When Passion Lies: A Shadow Keepers Novel (16 page)

To take out her frustrations on a goddamned punching bag.

She’d finally opened her door, expecting to see Tiberius at the end of the hallway, looking for her the way she was looking for him. He wasn’t there, though.

She told herself she didn’t care, and that she was happy he hadn’t been nearby. She didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to talk to him. He made her feel vulnerable, and that was something she hadn’t felt for years.

She didn’t like it.

Hell, it had been in this very room where Tiberius had told her about Blaine. A traitor. A goddamned vampire bastard who’d turned into a snitch for the werens. Tiberius intended to send one of the
kyne
out after him. The men. The warriors.

She’d held her tongue, but she’d had a plan of her own. And the memory of that moment washed over her—the way Tiberius had held her close, their bodies naked in the pool. The way she’d pressed a palm to his face, memorizing his eyes and silently promising him that she would return. He’d made love to her, fast and
hard, both of them desperate for each other. And then slow and sweet. He hadn’t known what she was thinking, of course, but she’d relished the press of his body against hers, savoring the time until she went out into the world to kill for her lover.

Smash, bam!

She lashed out at the sand-filled bag again and again. Searching for exhaustion. Trying to shut down her mind. She didn’t want those memories, not now. Not the way she’d felt in his arms, and sure as hell not the way she’d felt in the forest, Blaine in front of her and her chasing him.

Again and again, she lashed out, pounding harder and harder until she wasn’t thinking about the bag or the gym.

Until it was just fists and memories, trying so hard to exhaust her body and get her mind to stop spinning, to stop twirling.

Trying to stop remembering.

But it was no use.

It was never any use.

The memories always came.

She woke in a stone cell, her mind thick and fuzzy. She knew that time had passed, but she had no sense of it. Had she been captive for an hour? A year?

Putting all of her meager energy into the task, she struggled against the chains that bound her wrists and ankles to the wall, but it was no use
.

“It’s hematite, of course.” Her masked captor’s face appeared at the small, barred window in the metal door.
“Don’t bother fighting. You’ll only sap what little strength you have left.” His words were matter-of-fact, as if he’d invited her over for tea rather than torture
.

He pushed open the heavy door. It swung inward with a hollow groan. “If this goes well, I’ll release you soon enough.”

“When?” she growled
.

As if in reflex, he glanced heavenward. “Soon enough.”

A riffle of panic welled inside her, along with a hunger so intense that every cell in her body seemed wrung out and dry. She’d fed well before she’d left on the hunt, and the depth of her hunger gave her some idea as to how long it had been since she’d tasted blood. “You’ve kept me chained up here for weeks.”

“Don’t worry. You haven’t yet worn out your welcome. Now be a good girl and don’t move.” He pulled out the tranq gun. “I don’t want to have to do this more than once.”

“Don’t,” she said. “You already have me chained up. Don’t force me to sleep, too.”

“Not to worry, my dear,” he said as he fired. “There’s no tranquilizer in here.”

His words sent cold terror through her, and she concentrated all of her energy on ripping the chains from the stone. It was no use. The vampiric strength she’d once cherished and relied upon was gone. Starved of blood and bound by hematite, her body was even weaker than that of a human woman
.

The dart pierced her skin, and she screamed, crying out in pain and anger. He’d spoken the truth—there was no tranquilizer in the dart. There was hematite. Somehow he’d converted the metal to liquid, and now it coursed through her, ripping her up from the inside,
making her dizzy, making her sick. Making the world swim with dark colors that shifted to fiery red as her daemon howled and roared, searching for a fight. Longing for a kill. But she was trapped, bound, and the enemy danced just out of reach
.

She tried to speak, tried to curse and yell and rant, but the hematite was fully in her system now, doing its work upon her body, upon her mind. The world fell away from her as the chilling numbness of defeat settled over her, and she slid down into the dark embrace of pain. It held her, fed her, kept her. Pulling her in, embracing and keeping her until—

Something changed.

Caris opened her eyes, feeling reality curl around her like a welcoming blanket. She was still bound, but the pain had lessened to a dull throbbing within her. For days, he’d been injecting her repeatedly until what little concept of time that had remained within her had vanished completely
.

Was he coming back now? Or had the torment truly ended?

And if so, what did that mean? She no longer clung to the illusion that he would let her go. Nor did she hold on to the promise that Tiberius would come to save her. He’d looked—that much her heart knew for sure. But he’d failed
.

He’d failed, and now she was alone. Alone and, dammit, scared
.

The fear coiled through her, and she tensed, expecting the daemon within to rise. In the past, it had always struck out like a serpent when fear or anger burst within, latching onto those raw emotions and using them as
footholds to climb to the surface of what made her Caris. To take over. To control and rage
.

She’d fought it back once with Tiberius’s help—called upon the numen and banished the daemon back within the depths of her soul. He’d given her the strength to fight again when it tried to escape its soul-bound prison, and for centuries she’d remained Caris, the evil inside her having no claim on her personality or her actions
.

If it tried again now, she knew she didn’t have the strength to fight
.

