From behind his concealing shades, the leader of the Rogues narrowed his eyes and scowled. He had a thrashing headache when he'd arrived a short while ago; now his temples felt as if they were about to explode. He leaned back against the cushions of his private booth, bored with the gory festivities. A slight lift of his hand brought one of his sentries jogging over. He waved dismissively toward the stage.
"Someone put them out of their misery. Not to mention mine."
The guard nodded, then hissed in reply. He curled back his lips to reveal huge fangs protruding from a mouth that was already watering at the mere mention of more carnage. The Rogue loped off to carry out his orders.
"Good dog," murmured his powerful Master.
He was glad for the sudden trill of his cell phone, and a reason to get up for some air. A new racket had begun on-stage, now, as the band came under the sudden assault of a pack of frenzied Rogues.
With the club erupting in full-on anarchy, the leader strode to a private backstage room, and took the ringing cell phone from his inside suitcoat pocket. He had expected to see the untraceable number of one of his many Minions, most of whom had been dispatched to gather information on Gabrielle Maxwell and her apparent involvement with the Breed.
But this was not one of them.
He could tell as much even before he flipped open the device and saw the blocked ID flashing on the display.
Intrigued, he picked up the call. The voice on the other end was not unfamiliar to him. He had done some illicit business with the individual recently and they still had a few things to discuss. At his prompting, the caller relayed details about a raid being hatched that very night on one of the smaller Rogue cells in the city.
In a matter of seconds, he was given everything he needed to make sure the raid turned in his favor - the location, the warriors' intended method and route, their basic plan of attack - all on the condition that one member of the Breed be spared retaliation. This sole warrior was not to be exempt entirely, however, only wounded enough that he would never be able to fight again. The fate of the rest, including the nearly unstoppable Lucan Thorne, was for the Rogues to decide.
Lucan's death had been part of their agreement once before, but execution of the task had not gone quite as planned. This time, the caller wanted assurances that the deed would, in fact, be carried out. Even went so far as to remind him that he had been given considerable compensation for the act, but had yet to make good on his part.
"I am well aware of our bargain," he seethed into the cell phone. "Do not tempt me to demand further payment from you. I promise you will regret it."
He snapped the device shut on a black curse, cutting short the politic backpedaling that had begun on the heels of his threat.
The dermaglyphs at his wrist pulsed with the deep hue of his rage, colors shifting within the pattern of other markings that had been tattooed on his skin as a form of disguise. He scowled at the need to hide his lineage - his birthright - with crude ink and secrecy. He loathed the necessity of his shadowy existence, almost as much as he did all those who stood in the way of his goals.
He was fuming as he stalked back inside the main area of the club. Through the dark, his gaze lit at once on his lieutenant, the only Rogue in recent history to have looked Lucan Thorne in the eyes and lived to tell about it. He gestured for the huge male to come over, then gave him orders for carrying out the night's fun and games.
Regardless of his secret negotiations, when the smoke cleared tonight, he wanted Lucan and all of the other warriors with him to be dead.
Chapter Twenty-five
He avoided her the rest of the day, which Gabrielle figured was probably just as well. Now, just past dusk, Lucan and the five other warriors strode out of the training facility as a unit, each of them a picture of menace in black leather and deadly weaponry. Even Gideon was joining in tonight's raid, going out in place of Conlan.
Waiting in the corridor to see them off, Savannah and Eva went to their mates and took them in long embraces. Soft, private words were exchanged in low, loving voices. Tender kisses spoke of a woman's fear and a man's strong reassurances that he would return safely to her.
Gabrielle stood some distance away in the hall, feeling so much an outsider as she watched Lucan say something to Savannah. The Breedmate nodded and he put a small object in her hand, his gaze trailing past her shoulder to light on Gabrielle. He said nothing, made no move to approach her, but his eyes lingered, drinking her in across the wide space that separated them now.
And then he was gone.
Striding ahead of the others, Lucan turned a corner at the far end of the corridor and disappeared. The rest of his cadre followed, leaving nothing but the hard clip of boot heels and the metallic jangle of steel in their wake.
"You okay?" Savannah asked, coming up to Gabrielle and wrapping a gentle arm around her shoulders.
"Yeah. I'll be fine."
"He wanted me to give you this." She held out Gabrielle's cell phone. "A peace offering of some sort?"
Gabrielle took it, nodding her head in agreement. "Things aren't going well between us right now."
"I'm sorry. Lucan said he trusts you'll understand you can't leave the compound, or tell your friends where you are. But if you need to call them..."
"Thank you." She looked up at Gideon's mate and managed a small smile.
"If you want some privacy, just make yourself at home anywhere you like." Savannah hugged her briefly, then glanced to Eva as the other woman came over to join them.
"I don't know about anyone else," Eva said, her beautiful face drawn with worry, "but I could use a drink. Or three."