“No!” He pushed past the man and hurried inside. “Call Ransom. Please.”
The old man hesitated, then let out a harrumph. “Fine.” He turned around and fished a phone from his pocket, then tapped on the screen and put it to his ear. “Yeah, it’s me. There’s someone here lookin’ fer ya … no, doesn’t look like anyone I’d seen before … tall fella. Just showed up, bleedin’ all over my garage. Looks like one of them goddamn Vikings.” The man’s face changed. “All right.” He handed Cross the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Ransom, it’s Cross,” he said.
“Damn, I thought it was one of my buddies from the slammer.” The voice was gruff, not that Cross expected a warm greeting. “What do you want?”
“I’m in trouble.”
“And so?”
“Yes … and I just need to lie low for a few days. Can I crash with you?”
There was a pause. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Look, I promise I won’t be any trouble. I just need a place to sleep and think.”
“Cross, you know—”
“You owe me.” He didn’t want to bring up that night, but what choice did he have? “Please.”
There was a low growl followed by a grunt. “Fine. You need a ride?”
“I …” The pain was too much, and he dropped the phone. The world swirled around him, and a wave of nausea hit him.
“Sonny!” The voice seemed far away. “Sonny! Don’t—”
His vision went black, and the only thing he was aware of was the cold cement floor underneath him. What was wrong? His body should be healing by now, not getting worse.
Give it to us.
“Who said that?” he slurred. “What do you want?”
The dagger. Give us the dagger.
“You can’t!”
Give us the dagger. Or your mate dies.
“No!” He sat up, grasping at the sheets around him. Sheets? Where was he? The smell of pine was the first thing he noticed, then the feel of a firm mattress underneath him. Grabbing his shoulder, he winced at the twinge of pain, but it wasn’t as bad as before, and someone had dressed the wound in a white bandage.
“Finally up, huh?” came the low, gravelly voice.
His head turned to the sound of the voice. It was dark inside this place, and his tired eyes were having trouble focusing on the shadowy figure in the corner. A shaft of moonlight, however, shone through a window and illuminated a pair of black leather boots. “Ransom, is that you?” he rasped. Why was his throat so scratchy? “Did I pass out?”
The boots sounded heavy on the wooden floor as their wearer stepped forward, revealing his face. “You’ve been asleep for hours.”
He looked up, his vision focusing on the man hovering above him. Gold-green hazel eyes regarded him, and there was no mistaking who it was. “Hours?”
“Yeah.” Ransom knelt down to his level. “You okay, buddy? That was a nasty burn.”
“Yeah I …”
“It’s healing now. Dressed it myself.” When Cross tried to roll out of bed, Ransom placed a hand on his good shoulder. “Stay put, get a couple more hours—”
“No.” He couldn’t delay, not after that message. It was obvious who it came from. The mages. His father had told him that his old master, Stefan, was able to send him telepathic messages. Somehow the new mages had found a way to do it, and now they were blackmailing him into giving them the dagger.
He pushed Ransom aside and got up, wincing as he felt his singed flesh protest. It was definitely better than before, but it wasn’t quite done. Lycan healing was a hell of a lot faster that a human’s, but it wasn’t instant. It would maybe take another day or two for the burn to completely heal. “I have to go.”
“Go?” A dark blond brow lifted up. “After you made me risk everything by bringing you here?”
“Shit. Sorry. But”—he stretched out to full height—“I have to go back.”
“Back where?”
“New York,” he said. His thoughts were already focusing on where he had to go. It wasn’t hard, because his thoughts always brought him back to her.
Chapter Two
You can do this. It’s not a big deal. The store’s not far away.
Sabrina Strohen repeated the words to herself like a mantra. Taking a deep breath, she wiped off the sweat forming on her palms down her jeans and then reached for the door.
Every single time she had to leave the house, the struggle nearly overwhelmed her. Well, that’s probably why I don’t leave the house. Why bother when everything could be delivered to her loft apartment? Or she could always have her agent, Barbara, or her father bring it for her when they came around. No, there was no need to ever leave the safety of her home. And she hadn’t, not for the last three years. Not since the bus accident.
But there were times when there was an emergency, and she had no choice but to leave. Like today. She was making a cup of coffee during her afternoon painting break when she realized she was out of her favorite cookies.
Damn her sweet tooth.
She had tried to ignore the craving for the sweets. Distracted herself. Told herself she didn’t really need them. Her hips and her chunky thighs certainly didn’t need extra padding. But now the need for them was screaming at her, and she couldn’t even pick up a paint brush.
I’m going to get those damned cookies, even if it kills me!
The lump in her throat had grown too large to swallow. Going out wasn’t going to kill her, she knew that. But the crippling anxiety weighed her down, as it always did when she attempted to take even one step outside.
“You can do this!” she hissed and grabbed the door. Turning the knob, she pushed her body out as if an outside force was propelling her. The loud slam seemed to portend her doom, but it was too late now. She took one step forward, and another, and
