A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)
Page 19She glanced at him with surprise, one golden brow lifting.
“I sensed your panic when the vines had you. And you’re not a woman to panic.”
With a sigh, she looked away, out at the water. “It was a long time ago.”
“And yet some things we never forget.”
“No. That’s true. I was captured by Therians.” She said the words so matter-of-factly, but he heard the pain behind them. And he finally understood her hatred of shifters. He waited for her to continue, but when she remained silent, he asked, “Are any of them still alive? Because if they are, I’m going to kill them.”
She glanced at him, an odd look in her eyes. Surprise, perhaps. And steel. And something that almost looked like chagrin. “I wreaked my vengeance, Feral. Without mercy. Every one who hurt me, I killed. The only one I never found was the one who betrayed me in the first place.”
He glimpsed the warrior capable of hauling innocents into the Crystal Realm to die because she saw it as the only way to save her race. A hard woman. But not all there was to her, not even close. And that hard veneer had come at a terrible cost, he was sure of it, now.
“Is it possible he still lives?”
She looked away. “I know he still lives. And he’s going to die.” Slowly, she turned to meet his gaze, her eyes glittering sapphire diamonds. “It’s Castin.”
Ah, “Feck.” His stomach flipped.
“I recognized his picture when Hawke flashed it on the screen in the war room yesterday.”
“You can’t take him on alone.”
“He’s mine,” she snapped.
“He’s also a Feral Warrior, if one who has not yet been brought into his animal. And you’re an Ilina who cannot mist.”
She scowled at him. “Don’t remind me.”
Fox’s mind was spinning from Melisande’s words. Everyone who hurt me, I killed.
Goddess. Had they raped her? Was that the reason she’d turned to stone as he’d kissed her, the moment he’d said he wanted to be inside of her? The thought slammed him with a fury that had his free hand fisting. Had Castin raped her? If so, the male was going to die, either by Melisande’s hand or his own. But he would die.
How had she been captured when she could turn to mist in a heartbeat and escape?
They were difficult questions, and he wasn’t at all certain she was ready to share the answers with him.
But before he could pose a single one, everything around them changed. As cleanly and suddenly as they’d walked into the medieval seaport, they walked out of it again.
And into chaos.
They’d walked into a bloody hurricane.
Battering wind slammed into Fox, flaying him with sharp, stinging sand, knocking him back a step. He grabbed Melisande’s hand, pulling her against him, shielding her as a palm frond sailed at them, striking him in the hip before tumbling away. Behind them, the roiling ocean sent pounding surf to scour the shore. Water rushed over his boots, then receded just as quickly.
They’d stepped into yet another world, this one far from the medieval seaport. A tropical island, from what he could see. And, apparently, right in the middle of one hell of a storm.
Squinting his eyes against the blowing sand, Fox searched for assailants along the beach or hiding among the trees, certain they were around somewhere. But he could see nothing but the angry ocean, dark, swirling clouds blocking out midday sunshine, and a tropical island under full-scale attack by Mother Nature.
The sand blowing in his face annoyed him. The impossible nature of this mission infuriated him. That quickly, he felt the anger building inside of him—that new Feral edginess that had him feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. If only Jag were here to give him a good fight.
He pressed his mouth close to Melisande’s ear and yelled above the gale, “We’ve got to find shelter. Somewhere defensible.”
Glancing up, she met his gaze with a tense mouth, hard agreement in warrior eyes. He tightened his grip on her hand with an instinctive need to protect. She couldn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds, and he feared that the wind would lift her up and send her flying. Together, they ran from the beach toward the tree line above.
A shiver took hold of him, one he’d come to recognize as the kind that preceded some of his intuitions, now. And sure enough, as before, he suddenly knew where to go.
“This way!” He tugged on Melisande’s hand. Within the forest, debris flew, branches snapped, trees bending as if pushed low by a giant hand.
