Читать книгу Warrior Untamed - Shannon Curtis - Страница 11

Chapter 3

Melissa didn’t quite know how he did it, but the bastard broke his chain. Just one, but it was enough to give him dangerous freedom. With one arm around her neck and the other wrapped around her waist and trapping her arms, he lifted her clear off the floor. She experienced a brief flare of panic. She tried to kick, tried to dig her heel into his instep, but he dodged her easily.

“Let’s end this now, Red. One way or another. Let me go, or I’ll snap your pretty little neck.”

“Let me go,” she gasped past the press of his arm against her throat.

“What? You don’t like to be held against your will? Try it for five months,” he muttered, his lips near her ear, then grunted as she lashed out with her foot. She made contact, but her kick had no force behind it.

The strength in his arms was frightening, yet he just held her. The breadth of his shoulders easily bracketed her own body, and she could feel his muscles bunch as he bore her weight. He could crush her. He could easily do as he threatened and snap her neck—but he didn’t. He held her. Then he did something that shocked her.

He leaned forward and rubbed his chin against her neck. His beard brushed against her sensitive skin, at once soft yet prickly, and the rough sensation set her trembling. “Come on, Red. You know you don’t hate me.”

Her breath hitched, and her nipples peaked at the tingles that spread down her neck, bringing a warm flush along with it. His naked chest was a wall of heat against her back, and his hips cradled her butt. Awareness, sharp and consuming, swept over her. She could feel him against her, every ridge of muscle against her back, the strength of his thighs and something that throbbed and moved against her, which created an answering pulse deep in her core. Her breasts swelled. No. She wasn’t—she couldn’t—no.

She stiffened in his arms. “No, I loathe you,” she said through gritted teeth. She twisted her wrist until her palm could make contact with his muscular forearm, and she latched on, pouring every inch of her resentment into that contact. She whispered a spell. Heat seared between them, and she tightened her grip. He grunted. Hissed. His arm moved slightly, and she managed to move her other arm until her hand could press against the outside of his thigh, and she clutched him, focusing her power on those two points of contact. The heat increased. She could feel his skin blistering under her hand, smell the fabric of his jeans burning.

His breath hitched, then he let her go, pushing her away. She whirled, hands raised, and an invisible force threw him against the wall behind him, holding him against the brick surface.

“Argh!” He tried to pull away, tried to reach for her, and she curled her fingers until he threw his head back in pain. “Stop it!”

She’d captured him initially with the help of her brother—and that was only after Hunter had exhausted himself in a battle first against his brother, and then his Warrior Prime of a father. Keeping the pyro jerk imprisoned on her own was proving a challenge. If it wasn’t for the iron cuffs he wore that bound his light warrior magic, he would have already overpowered her.

Melissa retreated and didn’t let up on the force she was directing against him until she reached the door. She clenched her hands and shoved her fists in a downward motion, and her prisoner collapsed to the floor. He moaned as he clasped his head, curling up into the fetal position, and she stormed out into the tunnel. With a flick of her fingers, the door slammed behind her, the lock sliding home. She strode up the corridor, fuming.

She’d gotten too close. She should have known better. He was like a viper, waiting for you to get within striking distance. Five months ago she’d been tempted by him, by his devilish smile and wicked brown-eyed gaze when he’d walked into her store. He’d been so confident, so darn cocky, saying he’d heard she was the best witch in Irondell with the best supplies, best spells, best concoctions—and the best strain of wolfsbane, and she’d swallowed his flattery, hook, line and sinker. She’d taken him into her apothecary, just like he’d taken her in with his false compliments.

She’d been thinking how gorgeous he was, and was even returning the flirty banter as she’d opened up her order book. Then her world had exploded. Fire, heat, and those brown eyes shot with burning flecks of red amber as he’d cast his flames throughout her little store. Then he’d backed out and closed the door, closing her inside her inferno.

He’d used her. She’d found out later he’d been trying to turn to ash any evidence of his brother’s involvement in a murder. He’d smiled at her. Teased her. Tempted her.

