Sorcha's Wolf (7 page)

Chapter Eight

Alex found Sorcha after the moon had set behind him. She was still, her body smaller than he recalled. Her face was deathly pale, making the blood seeping from her nose and dotting her lips even more startling.

“Damn it, witch!” He hauled her out of the stream and up against the soft turf along the bank. Why was she in the freezing water? Half of her clothing was soaked, her hair sweat streaked and mussed.

The loud thunder of his breath made it hard to hear a heartbeat, until he pressed his head to her chest for several agonising seconds. Gradually he picked up a slow, steady rhythm. She lived. Barely.

He shook her, but she didn’t respond except to groan and hunch over, gripping her stomach. She’d taken her sweater off. The fact registered dully in his mind along with the awareness his chest suddenly ached as if someone had rammed a knife into his heart.

Suddenly she screamed. Her body stiffened and she arched her back off the ground, thrashing in the throes of something painful.

His heart nearly cracked his ribs.
Holy mother of them all.

The antidote. He scrambled back with her, searching for a way to ease her, without the vial of potion. Her cry softened until it turned into a low pain filled keening.

The hurt in her voice did odd things to him. Instincts raged inside his mind—his wolf paced closer than ever to the surface urging him to run, to hold her, to stay, to fight whatever harmed her. With a frustrated growl, he stood with her in his arms and started to run.

Her flesh burnt. He bent his head to touch his cheek to her forehead and felt the instant shock of her unnatural heat. The stream. No wonder she’d been without her sweater and half in the icy water. He jumped over a boulder and landed easily, barely jostling her in his arms. He veered back towards the water, knowing he’d have to leave her, get the antidote, then come back.

He stopped, breathlessly shaking his head. She’d got farther from him than he would have ever believed possible. It would take him hours to reach the pack and get back to her.

Would she live that long?

He set her in the icy water, securing her to the bank by wedging her in-between two rocks. Jesus, she was small. He rose to leave and her eyes opened. She blinked and lifted her hand to him, whispering something in Gaelic. He knelt next to her to hear her better.

“Circerran? It hurts. It hurts.” Her Gaelic was ancient, tinged with the colourful highland accent from his past.

“Shh, lass. Shhh.” He didn’t know who this Circerran was but realised she must be suffering from visions. Or nightmares.

“I can’t. I can’t be quiet any longer. I can’t take it any longer. Go before they catch you as well.”

Ah, shit. A memory perhaps. She dropped her arm and her head fell to the side, motionless.

As he stood to leave, she sobbed again—a broken sound that cut through him like a sharp knife. She thrashed and nearly went under. He reached for her immediately, but she fought him, dunking herself in the water in her fight. As quickly as it began, she stopped only to start again with her murmuring after only a few short seconds.

“I tried. It was too much pain. Too many of them. Too much hatred to fight against. Next time they won’t catch me. I promise, I promise. Please, please don’t go, please. I am strong. I am strong. I am.” She babbled on, the words tumbling from her as she begged for something he already guessed she did not receive.

She stilled then started again, this time sounding dismayed. “She wouldn’t come to me. She simply left, walked away in the snow and left. I was too weak to stop her. The pain, the killings, Tabithia gone, all of it too much. We’re alone now, sister, truly alone. Danu protect us.”

He had no idea what to do. He’d never eased anyone who suffered so much, nor sat with someone who’d been sick. The clan was strong. Sickness did not happen often, and death, well, death was swift and sharp.

“Circerran, I will not call you such,” she snapped in English, sounding more like the Sorcha he knew. He even sighed in relief at the sound. This, he was used to. Seconds later she said, “No, no, you are many things but not trouble, Circerran. Trouble is not even a name.”

Ah, shit. Her sister was Trouble?
The hot-tempered witch would kill him when she learnt of this. How had he not known that little fact before taking Sorcha? Would it have stopped him?

He brushed her wet hair off her face and pulled long strands from her mouth. No, it wouldn’t have.

