A Love Untamed (15 page)

Ariana nodded. “Thank you, Jag, but I felt her death the moment it happened. Are Melisande and Fox all right?”

“Fox is hurting, but he's okay. Melisande is injured, I think. She's emitting energy like a nuclear reactor, and she can't mist, but her vocal cords were working just fine.” He pulled Olivia against him. “We've been trying to frickin'-ass find you for hours, to warn you to get your Ilinas off this mountain before they fry, too.”

Kougar squeezed Ariana's shoulder, then released her. “Go.”

“Take Olivia,” Jag said.

Both females, warriors through and through, scowled at their mates. Olivia crossed her arms. “No way.”

Jag hauled her around to look at him. “Liv, the magic on this mountain is fucking powerful, you've seen that. We can usually get through warding in our animals. What if you can't? What if you go up in flames, too?”

Kougar nodded. “We're not risking your lives.” He turned to Ariana. “Find Hawke and Falcon and let them know what's going on. Have them continue to patrol the periphery, but stay off the mountain. They'll be able to find cell service to get word to Feral House if they think backup will do us any good.”

Jag kissed his frustrated mate, and she kissed him back after only a moment's hesitation. “Be careful,” she whispered.

Kougar kissed Ariana. She pressed her hand to his cheek, then handed him the backpack with Wulfe's and Lyon's clothes. A moment later, the two Ilinas and Olivia disappeared in mist.

The four Ferals shifted back into their animals and continued on. Wulfe felt the weight of worry lifted a little bit, knowing Fox and Jag were fine. But Kara was still in the hands of the enemy, and they had no idea where Fox and Melisande had gone. Deeper into the mountain's sorcery?

Less than a mile later, they crested a rise. Wulfe gave a mental gasp as he stared at the sight below. In the valley, hung a curtain of shimmering color, blues and purples and reds, rippling and flaring as if the door behind it had been left open on a windy day.

To his surprise, his three companions continued forward without comment. A chill ran down his spine.

Don't you see that?
he asked all three at once.

See what?
Jag replied.

Dammit. As he loped forward to catch up with them, energy charged his skin, making his fur rise, and he realized the buzz had been getting steadily stronger.

The cougar gave him a quizzical look.
What exactly do you see?

And suddenly he knew.
The warding.
The curtain stretched as far as the eye could follow in either direction, curving back on the ends as if enclosing the mountain.
It's moving, rippling.

Why in the hell was he the only one who could see it? Why was he the only one hearing the voices? He didn't like it, not at all. Then again, it was probably a good thing someone could.

More than a little fascinated by the sight of the warding, he started forward, leading the way down the hillside. The buzzing grew more intense the closer he got, until he was less than a body length away.

Where is it,
Lyon demanded, the African lion coming up beside him.

Right in front of us.

Lyon leaped through it with a single bound. Kougar and Jag followed, Wulfe bringing up the rear. But beyond the first warding curtain, he saw another not a dozen feet away.

There's another one,
he told his friends. And, like before, they leaped through it, one after the other, Lyon leading the way.

What the fuck?
Jag exclaimed.

Wulfe understood a moment later when he joined them. They weren't in West Virginia any more. Instead, they stood on a cobblestone path between two high stone walls. A short distance ahead, an opening in the wall offered a choice.

Kougar and Lyon shifted into men, pulling knives from the backpack Kougar alone was able to carry through the shifts.

“Where the hell are we?” Lyon growled. But none of them had an answer. And a moment later, Wulfe realized, all three of his companions were giving him guarded looks.

What?
he demanded, still in wolf form.

“Why you?” Kougar asked quietly.

Hell if I know.
A chill slid down his spine. But he was pretty sure it had something to do with the voices he was hearing in his head. What had the one said?
I sense one of mine. Blood calls to blood.

For the first time in centuries, he remembered the old tale of the origin of the wolf clan. A horrific tale he'd never given any credence to.

