Passion Untamed (10 page)

And when she’d come…

His body tightened as the memory of her orgasm brought on his own. With a low groan, he pumped his seed into the sink, the release satisfying in only the most basic way. Grabbing a towel, he cleaned himself off, then zipped up his pants as he glanced at Evangeline watching him from the doorway, heat in her eyes.

No matching heat rose in his body. A flare of panic ran beneath his breastbone. He’d cleared himself of the magic. It should be gone!

Reaching for Evangeline, he pulled her into his arms and released her just as quickly, wanting her even less than he had before. Skye’s slender body rose in his mind, her scent the only one he craved.

“Shit!” He stormed past Evangeline, into the bedroom, the ever-present rage boiling his blood.

Behind him, a feminine snort of disbelief. “She’s enchanted you, all right, just not with magic. You’re into her for real, warrior.”

Paenther swung to face his scantily clad companion. “I have not fallen for a witch!”

“Maybe not emotionally, but physically, you want her bad. Bad enough that no one else will do.”

Paenther felt the rush of feral anger, his teeth and claws elongating, his mind spoiling for a fight. One of his brothers was about to get bloody.

“Ease down, warrior,” Evangeline said without fear. “It’ll go away, Paenther. You’re not the first male to want a female you shouldn’t have. You won’t be the last. Sooner or later, you’ll get over her.”

Paenther clenched his jaw hard and nodded. “Sooner, not later.” He pulled himself back, retracting his fangs and claws. The best way to end this unholy infatuation was to avoid the witch altogether. The only reason he’d brought her back here was to interrogate her and find out what she
knew. Once they’d done that, there was nothing to keep them from destroying her. Then he
knew
he’d get over her.

Striding back into the bathroom, he shut the door, stripped, and took a hot shower, washing the smell of the caverns and the witch off his skin. As he dried himself, he made his decision. He’d give her into Roar’s keeping. Let his chief decide what to do with her. Because, enchanted or not, he obviously wasn’t thinking clearly when it came to this particular witch. And there was too much at stake for him to make any more errors.

Paenther dressed quickly, in a clean pair of black leathers and a black silk shirt, buckling his knife belt around his waist.

The witch was no longer his concern.

If only, for one damned minute, he could stop wanting her.

Skye stood within her prison cell deep below Feral House, once more dressed, her back against the wall. Her body quaked as she struggled for breath, fearing what Paenther would do when he returned, dreading Birik’s retribution. How many times had Birik told her if she ever escaped him, he’d make her long to return…or long to die?

If only she could escape them both. But where would she go?

Home. She’d go home.

Tears heated her eyes as the longing for her mother nearly overwhelmed her. But she didn’t know how to find her. Her world had been so contained, so secure, she had no frame of reference within the human world to lead her back there.
No idea what human town they’d lived near, or even what state. No way to contact the people she’d loved.

And no way to know if they, too, had lost their souls and were now part of Inir’s army.

She brushed at the tear that rolled down her cheek. It didn’t matter because she’d never be free. Escape was impossible. The Feral Warriors would never let her go. She wasn’t sure they’d even let her live once she’d told them what she knew about Birik and the Daemons.

The memory of what she’d witnessed doubled her over until she thought she would be sick again. The terror of those poor people still pulsed through her blood, their screams ringing forever in her head. The foul smell of the Daemon himself felt permanently burned into her nose.

She pressed the back of her fist against her mouth. All the more reason she could never let Birik catch her again. He would only try to use her power to free more of those things. Even if he didn’t get Paenther, too, he’d search for another way until he succeeded in freeing more.

And she’d die before she helped him set loose another of those monsters.

Slowly, she sank to the floor, cold from the bleakness of the future before her. Her old life was over. And she had none to replace it. She could never go back. Yet trapped in the Ferals’ prison, there was no way to go forward. Was this it, then?

She pressed her head back against the wall, tears falling freely as Paenther’s words replayed in her
head.
Whether we choose to let evil live, or we fight to destroy it, defines our lives. Choose, Skye.

She snorted softly. She had no choices.

But she’d made
one
, hadn’t she? She’d freed Paenther and accidentally removed herself from Birik’s control in the process. And it had been the right choice, no matter what happened to her.

When the Ferals came to interrogate her, she’d tell them everything she knew. Maybe, in some small way, she could help them defeat Birik and his Daemons. Maybe in some small way she could make up for all the suffering she’d caused with her gift.

Then, if they still felt they had to destroy her, so be it. What was one life when so many would die, when so many creatures had already died, because of her?

With a hard shudder, she pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms tight around them.

So be it.

But, dear Mother, I don’t want to die.

As Paenther descended the stairs with Evangeline, Lyon opened the front door to the Shaman. To all appearances, the man who stepped into Feral House was little more than a boy, a fifteen-year-old dressed in costume—a ruffled white shirt and black breeches from a bygone era. He nodded to Lyon, then looked up to meet Paenther’s gaze, his eyes ancient in his youthful face.

