A Love Untamed (17 page)

“What kind of needs?”

He shrugged. “I like kids. I like them . . . you know. I like to fuck them.”

Kara closed her eyes against the image, the blood draining from her face. “You're a pedophile.”

“Whatever. Inir lets me do what I want with the kids he has here.”

Kara thought of the poor little girl Inir had cut up and had to swallow down the bile trying to rise to her throat. “Has Inir been communicating with you all along?”

Lynks glanced at her, his eyes belligerent, then looked away. “I know what he wants me to do though I don't know how. The first time it happened was with you. I knew I needed to follow you down the basement stairs. Then halfway down, I suddenly knew he wanted me to knock you out, say that ritual with your flip-flop, carry you out the cellar door and through the woods. There was a car waiting right where I knew it would be.”

She frowned. “What ritual with my flip-flop?”

“I don't know. Something about your essence. I think it was so that Lyon would still sense you there and wouldn't know you'd been taken.” He reached for the door as if to leave, and Kara stopped him.

“Lynks, when Inir told you what he wanted you to do, could you have said no? If you'd wanted to?”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “He promised me all the kids I want to fuck.” He shook his head sadly. “I'm not cut out to be a hero, Kara. I am what I am.”

When he'd left, Kara stared at that closed door, sick to her stomach, her mind whirling. Because of that ritual with her shoe, Lyon hadn't been able to sense her leaving. And now? If he couldn't sense her, he couldn't find her. She might never be free.

No, she didn't believe that. Lyon would find her. He wouldn't stop looking for her until he did.

Of more concern was the fact that Inir clearly still had his claws in the new Ferals, even those that the good ones believed were free of the darkness.

And she had no way to warn them that they had traitors in their midst.

“W
e've got company.” Fox whirled, spying three males running toward them dressed in nothing but loincloths, their faces and bodies liberally painted in hues of blue and yellow, their hair matted and long, their swords gleaming in the sun.

Fox pulled his knife. Beside him, Melisande drew her short sword and threw him a savage grin. “I'm ready to spill some blood.”

He met her grin. Goddess help him, he could fall in love with this woman. “You're good with that sword?”

“Damn good.”

He nodded. “All right, then. I don't think they're real. But we kill them, either way.”

“I'm right beside you.”

The painted trio were closing the distance fast, their swords raised. As one, Fox and Melisande surged forward. Melisande's sword was small, but a deadly little thing. He himself had only a pair of knives. Long knives. Good knives. And his animal. He'd shift if the battle went poorly, but he was still far more comfortable fighting in his human form. He'd been doing it for three hundred years.

The savages came at them, two of the three diving for Melisande, which made little sense, given her size. Unless their goal was to kill her quickly, then turn their attention to him. Bloody hell. That was exactly what they intended.

“Mel, it's you they want,” he said, parrying the first blow from the one who'd targeted him, probably intent on keeping him too busy to defend her. Screw this.

In a single furious pull of magic, he shifted into his fox and leaped at his opponent, tearing off his head with one bite. He turned to find Melisande holding her own, dodging and ducking, striking thighs and wrists and abdomens until the two men were ribboned in blood and wounds that weren't healing. Were they human?

He snarled, but the sound did nothing to turn them from their attack. They were focused on Melisande and only her. And they weren't getting her.

As he leaped, the male he'd targeted swung toward him, catching his front leg with his blade in a wash of pain a moment before Fox caught the painted bastard's head between his jaws and bit down, hard.

Two down.

He was so tempted to leap in and kill the final savage, saving Melisande from any chance of injury. But she was no damsel in distress and would likely be furious if he tried. Instead, he shifted back to human, gripped his knives, and prepared to back her up.

His forearm burned and he glanced at the cut he'd taken to his fox's front leg, a cut that had yet to entirely heal. And what in the hell did that mean?

Melisande and her opponent engaged, their swords clanging before she spun away to attack again, a fierce, determined light in her eyes. The male was a skilled fighter, but his strength appeared to be no greater than human. Could these three really
be
human?

He tensed as Melisande's attacker lifted his sword as if he intended to cleave her in two. It was all he could do not to rush in. But he forced himself to stay where he was and not interfere. When the male brought that blade down only to strike air . . . and to find Melisande's blade protruding from his chest, Fox began to breathe again.
That a girl.