Was that her captor’s purpose? To weaken her so that the daemon could take over? To make her rogue?

If so, he’d won. She was wrung out. A shell of herself. Her emotions paper thin, capable of being cut down with nothing more substantial than a breeze
.

She waited, dreading the inevitable. Knowing with absolute certainty that the daemon would rise—this time in full force and power. And the woman she’d fought so hard to remain would be lost forever, trapped inside silent walls, fists battering against a force beyond her control and a power she no longer had the strength to overcome
.

Her hair flew out wild around her. Her body glistened with sweat. And her arms and fists moved with a speed that defied sight, so fast she was a blur even to Tiberius’s keen vision.

He watched, unable to turn his gaze away as Caris brutalized the punching bag, her face contorted, her lips moving as if she were talking to herself, urging herself on, narrating a kill in her mind.

She was a natural fighter. The way she moved, her speed and agility. In the early days he’d trained her, fought with her. And over and over again he’d been astounded by her uncommon skill.

He’d taken that from her, and selfishly, too. He’d been so afraid of losing her that he’d forced her to give up something that was clearly at her core. He’d let her train, yes. But not go out in the field as she’d wanted. He’d been too close to see the truth of how much she both wanted and needed the fight, and in the end, he’d lost her anyway. Now it was too late. The damage had already been done. He’d denied her what she’d needed, and Gunnolf had let her march into battle. Tiberius hated the weren all the more for it. And, yes, he hated himself as well.

She wore a sports bra and shorts that showed the curve of her rear, and her body was covered by a thin layer of sweat. How many times before had he found her like that, beating out her frustrations? He’d take her in his arms, and let her find a more pleasant way to work through her issues.

He couldn’t do that now, though there was no denying the tightening in his body that proved he wanted to.

He pushed the thoughts aside, focusing only on her. On her fists. On the bag. Tiberius didn’t know what she was brutalizing in her head, but from the furious intensity of her punches, he could hazard a guess. Someone had done this to her—some filthy, stinking weren had ripped her flesh, had violated her body. Some vile, anonymous lupine Therian had transformed Caris—and in doing so the son of a bitch had destroyed her.

And in her mind, Caris was taking him down.

Bam, pow, bam!

Caris battered the bag some more, and Tiberius watched jealously. He wanted a piece of the bastard, too. Wanted to pummel and break. Wanted to look into that weren’s eyes and see the one who’d harmed her. And Claudius, the weren who’d tormented Tiberius all those long years ago. Wanted their faces to swim before his eyes, bloodied and battered as life drained out of them.

Stop
.

Goddammit, stop
. His past was rising up around him. Memories he’d kept pushed down for millennia were poking out, creeping into his thoughts like clinging vines, and every time he ripped one away another lashed out, winding around him and refusing to let go.

Her
.

She’d pulled them out, her proximity making them swirl around him with an intensity he long ago conquered. Send her away, and he’d banish the memories as well. He had to.

If he was going to keep his head as they approached election day, he should send her away.

“Caris.”

She didn’t respond, just kept up her assault.

“Caris.”

Still, nothing.

This time, he walked to her, then tapped gently on her shoulder. She spun—a wild thing—and lashed out at him. He caught her fist before contact, but the blow was stronger than he’d anticipated and he stumbled backward, taking her with him. She fell against him, and they both tumbled to the ground, his back to the mat, her body on his so he was bathed in the scent of her.

Again, memories washed over him, but this time they
weren’t vile, though they were just as painful. Memories of this room. Of this mat. Hell, memories of this position, her throwing him down as they practiced, and him more than willing to be thrown because when they practiced fight techniques even the loser won.

He’d missed this—missed
her
. The Caris he used to love.

She stayed there a moment, her mouth open slightly in surprise, her chest rising and falling. Then she straightened, straddling him now, her legs on either side of his hips and her ass nestled firmly against his crotch. She shifted—the slightest of movements—and he bit back a groan. Her eyes narrowed knowingly and she moved again, a delicious sensual pressure. An erotic tease.

A reminder of what he’d once had—and what no longer existed.

“Get off.”

Her brow lifted, her mouth quirking flirtatiously. “Off? I’ve gotten the better of the great Tiberius. Do you really think I’d give up the advantage so easily?” She wriggled devilishly, and his body—his body that knew her touch and feel and scent as intimately as his own—responded, his cock hardening, his blood burning.

No
.

In a flash, he flipped her over, gaining the edge she’d claimed for himself. But he could see the knowledge in her eyes. She’d felt the effect she’d had on him, and even though he might have taken the advantage, they both knew that she’d won.

He rose off her, then stood as she lay back on the mat, propped up on her elbows. She looked back at him, soft and innocent. But he knew better. She was
hard and wicked, and the softness he saw now was only an illusion.

Once upon a time, he’d seen the real unguarded woman beneath the facade, but Caris knew better than to show herself to her enemies. And Tiberius knew better than to count himself among her friends. Not anymore.

“Get up.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable.”

“Fine. Stay down there. But I came to tell you that you can go.” He hadn’t come to tell her that at all. But his reaction to her suggested that really was the best decision.