Torched her.

She pulled herself up the steep staircase that led back to her apothecary, trying to shoot strength into her shaking arms. That comment, though...the one about her father...that was—weird. For the past few weeks she’d been dreaming of the night he’d left—and other nightmares. She hesitated. Could he...? She shook her head. She didn’t know that anyone could do that. She closed the door behind her, engaging all the locks and wards, and then sagged against its surface, craving the unmovable support.

Tears burned beneath her eyelids. For a moment, ever so brief...she shook her head. No. Not that guy. Not ever.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a woman’s voice murmured from the gloom.

Melissa startled, then peered across the room. A figure moved away from the wall, stepping into the soft pool of light. Melissa closed her eyes briefly. She wasn’t in the mood for this.

“Mother,” she greeted the woman with resignation. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see how your...” Her mother hesitated briefly, then continued “...project was coming along.”

For a moment, Melissa thought her mother was talking about the renovation. Then almost laughed. Right. The last time her mother had shown any interest in her life was five months ago, when they’d had a terrible argument.

Over the pyro jerk downstairs.

“Well, as you can see, the apothecary is coming along nicely,” Melissa said, deliberately taking the obvious direction for conversation.

Her mother’s green eyes flared briefly. “I meant our little light warrior,” her mother stated succinctly, folding her arms.

Melissa glared at her. “He’s not our little light warrior, Mother. He’s mine.” She frowned at the possessive phrasing, realizing it probably sounded completely different than the way she intended. “And he’s not so little.”

She closed her eyes. And yep, that could be taken out of context, too. Her heart still pumped at being held against that large body, so much stronger than her own. She told herself the elevated heart rate, the sensitive...she folded her arms over her chest. Adrenaline. That’s all it was, adrenaline.

“Please tell me he’s still alive,” Eleanor Carter didn’t bother to hide her exasperation.

Melissa faced her mother reluctantly. “What if he’s not, Mother? What if he’s dead? How would that make you feel?”

“Do not play with me, Melissa,” Eleanor snapped. “He is a light warrior, for heaven’s sake. Do you know how rare that is?”

“With the way they make enemies? Trust me, Mother, it’s as much a surprise to me as it is to you this one has survived as long as he has.” She walked across the room to the door and the stairwell that would lead to her shop.

“He would make a useful ally, Melissa. He’s in our debt. Use it to your advantage—and for God’s sake, don’t screw it up,” her mother ordered as she followed closely. “You know we have to nurture this relationship.”

Melissa halted at the door. “That is so ironic—you talking about nurturing.” She bit off a brittle laugh.

“Melissa! You never stand back to look at the big picture. He is valuable.”

Melissa whirled. “What about me, Mother? What value do you have for me?” Anger flared to encapsulate her hurt. “He tried to kill me, Mother, and all you can talk about is creating an alliance with the pyromaniac psychopath. What about me? Don’t I matter in this? Why aren’t you angry that he tried to kill your daughter? And if not your daughter, at the very least one of your coven. Why aren’t you knocking down that door to tear his heart out?” Why won’t you fight for me? She turned and stomped up the stairs.

The door at the head of the stairs slammed shut, and Melissa halted, pursing her lips. This is how her mother had dealt with conversations when she was a teen, for Pete’s sake. She turned around to face her mother, arms folded.

Eleanor Carter slowly walked up the stairs until they were on the same tread and they could meet each other’s gaze on an equal level. “Do not lecture me on defending my coven, Melissa,” her mother stated in a cold tone, and Melissa realized she was no longer talking to her parent. “You may be my daughter and a Coven Scion, but you are still only a second-degree witch, and I am your Elder Prime. Do not presume to discipline me on coven matters.” Eleanor lifted her chin. “You are popular with the humans, and you are gifted, but you still behave like a liability, whereas that light warrior is an asset. That is why I’m not tearing his heart out.”

Eleanor flicked her fingers, and the door opened. She walked into the bookstore, chin up and shoulders back, looking every inch the coven regent she was. Melissa stayed in the stairwell for a moment, blinking back the burn. God, she was so pathetic, always hoping her mother would for once put her daughter before her coven.

