To Wake a Sleeping Tiger Lora Leigh Read Online Free

Yesterday's dreams . . .

Today'south reality . . .

Tomorrow's hope . . .

THE WORLD OF THE BREEDS

They were created; they weren't born.

They were trained; they weren't raised.

They were genetic creations. Human DNA merged with that of the animal. The perfect soldier, a disposable creature.

They were created to dice, often in the virtually horrible experiments that the human mind could e'er imagine.

Their lives were a horror story from the moment of their births.

Babes that knew no tender care, no sweet lullabies nor a mother's love. They cried until hoarse, until they learned no ane was coming unless they required feeding. And many times, they were immune to go hungry until they lay weak and in pain.

Just the most basic of service was given to the babes. Creations that millions, billions of dollars had gone into in more than a century of scientific experiments and genetic engineering. "Cubs," they were chosen, never "babes," merely they were living beings that, in terms of the toll of their creation, were nearly priceless.

All the same in the eyes of those who fabricated them, they were worth no more than than the young women who died giving birth to i after another of the creations implanted in their wombs.

Human being and animal. Determined and far stronger in both spirit and body than the scientists could have always envisioned.

Despite the cruelties heaped upon their young bodies, the experiments, the demented training exercises designed to ensure their success in any mission they were given, many of them survived. The strength of their hatred, of their hunger for liberty, refused to allow them to pass quietly from the world they'd been brought into.

Those creations are gratuitous at present.

They're triumphing against all efforts to run into them back in the labs from where they came.

Their intelligence is far greater than any could e'er comprehend. Their strength is more than primal than any could ever suspect.

And they're living on the frail, desperate hope that the earth never learns the secrets they fight to hibernate.

THE BREEDS

From the journal of Dr. Ambrose, Geneticist, Genetic Theorist

Scientific discipline.

The ultimate expert or the ultimate evil?

In this, I say, nosotros accept go the ultimate evil.

Two hundred years earlier, a vision came into being, one that began with the purest of intentions, even so turned to the darkest of perversions.

The creation of an altered existence, one that began with the mutation of the most base genetic code even before conception. Those first scientists had a vision for their creations. A mix of human and animal, stronger, faster, more than enduring and impervious to the illnesses or wounds that kill and maim. If such a species of man could exist created, they argued, then they could be studied, their talents used to strengthen the man race.

Arrogance.

At that place is such arrogance in science.

What began with such innocent intentions became darker, more perverted, with the first surviving human/animal creation that took breath and grew strong. Stronger than whatever of them imagined. The beast strength and power merged with the human spirit and gave birth to such determined will, such preternatural beauty and grace that those scientists could not bear to admit they could not control what they believed they had created.

The spirit, the eye and soul of life, cannot be created. Homo cannot breathe life into a being, and he cannot sustain that life against the worst of odds.

And they hated the beings they envisioned for the very fact that they knew and understood that what they altered, a superior existence, was refining, strengthening.

Homo. Built-in to such innocence, so easily corrupted by such black evil. Shortly, they tortured the beings they birthed. They created such horrendous experiments—in the name of science, they were eager to argue—simply it was in the name of their own greed and corrupt natures.

For over a century and a half they gave nativity to 1 after some other of those they called Breeds. Hundreds, possibly thousands. They were soldiers sent to assassinate, to spy, to gain riches and power for the organization that funded the research program. And then they were experimented upon, to run across how much pain they could endure, how securely they could be wounded and still survive.

The babes, to ensure only the strong survived, weren't cuddled or given affection. They weren't nurtured or raised. From the moment they drew their first breath, each moment of their lives was an exercise in training.

In horror.

Such horrors.

So many babes left to die, to wither to a last breath when but a gentle touch would have brought about untold strength.

They were Breeds. Less than human, less than fauna as far as those scientists were concerned, and they spilled the blood of the Breeds, took life after life, as though such atrocities would never be found out.

But they were found out.

Found out, proof given, the creations then turned on those who believed themselves to exist their creators, and each day they're free is the greatest insult to the organization that funded them, gave birth to them, tortured, maimed and committed such evil against them.

