Carnal Urges (Queens & Monsters Book 2)

The first thing Declan does is throw himself on top of me.

It has the immediate effect of knocking all the breath from my lungs and the pistol from my hand. I lie flattened on the bench seat, stunned and wheezing, as Declan lies over me, an Irish gangster blanket weighing approximately ten tons.

“Sean is an excellent driver,” he says calmly, looking toward the closed partition window. “So there’s a chance we can outrun them. But if they’ve blocked off streets—like I would’ve done—they could be intentionally steering us toward a dead-end.”

He gazes down at me. “Which wouldn’t be good.”

The limo swerves wildly, fishtailing for a moment before straightening and continuing at breakneck speed. Another volley of gunfire rings out. Bullets pepper the rear window and ricochet off, leaving little round indents surrounded by spiderweb cracks.

Struggling for breath, I say faintly, “I have questions.”

“What a surprise.”

“How did you know they’d be waiting for us? What happened to your boss? What happens if they steer us toward a dead end? And why the hell are you lying on top of me?”

He looks vaguely insulted. “To protect you, of course.”

“You said this car was armored.”

That stumps him for a moment. “Right. Sorry. Instincts.”

He withdraws, sitting up and pulling me along with him. I retrieve my cute little pistol from the floor, stick it into the back waistband of my skirt, and turn to face him on the seat.

“What kind of kidnapper has protective instincts for his kidnappee?”

He snaps, “The stupid kind. I should open the door and throw you to the wolves.”

I inspect his expression. “But you won’t.”

His answer is a dissatisfied grumble. Meanwhile, we’re still speeding, the bullets are still flying, and I’m starting to have a good time.

“Ha! You see? I’m charming you already.”

He closes his eyes and sighs. “Dear god, make it stop.”

“Hold on, back up. What do you mean, ‘throw you to the wolves’? Aren’t these MS-13 guys supposed to be trying to rescue me? You know, from you?”

He scoffs. “If you had any brains, you’d be dangerous.”

“Oh, you think you’re better than them?”

“We’re not even the same species, lass.”

I make a face. “That sounds more than a little racist. You might want to check your prejudice, pal.”

Outraged, he glares at me. Then he thunders, “I’m not talking about their fucking race! I’m talking about what they’d do to you if they got their hands on you, you bloody little gobshite! Them or any other family!” He mutters, “Thick as a plank, y’are.”

His accent gets more pronounced when he’s angry. It’s almost hot.

“You’re not making sense. Why would they ‘do’ anything to me if they’re trying to help me?”

“Help you?” He laughs. “I thought you said you’d spent time with men in my line of work?”

Feeling defensive, I say, “They didn’t raise me from birth. I’ve just dated a few. Okay, one. But yes, I did spend plenty of time with him, and with his buddies, and also some with my girlfriend’s man, so I know the rules.”

His blue eyes glitter in the dim light. “We’re at war, lass. There are no rules. Especially when it comes to the woman who started the whole bloody mess in the first place. If they returned you to New York barely breathing, your Russian boss friend would consider it a solid.”

His tone drops. “No matter how many times you were raped and beaten along the way.”

I know he’s serious, but this is also the man who threatened to rip off my skirt, spank my ass, and let his crew do the same to me—or worse—then turned around and handed me a gun. I’m not so sure his judgement can be trusted.

Besides, Nat would kill Kage if the men he sent to rescue me harmed me instead. He’d be castrated in ten seconds, which I’m sure he knows.

Onward.

“You keep blaming me for starting a war. Why?”

“Because you did.”

“I think I would’ve remembered that.”

“You don’t remember jumping from the car or punching Kieran.”

“I see. So I started this mafia war while under the influence of the drugs you gave me?”

He doesn’t like my tone, which drips sarcasm. I can tell he’s wishing he never took his tie off my mouth.

“I don’t have the time or patience to paint a fucking picture for you.”

“Calm down. You don’t have to curse at me.”

His blistering glare could peel paint from a wall. “I think you’re lying about not having boyfriends. I think you’ve had plenty, and they all committed suicide.”

