Читать книгу Warrior Untamed - Shannon Curtis - Страница 11

Chapter 4

Melissa jolted awake, her body tight with need, craving a satisfaction she’d just denied herself. She rolled over in her lonely bed, groaning with frustration.

Her heart pounded, her nipples were tight and longing for the touch of a man’s hands and her thighs were damp. She sat up in bed, her eyes wide as her chest rose and fell with her pants. What. The. Hell?

Realization dawned, and she dived out of the bed, stomping out of her bedroom and through her small apartment above the bookstore. That bastard. She didn’t know how he’d done it, but he’d taken one of her memories and twisted it. She remembered that night, damn it, and she sure as hell hadn’t been out on the balcony kissing an anonymous stranger. She flung her front door open, then slammed it shut behind her. That...jerk. The relief at realizing she wasn’t willingly fantasizing about her prisoner was quickly consumed by rage. She ran barefoot down the stairwell to the corridor that led to the external street access, her pink nightgown streaming, the silk unfurling in her wake as though caught in an invisible tempest. Two steps down the hall was the internal security door to her store. She didn’t bother to manually key in the code. She snapped her fingers. The door swung open. She stormed through her bookstore, disregarding the books flying off the shelves and falling to the floor behind her as her power raged around her. Anger poured through her, and she could feel her power building within her. She should scale it back, temper it a little, but she just wanted to let loose.

She swept through the door at the back of the store, chanting as she scampered down the stairs. The door to her apothecary burst open before her and she stalked across the underground room. The cupboard hiding her fire hose reel caught her eye, and she halted, seething.

Yep, this would do the trick. She yanked open the doors and pulled on the head of the hose, flicking the lever at the base of the hose reel. She turned to face the mural. A flick of her hand, a quick, fiercely muttered incantation, and she unlocked her wards. The painted door flung open. She didn’t stop for the torch. She climbed down the stairwell, tugging the hose along with her. The bare concrete floor felt cold beneath her feet, but she didn’t pause until she came up to the steel door. She used her power to slide the lock and thrust the door open. It made a resounding clang as it snapped back to the wall.

Her prisoner jolted awake, blinking as he pushed himself up from the floor where he lay.

“You need to cool down,” she snapped, and yanked the lever on the hose.

Ice-cold water shot across the room, pummeling the man on the floor. He roared, trying to gain his feet, but she kept the hose trained on him. He slipped, tried to rise again, but the force of the water was too powerful, and he fell back against the wall.

He bellowed as he tried to twist away from the high-pressure blast of water, but she didn’t give him any relief. After a long moment, she shut the hose off.

“Stay the hell out of my head,” she yelled, and whirled around, the door slamming shut behind her, the lock sliding home.

Anger was good. Anger she could hold on to, anger she could use. She pulled it around her like a cloak. Because if she didn’t have anger, all that would be left would be guilt at the fantasy that betrayed her fiancé’s memory, and the shame of betrayal, of giving in to temptation from one of them. She climbed the stairs and locked up, but paused when she entered the bookstore. It looked like a mini-tornado had whirled through, leaving devastation in its wake.

Just like pyro jerk. That dream, that wicked kiss—that had devastated her. She had to get control. Of herself, of her powers...of her reaction to him. She would not give in.

Sniffing, she knelt down to start picking up the scattered items throughout the store, restoring order to the shelves as she calmly restored order to her thoughts.

* * *

Hunter shook the water out of his eyes, then glared at the door as he leaned back against the wall. That cold shower had cooled his desire for the damn woman. He made a fist and hit the floor beside him, and a spray of water hit him in the face. Damn it.

Arousal, tight and unrelenting, gripped his cock, stirred his pulse. He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t planned it. His lips tightened as he rubbed at the hard ache. That cold shower had been painful, like ice bullets against his ardor. He swore. He’d meant to lurk, that was all, let her lead the way. He’d sent her a subliminal suggestion. Why did she hate the shadow breeds?