The Shaman gave a brief nod. “Warrior.”

“Shaman.” A growl rumbled in Paenther’s throat. “Get me out of these shackles.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

When he reached the foyer, Paenther motioned the Shaman into the living room. Like every room in Feral House, the walls were covered in original oil paintings, most dating from the midnineteenth century.

While Paenther took a seat on one of the deeply cushioned chairs, the Shaman pulled up a footstool and took hold of one of Paenther’s arms, pressing his slender fingers around the manacle. Closing his eyes, he began to chant, murmuring words under his breath from a language Paenther had heard him use before, one he himself didn’t know. Minute after minute passed, long, tense minutes where Paenther forgot to breathe, his mind and body concentrating so hard on willing the Shaman’s magic to work.

When the Shaman opened his eyes and pressed his lips together unhappily, Paenther wanted to yell his fury.

The Shaman shook his head. “I’m sorry. It’s strong, strong magic, warrior. I’m going to have to do more research to see if I can find another way.”

Paenther closed his eyes, wrestling down the fury inflamed by his frustration. He needed to be able to shift! As long as he wore these shackles, he remained a prisoner to the Mage.

He speared the Shaman with his gaze. “The witch is in the prison. Lyon wants you to bind her magic.”

A flash of venom tightened the Shaman’s mouth as he nodded. Like his own, the Shaman’s fate had long ago been decreed by a Mage attack. He’d been a youth at the time, and the attack had ended his growth into manhood. Though he was one of the oldest Therians alive, he looked like a young teen and always would.

Paenther rose and led the smaller man into the foyer, where he found Lyon waiting, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression grim as he eyed the manacles still on Paenther’s wrists.

“No luck.” Paenther’s tone was clipped.

“Bring the witch to the war room as soon as the Shaman’s bound her.”

Paenther nodded. “Then, Roar? She needs to be someone else’s concern. She’s still got her claws in me.”

Lyon looked at him sharply. “I thought you got yourself cleared.”

“I did. That’s why I know someone else has to see to her after this.”

Lyon eyed him thoughtfully, then nodded.

Paenther led the Shaman down the long flight of stairs and through the underground chambers. When they reached the prison cell, Skye rose with that fluid grace of hers and faced him, her back straight, her chin raised. In her eyes he saw a mix of courage and hopelessness, as if she expected the worst but was prepared to face it all the same.

That errant tug she had on him had him wanting to reach out to her, to reassure her nothing bad was going to happen to her. But he couldn’t re
assure her even if he wanted to. Mage witches didn’t live long in Feral House. For good reason.

“She’s not tied.” The Shaman stepped back. “I’m not going near her unless she’s tied.”

Skye pressed her lips together and turned her head. Paenther opened the cell and grabbed one of the lengths of rope he’d originally intended to stake her out with. Skye put her hands behind her back, allowing him to tie her without effort.

As he looped the rope around her wrists, his body began to react to her nearness as it always did, rising, hardening as if he hadn’t just jerked himself off. The cat in him wanted to rub its cheek against her soft hair, to rub his body against her softer curves. His hands itched to slide over the parts of her only his eyes had ever touched.

He gripped her wrists harder than necessary. Just the touch of his flesh on hers had desire flowing through him, raw and hot.
Goddess
, what she did to him. She turned her head, and it was all he could do not to press his mouth against the long, silken length of her neck. To lick, to nibble.

With a growl of deep frustration, he finished tying her and stepped out of the cell, allowing the Shaman to take his place. The Shaman watched her with all the warmth one might reserve for a hissing cobra. Repugnance darkened his eyes as he circled the witch, chanting the binding spell.

Skye looked down at her bare feet.

Sympathy rose from some misbegotten place inside him. So what if everyone loathed her? She was Mage. He would not feel sorry for a witch.

The Shaman stopped abruptly. “You haven’t removed her cantric.”

“I couldn’t find it. She says it’s buried in her heart.”

“That’s impossible.” He motioned Paenther to him with a quick tilt of his head. “Hold her for me while I check.”

Skye’s gaze snapped up to his, her eyes sharp and wary.

He knew what she was thinking. “The Shaman doesn’t have to use a knife to find your cantric, witch. Calm down.” Moving behind her, he took hold of those slender shoulders, feeling a strength in her bones that he wouldn’t have expected. Maybe she wasn’t quite as delicate as she looked.

His mind played with him, reminding him of the inviting appeal of those shoulders when they’d been bare a short while ago. Would the skin taste as sweet as her kisses? He imagined pulling her dress aside, baring one shoulder for his mouth.

With a growl, he fought back his body’s obsession with this woman.