“And I think it’s scary that people like you are allowed to vote. You never answered my other questions.”

“I’m too busy planning where I’m going to bury your body.”

He’s grinding his molars again. I’m really bad for his dental health. Pity, because those teeth of his are awfully nice.

“Did you have braces when you were young?”

“What the…? Never mind. Jesus. Get down on the floor. If the car stops and I get out, stay inside. And for the love of all that’s holy, be quiet.”

He shoves me down onto the floor and holds me there with his hand wrapped firmly around the back of my neck. I look up at him, marveling that he actually thinks I’m going to obey a single one of those instructions.

How are men in charge of running everything? They’re clueless.

“Hey. Gangster.”

He closes his eyes, makes a growling noise, and tightens his hand on my neck.

“Oh, relax. I just wanted to ask if you think Reverse Stockholm Syndrome is already a thing, or if you’re about to invent it?”

“How many times did your parents beg you to run away from home?”

Good one. He’s really getting the hang of this. “After the first few dozen, they got used to the idea that I don’t respond well to demands.”

When he opens his eyes to glare down at me, I smile. “Oh, come on. You’re just mad because you’re usually the one poking the bear.”

He pauses his glaring to be surprised. “How did you know that?”

“I can spot a fellow smartass a mile away. It’s one of my many talents. If you really want to be impressed, you should watch me play Texas Hold’em. I slay.”

Gaze softening, he tilts his head and looks at me. Really looks at me, the way men rarely do, with genuine curiosity.

Most of them never get past my boobs.

But the look is gone in a flash as more bullets pummel the side of the car. It slips sideways, skidding. Then we hit something, hard, and come to a jolting stop. The only reason I don’t smash through the rear window and go flying out like a missile is because Declan is somehow on top of me again, pinning me down with his substantial weight.

When the dust settles, I say breathlessly, “This is getting to be kind of a thing.”

“You’ll be running your mouth in your grave, won’t you, lass?”

“I’m going to be cremated. There won’t be any mouth to run.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way around it.”

His heartbeat thuds slow and steady against my breastbone. His face is so close, I can count every piece of dark stubble on his lovely square jaw. His peppermint-spice scent fills my nose, one of his big hands is protectively cradling my head, and I become the teeniest bit aware that my kidnapper is, in fact, attractive.

Not just handsome. Attractive. As in, my ovaries are very, very interested in that big pistol he’s packing between his legs.

He was right. I am brain damaged.

He must hear my ovaries fangirling over him, because he turns his head a fraction of an inch and cocks an eyebrow at me.

“What, no smart comeback?”

“Um. No.”

How are my hands clutching his waist? How is one of his thick thighs wedged between my legs? How did the temperature in this car suddenly rise by twenty degrees?

Declan’s gaze drops to my mouth. A smoldering pause ensues. Then, in a husky voice, he says, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Remember what I said: stay here.”

He rolls off me, throws open one of the doors, slams it shut, and is gone.

“Back?” I shout into the emptiness. “Where the hell are you going?”

As if in answer, gunfire erupts outside.

I flinch when more bullets slam into the windows. Then I let out a little scream when someone jumps onto the roof. Then, aggravated with the flinching and screaming, I sit up, yank the gun out of my waistband, and huddle into the corner of the back seat holding it in both hands, my finger on the trigger.

Outside, World War III is in full swing.

Whoever’s on the roof is thumping and bumping all around, stomping his feet like a bull and roaring like a lion. I wish I could see what’s going on, but between the night, the tinted windows, and the pouring rain, all I see are the blur of swiftly moving figures and the bursts of bright white light when someone fires his gun.

It goes on for what seems like a hundred years before everything falls eerily silent.

When minutes tick by and nothing happens, a sense of dread creeps over me. I’m a sitting duck in here. A bunny rabbit waiting for the wolves to swarm in.

Declan said not to move, but…what if Declan’s dead?

Then I suppose the gentlemen of MS-13 will be my new captors.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as it were.

I mutter, “Oh, screw this,” quietly crack open the door, and peek out.

