“In a Cracker Jack box?” she snorted. “Give me a break, Dog, we both know better.”
He laughed at that. She had researched Dog, perhaps almost as much as she had researched Jonas Wyatt. The two men were like the opposite sides of the same coin. Not exactly a good-and-evil type thing—shades in between, but poles apart.
Dog wasn’t a man that would listen to a conscience, even if he had one. She had her suspicions about who and what he actually was, but she kept them to herself. There were levels of being wrong. If she was wrong about him, then it could be such a major wrong as to be fatal.
“Cracker Jack box,” he repeated musingly. “Interesting. But, as I was saying, it’s time for you to leave Glen Ferris. I figure I’m the Breed to ensure you do just that.”
“And you’re going to accomplish this how?” She laughed.
Cassa was almost amused. She had to admit, Dog taking an interest in this made her distinctly uncomfortable—an interest in her that she didn’t particularly like right now.
He inhaled slowly. His smile was positively even more evil than before.
“I have my ways,” he drawled, then stepped forward.
Her hands dropped from her br**sts as she tensed, stepping back.
“You know he’s watching,” she whispered, feeling her heart race as panic began to override the normal calm she always fought to achieve.
“Of course he’s watching.” His smile was predatory, his de meanor threatening. “He’s always watching you, Ms. Hawkins. If not him, then someone he directs. You are always being watched, at all times.”
She swallowed tightly. Cabal wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t have her watched like that. She shook her head, trying to understand why he would do such a thing, if he was.
“You’ve got a screw loose,” he said softly. “Dangerously loose. Do you think he wouldn’t see the threat you could be?”
“So you’re going to do what? Kill me while he watches?” she snapped back, her head swinging around as she fought to catch sight of Cabal. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t allow anyone to harm her, ever. If he was going to kill her, then he would do the job himself, it was that simple.
“Kill you?” He chuckled at the suggestion, as his eyes glinted with brief amusement. “I have no desire to kill you, Ms. Hawkins. But I have to admit, I was wondering how sweet your kiss would taste. Tell me, has he kissed you yet? Touched you?” There was an edge of anticipation that surrounded him now, that filled his expression. An edge of hunger.
“He’ll kill you.”
He laughed again. “You think you know him so well, don’t you, Ms. Hawkins? Well enough to believe he would lose his mind if I touched his woman.”
“He came after you last night,” she reminded him.
“He did.” He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “I knew he would. He’s a Bengal. I was chasing you, he was chasing my team. You were an incidental.”
An incidental. Yeah, that sounded like the story of her life. Incidentally left out in the cold and in the dark.
“For whatever reason,” she replied. “He’ll kill you if you touch me.”
“He’s a Bengal.” Hard, sharp canines flashed in the dreary light. “He’ll wait. He’ll watch. At this moment he’s calculating the chances that I’ll actually touch you. He’s deduced there’s a ninety percent chance I will, and he’s deliberating his move. He’s a Bengal, my dear Lady Hawkins. Cold. Manipulating. Calculating. Deceiving.”
“Bored.” Cabal’s voice seemed to echo inside her head as he stepped around the trunk of a nearby tree, his broad shoulders rippling beneath the dark long-sleeved T-shirt he wore, his arms resting casually at his side. Black jeans conformed to long, powerful legs, while black biker boots gleamed with a dull, dusty edge on his feet.
Cassa’s heartbeat kicked in; it slammed against her chest as her womb gave a surge of complete feminine surrender and a slick, wet heat dampened the flesh between her thighs.
Out of hand. He might as well have kissed her already, mated her, because her body was more than interested in giving up any fight her mind might want to wage. Traitorous hormones surged and rioted through her body, even as she fought back every reaction that weakened her knees.
His amber-flecked green eyes glittered in his bronze face; a stubble of a beard darkened his lower jaw and gave him a rough, dangerous appearance. Even more so than Dog.
And he did look bored.
Dog turned a knowing look on her, a sandy brow arching in mocking acknowledgment of his own assessment.
Looks were deceiving, Cassa knew, and as Dog had said, Cabal could be manipulative, calculating, deceiving. She wasn’t a Breed; she couldn’t smell the danger in the air, but she could feel it. Cabal was anything but bored. He was controlled, a quiet, ready control that filled Cassa with tension.
“She thinks she knows you, Bengal,” Dog drawled as he flicked a glance back at Cabal. “She thinks you’re possessive of her.”