Eye of the Storm

Eye of the Storm

A Bloodhaven Novel

by

Lynn Graeme

Copyright

Eye of the Storm © 2013 by Lynn Graeme

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is purely coincidental.

License Notes: Thank you for downloading this book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

About the Author

Excerpt from In the Crossfire

Chapter One

Mr. Moran, may I have a word?

Grayson turned, unsurprised to find the young woman standing there before him. His wolf hearing had already alerted him the moment she’d set foot in the parking garage. Her scent had reached him long before she’d approached him at his car.

That scent bore traces of lavender soap and—oddly enough—something faintly antiseptic, as if she’d just emerged from a doctor’s office. She didn’t look like a medic, however, in her dark jacket and jeans with mildly stained tennis shoes. A battered backpack slung over one shoulder. One hand was clenched into a tight fist at her side.

Grayson studied that fist silently before letting his gaze travel upward. The severe fluorescent lights did no favors for her pale face and dark, unsmiling eyes. Her reddish-brown hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. She did meet his gaze unflinchingly, however, and Grayson always awarded points for courage.

His eyes instinctively ran down those long legs encased in jeans. Grayson had always been a leg man.

At any other time, he might’ve enjoyed those thighs resting on his shoulders, and if that thought wasn’t startling enough, he didn’t know what was. It’d been a long time since he’d indulged in female companionship. Not to mention that if anyone was able to break his dry spell, he would hardly have expected her to be human.

Disturbed by the unexpected tug in his gut, he glanced around with a casualness he didn’t feel. His enhanced senses confirmed the deserted space around them, telling him that no one else hid behind neighboring cars or was using the woman as a decoy.

How had she gained access to the parking garage?

Grayson had increased the level of security at Moran Industries ever since he’d released that press statement against the extremist shifter factions. Anyone without ID should never have been allowed to enter Moran Towers in the first place.

The security guards should’ve intercepted this woman long before now.

She was human, so Grayson was almost wholly certain she wasn’t aligned with the factions. They would never have stooped to associate with what they regarded as the lesser species. Still, her unexplained presence posed a risk.

Grayson returned his attention to the woman. I don’t believe we’ve met.

We haven’t. Dark eyes remained steady on him. Her words came out careful and measured. I need to speak with you.

Grayson wasn’t fooled. Calm as she pretended to be, he could sense her inner tension. It was practically vibrating off her in waves.

I’m afraid it’s after hours, Miss. . . ?

It’s importa—

Then call my assistant and make an appointment, he cut in brusquely. He turned to swipe his thumb over the keypad on his car door, initiating the unlocking mechanism.

He still kept her in the corner of his sight. He was no fool; he wasn’t turning his back on her.

Mr. Moran, it’s critical that I talk to you. In private.

He tossed his briefcase onto the backseat. How did you get in here?

Mr. Moran—

Leave your name with the guar—

"Please."

Grayson paused. There was something in the way she said it, that please.

He would’ve questioned his reaction further—considering the tense situation of late, he’d be an idiot to let his guard down—but there was a sense of suppressed desperation around this woman that he couldn’t ignore. The fist at her side was clenched so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

Grayson had a feeling she’d run if he said the wrong thing. And for some reason, he didn’t want her to go just yet.

Please.

Just idle curiosity, he told himself. He could indulge in that, at least.

He nodded at his car. Get in.

She rounded over to the passenger side and slid in. Grayson didn’t follow at once, but instead made another quick survey of their surroundings. He studied the shadows, satisfied only when he confirmed no other presence lurking.

Still, he wasn’t pleased that she’d managed to infiltrate the building. He’d have a harsh word with security in the morning.

Just then, he spotted Arthur coming around the corner, presumably doing his rounds. The leopard-shifter was one of three security guards assigned to this shift. Grayson could only assume the other two were patrolling the other side of the parking level, but that didn’t excuse this unacceptable lapse.

Arthur, still strolling from a distance away, saw Grayson as he crossed over to enter the windowed security booth. He gave a small, cheerful salute before settling into the chair by the window.

Grayson eyed the fifty feet separating him from the windowed booth. Several vehicles were also parked between his car and the booth, and the angle meant that part of his car—and Grayson’s new companion—were hidden from Arthur’s sight. Still, Grayson knew he could easily alert the guard at any time should this turn out to be a trap after all.

He slid in behind the wheel and closed the door.

Before we go any further, sweetheart, I should tell you I make it a habit to know the name of any woman requesting a private moment with me.

Her cheeks flushed. In close quarters, away from the harsh lighting, her profile looked less stoic, more vulnerable.

Start the car, she said quietly.

Grayson raised an eyebrow. I wasn’t aware we were going anywhere.

