment. She had never engaged in
wax play and had looked good covered in his artwork, although the
wax he’d used on her hadn’t been very hot. Sex afterward had been
through the moon. Well worth the practice.

But he didn’t need to relive what he and Sam
had done with one another right now.

Trace needed a bath. Badly. Micah would have
to talk to King Bain about the conditions in his dungeon, because
poor Trace smelled like the ass end of a wild boar after it had
eaten a skunk.

“Come on, buddy.” Micah hoisted Trace more
securely in his arms as he side-stepped into the apartment-sized
bathroom shared by his dungeon and his bedroom. He set Trace on the
marble bench next to the walk-in shower then reached in to turn on
the water. It spilled from multiple rainfall showerheads above, as
well as from heads in the walls. Taking a shower in here felt like
showering in a rainstorm. Or making love in a rainstorm, which he
and Sam reaffirmed a couple of times a month.

Once the water was warm enough, Micah turned
to find Trace slumped to the side, his head resting against the
wall, his arms hugging himself as he blathered unintelligibly.

It was time to get serious. Time to bring
Trace back from hell.

* * *

SLAP!

The rampant, mind-obliterating thoughts
destroying Trace’s mind abruptly cut off as his eyes flew open at
the sharp sting of pain on his face. He clapped his hand over his
cheek. What the fuck? Had someone just hit him? Last mistake that
asshole would ever ma—

His gaze met Micah’s.

Master.

Devotion surged through his veins, followed
by confusion. How had he gotten here? Last thing he remembered was
being huddled on the floor in an above-ground cell, fighting back
memories of his mother. Now he was in the middle of Micah’s
bathroom. A giant oval-shaped tub was on his right. A luxurious
walk-in shower was on his left. In front of him were his and her
basins placed in a stretch of marble with a glasslike shine.

“Sit up!” Micah said as sternly as a
Catholic school teacher. “Is this how your other masters allowed
you to present yourself?” Micah waved his hand toward Trace as if
disgusted.

Trace shook out the cobwebs, coming back
into himself, even if only partially. “N-no, sir.” He hadn’t spoken
much in the last two weeks, and his voice sounded like someone had
scraped his vocal chords with sandpaper.

“Sir?” Micah pulled back as if affronted.
“Did I say it was acceptable to call me sir?”