Until now.

F
ox ran down the empty road, along the deserted waterfront, and back up the steep cobblestone street, where even now, Melisande lay trapped by the vines. Vines almost certainly designed to kill her.

Bloody fecking hell.

The street was now clear of vines except the swath around Melisande. But he knew with certainty that the moment he stepped into their path, they'd rise up and try to snare him just as they had before. This time they would fail. In one hand he held a torch, in the other, a jug of oil, both of which he'd just snatched from a nearby saddlery. This place might not be real, but much of it was realistic down to the finest detail.

I'm coming, pet. Hang on for me.

Taking a deep breath, he launched himself forward, running as fast as he could, covering as much ground as possible before the vines started snaking upward. They caught him not six feet from where Melisande lay, the blood coating her neck and running into the cobbles beneath her.

His heart pounded and he knew he was going to have to be quick and careful or he'd wind up setting himself on fire, which would help her not at all. He sprinkled the oil on the roots of the vines just below him on the hill, then stabbed them with the burning torch.

As he'd hoped, the vine disappeared, snaking back into the street. In a wide swath behind him, he sprinkled more oil, setting it on fire. Instantly, the vines there disappeared as well. The oil burned, the fire not large enough to hamper his movements.

But the vines were climbing his legs, now, coming at him from the front and below. He dispatched those in front of him as he had the ones behind, letting the oil run beneath his feet . . . carrying the fire. And suddenly he was free. He leaped forward, battling back the vines as he had the others until finally he reached Melisande.

“I'm here, luv.”

Her eyes fluttered open, their sapphire depths dark with agony. His heart contracted as he spied the orange vine around her neck. It was already halfway through.
Goddess,
it would soon sever her head completely. With a speed borne of desperation, he transferred the jug to his torch hand, pulled his blade, and attacked the orange vine viciously, hacking it away. But as it lost its grip on her, half a dozen more of the serrated vines rose up to take its place.

Goddess, goddess, goddess.

Fox yanked and pulled, stabbed and burned, careful not to catch Melisande on fire in his haste. Finally,
finally
, he had her loose. Even as badly injured as she was, she scrambled up, her immortal blood quickly healing the damage done by the orange vines.

“Stay close, Mel. We're heading downhill. Watch behind.”

As she leaped beside him, he dribbled oil over the vines that had held her, that still reached for her, setting them on fire. Together, they eased their way down the hill following the same path he'd traveled up, burning and hacking their way through.

Until, finally, they were free.

At the bottom of the empty street, yards past the last of the vines, Fox finally set down the jug and torch and hauled Melisande to him, studying her face, her neck. “Are you all right?”

She trembled beneath his hands, the shadows of terror still in her eyes. A softness filled those sapphire depths, suddenly, taking his breath away.

Small hands pressed against his chest. “You saved me.”

“Of course.” He cupped her soft cheek in his hand.

The moment grew thick. The need to touch her, to taste her, nearly overwhelmed him. He lifted his other hand, framing her delicate face, watching for her surrender, waiting for her to pull away. Heat and confusion warred in her eyes, but when he lifted his thumb and stroked it lightly across her plump, pink bottom lip, her breath caught. And then she was reaching for his face as if to pull him down, and he was dipping his head.

Lips brushed, passion exploded, sweetness drenched his senses as Melisande melted in his arms, her own arms slipping around his neck, holding him tight. All thought fled, all caution, as her fingers dove into his hair and her mouth opened to his, seeking a deeper kiss, one he gladly gave her. Pure, unadulterated desire tore through his body as her tongue stroked his. She was heaven in his arms, small and precious, her taste like fresh, cool water to a man dying of thirst.

As her tongue thrust into his mouth, her hips rocked against him, stroking his cock, nearly making his eyes roll back up into his head. Goddess help him, she was on fire, and he quaked with the need to give her exactly what she wanted.

