Dawn's End

Cole smiled down at Maggie. "I have a Christmas surprise for you." He hoped she bought his weak plot to keep her trapped in the city for the next two weeks. At first, John Mark had been furious that he was going to be gone such a long time. After some creative talking on Cole's part, his mentor and friend had eventually caved and given his permission. The brothers held one part of his heart, but the rest belonged to Maggie. She stared up at him with suspicious eyes. Her hair fell in a loose tangle around her shoulders. In the evening light, although it stung his eyes, the silky strands captured the tones of orange and gold, and deepest auburn, dazzling him with their color.

"What kind of surprise?" Maggie asked. She leaned back resting her weight on the wedge heels of her boots.

"Two weeks of luxury and pampering at The Ambassador Hotel," Cole answered. "A deluxe suite at the top of the world with room service, gourmet meals, and." he puffed out his chest with a grin. "The guy of your dreams. I intend to make sure your every whim is completely fulfilled. You can just call me your little Christmas elf or if you want, Santa Baby."

"What about my family?"

"They send their love," Cole answered, planting a kiss on the tip of her chilly nose.

"My mother agreed to this?" Maggie asked, lifting her brows in surprise. Her mother had unwillingly conceded to the fact that Maggie was hopelessly in love with Cole. But, there was still a part of her mom that still had hopes for grandchildren someday. A wish she was not very quiet about verbalizing.

Vampires didn't make babies. That fact automatically let her sister Lori and her husband, Keene, out of the running. Cole wouldn't be her mom's first choice of son-in-laws. All of his equipment still worked, except for his little swimmers, they died when he did. She unfortunately, was a living, breathing, human being and as fertile as the Nile Valley, or so she assumed. That her mother would agree to two weeks of debauchery in a warm, cozy hotel room with Cole made absolutely no sense. "What's really going on, Cole?"

Cole raised his eyebrows in total innocence, as if he had no clue of what Maggie was suspicious of. "What do you mean? I just want to show my best girl the time of her life. Just think we'll be all cozy and warm in a hotel room high above the city, just the two of us. I'll have you and your kisses to myself." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic sprig of green mistletoe, holding it over her head. "There's one," he said as he bent to claim his kiss. "What do you say, Maggie? I promise I have your mother's blessing. Besides, you're nineteen, what can she say?"

Maggie dropped back on her heels after giving Cole a quick kiss on the cheek. Her bullshit meter was on full tilt. She had no doubt that Cole had done all the footwork. He'd made the reservations and somehow had managed to get her mother on board with the plan. He'd never risk her mother's wrath. Cole would heal, but her mom was a pretty good aim with a rolling pin. Questions still rolled around in her mind. She wasn't completely convinced that the purpose of a staycation in the city with the sole intention of locking her in a hotel room, no matter how extravagant, and ravaging her body for weeks was Cole's only motivation.

Arguing the point that she was going to miss Christmas with her family. Badgering him to get the truth out of him wasn't going to work. Cole was not a pushover. He was as stoic and tight lipped as any brother when it came to confessions. At this point, the only way she was going to get any answers out of him was to play along. "Ok, why not?"

Cole exhaled a relieved breath. Maggie wasn't completely buying his cover. She wasn't dumb. She knew something was up. His lips were sealed. Hopefully, soon enough on her neck, on her breast and about a dozen other places he could think of. He was creative and had plenty of ways to keep her mind off the flaws in his plan. "Great!" Shooting her a mischievous grin, he picked her bags up out of the snow and led the way to the SUV.

Chapter 21

Carter hated the energy he drew off Shayla's blood. He felt invincible, stronger than he had in a long time. His guilt was the payback for being unable to resist. He really should have gotten the hell out of there before she had time to formulate the idea in her head. He should have known that he'd never be able to tell her no. And that she'd stop at nothing to get what she wanted. Then again, maybe he wouldn't have stopped to get what he wanted either. He wanted her. Seeing her again, despite the shadow joined to her at the hip, brought it all back. And along with seeing her all the guilt he'd waded through to do it threatened to pull him back under.

He hid down in the compound. He thought it might be best to put as much distance between them as possible. The threadbare clothes he had arrived in had been exchanged for a new pair of leathers and a form fitting black t-shirt. Not exactly his former style. He'd been fond of expensive textures and designer labels. Funny, the luxury that only money could buy didn't mean as much as he'd once believed. He wasn't the person he used to be. Black leather suited him just fine.

