Trace. He’d gotten away. He was safe. Eve sucked in a deep breath of that fresh, mind-clearing air. Trace was safe . . .

And his house was being gutted.

The motorcycle roared to life. Cain had jumped on behind her, his body curved around hers. Eve gripped the handlebars and she drove that bike the hell out of there. She knew her motorcycles. Knew exactly how to handle them.

A hail of bullets rained down on them.

Eve swore and tried to steer the motorcycle in as much of a serpentine style as she could in order to avoid the bullets.

Cain’s fingers wrapped around hers. Held tight. Helped her to keep steering and to get them away from the hunters.

Then the bullets were distant echoes, whispers of thunder floating on the wind. The shooters were too far away to hit them. They’d have to give chase, have to keep hunting them, so she needed to get away as fast as possible.

Good thing she knew this area.

And the perfect safe house.

“Faster,” Cain whispered behind her.

The wind whipped her hair back and seemed to bite right through her clothes.

But she drove faster and held on to the handlebars as tightly as she could.

With rage building within him, Richard Wyatt watched the motorcycle disappear into the darkness.

“Sorry, sir,” one of the hunters said to him, shaking his head. “We weren’t expecting that much power and—”

Excuses. He’d warned them just how powerful Cain could be. “How many bullets did you put into Subject Thirteen?”

That had been his real goal. Killing Thirteen. Capture would have been good, but this way . . . this way he got to experiment a bit more. Every time Thirteen died, Richard learned so much more about his test subject.

The human swallowed and glanced away, his gaze heading toward the small patch of road that Eve had used when she escaped. “We hit him . . . hell, at least four times. The guy just didn’t go down.”

He would. With four bullets in his body, Thirteen would be going down. Sooner or later.

Richard tapped his chin and then gave the order. “Follow them.”

“And the wolf?”

That big, snarling beast that had rushed into the woods? “Forget him.” Wolves were a dime a dozen. But Thirteen and Eve Bradley, they were special.

The guard turned away to carry out Wyatt’s orders. Richard didn’t move, not at first. He stared down that twisting road. Hit four times. Wonderful.

If the bullets didn’t kill Thirteen, then the blood loss probably would.

And what would happen to Eve when Cain burned . . . and rose? Did she have any idea how dangerous the beast was when he first rose?

Probably not. Sometimes, Cain was able to hold on to some of his sanity when he rose.

Sometimes . . .

But on other risings, the beast took total control. Fire. Hell. Fury. Death.

Eve was about to learn a whole lot more about her new lover. She just might not survive her discoveries.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cain couldn’t move his feet. They hung limply, scraping over the road.

Did Eve realize what a deadweight he was on her?

That last bullet had lodged low in his spine. His fingers were working—barely—but he couldn’t feel his legs.

And the blood had already soaked his clothes. Too many bullets. Too many injuries.

He knew when death was coming.

Fuck. Eve needed to get away from him. But he couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t do anything but slump over her and try to hold on.

I’m sorry.

For what would come next.

She’d taken the motorcycle over so many roads, then off the roads. They were on a long, lonely field in the middle of nowhere. The engine growled softly, the only sound that Cain could hear.

When he saw the small, stark cabin rising before him, Cain knew Eve had thought to bring them to a safe house. Pity, no house would be safe enough for them.

Just a few feet from the house, she turned off the motorcycle. Tried to push him back. “We’ll be . . . ah . . . safe here. This place has been empty”—she gave another push back against him—“ever since—Cain!”

He’d fallen off the motorcycle. He barely felt the crash onto the ground. He was too far gone.

Eve was beside him. She rolled him over and stroked his face. “Cain?” Her voice was soft with worry and fear.

He tried to speak, but blood was choking him. Go. Run. When I come back, don’t let me touch you.

Because when he came back, the darkness inside him would be even stronger.

After a rising, sometimes he couldn’t even remember his name. Sometimes . . . he didn’t care—about anything or anyone. He just wanted the rush of fury. Of rage.