Five in the morning was too damned early for a knock on his front door. He was barely out of bed and showered. His coffee was still dripping into the cup and he hadn’t even had a chance to strap his weapon on. Cullen Maverick liked things in order whenever possible. It made life a hell of a lot easier. Pulling his weapon from his side holster, he made his way to the front door, confident that if a threat awaited outside, then it wasn’t directed by forces other than a normal workday upheaval. As commander of the Navajo Covert Law Enforcement Agency, he’d made a few enemies over the years. Those enemies weren’t the ones he watched out for, though. It was the enemies he’d made as a teenager that worried him. The knock came again, firm though not masculine in the least. Recognizing the sound, a direct knock without pounding, he knew instantly who it was without questioning how he knew. His lips almost quirked into a smile. A quick look outside the narrow window next to the door showed a slender feminine figure dressed in jeans and a light jacket. One of the junior members of the force, she’d been on a few operations, though he’d refused to give the go-ahead to move her higher. Chelsea Martinez, with her black hair, brown eyes and dusky skin of combined Navajo and Caucasian parents, stared at the door as though she could will it open. She was a force to be reckoned with when she wanted to be. He should know; he was usually the one butting heads with her. Swinging the door open as he leaned against the side of the wall, he stared down at her somber, implacable expression with a slight smile. Dawn was barely lighting the land outside, giving it an otherworldly, quiet sense of solitude belied by the homes along the side of and facing his own. “You didn’t call, so I assume this isn’t life or death,” he remarked when she just stared up at him silently. She’d been doing that a lot in the past few months, just staring at him as though she expected something from him, as though he’d forgotten something. She cleared her throat, lips thinning, her gaze sliding from his for just a second before jerking back. “I need to talk to you.” Quiet, intense, her demeanor wasn’t threatening, just too damned serious. “Come on, I’ll give you the first cup of coffee,” he sighed heavily. No doubt she was there to argue over her place in the Agency again. She’d been pushing for some of the more dangerous assignments in the past months. Covert Ops agents were kept quiet. They had no official uniforms, didn’t call attention to themselves. Chelsea was one of their more covert agents, though she mainly worked in an assistant capacity at the office. She could streamline files and people like nobody’s business. Hell, her name wasn’t even officially listed with the Agency and he liked it that way. It lessened any danger she might face and ensured he didn’t have to worry about losing a damned good friend because someone else blinked. She was too young to be part of operations, he’d tried to explain to her, to make her understand that he couldn’t put her in the line of fire until her training was far more seasoned. “Here you go.” Stepping into the kitchen, he removed that first cup of coffee and placed it on the round table that sat in the middle of the darkened room. “Flip a light on if you need to.” He rarely turned the lights on in the place simply because he spent the least amount of time there as possible. It was a place to sleep and keep the few possessions he owned. Mainly, his clothes. Sometimes, the television screen set in the fridge door was on, but not this morning. He hadn’t had time yet to turn it on, and music would get on his nerves after an hour or so. “I’m fine,” she assured him. His night vision had improved over the past years. At first, he’d questioned the change until realizing his twin, Gideon, was in the area. For some reason the appearance of the Primal Bengal sibling had sharpened a few of the recessed Breed traits Cullen possessed, but not enough to change his life. Not enough to worry him. “Let me get my coffee before we start, minx.” He shot her a grin. That solemn, sad expression was beginning to bother him in ways he couldn’t put a finger on. “Of course.” The answer wasn’t exactly what he wanted to hear. “I know how you are without that first cup.” There was no amusement in her tone, no teasing. What the hell was up with her? Leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest, he frowned at her. Damn, she looked so sad, not angry or upset. There was a sense of loss emanating from her, and he couldn’t find a reason for it. Pulling the cup free of the coffeemaker when it finished, he lifted it, sipped and continued to regard her. She wasn’t fidgeting in front of him, wasn’t acting in the least nervous as she usually did whenever she was ready to put forth yet another position she could hold on an operation. Anything to get her out of the office and to put her training to work, she’d demand. She was