A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)(45)

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.

Fox 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.