The male fell, dead, from that simple strike to the heart.

But as Melisande pulled her blade out, blood spraying, she stumbled back, her face going pale.

“Mel?”

“I'm fine.”

But she wasn't. Something had happened as she'd fought, and he needed to understand. “Mel?”

She whirled on him, her mouth hard, her eyes snapping with temper. “I said, I'm fine. I killed him, didn't I?”

Aye she had, but she was not fine and he wished to hell he knew what was going on in that lovely head of hers.

Melisande gasped, he gaped, as the three dead savages suddenly disappeared, leaving not so much as a trace of blood on the sand.

“They're gone,” she murmured, staring at the sand where her opponent had fallen. “They weren't real.”

No. He glanced at the wound on his forearm that still hadn't healed. But their swords sure as hell were.

Chapter Twelve

“K
eep your eyes open,” Fox said, as they started walking along the beach again. “Three attackers likely means more, especially since they failed.”

Melisande fell into step beside him, fine tremors passing through her limbs. For one harsh moment, as she'd pulled her blade from the dead savage, memories had reared up, ugly memories of horror, of death. And for the space of a few heartbeats, she'd heard the screams again, the screams she'd tried to box up and bury deep in her mind. They'd torn at her psyche, flaying her, before dying away and disappearing again.

But the attack had left her shaken.

Why had she reacted like that? Was it because her old self—the kind, loving person she'd been before Castin's betrayal—had never killed anyone, not even during the wars? Was that old part of her suddenly having qualms about killing? Violence had once been antithetical to her nature. Long ago, she'd been a bringer of peace. But she was no longer that woman, and hadn't been for a long, long time. She was a warrior, through and through, now. Except . . . she wasn't entirely that unfeeling warrior anymore, either.

By the mist, she didn't know who she was anymore. She knew who she wanted to be, but with each passing hour, she lost her grip on the woman she'd been for so long, a woman who'd felt no passion, no remorse, who'd never even been able to smile. And it scared her that she might never be able to reclaim her.

What would happen when she faced Castin? Would she be able to fight him to the death as she intended? Yes, Castin she'd be able to kill without a qualm. She'd hated him for so long for what he'd done. The bigger problem was her ability to kill him. Full-fledged, shifting Feral Warrior or not, Castin had always been a powerful male. And she could no longer mist.

Determination set her jaw. It didn't matter. One way or another, she'd take the bastard down and make him pay for what he'd done to her and her sisters.

Fox slid his palm across the back of her neck, the slide of flesh on flesh triggering that deep, aching need for him all over again. With the battle, the hunger had slid away, pushed aside by more pressing concerns. But he'd renewed it with a single touch.

How was she supposed to function when all she could think about was having sex, and the very thought of it sent chills crawling over her flesh?

By unspoken consent, they walked in silence for a while, then began to speak of innocuous things—more speculation of what the ocean would look like if it were truly empty of life. All the while, they kept their senses tuned, but saw no more sign of attackers.

They'd traveled the beach for more than an hour when Fox suddenly stumbled to a stop beside her, then sank slowly to his knees, a look of pain creasing his strong, handsome features.

“Feral, what's the matter?” Her heart plummeted, and she grabbed his shoulder. “Were you hit?” She saw no arrow, no bloom of blood that might indicate he'd been head- or heart-shot. Again she looked around, searching for Mage, or Castin, or some other assailant, but she saw nothing. “Fox?”

But he didn't answer. With one hand she gripped his thick shoulder, with her other, the hilt of her sword, as she prepared to defend him while he was down. No one was going to hurt him.
No one.
Her head pounded as her gaze swung from one part of the island to the other, ready for an enemy that had yet to show.

If only she knew what was happening! Fox swayed, reaching for her blindly, his fingers grasping her hips as he steadied himself. He groaned, dipping his head.

Instinctively, Melisande reached for him, feeling the need to ease his torment. Her fingers slid into his soft locks, caressing his skull as she called on her old gift. Warmth suffused her hands as she sought to ease his torment.