When Sorcha was angry and tried to hide it, her eyes burnt like someone held a candle up to an icy loch—green and cold. He’d also seen her burn bright, not bothering to hide her rage and the heat in her gaze was enough to burn a man. He couldn’t imagine her dead, couldn’t imagine not turning his head and seeing her bright hair and pale, beautiful face with her lush lips, and delicately curved eyebrows.

Blood dripped from her nose. He saw a faint mark on her bottom lip where she’d bitten it. A scratch marred her cheek, a branch he guessed. He brushed the blood from her face with his shirt tail, disturbed by the sight in ways he couldn’t understand.

Nothing could have stopped him from using her, he knew. But would he have used a potion on her if he had known it would hurt her like this?

“How many times must you die? How many times must I watch you come back, broken and burnt?”

Her whispered cry sent a shard of pain through his chest. He’d heard of the troubles witches faced throughout the years—stoning, burning at the stake, drowning, slavery, the famous witch trials—but he’d assumed those were for mortals mistaken for witches. He’d never dreamt that a witch like Sorcha, or her insane sister, Trouble, had suffered such painful pasts.

He shook his head hard and debated what to do. The clouds hung low, colouring everything in the soft greys of dawn.

Around him, the ancient forest stirred with the sounds of night-time creatures but nothing more. He couldn’t leave her here. He had to take her, go back, fetch the pack and bring them here again.

For that, he needed her awake, unharmed and walking.

She’d missed taking her antidote by hours. Soon it would be dawn and he had no idea what would happen then.

Why hadn’t he asked these things?

Because all his thoughts had been focused on revenge, not the well-being of a witch.

Another cry broke past her lips, but this time her murmurings were too low to understand.

He would take her with him. She would burn from her fever and suffer more, but he could lessen the time it took to feed her the antidote if he took her with him.

A second later, he gently settled her in his arms. She tossed her head and her wet hair stuck to her pale throat like a slice of blood. He pulled the crimson strands off her neck and face, disturbed by the image. Blood still trickled down her cheek from her nose, but she didn’t scream again. Alarmed by her silence he stood with her in his arms and took off at a ground-eating pace, his focus only broken by regrets.

He shouldn’t have said such a vulgar thing to her. What had he been thinking, threatening her in such a way? He’d not
been
thinking. Her teasing, endless chatter and innocently asked insults had both intrigued him and sucker punched him. Thoughts of her using that pink soft mouth to tease him in other ways had set his temper off. She would never bestow such a caress upon him. He’d kidnapped her. Hurt her. Insulted her and ordered her about like a youngling. She thought him cold.

But he didn’t feel cold with her. He felt on fire.

Did his people see him as a man that couldn’t enjoy life? A cold, heartless bastard that was good for nothing more than slaying their enemies?

He knew the answers before he’d even thought the questions.
Yes
.

He’d watched his father and brother slaughtered. The blow had struck down everything in him but the need to grow into the strongest warrior he could so that when the chance came, he could gain his vengeance.

The mountainside he needed came into view. He’d made good time, but she’d started to shudder in his arms.

What the hell did that mean?

He felt crushed under all the doubts. He shrugged them aside, crossed a stream and raced up the grassy slope. He was lucky it was grassy and not a rocky terrain. She could have done much more harm to him. Did she care? When she’d shoved him off the cliff, had she cared? Is that why she’d come to him first, then left him with his wounds cleaned? For some reason he pictured her surprised expression when he’d fallen, the utter shock she’d shown brought a smile to his face. No, she’d not known she’d be able to shove him off the cliff, but she had.

She started to struggle in his arms, fighting some vision from the past he guessed. He didn’t like the sound of her pain.

“No! Why not me? What is wrong with me? Why can’t he see
me
and want
me
, see me and
care
.”

The heartfelt cry created a hollow feeling in his chest. She had spoken in Gaelic again. Whoever
he
was, he’d been a part of her past and he’d hurt her greatly. The man was a fool. What man on this earth wouldn’t want a woman like Sorcha?