His gut led him toward a particularly thick clump of trees in which they could find some shelter. He pulled back a wide palm frond for Melisande to precede him through. She stepped forward, then froze and began to backpedal.
“What’s the matter?”
“Look. Carefully!”
He leaned forward to see what the problem was. A pit. Bloody hell. By the looks of the trampled palm fronds around it, and the fronds lining the bottom some twenty feet down, the pit had been hidden. Before the storm? No. By the track marks up one side and the badly disturbed ground on top, whoever, or whatever, had fallen in had been hauled out again. And recently.
Why in the fecking hell had his gut brought him this way?
“Look!” Melisande yelled above the howling wind, pointing.
He followed her gaze to where someone lay sprawled and motionless a short distance away, partially hidden by a downed palm tree. Castin? Carefully avoiding the trap, they made their way to him. But as they approached, Fox saw that the body was missing its head. And it wasn’t alone. There were three in all, the heads scattered nearby like so many bowling balls.
A suspicion tugged at him and he nudged one of the heads with the toe of his boot, turning it until he could see its sightless eyes. The brown irises were ringed in shiny copper. Mage eyes. Approaching the second, he lifted one closed eyelid. Mage eyes again.
Melisande checked the third. “Mage.”
“Three dead Mage. No wonder there’s a hurricane.” Mother Nature got angry when her Mage were killed. Millennia ago, the Mage had been the closest to true nature spirits that existed on Earth. Now they were, more and more, a bunch of soulless bastards trying to free the Daemons to destroy the Earth they’d once protected.
“Who killed them?” Melisande asked.
“Damned good question.” And he had an idea. “Hold on to a tree. I don’t want you blowing away.” When she’d done as he commanded, he pulled on his own inner power and shifted into his fox, startled by the feel of hurricane-force winds through his fur. Opening his senses, he began to sniff around the bodies. Sure enough, he caught the scent they’d been following before they entered the labyrinth.
As he shifted back to human form, a strong gust knocked Melisande sideways, and she barely hung on to the tree. He grabbed her against him. “We’ve got to find shelter.”
“Yes.”
The storm’s fury was leaching into him, stealing his equilibrium. He was struggling to stay in his skin, to keep from going feral.
Hand in hand, they pushed into the forest of tropical trees, climbing over downed palms. Fox continually scanned for any sign of Castin or Mage, but he saw no one, nothing but flying trees and palm fronds.
About fifty yards in, he found what he’d been looking for—several boulders clustered together, surrounded by brush and trees forming a natural shelter from the worst of the storm. They ducked into the space, tucking themselves against the rocks as the wind continued to howl.
Melisande glanced up at him, old hatred in her eyes. “Castin’s here.”
“He was here. He may not be any longer. It appears your suspicion of a Mage gauntlet is accurate.”
Melisande nodded. “A gauntlet usually follows a single path.”
He longed to put his arm around her, to hold her close, but he didn’t trust himself not to draw claws. Even now, they were throbbing beneath the surface of his fingertips.
“The question is, where does it end?” he asked.
Melisande pursed that kissable mouth, drawing his attention, making him long to taste it again.
“It’s delivering us to the Mage,” she said. “To Inir. At least it’s delivering you there. Me, it’s trying to kill.” Her words were without emotion, but he felt the shiver go through her. And he knew an answering rage that only fueled the loss of control he was already struggling against. Because it was true, and they both knew it.
She leaned against him with a trust that curled around his heart and was utterly misplaced. “Don’t.” He pulled away. “I’m losing it again, pet. If I go feral, I’m going out into the storm. Stay here. Stay safe.”
How was it that this fierce, vulnerable, prickly woman, had come to be so important to him? All that mattered was protecting her.
Even . . . especially . . . if that meant keeping her safe from him.
As the howling wind threw palm fronds in every direction, uprooting trees and slamming them to the ground, Melisande watched the agitation rise in the shifter at her side and saw the moment Fox’s eyes changed from sky blue to yellow animal eyes.
