Relic Hunters: BBW Dragon Shifter Paranormal Romance (The Complete Trilogy) Read online

  “Do you two need a moment?” Saira asked as she poked her head through the open passenger door.

  “I was checking the gauges, thanks for asking.”

  “It looked more like you were getting ready to propose for a minute there”, she scoffed.

  “Are you getting in or what?” Bryce gave the throttle an impatient blip and the resonance of the exhaust drowned out any response Saira might have made.

  This was her last chance to back away and go it alone, trusting the authorities to protect her. But how did she do that when she couldn’t even be sure they’d believe she wasn’t involved in the museum robbery.

  Even though she always did everything solo and would never call herself a team player, her instincts told her to trust this handsome rogue, despite his lawless ways and the fact that she knew absolutely nothing about him. He’d done nothing but protect her so far. Besides, the opportunity to learn more about one of the mysterious thirty pieces of silver was almost too alluring to pass up.

  As she buckled her seat belt, she looked at the cat carrier Bryce had stolen and at clothes they now wore as they sat in their stolen Aston Martin from James Bond’s SPECTRE exhibit.

  “Do you ever actually buy anything, you know, with actual money?” A playful sparkle crossed her warm caramel eyes.

  Bryce shrugged as he threw the shift into gear, mashed the accelerator pedal and dropped the clutch, forcing them back into their seats as the car leapt forward like a beast unleashed.

  “I bought you dinner, didn’t I?”

  Chapter 4

  Blane woke to the sight of the viciously curved meat hook swinging on the end of a grease coated chain, right in front of his face. He was in hell, of that he was quite certain and that was where he knew he would spend eternity paying for his sins.

  He could no longer feel the zip ties cutting into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, which made a welcome change. If anything, his hands in particular felt quite numb. Perhaps hell wasn’t going to be so bad after all. Quickly, though, his mood changed when he tried to move his hands and felt what had to be a 1,000 volt charge of pain shoot through his arms. That was enough to tear his eyes away from the swinging hook and down to his hands.

  A massive, rusty iron nail protruded from the back of each hand. The bastards had nailed him to the chair. The sight of the rough cast iron monstrosities rising from his soft white flesh nearly made him pass out as his vision blurred and tears of sheer agony escaped.

  He stopped trying to move his hands and the pain stopped almost immediately.

  As his tears began to clear, he noted someone standing in the corner of the room. A man. A very solid, well-built Korean man who was nearly as wide as he was tall and he had virtually no neck to speak of. It was as if the Koreans had perfected a human-fireplug hybrid.

  This just keeps getting better.

  “Thank you for joining us, Professor Blane,” a robotic voice echoed from speakers mounted in every corner of the room. Despite the words, welcoming warmth was noticeably absent.

  “Where am I?” Blane squeaked as he swiveled his head to look around, being careful not to put any pressure on his carpentry project.

  “You should concern yourself with more pressing matters, Professor. Your failure to procure the coin, for one.”

  Blane looked at his hands. “What have you done to me?”

  “You should be grateful,” the mechanized voice responded. “We’ve decided to spare your life. The nails are a little reminder from us to keep you focused on your mission.”

  Blane looked once again at the jagged iron spikes protruding from his hands.

  “You can blow your mission out your ass. I’m done. I don’t care if you kill me. I’m through with all of you. You’re all crazy. Insane!” Blane spat as he screamed in frustration, pissed that he had to vent his rage to a wall mounted speaker and an equally impersonal Korean fireplug.

  “Mr. Pak, would you be so kind as to counsel our guest regarding proper etiquette while in our care?”

  Fireplug, whose name was clearly Pak, approached the chair to which Blane was firmly affixed like a grisly DIY project. He couldn’t help but notice his peculiar gate, like almost like a wrestler entering the ring. Slow and ungainly yet menacing and determined at the same time.

  With an expressionless face and dark lifeless eyes, Pak took the ring finger of Blane’s left hand and bent it backward, counter to its normal range of motion before snapping it with a final flick of his thick, powerful wrist. Blane wasn’t sure which was the most sickening — the sound of his own bone breaking like a twig or the pain that blinded him as a result.

  “You bastard!” he squealed as he fought to remain conscious. “You can all go to hell!”

  “Mr. Pak,” the voice commanded once more.

  Without hesitation, Pak took the broken digit in his own short, sausage like fingers and pulled it ever so gently to align the shattered ends of the fractured phalanges. Despite the pain, Blane was about to laugh at the pitiful attempt to coerce him into submission.

  And then Pak began to forcefully grind the shattered bone ends together. The sickening sound made by the grating bone was enough to make Blane wince in disgust, but the sound was nothing compared to the pain that racked flesh and bone, forcing him to scream.

  And scream . . .

  Fifteen minutes later, Blane had been given his new mission parameters which he had accepted without argument. All of the information he would need had been imparted by the disguised, electronic voice as Pak stood watch in case further counselling was required. Even a Professor of Judaic Studies and Archaeology knew how many bones were in the human hands and feet. Better to accept the assignment while he still had the means to carry it out.

