Passion Untamed (9 page)

How could she ever convince him that she did none of it willingly? He’d already made up his mind against her. She felt his animal sense her and give welcome, his silent purr a balm to her quaking heart.

But Jag’s animal was still hissing and a third cat—a tiger, maybe?—didn’t seem to be much happier about her presence. Why? Animals always greeted her. Why not these? Was the men’s animosity toward her affecting the animals inside them? Or maybe she simply didn’t have a way with animals that were also men.

Except the one inside Paenther.

As Jag turned back around, she met Paenther’s warning gaze, briefly, before turning to look out the windows. There was nothing she could do, either way. She couldn’t control their animals any more than she could control the men themselves.

Fear lived and breathed inside her as her distracted gaze took in the vast array of vehicles, and the buildings lit with a thousand lights. For the first time in her adult life, she was free of the cavern.

Free of the slaughter.

The realization swept over her on a deep tide of relief and anxiety. Her precious creatures were safe, at last. She wasn’t. Birik’s reach was long. She’d thwarted him, escaping without meaning to, and there would be hell to pay. The thought of it trembled inside her, but not even fear could dull the warmth in her heart of knowing her creatures would never again suffer because of her.

Whatever happened, she could not allow the Ferals to send her back.

The scenery passed, the office buildings giving way to houses and rolling roads, and finally to a long, circular driveway that told her they’d reached their destination. Feral House, she’d heard it called. The home of the Feral Warriors.

It sat at the back of the drive, a magnificent three-story brick house with black shutters at the windows and dormers tucked under the roofline. The windows were ablaze with light, giving the house a look of warmth and welcome that reminded her with bitter longing of the house, the Mage stronghold, where she’d lived as a child.

Any appearance of warmth was an illusion. There would never be any welcome at Feral House for her.

Along the edges of the drive were parked an array of cars, everything from low-slung sports cars to unremarkable sedans.

The car came to a stop, the hum of the engine going silent as the men and the woman flung open the doors and escaped into the night, slamming the doors behind them.

Skye scooted toward the seat backs as the door behind her lifted. Paenther’s hard and shadowed face stared down at her as he reached in and gripped her arm, hauling her out of the car and depositing her on her bare feet. She stood in the light coming from the windows of the well-lit house, her hands tied behind her, trembling. As the cool breeze tugged and pulled at the skirt of
her dress, she watched Paenther reach up and pull down the hatch, the muscles of his bare arms and torso flexing.

He was a beautiful creature. Strong. Powerful. If he decided she needed to die, she’d be dead in the heartbeat of his choosing. He turned and came to her with a dangerous catlike grace that drew her even as it scared her. Never had she wanted to be this man’s enemy.

He grabbed her arm again without meeting her gaze, his jaw hard as granite, and led her up the brick walk as if she were a prisoner on her last journey. She wondered, briefly, despondently, if she’d ever again breathe the night air.

The couple she assumed were Tighe and his mate waited for them to catch up. Tighe was handsome in a classic sort of way, with his short blond hair and hard, unfriendly eyes. The woman was beautiful, with her dark hair and confident bearing. She watched Skye with an assessing, curious gaze.

“Interesting eyes,” she murmured. “Are those copper rings what make them Mage eyes?” She turned and looked up at her husband.

“They are, but some Mage can hide the copper. This one did when she trapped Paenther.” The raw disgust in his voice flayed her.

Finally, after so many years, she was among others with souls. Others capable of honor and self-sacrifice. Of love and kindness. But none of that kindness would be turned toward her. Because she was a Mage. The enemy. And the Feral Warriors were well-known to be merciless to their enemies.

Paenther ushered her through the front door and into the warm interior of an extraordinary house. There were luxuriously appointed apartments within the caverns where she’d lived all these years, the apartments of Birik and his sorcerers, but she rarely visited them and never willingly. She’d preferred her own rustic cell, or the woods, where she’d been left alone.

