Oliver hit the ground rolling. He avoided a kick in the plexus by an inch before he was on his feet again. The barrel-chested man prowled, a black balaclava pulled low on a thick forehead and crooked nose, black eyes blazing through the openings of the ski-mask. His arms were hairier than a monkey. At least they hadn't sent Nabokov champion. If not for the noise of boots on the gravel path, the surprise would have cost him more than a punch in the back.
Oliver sidestepped to keep himself between the thug and the door. He rolled his head, bit back a grown when his neck twinged. "You're trespassing. Leave now, and no one gets hurt."
The thug didn't fall for the ruse and lunged. Oliver dodged another punch, punched back. He blocked a jab, retaliated, missed. The base of his skull itched. Shaking his head, Oliver took the measure of his adversary. If only he had his bow…
The kick almost broke his tibia. Fuck that guy was good. Fast. Oliver sauntered from foot to foot to chase the pain. "I can do this all day, Igor." The man growled at the nickname. "But you see… The blonde with me, she'd not really the patient type. I promised her a good time, if you follow my meaning, so…"
He made a derisive "come at me" gesture with his hand. Ski-mask mimicked his footwork, one hand close to the chin, the other fisted along his side. Oliver pounced. He took a blow to the stomach, struck in return, missed the kidney by a hair. The other man continued to try and get him away from the door. Stalling. For what? Did he wait for something? Those idiots generally work in pair. Did he have one? Where was he? Chloe!
Anger flared so fast he tasted blood. Chloe was off limit. She was his. He shook his head to clear it. If they dared land one finger on her, Evgeni was a dead man. His vision tunneled to the menace in front of him. Oliver shot forward in a flurry of blows. Punch. Jab. Uppercut. He fisted corduroy fabric and stroke. The man's head snapped back. The crack only fueled more rage. Oliver's heart rammed to exit his chest. He projected the other to the ground, prepared to crush his windpipe with his foot. "I should kill you for this… Tell your master than next time, I'm coming for him."
He bent forward to finish him off. And spotted the empty syringe on the ground.
Oliver teetered backward. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The sight of his bloodied knuckled sickened him. They'd injected him with the fucking cocktail Zlythe must have concocted. Ski-Mask scrambled to his feet and ran. Oliver let him go. It didn't matter. He worked alone. Oliver was supposed to finish the job for them. That was what the drug was for. He'd seen the effect the night before. The rage. The desire to hurt. Even with a dislocated shoulder, the smaller man had continued his assaults until he was knocked out for the count. Oliver groaned in frustration and pain.
"Oliver?"
"Here. I'm fine. No, stand back. You have to stand back, Chloe."
His fists clenched against the ache. Excruciating pain coursed through his veins. His head weighted a ton on his shoulders. Everything hurt, every cut, every scrap, every bruise. Breathing was just another fight. When he managed, more fire entered his body. He staggered under the pressure, searched for an anchor in the fiery storm.
"Oliver, tell me what's wrong…"
Chloe. Oh God.
"You can't… Chloe don't touch me. Don't…"
He latched on her hand on his arm like a lifeline. "The syringe. The drug. Fuck!"
She tried to pull away from him to gather the evidence. Oliver growled.
"Oliver, we need to get that to Emil. Let go of me."
He forced himself to release her. His hands trembled. Her leather jacket and top rode up to bare skin when she crouched to collect the needle. Another rage was born. Hotter. Meaner. Primal. Oliver tumbled backward.
A worried frown scrunched her nose when she stared his way. Adorable Chloe.
She reached forward. "Chloe, don't…"
Her hand found his face, tested his forehead. Pure, sweet Chloe.
"You're burning up."
"Yeah, you could say that."
He was too far gone to know if the words were just in his head or not. It nearly killed him to step away. Her fingers hooked in his sleeve. They brushed the skin of his wrist. Oliver jerked.
"You're not going to hurt me, Oliver. Oliver, look at me."
Her bright green eyes beaconed him, light in the darkness. Compelling. Hurt was the last thing on his mind now. He bit his tongue, followed her inside like a wolf on a leash. She pushed him onto a chair then abandoned him to open and close the cabinets in search of a wash cloth. Oliver stalked her every move. She was too far away. Her attention should be on him. A dang wet cloth wasn't going to help his fever. She was. His. Only his. His to protect. His to have. His. His. His.