Soft sobs followed her outburst, but loud enough to goad him up the mountain.

He’d teach her, eh? Aye, he’d been the one that had learnt. Next time he’d watch his threats with her, or no doubt her temper would land them in the same predicament.

A second later, he spotted the shiny reflector on the backpack. One of its straps had caught on a rock, wedging the bulk of the pack tight enough that it had ripped from his back. Relief quickly followed by worry that the potion wouldn’t work after missing a dose. The unfamiliar worry strangled the breath in his throat.

His stomach rolled and tightened. He’d never panicked a day in his life. He’d get the potion, give it to her and wait and see.

Then he’d make sure she never did something like this again.

Chapter Nine

Sorcha shifted tired, sore muscles, grimacing at the foul taste of the antidote that still lingered on her tongue. Something warm and soft brushed along her forehead and she froze realising it was a hand.

“Are you awake?”

Alex.
She’d dreamt of that husky voice. Hadn’t she? Her dreams were a blur, images she’d thought forgotten mixed with newer terrors, she supposed. The pain she’d experienced along the trail had dimmed everything else to simply surviving each step back to the waterfall. She know knew that without Alex, and his antidote, she’d not survive. The pain had been that great. Hell, she’d Velcro herself to him from now on, if need be – at least until she figured out how to break this poison on her own.

“Witch, answer me or I’ll—”

She opened her eyes and blinked to see Alex hovering inches above her. It was dark, still the middle of the night she guessed, but by the firelight, she could see him scan her face quickly before he narrowed his eyes at her.

His hair stood up in chunks of brown that she noticed this close to him was truly more a darker blond than brown. The night growth of beard on his jaw shone with lighter colour too. Her gaze landed on his mouth. He had a sinful mouth, made for kissing. Had he kissed many women? He’d bedded them she was certain, but did he brush his lips against them?

Jealousy sucker punched her. Why would she care? Why
should
she care? He hated her. Was willing to trade her for some revenge and how wonderful his lips were shouldn’t matter.

Right. It did matter because he’d kissed her once as if he couldn’t live without it.

Then he treated you horribly.

Right. Good point.

“Obviously I’m awake.”

He drew his eyebrows down in a scowl at her tone and his sexy lips tightened. She watched, fascinated as a lock of hair fell on his forehead. She had to fight the urge to brush it back. Seriously, she had lost her mind.

She took a second to remind herself of two things—his threat to use her mouth and her tossing him for it.

What kinds of sounds would he make if I eased my mouth around his thick cock? Is he quiet in his passions, or loud and forceful?

Hello? What’s going on? Did he slip in some kind of silly juice along with the antidote?

She frowned at him and reminded herself that if not for him, she’d not have had to shove him off a mountain, nor nearly died from lack of an antidote.

“Why are you so close to me? Back up.”

He jerked upright and gained his feet in one swift action. He’d been sitting beside her. He’d set up a camp, complete with a big roaring fire and a blanket under her. Why?

She sat up much slower, testing each aching muscle as she went. She did a mental inventory and other than the nasty taste in her mouth, she felt much as she had before she’d run. Like hell.

What was that taste? What were the herbs used in it?

“You should eat. We need to leave. You’ve slept throughout a day.”

“What?” She had? She rubbed her hand over her eyes, blinking back confusion.

“Aye, the day is gone and now you’ve cost me time I can’t afford.”

The jerk! Like she had slept all day because she was lazy! It was his fault if she had slept.

“Oh, excuse me, but I think
you
cost yourself that time, not me.”

She watched him inhale sharply, his face hardening by the minute until with a low growl he dragged her to her feet. What a shocker. Only this time she fought him, kicking him as hard as she could in the shin, and ramming an elbow in his arrogant nose when he bent to grab his leg. She broke away and started running.