But her gaze focused on the grandeur before her with wonder. The foyer glowed brilliantly with light, nearly blinding her as her gaze took in the beauty of the high, three-story room. Stairs curved upward from either side, while high above them hung a huge crystal chandelier the likes of which she’d never seen. The walls were covered in richly decorated papers, gilt-framed paintings of flowers and animals positioned elegantly upon them. The largest of the paintings was on the floor beneath her feet, a portrayal of a forest filled with naked men and women and all manner of creatures that no longer existed, if they ever had.

Skye jerked at the sound of footsteps and looked up to find three people rushing into the foyer—two more large Ferals striding purposefully, towering over the blond female between them.

“Paenther!” the woman cried, smiling with such relief, Skye wondered if this were Paenther’s mate. “We were so worried.” But as she started forward, the largest of the men, a man with a commanding face and thick waves of golden hair, held her back.

“Lyon…” the blond complained.

“Easy, Kara. He’s caught a witch.”

Kara’s blue eyes swung to her, flaring with wariness and no small amount of hostility. The female pressed herself back against the big man as his arm went around her protectively.

This
man was clearly the woman’s mate. Strangely, foolishly, Skye was glad.

The woman’s wary gaze returned to Paenther. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thank you, Radiant.”

Holding the woman against him, Lyon reached for Paenther and clasped arms with him, his expression deep and warm and moving. “I’m glad to have you back, B.P.”

The man beside him greeted Paenther in the same way. He said nothing, but the relief in his pale eyes was clear. When he released Paenther, he looked at her, his eyes going cold as a snowy day as he plucked at his goatee.

“She’s tugging at my animal.”

“And mine,” Lyon said, pinning her with a look sharp enough to cut before lifting his gaze to Paenther. “The Shaman’s on his way. I want her locked up until he gets here.”

“Agreed.”

“Evangeline and Genovia are on their way as well. I want everyone in that car cleared immediately.” Lyon’s gaze swung to Tighe. “You and Delaney can clear one another.”

Tighe grinned as he pulled the dark-haired woman against him, the dimpled smile turning
his hard face rakish as he visibly inhaled the scent of her hair. “If I have to.”

The woman elbowed him gently, making him laugh.

Lyon’s gaze swung to the man with the cold eyes. “Kougar, you and Jag keep an eye on Paenther until we know whether he’s still enthralled.” His gaze came back to Paenther. “Get rid of her cantric, if you haven’t already.”

Skye blanched. All Mage were implanted with the braided copper circle upon maturity. The cantric acted as a magic focuser and accelerator. Usually it was implanted deep in the flesh of the buttocks, where it wouldn’t be seen except by another Mage. But hers wasn’t in her buttocks.

“You can’t,” she said quietly.

“The hell we can’t.” Lyon turned on her with eyes filled with such venom she reared back, right into Paenther. His arm went around her middle, pulling her tight against his chest.

A deep, lion’s growl erupted from Lyon’s throat. “You’re ours now, witch, and we’ll do whatever we damn please. The death of one Mage won’t upset the balance of the natural world.” Lyon lifted that hard gaze to Paenther. “Lock her up. I’ll call you and Jag when the women get here. As soon as you’re cleared, we’ll meet in the war room.”

Paenther released her, took her arm again, and pulled her down the hall to a doorway, then down a long, long flight of stairs.

“Paenther.” She swallowed hard. “I’m not your enemy. If I were, I wouldn’t have helped you escape.”

His hand tightened around her upper arm. “I don’t want to hear it.” His voice was like ice.

“I hate Birik as much as you do. More! I hate him more.”

He jerked her, making her lose her balance, but his too-tight grip kept her from falling.
“Silence.”

With a mounting feeling of dread, she did as he commanded. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he led her down a long passage lit by electric sconces hung on the walls. They walked past a dark room before Paenther led her into a large, well-lit room with ultramodern workout equipment at one end.

She wondered if they’d rigged up the exercise machinery to turn this into some kind of torture chamber, but Paenther never slowed as he pulled her through the large room until he reached a glass wall at the far end. Set into the glass was a door.

