Page 32 of Marked By Moonlight

Only moments ago she had kissed him, drank passion from his lips, his body, reveled in the feel of his callused hands on her face. Hands that had now delivered her death. The betrayal hurt more than the hole in her chest. Which only made her a fool since she had known he was dangerous from the first moment they met and failed to do anything about it. She glanced back down at the blood spreading across her shirt like an orchid in bloom and cursed her stupidity. Why hadn’t she gone to the cops? Or used her gun?

But she knew the answer. She hadn’t truly believed him dangerous.In spite of everything, something about him had always struck her as… reasonable. Not a killer.

“You really shot me,” she whispered.

He nodded.

Tears blurred her vision.

“Sorry.” He nodded again, looking only faintly apologetic. “It’ll be over soon.”

She strained against the cuffs, overcome with the need to free herself and staunch the wound.

“Uncuff me! Let me at least die with my hands free.”

“You’re not dying,” he said a touch impatiently.

“It burns,” she groaned, even as the burning sensation seemed to ebb. Numbness was setting in. Death must be near.

“It’s the healing sensation.”

Claire blinked several times. “What?”

“Your cells are regenerating.”

For a moment, she allowed herself to hope, but then concluded this must be part of his plan to torture her before she died. No way could she survive a chest shot. She looked away, dismissing him, having no wish to stare into the eyes of her killer as she drew her final breath.

“Look.” He crouched down next to her and pulled her shirt up. Horrified at the mutilated flesh she was sure to see, she squirmed away.

“Stop wiggling.” He yanked her shirt higher. “See?”

Claire couldn’t resist looking.

Gideon swept his hand over her belly and ribs, wiping the blood away. Something clattered to the floor with a ping. She stared at her torso. To her astonishment, no gaping hole stared back.

“See, it already sealed itself.” Picking up whatever fell to the floor, he displayed a small, crushed piece of metal between histhumb and forefinger. “Now if this had been silver, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’d be dead.”

“My God.” Her eyes focused on the bloody bullet, and her eyes finally accepted what her mind could not.

Gideon unlocked her handcuffs. Claire’s hands roamed over her chest and stomach. She felt nothing beyond the slipperiness of blood.

“I’m not shot.” She looked back at the bullet, undisputable evidence.

His lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Oh, you were shot. You’re just not dead.”

Tearing her gaze from that tiny chunk of metal, she searched his face, her eyes scanning every line, every nuance, missing nothing. She suddenly saw him for what he was. Not… wrong. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

He nodded slowly. “Get cleaned up first.”

On unsteady legs, she moved to her suitcase. Her hands shook as she rummaged for clean clothes. With her mind reeling, the simple act took far longer than it should have. Once alone in the bathroom, she took a moment to lean against the door and let herself shake at will. She deliberately avoided looking in the mirror as she stripped, unwilling to look at her eyes now that she understood the reality behind them.

Standing under the showerhead, she tilted her head back and let the water pelt her face, thinking over everything Gideon had told her, everything she had once refused to believe yet now knew to be true.

Lenny was truly dead. She couldn’t pretend otherwise anymore. Yet she couldn’t blame Gideon for killing him. If he hadn’t, she would be dead. Still, she gave in to the grief, to the tears, letting them disappear in a rush of water down the drain. She told herself that once she stepped out of the shower she wouldn’t waste anothermoment to tears. Lenny was gone, but she was still here, and she needed to figure a way out of this nightmare.

Shutting off the water, she stepped from the shower. As she wrapped herself in a towel, her gaze slid to the mirror, to the stranger staring back, pewter eyes gleaming with a hunger that she now understood.

Without thinking, her hand snatched up the first thing it could find—a small vase of dried flowers on the back of the toilet—and let it fly. The mirror shattered with a loud crash. Shards of vase and glass rained down on the counter and floor. Still, those lycan eyes were visible, distorted through the fractured mirror. The eyes of a beast, mocking, laughing at her display of pique.

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