Rejected And Claimed By Her Trio Alpha Mates

chapter 22

The shadow slides away from the blade pinning it to the headboard as if the knife isn’t even solid. It leaps for me, coming away from the tacky upholstered bedframe like a thick, black cloud.

I launch backward, falling off the bed in my haste. On the way down, I grab my knife off the nightstand and land on my back with my legs above me, still tangled in the covers. Not the most graceful thing I’ve ever done, especially considering I’m in what amounts to panties and a t-shirt with my ass in the air in front of a stranger. But I at least manage to get my blade ready.

The shadow follows me down, and I lash out. My blade flashes silver in the moonlight but does nothing to the blob. It barrels toward me, undete rred, and I roll away, wrapping myself even tighter in the blankets as I try to dodge its attack.

The blond man looms over me; I didn’t even hear his approach. He punches out, his fist catching the shadow as if it’s actually a solid form. The dark cloud lurches away from me and hits the bedside stand, passing through the lamp and slamming into the wall, where it disappears.

“Get up,” the man says in a low, dangerous voice.

His voice is deep and raspy, like it's not used to being used. For a moment, I stare up at him in the ambient light, astonished to find he has curlicue black tattoos just like Kian. Only… his tattoos move. Right before my eyes, they shift up his arms like a wave crashing on the shore before they freeze again.

Before I can get too interested, the shadow appears on the ceiling behind his angelic face.

“Behind—!”

But I don’t even get to finish my warning.

The man whirls around on surprisingly light, graceful feet and lashes out with his knife. His timing is impeccable—the moment the shadow launches at his head, he’s turning and slicing. The shadow jolts and falls aside toward the TV stand, where it disappears into the darkness.

I manage to kick free of the blankets then scramble to my feet and adjust my grip on my knife. The blond stalks toward the television, his fingers curled tightly around his own dagger. His weapon puts my dinky switchblade to shame. It’s more like a f*****g miniature machete than a pocketknife.

I’m not used to having the smallest knife in the room.

We wait in absolute silence broken only by the distant passing of cars. It’s wild to think that life outside is just trucking along while I’m battling a literal shadow in my motel room with my second mate after rumbling with my first mate in the woods.

I rode my motorcycle right into the f*****g twilight zone tonight.

I’m staring at the television stand where the thing vanished, but the blond’s scanning the room, which makes me think he knows the beast better than I do. So I tear my gaze away from the pressboard stand just in time to see the shadow reappear from under the bed.

The little b***h heads straight for my ankles.

I kick out at it, but my foot passes right through it. I growl in frustration and dance away from the undulating mass. It’s like I’m fighting smoke, trying to punch something that doesn’t even have form.

When the blond steps in and snags the shadow with a mean roundhouse, the thing flies across the room, tumbling into the shadows in the corner.

“What the f**k, man?” I snarl, pointing my switchblade at him. “Why can you affect it when I can’t?”

His blue gaze cuts to me, and his expression is enigmatic enough to make me want to put my fist through his face. But we’re interrupted when the shadow returns.

The blond and the shadow start an incredibly fast, powerful dance around the motel room. It’s as if the shadow’s pissed, now, like it’s an honest-to-God living thing and we’ve gotten on its last nerve. It slides seamlessly through the shadows, darting into one corner and out of another, slithering beneath the bed and the table, fluttering beneath the curtains. Before it leaps from the shadows and becomes bulbous. A living creature. A living threat.

I try in vain several more times to land a blow on the damn thing, but nothing I do works. I lunge away from the shadow’s repeated attempts to reach me while the blond fights with his knife and fists. He slams into the table, knocks over the chairs, and takes out everything unattached to the nightstand during the fight.

When the shadow slams into the giant flatscreen television, and Blondie lifts his knife like he’s about to skewer a five-hundred-dollar machine, I grab his knife wrist.

Ignoring the way desire and need flood my body from our skin to skin contact, I snap, “Not the television! Do you think I’m made of money?”

Blondie purses his lips and looks at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. And maybe I have, but he won’t have to pay for damages.

I drop his wrist, my fingertips still tingling and warm.

Before I can lift my knife and look around for the shadow, the blob suddenly appears between us. A long tendril whips out at me, latching onto my wrist. It burns like f*****g hell, like I’ve dunked my arm in boiling water. I let out a cry and stumble backward into the table. My hip catches on the edge, and I slam down onto my back on the tabletop, still in the thing’s burning clutches.

Blondie growls and grabs the shadow in his hand. His palm sizzles, and he lets out a yell—mostly to release the pain, I think, because he wastes no time throwing the shadow against the wall and slamming his knife into it. He slashes his knife down, twists it, then slashes up again—

—and the shadow explodes.