Paenther pushed her through into a long, narrow passage that appeared to have been cut out of the rock. The stone was cold beneath her feet. Finally, the passage opened to a wide, rustic prison block, each cell separated from the next by thick stone walls.

Her stomach cramped at the realization that this was to be her fate. For how long? Would she ever again see the light of day?

So many times, Birik had imprisoned her. But
she’d always known all she had to do to be set free was cooperate. The power to free herself had always, ultimately, been in her hands.

This time, nothing was in her hands. Her breath caught on a hard lump of fear. Revenge, he’d said. She was used to pain. But taking the abuse from this man, who she knew possessed kindness, threatened to break her. Her body began to tremble.

Paenther pulled her to a halt in front of one of the cells and opened it. “Leave us,” he said to the two men who’d followed them down.

“No can do, Hiawatha,” Jag drawled.

Paenther glared at him. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “Go back to the gym and shut the door. Both of you. The witch and I are going to have a…
discussion
. And I won’t have an audience.”

If his words hadn’t told her he meant to hurt her, the tightening of his grip on her arm did. Her mouth went dry, and it was suddenly all she could do not to try to fight her way loose from his hold.

But she’d never get loose, never get away. And the punishment would only be worse if she tried. That was the way it had always been with Birik.

The air didn’t seem to want to go into her lungs.

The pale-eyed man slapped Jag on the back. “Come.” To Paenther he said, “Don’t kill her. Yet.”

As the two huge males walked away, Skye fought the tears that tried to clog her throat. It was so much harder taking cruelty from a man who’d
once been kind. Lucian’s betrayal had broken her as Birik’s attacks never had.

Paenther released her arm and pushed her into the cell.

Skye whirled to face him, desperate to try to make him understand. “Please, Paenther. Nothing I did was because I wanted to. Except free you.”

“Shut up, Skye.”

“He controls me. I don’t have a choice. I never have a choice!”

He grabbed her and pushed her around, pressing her face-first into the rock wall until the cold stone bit into her cheek.

“Shut up!”

She felt his hand tugging at the hem of her dress and closed her eyes against the burn of tears. He grabbed her buttocks, his fingers digging into her painfully, over and over, first one side then the other.

“Where is it? Where’s your cantric?” His hands began to grip her thighs, bruising her.

“It was embedded in my heart when I was eight.”

His hand stopped abruptly. “That’s impossible.”

She swallowed hard, remembering the words of his chief.
Get rid of her cantric
.

“Paenther,
please.
”

He tugged and pulled at her wrists, and suddenly her arms were free of the binding. Gripping her shoulders, he turned her around roughly, his eyes hard as flint.

“Take off your dress.”

She stared at him. He wasn’t going to kill her. Not yet.
Of course not
, she thought bitterly. He’d yet to take his revenge.

With shaking hands, she reached for the hem, pulling the fabric up and over her head in a single tug. Nudity didn’t bother her. She was far too used to it. Instead of tossing the dress to the floor, she pulled it against her chest like a shield. No, nudity didn’t bother her. It was why he wanted her naked that terrified her. What punishment did he intend to visit on her body?

Her heart began to pound in hard, erratic thuds. Trembling, she met his hard gaze.

Fire burned in his eyes. And the promise of pain.

As many times as Birik had hurt her, she knew this would be worse. Because Birik was without a soul. He got no more pleasure from hurting her than he did anyone else. In a strange way, it wasn’t personal. And because of that, the pain he inflicted never touched her mind or her heart.

But Paenther wasn’t like Birik. She knew he had kindness in him. She’d felt it. Been warmed by it.

Whatever punishment Paenther chose to mete out would be very, very personal.

When he hurt her, she was going to bleed all the way to her soul.

“It’s payback time,” Paenther snarled. Leaving Skye in the cage, pressed against the wall with her dress clutched to her chest, he grabbed a small coil of rope off the wall. He was so damned mad at her. He knew what she was! Yet she simpered and pleaded and tugged at his sympathies. Playing him. She was still playing him! “It’s time I rode you as you rode me, witch. But you like it bloody, don’t you? I wonder how you’ll like it when the blood’s your own.”

