The Immortal's Redemption by Kelli Ireland

Author:Kelli Ireland [Ireland, Kelli]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2015-12-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Dylan rubbed the back of his neck and wished like hell Kennedy would step it up with the morphine. If she heard half of what his damnable mate rambled on about, she’d think the man a fecking romantic. The man had hit on her. Wanker.

Gareth thumped a loose fist against Dylan’s abs.

“Ye care fer the lass and ye’re too feckin’ thick tae do anything aboot it.” Gareth took a wild swing and missed hitting anything, let alone anyone, by a fair distance. He rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes while cupping his hand over his abdomen. “Be a bonnie cailín an’ slip me the droogs, Kenny.”

“Gods preserve us all, mates,” Dylan said, arching a brow as he looked back at the three assassins who stood with carefully neutral faces as they watched the argument. “He’s reverted to the Irish. It’s all bound to go downhill.” Directing the room’s mood toward the humor of Gareth’s drunkenness drew smiles from the men. Dylan relaxed a bit.

“Feck off, would ye?”

Dylan crossed his arms and, shaking his head in mock severity, moved to the foot of the bed. “Any time ye want tae knock this bowsie oot, have at him.” He didn’t look at Kennedy, instead focusing on Gareth’s face.

“Thas the stuff,” Gareth slurred, his lids drooping and lips going slack.

Dropping his arms, Dylan rolled his shoulders, then stuck his hands in his pockets. Kennedy’s heavy grunt snapped his head up.

She’d paled, a sickly gray wash making her appear corpselike. Muscles strained, and tendons in her neck stood out. Sweat both trailed down her temple and dotted her upper lip. She gritted her teeth. Lips were nothing more than a severe slash in a face gone taut. With apparent herculean effort, she yanked her hand off the syringe and jerked her chin up. She turned toward him with choppy, unnatural movements. Wide eyes stared at him, pupils blown. “Help. Me.”

“Grab that syringe,” Dylan bellowed, starting for her as the assassins drew their swords. Somewhere in his hind brain he heard someone chamber a round.

Aylish shoved her toward Dylan and went for the syringe hanging in the IV port.

Dylan caught her around the waist with one arm while wrapping the other under her arm and up her back. His fingers skid across sweat-slicked skin and into her hair as he bent her backward. Fear warred with fury in her eyes. He couldn’t know who controlled which emotion. It didn’t matter.

She arched under his touch, squeezing her eyes closed. “Please,” she begged. “Bring me back.”

He hauled her up and slammed the front of their bodies together. Her chilled skin gave him goose flesh. It didn’t matter. He crushed his mouth to hers and struggled to ignore the way her lips moved—rubbery, like a bad impersonation of kisses remembered. Supporting her by the back of the head, he pulled his arm free and grasped her jaw. He dug his fingers into her skin and forced her mouth open. His tongue delved inside.

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