Her scent tore through his senses, the soft smell of wild heather, but a thousand times more erotic until his mind was so clouded with passion he couldn't remember where he was or who he was. The need to touch her
everywhere
was almost more than he could control.

His hands roamed her back, falling to her small, perfect ass as he hauled her against the erection that was demanding release.

“I have to be inside of you,” he groaned against her lips.

In his arms, Melisande froze, turning to stone.

Fox pulled back slowly, easing his hold on her, letting her go when she pulled away.

“Mel . . . ?”

“This isn't the time, Feral,” she snapped. “We need to find that key and get the hell out of here. Kara's in need of rescuing, or had you forgotten?”

He felt as if she'd slapped him, and at the same time knew he'd needed the reminder because he'd absolutely been lost within the pull of passion.

“You're right.”

She looked at him with surprise, then nodded.

Extending his hand to her, he smiled, because they were free . . . for now . . . and because, despite the abrupt ending of their passionate interlude, sooner or later, the woman was going to be his. When the time was right. He knew that now.

When she cut those sapphire eyes at him, then, with a small huff placed her hand in his, he felt the world right itself.

Hand in hand, they strolled along the wharf, where people once more worked—unloading crates from a boat, cleaning fish. All ignored them as if they weren't even there.

Fox's senses remained on high alert, as they had since the Ilinas first dropped them in West Virginia. If the populace of this strange place had turned on them once, they could do so again. But even as his senses traveled outward, seeking danger, part of his torn attention remained firmly on the woman at his side.

Something was bothering him mightily. Something he needed to understand. “You've been captured before, haven't you, pet?” he asked quietly, uncertain how she would take the question.

She glanced at him with surprise, one golden brow lifting.

“I sensed your panic when the vines had you. And you're not a woman to panic.”

With a sigh, she looked away, out at the water. “It was a long time ago.”

“And yet some things we never forget.”

“No. That's true. I was captured by Therians.” She said the words so matter-of-factly, but he heard the pain behind them. And he finally understood her hatred of shifters. He waited for her to continue, but when she remained silent, he asked, “Are any of them still alive? Because if they are, I'm going to kill them.”

She glanced at him, an odd look in her eyes. Surprise, perhaps. And steel. And something that almost looked like chagrin. “I wreaked my vengeance, Feral. Without mercy. Every one who hurt me, I killed. The only one I never found was the one who betrayed me in the first place.”

He glimpsed the warrior capable of hauling innocents into the Crystal Realm to die because she saw it as the only way to save her race. A hard woman. But not all there was to her, not even close. And that hard veneer had come at a terrible cost, he was sure of it, now.

“Is it possible he still lives?”

She looked away. “I know he still lives. And he's going to die.” Slowly, she turned to meet his gaze, her eyes glittering sapphire diamonds. “It's Castin.”

Ah,
“Feck.”
His stomach flipped.

“I recognized his picture when Hawke flashed it on the screen in the war room yesterday.”

“You can't take him on alone.”

“He's mine,” she snapped.

“He's also a Feral Warrior, if one who has not yet been brought into his animal. And you're an Ilina who cannot mist.”

She scowled at him. “Don't remind me.”

Fox's mind was spinning from Melisande's words.
Everyone who hurt me, I killed.

Goddess.
Had they raped her? Was that the reason she'd turned to stone as he'd kissed her, the moment he'd said he wanted to be inside of her? The thought slammed him with a fury that had his free hand fisting. Had Castin raped her? If so, the male was going to die, either by Melisande's hand or his own. But he would die.

How had she been captured when she could turn to mist in a heartbeat and escape?

They were difficult questions, and he wasn't at all certain she was ready to share the answers with him.

But before he could pose a single one, everything around them changed. As cleanly and suddenly as they'd walked into the medieval seaport, they walked out of it again.

And into chaos.

Chapter Eleven

T
hey'd walked into a bloody hurricane.