With the knife he’d taken from the farmhouse, he started cutting lengths of rope and tying them to the eyebolts fastened at the base of the walls at regular intervals for just this purpose. When he’d tied the last length, he rose and stared down at her as she stood covering herself in a pretense of modesty, trembling.

Creamy shoulders sloped from a long, graceful neck. A swell of bare hip peeked out from behind the dress, heating his blood.

“Quit pretending, Skye. I know what you are. Lie down. It’s time you felt what it’s like to be the one staked, your legs spread for another’s pleasure.”

Goddess, the thought of parting those silken legs, of finally,
finally,
being able to touch her fully, sent blood throbbing deep and low.

“I know what it feels like.” Her voice vibrated with fear and echoed with hollowness. “Those chains weren’t put on that rock for you.”

His gaze snapped to hers as her words registered. That rock where he’d lain, strapped for six days. Her dresses hanging on the wall as if that miserable bit of rock were
her
cell and not his.

Shit. He would not feel sorry for her! It was what she wanted. Just an act.

But as he stared at her, at those copper-and-blue eyes, he’d be damned if he could see any cunning. She had to be enchanting him, because all he saw in her was a terrible bleakness. And it chilled him to the bone.

What if I’m wrong about her?

As she watched him, a sheen of tears began to glisten in her eyes. Tears just like the ones that had streaked Ancreta’s cheeks as she’d run to him that day, her gown torn, her heavy breasts on full view. She’d kept her eyes downcast so he wouldn’t see the Mage copper in them, but those tears on her cheeks had slain him. And gotten him captured.

Tears. Just like Ancreta, Skye was playing on his sympathies.

“Lie down!”

Her jaw clenched, her head jerking in a tiny, defiant movement.

He closed the distance between them, pressing his hands on the wall on either side of her head. Her chest heaved, her body shook, but she didn’t plead, she didn’t cower. Instead, she closed her eyes on a hopeless sweep of dark lashes. “I’m not what you think.”

Her scent enveloped him, stirring his blood. He wanted her beneath him, yet everything inside him demanded revenge on her for enthralling him, for leading him into that hellhole. For making him feel sorry for her so that he’d
help her…help her…use him.

A single tear broke free from the cage of her lashes, and she quickly brushed it away with her bare shoulder. The light caught the teardrop. Somehow that single, glistening drop on her perfect shoulder damned him.

He fought the tug of pity, that misguided need to protect her all over again.

It was a lie!

He grabbed her face, making her look at him. “Open your eyes, witch. I bought this act once before. The poor little victim. I know better. Open your eyes!”

To his surprise, her lashes flew up, temper heating the tears. “I don’t know what you want from me! How could my fear of you possibly be an act? Even
if I were as soulless as you think I am, I’d be afraid right now. Any woman would. I can’t fight you.”

“Yet you defy me when you refuse to lie down.”

She looked away, then back, glaring at him even as her bottom lip began to quiver. “I won’t help you rape me.”

His stomach cramped. Never, in more than four hundred years, had he taken a woman against her will. He’d killed others for doing just that.

Dammit.
She was a witch! Just like Ancreta.

No. She wasn’t.

Ancreta had tortured him for the joy of it for months. Skye had never hurt him.

He released her and whirled away, slamming his fists into the stone of her cage. That was the problem. In all the time she’d had him at her mercy, she’d never once caused him an ounce of pain. Even after he attacked her.

If the witch in here with him were Ancreta, he’d have no trouble hurting her just as she’d hurt him all those months with her eyes filled with malicious glee.

But Skye wasn’t Ancreta. He hated her for her lies, for making him think she was being abused so he’d fuck her. He despised the way she’d led the animals in her care to slaughter. Most of all, he hated the way she’d made him care about her, forcing this need in him to protect her.