a member of the Breed Underground, she’d pointed out the last time. She’d helped move juvenile and adult Breeds more than half a dozen times, keeping them just ahead of the Genetics Council or pure blood fanatics searching for them. And yes, she had done that, but he didn’t command the Breed Underground. He couldn’t disqualify her as a member of the forces that aided hidden Breeds or mates, so he ground his teeth each time she went out and argued with her cousins over it on a constant basis. She was too innocent for covert work, too innocent to be scarred by the crazies in the world. “Spit it out,” he sighed, lowering the cup and facing her quiet, intense expression. “What have you come up with this time? What argument do you think will sway me?” She blinked a few times and if he wasn’t mistaken her eyes actually looked as though—were those tears? What the hell had happened? Setting his coffee aside, he prepared to act, to fix whatever had been done to bring tears to her eyes. “Chelsea?” he questioned gently. “What’s going on, honey?” Cullen watched as she pulled back the front of her jacket, removed a folded piece of white paper from inside it and slowly laid it on the table. Cullen swore he felt the need to growl. One of those deep, dark rumbles of dangerous warning he’d heard come from his twin’s throat more than once. Every muscle in his body tensed and he knew, knew to the soles of his damned feet what that simple piece of paper represented. His gaze lifted to hers once again. “You don’t want to do this, Chelsea,” he sighed. “Come on, honey, we can talk about this.” They had to talk about it. They were going to talk about it. He’d be damned if he’d let her— “It’s my resignation from the Agency,” she told him, her tone soft but firm, determined. She’d made her mind up. By God, she actually thought she’d made her mind up to leave him—to leave the Agency. That she could just walk away. He stared at it, glared at it. If he had his way it would burst into flames and the memory of it would dissipate along with the paper. “The hell you are.” Lifting his head, he directed that glare at her. And she met it. Not once did she flinch or look away. Not one time did she even pretend to acknowledge his dominance. Hell, she didn’t even consider it. “The Agency isn’t going to work for me, Cullen—” “Because I don’t let you run it?” he snapped. “You don’t make the decisions there, girl. If you did, ‘Commander’ would be sitting in front of your name instead of mine.” There were times, few though they had been, that standing firm would encourage her to back down. She had to back down on this. She nodded sharply. “Agreed. But I never wanted to run it. I just wanted to be a part of it, not a glorified running girl for you and the other agents. That’s not happening, so it’s time I leave.” His jaw tightened with a surge of anger at once confusing and filled with frustration. “You won’t give it time,” he began, his back teeth grinding. “I don’t have any more time to give it, Cullen.” Her lips tilted in remorse as she lifted one hand out to him before dropping it just as quickly. “It’s just time, okay?” “Time for what?” He stepped closer, though she chose that moment to look away from him, unaware he was coming closer, that his refusal to accept this was about to get up close and personal. “Grandfather agrees it’s time I go. That I find my own way . . . Cullen?” She turned back, her gaze going first to where he was supposed to be, then to the shadow suddenly at her side. “Cullen?” Breathless, a woman’s sound, one filled with surprise, a bit of shock and a hint of apprehension as he swung her around, pulling her against him, letting her feel the erection he had no intention of hiding from her any longer. And damn her. Her lips parted; her eyes, like soft melted chocolate, stared up at him, widening, then turning slumberous as her breathing escalated, her breasts rising and falling faster as he held her to him. What the hell was wrong with him?

That distant thought wasn’t enough to stop him, it wasn’t enough to pull back, to free her and let her walk away. He’d known for years, far too many years that this was coming. And when it happened, letting her go wouldn’t be an option. All that wild independence and pure energy she possessed would have to be tamed. The thought of the danger she’d face otherwise was more than he could contemplate. “This is why,” he snarled, his lips lowering to her ear, his own breathing harder, hunger driving a stake straight to his balls as he fought the need to take her then and there. To back her against the wall, get her hot and ready for him before taking her. He’d take her from behind, pushing inside the sweet heat between her thighs as his teeth gripped her neck— They were already there, raking over the tender flesh at the bend of her neck and shoulder, gripping, releasing, his tongue laving the sharp bite. Her nails were gripping his shoulders, her head resting against his arm as