Battering wind slammed into Fox, flaying him with sharp, stinging sand, knocking him back a step. He grabbed Melisande's hand, pulling her against him, shielding her as a palm frond sailed at them, striking him in the hip before tumbling away. Behind them, the roiling ocean sent pounding surf to scour the shore. Water rushed over his boots, then receded just as quickly.

They'd stepped into yet another world, this one far from the medieval seaport. A tropical island, from what he could see. And, apparently, right in the middle of one hell of a storm.

Squinting his eyes against the blowing sand, Fox searched for assailants along the beach or hiding among the trees, certain they were around somewhere. But he could see nothing but the angry ocean, dark, swirling clouds blocking out midday sunshine, and a tropical island under full-scale attack by Mother Nature.

The sand blowing in his face annoyed him. The impossible nature of this mission infuriated him. That quickly, he felt the anger building inside of him—that new Feral edginess that had him feeling like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. If only Jag were here to give him a good fight.

He pressed his mouth close to Melisande's ear and yelled above the gale, “We've got to find shelter. Somewhere defensible.”

Glancing up, she met his gaze with a tense mouth, hard agreement in warrior eyes. He tightened his grip on her hand with an instinctive need to protect. She couldn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds, and he feared that the wind would lift her up and send her flying. Together, they ran from the beach toward the tree line above.

A shiver took hold of him, one he'd come to recognize as the kind that preceded some of his intuitions, now. And sure enough, as before, he suddenly
knew
where to go.

“This way!” He tugged on Melisande's hand. Within the forest, debris flew, branches snapped, trees bending as if pushed low by a giant hand.

His gut led him toward a particularly thick clump of trees in which they could find some shelter. He pulled back a wide palm frond for Melisande to precede him through. She stepped forward, then froze and began to backpedal.

“What's the matter?”

“Look. Carefully!”

He leaned forward to see what the problem was. A pit.
Bloody hell.
By the looks of the trampled palm fronds around it, and the fronds lining the bottom some twenty feet down, the pit had been hidden. Before the storm? No. By the track marks up one side and the badly disturbed ground on top, whoever, or whatever, had fallen in had been hauled out again. And recently.

Why in the fecking hell had his gut brought him this way?

“Look!” Melisande yelled above the howling wind, pointing.

He followed her gaze to where someone lay sprawled and motionless a short distance away, partially hidden by a downed palm tree. Castin? Carefully avoiding the trap, they made their way to him. But as they approached, Fox saw that the body was missing its head. And it wasn't alone. There were three in all, the heads scattered nearby like so many bowling balls.

A suspicion tugged at him and he nudged one of the heads with the toe of his boot, turning it until he could see its sightless eyes. The brown irises were ringed in shiny copper. Mage eyes. Approaching the second, he lifted one closed eyelid. Mage eyes again.

Melisande checked the third. “Mage.”

“Three dead Mage. No wonder there's a hurricane.” Mother Nature got angry when her Mage were killed. Millennia ago, the Mage had been the closest to true nature spirits that existed on Earth. Now they were, more and more, a bunch of soulless bastards trying to free the Daemons to destroy the Earth they'd once protected.

“Who killed them?” Melisande asked.

“Damned good question.” And he had an idea. “Hold on to a tree. I don't want you blowing away.” When she'd done as he commanded, he pulled on his own inner power and shifted into his fox, startled by the feel of hurricane-force winds through his fur. Opening his senses, he began to sniff around the bodies. Sure enough, he caught the scent they'd been following before they entered the labyrinth.

Castin,
he told Melisande. He followed the scent straight back to the pit.
He's the one they caught, I'd wager. The question is, did he get away or were there more Mage than these three?

As he shifted back to human form, a strong gust knocked Melisande sideways, and she barely hung on to the tree. He grabbed her against him. “We've got to find shelter.”

“Yes.”

The storm's fury was leaching into him, stealing his equilibrium. He was struggling to stay in his skin, to keep from going feral.