But as far as he remembered, she’d never done anything to cause him pain. How could he get any satisfaction from hurting her in return? Even her fear was making him ill.

Yes, she’d taken him against his will, but he couldn’t pretend there was any similarity. When she’d impaled herself on him during that ritual, he’d been furious. But she hadn’t hurt him. Until the power rushed through him afterward, the physical act itself had brought him only pleasure.

That wouldn’t be the case if he forced himself on her. Not unless she was wet and ready. Goddess, he could do that. He wanted to do that, to stroke her and touch her until she was writhing with need beneath his hand.

That
he could force on her. A need she didn’t want.

Retribution.

But he couldn’t shake the thought of her on that stone, chained as he’d been. For whose pleasure? Birik’s?

Fury burned through him, but it was a fury against her attackers, not against her.

Shit.

For all he knew, every thought in his head was being manipulated by her deft enchantment.

He stormed out of the small cell without a backward glance, locking the barred door behind him. It was past time he got himself cleared of this damned magic. And the only way to do that was with a good sexual release. Evangeline’s warm and willing body would have to do. But, goddess, the only one he wanted was the very one who’d enchanted him in the first place.

Skye.

As Paenther climbed the stairs from the underground chambers, his fingers curled around the cold metal manacle biting into his opposite wrist. Dark fury twined with the rage that was as much a part of him as the magic that allowed him to shift. A magic chained as thoroughly by these damned shackles as he’d been chained to that rock.

His fingers dug into his flesh, trying to claw beneath the metal. He wanted the damned things off! The witch claimed they were magic, which meant they could be doing things to him. Goddess knew what.

The shackles alone were stopping him from racing back to that cavern to grab Vhyper before he couldn’t find him again. Vhyper’s soul was still in his body, Paenther was sure of it. Trapped by the evil that had already stolen too many.

If it was the last thing he did, he’d get him out of that cavern and free of the dark control.

Paenther strode into the foyer to find Evangeline waiting for him, watching him with hunger in her eyes. She’d dressed for him, her ripe curves well displayed by the low-cut red dress that hugged her body and left her long, shapely legs bare. Her dark hair tumbled loose around her shoulders just the way he liked it.

“Where’s Genovia?” he asked.

“Jag’s already taken her upstairs.” She held out her hand to him, a slow, knowing smile lifting her mouth.

He made no move to take her hand. For the first
time in decades that smile, that ripe, lush body, stirred nothing inside him.

Skye’s fault. Ironically, the only way to eliminate the web of enchantment she’d spun around him was to take Evangeline anyway. And he would. Dammit, he would.

In a minute.

“Do you want something?” He walked past her into the living room, a room as flowery and gilded as the rest of the house, and grabbed the bottle of scotch from the bar, pouring himself a drink and kicking it back in a single swallow.

“I want you,” the woman said softly, leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed beneath her ample breasts. She watched him with shrewd eyes, her gaze flicking down to his crotch and his decided lack of erection. “But you don’t want me today. What’s happened, Paenther?” There was no rancor in her tone. No hurt.

Theirs was a relationship built on sex and nothing more. On physical pleasure and needs met. He liked and respected her and was always careful to bring her as much pleasure as she brought him. But what they had together ended at the bedroom door.

“I’ve been enthralled. I’m probably still under her enchantment.”

Evangeline nodded. “Which is why Lyon called me.” She straightened and held out her hand again. “Come, warrior. Let’s get you cleared of that magic. Then when you’re interested again, I’ll pleasure you a second time, if you like.”

Paenther watched her, seeking the rush of heat that should have accompanied her words. But it was frustratingly absent. Still, she was right. The sooner he got the witch’s magic out of his system, the better.

Without touching her, he led her upstairs to his bedroom, his own private sanctuary. The previous Radiant, Beatrice, had insisted on sharing her love of art with all the Ferals. Paintings of Indians on horseback covered two of his walls. But the large, rough-hewn furniture and collections of now-antique guns and arrowheads were all his.

