Feral Craving Read Free

here.
    Her heart slammed against her chest and
then the beat began to gallop as if her body was the jockey on the back of a
race horse. Mackenzie pulled in a deep breath through her nose, pushed the air
slowly out through parted lips. Her skin grew clammy, sweat dotted along her
spine, and her head spun.
    She took the customer’s cash and tucked a
tendril of her hair behind her ear, saw the slight tremble of her hand as she
lifted it, felt it shake against her skin. He gave her a friendly smile, and
she saw a spark of interest behind his whiskey-colored gaze. She prayed for
something, a glimmer, an ember—anything to tell her she was a normal woman with
normal needs. The prayer went unanswered, and she returned his smile with a
half-hearted one of her own, and then watched as he left the coffee shop.
    As the door closed behind him, he turned
and gave her one more lingering stare before walking away from the shop. Damn. God, what was wrong with her?
    ****
    I’ll fucking kill them.
    Bari couldn’t help it.
He came to, believing he was still in battle, but a quick glance around
dismissed that thought. Where in the hell
am I? His head pounded, and his vision wavered, spinning, as he tried to
focus on his surroundings.
    Shrouded in a mental fog, one so cloudy
he could barely form a coherent thought—all he knew, all he recognized was
pain. It consumed his entire body as if a truck had slammed into him once or
twice. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he fought against the darkness.
He blinked hard and commanded his brain to keep them open. His lids peeled up
like they were running over sandpaper. He groaned, and the sound caught in his
throat. Panicked, he tried to reach the tube in his mouth. His eyes widened as
his hands wrapped around a cold plastic object. An alarm nearby, one that
clashed with the pain in his head, shrilled to life. Running footsteps grew
closer. Bari turned his head to see a few nurses in battle-dress uniforms
running toward him. He strained and grunted, panic flying through his veins as
they pushed on his arms. He hated being held down and tried to identify where
he was as his neck strained to look around the various green uniforms, the
flash of a white coat. A ping of memories flashed like a camera in his mind,
flooded it until they were all he saw in his sightless vision.
    The house, his team, searching for the
operatives. Mike missed a door. He took a shot, got hit. But where? How was he
still alive?
    Undeniable pain rippled through his
stomach, and nurses hovered, trying to calm him, ran tests and asked him
questions he couldn’t understand. He fought them, growled as their arms tried
to hold him down. He bucked, coughing as the tube pulled from his throat.
Nausea bubbled up, and his gag reflex kicked in. He choked and coughed and
hollered.
    “Where,” he croaked, his words raspy.
“Where am I? What happened?” No one answered him, and his temper soared. He sat
up, whipped off the covers, and heard another shout of alarm, this one
feminine, as pain punched full throttle into his stomach. The nausea building
up finally decided to make its appearance, and he threw up over the side of the
bed. The liquid burned his already sore throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut
as they watered.
    “What in the fuck have you done to me?”
    Cool air hit his skin. Bari tried to move
to cover his exposed body. His hands felt heavy, his movements hindered.
Bandages, he saw bandages. Where running, training, and lifting weights kept
him in shape and trim, he now looked broken and beaten, bindings covering skin
everywhere. How many damn shots did he take? His head throbbed, and his jaw
cracked as he opened his mouth. The room shifted, and he wondered if it were
the Earth moving or his body swaying. Whatever the answer, one thing was
certain: he wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.
    A noise brushed through the room, and
then a woman’s commanding voice.
    “What the hell do you think you’re trying
to