Should have known better.

She stomped up the steps and slammed the door shut behind her, closing off all thoughts of the “asset” downstairs, and the humiliating pain that her mother valued the man who’d tried to kill her more than her own daughter.

* * *

Hunter held out the remains of his sandwich to the rat. “You better fill up while you can, Steve. Might be a while before we get another feed.”

He winced as he shuffled back against the wall. His body ached. Everywhere. His burns were almost healed, though. It had taken him a few hours longer than usual to mend—a sign of his low reserves. He grimaced. “Mental note—knock her out, next time. She hits like a...witch.” He tilted his head back against the brick behind him. She hadn’t brought down the evening meal. He supposed he deserved that. He hadn’t intended to start anything with her today. It had just...happened.

He frowned. Things just happened a lot around him. She’d been right. Her surviving their meeting in her apothecary was purely based on her luck, not his design. He’d had one thought—protect his brother. He hadn’t spared the witch any consideration when he’d obliterated all records of her orders.

He and Ryder hadn’t been on speaking terms when Jared Gray, Alpha Prime to the Alpine Pack, had died in his brother’s surgery, poisoned by wolfsbane. His first instinct was to slap some sense into his brother for committing a crime that could be so easily traced back to him. His second instinct was to hide any evidence connected to the case. If they couldn’t prove his guilt, they couldn’t convict his brother.

How was he supposed to know his brother wasn’t the coldhearted murderer Hunter thought he was? Okay, so it didn’t help that his brother had thought the same thing about him. Turns out, they were both wrong. Their father, on the other hand, could account for at least two murders. Hunter didn’t want to think about the probability that there were more. He eyed Steve. The rat held the morsel of the sandwich in his front paws, nibbling at it delicately.

“Such petite table manners, Steve. You know, I think folks underestimate you rats.” He shifted again, getting a little more comfortable in his stone-and-brick cell. He forced himself to relax. It was night. He wasn’t quite sure what time, but he could sense the sun had set. Over the last few weeks he’d gone dreamwalking. He’d learned quite a lot about his temperamental prison warden as she’d slept. He’d managed to crack the locks on some of the memories she’d tried to shield. She’d been happy, once. A red-haired sprite with a cheeky sense of humor. That had changed, though, the night her father had left. He’d played that one over a few times, just to try to understand it, but it was a garbled mess in there. Her emotions were too jumbled to get much of a read.

Perhaps tonight he could find out why she hated the shadow breeds so much? If he could find that key, he could use it to his advantage.

Closing his eyes, he regulated his breathing, allowing himself to slip into slumber, his consciousness drifting away from his body as he started his dreamwalk. It didn’t take long to find her subconscious—he’d made the trip enough times he could find her easily enough.

* * *

Melissa carefully picked her way down the steps into the grand ballroom. Oh, wow. She hadn’t been to a Reform society debutante ball since, well, since Theo. Couldn’t quite figure out why she was at one, now. Where was Theo? There was something bothering her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She tried to remember how this had come to be, but each time she tried to recall how she got here, her thoughts danced and flitted, and she couldn’t follow anything down to its source. She sighed. She felt like she should be worried, perhaps even alarmed, but even those thoughts zipped away, as though dancing with the wind.

She glanced around the opulent ballroom. As a teen, she’d thought it was a romantic event, magical even—a sign of maturity and acceptance. Then she’d discovered what a tedious torture they were, with all the Scions of the Prime classes gathered in some sort of archaic custom of forging alliances among the Reform elite.

She tripped, bracing a hand against a nearby wall to catch herself. She glanced down. What the...? She gaped. She was wearing an emerald green gown, with a strapless beaded bodice and flowing skirt. She couldn’t see her shoes, and her hair was such a heavy weight on her head, she didn’t want to bend over too much in case she overbalanced. But she could look down enough to see her outfit. She was wearing a bodice that seemed to cover only half her chest. Oh. My. God. She straightened to prevent displaying her full assets. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but the bodice support was gravity-defying.