Start the car, she repeated. If anything, her voice went even softer. I’ll tell you everything, just start. The. Car.

Then she unobtrusively rubbed her earlobe between thumb and finger, and he understood.

He pressed his thumb to the ignition, rumbling the car to life. Music immediately started playing over the sound system. He adjusted the volume so that it was loud enough to mask their conversation, preventing any nearby shifters from overhearing their words.

It was a precaution he wouldn’t have expected an ordinary human to take into account. He narrowed his eyes at her, considering.

Grayson felt her studying him in turn. He felt it the moment it hit her—the awareness of his superior size and speed, the realization that he could easily hurt her if he so chose. Her breath hitched. A ripple went through her tense shoulders, her lips pressing together tightly in an effort to remain steady.

He suppressed the instinctive need to soothe her fears. Never mind that anyone who knew him knew that the last thing he’d do was harm an unprotected female. Right now, he’d happily take advantage of her misgivings to obtain some answers.

She was aware that he was predator and she was prey. That should deter her from doing anything foolish.

Your name, he reminded silkily.

She drew in a deep breath. The action pressed the softness of her breasts against the T-shirt she wore underneath her jacket.

Please.

The single clenched fist lay on her lap. He resisted the urge to reach over and open that fist to gently stroke her palm.

She finally spoke.

My name is Sara Coulson. She sent him a veiled look. I want your word that you won’t reveal my name to anyone else.

Grayson frowned. I make no promises until I know what this is about.

If anybody finds out I was the one to come forward. . . . She bit her lip, glancing away, but not before he saw her suppress a shudder.

Something had spooked her. Spooked her enough to come to him, although why she’d chosen to approach him in the first place he didn’t know.

But her fear was real enough. His earlier suspicions eased. That inexplicable, indelible need to reassure her surged to the surface once more, and this time he didn’t try to quell it.

He’d seen this before. The guarded expression, the tense posture, the constant looking over the shoulder. . . . He’d seen it in the fearful eyes of children in the foster homes he’d lived in. He’d seen it in the nervously clasped hands of little girls looking for shelter, and in the young boys menaced by adults bent on imposing their will against those incapable of striking back.

He’d seen it in himself, before he’d clawed and scraped his way to the top of the heap so that nobody could ever wield such power over him again.

Anyone attempting to inflict harm on this woman would have hell to pay.

He reached over and enfolded her fist with his much larger hand. She froze.

Tell me, he said quietly. Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll help you.

She swallowed and ran a quick tongue over her lips.

What, she ventured hesitantly, do you know of the Delilah Project?

With that, all thoughts of Sara Coulson being helpless and in need vanished. Grayson’s head jerked up. He pulled back at once, regarding her with a mixture of anger and disgust.

Before she could react, his hand whipped out to seize her wrist. Ignoring her startled cry, he yanked her forward, his hold firm and unyielding as she unsuccessfully tried to pull away. His breath came furious and fast as he glared into her stunned eyes.

"Who sent you?" he snarled.

He couldn’t believe he’d been wrong about this woman.

Was she part of Chromo? The only way this Sara Coulson could’ve known about the Delilah Project was if she was somehow associated with that rogue faction.

But that didn’t make sense, considering how much Chromo wanted to eradicate humans from the face of the earth. What sane human would willingly align themselves with the faction, knowing it was actively working toward their own deaths?

If Chromo had somehow managed to recruit deluded human groupies into carrying out its dirty work. . . .

Dammit.

Grayson didn’t want to believe it of her, of this woman he’d just met but had instinctively wanted to protect. It would be just his luck if the very thing he had to protect her from was her own foolishness.

Her breaths came out in light pants, those dark eyes widening with alarm. Good. Let the panic shock her back to her senses.

Are you with Chromo? he broke in harshly.

She swallowed and shook her head. Th-the faction? Of course not. I’m the last person they’d want on their side. I’m human. They hate humans.

Chromo’s behind the Delilah Project. The only way you’d know about it is if you’re part of the faction.

"Then how do you know about it?" she challenged.

He scowled. I received a package a couple of weeks ago. It contained a manifesto from Chromo, as well as a proposal of that damn ‘project’.

A proposal? Did it also contain— She abruptly thought twice about what she was about to say, brows furrowed. Instead, she asked, Why would Chromo send it to you? You’ve made your stand against the factions quite clear.

This was before the press statement. Grayson eased his grip on Sara’s wrist, and she instantly pulled away. She put as much distance between them as the confines of the car allowed. It was what made me contact the other CEOs and put that statement out in the first place.

He watched her expression, saw her putting together what he was telling her in her head, like a mental jigsaw puzzle.

He saw the instant it clicked.

