Excerpt from Rise
of the Fallen
His face looked angelic now that his eyes were closed.
Earlier, in the parking garage, when his eyes had been open, Sam had seen a
lifetime of pain in their depths, a suffering that ran deeper than the beating
he had just endured. It was a look she had seen in the eyes of some of the
older soldiers she had treated in the Army, and it made her wonder what this
guy had been through to hurt so deeply.
Biting her lip, she resisted the urge to run her fingers
through his hair to see if it was as soft as it looked. But she did trace the
tips of her fingers over his forehead then turned her hand so the backs of her
fingers brushed down his cheek. Something about this mysterious man made her
want to comfort him.
Suddenly she yanked her hand away. "Stop it, Sam. This
isn't time for Florence Nightingale Syndrome." This guy was dangerous.
Hell, why else would five thugs want to beat the crap out of him? He must have
done something terrible to make them retaliate like that.
A nasty scrape on the man's shoulder seeped blood and he had
numerous, angry lashes on both forearms which looked relatively fresh.
She sucked in her breath and frowned. "What the hell
are those from?" There was no way those men in the parking garage had done
that to him. His clothes hadn't been ripped, for starters, and they had been
beating him, not knifing him. She had seen cuttings in the Army, and that's
what this looked like. If she was a betting woman, she would lay down a hundred
that this guy was cutting himself, which meant he was even more fucked up than
she thought.
Sam looked more closely at Mr. Out-Cold's face and sighed.
With a shake of her head, she grabbed an antiseptic wipe from her kit.
"What have you been doing to yourself, Mister?" She ripped open the
wipe's wrapper and the faint smell of alcohol permeated the air. "You're a
troubled one, aren't you? Let's get you fixed up so I can be rid of you. You
kind of freak me out."
As she touched the antiseptic wipe to the jagged scrape on
the man's shoulder, the man's eyes shot open wide, his entire body contracting
violently as he growled – growled? Yes, he growled as his head snapped around.
Animalistic, navy blue eyes met hers, full of fear and
something else, something dark.
The rest happened so fast, Sam didn't have time to react.
His unbelievably strong hands latched onto her arm, pulled her wrist to his
mouth, and then fangs – Fangs? –
pierced her skin as he bit her.
* * *
Micah had been in a semi-lucid state, aware of everything
going on around him but unable to rouse himself. He had felt the woman cut off
his shirt, had felt her sure, confident hands ranging his chest and torso
before her gentle fingers caressed his face. She had talked to him, too. Well,
not really to him, but sort of. Her voice was smooth and low, sultry. He just
wanted her to keep talking. The sound of her voice was a balm, an audible salve
to soothe his soul.
But then she had grown quiet and sucked in her breath. Micah
touched her mind and realized she had seen his self-mutilation. Shame flooded
him as his long-absent conscience reappeared, chastising him for what he had
done. For some reason, he didn't want this woman seeing the damage he had done
to his own arms.
And then everything shattered into white heat as fire stung
his shoulder.
Intense hunger raged like wildfire. Micah couldn't recall
ever needing to feed this badly. In an instant, his eyes flashed open and shot
to the woman tending him. Terror erupted in her expression, but all he could
see, think, feel, smell, and breathe was blood. Glorious, life-giving, hunger-sating,
Heaven-sent blood. With graceless impropriety, Micah yanked her wrist to his
mouth like it was a sandwich and he had gone way too long without food then bit
down with unceremonious impatience.
When was the last time he had truly fed?
The woman struggled as he locked his hands around her arm
and lurched upright with her wrist clenched in his mouth. Her blood flowed like
a river of life into his belly, and he moaned in ecstasy even as he fought to
restrain her. He had been too wrapped up in his need to feed to compel her into
submission, and she grappled, squirmed, and struggled against him, gasping and
protesting for him to stop.
Blood. All he
could think about was drinking her blood. She swung at him with her free arm,
kicking and trying to pull away, but he stayed with her, using one hand to
deflect her haphazard punches, turning his body to avoid her kicks. All the
while, his fangs kept her wrist locked in his mouth and her blood spilling down
his throat.
He finally overpowered her and bent her back and down to the
floor. Crouched like a man kneeling in prayer, his gaze ranged up her arm that
stretched between them, linking her to him like an umbilical cord as she
continued to struggle. His feral gaze locked onto the pools of clover green in
her eyes as his chest and abdomen heaved lustfully. Blood lust. Strong and pure
and all-consuming, it gnawed at him like a jackal on a bone.
The woman tried to cry out, but he slapped his hand over her
mouth, stifling her scream, taking his fill of her blood as her body finally
stilled beneath his.
It was only then that Micah realized she was crying. Tears
streamed her cheeks as horrific sobs convulsed her chest. As his senses ebbed
back into him, he gently lifted his hand from her mouth, keeping it close in
case she tried to scream again.
"Please, please stop. Don't kill me."
Her fear smelled like sulfur as the words clubbed him. Kill
her? He didn't want to kill her.
Where was he, anyway?
Micah's eyes flitted around the room and suddenly it was
clear he wasn't in Kansas, anymore. What was this place? He had never been here
before. Nothing was familiar. How had he gotten here? His eyes darted back to
hers.
After releasing her wrist with a gasp, Micah fell back like
he had just seen Jesus wagging a judgmental finger at him, and he ass-planted
on her generic beige carpeting.
"Where am I?" he said.
The woman trembled in fear, too afraid to move as she
clutched her bleeding wrist to her body. In his confusion, he had forgotten to
release the dose of venom that would heal the bite.
"Where am I?" Micah's voice rose urgently as he
frowned in dazed confusion.
"M-My a-apartment." The woman was shivering.
"What's your name?"
She paused like she was trying to decide whether or not she
should tell him.
"Tell me!" He was freaking out.
The woman jumped. "S-Sam."
"Why am I here, Sam?"
The woman frowned at him like his question confused her.
"Why am I here?!" Why did he have to repeat
everything to get her to answer?
She flinched. "You were hurt. I helped you. D-don't you
remember?"
Everything flooded back into Micah's mind with such force he
visibly wobbled as if he was in the ocean and a wave of storm surge had just
rolled over him. He even sucked in his breath as if he was sinking underwater.
He remembered. Jackson, his fall into misery, his death
wish, the drecks beating the shit out of him in that parking garage tonight.
And then the crack of a gunshot and a woman's voice, followed by an image of…
"It was you." Micah's awed words whispered out of
him as he sat back. She was the woman who had saved his life, even though he
had only wanted death.
"Yeah. It was me, you asshole. I saved your life."
Her fear morphed into anger.
Sam was a tough little doll. Micah approved.
Buy Links:
Coming May 25, book two of the AKM series, Heart of the
Warrior
Happy Reading!
Kristina
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