She fingered the satin of the skirt. It was quite simply the most beautiful thing she’d ever worn. And the most feminine. She wished Theo could see her in it. But he wouldn’t. Regret bloomed, stiff and uncomfortable. Why wouldn’t he? Again, the flutter of something at the edge of her consciousness teased her. She blinked, and her eyelashes brushed a solid edge. She raised her hands to touch her face. She was wearing a mask. She had no idea what it looked like, but she could feel the crystals on the surface. Her wrist caught her eye. Where was her tattoo? Two years ago her brother had etched it into her skin—painstakingly and way too gleefully, she’d thought at the time. But now, the inside skin of her wrist was smooth and unmarked. Confusion and concern for the missing mark teased at her, like the gossamer wings of a dragonfly, before fluttering away.

She stepped farther into the ballroom, her gaze flickering from one elegant sight to the next. Waiters bearing crystal flutes filled with champagne—or blood for the vampires. Her lips tightened. She could see them, despite their masks, their alabaster skin a dead giveaway. The lycans, too, were easy to spot, with their longer, thicker hair, the rebellious attitude they all seemed born with—and their obvious antipathy toward the vamps.

Her fingers curled as she raised them, and she startled when a waiter stepped in front of her, offering her a glass of blush pink champagne. She accepted it, sighing brusquely. Her mother would not like it if she used magic against a fellow Scion. It was encouraged for the offspring of the Prime leaders to get along—at least at the ball. She glanced around the room. An elegant cage full of monsters.

“What are you looking for?” a deep voice murmured above her right ear. She managed not to flinch, although she couldn’t quite hide the shiver that tingled down her back at the low masculine voice so close to her ear, the whisper of breath across her collarbone.

“An escape, perhaps?” she commented casually as she slowly turned, raising the glass of champagne to her lips. When she faced him, she forgot to drink.

He was tall, his black jacket perfectly tailored for his broad shoulders and muscular arms. The dark vest he wore over the white dress shirt emphasized his narrow waist and lean hips, and the black bow tie highlighted the strong column of his throat. He looked like a tall drink of handsome, barely contained strength poured into a dark suit. The mask concealed the upper half of his face, but the strong jawline and sculpted lips she could see were tantalizing, attractive, with an inherent pout that was undeniably sexy—and frustratingly familiar. Recognition—just like the memories of how she wound up here tonight—dipped and danced out of reach. Her gaze lifted. His dark hair was cut short, but still long enough for her to play with—if she’d just reach up and...

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. If he was at the ball, he was a Scion. She didn’t play with Scions. That would delight her mother and she made a practice of not delighting her mother. She refused to participate in the woman’s political power plays.

The dark eyes behind the mask turned assessing, and he tilted his head. “They all seem nice enough,” he commented, inclining his head to the crowd behind her.

She stared at him. His skin was tanned, a healthy complexion that didn’t suit a vampire, and he didn’t give off a lycan vibe. She was curious, but that in itself was enough of a warning for her. She hadn’t been curious about a guy since Theo. Wasn’t ready to be curious about a guy. Not now, and hopefully not ever. She glanced around the room. Where was Theo? She wanted to go home.

“It’s just not my kind of scene,” she murmured, and sipped from her glass.

His gaze flicked to the open French doors and he smiled. “Then why don’t we change the scene?” he suggested, lifting his hand to indicate the terrace outside in a graceful gesture. For a moment she stared at his hand. Long fingers that looked courtly in their gesture, yet masculine, and a steady palm that showed a solid, stable strength. The hands of a musician with the strength of a warrior. The thought came out of nowhere, distracting and disturbing, and she shook it off. She was the Scion of the White Oak Coven; she could more than handle herself with any man in this room.

She clutched her skirt, lifting it slightly to step outside without falling flat on her face. The night air was warm, with a slight breeze that was like a sensual trail of ethereal fingers across the skin. Her brows dipped. Surprisingly balmy for December—but Reform balls were always held in October. She was sure it was snowing outside...again, something fluttered in her mind, easily ignored. Small starbursts of color bloomed in the pots evenly spaced along the balustrade, white roses unfurling under the stars.