He hadn’t expected her to take him to a Reform society ball. He’d given her a gown straight out of his imagination, one that hugged that siren figure yet had hidden her secrets. Classical yet incredibly sexy. That had not been his intention. Usually he just contented himself with being a mere witness to memories—like the dreams he’d previously walked through as Melissa had slept. His father had often played with suggestion, as had Hunter when first learning his dreamwalking skill. But what had just happened—that wasn’t normal. He couldn’t tell if that scene on the balcony was driven by his subconscious or hers. Whose suppressed desire had shanghaied that dream? Goose bumps rose on his skin as the chill night air caressed the icy water that drenched him, leeching at his desire. She’d surprised him, though. When he’d asked her subconscious to reveal the source of her hatred for shadow breeds, she’d shown him a scene of society’s civility, and instead of following that clue, he’d been distracted. The muscles in his jaw felt so tight he had to consciously relax them. He wished he could blame it on the icy drenching, but he practiced deluding others, not himself. He was painfully horny, damn it. For the bitchy witch.

He shook his head, droplets of water flicking off his head like a shaggy dog. A damn Reform ball.

He’d heard all about them, but had never attended one. He should have—he was the eldest son of a Warrior Prime, and the ball was a social event to gather all the Scions of each Prime family in one spot, as a celebration of Reformation Day. It was also where connections were made, alliances were forged and some strategic pairings were made among the sons and daughters of the Primes. As a Warrior Scion, he had a right to attend. As a light warrior, a shadow breed that kept its very existence secret, though, there was no way his family would ever participate in such an event.

They had other ways of making alliances and wielding power, and it was far more delicate and discreet than the obnoxious gatherings of the Reform elite.

He rubbed his bare arms. He was chilled now. His lips curled. And yet, he was also energized. Strange. Usually when he dreamwalked, it was to find out secrets and implant suggestions, or fake memories—even make people forget... He’d never once thought to use it to entice, to seduce. Light warriors drew energy and power from all sources of light, except for created fluorescence. They were also able to pull power from sexual energy and emotions. He’d always believed there needed to be a physical proximity for that to work, though, not something that could be accomplished through an unconscious connection. Apparently he was wrong.

He’d connected with the witch, and with just one dreamy kiss she’d revitalized some of his stores. Totally worth a cold shower. He idly wondered what a real kiss with the woman would be like, then shook his head. He didn’t think her reaction would stop at just an uncomfortable, near-Arctic dousing.

* * *

Two days later, Melissa stared at her pale features in the mirror of the store’s bathroom. She pinched her cheeks, blinking her eyes open wide as she tried to wake up. She glanced at her watch. One hour. One hour before she could close the shop. Part of her wanted to curl up under the counter and sleep for a hundred years. Another part of her wanted to inject caffeine and never close her eyes again.

She was going to kill him. Sure, her mother would be disappointed, but she’d be able to sleep, damn it. He was tormenting her, and no matter what spell she conjured up, he managed to get past her defenses and dance through her dreamscapes.

She turned the tap and splashed cold water on her face. Last night had been bad. Over and over again, she’d relived the night her father had left. She eyed herself in the mirror, the haunted memories surfacing so easily now, as though her mind no longer obeyed her command to bury it.

She and her brother, Dave, had crept out from their rooms, eyeing each other warily in the darkened upstairs hallway as their parents had argued downstairs. It was the eve of Melissa’s sixteenth birthday, when she would graduate from adolescent to Initiate and attend her first Reform ball.

“She’s too young, Eleanor, and you know it.”

“She’s the Daughter-Scion, Phillip, and she has to start behaving like one.”

“She’s sixteen. She’s our daughter. You can’t marry her off, not yet.”

“She doesn’t have the luxury of just being our daughter, and you know it. We have to form that alliance. I don’t want to be at the mercy of the Armstrongs, or the Marchettas, or any other Reform family. We need to ensure our witches have strong representation within the Senate, and this merger will ensure that. You know we can’t use David, but we can at least use Melissa as an asset.”

David pulled her away from the banister and tried to drag her back into her bedroom, but she shook her brother off, her blood chilling at the argument downstairs as she returned to the railing. An asset? That’s how her mother saw her?

Their parents were in the living room, oblivious to the listening ears upstairs.

“Why the Hawthorns?” Her father’s question was laced with frustration and exasperation.

Melissa’s eyes rounded, and she glanced up at her brother. The Hawthorns? They were known to dabble in blood magic. Hadn’t one of their ancestors given in to the blood-craze? She shook her head. No, surely not. Surely her mother wouldn’t ally the House of White Oak with the House of Hawthorn...she turned toward the head of the stairs, but Dave yanked her back, lifting his finger to his lips in caution.

“The Hawthorns are strong, Phillip, and because of their—proclivities—they count some vampire colonies among their allies.” Her mother’s answer was haughty, as though offended she had to explain herself.

“Do you hear yourself? Vampires? We don’t want to align with the bloodsuckers, Eleanor.”