His reflection stared back at him from the mirror's glimmering surface. His hair, washed and dried, hung in soft, blond waves cupping an angular jaw and high cheeks. He was still death in a beautiful wrapper. Surfer boy at the beach, someone a female would pause to take a second look at as she passed. He could be anyone anywhere. Frustrated with himself and the way he'd handled the reunion with Shayla. He scooped his hair away from his face and secured it with a gold pin at the nape of his neck. Hiding who he was behind a layer of filth and raggedy clothing didn't change a thing. The golden boy O'Sullivan had snatched away from the human world was still there, in the mirror, freezing him to death with an icy, arctic blue stare.

Shayla's sweet voice whispered in his mind, joining the endless chorus of voices he'd collected in his gray matter over the centuries. She was just waking, dazed and sleepy, trying to remember how she'd gotten into her bed and why she ended up there in the first place. Shock fluttered over his consciousness as she became aware and remembered.

She didn't want to want him. He definitely was ashamed of how badly he wanted her. They were both damned. Wanting what wasn't good for them. As soon as this mission was over, he'd erase her from his mind with the blood of another. The unwanted thoughts would be banished from his mind by another and another, an endless cycle of lives, over and over again. There was only one thing that would quiet the voices of his victims in his mind permanently. Death.

He felt the conflict in her mind. He saw Tracker as she saw him. Strong. Attractive. Stable. A safe bet. But, he didn't do it for her, not completely. Not the way Carter knew he did. She'd already promised away her heart to Tracker. She did not take her promises lightly. She loved Tracker, but not with the same heat and passion that she loved him. How far would she go to bind herself to the promise of love?

Carter would give her no option. He would take himself out of the picture. He had made promises too. Shayla was not his to win back. Tracker was the better man and he had won.

Shayla closed her eyes and reopened them. Her bedroom tilted on its axis, fuzzy and distorted, and then slowly came into focus. Her neck was stiff and sore. Gingerly, she ran her hand to the place where the wounds had been and probed. The injuries were tender, but healed. She looked down expecting to find her t-shirt stiff and tacky with dried blood. She wore a clean, pastel blue long sleeved shirt made of soft, brushed, fuzzy fleece. Her hair should have been a matted mess of dried blood. The strands were soft, clean and well tended to. Someone had gone to great lengths to clean her up. Had taken painstakingly good care to make sure not one speck of blood remained on her body.

Tracker forced a smile as Shayla's eyes trailed across her bedroom and landed on him. "You're looking much better," he said gently. He kept his voice light and forced free of the strain he felt boiling within him. He'd carried her back to her bedroom, washed away the blood, and cared for her. Her burden was light and he'd been honored to care for her. His vigil had been an easy one, watching the peaceful expression flit across her face as she slept and the miracle of her flesh, as it knitted together, healing. "I've got a mug of Nana's tea, if you want it."

Shayla struggled to sit up against the fluffy mountain of pillows at her back. "Nah, I'm good." She rested the back of her head on the bed's wide cherry wood headboard. "You took care of me." She smiled in wonder at Tracker.

A lot of men, especially wolves, would not have been able to see past what she'd done to have given her a second thought, let alone take such good care of her. Wolves had their pride. By offering her neck to Carter, she might have wounded Tracker's beyond repair. Instead, he perched on the edge of the rocker returning her smile with an easy, slightly crooked one of his own.

She scooted over and patted the empty space on the bed. She didn't know what she'd done to deserve having Tracker in her life. She was grateful for his patience. She wondered if there'd ever be a day when she opened her eyes and he wasn't there. If eventually, his patience would wear thin and he'd abandon her for easier prey. She treated him horribly. He'd done nothing but shower her with affection and endless patience. Guilt stabbed at her heart. Regret weighed heavily on her shoulders. She had to give up on Carter and move on. She couldn't love the both of them indefinitely. Her heart was not manufactured to love two men at once.

Sure, she loved Tracker differently than she loved Carter. Tracker's arms were warm around her shoulders as he pulled her into the shelter of his chest and cradled her cheek against his pecs. His lips were soft, brushing across the top of her head in a gentle kiss. He offered her one thing Carter could never. Life. "Thank you, Tracker," she said into the folds of his shirt.

