Free Blood Enchantment by Tamara Rose Blodgett

mind.”
    Truman scowls at Slash.
    Slash sweeps a palm toward her feet. They're slick with blood.
    Truman’s eyes bug then go hard and flat. His fists clench.
    Slash realizes the expression is his “thinking cap” look, the same one he probably wore when he was a cop.
    He picks up a shaking Cynthia and brings her to Slash.
    Her green eyes flutter, rolling up into her head. “Jason,” she manages, before passing out in Slash's arms.
    “Wait!” Slash barks at Truman. He whirls.
    “I can't defend her!”
    Sharp lines of determination settle into Truman’s face. “And I don't know what's down that hall that scared the bejesus outta her.” He stabs a thumb at his chest.
    Moon.
    “Fine,” Slash hisses. “Hurry up. My mate is somewhere, and a crazy Alpha from the Western is making up whatever tale he wants while I can't feel my fucking back .”
    Truman and Slash lock eyes. “Okay, hang tight.”
    He doesn't have to tell Slash to protect Cynthia. Slash gets it, however, in his semi-paralyzed state he's a weak choice. But like Truman said, he has to see what the danger is. Slash's role as a male Were has never been confusing to him. That there are males who would abuse their precious females—or any female, for that matter—confounds Slash. It also makes him deeply angry.
    And rage is always close to him, waiting. Slash is hardwired that way.
    Cynthia's sleep is unnatural. Her face looks unanimated rather than peaceful in his lap.
    The time rolls out. Though only ten minutes have passed since Truman went to inspect what new horrors lay down the hall, it feels like a thousand years. Each step Adrianna takes from his side is a small knife in his heart. His only consolation is that Tramack is here, and she is putting distance between herself and the Were who harmed her. Slash suddenly smells Cynthia's wakefulness and glances down.
    “I couldn't fix it,” Cynthia whispers.
    “Fix what?” Slash asks softly, as though speaking to a child.
    “Jason.”
    Slash stiffens, slapping a palm on the floor and lifting them both upright.
    Cynthia sits up, notices she's on his lap, and gingerly climbs off.
    “Don't leave,” he says, remembering Truman's words.
    She wipes a tear from her face. “No,” she breathes out in a pained gasp.
    “What's wrong with Jason?”
    “Something…” Cynthia covers her face with her hands. “Something killed him.”
    If he hadn't been Were, he would not have heard that last.
    Slash flares his nostrils. The stench of death reaches him easily. Beneath that, he smells blood and brain matter.
    Slash hates to hear about the death of a solid Were. While he didn't really know Jason Caldwell, he did know Jason was volatile, but not mean-spirited.
    This would not bode well—losing Jason so closely with the loss of Zeke. A bad trend had begun.
    Jason had been threatened on many occasions to leave or force an ultimatum on the Rare One.
    Slash understands. He could never share Adrianna. However, Were are a different species from the Singers. Apparently, Caldwell did not feel the same. Maybe he was human for too long. Maybe he was too much Were. In death, it no longer matters.
    Gently, Slash asks, “What killed him, Cynthia?” It's never who in their world.
    Shaky hands fall to her jean-encased thighs. “I don't know, but whatever it was, I couldn't heal him. There was no chance. None.”
    Slash isn't a soft, comforting male. But her needs are not complicated. Even an idiot Were like him, one who callously gets rid of his mate, can show mercy. “Not your fault,” Slash manages to murmur. “Couldn't have saved him.”
    She nods absently, as though she’s merely placating him.
    Truman jogs into the room, sliding to a stop in front of them. “You know?” he asks, looking between them and ascertaining that Cynthia must have conveyed the details of Jason's death.
    Slash confirms anyway. “Yes.”
    “I don't know what bashed his brains in, but it's nothing I've seen in my short acquaintance with