Hand in hand, they pushed into the forest of tropical trees, climbing over downed palms. Fox continually scanned for any sign of Castin or Mage, but he saw no one, nothing but flying trees and palm fronds.

About fifty yards in, he found what he'd been looking for—several boulders clustered together, surrounded by brush and trees forming a natural shelter from the worst of the storm. They ducked into the space, tucking themselves against the rocks as the wind continued to howl.

Melisande glanced up at him, old hatred in her eyes. “Castin's here.”

“He
was
here. He may not be any longer. It appears your suspicion of a Mage gauntlet is accurate.”

Melisande nodded. “A gauntlet usually follows a single path.”

He longed to put his arm around her, to hold her close, but he didn't trust himself not to draw claws. Even now, they were throbbing beneath the surface of his fingertips.

“The question is, where does it end?” he asked.

Melisande pursed that kissable mouth, drawing his attention, making him long to taste it again.

“It's delivering us to the Mage,” she said. “To Inir. At least it's delivering you there. Me, it's trying to kill.” Her words were without emotion, but he felt the shiver go through her. And he knew an answering rage that only fueled the loss of control he was already struggling against. Because it was true, and they both knew it.

She leaned against him with a trust that curled around his heart and was utterly misplaced.
“Don't.”
He pulled away. “I'm losing it again, pet. If I go feral, I'm going out into the storm. Stay here. Stay safe.”

How was it that this fierce, vulnerable, prickly woman, had come to be so important to him? All that mattered was protecting her.

Even . . .
especially
. . . if that meant keeping her safe from him.

A
s the howling wind threw palm fronds in every direction, uprooting trees and slamming them to the ground, Melisande watched the agitation rise in the shifter at her side and saw the moment Fox's eyes changed from sky blue to yellow animal eyes.

Accessing her gift was a risky game, one that would sooner or later almost certainly derail everything she wanted in her life. But a shifter gone feral was a dangerous companion. And she didn't want him out in the storm alone. Not when she had the power to help him.

Taking a deep breath, she turned to him, reaching for his face just as he started to move as if to rise.

“Fox, let me help.”

Feral eyes turned to her. “Too dangerous.”

It was, actually, but not in the way he thought. Never one to take no for an answer, she grabbed his face in both hands, forcing him to hold still for fear of hurting her with his fangs or claws. She knew he wouldn't intentionally harm her. And for a reason she didn't entirely understand, she couldn't let him suffer.

Closing her eyes, reaching down deep inside of her, she opened that door and found the energy of her gift, pulling it forth as quickly and strongly as she could. It came more easily this time, more forcefully, and she felt her hands heat at once. Beneath her palms, Fox's tension slowly drained away.

When she opened her eyes again, Fox was staring at her with wonder and gratitude, his own eyes once more blue. And slowly filling with heat as his gaze roamed her face, as it dipped to her mouth.

Her breath caught, and she tore her gaze away.

Without warning, he pulled her onto his lap, tight against him, tucking her head against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. Pressing her face against the warm flesh of his neck had her mouth hungering for a taste. She curled her arms around his neck and felt his hands slide over her, one along her thigh to cup her buttocks, the other sliding over her breast.

Little by little, the pleasure of Fox's touch, of his nearness, of his hand in hers, had been seeping into her, trickling deep down inside of her. Feeding her. And awakening her deep Ilina nature, so much of which had been frozen after the attacks.

Even with the storm screaming around them hunger flared. Her mating scent released. Between her legs, she began to burn. No, she didn't want this!

But even as the cry sounded in her head, her mouth found his, her control broke, and she was kissing him. And then his arms were around her, pulling her close, his mouth fusing with hers in a passion as wild as the storm. As one, their mouths opened, their tongues finding one another, drinking from one another, a heady taste of sweetness and lust. His hands gripped her tight, one at her back, the other cupping her head.