Tracker gently rubbed his stubbled jaw across the top of Shayla's head, relishing the softness and warmth against his skin. He held her, folded in his arms, protected and safe. He could keep her safe as long as she'd quit doing stupid things to endanger her life. He'd swallowed what little pride he had to take care of this woman. He almost choked on his ego. The male portion of his psyche that made up a big part of who he was tempted him to leave her there on the floor, leave her to her pain and blood, to clean up after herself. He couldn't do it. He'd scooped her up off the cold floor and warmed her in his arms. Cleaned her and set her to rights and cared for her. Why? Because the part of him that loved her was big enough to beat down the part of him that wanted her to suffer. No, he'd save the part that wanted to cause pain for the vampire. "You're welcome."

Shayla nuzzled her face in the shelter of Tracker's broad chest and inhaled. His scent was welcoming, comforting, the smell of home and hearth, safety and protection. He was all male. There was nothing he would not do for her, no matter what. He'd never abandon her as Carter had. He was her safe harbor. Perhaps, that was the difference between him and Carter. Perhaps, that's why she'd never let either one of them go. They were two different parts of what she needed most in her life. Carter, the danger, and Tracker, the one that picked up the broken pieces that Carter left in his wake. She wiggled free of Tracker's arms and lifted her face to look him in the eye. "I love you," she whispered. The smile that lit up his face was reward enough for her.

Tracker was selfish. He claimed her mouth like the greedy bastard he was. He wasn't so prideful that he would turn down the scraps that fell from Carter's table. The light that shone in her eyes when she looked up at him was enough. He stifled his ego and stuffed it down his gullet where it bubbled and boiled. He didn't give a damn about Carter or the connection he had with Shayla. Let Carter know that his woman burned with fire stoked to life by another man. Let him feel the searing heat and the flames. Let them consume him. Sure, it was vengeful of him to make Carter suffer. So what? They were at war and Shayla was the battlefield on which they fought. Nothing is fair, in war, or in love. There are only victors and casualties.

Shayla withdrew, shaky from the force and demanding behind Tracker's kiss. One thing was for certain. Whatever was happening between them Carter would see. He'd be a witness, whether he wanted to be or not. He'd know her thoughts. Feel the sensations that racked through her body as if they were her own. An experienced vampire would be able to block it out. Carter was experienced. When it came to her, she had a feeling she was too close to his heart for him to close her completely out. What it had cost him to drink from her and form a link between the two of them, she could only imagine. There was no way she was going to hurt him. Not like this.

There was enough suffering between the three of them. There was nothing fair about her feelings and the bitter struggle the two men were locked in, because of her. She was tossed back and forth between the two of them like a rowboat in a turbulent sea. Back and forth, battered by the waves, she bobbed. She would not make matters worse by making love to Tracker. Not when Carter shared her every thought, every sensation, and every emotion. "Don't. It can't. Not when..."

Tracker loosened his hold on Shayla and trapped her chin with his finger, pulling her face up to meet his. "Not when Carter is watching."

Shayla pushed Tracker's hand way from her face and concentrated on the pattern of the quilt on the bed. Squares of brightly colored fabric sewn together by loving hands stretched out over her legs. She fingered the different textures and wondered who had worn the faded denim and well worn cotton. What were their lives like? Did they love? Did they feel even remotely the way she did now? Would they understand when not even she could? "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm not."

"How can you say that?" Shayla asked. A particularly bright square of cloth held her attention. The soft cotton square of a baby blanket, faded and worn from countless uses and washings, line dryings and trips through a ringer washer. She traced it over and over with her fingertips.

Tracker rose off the bed. The mattress shifted as he lifted his weight from the edge. "I'm in here," he said, stroking his fingers over her heart. "Like it or not. I'm in here and that's where I'm going to stay. I'm only sorry that my presence in your heart has caused you so much pain."

Shayla lifted her head and blinked back a tear. Tracker walked silently out of the room, not looking back. He was so right. He did cause her pain. Not because he was demanding, but because he was so gentle. Patiently waiting for her to come to terms with her heart and the man he shared the space with. Her heart was too small. There wasn't room for the two of them. No matter what she chose, one would lose and one would win. She would hurt, because she'd lose so much of herself in the process. Whoever won, the victory would be bittersweet and tainted with pain.