The Shaman, only as tall as Skye, stood in front of her and ran his hands in front of her chest, an inch from her dress. Slowly, his hands stilled, the one coming to rest directly over her heart. The Shaman closed his eyes as if hearing a tune that played only in his head.

“It’s in her heart, as she says. You’ll not remove the cantric without taking the heart.”

Killing her. “How did she ever survive its placement in the first place?”

“I imagine she was a child.”

Paenther nodded, remembering what Skye had told him. “She was eight.” Eight. That bastard Mage had cut open an eight-year-old little girl to insert a copper ring in her heart. He could have killed her.

The Shaman nodded. “That would explain it. Magic has unpredictable consequences in children. In this case, she apparently survived what an adult would not. The heart grew around the cantric.” He resumed his chanting. Two more circles around her and he moved out of the cell. “She’s bound, but…” He shook his head. “I can’t guarantee she’s no longer dangerous. Be careful, warrior.”

Oh, she was dangerous, all right. All he had to do was get near her, and he wanted her. Hell, all he had to do was think of her.

He took hold of her upper arm and steered her out of the cell.

As he did, she looked up at him. “I can’t hurt you. I don’t have that kind of power. And I wouldn’t hurt you if I could.” Her words were as intense as her eyes, spinning a dangerous web around his mind, trying to soften his resolve against her.

“Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because it’s the truth.”

And what was the truth? Who was she? A dangerous enemy? A victimized innocent? Or perhaps just enough of both to throw him off his guard and doom the Feral Warriors and their mission once and for all.

With deep trepidation, Skye followed Paenther through the foyer from the basement, trying to take her mind off the impending interrogation.

The painted wood floor was cool and smooth beneath her bare feet. She barely remembered the feel of shoes, it had been so long since she’d worn any. Birik had never provided anything but the basics for her—dresses and a minimal amount of food. In the days before Inir came, back when she was young and still had friends, they’d tried to slip her treats—a doll, a small necklace, a pretty pair of panties—but Birik invariably discovered the gifts and destroyed them.

Paenther steered her down the hall. Her pulse began to race. A bead of perspiration slid between her breasts. Even before they reached the room where the Ferals waited, she heard the deep rumblings of male voices and felt the stirrings of the animals inside them. Mostly large animals, jungle cats and canines, along with a single bird of prey.

Paenther ushered her into a large, wood-paneled room dominated by a huge oval table and the men themselves—more than half a dozen huge males. With them was the woman she’d seen in the foyer. Kara. All eyes turned her way, a mix of curiosity and animosity in every pair.

The animals leaped to greet her, then one by one began to growl and hiss, mimicking the hostility of the men in which they resided.

Three of the big men strode forward, watching
her with wary eyes but looking at Paenther with deep, heartfelt relief.

A sharp-faced man with arched brows grasped Paenther’s arm with both of his.

“Hawke,” Paenther murmured.

“You had us worried, buddy.” He held Paenther’s forearm for a long moment. “Glad you got away.”

“Me, too.”

As Hawke stepped back, a second man, the largest in the room, grabbed his arm.

“Wulfe.”

“Welcome back, B.P.”

The third man, Skye had seen before. A young man with a shock of unkempt red hair. Foxx. He’d been with Paenther each time she’d seen him at the Market, before she’d captured him.

Paenther gripped the young man’s forearm, then released her to clasp his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re okay, Cub. But that’s the last time I’m listening to those instincts of yours.”

The younger man groaned. “I guess she didn’t turn out to be so good for you after all.”

“You could say that.”

“Have a seat,” Lyon barked.

Paenther seated Skye on an empty chair at the near end of the table. With her hands tied, she didn’t have the luxury of leaning back as the others did. But she wouldn’t have been able to relax anyway. Not in this room, with the men throwing hostile looks her way every few moments.

Lyon, sitting at the head of the table at the far end, vibrated with tension. He turned to the
Shaman, who had followed them in. “Is there any possibility that Paenther is still enthralled?”

“There’s always the possibility. I feel no evidence of enthrallment, but he still wears the shackles. I can’t say for certain what they’re doing to him. The witch may be using them to control him in some way.”

Lyon’s intense gaze swung to Paenther. “What happened, B.P.? And what do we have to do to end this threat once and for all?”

As Paenther filled them in on the capture, Vhyper, and the Daemons, Skye watched him, glad for the opportunity to turn away from the unfriendly eyes in the room and drink her fill of the man at her side.

Paenther commanded a power unrivaled by any man in the room, with the possible exception of the chief himself. A power she felt every time he came near her. A power that lit fires in her blood.

As he talked, turning from his chief to the other men and back again, his black hair swung about his shoulders, and the scars across his eye rippled and moved. His was a face of incredible beauty and depth, exotic with its high, pronounced cheekbones, yet ruggedly, vibrantly handsome.