He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her, pressing his forehead against her chest. Slowly, the terrible tension in his shoulders and neck began to ease, and his breathing started to come more easily. “You have a magic touch,” he murmured at last, without moving.

She stroked his golden head, loving the feel of his silken hair between her fingers, adoring the scent of him. “What happened?”

For long moments, he didn't reply, just knelt before her, holding on to her as she became more and more aware of the hands at her back, of the face pressed between her breasts.

“I had another flashback. A tunnel beneath a wall. Maybe Inir's stronghold. I don't know.”

Though she heard his words, it was the location of his face that had her full attention. Desire, already ripe and lush within her, erupted in a torrent of damp need. Between her legs, she throbbed and ached, hot . . .
needy.
She began to tremble, her mating scent erupting all over again.

His head came up, golden lashes rising over eyes as hot as molten lava. Slowly, his breathing grew more shallow until it tore in and out of his nose. His hands began to shake as badly as her own, gripping her hips. Keeping her close? Or holding her at bay?

Her breath hitched, the need to taste him again almost a physical pain. She trailed her fingers down his sculpted cheek, then traced the fullness of his lower lip with her thumb.

“Mel . . .”

“I can't help it,” she gasped. “I can't stop it. I haven't had a male since the attacks, haven't wanted one. In all this time, I've felt no desire, Fox. Not until you. And now I'm crazed with it.”

He stared at her with those hot eyes. “It's not going away.” His grasp on her hips tightened, his own trembling need telegraphing to her plainly.

“No. It's getting worse. Why do you have to be so damned beautiful?”

His mouth tilted into a semblance of a smile, but sympathy shimmered within the fire in his eyes.

“Can you . . . pleasure yourself? Will that help?”

“It will only make it worse.” In the old days, the only thing that had brought her true pleasure was the touch and possession of a male. Touching herself, bringing herself to release, only drove the hunger higher.

She gripped his face tighter, touching her forehead to his, unable to look him in the eye as she voiced her admission. “I need
you.
But I don't want to. I don't want to do this.” It was an admission the warrior she'd been for so long would never have made. Then again, the warrior had felt no desire. Safe behind those icy walls, she'd been nearly impervious to harm. With that icy shell lying in broken shards around her, she'd lost her defenses.

When she pulled back, the tenderness in his eyes made her heart clench.

“What if I lie beneath you, angel?”

She took a shuddering breath, moisture dampening her thighs at the thought of him stretched out like that.

“Here?”

“There's no one here but us.”

“For now. What if the Mage come? Or more of those blue-painted barbarians?”

“I can shift quickly. My state of undress won't affect me at all.”

Stars in heaven,
she was really going to do this. She met his gaze, her body quaking with fear and need. “Don't touch me. Please. I need you to not touch me.”

“I'll keep my hands behind my head.” He lifted a brow. “But I have one request in return.”

“What's that?”

“You give your sword into my keeping. I'd hate to have to regrow any of my more tender anatomy.”

She laughed, a quick amused burst of air through her nose. But a moment later, she was shaking, wondering how in the name of the ancient queens she was going to get through this.

F
ox stroked Melisande's satin cheek. “Tell me what you want me to do, angel. You call the shots. All of them.” Having sex in the Mage's labyrinth was a risk. He knew it. Although, while his shifting skills weren't optimum as yet, his Great Dane size was just about perfect for tearing off an attacker's head. And he could move from sex to leaping in his fox in two seconds flat. He was sure of it. Especially if Melisande's life was at risk.

Besides, this wasn't likely to take long. Not with Melisande about to climb out of her skin and him about to burst from his own.

Leaning forward, she eyed him like a warrior going to battle. And that was just what she was, he thought darkly. How he wished he could take away the misery of her past. But he would do what he could. And if that meant letting her use him for sex . . . ? Everyone had to make sacrifices at some point.

“Lie down in the sand,” she directed. “Don't take off your clothes. Just push your pants down to your thighs.

He swallowed, totally turned on by this despite himself. When had he ever allowed a female to take the reins completely? He'd always considered himself a good lover, a considerate one who gave as much as he took. And he was all too happy to let his partner have her way with his body to her heart's content as long as she wasn't into pain. Much. But to let a female order his every move?

Never.

But the thought of Melisande doing so nearly had him spilling into the sand.

