The two scientists met at the head of the table, turned in unison and headed for the exit.
It would begin here.
Jonas turned back to Navarro. "Is she your mate?"
Navarro shook his head. "If she were, she wouldn't be running."
Jonas gave a sharp nod. "Let's find out who the lucky mate is then. And let's bring her in."
"If she has a mate." Navarro didn't rise. "What happens, Jonas, if she has no mate?"
It was a question he hadn't considered. It was one he wouldn't entertain unless he had no choice.
Because no mate meant no hope of resolving this without death. And that was a resolution Jonas refused to entertain.
CHAPTER 1
The bar was hopping, music pounding, drinks flowing smoothly and customers packing the bar area and dance floor. It was one of those country hole-in-the-walls that attracted both criminal elements as well as the upper class and everything in between. It was one of those places Storme could slide into, and her scent became masked by the dozens of sweating, lusty, alcohol-infused bodies that filled it.
It was one of the few ways to hide from paranormal senses and extrasensory capabilities. It was one of the few places Storme had a hope of resting before she had to run again.
And God knew, she was tired. Exhaustion was beginning to swamp her, desperation was clawing at her back, and fear was a companion she hadn't separated from in far too long.
She wanted to rest.
Was there a saying about no rest for the wicked? There was. She must have been wicked in a former life though, because this life had just been spent running.
"Whiskey shot and a beer," she said wearily as the waitress came to the table.
Pulling a few of the precious bills from her pocket, she slid the money to the waitress when she returned.
She tossed back the whiskey, then chased the burn with the icy bitterness of the beer and blew out a slow, deep breath before looking around.
The band was actually pretty good here, the lead singers sultry when they needed to be, hard and filled with desperation when the song called for it.
The smell of cigarette smoke, booze, sweat and lust was so strong it didn't take Breed senses to detect it, Storme Montague decided as she sat in the corner of the room and watched the customers milling through the large area. A human with any sense of smell could detect it.
Moving to the corner of the booth, she hunched into the shadows and watched the crowd, knowing that even here there was danger. She had glimpsed it as she rushed inside and skirted the edge of the room to get as far away from it as possible.
From where she sat she could see the Breeds in the far corner as the crowds shifted and moved between them. There were four, and she knew all of them. Not personally, of course, but Storme knew a lot of Breeds; she'd made it her business to learn who they were, especially when she caught them trailing her.
Navarro Blaine, and this one, she knew well from Omega. He was a Wolf Breed with Asian heritage. He was tall, dusky skinned with the exotic slant of eyes and high, flat cheekbones. Black, brown and a hint of gray filled his hair, though the gray wasn't from age, it was from the gray Wolf genetics he carried. He was dressed a bit more sophisticated than the three he was with. Black silk slacks, leather shoes and a white silk shirt matched with an expensive black leather jacket.
That hair was long, falling nearly to the middle of his back as his black eyes, narrowed and intense, surveyed the room.
This Breed she knew, unfortunately. He had been in Omega while she had been there with her father. If she wasn't mistaken, he had been one of her father's favorite creations. Several times she had heard her brother refer to Navarro with worry and fondness, and several times her father had actually stated that he could have considered the Breed a son.
Her father had a daughter, but this Breed had concerned him far more than his daughter's safety had, and for that, Storme had once hated him with a passion.
Lawe Justice and Rule Breaker were Lion Breeds. Both men were extremely handsome, as all Breeds were, and rumored to be full brothers, perhaps even twins.
Shoulder-length black hair was pulled to the napes of both men's necks, while powerful bodies were attired in jeans, boots, T-shirts and denim jackets.
It was the fourth one that seemed the odd Breed out. He sat back casually in his chair, one hand lying on the table, his fingers tapping to the music as he glanced at the dance floor and the women that sauntered by the table to draw the men's attention.
Blue eyes. Ocean blue. She could see those eyes each time she caught a glimpse of his face through the crowd. Long red hair flowed past his shoulders, coarse rather than soft, tied back at his nape as the others' was, though it had the appearance of having been tamed only under protest.
Squared, strong features drew instant female attention, as did the exotic eyes that appeared to be lined with the faintest edge of kohl. High cheekbones, well-molded male lips, broad shoulders, a strong chest and impressive biceps. He was larger and broader than the other men, and looked exactly like what he had been created to be. A Scots warrior. He would have looked at home in a kilt with a sword strapped to his waist.
Leather pants, heavy boots, a white long-sleeved shirt and leather riding jacket were the perfect covering for him. They made him look harder, broader, more dangerous.
He was Styx Mackenzie, the one Breed she was seriously growing tired of playing games with. He had been on her ass for more than a year now, off and on, determined to track her down and force her to listen to the proposition the Breed community had for her.