he held her, the little cry that left her throat one of pleasure and shock. Sharp, sweet pleasure struck at his senses, the reaction so strong, so deep he felt it awaken something inside him that he knew he couldn’t allow free. Something dark. Something hungry— “Fuck!” As quick as he’d pulled her to him, Cullen released her and all but jumped back from her. God, the scent of her, the taste of her skin, so sweet and soft. Giving his head a hard shake and turning his back on her, he raked his fingers through his hair and fought to get a grip on himself. Lust had never controlled him. He’d never let his hungers free like that, even during his marriage, before his wife’s painful death; he’d never felt that deep, dark hunger, like another presence coming alive inside him. “God, Chelsea, I’m sorry.” What more could he say? He couldn’t explain it, even to himself. “Good-bye, Cullen.” He turned as she raced from the kitchen to the living room. He’d taken two running steps to stop her before pulling back, forcing himself to stop, to let her go. His lips pulled back in fury, a snarl ripped from him seconds before he turned and plowed his fist into the wall, burying it in the suddenly crumbling drywall. Jerking back, he stared at his knuckles, his fingers. They ached, but not from the strike. And it wasn’t just the fist that slammed into the wall that was aching; his other hand was balled so tight he swore his nails were pricking the flesh of his palm. “Damn her!” he bit out, forcing himself back to the kitchen and that damned letter on the table. Before he could stop himself, he ripped it to shreds and let the pieces fall to the floor, watching them flutter with a slow, gliding grace. She’d be back. It was just another damned way to show him how serious she was. He’d put her on one of the less dangerous operations when she came back, he promised himself. Hell, he should have done it already but he liked having her with him in the office. She was funny, insightful. She smelled good— And she’d run from him. He must have scared her, though Chelsea wasn’t the type to get scared over a kiss. He knew her better than that. And she knew him better than to think he’d hurt her. He’d give her a day or two, let both of them calm down, and then she’d be back. She couldn’t have been serious. He wouldn’t allow it. Oh God! Oh God! She was just a baby. Tiny, delicate, a mop of tangled black hair and wide, shock-filled eyes. Rage clenched Chelsea’s guts, formed a layer of ice around her emotions and stilled her racing heart. Logic and training snapped in and she forced herself to move into position slowly. Horror. Terror. Those distant, primal warnings of evil were pushed quickly to the back of her mind as the child stumbled forward. Oh God, she had to get just a little bit closer. If this wasn’t timed just right, if Chelsea didn’t calculate everything perfectly, then she knew that baby wouldn’t be the only one who died in this lonely desert tonight. Night vision glasses allowed her to pick up even the most minute detail in the deepening night. The sight of huge bite marks over the child’s body would live in Chelsea’s nightmares. If she survived. Deep, jaggedly torn flesh still seeped blood, spilling more down the already bloodstained little body. Long, tangled black hair fell to the child’s shoulders and covered the side of her heavily bruised and swollen face. She was weak, far too cold and suffering blood loss definitely, possibly hypothermal shock. If she didn’t get that child out of there fast, then she was going to die. Come here, baby. I’m right here. Come on, let me take you to your momma . . . The plea was soundless, no doubt useless, but still, she urged the child to the edge of the rising tower of rock that hid her presence from the Coyote soldiers. She didn’t dare show herself. If they saw her, then she’d never have time to get the baby into the Desert Runner she’d taken out that night on patrol. She was in the middle of a nightmare she couldn’t have imagined. Even her deepest, darkest fears didn’t hold anything this horrific. Demonic yips and howls filled the night with terrifying sounds. They were merely tormenting the little baby, keeping her little heart beating fast and hard, her blood seeping steadily from her wounds. So much evil. The creatures pushing the child through the night were hellish. Only hell could conceive monsters such as the ones trailing after the child. Right here, baby. Come on, Louisa, you’re almost safe. Let’s go find Momma . . . She kept her eyes on the child, willing her to come to her, to sense her waiting in the shadows, ready to scoop her up and race her away from this nightmare. “Momma, help me.” The night carried the hoarse, dazed little voice clearly to where Chelsea hid. “Momma, help me.” Over and over the ragged plea filled Chelsea’s soul with agony and threatened to pierce the layer of ice covering her emotions. If she let the fear free now, then she’d lose her mind, Chelsea