Chapter 22

Doctor Thomas Sterling emerged from behind the curtain that sheltered the girl

from the rest of the ER. The hospital was crowded with anxious and curious onlookers. Her parents had been allowed behind the tacky print on the pastel curtain and were speaking in soft, hushed voices to their barely conscious daughter.

She'd been one lucky lady to survive such a brutal attack. Lucky, the rabid animal didn't do more damage. At least, that's the story he had told her parents. They were shocked and frantic, willing to believe any explanation he provided. They'd latched on to his words and took them for gospel. Once the initial shock and the gratitude wore off, who knew? It was the best that he could do with what he had at the time.

He'd stitched up the jagged tears in her throat the best he could until a plastic surgeon could get in from the city. She might have some bad scars. He had pieced her back together and the important thing was, despite any scars, she'd live. The girl dreamed peacefully sleeping off the medication he'd given her. He hoped she dreamed of better places and times under the effects of heavy sedation. The blood, a third unit of A negative, dripped in slowly, replenishing what had been so savagely been left to bleed out all over the snow.

He'd constructed the lie as skillfully as he'd repaired the damage that had been done to her. He only hoped like his suture work, it'd hold until the experts came up with something better. The possibility of a rabid animal trekking into town from the woods and attacking a helpless female while not bothering with the little dog tethered to her wrist by a pink leash and rhinestone studded collar were rare.

He dipped his head to Mack in a gesture for him to follow into the quiet of an empty office. Mack nodded in reply and excused himself from the withered grasp of the girl's grandmother. The door softly closed a few minutes later as Mack came in behind him. "I'll admit her for a couple of days," Thomas said. Running his hand through his sandy brown hair his fingers trembled with exhaustion from the intricate suture work he'd painstakingly performed, the holes in his feeble explanation, and the horror of what had been done to her. "I've done all I can. All we can do is wait and see what she remembers."

"For her sake, I hope it isn't much. Damn it, this wasn't one of ours that attacked her. I don't know who it was, but it couldn't have been one of ours. The Sons are too disciplined for this kind of shit." Mack rested his hand on the butt of his gun. The cool, black, grip felt solid and reassuring against his palm. He wished that bullets were enough to kill the bastard that did this to the girl. They weren't. Didn't matter, if the bullets would do nothing more than ruin a perfectly good shirt. He felt marginally better with a round cocked and ready in the chamber.

"Well, it sure as hell wasn't a rabid animal," Thomas said. His grandfather looked as worn and used as the desk chair Thomas had flopped onto. He studied the old man. Lines of strain showed around his eyes and a graying line of stubble spackled over his jaw. Over night, his hair had gone from salt and pepper to slate gray.

"Let's just hope her family and the Staties buy our story," Mack grumbled. For far too long, he'd concocted too many stories to explain away the inexplicable. Luckily, the state police were too busy to explore most of them in much depth.

Thomas smelled the pungent telltale scent of cigar smoke and frowned. "I thought you gave up smoking those things? They're going to put a nail in your coffin."

Mack shrugged, "Nobody lives forever do they."

Thomas sighed and shook his head in resignation. How could he argue his grandfather's logic on that one key point? His grandfather was supposed to retire from the force last year. He hadn't. The years were putting unimaginable strain on him and no doubt more nails in his coffin than an occasional puff on a fine Cuban cigar ever could. "No, they don't."

Mack shrank under his grandson's scrutiny. Thomas was a good kid. He was a fine doctor, a good father to his kid, and a fine husband to his wife. Mack couldn't ask anything more out of him that that. "I'll want to question her when she wakes up."

Thomas nodded. "I'll let you know."

Patrick flipped the pages of the magazine he wasn't reading. The ER waiting area smelled of strong disinfectants, blood, and misery. The combination was nauseating. He'd volunteered to take first watch. The Sons were about as subtle as a freight train. Big as brick shit houses clad in leather. They'd scare the shit out of the hospital staff and the patients as well. Patrick was subtler than his brothers. He was medium built and in a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, and an old t-shirt, down right inconspicuous in the crowd swarming the lobby.