h a r d w i r e d to self-destruct

adarian ⏩ man-made hybrid ❝ a heart made of stone, callous, and bone. fracture and tear it out to let it go. and to think i called it my own. and i would have never thought the pain could grow. so i'll break it knowing what you said. the pain is what you make it. sadly you are so mistaken. and i will throw away this empty heart. ❞

[rxmanianxdevil-blog]

What makes you insecure?

“Seeing the censure in her eyes every time I close my eyes.”

“Mind your own business.”

[licensedtohunt]

With the recently acquired engine purring between her thighs Dilyn propped up her aviators and gave the rundown shack a cold eye. The mechanics of the artificial lens hummed, scanning from left to right for heat signatures. There was twelve total, two more than the number of bikes parked tightly together out front, where a neon sign flashed Full Throttle. The hoots, hollers, and sound of breaking glass inside confirmed the obvious: biker bar.                                                                        Great.                                                      This was supposed to be easy.                                  Okay. Maybe not easy. More like in and out. Clean cut.                                                            Little mess. No death.                                   Tell that to the monstrosity she’d been tailing for weeks.                                                     Mr. fucking didn’t get the memo.  It was all cat and mouse, where she was the goddamn rodent stupid enough to give chase (right into the metaphorical fucking vipers den) and he just smugly gloated over the game of it. Reaper-man was right. Shoulda went with the rifle. The handgun tranq had seemed like the obvious choice, it could be concealed, and didn’t require the steadiness of a sniper but meant close combat and so far she hadn’t gotten within range— at least nowhere that wasn’t overtly public.                                                  Eleven was too many bystanders.                                      She’d have to try and flush him out of the building.                              Waiting wasn’t an option. That’d require too much patience. Killing the engine Dilyn slid off the bike (that Donny had miraculously procured) and took a gamble on risking entrance, storming the door with motorcycle boots that crunched gravel and hands bunched in pockets, ignoring her fear. Inside the fluorescents were dim and flickered ominously, the only thing more noticeable the stench of stale beer and day old b.o that competed to overpower the room in a level of rank that would normally have her walk out the door.                                                   Right now it didn’t fucking matter.                                  Neither did the dark. His heat signature gave him away.                                             It was the only one with a cold blue arm. The only one without a potbelly, for that matter. Not that it discredited the threat of the leather clad men. A quick scan indicated they were nearly all armed, even the tart who acted like she was passed around, and nobody was suited up more so than the bartender. Please don’t let this be a club’s home bar. To her horror, the patches on most of their backs matched the insignia on the walls. Wonderful. 

                                                   Maybe it was just a coincidence. She made it halfway to the hybrid before feeling eyes on her. Multiple sets. There goes not getting noticed. Dilyn swallowed, mentally ran through the gambit of curses and cast a nervous glance around, but didn’t stop progressing towards her target. One who appeared remarkably calm for a man whose dossier was covered in warnings of being unpredictably volatile. 

                                                                     Surprising. 

Even more surprising, only one drunk tried to get all touchy feely but he was easily diverted with a shove and a gritty “I’ll cut ‘em off next time.”                             Still. She shouldn’t have been so relieved to reach her target. Casually taking up the adjacent bar-stool, Dilyn sprawled out her elbows and stared straight ahead, avoiding looking at the fucker she had no idea how she was going to bring in. There shoulda been a whole squat team assigned to this. “If you wanted a date, you could have picked a better bar,” the bounty hunter griped, sarcasm as thick as molasses as fingers twitched for a knife. “Look it’s been fun, but games over.” Dilyn drawled, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm out against the counter. “Time you just come with me.” Hah. Unlikely, but the easy way was always worth a shot.

[rxmanianxdevil-blog]

Hunched over the bar as he fixed the tall, stout bartender with an unblinking, baleful stare, the combined scent of perspiration and nervousness permeating the air, Adarian rapped the metal knuckles of his left hand against the thick, wooden countertop - once, twice, three times ... until the man finally relented and averting his gaze to the counter, fetched a bottle of the club’s most popular seller, Wild Stinger, and reluctantly placed it down beside his hand—before abruptly retreating to the far end of the bar, the rigid line of his back and the tightening of his jaw the only, true telltale signs of agitation he struggled so hard not to show, obviously determined to play the role of big man on campus until the bitter end ... 

      ... save for a scent that could not be manipulated or hidden.

   Scent beat make-believe every damn time.

“Hey,” Adarian called out, a raspiness to his tone that led one to believe he didn’t talk much. “I’m runnin’ on empty.” Four, little words—innocent enough not to raise any alarm bells. But when coupled with a deep, gravelly, voice and dark, flint-hard eyes, they were enough to send chills down anyone’s spine. As if on cue, the bar quieted, all activity suspended as several pairs of eyes fell on him, as though to gauge the extent of the threat he presented; lines of tension formed between Adarian’s brows as he reached for the bottle, his fingers tightening around the glass as he kept a trained eye on the bikers in the mirror behind the bar.

“No sweat, man. It’s free of charge,” the bartender hastened to say, trying to disperse the tension with an amenable comment. And something in the dark expression in the hybrid’s eyes must have proved too ... bellicose, for mere seconds passed before they resumed their conversations, no longer paying the stranger any mind. 

Acknowledging the bartender’s generosity with a curt nod, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a large swig, hoping the alcohol would dull the pain in his head; a throbbing ache that would only erupt when the three different breeds currently inhabiting his body vied for dominance. Rarely were they quiet, domineering in nature and determined to be heard over the cries of their neighbors. It had taken him months to adapt to his circumstances, his head an accumulated mass of darkness and confusion that would ofttimes drive him to question his own sanity. 

           Like now.

    When his instincts, a dangerous combination of therianthrope, warg, and dragon, warned of approaching danger. Not from the bikers or club members scattered throughout the bar—but from an outside source, the familiar scent of spice and gun powder wringing a wordless growl from him. 

She’d tailed him for days—maybe even weeks—tracking him to remote areas around the state, and just when he thought he’d lost her, the damn female had the nerve to throw in an appearance. Again. But this ... This was the closest she’d ever come to tagging and bagging her quarry, the closest he’d let her come. Because he was over this cat-and-mouse game, tired of smelling her every-goddamn-where he turned up, a scent that provoked the beast and triggered its hunting instinct despite the fact that it had three very different, competing forces feeding its hunger.

Conscious of her presence, watching out of the corners of his eyes as the locals turned their attention to her, no doubt identifying her as the lesser of two evils, Adarian maintained a silent vigil, patiently awaiting her arrival with an outwardly calm demeanor—when, inwardly, he was feeling anything but calm. “No,” he grunted, slanting her a sideways glare the moment she claimed the bar stool next to his, in no mood to humor her tonight. If she wanted the big fish, she’d have to get a little wet first. “Game’s been over. Now it’s time for you to scram.” And then, finally swiveling on his stool to face her completely, he saw her face for the first time in weeks—and stared, aghast ... motionless. 

Mia.

“No,” he rasped, eyes tracing every line of that beautiful face—a face that had haunted his dreams for months. “No!” He clutched at his head, struggling to think past the torturous pain in his head—to rationalize a dead woman’s appearance—but nothing seemed to work, and soon ... soon, he would be too far gone to care.

[jamesbarmes-deactivated20170325]