knew. There would be no way to function, to think. She took her eyes off the child only long enough to check the distance between the enemy and the little girl stumbling through the dark. The Coyote soldiers were keeping Louisa in sight. If Chelsea just waited, remained out of their field of vision, then she’d have Louisa and be gone before they could get close enough to stop her. Then it would just be a matter of staying ahead of them until she got to safety. She’d glimpsed their Runner, but she knew hers would be lighter, the motor modified to get an edge on the ones being used by the soldiers. The Breed Underground modified their vehicles for speed rather than defense or heavy weapons. Still, the Coyotes’ Runner would be hard to get away from without a good head start. It wouldn’t be easy. Watching the little girl, Chelsea gritted her teeth and made herself wait. Just a little more. That’s it, Louisa. Come this way. I’m right here, baby. “Momma. Help me, Momma.” The little voice was so weak, the night so cold, and time was running out. Holding the blanket she carried ready, Chelsea kept a wary eye on the Coyotes and waited, still, silent. The body-warming technology of the covering would hopefully keep the little girl warm enough and protect her from further chill as they raced through the cold night; the open design of the Runner would do little to stave off the chill. The Coyotes paused, yips and laughter filling the desert as Louisa headed straight for Chelsea, her dazed eyes staring unseeing into Chelsea through the darkness of night. She could do this. Louisa was almost in place. Just a little closer. The kids’ parents were about thirty minutes away, their desert estate well armed as they waited for word of their daughter. Search efforts were being concentrated in the opposite direction; the report of Coyote soldiers closer to Window Rock had drawn searchers there. It was that odd piece of information Chelsea had collected the day before that placed these creatures closer to Pinon and already had her in the area when the report went out. She was turning around and heading toward Window Rock when she’d heard the Coyotes. The child stumbled to her knees and Chelsea felt her breath catch. She was so close. “Come to me, Louisa,” she whispered, a breath of sound she prayed the Coyotes didn’t catch. Louisa made it to her feet, jerky, uncoordinated, but she made it to the edge of the rock. Chelsea moved. Snapping forward, she wrapped the dark blanket around Louisa’s slight body, lifted her into her arms and ran the ten feet to the Runner she’d left on standby. Before she could jump into the Runner, the night went silent. Totally, completely silent. There was no time to secure the little girl into the opposite seat now. No time. It had just run out. As she latched the restraining harness around both of them, the feel of Louisa shuddering and the sound of her gasping breaths filled Chelsea with dread. Enraged howls filled the night as Chelsea slammed the Runner into gear and the desert vehicle shot forward. The deep tread of the tires bit into dirt, sand and gravel, then all but picked up and flew through the night. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes to the Cerves estate, and she was on her own until she got there. The radio had gone out, refusing to work, but there was also a chance the Coyotes’ Runner was equipped with a jammer. And she wasn’t far enough away from them for her radio to work yet. The Runner’s back cameras and radar were working great, though. Good enough to see that those bastards were gaining on her. She should have never come out alone. Under no circumstances. She should have called in backup when she first heard the Coyotes’ howls. But her cousin Linc was manning communications and he would have ordered her back. She’d already been in the area when she picked up the radio transmissions earlier that night that the Cerveses’ young daughter had been taken from the compound by suspected Council Breeds. How the Coyotes managed that, she couldn’t imagine. Checking radar and cameras again, she calculated the distance to the compound and saw a glimmer of hope. She was actually closer than she’d thought she’d be. Not much farther. Not that she would be exactly safe once she arrived at their compound— if she arrived. The Cerves family had brutal reputations. The Cerves criminal cartel didn’t wait to ask questions. They killed first. As she checked the monitor again, her jaw tightened. Shifting gears with fierce, quick movements, she heard power build in the motor as she pushed it for more speed, gritting her teeth and restraining a curse as the first bullet struck the side of the Runner. The desert vehicle wasn’t bullet resistant and the Coyotes knew it. Fire flashed in the cameras and the sound of automatic gunfire behind her, pelting over the Runner, had her using every trick she knew to push the motor harder, faster. Gunfire still erupted behind her, but the