We’re in an industrial area not far from the airport. Overhead, a jumbo jet flies low, headed to a distant runway with a muffled roar. Nearby, a manufacturing plant chugs smoke from tall cement stacks. Lined on either side of the street are large warehouses, their parking lots empty. Several yards behind me, a dozen or so vehicles block the road, muscle cars and motorcycles that must belong to the other gang.

Bodies litter the middle of the street.

Other than the landing jet and the distant sounds of traffic, I hear nothing. No voices. No footsteps. No cries for help.

It’s creepy as hell.

“Going somewhere?”

Startled, I suck in a breath. Peeking around the door, I see Declan there, leaning against the side of the limo, arms folded over his chest. He stares down at me with half-lidded eyes.

I look him up and down. Unfortunately, he doesn’t appear to be bleeding. “You’re alive.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Almost as disappointed as you were when I woke up on the plane.”

He reaches down and pulls me out of the car. When I’m on my feet, he takes the pistol from my hand, bends to shove it back into the holster around his ankle, then straightens and looks at me.

“I wasn’t disappointed. I was depressed.”

“Gee, thanks. You’re all heart.”

Okay, not all heart. He’s got another organ of substantial size, but I’m not thinking about that.

He leads me across the street with his hand wrapped around my upper arm, towing me along like luggage. When I start to limp, he stops short and looks at me.

“My feet hurt. It’s no big—”

He picks me up again, hoisting me into his arms and continuing along as if he does this every day. Which maybe he does. I have no idea how often this man kidnaps people and carries them across rainy streets forested with dead bodies.

He sets me down next to a black Chevy Camaro, opens the passenger door, and pushes me in. He slams shut the door and trots around to the driver’s side, sliding his big frame into the seat with surprising grace. He starts the car and guns the engine.

“Seat belt.”

“We’re stealing this car?”

“You have a talent for noticing the obvious.”

“Good thing the guy left the keys in the ignition.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered if he didn’t. I know how to hotwire old cars.”

“A skill you learned in prison, no doubt. Will you let me drive?”

When he cuts me a lethal look, I say, “A guy I knew in college had this awesome red Camaro that he used to let me—”

“Seat belt!”

“There’s no need to shout.”

He leans across me, grabs the seat belt, yanks it down, and clicks it into place. Then he grabs the steering wheel and grips it so hard, it’s like he’s wishing it were my neck. We take off, the Camaro’s V8 engine roaring.

As we’re speeding down the street, two black SUVs round the corner and head toward us.

“Is that your men?”

“Aye.”

“So it was only you and Sean against all those other guys? How is that possible? There were like a dozen of them. You didn’t have enough rounds of ammo in your gun. Unless Sean had a high-capacity magazine in his or something. But still, you’d both have to be really good shots. Or really lucky. And where’d he go, anyway?”

He mutters, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“I’m trying to pay you a compliment here.”

“No, you’re trying to drive me mad.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll shut up.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious. I’m going to be quiet from now on. But I’m warning you, you won’t like it.”

I find the lever on the side of the seat that lowers it back. Reclining, I try to get comfortable and close my eyes.

The car slows. Declan rolls down his window and shares a few curt words in Gaelic with one of his men from the SUVs. Then we continue on, driving fast but controlled to who knows where.

I try to ignore the pounding in my head. I’m more successful at ignoring my throbbing shoulder and aching feet, but my head is truly painful. I hope it’s the aftereffects of the ketamine and not a concussion, because I seriously doubt Declan would agree to take me to a hospital to get my skull checked out for cracks.

“Feet off the dash.”

I bite my tongue and slide my feet off the dashboard and onto the floor.

“Thank you.”

I don’t respond. I’m sure it’s my imagination that makes me think I can feel him looking at me. Me and my legs.

After a long time, he says quietly, “You were right about something.”

It takes every ounce of willpower at my disposal not to respond.

When I don’t, he exhales a heavy breath. “I’m not going to hurt you. You have my word.”

I resist the urge to sit bolt upright in my seat and shout Ha! and pretend to snore a little instead.

His low chuckle is somehow the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, Declan is lowering me from his strong arms into a bed.