He was on her within two paces, knocking the wind out of her when he brought her to the ground. Tossing her onto her back, he quickly reached up and caught her hands and dragged them above her head. She stared at him so shocked by the full weight of him on top of her that she couldn’t even think past the flood of yearning she experienced. How many nights had she dreamt of Alex pinning her, kissing her madly and making love to her with such passionate need he could barely wait to possess her?

“You’re a bit ungrateful, witch.”

“Ungrateful? You kidnapped me and threatened to …” She glanced at his lips, caught by the shape of them.
Should a man’s lips be so tempting?
The bottom one was fuller she saw this close, the top curved with a lovely indent she wanted to lick along then bite down on.

Without warning, he bent his head and kissed her, pressing his hips firmly against her thigh so that every long, thick inch of his erection sizzled against her. Shocked, she gasped and he dived into her mouth, past her lips and slid his hot tongue along hers.

Firecrackers of lust burst along her body. Her pulse quickened. Between her thighs, her pussy ached, no doubt wetting her panties. Needs—hot, erotic needs—built in her bones, tightening her muscles and softening them at the same time.

Without thinking, she moaned into his mouth and returned the kiss. She shifted restlessly under him, which seemed to encourage him to guide one of his thighs between hers. He pressed down to her core with a groan and subtly rocked against her.

Pleasure unlike anything she’d ever experienced, or knew how to deal with, travelled along her body like a wild fire on the wind. Her clit grew hypersensitive, aching to be touched, kissed, licked, anything to ease the build-up of lust.

As if he could sense her need, he thrust his hips, grinding against her just right and branding her with breathless sensations that rushed to her stomach and burnt along her breasts. The feeling was so intense, so good she never wanted it to stop.
Him
to stop.

She dug her hips upward in an attempt to find release as the fever grew so hot she thought she’d burn him. Alex groaned heavily into their kiss and loosened his grip on her hands to trace a path from her wrists to her breasts. At the first possessive feel of his large hand cupping her so intimately, she dug her fingers into his shoulders, praying he’d not stop.
Not yet.
Not until she experienced her first orgasm in the arms of a man.

He didn’t stop. He lightly pinched her nipple, thrust his tongue along hers in tempo with his straining hips and kneaded her ass with his big hand. She nearly catapulted into an orgasm. Oxygen left her on a gasp and she feared breathing might end the growing dive to mind-blowing pleasure.

A rock bit into her back, and overhead she heard the call of a hawk pierce the frantic sound of Alex’s breathless pants and low toned groans.

This was
Alex
. A man who had done nothing but bully her since she’d woken up tossed over some demon’s bulky shoulder! The realisation prodded her out of the lust like a bucketful of ice water and back to reality.

“No!” She shoved at him and tried to turn away.

He pressed harder with his thigh nearly sending her spiralling into an orgasm. It was close—she was close. All she had to do was rock on that thick muscle and she’d experience the biggest climax of her life.

She fought it and him.

“Stop! You’re as bad as the jackal!”

“What?” He rose above her, his face flushed with passion and he growled low in his throat.

The indignation on his face should not make her want to laugh.

The next thing she knew he cupped her between her legs and bent to breathe heavily into her ear. “Witch”—he massaged her wet core—“this says I’m not. You’re wet clean through your jeans, for
me
.” He tightened his hold and she nearly moaned at the pleasure, but shoved at his chest again. Embarrassing didn’t even come close to describing the situation.

Why her? Why did she have to have a Lykae for a mate? One that not only was broken and couldn’t recognise her, but who somehow could smell better than was good for him.

“This is for me. From me. You’re wet for me. Admit it.”

The complete jerk. He’d done nothing to earn her passion, nothing other than being her dream, but since kidnapping her, he’d been a nightmare.

No way would she own up to lusting after him. So, what could throw him off? She remembered Trouble once saying how men couldn’t stand the thought of a woman thinking on another when they were with them. Could she fool Alex? With what? She had no one, never had.
Think, think!

“Ha, I get wet thinking about the postman, you kissing me had nothing to do with it. I was dreaming of his tight blue shorts when you woke me.”

