Mother. Dead. His fault. It was his fault.
Trace shivered on the floor of the holding cell. The memories assaulting him had shattered him to within an inch of sanity, and they’d done it in less than sixty minutes. He’d been fine when he arrived at the processing center, but with one casually flung insult—Freak!—he was on the verge of crossing the threshold into mutancy.
Curling into a tight ball, his teeth chattered as he fought for control.
Where was Micah? He needed Micah.
He barely held on, his mind racing with rampant thoughts from both the near and distant past. He was lucid enough to know where he was, but not by much.
Brak. Father. Dead. No . . . alive. They survived. Would never forgive him. Fire. His fault.
If only he hadn’t flicked the razor blade to the floor in his dungeon cell, he could use it now. Maybe that would have been enough to prevent the scales from tipping.
Where the hell was Micah? Trace needed his master, and he needed him now.
Mother’s cries. The fire.
Tears broke against the seams of his tightly scrunched eyes, and he cringed through another muscle spasm that ran from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.
Micah, where are you?
He needed his friend and master now more than ever.
* * *
Micah scowled into the pouring rain, seething, then checked his watch again.
“She’s fifteen minutes late, for fuck’s sake.” He turned toward the sock puppet dressed in the king’s guard uniform behind the industrial desk set up in the small lobby.
The guard lifted his gaze from the screen of his laptop, where he was probably playing Solitaire or some other seemingly useless and nonproductive game.
“The instructions are explicit, Micah. Trace is to be released into Cordray’s custody. Only Cordray’s.”
Micah was up the guard’s nose in two strides. He slammed the laptop closed and slapped his palms on the cool, rubber-topped desk. “And she’s just going to sign him over to me five seconds later, asshole, so we might as well dispense with the middle man.” Or woman, as the case may be. Or it. Because who the hell really knew with Cordray?
The guard’s brow bunched and lowered over his eyes. “You don’t hold jurisdiction here. Now, sit your ass down and wait. Or leave. I don’t give a shit. Just get out of my face, or you’ll be the next one in King Bain’s dungeon.”
Micah slowly straightened and loomed over the little shit with balls of steel. Or perhaps he thought hiding behind the royal insignia gave him some kind of protection. If only he knew. Micah wasn’t beyond doing what was necessary to protect those he cared about. If that meant wiping the floor with this overly confident turd stain so he could get to Trace and get him home, he had no problem with that. After all, Micah believed in acting first and asking forgiveness later. And while the threat of the king’s retaliation might send lesser males quaking in their footsies, Micah wasn’t so squeamish.
Still, he backed off. He would give Cordray five more minutes. If she didn’t arrive by quarter past, he was going in for Trace even if he had to take a bullet to get to him.
He paced toward the door and glared out at the diffuse light from the city reflecting off the torrential rain as he thought back over the conversation he’d had with Sam before leaving AKM thirty minutes ago to come here. He’d been a nervous wreck. Still was. This was Trace, for God’s sake. His best friend and the first true submissive he’d taken on in what felt like a lifetime.
“Quit worrying,” Sam had said as he let out a heavy, concerned exhale.
“I’m not worried.” He had tried to lie to her but she knew him better than that by now.
Sam had made a noise as if she was trying not to laugh, and he imagined she had one of her perfect, loving smiles on her face. “You’re like a kid with a shiny new BMX bike on Christmas.”
Where did she get these analogies? “Are you saying I’m excited, Mrs. Black?”
“Baby, I thought we’d talked about this. Just because you put a ring on it doesn’t mean you can call me Mrs. Black. We still aren’t officially hitched.” The amusement in her voice made him smile.
“We are so hitched. You’ve no idea.”
A moment’s silence crossed the line, and he could almost see Sam’s cheeks turn rosy as she grinned from ear to ear and stared at the ring he’d given her in February. She’d told him that even though he was a vampire and she was now immortal, she wanted a proper human wedding. She’d been married once before to that abusive asshole, Steve, and Micah suspected she wanted to wipe the slate clean and mark a new beginning by marrying him, even though vampires didn’t get married. They mated. Big diff. A marriage could be terminated. A mating couldn’t. At least, not without consequences.