He did as she commanded, lying down before her, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. Pushing them down over his hips, he freed the part of his anatomy she needed, then met her gaze, watching her eyes flare with hunger, then tighten with dread.

This was worse than taking a virgin, and he'd generally steered well clear of them. It was worse still, because he couldn't help. At least with a virgin, he could stroke her, gentle her, ease into her. With Melisande he could do nothing but wait for her to come to him on her own. Or not.

“It's okay, pet. My penis is not going to hurt you. It's just going to stand here waiting for you to do what you want with it, though I'd appreciate it if I could hold your knife now, luv.”

Wry humor lighting her eyes, she unsheathed her knife and handed it to him, hilt first.

Holding the blade firmly above his head with one hand, he cradled his head on his other arm. Finally, decisively, she sat beside him and began pulling off her boots. A moment later, feet bare, she struggled out of her leggings, revealing pale, slender, shapely legs that he longed to run his palms over. And his tongue. He was starting to shake from the effort to remain still when the most desirable female he'd come upon in as long as he could remember sat within reach, bare beneath her tunic, releasing a mating scent that had been driving him wild for hours.

He'd die if she didn't touch him soon. And he didn't dare say those words out loud.

Slowly, she straddled him, but she just knelt there. Shaking. Tears began to run slowly down her cheeks.

“Mel,” he said softly. “Angel, look at me.”

She did, her mouth so tight, so furious, her eyes so wounded.

“It's okay. You don't have to do this now. I'll be willing and waiting for you anytime you're ready.” And he feared that statement was all too true. If this kept up, he'd wind up with a permanent hard-on.

“I have to do it, now.”

He ached for her. And struggled against every natural instinct to grip her hips and drive himself deep into her wet, waiting heat. How in Hades was he going to remain perfectly still when she took him? How was he ever going to keep from thrusting up to meet her when, and if, she ever found the courage to ride him? Yet he must. He'd promised. And he would do nothing to make this any harder for her than it already was.

Closing her eyes, she finally began to lower herself . . .
thank you goddess,
and the feel of her wet heat stroking his head nearly sent him over the edge. With a swallowed sob, she gripped him, too tight, aiming him for her heat.

“Melisande. Look at me. Please.”

Slowly, she opened those tear-drenched eyes, blinking to stare at him.

“It's me,” he said softly. “Stay here with me.” The last thing she needed was to sink back into that nightmare of what she'd endured before.

With a quick little nod, she kept her gaze locked on his as she pushed him inside her. Then he was sliding deep, drenched in her wetness, as she lowered herself all the way down.

“Okay?” he asked, strangling on the groan of pleasure he didn't want her to hear.

Again that quick little nod. “It feels . . . you feel . . . good.”

“Thank the goddess. Do you want me to tell you a joke? Keep your mind off it?”

Her laugh lifted his heart even as it forced him deeper and,
oh goddess,
she felt so good. Her tight little sheath clutched him, milking him, as she lifted her hips and lowered them again, undulating in an erotic move that had him clenching his jaw hard, straining his muscles against the need to surge up into her. Even holding himself rigid as stone, he was barreling fast toward release. No! No, he couldn't come yet, not before she'd found her own release, or this whole thing was going to be for nothing.

She was gasping now, moaning, her eyes drifting closed, then snapping open, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping the monsters at bay. Finally, she cried out, her inner walls clamping tight around him, over and over. Able to hold on no longer, he poured his seed into her, his fists tight as vises as he staved off the desperate need to hold her as he came.

But the moment it was over, she was off him like a shot. Pale as new snow, she began to pull on her clothes with visibly shaking hands.

Fox took a long, shuddering breath, then rose to his feet and pulled up his pants. They'd made more progress than he'd expected and less than he would have liked. She'd accepted him, and he didn't think she'd been further damaged by the event. But neither was she healed. Far from it. And the truth was, she might never be. His body felt replete, for the most part, but his arms felt achingly empty and his chest hurt. If only he knew what to do to help her. Unfortunately, it was men who'd hurt her. And while he hated being painted with the same brush as those bastards, he got it. He was three times her size and far more than three times her strength. With her unable to mist away, if he wanted to hurt her, she'd never stop him.