He closed the door and watched the woman slowly strip out of the dress until she wore nothing but a pair of tiny lace panties and a bra, which left little to the imagination. Evangeline was soft and curvy, and sexy as hell. At least, he’d always thought so. But as he imagined removing those scraps of lace and having his way with the womanly parts beneath, he felt nothing. His body refused to rise.

He gave a snort of disgust.

Evangeline frowned. “She really has you under her spell, doesn’t she?”

With a growl, he closed the distance between them, turned Evangeline in his arms, pressing her back against his chest as his hands covered her full, ripe breasts. Too ripe. His hands itched to cup a pair of small breasts on a too-slender frame. “Dammit.”

Evangeline eased out of his arms. “Close your eyes, Paenther. Maybe that will help. Close your eyes and think of her.”

“Evie…”

“Do whatever it takes to get aroused, warrior. We have to clear you of her magic.”

He leaned back against the door and did as she suggested, closing his eyes. The moment he did, Skye’s face rose in his mind as he’d first seen her. The excitement in her eyes as she’d looked up from perusing the magazine and caught his gaze. He thought of the way she’d looked as he’d driven himself into her in the woods, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

His body rose and heated at the thought. He felt soft hands on his crotch, unzipping his pants, taking his heavy shaft into a warm palm. He arched into the touch, heat coursing through his body.

The scent of jasmine filled his senses, and he stilled, everything inside him rebelling. Jasmine, not violets.

He didn’t want jasmine. He didn’t want…Evangeline.

The only one who could slake this hunger was Skye.

He opened his eyes to look down at the woman preparing to take him into her mouth. Her hair was too long. Her body too lush, too ripe.

His body went soft. With a growl of disgust, he moved away from her, zipping himself back into his pants as he prowled the room like a caged and wounded animal. Dammit! He might as well still be shackled and chained to the witch’s rock for all the freedom he had from her.

“What do you want me to do, Paenther?” Evangeline asked carefully.

“I don’t know.” He had a beautiful, practically naked,
willing
woman in front of him, and direct orders from his chief to find sexual release. And he couldn’t take her. He didn’t want to be inside her. Not between her legs. Not in her mouth. He didn’t even want her touching him.

Goddess, that witch had him screwed up.

“If you’re not going to let me clear you, Paenther, you’ll have to do it yourself. And I’ll have to watch to make sure you do. We can’t have the enchantment keeping you from getting cleared.”

Shit.

Standing where Evangeline’s scent didn’t overpower him, he closed his eyes and thought of Skye. Of the day he kissed her for the first time, still thinking she was human. He’d ordered Foxx back to the country store a second time, needing to see her again. He hadn’t expected her to be there, but she’d been waiting. And when she’d slid into his arms and pressed her mouth to his…

Fire erupted inside him, heating his body. As she swept her tongue into his mouth, all thought of gentleness flew from his head. He took her mouth, plundering, conquering with his tongue as he pulled her tight against him. She tasted like raindrops and smelled like violets, and all he could think of was being inside her.

Her arm slipped from around his neck and moved down to slide over that distended part of his anatomy, telling him her thoughts were as carnal and desperate
as his own. He slid his palm down her thigh, then up again, lifting the skirt of her dress until he found the hem. He reached beneath, his fingers skimming her warm flesh, his hand slipping between her thighs, finding her hot, damp core.

The woman wore no undergarments.

A smile pulled at his mouth as he kissed her hard and slid a single, shaking finger deep inside her tight wet sheath.

Paenther opened his eyes and strode to the bathroom, leaving the door open as he pulled his throbbing erection out of his pants and began pumping himself off over the sink. His mind remained on Skye.

Foxx had interrupted them, or he might have taken her right there. Right then. He’d been so hard for her. And she’d been so ready.

Damn the witch!

In his mind he saw her again as she’d ridden him on the stone that first time, fingering herself as he’d directed her to.

Goddess, she’d been glorious as the passion had begun to ride her, as the cries had escaped that slender throat.