  As Pak opened the door to exit the room, Blane realized that he had no intention of removing the nails from his hands. He breathed a sigh of relief, though, when Pak paused as if he had overlooked something and crossed the room to where Blane sat, or rather was affixed, in his chair. Removing a small photograph from the inner breast pocket of his plainly custom tailored jacket, Pak slid the photograph into Blane’s shirt pocket. He then patted him on the shoulder as if fare welling a dear friend before once again walking toward the door.

  “You can’t just leave me here like this. You can’t!” he called out as Pak opened the door.

  For a brief moment, Blane swore that he saw a smile at the corners of the Korean’s thin lips just before he stepped through the doorway, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “But what about these,” he gestured wildly with his head, “you have to take them out. How else am I going to do what you’ve asked?”

  The robotic voice laughed then replied callously, “Think of it like a Band-Aid Professor. Don’t hesitate, just rip those delicate hands of yours through the nail heads and it will be over before you know it. Stop being such a sissy.” An electronic click signaled the disconnection of the microphone.

  Blane was alone with a broken finger pointing back at him at an impossible angle as if he was flipping himself the bird and a couple of medieval looking nails through his hands that were sure to leave a couple of very nasty stigmata scars to remind him of his assignment. The significance of having nails through his hands was not lost on the professor. The punishment and the scars it would leave were a nod by The Circle to the history of the coin he had been tasked with retrieving. Despite outward appearances, someone within The Circle had a sense of humor, albeit a very sick and twisted one. There was a certain warped irony in sending a man with crucifixion wounds in search of one of the thirty pieces of silver paid to Judas.

  Chapter 5

  The timeworn cobblestones of the ridiculously narrow street jarred them to the bone. In true 007 fashion they certainly were being shaken not stirred. The stiff racing suspension of a thoroughbred sports car wasn’t designed for streets more suited to Victorian era horse drawn carriages, but they needed to keep out of sight as the alarm would have been raised and police patrols would
be looking for the distinctive, one of a kind James Bond showpiece.

  “You promised to tell me how you hoodwinked the guard into giving you the keys,” Saira prompted as they slowed to navigate a tight turn. In fact, every turn was tight for the oversized coupe on the narrow London back streets.

  Bryce hesitated as he collected his thoughts. He should have known she wouldn’t give up so easily. “It’s a parlor trick. I can hypnotize people and get them to do things without even realizing it.”

  “I’m an archaeologist and I’ve got a doctorate in anthropology. I’ve studied the practices and beliefs of many cultures and while I grant that it’s possible to do what you’re suggesting in a tribe in which the members are culturally predisposed to the power of suggestion, that’s not the case here. I’m not an idiot.” Saira subconsciously began tugging her earlobe as she spoke.

  “Are you so sure about that?” Bryce’s face turned toward his fidgety passenger but his eyes never left the road.

  “Of course I am. I’ve researched and written papers on everything from Haitian voodoo rituals to the placebo effect in modern day medicine,” she responded with finality.

  “So why are you suddenly tugging your earlobe for no good reason?”

  “I’m not . . .” She suddenly realized he was right and hastily lowered her hand to her lap. She still felt the urge to touch her ear again so she tucked her hands beneath her thighs. “There’s a difference between making someone do something and claiming responsibility for something after the fact. Hardly a scientific or convincing argument.

  “Besides, it’s a bit of a leap from planting the suggestion that someone has an itchy ear, like when someone yawns and everyone else in the room feels like yawning, too and making someone do something they really don’t want to do. Something against their nature.”

  “Like hand over the key to the million dollar car they’re supposed to be guarding?”

  “Exactly,” she agreed.

  “So, if I could make you do something you don’t want to do, something against every fiber of your being, would you be convinced then?”

  “Not convinced. But I’d be more receptive to the idea, subject to further empirical evidence, of course.”

  Subject to what? Bryce felt more and more out of his depth with the nerdy museum girl as time went on.

  “Okay. I want you to kiss me,” he commanded.

  “Are you joking?” Saira stiffened and screwed up her nose. Although the idea didn’t displease her, she felt she needed to put on a display of affront. She had thought of their kiss in the tube station many times since and wondered what it might be like without the pressure of overzealous gangsters converging on them.

  “I’m not kissing you,” she stated resolutely, although the heat building between her thighs betrayed her, making her voice waver slightly. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.

  That hope was quickly abandoned when she glanced askance and saw the hint of a smile crossing his lips. Suddenly, she couldn’t help herself and she leaned into him and kissed him on the cheek, then on the lips as he turned to face her.

  She didn’t even notice that he had stopped the car, she was so busy clutching his hair and engulfing his mouth with hers in a frenzy that she felt unable to control. A frenzy that she had no desire to control.

  After a moment, Bryce released her from his control and pulled away leaving Saira panting and gasping for breath from her passionate embrace.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed, hastily straightening her hair and repositioning herself in her seat as though she had never moved. “What just happened?”