Each solar day they're complimentary is a miracle, a gift I pray they capeesh each moment of. Considering the Breeds hold many secrets of their creation and many more volition arise. Man may believe he created them, but a much higher power breathed life into them, and that power is refining them and redefining them, daily.

And that redefinition could end upwardly being the very weapon that destroys each and every Breed walking free.

PROLOGUE

From Graeme'due south Periodical

The Recessed Key Brood

Recessive, Central Breed genetics, afterwards age five, begins with an creature's awareness of its own strength and the danger surrounding it. It can too exist the child's primal response to protecting itself and the animal lurking inside.

Continued recession after age xviii to twenty tin be blamed solely on the Breed and the dictates of his human genetics. The creature refuses to go against its nature, and the human refuses to acknowledge what the brute knows. At its base of operations, the stubbornness of the two natures is in disharmonize, both refusing to relent.

In the end, the awakening of those recessed abilities comes when the animal grows tired of the man's obstinate nature and surges forward to take control in ways that prove false the belief that the human controls the predator within.

Five in the morn was too damned early for a knock on his front door. He was barely out of bed and showered. His coffee was still dripping into the cup and he hadn't even had a chance to strap his weapon on.

Cullen Bohemian liked things in order whenever possible. Information technology made life a hell of a lot easier.

Pulling his weapon from his side holster, he made his way to the front end door, confident that if a threat awaited outside, and then it wasn't directed past forces other than a normal workday upheaval. As commander of the Navajo Covert Police force Enforcement Agency, he'd fabricated a few enemies over the years.

Those enemies weren't the ones he watched out for, though. It was the enemies he'd made as a teenager that worried him.

The knock came once more, firm though not masculine in the least. Recognizing the audio, a straight knock without pounding, he knew instantly who it was without questioning how he knew. His lips almost quirked into a smile.

A quick look outside the narrow window next to the door showed a slender feminine figure dressed in jeans and a lite jacket. Ane of the inferior members of the strength, she'd been on a few operations, though he'd refused to give the become-alee to move her higher.

Chelsea Martinez, with her black hair, brownish eyes and dusky peel of combined Navajo and Caucasian parents, stared at the door equally though she could wi

ll it open. She was a forcefulness to be reckoned with when she wanted to exist.

He should know; he was unremarkably the 1 butting heads with her.

Swinging the door open equally he leaned confronting the side of the wall, he stared down at her somber, implacable expression with a slight grinning.

Dawn was barely lighting the land outside, giving information technology an otherworldly, placidity sense of confinement belied by the homes along the side of and facing his ain.

"You didn't call, so I assume this isn't life or death," he remarked when she merely stared up at him silently.

She'd been doing that a lot in the by few months, just staring at him as though she expected something from him, as though he'd forgotten something.

She cleared her throat, lips thinning, her gaze sliding from his for just a second earlier jerking back.

"I demand to talk to you." Repose, intense, her demeanor wasn't threatening, but besides damned serious.

"Come on, I'll requite y'all the first loving cup of java," he sighed heavily.

No doubtfulness she was in that location to debate over her place in the Agency again. She'd been pushing for some of the more unsafe assignments in the by months. Covert Ops agents were kept quiet. They had no official uniforms, didn't phone call attention to themselves. Chelsea was ane of their more than covert agents, though she mainly worked in an banana chapters at the office. She could streamline files and people like nobody'south business organization. Hell, her name wasn't fifty-fifty officially listed with the Agency and he liked it that way. It lessened any danger she might face and ensured he didn't have to worry about losing a damned proficient friend considering someone else blinked.

She was also young to be part of operations, he'd tried to explicate to her, to make her understand that he couldn't put her in the line of fire until her preparation was far more seasoned.

"Hither you go." Stepping into the kitchen, he removed that first cup of java and placed it on the round table that sat in the middle of the darkened room. "Flip a light on if you need to."

He rarely turned the lights on in the identify simply because he spent the to the lowest degree amount of time there equally possible. It was a place to sleep and go on the few possessions he owned. Mainly, his clothes.

Sometimes, the television screen set in the fridge door was on, simply not this morning. He hadn't had time however to turn it on, and music would get on his nerves subsequently an hour or so.

"I'm fine," she assured him.