pinging had stopped. She estimated she was staying just out of reach of them. But she and little Louisa weren’t home free yet, and she was running straight into an armed force that would already be prepared to shoot at the first sign of a threat. A Runner crashing the gates would definitely be seen as a sign. The night sped by as adrenaline pumped fast and hard through her body and the Runner raced through the desert. She had to keep both hands on the steering wheel. At the speeds she was pushing the Runner to, she didn’t dare take one off to comfort the baby. Louisa was only eight years old, though, and Chelsea knew that comfort was something the child could have used. Eight years old. If she survived, would her young mind ever pull free of what had happened tonight? Twenty minutes. She’d been racing through the night for twenty minutes. The temperature gauge on the Runner was edging higher. It wasn’t meant to run this hard, this fast, for this distance. She was close, though. Any minute she should see the glow of the lights that lit the estate like a damned airport runway. Guards had surrounded it earlier in the day before Louisa’s disappearance. Surely they were still there. What if they weren’t? What if the estate was deserted? As she flew over the next rise, those lights glowed in the distance. Rather than pulling back, the Coyotes were firing again, and another ping to the side of the Runner had Chelsea quickly twisting the wheel, fighting to keep the Coyotes behind her. The chance of a bullet hitting her was slighter there. There was no protection to the side. As she drew closer to the estate, she could see men running, automatic weapons in their hands. The gates weren’t opening and there was no time to stop. If she stopped, her side would be exposed as the Coyotes raced past her. She’d be easy to pick off. Praying the reinforced metal of the Runner’s front guard held up, she pointed the Runner toward the gates, her teeth locked tight, her eyes narrowing on that point. If she could just make it to those gates and crash through . . . As long as the Cerves guards didn’t shoot her first. She prayed they glimpsed the Breed Underground insignia she hurried to flip on. The bright red BU on the front guard was all she’d have to alert them that she wasn’t some dumbass just hoping to break through and cause murder and mayhem. No, she was bringing the murder and mayhem. “Hang on, baby,” she screamed above the sound of the Runner’s motor. Louisa’s arms and legs tightened around her, but not by much. Chelsea could feel the dampness of her night suit from the little girl’s blood and the child’s cold flesh. “Momma’s waiting for you, baby.” She prayed that Samara Cerves—the Blood Queen, she was called—was waiting for the little girl who still whimpered for her, and that the savagery she was reported to have wasn’t something her child knew.

Chances were slim, though. Still, the Cerves compound was the little girl’s only hope. And God help the family if anything happened to Chelsea because her own family wouldn’t play nice. Automatic weapons were turned on her as a dozen or more soldiers and security personnel braced to fire on her. Faces brutally hard, determined . . . murderous. Her life flashed before her eyes and one image held in her mind. “Cullen.” She whispered his name as the gates loomed, coming closer, faster. “I’m sorry . . .” Metal hit metal, the Runner reducing speed with a force that had the safety seat and harness reacting with the same speed to hold them in place. The collision rippled around the powerful vehicle, the frame taking the brunt of the force, the seat reacting to the still-strong shock wave that hit the interior. Automatic gunfire ruptured the night as the gates were pushed open, and the Runner came to a stop several feet inside the interior of the compound. Chelsea was confident the child hadn’t sustained further injuries, though for some reason, her own arm was burning like hell. “Wait! Wait!” she screamed, fighting the hard hands that reached in, tore at the harness and tried to jerk her from the seat. “Louisa. I have Louisa.” She scrambled to release the restraint, trying to be gentle, to hold the child securely as she whimpered, crying for her momma. “I have her,” she cried out, suddenly staring down the barrel of a gun, eyes wide, the certainty of death filling her mind. “I have Louisa.” Hands shaking, she let the blanket fall back, her eyes lifting to the cold, stark blue gaze of the Blood Queen herself. In those crystal-hard eyes Chelsea saw a mother’s torment and a killer’s need for blood. “Momma.” Weak, fear and terror worn, the little girl was suddenly trying to struggle against Chelsea, ragged nails dragging against the shoulder of Chelsea’s black top. Frantic, hysterical desperation filled the child now; those wide, dazed eyes flickering with horror would forever be seared into Chelsea’s memories. The gun barrel jerked back and the woman was reaching for the