Sara stared at him in disbelief. "Chromo wanted your help?"

Grayson scowled. Five years ago, the government had passed equality laws that finally granted shifters the same rights as humans. However, a select group of shifters still bore grudges against humans for the pain and prejudice they’d experienced for simply having a slightly different genetic makeup.

Those shifters had banded together to form various extremist factions, their primary goal to avenge their suffering and rid themselves of humans, whom they still saw as a threat. Chromo was one such faction.

Chromo initially sought Grayson out because it knew he had both the power of influence as well as the resources it needed. Moran Industries, which he’d founded and expanded nationwide over a mere handful of years, specialized in producing health and pharmaceutical products for shifters. Drugs and medicine made for humans didn’t always gel with shifter biology, and it’d taken years of undesirable side-effects before the FDA finally came to its senses and authorized products catered specifically to shifter needs.

Various companies had instantly rushed to fill this highly lucrative niche, only to find that not only was Moran Industries already there, but that it had long staked its claim. Thanks to Grayson’s business acumen and propensity for hiring the right people for the right job—not to mention the funds to invest in research and quality production—Moran Industries was established as being at the forefront of its field.

Chromo had assumed that just because Grayson was a shifter himself, he’d be willing to help further its cause.

This wasn’t a new misconception. He’d already been approached several times in the past by other factions wanting to employ biological warfare, all eager for his help in carrying out their plans. Over and over, Grayson had coldly slammed the door in each and every faction’s figurative face.

He had no interest in aiding terrorists, and his fury at their attacks on those weaker than themselves knew no bounds.

Chromo, however, was convinced that all Grayson was waiting for was a proper game plan—that he was, after all, a businessman just requiring the right incentive. Last year, he’d found an envelope pinned beneath his windshield wiper. The missive had contained a detailed proposal on creating a virus specifically targeting human cells while leaving shifters untouched.

Fortunately, the faction’s grasp of science was weaker than its level of hatred. Humans and shifters were still too genetically similar to allow for that particular hate crime to happen. But the fact that Chromo had put that much thought into it, and that it had watched his movements so carefully that it could leave him the message on his wiper, showed a level of forethought that was more troubling than the average reckless faction.

The level of vitriol in that letter had disgusted Grayson. Even more disturbing, however, was the knowledge that Chromo could’ve easily submitted such tailor-made proposals of hate and destruction to other prominent shifters in the public eye. There was no guarantee that it wouldn’t find a source of sympathy from any one of them.

Consequently, Grayson had made it clear to all his business associates where he stood on the matter. They knew better than to seek his support in anything even marginally connected to the factions. And if he discovered that any of them participated in such activities themselves. . . .

This latest manifesto that Chromo had sent him in its package, however, went one step further than its previous attempt. Naming its project after the woman who’d cut down the mighty Samson and taken away his strength, it proposed cutting humans down to size by capturing and conducting experiments on them.

More specifically, to splice their DNA to turn them—mutate them—into shifters.

Show them what it means to become one of us, the manifesto had proclaimed. We are the superior beings.

Grayson’s blood had run cold the minute he’d read the documents sent to him. What Chromo proposed was heinous and unnatural. One was either born a shifter or one wasn’t. A person couldn’t just turn without having an ounce of shifter blood in the first place. Not even science could help with that.

He’d recalled a case in the headlines several years ago, when a human in Ireland had attempted to replace every pint of blood in his system with shifter blood via a week-long unsupervised transfusion. The man had failed, with horrifying results.

Grayson had seen the pictures. A body wasn’t meant to turn that way.

What did you do when you received the package from Chromo? Sara asked now, face pale.

Grayson grimaced. I forwarded it to our regional Council. Then I tracked down the office mail workers who’d handled the package and made sure they knew to hold their tongues.

He’d essentially told them he’d report them to the Council if they breathed a word of it. That was enough to ensure their silence. Shifter Councils all over the country worked hard to achieve human-shifter co-existence, and most of them responded violently to any infractions that threatened this uneasy balance.

Bloodhaven’s own Council had a propensity to come down harshly on anything remotely resembling rogue behavior. That included crushing any attempt at spreading panic among humans that might risk riling up anti-shifter sentiments. It would only catapult them back to the past all over again, and nobody wanted to return to that type of bloodshed.

After that, Grayson continued, I arranged to release that press statement, co-signed by other CEOs and business associates.

Publicly announcing that you held no support and bore full contempt for extremist groups engaging, participating, and associating in such terrorist activities. Sara nodded, reciting Grayson’s own words. Essentially, a big fuck-you to Chromo.

A surprised laugh escaped Grayson. Well, I saw it more as giving Chromo the finger, but that works too.

Many of his contacts and associates