He glared at her as if she’d insulted his grandmother. As soon as he opened his mouth though, she shrugged.

“Whatever, think what you want, but you might want to ask yourself why on Earth I’d get hot for a man who’s done nothing but insult, hurt and threaten me since I met him.”

With a growl, he jumped off her and reached for her hand, bringing her to her feet abruptly. Her legs almost gave out. Lust still trembled through her body, a body that was not so on board with her bravado as she was. But it seemed to work on Alex.

“Fine, witch. You tell yourself that,” he said, breathing heavily against her throat, “but your postman didn’t get you moaning like that, did he?”

Whoa
. She wanted to moan at how sexy
that
was, but forced herself to laugh, somewhat shakily and say, “Ha, you’ve obviously not seen him.
Beefcake
.”

He snorted and she thought for a moment he might actually laugh, but he shook his head and stalked off, throwing over his shoulder that she’d better get ready, they were moving out.

She glanced at the moonless sky. “What? I just got up and—”

“If you don’t want to relieve this stress, then I suggest you move your pretty little ass.”

She froze.
Pretty little ass, huh?
That was new. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t relieving
his stress
. He was her mate, damn it.

Several different spells for harming a man’s manhood came to mind, but without her magic all the knowledge in the world wasn’t going to help.

The wolf had best watch out because when it was time for her next nasty dose, she was giving him a spell that would make him itch for something all right, and it wouldn’t be for any kind of release!

She turned away from watching him gather their things—correction, his things—and headed to where she could hear a stream bubbling along, not caring one bit if he liked it or not. She heard him following her as soon as she knelt and washed her hands and face off. She ignored him and watched as her hands trembled. She tried to make them stop, but after a few moments, she fisted them to stop the shaking.

The pain she’d endured had caused this. That and the memories she’d worked to forget.

When the pain had struck, she’d felt as if her insides were burning, slowly grilling over a fire she couldn’t see. The agony had been so horrible she’d begged for it to stop. Only no one had heard her.

No one that is, except for the angry wolf towering over her.

“Enough. You’re clean. We need to move.”

He didn’t wait for her to get to her feet, but bent and gripped her arm, pulling her up effortlessly. Not that she struggled. He’d saved her life. Well, he’d also endangered it, but still, after she tossed him, he could have left her. Or worse, simply kept the antidote from her.

“Why did you come back for me?” Her voice sounded rough.

At first, he didn’t answer and she assumed he wouldn’t. He surprised her when he muttered, “I didn’t come back for you—I went after you when you shoved me off the mountain.”

Did he sound pissed off at that? No. For some reason he sounded like he admired her, as if she’d amazed him.

“Come.” He turned and simply expected her to follow. She did, too tired and freaked to protest. He handed her a packaged sandwich—turkey and cheese—and tossed water on the fire, stomping it with his big boots until it died out. She missed the warmth immediately.

“Eat that, we need to move, we’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

Was he talking to her?
She blinked and puzzled out what he’d said. No insult, no threat, nothing but simply talking to her. What happened here? Something had, something that felt like an easing between them. Why?

She cautiously cleared her throat then said, “Late?”

“Aye, late for my revenge.”

Ah, go figure
. “Ah, your revenge. Against this Zith person.”

Alex merely kept going, as usual, she thought, back to ignoring her. She unwrapped the sandwich and took a big bite, chewing it quickly and swallowing. Her stomach felt so empty she thought she could actually feel the food hit it. She ate half of it before Alex cleared his throat.

“He has many names. Zith, Zith-D’Allmarz, the Black Sorcerer, Rage MacAlsen—”

She stumbled into Alex’s back because he’d stopped. She caught herself with a hand on his backpack and tugged it, trying to get his attention. He looked at her curiously.

“Rage. You are going after Rage—a tattooed, black-haired warlock?”

He frowned but finally shrugged. “I don’t know about tattoos. He was in the highlands when I first encountered him. He travelled with a foreign army—rag tag deserters and thieves, but he wore no tattoos.”