A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)(27)

By the mist, in another time, another world, this shifter would certainly have become her lover and might have become her mate. The energy that continually leaped between them told her that. An Ilina rarely found such a connection with a male, but when she did, it was rarer still for her to be able to walk away from it. The Ilina ended up forming a mating bond with the male, a bond that destroyed her when her mate died, as males often did.

As she watched, that fine back bowed, Fox’s biceps flexing, his hands fisting until he looked like he was ready to let out a massive roar. Which would not be a good idea in enemy territory, and the male surely knew it.

“Jag,” Olivia called quietly.

The jaguar shifted back to man, turning to Fox. “You okay, Fox-man?”

“The mountain is messing with us, and I’ve fecking had it!” His voice remained low, but so tight with fury that Melisande could hardly believe the words were uttered by the same man who’d charmed her so relentlessly a short while ago. That fury slid over her, wisps of smoke. Deep inside her the need to ease that fury stirred. She tamped it down, shoving back the gift she hadn’t used since the softer parts of her died all those years ago. She wanted nothing to do with her softer self.

As she and Phylicia moved far to the side, Melisande caught sight of Fox in profile, his teeth clenched, his eyes taking on an animalistic light. He was shifting. No . . . going feral . . . that in-between place where the shifters could fight as equals regardless of the animal spirits who’d claimed them. Fangs sprouted from his mouth and claws from his hands.

Jag watched, a smile slowly spreading across his face. “Feel like another fight, Foxy-boy? I’m more than happy to give you one.” Without further warning, Jag leaped at Fox, drawing his own fangs and claws, tearing a chunk out of fox’s shoulder.

The two powerful males threw one another to the ground, ripping at faces, arms, chests as if they fully intended to kill one another. Melisande watched them with a mix of disgust—they were animals—and fascination. She’d seen shifters fight like this in the old days, but to watch a male as calm as she’d believed Fox to be turn so . . . feral . . . was surprisingly exciting.

“It’s a wonder he’s able to hold it together as much as he has,” Olivia said, joining her. “Kieran . . . Fox . . . is more even-tempered than most males, an incredibly controlled fighter, but he’s still a new Feral.”

The fight didn’t last long. Minutes later, they were pulling apart, grinning like a pair of idiots as their claws and fangs retracted.

Jag wiped the blood from his chin. “Feel better?”

“I feel brilliant.” Fox turned to her, his face still wreathed in a grin, battle lust lingering in his eyes. “Give me a kiss?”

“Not even in your dreams,” she retorted.

To no one’s surprise, Phylicia took him up on his offer, running to him lightly, pulling his head down, and kissing him soundly.

Even with his mouth pressed to Phylicia’s, Fox’s gaze remained locked on Melisande. Then his eyelids dropped closed and his arms went around the other woman, pulling her close.

Jealousy flared bright green behind Melisande’s eyes, but she bit down on the need to rip her sister from the troublesome male’s arms. They were welcome to one another. Melisande had no use for men, and every one of her sisters knew it.

Fox released Phylicia, slamming Melisande with both his gaze and a grin that crowed victory, as if he could see the jealousy smoking inside of her.

Damn Feral.

Her fingers curled, and she barely resisted the need to press her fist to her stomach, to ease the ache of all the emotions clawing at her insides, fighting to get out. With dismay, she sought the anger, the rage that had been her constant companion for so long, and found it distressingly absent.

What was happening to her? She could never again be the woman she was before her capture. That woman had died in too many ways to count.

But who was she if not the warrior who hated shifters?

I smell water, Jag said nearly two hours later.

Why it had taken so much longer this trip around, Fox had no idea. Well, that wasn’t true, was it? He knew exactly why. It was the fecking mountain and its fecking magic. Goddess only knew what kind of danger Kara was in, yet they’d made no progress toward finding her. None whatsoever.

Still, if Jag smelled water, hope stirred. Maybe that’s our creek.

Give that intuition of yours some leeway, Goldilocks.

Will do, boyo.

Minutes later, they came upon a creek similar to the one they’d seen before . . . or perhaps the same creek, just a different spot along it. Fox stopped beside the stream and reached out, desperate to feel his gut stir, or tug, or wave its hands in the air and sing the Irish National Anthem at the top of its lungs. Anything.

And he got nothing.

Let’s follow it a ways, Jag suggested. And not ten minutes later they found that rocky overhang he’d been searching for. This is the place. And damn if he didn’t feel that same urge he had before to leap down into the creek. We’re crossing. He shifted back into human form and got body-slammed by Melisande’s sensuous heat flowing over his skin, sinking into his pores, into his blood, blasting him with the need to feel her against him, under him, tight around him as he thrust deep inside her wet heat.

Dammit. To. Hell. It was no wonder his frustration kept building out of control.