Free Seal of Surrender by Traci Douglass

halting his progress. He whipped around and sighted a small boy, no more than three, staring at the fire. Regret pinched inside him, followed close by mounting rage. He didn’t have time for remorse. Not with everything he’d worked for so close at hand.
    He stalked to the child and grabbed him by the arm, yanking him away from the fire and hoisting him up to face level. His current transformation allowed him to communicate only in indecipherable grunts and roars. The child quaked in his hands, blubbering and terrified.
    Impatient and half-crazed with bloodlust, Archon twisted the child around and prepared to sink his fangs into the boy’s tiny nape, to end the torment, to accept his true nature. His mother’s beautiful face flashed in his mind, halting his actions and reminding him of all he’d lost at the hands of his demented father.
    With a pained roar, Archon threw the child to the ground, stormed across the river and into the rainforest beyond, intent on escape.

Chapter 8
    Irena’s muscles ached after a bumpy landing into N’dijli Airport and an adventurous shuttle ride down the chaotic Boulevard Lumumba. People crowded like livestock on the bus and once again she was forced to press into Chago’s side or sit on top of a stranger.
    She concentrated on the hustle of people outside, an abundance of bright colors and abject poverty, and struggled to ignore the absent trace of his fingers over her bare forearm. They hit a rut in the road and she placed a hand on his chest to keep from toppling to his lap. Chago’s shuttered expression blossomed into a wicked grin before he turned his attention to the other passengers.
    After what seemed a small eternity, they arrived at the Kinshasa Grand Hotel. The assorted travelers, mainly foreign correspondents and businessmen from what she could ascertain, bundled out of the overcrowded shuttle bus and into the sub-Saharan heat.
    While Irena collected their bags, Chago finished a conversation with the driver in fluent French. In the short time she’d known him, he’d lapsed repeatedly into his native Spanish, so his use of other European languages didn’t surprise her.
    â€œReady?” He rejoined her and extended a hand for her bag.
    She ignored his offer and walked into the lobby. Once inside, Irena stood in the air-conditioned coolness and admired the architecture. The hotel was larger and more modern than she’d expected, the white marble expanses and sparkling chandeliers remnants of its former glory.
    In line for check-in, Irena recognized Chago speaking to the clerk in Lingala — one of several native languages. French she’d expected, but not the local dialects.
    A second employee waved her up to the counter. She greeted him in French and handed over her paperwork. He entered her information and handed her a room key. Irena reached for it, only to be intercepted.
    Chago checked the number then passed the plastic card back to the man and rattled off a series of rapid-fire orders. The attendant nodded and typed in something else. This time when the guy extended the packet, Irena snatched it fast and shot Chago a defiant glare. “Why did you have him change my room?”
    â€œFor your protection, querida.” He grabbed his own paperwork and picked up his bag.
    â€œI don’t need your damn protection.” Irena followed him to the elevators, completely incensed. “And where the hell did you learn to speak Lingala?”
    â€œI find it always pays to be prepared.” The mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed his serious expression. “Don’t you?”
    Irena remained silent, beyond exhausted. She craved a hot shower and a long nap, not a gold medal round of smartass Olympics. “What I find is you being an idiot. I can’t believe you told the guy we’re engaged. What the hell’s wrong with you? And don’t get any ideas about co-habitation, mister, because it’s not