Accessing her gift was a risky game, one that would sooner or later almost certainly derail everything she wanted in her life. But a shifter gone feral was a dangerous companion. And she didn’t want him out in the storm alone. Not when she had the power to help him.
Taking a deep breath, she turned to him, reaching for his face just as he started to move as if to rise.
“Fox, let me help.”
Feral eyes turned to her. “Too dangerous.”
It was, actually, but not in the way he thought. Never one to take no for an answer, she grabbed his face in both hands, forcing him to hold still for fear of hurting her with his fangs or claws. She knew he wouldn’t intentionally harm her. And for a reason she didn’t entirely understand, she couldn’t let him suffer.
When she opened her eyes again, Fox was staring at her with wonder and gratitude, his own eyes once more blue. And slowly filling with heat as his gaze roamed her face, as it dipped to her mouth.
Her breath caught, and she tore her gaze away.
Without warning, he pulled her onto his lap, tight against him, tucking her head against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. Pressing her face against the warm flesh of his neck had her mouth hungering for a taste. She curled her arms around his neck and felt his hands slide over her, one along her thigh to cup her buttocks, the other sliding over her breast.
Little by little, the pleasure of Fox’s touch, of his nearness, of his hand in hers, had been seeping into her, trickling deep down inside of her. Feeding her. And awakening her deep Ilina nature, so much of which had been frozen after the attacks.
Even with the storm screaming around them hunger flared. Her mating scent released. Between her legs, she began to burn. No, she didn’t want this!
But even as the cry sounded in her head, her mouth found his, her control broke, and she was kissing him. And then his arms were around her, pulling her close, his mouth fusing with hers in a passion as wild as the storm. As one, their mouths opened, their tongues finding one another, drinking from one another, a heady taste of sweetness and lust. His hands gripped her tight, one at her back, the other cupping her head.
His mouth tore from hers to rain kisses along her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her shoulder. She arched, tilting her head, giving him access as his mouth suckled at the flesh along the side of her neck, erasing the phantom pain of the vine, a wound now fully healed.
“Fox,” she gasped, as his touch sent passionate flames licking her insides, melting her from the inside out, filling her with a need, a hunger, that she’d thought never to feel again.
The pleasure grew inside her, changing, distilling into the finest of nectars, feeding her body and soul and setting up a craving for more. In a distant part of her mind, she railed at the foolishness of feeding this hunger. Did she not want to return to the way she’d been, to the warrior unable to feel?
But she was lost to Fox’s touch, to the feel of his silken locks beneath her fingertips, to his masculine scent and the taste of his kiss and the brush of his whiskers against her sensitive neck.
She was on fire for him and he was equally crazed with need for her.
The hand at her back, slid lower, down to her hip, strong fingers flexing into her butt cheek, pulling her against him as he rubbed his thick erection against her hip.
His mouth reclaimed hers, and she drank of him all over again as his tongue invaded her mouth, as her tongue slid against his. She was on fire for him.
Barely registering her actions, she twisted on his lap, straddling him, rubbing herself against his hardness. Fox groaned, pressing her closer. And then his hand was at her waist, his fingers sliding down inside the front of her leggings, down between her legs, one finger diving deep inside of her.
Her cry of pleasure strangled in her throat as her body froze, memories rearing up, terrible and terrifying. Chained, spread . . .
Melisande froze, pushing off of Fox’s lap, her heart pounding. Shaken, she sat back against the rock, struggling to breathe, curling into herself beside him as another tree cracked and fell nearby.
“Melisande?”
She didn’t answer, didn’t know what to say because even as the memories crashed over her, her body, fully awakened, wept with need. The passion continued to swirl in her blood, stretching and growing, flowing into her limbs, deep into her core. She wanted, needed, to be back in Fox’s arms, to feel his mouth on hers again, to feel his body inside hers.