“Why? Are you afraid of them?”

Melissa frowned at the blatant scorn in her mother’s tone.

“I am wary of them. I don’t trust them, and neither should you. Anyone slave to the blood thirst will always be an enemy to the humans and witches, Eleanor, and you know it.”

“Well, I’m not scared of them, Phillip. It’s done. I’ve already discussed it with Marcus Hawthorn. He is willing to formally introduce his son to Melissa at the ball tomorrow night.”

“So, you’ve gone ahead and done it without discussing it with me.” Her father’s tone brought tears to Melissa’s eyes. It was so brittle, so cold.

“I do not need, nor seek, your permission, Phillip. I am the Coven Elder, and in this my authority is absolute. Deal with it.”

“I won’t stand for this, Eleanor.”

Her mother laughed, a cold little tinkle that sounded like broken glass cascading over stone. “There is nothing you can do, Phillip. It’s already arranged.”

“I won’t stand by your side and watch this. You’ve gone too far—you should have discussed this with me. We could have come up with an alternative.”

“You’re my Consort, Phillip, not my confidant.”

Melissa flinched at the sound of breaking glass, and then her father stormed out of the living room and into the front foyer.

“Well, you won’t have to worry about that anymore, Eleanor. I’m renouncing this farce of a marriage. Do as you will—you always have.” He gave a sharp, cruel bark of laughter. “You’re so worried about your standing among the society, I’m almost interested to see the spin you’ll put on that, but I find I really couldn’t care less.”

Her father yanked his coat down from the hook behind the door. Melissa broke away from David, tears streaming down her face as she started to walk down the stairs.

“Daddy, please don’t go.”

Phillip Carter turned around, and she could see his struggle to contain his anger in front of his children. Finally, he smiled sadly and shrugged as she approached him. “Sorry, poppet. I just can’t do this anymore.”

He gave her a hug, then gazed up at David. Father and son looked at each other for a long moment, and then Phillip finally nodded, as though there was some meaningful, silent exchange.

And then her father left.

When Melissa turned away from the open front door, she saw him, a shadow in the corner of the foyer, his brown eyes watching the scene intently. He hadn’t been there at the time, but he was there, inside her memory, replaying it for her again and again. There was something predatory about his gaze that suggested his name was more than just something handed down to him at birth, but more a characteristic of his personality.

Damn pyro jerk. Just for that, she’d cast an elemental spell and had made it snow in his cell for the rest of the night. He was still shivering when she’d tossed him his sandwich at lunchtime.

Melissa looked away from the mirror and grabbed the hand towel hanging from a loop attached to the wall. She dabbed her face dry, her teeth clenched, that last image of her father storming off into the night haunting her. Neither she nor Dave had seen him since. She wasn’t going to cry. Not again. She’d wasted too many tears, remembering that night.

She fluffed her hair, pasted a fake smile on her face, then turned to the door that led out to her store. She had a client coming in to pick up a hex pouch, and another one due for an extremely diluted solution of wolfsbane. It wasn’t enough to kill a lycan, but it was enough to make the man’s abusive werewolf wife feel poorly enough to leave him alone.

Her hand rested on the doorknob. That night memories of her father weren’t the only dreams she was having. She frowned. She’d have to do something about her prisoner. She didn’t want these dreams, didn’t want these painful memories resurfacing at his whim, not hers. She didn’t think she could let him go, though. Who knew what chaos he would wreak on the unsuspecting and vulnerable if let out. He showed no real remorse for his actions, no consideration for others, but continued to push his own agenda. She wasn’t allowed to kill him, but she had wanted to teach him a lesson. Her shoulders sagged. Perhaps he was unredeemable.

Right now, though, she was too tired to care.

Straightening her shoulders, she swept into her store, a fake smile on her face as she greeted her customers.

A while later, after the two customers had left, she was almost deliriously happy to shut her front door, swinging the sign to Closed. She switched the light off over the display window and rubbed the back of her neck as she walked down the aisle toward the internal door that opened near the stairs that led to her apartment.

A furious tapping on the door at the front of the store had her turning, her brows dipping as the tapping became thumping. She walked back toward the store entrance, then started running when she caught a good look at one person propped up against her store window and another person struggling to keep him up. Melissa unlocked the door, and Lexi sobbed, nearly hysterical as she draped her brother’s arm over her shoulders.

“Please, Melissa. We need your help. Lance is hurt—bad.”