Read Psy & Changelings 05 - Hostage to Pleasure for Free Online Page A

speed.
    The only problem was, the predators were faster than she was.

CHAPTER 5
    Things to do . . . . . . people to kill.
     
—Front and back of Dorian Christensen’s favorite T-shirt (gift from Talin McKade)
     
 
Dorian smelled blood on the wind moments after he entered the Grove, followed by the angry sounds of lynx fighting over something. His hands moved with lethal grace, throwing knives hitting his palms as he prepared for whatever it was he was going to find. His scent was normally enough to cow the smaller felines, but if they’d blooded a kill, they might be in an animalistic rage.
    The scent teased at him, sharp, iron rich. But beneath the spray of blood lay an exotic femininity, intriguing, seductive . . . and cold, so damn cold. “Fuck!” Sweat rolled down his spine as he covered the remaining distance at extreme speed.
    She wasn’t allowed to die, he thought, his rage a dark red flame. Not until he’d flushed this vicious hunger for her from his system. But when he tracked the scent to a small clearing, it was to discover nothing beyond the slashing aggression of the lynx and the biting iron of fresh blood—no scent of a gut ripped open or bodily wastes expelled during the panic of death. Not even an overlay of sweaty panic. Psy liked to pretend they were cold until death but he knew very well that they screamed, same as everyone else. Santano Enrique had screamed . . . until Dorian had sliced off his tongue.
    Knives held with familiar ease, he strode into the clearing. The group of lynx turned, their snarls promising tearing pain. He waited for them to recognize him. They hesitated—long enough to stop mauling whatever it was they had under their claws. He knew what they were thinking. There was only one of him, ten of them.
    He growled, letting the trapped leopard in him sound through his vocal cords. It was a growl of anger, of fury, of domination. The lynx cringed but didn’t leave. Damn. He didn’t want to kill them. This was their land as much as it was his. She was the intruder, here and in his life—in his fucking dreams. But he’d deal with his crap himself. He wasn’t going to take an easy out and stand by while she was being ripped to shreds.
    He growled again, putting menace into it. Get out or die. They knew him, knew the warning would be carried through. It didn’t matter that he was latent, unable to shift into the leopard form that was his other half. No, to these creatures, he was simply another cat. He smelled like one. He ran like one. He hunted like one.
    And he killed like one.
    One by one, the tufted-ear felines gave disgruntled snarls and wandered off. He waited—knives in hand—until he was certain of their surrender. Then he approached the tree where they had been savaging their prey. He stopped. The concentration of smell was wrong. Freezing, he analyzed what his senses were telling him. Almost smiled. And slipped into the deepest shadows. So fast that he would’ve been a blur to the eyes watching him.
    Cloaking himself in the darkness, he moved as he spoke, well aware a Psy could kill with a single targeted mental blow. “I suggest you come down unless you want me to leave you here. The blood will prove an irresistible draw to the lynx.”
    Silence. Did she think he didn’t know where she was?
    “What I want to know is where did a Psy learn how to climb?” He stopped at an angle to the branch where she was perched, able to see one sneakered foot.
    “A gymnasium climbing machine,” came the cool answer. “I’m afraid I’ll have difficulty with the return trip.”
    He didn’t move, fighting his beast’s instinctive need to protect. “Clawed?”
    “Or bitten. On my calf.”
    He could hear movement now, knew she was attempting to make her way back down. The cat in him was chauvinistic. It liked to help women. And this woman, it wanted to bite, taste, savor. But that cat, despite its inexplicable and deeply sexual pull toward the icy Ashaya Aleine, was also