  “I told you, it’s a trick. I put the idea into your head and before you knew it, you were practically ready to jump me right here in the car. Is that empirical enough for you?” He cast a grin at her. A wicked, mischievous grin.

  Saira felt like slapping that grin right off his perfect, gorgeous face. He’d tricked her. So much for thinking she could trust him and that he’d look out for her. She was just another game to him.

  “Play your stupid little games, then, if that makes you feel better about yourself. I just want to get this mess straightened out and get back to my life, so let’s just do that, alright?”

  “Oh shit!”

  Bryce wasn’t looking at her any longer. He wasn’t even listening to her. His attention was on the bright LED headlamps that had stopped at the end of the road, facing directly toward them. His dragon senses knew they had been found. There was no doubt about that. The only question was how.

  “Okay, Miss Science Quiz, how did they track us? They didn’t know I was going to be there tonight so they don’t have a tracker on me. You’ve ditched the clothes you were wearing and your cell and purse are back at the museum, so they’re not tracking any device on you. How in the hell . . .”

  In unison, they looked in the back at the cat carrier, more specifically at the cat inside the cat carrier.

  “You don’t really think —”

  “Oh, yeah. I do really think,” Bryce cut her off. “I wouldn’t put it past these bastards to have put a tracking chip in the cat then dump it on you, knowing someone like you would take it in.”

  “Oh, so any curvy, nerdy girl who spends maybe a bit too much time at work just has to be the crazy cat lady, too?” she snapped at him loud and angry enough to startle kitty.

  “No, I just meant . . .” Bryce’s dragon told him to abort the mission before he dug a deeper hole for himself. Sometimes, it was better to lose the battle and try to win the war.

  “Look, we don’t have time for this. They’re waiting for the others to come so they can tighten the noose. I need you to work with me. Are you ready?” he said in a commanding, rapid fire tone that demanded her obedience.

  “Just tell me what you want me to do.” She looked one more time at her poor kitty, then fixed her gaze into his mesmerizing, stormy blue-grey eyes. She nodded. “I’m ready.”

  Chapter 6

  With his hands tightly bound to stanch the flow of blood and half a bottle of Ibuprofen to take the edge off the piercing pain, Blane’s mind cleared enough to remember the photograph the Korean fireplug had slipped into his pocket. The blood soaked shirt had long since been discarded, so he retrieved it from the kitchen trash and extracted the photograph. He stared at it for a full minute before he could bring himself to take a breath.

  His younger brother, Jordan, stared back at him with unseeing eyes, having been deaf since birth and blind from an early age thanks to Usher Syndrome, a genetic disorder that thankfully hadn’t been passed on to the Professor himself. Although right now, he wondered if he really was the lucky one.

  Blane had always doted on his brother perhaps in response to his father’s harsh treatment of the child. A strong, proud and demanding man, he had little tolerance for weakness even when it had been genetically passed from his own seed. But Blane suspected that his mother’s death from complications following Jordan’s birth was more the reason his father distanced himself and couldn’t show any form of affection toward the boy.

  And now Blane was the weak one and at the beck and call of the most monstrous and vile organization ever to darken the civilized world all because of his love and loyalty to his brother. The thought of him in their abhorrent hands being tortured for reasons he could never hope to understand was beyond unbearable to the elder brother who had always been there to care for and love his less fortunate sibling, something his own father could never do.

  The photograph was a reminder that they still had him in their sights and he’d be well advised not to forget. A closer look at the photo clearly showed a robust silhouette in the distance. His hand began to tremble, as much in fear as impotent rage. He would recognize the hulking Korean anywhere.

  Damn them. Damn them all to hell, where they all belonged.

  It was his own weakness that brought him into The Circle’s sphere of influence in the first place, as much as he liked to convince himself otherwise. Like a black hole, The Circle had a lon
g history of attracting tragically flawed men into its gravitational field, drawing them in further and further until they outlived their usefulness. After that, they disappeared without a trace. No one ever escaped once touched by The Circle’s influence and that nearly always started in a benign, almost benevolent fashion. A favor here or career advancement there. The fingers of influence were subtle yet far reaching and would invariably end up with small favors being asked in return. A little inside information here or an innocuous bit of dirt on a senior colleague there. Nothing untoward or alarming, not when set against the string-pulling that had been freely given by The Circle in advance.

  At least that’s how it started but it didn’t last long. The Circle had never enjoyed a reputation for patience and soon the stakes were raised and the comfort zone of their subjects quickly surpassed. That’s when the velvet glove usually came off to reveal the iron fist lurking underneath. Harmless requests were replaced with more serious orders to provide information or perform tasks that previously would have been unthinkable. Those who balked at this change in the dynamic of the relationship swiftly felt the wrath of the iron fist, more often than not an unforeseen tragedy befallen another family member or loved one for which The Circle would proudly claim credit and threaten much worse if noncompliance continued.

  After his brother suffered a mysterious fall down the stairs at his care facility, resulting in two broken legs and a fractured skull, Blane was committed to the cause. He would not risk his brother’s life or needless suffering. He’d suffered enough in his lifetime already. He couldn’t fail him.