His dark vision had improved over the past years. At first, he'd questioned the modify until realizing his twin, Gideon, was in the surface area. For some reason the appearance of the Primal Bengal sibling had sharpened a few of the recessed Brood traits Cullen possessed, but not enough to change his life. Not enough to worry him.

"Let me get my java before we beginning, minx." He shot her a grin. That solemn, sad expression was commencement to carp him in means he couldn't put a finger on.

"Of form." The answer wasn't exactly what he wanted to hear. "I know how you are without that commencement cup."

There was no amusement in her tone, no teasing.

What the hell was upwardly with her?

Leaning dorsum against the counter and crossing his artillery over his chest, he frowned at her. Damn, she looked so sad, non angry or upset. There was a sense of loss emanating from her, and he couldn't find a reason for it.

Pulling the cup free of the coffeemaker when information technology finished, he lifted information technology, sipped and continued to regard her. She wasn't fidgeting in front end of him, wasn't acting in the to the lowest degree nervous as she unremarkably did whenever she was fix to put forth yet another position she could concord on an operation. Anything to get her out of the function and to put her grooming to work, she'd demand.

She was a member of the Brood Underground, she'd pointed out the last time. She'd helped move juvenile and adult Breeds more than half a dozen times, keeping them but ahead of the Genetics Council or pure blood fanatics searching for them.

And yes, she had washed that, but he didn't control the Breed Underground. He couldn't disqualify her as a member of the forces that aided subconscious Breeds or mates, so he ground his teeth each time she went out and argued with her cousins over information technology on a constant basis.

She was too innocent for covert work, besides innocent to be scarred by the crazies in the world.

"Spit it out," he sighed, lowering the cup and facing her quiet, intense expression. "What have you lot come up with this time? What statement do y'all think volition sway me?"

She blinked a few times and if he wasn't mistaken her eyes actually looked equally though—were those tears?

What the hell had happened? Setting his coffee aside, he prepared to act, to prepare whatever had been done to bring tears to her eyes.

"Chelsea?" he questioned gently. "What's going on, honey?"

Cullen watched as she pulled dorsum the front of her jacket, removed a folded slice of white newspaper from inside information technology and slowly laid it on the table.

Cullen swore he felt the need to growl. One of those deep, dark rumbles of unsafe warning he'd heard come up from his twin's throat more once.

Every musculus in his body tensed and he knew, knew to the soles of his damned anxiety what that simple slice of newspaper represented.

His gaze lifted to hers once once again.

"Y'all don't want to do this, Chelsea," he sighed. "Come on, honey, we can talk about this."

They had to talk about it.

They were going to talk most it.

He'd be damned if he'd let her—

"It'south my resignation from the Agency," she told him, her tone soft but firm, determined.

She'd made her mind upwardly. By God, she actually thought she'd made her listen up to leave him—to leave the Bureau. That she could just walk away.

He stared at it, glared at it.

If he had his way it would burst into flames and the retention of it would dissipate along with the paper.

"The hell you are." Lifting his head, he directed that glare at her.

And she met it.

Not once did she flinch or look abroad. Not one time did she even pretend to admit his authority. Hell, she didn't fifty-fifty consider it.

"The Agency isn't going to work for me, Cullen—"

"Because I don't let yous run information technology?" he snapped. "You don't brand the decisions there, girl. If you did, 'Commander' would be sitting in front of your name instead of mine."

There were times, few though they had been, that standing firm would encourage her to back down. She had to dorsum downwardly on this.

She nodded sharply. "Agreed. But I never wanted to run it. I just wanted to be a function of information technology, not a glorified running girl for you lot and the other agents. That'due south not happening, so it's time I leave."

His jaw tightened with a surge of anger at once confusing and filled with frustration.

"You won't give information technology time," he began, his back teeth grinding.

"I don't have whatsoever more than fourth dimension to give it, Cullen." Her lips tilted in remorse equally she lifted one manus out to him before dropping it only as quickly. "It's only time, okay?"

"Time for what?" He stepped closer, though she chose that moment to expect away from him, unaware he was coming closer, that his refusal to accept this was almost to get upwardly close and personal.

