shed from guilt and shame when she’d gone to Damian’s deathbed and saw him lying there. But real, honest, grieving tears?
Since the day her parents died. Since then she hadn’t wept. Not even for all she’d lost. And doubted she ever would again.
Small sounds barely audible to the human ear alerted Damian. He paused outside Jamie’s door. Hovering, he waited, instinct screaming to rush inside and hold her in his arms. She’d bite his head off. Tough Jamie didn’t want him seeing her break down.
Her breath was hitching in little gasps.
He broke the lock and went inside. Damian switched on a small Tiffany lamp. The soft yellow glow illuminated a crimson room smothered in ponderous furniture. Much too serious for Jamie.
She needed a light, airy room, with sky-blue walls and whimsical furniture.
Approaching the four-poster bed more suitable for a royal monarch, Damian silently assessed his future mate. Asleep, she lay curled on her side toward him, her shoulder-length black hair mussed. Little snuffling noises came from her, but she shed no tears.
Such delicate features, the pointed chin, the impossibly thick lashes, nearly translucent skin and carved cheekbones and full, mobile mouth and pert nose. She looked so damn young.
Sadness had shone in those expressive gray eyes. Jamie might try hiding her emotions, but her eyes were mirrored pools. He saw himself in the reflection, the arrogant, supremely powerful Draicon who had so much to offer, but instead took so much away. More than her innocence. He’d stolen away her dreams of magick and power.
And in doing so, made her turn to dark forces.
Regret arrowed through him. He would make amends, but had to earn her trust first. Her spunk relieved him. Jamie hadn’t lost her spirit or courage, two attributes she’d need in the coming days.
The house was safest for Jamie. He’d felt the ancient, sturdy power. Someone long ago had put a strong shield on it to guard against anyone performing dark magick. Anyone wishing to hurt Jamie would have to drag her outside the structure.
The bed sank beneath his weight. Just to hold her, touch her, if only for a moment. Instinct lashed him to mate. A purebred Alpha, Damian could only procreate with Jamie. He needed her for his pack in New Mexico, ruling at his side.
But he pushed aside lust, brushing back a lock of hair from her pale face. So cold, damn, her skin was icy.
He stroked her forehead. He would save her, at any cost. She was his, and he always took care of his own.
A grim smile touched his mouth. Even if they didn’t want saving.
Damian lay down, curled his big body next to her slender one and draped an arm about her waist. She moved back, snuggling against him as if relishing his heat.
He relished the feel of Jamie’s slender body. Heaviness flooded his loins. The erection reminded him of the relentless desire chasing him. Damian ruthlessly reined in his control and eased back. She was so slight, yet tough. Tainted from dark magick, yet innocence still clung to her.
Jamie whimpered in her sleep. A single tear leaked out of the corner of one eye. Deeply troubled, Damian chased it away with a kiss. Expecting a salty tang, he recoiled.
Pure, sweet confectioner’s sugar.
Growing dread gathered in his chest as Damian abruptly sat up. “It’s happening already. What the hell am I going to do?"
I will not let you die. You can’t die like my family did. I’ll do anything I can to stop this.
Rising out of bed, he left and quietly shut the bedroom door. Damian realized for the first time that he might be too late.
If he couldn’t find the book, he’d lose her.
Forever.
Chapter 3
Damian needed answers. His boyhood friend and adopted brother, Raphael Robichaux, could help. He whipped his cell phone out of his pocket, went to punch in Rafe’s number. His finger hovered above the keypad. Dialing for help. Help that never came for his family.
Oh merde, let’s not go there. But it came back, all in a roaring flood. The phone dropped from his numb fingers to the couch.
Twelve years old, delirious with the power of his first change. Determined to hunt in the bayou. His father had ordered him to remain home. It wasn’t safe. Morphs were on the hunt.
Damian wasn’t afraid. Hell, he could defeat Godzilla himself. Annie begged him to stay. “I’m scared, Damian. Please don’t leave me!”
He’d told his little sister she’d be fine, tucked her into bed with her favorite stuffed animal. Then escaped to the bayou and run with the night. Powerful. Draicon. Hunter. No Morph can harm me. Superwolf, mon ami.
Shortly after, the screams echoed in his mind.
Morphs had stormed into the mansion. Shifting back, his fear and grief scrambling his powers so he couldn’t summon clothing by magick, he’d run naked back to his house. He’d hammered his fists on neighbors’ doors, but they’d ignored his shouts for help. Cutting his feet on stones, praying he’d make it, his bloodied feet slipping on the pavement, his breath a hot, stabbing agony. The scent of death had poured into his nostrils when he’d bolted through the opened door. His father, on the floor, his body wrapped protectively about Damian’s pregnant mother. His brothers, dead. Annie, where was Annie?
He found her hiding beneath her bed. Blood splattered the stuffed dog still clutched in her thin arms. Horror and pain glazed her opened eyes. She was four years old. He’d held her broken body in his arms, rocking her and singing her favorite lullaby until he finally gathered strength to bury his family in the dark of night.
Dragging himself back to the present, Damian fisted his hands. Never again would he break the rules or abandon those under his protection. When he did, someone paid dearly.
The past was past. He had an adopted family now here in Louisiana, and back in New Mexico his own pack to rule. Soon, he would have his mate, as well. The cell went into his palm again. A loud buzz sounded. He pocketed the phone and headed downstairs, opening the grate that enabled a view of the street.
A petite, dark-skinned woman stood outside. “I’m Mama Renee, Jamie’s friend who runs the voodoo shop down the street,” she said in a soft slur. “You’re Damian.”
Startled, he narrowed his eyes. “Are you psychic?"
“But of course. May I come in? I have something for Jamie.”
The woman looked nonthreatening. Still … remembering his encounter with the crayfish, he studied her calm features.
“Blink,” he ordered.
She did without question. Dark brown eyes, soft and compassionate.
“You don’t remember me, do you? But of course, you were only five or so. I remember you. Your father, Andre, he was so proud of you. He called you loup petit.”
Shock reverberated through Damian. His nostrils flared as he inhaled the woman’s scent. Nothing but a faint fragrance of cologne or perfume.
“My family didn’t associate with many … people.” He stared at her.
“They only trusted a few. Will you please let me in? I need to see Jamie.”
Damian let her inside. Suspicion arose as he closed and locked the gate, then leaned against it. “What do you want?"
“I brought her something to make her feel better.” The woman fished a small cloth bag from a pocket in her dress. Damian inhaled the scent of herbs and spices. A gris-gris.
Morphs detested the good luck talismans. Still …
“You see everyone as the enemy. What must I do to prove I am