Page 96 of Fae Devoted
Tucker stifled the rumble building in his throat and retrieved his Glock. He flipped the weapon around and offered it butt first. No one could approach this area undetected by his wolf, but he refused to leave Jo without protection in this state. Her delicate jaw hardened with determination as she clenched her teeth andgrasped the gun’s grip with swollen hands. Damn, he loved this female.
Although weakened, Jo would never be weak.
Tucker wanted to say the words aloud, but it wasn’t the time, and it definitely wasn’t the place. So he pushed his devotion through their bond instead.
Jo’s hazel eyes widened, then fluttered closed. She tilted her head back as though savoring decadent chocolate melting on her tongue. There was a tremulous smile on her face when her gaze returned to his again. “Go with Jeremiah. I’ll wait here.”
He kissed her forehead, converted into his wolf, and trotted to the high concentration of aromatic vanilla and the strange hint of woodsmoke that coalesced through the open doorway. He tilted his ears forward and inhaled his brother’s frustration and a child’s strawberry shampoo. His brother disappeared into the bedroom’s attached bath as he padded inside.
Tucker crossed the bright pink carpeting to the unmade bed covered in blankets as colorful as the rug. Charlie’s and the Untouched woman’s scents, which Jo identified as Hannah’s, were steeped in acute anxiety. Fresh aftershave and gun oil added to the acrid taint in the air.
Human soldiers.
Huffing to clear the pungent odor from his nostrils, Tucker shifted again as Jeremiah came out of the bathroom in human form. “Anything?”
“The Director was here.” Jeremiah strode to the bed, the fuchsia comforter and matching sheets partially on the floor as if ripped away from the child while she slept.
“How do you know?”
“I can smell Daimhín on him.” His brother’s chest heaved, and his fingers tore through his hair, the strands bleached lighter by the sun and longer than Tucker’s. “He has the child.”
“They won’t get far.”
Jeremiah dragged a hand to his nape. “Whenever I’m close to the Fae’s magic…the mark burns like fire.”
Jo told them the Director bore the Sídhe’s brand. Did his brother’s presence in the facility tip him off? Is that why he’d known to grab Charlie and run?
“You don’t understand.” Jeremiah scoured at the brand as if it could be wiped away if he only rubbed at it hard enough. “Charlie is more important to the coming war than you can imagine.”
“Then explain it to me. Why do you feel responsible for the witchling?” Why make a sacred blood vow to protect a child he didn’t know?
“It’s my fault she’s here.”
“You can’t blame yourself for what the Fae—”
“My fault her mother is dead,” he whispered, voice agonized.
“Jeremiah…” Tucker took a cautious step toward the bed as blood dripped down his twin’s neck and seeped into the collar of his shirt. Jeremiah’s claws were out. “Brother, stop it.”
“It burns.”
Tucker shot forward and seized his brother’s wrist, forcing the claw sinking deep into muscle and skin to stall halfway in. He knew the torment and despair in his brother’s eyes wasn’t due to the physical pain of the brand. But the extreme emotional trauma of fighting the Fae’s influence for decades and not winning every battle that was ripping him apart. No shifter—no wolf—could have two masters and stay sane.
“I said,stop.” This time he drenched the order in compulsion. Jeremiah may have been his Alpha in the past, but only by choice. Tucker’s dominance was on the same level as his sibling’s.
Jeremiah quit pushing, but his curved nail remained buried in the center of the vile symbol, poised to slash.
“Retract it.” Tucker swallowed hard, his throat as tight as the grip on his brother’s wrist, preventing him from cutting deeper and possibly severing his cervical spine. “Now.”
Jeremiah sheathed his claw and blood streamed from the open wound, the puncture slow to close. Wounds caused by a wolf’s claws, even self-inflicted, were slow to heal.
“I cannot live like this anymore.” He hung his head, his hair falling to cover his eyes and the scar on his cheek. “I don’t want to.”
“Don’t let the pureblood win.” Tucker cupped his brother’s bloodstained nape, his palm pressing into Daimhín’s brand.
“Do not touch it,” Jeremiah hissed, trying to shake off his hand.
“This mark doesn’t define you.” Tucker held on, his heart a lead weight in his chest.