"Grandfather agrees information technology'southward time I go. That I find my own style . . . Cullen?" She turned back, her gaze going start to where he was supposed to be, then to the shadow suddenly at her side.

"Cullen?" Incoherent, a woman's sound, one filled with surprise, a bit of shock and a hint of apprehension every bit he swung her around, pulling her confronting him, letting her feel the erection he had no intention of hiding from her any longer.

And damn her. Her lips parted; her optics, like soft melted chocolate, stared upwards at him, widening, then turning slumberous every bit her breathing escalated, her breasts rising and falling faster as he held her to him.

What the hell was incorrect with him?

That distant thought wasn't enough to end him, it wasn't enough

to pull back, to free her and permit her walk abroad. He'd known for years, far also many years that this was coming. And when it happened, letting her become wouldn't be an option. All that wild independence and pure energy she possessed would have to be tamed. The thought of the danger she'd face up otherwise was more than he could contemplate.

"This is why," he snarled, his lips lowering to her ear, his own breathing harder, hunger driving a stake straight to his balls as he fought the need to have her and then and there. To back her against the wall, become her hot and ready for him before taking her. He'd take her from behind, pushing within the sweet heat between her thighs as his teeth gripped her cervix—

They were already there, raking over the tender flesh at the curve of her neck and shoulder, gripping, releasing, his tongue laving the abrupt seize with teeth. Her nails were gripping his shoulders, her head resting against his arm every bit he held her, the fiddling cry that left her pharynx ane of pleasure and stupor. Sharp, sweet pleasure struck at his senses, the reaction so strong, and then deep he felt it awaken something inside him that he knew he couldn't allow costless.

Something dark.

Something hungry—

"Fuck!" As quick as he'd pulled her to him, Cullen released her and all but jumped dorsum from her.

God, the odor of her, the gustatory modality of her pare, so sugariness and soft. Giving his head a hard milk shake and turning his back on her, he raked his fingers through his hair and fought to go a grip on himself.

Animalism had never controlled him. He'd never let his hungers costless like that, even during his marriage, before his wife's painful expiry; he'd never felt that deep, dark hunger, like another presence coming alive inside him.

"God, Chelsea, I'm sad." What more could he say? He couldn't explain it, even to himself.

"Good-bye, Cullen."

He turned equally she raced from the kitchen to the living room. He'd taken two running steps to stop her before pulling back, forcing himself to end, to permit her get. His lips pulled back in fury, a snarl ripped from him seconds before he turned and plowed his fist into the wall, burying information technology in the suddenly aging drywall.

Jerking back, he stared at his knuckles, his fingers. They ached, but non from the strike. And it wasn't just the fist that slammed into the wall that was aching; his other manus was balled so tight he swore his nails were pricking the flesh of his palm.

"Damn her!" he fleck out, forcing himself back to the kitchen and that damned letter on the tabular array.

Before he could end himself, he ripped information technology to shreds and let the pieces fall to the flooring, watching them flutter with a slow, gliding grace.

She'd exist dorsum.

Information technology was just some other damned way to bear witness him how serious she was. He'd put her on one of the less dangerous operations when she came back, he promised himself. Hell, he should have done it already but he liked having her with him in the function. She was funny, insightful. She smelled good—

And she'd run from him.

He must take scared her, though Chelsea wasn't the type to get scared over a buss. He knew her ameliorate than that. And she knew him better than to think he'd hurt her. He'd give her a day or two, allow both of them at-home down, and and then she'd exist back.

She couldn't take been serious.

He wouldn't allow information technology.

He couldn't permit it.

Chapter 1

From Graeme'due south Journal

The Recessed Primal Breed

The Primal Brood will know his mate, sensing her even without the benefit of Mating Heat. The recessed Primal will sense his mate, know her and find condolement and calm in her presence. Merely Mating Heat volition release his Breed genetics, though, and permit the Central gratis of its muzzle—

NAVAJO NATION

PINON, ARIZONA

Oh God!

Oh God!

She was only a baby.

Tiny, delicate, a mop of tangled black hair and broad, shock-filled eyes.

Rage clenched Chelsea's guts, formed a layer of ice effectually her emotions and stilled her racing heart. Logic and training snapped in and she forced herself to move into position slowly.

Horror. Terror.

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