girl, screaming for the doctor, and in Samara Cerves’s face Chelsea saw such misery, such pale, terror-filled pain, that she had no doubt little Louisa was safe now. The question was, was Chelsea safe? “Move.” She was hauled out of the Runner with a suddenness she found shocking. The hands that jerked her from the vehicle were rough and bruising as she was dropped to her feet, then dragged through the courtyard toward the side of the mansion. Stumbling, she had only a moment to glimpse the chaotic activity of soldiers and security personnel rushing behind the woman known as the Blood Queen and the blood-soaked body she cradled in her arms. “Where are you taking me?” Desperation sliced through her as they disappeared around the side of the house. She couldn’t die here. Struggling against the powerful grip, she tried to dig her heels into the dirt and loose stones beneath her feet, only to risk falling and being dragged along the ground. Furious cries were falling from her lips, the need to escape frantic when he suddenly stopped, all but throwing her against the side of the house, his hand pressing over her mouth and his face only inches from hers. Green eyes flecked with amber rioting through the irises. Rage burned in his gaze, in his expression, along with steely, uncontrolled demand. Cullen? Shock blazed through her mind, froze all her senses. “Shut the fuck up and follow me. Now.” Turning, he had her wrist again, dragging her behind him once more, uncaring of the fact that her knees were suddenly jelly. What was Cullen doing here? Covert Law Enforcement didn’t have an op with the cartel. If they did, she would have known. Wouldn’t she have? It had just been three days since her resignation, not months or years. And since when did Cullen do ops himself? He was usually in command or logistics only. As commander of the Agency, he oversaw the assignments; he didn’t take them himself. In the four years she’d been with the Covert Law Enforcement Agency, she’d never known him to go undercover himself. “Get in.” She was lifted and all but tossed into the passenger seat of another Runner before Cullen went over the hood of the desert vehicle and slid into the driver’s seat with an ease that amazed her. As he jerked the vehicle into gear, the Runner raced for the back wall that surrounded the estate. No one tried to stop them. As they neared the gates the heavy metal barriers opened smoothly, giving Cullen just enough room as he shot past them. She didn’t dare look at him. She could feel the fury rolling off him in waves, see it in the hard grip he had on the gear shift as he accelerated through the night. The Runner was in lights-off, full covert mode, a model only the Bureau of Breed Affairs possessed. It was a little heavier than the one Chelsea had crashed into the estate with, but the motor was far more powerful and it was equipped with defensive features the others didn’t have. They’d have no problem if the Coyote soldiers happened to see them. She was going to have a problem once Cullen stopped this Runner, though, and she knew it. She could feel it. Decelerating the Runner, Cullen eased the desert vehicle along the back entrance of his property, then into the dark silence of the garage. Activating standby mode again, he let his hands grip the steering wheel, his hold so tight even the tips of his fingers ached. “What the bloody, insane fuck were you doing out there?” The words ripped from his mouth, a harsh, guttural growl filling them. “You were not scheduled out there. You weren’t even supposed to be out tonight.” He snapped his mouth shut, his teeth clenched hard, jaw locked. The memory of that fucking gun the Blood Queen had in Chelsea’s face, her finger on the trigger, still had his blood boiling. There wouldn’t have been a chance in hell for him to jerk that murderous bitch away from Chelsea before she pulled the trigger. As fast as he’d been moving, as desperate as he’d been, he wouldn’t have made it in time. He knew, had known for years, that her work with the Breed Underground would get her killed. He’d argued with her cousin Linc over it, fought her grandfather over it, and none of it had mattered. “It’s my choice if I decide to go out at any given time,” she reminded him, that cool, distant tone she sometimes got scraping over his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “I need to call a ride . . .” “I’m your fucking ride.” Vaulting from the low vehicle, he stomped around the back of the Runner, just making the opposite side as Chelsea jumped to the ground and stared around warily. “I lost my glasses,” she said tonelessly, reaching up to touch her face. “I don’t remember when they came off.” “Probably when that fucking bullet hit your arm,” he snapped. “You have a flesh wound at your shoulder. Come on and I’ll check it out.” He gripped her opposite arm, pulling her after him to the kitchen door. The biometrics on the door had it unlocking at his touch, swinging wide easily