She stepped out of the light of the doorway to face the stranger. “So tell me, which Prime family are you associated with?”

He shrugged. “Does it matter?” He grinned, and she stared at the sexy tilt of his lips, the flash of white teeth. “Honestly, I never really got into these events. Always thought they were too pompous. Didn’t realize the company could be so beautiful.”

Her cheeks warmed as his dark eyes flared with a heated appreciation that was hard to miss, despite the mask. An appreciation that was returned. Despite her champagne, her mouth felt dry, and something lazy and sensual uncurled deep within her.

“So, you’re not really a fan, huh?” she whispered, intrigued someone else viewed the marriage mart and alliance negotiations with as much disdain as she did. Intrigued by a man who seemed neither vampire nor lycan—or any of the other shifter breeds.

He took the glass from her hand and placed it on the ledge of the stone balustrade that bordered the terrace, his gaze dropping to focus on the cleavage revealed by her low-cut bodice. His lips curled higher, his gaze grew hotter and her heart thumped in her chest. “I could be changing my mind about that,” he whispered, raising his hands to cradle her face, turning her until the base of her spine pressed against the balustrade. Her heart thumped a little faster. She didn’t feel physically threatened, but something whispered to her, something full of warning and wickedness, and yet it didn’t frighten her. It excited her.

His scent, something wicked and musky, with patchouli and a faint undertone of amber, enveloped her, entrancing her, and she slowly raised her hands to his broad shoulders—not sure yet whether she was pushing him away or drawing him closer.

Then he lowered his lips to hers.

* * *

There was no soft teasing or gentle awakening, Melissa realized. His mouth demanded, and she delivered, parting her lips as his tongue swept in to rub against hers. His hands delved into the intricate curls on top of her head, angling her head so he could deepen the kiss. Over and over, his mouth moved against hers. Her pulse began to throb in her ears as a sensual warmth swept over her. He pressed against her, and she could feel the breadth of his shoulders, the strength in the biceps that bunched as he pulled her closer, ever closer. She moaned softly, tilting her head back as he explored her mouth, her heart thumping in her chest, her breasts swelling as arousal, hot and hungry, flared within her.

He bent down, his hands sliding over the back of her skirts, and she felt the earth shift as he lifted her up and settled her on the balustrade. His lips left hers to trail a hot caress down the side of her neck, and moist heat gathered between her legs as she tried to wrap her thighs around his waist, the cumbersome skirts an aggravating barrier between their bodies. Cool air teased against the moist trail, and her nipples tightened at the sensation. He pressed his hips against hers, and damp heat flared between her thighs. She tilted her head back as he rubbed himself against her in a carnal dance that had her aching for more. Now.

The erotic heat spread from her chest to her thighs, and she writhed against him, craving skin-on-skin contact and deliciously frustrated by their clothing. He nipped, his teeth sharp but delicate, causing the pinpricks of sensation to dart down to her nipples and farther. He licked his way across the swell of her breasts to the edge of her beaded bodice, hot licks that had her trembling, her breasts swelling even further at the attention. Desire, arousal, a deep yearning couched in hot hunger flooded through her, hot and demanding.

Her eyes opened, and she glanced down as her nipples tightened, craving his touch—any touch. His dark hair was so stark against her pale skin, like some carnal demon having his wicked way with a virgin.

She smiled. Only she wasn’t a virgin. Her hands slid to his hair and she tugged, tilting his head up and claiming his lips with a hunger that rivaled his. Their tongues tangled, dueling for domination. This...this was heady, wanton... She’d never felt this free, this shameless, with anyone. Not even Theo.

Theo. The last time she’d been to a ball, she’d been with Theo.

But this wasn’t Theo.

She tore her mouth from his, panting as she stared at the handsome face, his lips wet from her kisses. She knew those lips.

“No,” she gasped.