His nails bit tiny croissants in his palms when she stepped between his knees to clean the sweat and blood off his face. Oliver breathed hard.
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"No. No I'm not. Chloe, you really have to—"
She was too close. He winced. Lust burned his blood to ashes.
"Sorry."
"Just… Just stop. Please."
Stop touching me. I don't know if I can hold back if you touch me.
"You should lie down."
Hell yeah. Let's. No sleep involved.
"We can't stay here."
"You're not in any state to drive. Besides we don't know what they did to the bike."
"Then call a cab." Get away. Get the hell away from me before I consume you alive.
"No."
Stubborn, irresistible Chloe. Oliver pushed to his feet, ignored the flash of hurt on her face when he swatted at her helping hand. He towered above her, relished the fight in her eyes when she refused to be cowered. "I am not leaving you alone in this house when you're strung up."
"Chloe, they use the damned drug to force people to fight to the death. I'll be safer by myself. You too."
"I'll be safer here. I'm safe with you." Her gaze gleamed in the feeble light. "They must have followed us from the start. They know where I live."
He hadn't thought of that. Fury spiked again, banked enough of the carnal greed so he could stay calm. Somewhat. His ears rang in the effort. "Then go to the penthouse."
"Not without you! I'll call Hal. Or Dr. Hamilton."
She pulled away to extract her cell phone from a pocket. The idea of other males around her… No. She was his. "They'll be too late. Fuck, I can't… It's too much…"
Too much anger. Too much heat. Her hands on his bare arms. Her scent all over him. Oliver captured her mouth in a searing kiss. He'd been reverent before, patient. Now he wanted to devour. She kissed him back, and invited more ravage. He backed her into the counter, pressed one knee between hers. Her leg hooked around his thigh at the perfect angle to…
Oliver groaned inside her mouth as he hoisted her up in his arms. "I'm… not sure I'll be… able to stop if—"
"Then don't stop."
Her nails scraped the nape of his neck, over the puncture the syringe left. He kicked the door connecting to the hall open, carried her blindly to what used to be his mother's parlor. Probably. Everything that was not Chloe was fuzzy. She muddled his senses. She was all curves and silk skin. Curious. Trembling. His hand found her breast under her clothes, round and perfect. He sucked at the pulse in her throat when she whined in arousal.
Oliver pined her to a wall so he could rip his own shirt off, worked his way through hers. Jeans were pushed aside somehow. Chloe shuddered.
"Not here… Not like this. Please…"
He groaned instead of stopping. "Touch me. I need your hands on me."
Her palms ran down his shoulders and arms then up his chest. The look of wonder on her face all but undid him. She didn't protest when he lowered her to the ground, offered her throat to him. "So beautiful…"
He wished he could laid her down on his bed rather than a Persian rug. He would. Later. When desire wouldn't be so ardent. So urgent. The drug was stealing their moment, and he hated it. Hated himself for being unable to resist, for not offering her the world. She deserved more than that. If only he could stop, savour instead of plunder, love instead of steal. He fought to keep himself in check. Cradled between her thighs, he held himself on his forearms to pepper her face with softer kisses.
"I… That's not how I…"
"Shush…"
Chloe cupped his cheek, her free hand locked behind his head to invite him down for another kiss. He lost his mind. His heart was hers from the beginning.
Tongues tangled. Skin met skin. She was perfect, responsive, so hot and—
"Chloe? You're—"
"I want it to be you."
The beast clawed inside him, urged him to push, to take, to mark her as his. He struggled against the rage, the urge. Her breasts pressed in his chest when she breathed through the pain. Tears in her eyes. His fault. He was hurting her. Guilt tampered the heat for a second, then the consummating need reared back, licked at his sanity. His self-control wobbled. She was his. Take. Possess. Savage. His. Only his.
A teary smile tugged at her lips. "You promised not to stop, Queen… Don't you have a reputation to live up to?"
Her body fought the foreign invasion despite her teasing. Oliver entwined their fingers on both sides of her head. Her whimper spoke of discomfort, not pleasure. His whole body throbbed in want. He kissed her again, as lovingly as he could, until she relaxed and he surrendered to the flames.