His mouth tore from hers to rain kisses along her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her shoulder. She arched, tilting her head, giving him access as his mouth suckled at the flesh along the side of her neck, erasing the phantom pain of the vine, a wound now fully healed.

“Fox,” she gasped, as his touch sent passionate flames licking her insides, melting her from the inside out, filling her with a need, a hunger, that she'd thought never to feel again.

The pleasure grew inside her, changing, distilling into the finest of nectars, feeding her body and soul and setting up a craving for more. In a distant part of her mind, she railed at the foolishness of feeding this hunger. Did she not want to return to the way she'd been, to the warrior unable to feel?

But she was lost to Fox's touch, to the feel of his silken locks beneath her fingertips, to his masculine scent and the taste of his kiss and the brush of his whiskers against her sensitive neck.

She was on fire for him and he was equally crazed with need for her.

The hand at her back, slid lower, down to her hip, strong fingers flexing into her butt cheek, pulling her against him as he rubbed his thick erection against her hip.

His mouth reclaimed hers, and she drank of him all over again as his tongue invaded her mouth, as her tongue slid against his. She was on fire for him.

Barely registering her actions, she twisted on his lap, straddling him, rubbing herself against his hardness. Fox groaned, pressing her closer. And then his hand was at her waist, his fingers sliding down inside the front of her leggings, down between her legs, one finger diving deep inside of her.

Her cry of pleasure strangled in her throat as her body froze, memories rearing up, terrible and terrifying.
Chained, spread . . .

Melisande froze, pushing off of Fox's lap, her heart pounding. Shaken, she sat back against the rock, struggling to breathe, curling into herself beside him as another tree cracked and fell nearby.

“Melisande?”

She didn't answer, didn't know what to say because even as the memories crashed over her, her body, fully awakened, wept with need. The passion continued to swirl in her blood, stretching and growing, flowing into her limbs, deep into her core. She wanted,
needed,
to be back in Fox's arms, to feel his mouth on hers again, to feel his body inside hers.

And the thought of it both excited her and terrified her.

Stars in heaven,
she didn't want this.

The wind whipped around them, branches and entire trees tumbling end over end, flying past. The storm raging outside was nothing compared to the one raging within her. The hunger burned until she feared she would turn to ash. She needed release, and she needed it now, but the thought of being covered, of being entered . . .

A deep quaking began in her limbs, her stomach souring even as the heat raged between her thighs. She wanted Fox, desperately. If only she didn't. If only she could turn it off. She wasn't at all sure how much longer she could stand this, or what she would do when she couldn't.

She pulled her knees against her chest and dipped her forehead onto them, curling tight, struggling to ease the terrible need. But nothing worked.

Feeling a gentle tug on her hair, she opened her eyes to find that Fox had wrapped a lock that had escaped her braid around his finger. Her heart squeezed, recognizing the need to comfort in his expression, even as he refrained from touching her more directly.

Tilting her head sideways to look at him, she found him watching her with blue eyes deep with longing and gentle understanding. Even as desire leaped like an electrical arc between them, he caressed the back of her head.

“I would never hurt you, pet. Never.”

Somehow, he saw the battle inside of her. Could he also tell she was coming apart at the seams? That she wanted him as badly as she wanted to run the other way?

He leaned forward, pressing his lips ever-so-briefly against her temple. When he pulled back, his gaze was soft as down. “You looked in need of it.”

Pressure welled in her chest. He was stealing her heart.

He lifted his hand and lightly stroked her head, and she melted against his side. Slowly, he curved his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him, giving her a dozen opportunities to pull away. But she didn't. She needed his strength, his comfort.

For so long, she'd felt nothing, nothing but rage and hatred. Now everything had changed. The rage toward the shifters was gone. Certainly the rage toward this shifter. How could she hate a man who'd risked everything to save her, and not just once? He was a good man, a kind man whom, against all reason, she was coming to adore.