Styx's Storm (Breeds 16)

His face was hardened, tough, his expression lazily filled with the male knowledge of his own charm, hungers, and his effect on the female of both Breed and human species. Especially his effect on her.

Soft, scarred boots covered large feet, jeans cupped and molded heavily muscled legs and thighs, while a black T-shirt molded biceps, chest and an eight-pack most men would kill for.

"There you go, love, I like the attention much more than our fine director," he said and chuckled knowingly.

She would have no

better chance. These Breeds weren't going to relax; the only chance she had was to throw them off guard. She had no weapon; she had nothing but her ability to move, to run, and there wasn't a chance in hell she would make it.

She jumped.

Moving to avoid the crouched Wolf Breed Storme sprinted to the side, kept low and thought to slide between two of the Breeds on the far end of the circle as they moved to block her.

They fell back, and she knew she was screwed.

The harsh growl behind her had the others backing away as she sped past them, racing for the narrow lane that led to the exit and the road away from Haven.

She didn't run for the forest; either way she went, she knew she didn't have a chance without divine intervention. And divine intervention wasn't coming.

She was weak. She was tired. She could feel her muscles giving out on her; weeks of exhaustion and too little food had caught up with her.

She had a million excuses, but what it came down to was the fact that she had known it was a useless effort. She had made it no more than perhaps thirty feet when she felt the hard manacled arm that came around her waist, restraining her, and felt herself lifted up and back against a hard, broad chest.

"No!" The rage that tore from her throat was harsh, tearing at her vocal chords as she felt tears of anger falling from her eyes.

"Lass, ease up." Gentle, crooning, his lips at her ear, the Scots Wolf restrained her arms at her side and turned to head back to the cabin.

She kicked, she screamed. Rage and terror whipped through her system as she tried to fight, only to find each move blocked, the training she had gained over the years ineffective in the face of her own weakness, and the strength of the Breed holding her.

"Tell you what, we'll get some food in you, a few cups of coffee, some rest, and you can try it again," he suggested, and she was certain the good-natured tone of his voice was no more than a lie.

He was enjoying this; she could feel it, sense it. Just as he would enjoy killing her.

"You bastard! Fucking monster," she screamed. "I hope you die. I hope all of you die. You should have never been created ..." She sobbed as he stepped onto the porch and moved into the cabin. "Just kill me now."

"Would you stop the damned caterwauling, lass." He strode through the cabin before yelling behind him, "Jonas, get Nikki up here. She's bleedin'."

She tried to claw at his arms, his hands, but the hold he had on her kept her from scratching. She slammed her head back and only met his shoulder, not his chin or his face as she'd hoped.

She tried to kick, but he evaded each swing of her legs until he reached the bed and threw her onto it.

"Like hell!" Coming off the bed, her only thought was to go back through the window, to escape the only way she knew how.

With a casual little push against her shoulders, he effectively managed to put her on her back as she fell.

Rage was burning inside her like wildfire. It whipped through her exhausted mind, stealing her ability to do anything but to hate and to fear.

They were playing with her and she knew it.

She rolled to the other side of the bed. There was another window, another way out.

Hard fingers at her ankle jerked her back, holding her to the bed as she flipped to her back and tried to kick furiously at the restraining fingers locked around her, keeping her on the bed.

"You could always tie her to the bed," an amused male voice pointed out.

Storme's gaze sliced to the doorway. "You monster!" she screamed at the Bureau director. "You won't win. You won't be able to kill everyone who knows what you are."

"It's a very nice thought though." He shrugged as Storme collapsed in exhaustion, hatred still spilling through her as she regarded him with a bitter sneer.