Micah knew firsthand how hard losing a mate was. He’d lost his first mate centuries ago and had barely lived to tell the tale.
He shoved his thoughts of the past aside. “If I remember correctly, you told me when I gave you that ring that I could call you Mrs. Black.”
“Baby, a woman will say anything when a man gives her that many diamonds.”
“I’m no man. All male, baby. Right here. Male.” He tapped the tip of his index finger against the center of his chest. He loved teasing her over her constant use of the term man instead of male. Human males were men. A vampire male was a male. Nothing human or manly about him.
She groaned good-naturedly then giggled. “Yes, you are. All male. Down to your pinky finger.”
“Don’t you forget it.” He could live off these playful exchanges. “So, are you saying that you lied?”
“Lied?” She considered it a moment. “What do you mean?”
“When you told me I could call you Mrs. Black?” He tsked. “How quickly you forget.”
“Oh, we’re back on that.” She sighed endearingly. “No, I didn’t lie, but my ability to think rationally was severely compromised at the time.”
He kicked back in his chair. “I see.”
For centuries, his life had been barely more than a shadow, but then Sam had shown up and given purpose to his soul again. She was his life’s blood. He was alive because of her.
Well, because of her and Trace.
Trace was his best friend and self-designated guardian angel. He had taken on the role of living shield, caring enough for both of them to watch over Micah when he hadn’t given a shit whether he lived or died.
He loved Sam and Trace more than anything in the world, but he loved them each in different ways. There was a part of him that needed something Trace could give him that he refused to take from Sam. The debasement that resided deep in his soul desired a kind of control and submission even Sam, who was one of the strongest females he had ever known, wasn’t able to provide. That wasn’t the kind of play he engaged in with her, because it was too demanding, too severe, too harrowing, rife with the potential to scar her mind. Only a hardcore submissive could take that kind of treatment.
Trace.
That wasn’t to say that Trace’s submission was a requirement for Micah to have a full life. If Trace hadn’t come along, Micah would have been perfectly content to live the rest of his days as Sam’s mate without a thought to his BDSM past and the extremes he’d gone to in his dungeon. His life would have felt full. But in the way a caterpillar turns into a butterfly, he couldn’t go back to the way he had been before sampling a taste of the fulfillment Trace could provide. Trace had given him wings again, and there was no going back from that.
This was why he was like the kid with the new bike on Christmas morning. Because the moment he took possession of Trace, the scene would begin. Trace would need him after two weeks in lockup. And, once more, Micah was ready to don the Master hat to give Trace what he needed. His dungeon was already set up in his basement. Ready and waiting for Trace to fall to his knees in subservience and become Micah’s slave.
He and Sam had talked about what would happen once he got Trace home, so she knew the importance of what was about to happen. Trace needed Micah in a way Micah hadn’t allowed anyone to need him in a long time. For decades, he had practiced BDSM as a Dom, and a damn good one. Other Doms wanted to be him. Submissives had practically thrown themselves at him. The leather lifestyle had provided an outlet for Micah’s tormented side, but also for the long-repressed side of him that had once—almost a thousand years ago—been a strong, trusted leader.
After a while, though, it had become too hard to reconcile himself to reality, and he grew disenchanted. Being a Dom began to lose its luster. Submissives came and went, and humans were too weak to take what he could dish. Vampire submissives were in short supply, and to be honest, he had wanted a more permanent arrangement, not one where the sub only used him to get off on the pain and degradation. Domming a vampire who wasn’t his mate had begun to feel like blasphemy, and he eventually backed away from the lifestyle on all fronts, especially after harming a submissive during fireplay. Something he would much rather forget.
Then Sam came along. She rekindled his desire to pull out the proverbial flogger, but even though she could take a lot, she wasn’t a true submissive and never would be. She was too strong willed. With her, he enjoyed playing—tying her up, spanking her, even mindfucking her on occasion—but he liked her more hands-on than he would ever allow a true sub to be.
Enter Trace. The perfect solution.
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.