Warrior Fae Trapped (Warrior Fae 1)

Jimmy gulped. He nodded mutely and resumed staring at the ground.

Devon bit back a curse. He wanted to send Jimmy home, but he couldn’t. He needed every last member of his pack to take on the newbies. Roger and his pack would be wrapped up in combat with the elder and the upper-middle-level vamps.

“Get into position and change forms,” Devon barked. “Roger is moving into position as we speak. The vampires have pulled back their territory presence to the house, which means they’re preparing a fierce defense. We should assume they know we’re in the area. We’ll strike in an hour, two tops. We aim to get them while they’re at their most vulnerable.”

“Sorry, boss,” Jimmy said again.

Devon clenched his teeth. It didn’t sound like Jimmy meant it.

Oh yes, he’d be dealt with.

“Go,” Devon said, turning his back on the lesser male.

The memory of the girl’s smell resurfaced. He recalled the strange light that had kindled in her eyes, making them glow, when he’d advanced on her. It had sparked something, that light. The perfume of her had oozed a little thicker, tantalizing. Mouth-watering. He’d never smelled anything like it. He wanted to bottle it up and spray it on everything around him. It was intriguing and irritating at the same time.

She had a fighting background. She’d moved fast and efficiently. Regardless, she wasn’t fast enough to take on a vamp. And that smell, whatever it was, would attract them in droves. They’d overcome her in moments.

Guilt and regret pinched his gut as he turned and jogged down the hill, returning to check on the rest of his pack. There was nothing he could do about it now. Her only chance was to hunker down until help arrived. Best-case scenario, she found a closet to barricade herself in until Roger and crew could make it in there.

As he moved away, one thought floated up: I should’ve warned her that vampires can magically open locks.Chapter NineCharity startled awake. She jolted in the narrow bed before pushing to sitting and wiping her eyes. She shouldn’t have given in to the urge to lie down. The late hour and the boredom had lulled her to sleep.

The tiny pink clock on the white, lollipop-looking bedside table read 2:47. She held in her sigh of relief. Given the level of effort in the horizontal gymnastics she’d witnessed earlier, everyone’s stamina should’ve given out by now. Their fatigue would be wearing off, and those not accustomed to sharing a bed would be ready to slink away.

She got to her feet and tiptoed to the door. A patrol of the hallway would give her a good indication of the state of affairs. If a few rooms were empty, she’d try to find a window that looked down on the driveway. She didn’t dare wander out there again—who knew where Devon and his homicidal friend would be in their acid trip. They might be rigging booby traps out there for all she knew. The crazy made a point of doing crazy things.

She grabbed the lock to flip it, and a blast of apprehension ran her through.

The door was unlocked.

Waves of adrenaline pumped into her blood.

She’d locked it when she’d come in. She knew she had. She’d stood here, fumbled for a second to grab it, and cranked it over. She vividly remembered feeling the tiny bit of assurance a lock could give.

Why was it now unlocked?

Barely able to stand still for the sudden anxiety throbbing in her chest and the blood pounding in her ears, she backed up a couple of steps to the middle of the room. Turning slowly, afraid of what she’d find, she looked at the other bed.

The soft sound caught her attention first. So soft she hadn’t heard it until now, when she was really listening. Panting, almost, like a dog in the hot sun. Shallow, quick breathing, barely audible.

Gritting her teeth and peering through the heavy darkness, she could barely make out a shape, something like a miniature mountain range, in the glow from the clock on the other nightstand. Moving closer, her skin crawling and her insides dancing with unease, she narrowed her eyes to see who had picked the lock, or perhaps found the key.

Some of the mountains rose and fell, and it took Charity a moment to see that the tempo of the movements matched the panting. Large breasts, their nipples erect. A woman, then, her hands at her sides and the rest of her body still.

A thread of worry wormed through Charity. Was the woman in trouble? Was she suffering from posttraumatic stress? Or had Charity been wrong about the stamina of the partiers running out, and they’d simply changed rooms?

The thread of worry changed to a rush of anger. If this woman was in trouble, Charity would help in any way she could. If nothing else, she’d beat the offender senseless. If it was the other…well, maybe they needed a good thump for breaking into her chosen room. She was tired and grumpy and about done with the insanity.